Secrets of the Oasis

He didn’t have to say it. He wasn’t prepared to deal with those demons. And, in all honesty, could she blame him? Even she felt sick when she thought of what he’d had to do. No wonder he’d escaped from here as soon as he’d had t

he chance.

Silently Jamilah told herself that she’d last until Salman was safely back in France and there were thousands of miles between them again. But as she watched him get back into the Jeep and drive away she had to fight back the treacherous feeling of disappointment that he hadn’t tried harder to persuade her to go with him.

She turned and made the five-minute walk to the stables. When she arrived in the yard, which was normally her favourite place in the world, it suddenly felt cold and desolate and laden with malevolent images.

For the first day back in Merkazad at the stables Jamilah heard nothing from or about Salman—except the over-excited chatter of the girls who’d caught a glimpse of him that morning while they’d been exercising the horses. Jamilah wondered grumpily to herself where Abdul was when she needed him to nip that ardent gossiping in the bud.

By the time she fell into bed that evening, exhausted, she felt treacherously dissatisfied, wondering if Salman had lost interest after all. Perhaps he was going to import some of his hedonistic friends again to keep him amused?

Her dreams that night were hot and tangled, and she woke aching, and with an even bigger feeling of dissatisfaction.

Jamilah groaned as she got up for work. This was after only one day? She was a lost cause.

Around mid-morning, one of the castle maids appeared, and handed Jamilah a note in a blank envelope. With her heart skittering ominously, she turned away to read it. The slashing confident scrawl was instantly familiar.

Was yesterday as hard for you as it was for me? I want you, Jamilah…

Jamilah dismissed the girl, who’d obviously been waiting to see if she wanted to send a reply, and it took her a couple of hours to get over the note and its sheer audacity. It also took her that long to quiet down the tumult of emotions the note had provoked: relief that Salman hadn’t forgotten about her, anger at herself for feeling like a lovestruck teenager, anger that he was intent on pursuing the affair despite her declaration in Paris, and anger at her body’s clamour to give in.

Just as she was thinking that, her mobile phone beeped. Jamilah opened the text. Did you get my note? it read. After a moment of deliberation Jamilah replied. Yes. Not interested in pursuing this topic of conversation. I am very busy.

She got another one back almost instantly. I’m busy, too. In case it’s escaped your attention I’m the acting ruler of Merkazad. Yet I can’t seem to concentrate.

Jamilah found she was smiling, and had to stop and rearrange her facial muscles. She resolutely turned her phone off and got back to work. But as the day progressed a flurry of envelopes kept arriving via staff from the castle. And they all contained increasingly explicit notes about Salman’s varying states of arousal, what he imagined she might be wearing, how he wanted to remove it, and what he wanted to do to her once he had removed it.

By the end of the day Jamilah was over-hot and overwrought, but refused to give in to the pull to go and confront Salman directly and tell him to lay off. That was no doubt exactly what he wanted, and in the semi-aroused state she was in there was no way she’d be able to resist him if he tried to seduce her.

The stables were her only hope of sanctuary, and she hated that she was using them as protection.

The following day the same pattern emerged. Note after note. Her phone beeping constantly even though she deleted his messages now, without reading them. He was driving her insane. She amended that. She was driving herself insane. But only because she couldn’t stop thinking about what he was saying and reacting to it.

Are you hot right now? Are you thinking of that shower we had together in Paris? Where do you ache most?

It was a sensual attack for which Jamilah was woefully unprepared. And that night, when her phone rang by her bed, she snatched it up and said irritably, ‘Yes?’

She heard a dark chuckle. ‘Why so grumpy? Can’t you sleep? Too hot?’

Jamilah gripped the phone hard in a suddenly sweaty palm, acutely aware of how hot she did feel in her small T-shirt and panties. She forced herself to sound as cool as she could. ‘Not at all. Unlike you, I’ve been extremely busy.’

Another chuckle floated down the line, and Salman said with a mock self-effacing tone, ‘Luckily I possess above average intelligence, so I find multi-tasking very easy. Although writing those notes was having an adverse affect on me while I conducted a public meeting in Merkazad.’

Jamilah had to stifle a giggle at the thought of Salman becoming aroused and trying to hide it, and then the giggle died when she realised that the thought was making her aroused. She couldn’t believe it; they were no better than teenagers. She squirmed and pressed her legs together, aghast that he could have this effect on her down a phone line.

‘Are you in bed now?’

‘No.’ Jamilah immediately lied.

‘Liar,’ Salman chided huskily. ‘What are you wearing?’

‘Seeing as how I’m not in bed, I’m wearing jeans and a shirt.’

‘Like I said: liar. Let me guess. You’re a small T-shirt and panties girl? That is when you’re not naked with me.’

Jamilah squirmed again. ‘No, actually. I wear pyjamas buttoned from top to toe.’

He made a tsk-tsk sound. ‘At this rate you’ll be going straight to hell, Jamilah Moreau.’