The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride

She’d become used to the luxury of Rafiq’s body warming hers when she woke. To the forbidden thrill of delight his touch always evoked.

They shared an enormous bed Rafiq had told her was generations old. Its carvings were so dark and worn that she couldn’t make them out. But she suspected the figures cavorting on the headboard were mermaids. Each night she’d lain here, her heart in her mouth, as she watched him from beneath her lashes. And when he took her in his arms she was torn between exultation and dread. She longed for his lovemaking, yet feared the consequences. She loved him but knew this marriage wasn’t for ever.

How could she admit her love, act upon it, and then turn away from him when the time came?

And how could she even consider giving herself to a man who, despite his fine qualities, would never reciprocate her feelings? She had no doubt his own choice of partner would be someone glamorous and gorgeous, born to wealth and power, someone who would fit into the role of royal princess as she never could.

Yet every day she woke to find her legs tangled with his, the hot, musky scent of him enticing, his erection blatant and tempting against her. And each morning her resolve to keep her distance weakened further.

His eyes were unfathomable. He spent so much time just watching her, she wondered what he saw.

`There you are, Belle.’ She swung round as he entered the room and, as usual, her heart skipped faster.

He wore trousers and boots with a long sleeved white shirt open at the neck to reveal his sun bronzed throat. His hair was pulled back from his face and he was smiling. The force of it sizzled up her spine.

`Where have you been?’

`You missed me?’ he asked as he strode across to the bed. He reached for her hand and lifted it to his mouth, his gaze locked with hers. Slowly he kissed her hand, sending a shaft of pure heat arcing through her body. He turned her hand over and kissed her palm. This time she shivered, feeling the inevitable slow burn in the pit of her belly ignite into blazing fire.

She’d never get used to the sheer seductive power of those caresses. `Just wondered where you were,’ she said shakily, pulling her hand away.

À video conference. And I had a surprise to prepare.’ He cast a lingering glance over her as she lay, covered by the sheet. `You’ll need a long-sleeved shirt and a hat,’ he said. Ìt’ll be blazing hot in the desert later.’

`The desert?’

He nodded. Ì‘m taking you on a picnic.’

Two hours later, mounted on the most placid of the purebred Arab horses in the stables, Belle reined in and stared at the oasis in the gully below. A tiny Garden of Eden in the midst of sand dunes.

Palm trees towered over smaller trees and shrubs. She caught the glint of water in the sunlight and the sound of birds rose from the greenery.

`Like it?’ Rafiq asked.

Ìt’s lovely.’ She’d always lived on the coast, and the stark beauty of the desert had been a surprise. With Rafiq at her side, pointing out rock forms, animal tracks, the way the wind sculpted the dunes, the graceful shadow of a hunting falcon, she’d enjoyed every minute of the ride.

`Come on,’ he urged.

She nodded. `You start down,’ she said. Ì‘ll follow.’

She loved watching him ride, with the easy grace of a born horseman. As much at home in the saddle as he’d been on his yacht a few days ago. With his headscarf protecting him from the sun, the bright light illuminating his commanding profile and the breeze plastering his shirt against his chest, she couldn’t drag her gaze away.

She swallowed hard, reminding herself that this was no romantic fantasy. But she couldn’t prevent the tingle of awareness that heightened her senses at the sight of him strong and vital, utterly spellbinding with his aura of raw, masculine power.

And he’s yours. All you have to do is reach out to him, whispered the voice of temptation.

She battled that demon ceaselessly, desperate to control the feelings that threatened to consume her: the admiration, the desire.

She lusted for him so badly he must read it in the very scent of her skin, the taut awareness of her body, attuned as it was to his every move.

Had he guessed that, despite her rearguard maneuvers to remain aloof, she’d lost her heart? That his wife in this arranged marriage had fallen in love with him?

She drew in a shuddering breath and took the track down to the wadi, aware of his piercing gaze as he waited.

It still shocked her, the suddenness and completeness of her love for him. The irrevocability of it. How could her world centre on him alone?

He was a man of integrity, but they were married, so, from his viewpoint, he had rights to her body. Why not find mutual pleasure?