The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride

Yet she was terrified that if they became physically intimate her feelings would enslave her to someone who, however admirable, didn’t love her.

`Belle?’

She looked into his enticing green gaze, read the welcome, the answering desire in his face, and felt her self-control splinter. How could she resist him?

`Come,’ he said. Ì have a surprise for you.’

Something danced in his eyes amusement? Anticipation? Her pulse thrummed faster.

The horses picked their way down the slope to water that reflected the brilliant blue of the sky. There were a couple of long pools running through the centre of the tiny valley, the heart of its green burgeoning life.

Rafiq’s hands closed round her waist and he lifted her down to stand toe to toe with him. Heat spread from his encompassing grip, and her breath caught at the sensation of his leashed power. His encircling hands made her feel small and vulnerable. The blaze of fire in his eyes told her he felt it too, the need, the suspense.

Desire was a searing curl of tension winding tight in her womb.

Coiling harder and faster, till her breathing constricted and her breasts peaked and throbbed.

His breath fanned her. She saw the rapid pulse at the base of his neck and the urge to kiss that spot, taste his skin with her tongue, made her sway in his hold.

Abruptly he let her go and stepped away. Something disappointment was a hard knot in her stomach.

`Belle,’ he said, and his tone made her shiver. His expression was taut as his gaze skimmed over her. It was no consolation to know he found this difficult too. Her whole body quivered from the pounding tension that grew and circled still inside her.

`Come,’ he said, his voice low. He took her hand and drew her forward. Ì think you’ll like it.’

Slowly she followed him, looking anywhere but at him. Pretending she didn’t feel the awareness that pulsed between them through their linked hands.

They rounded a clump of thorn bushes and she saw it. A traditional nomad’s tent set beneath a grove of tall date palms. And in front of it a slim ribbon of rippling water that flowed and widened into another waterhole. She gasped in amazement and delight at the scene. At this side of the tent was an opening, raised like an awning to reveal an interior luxuriant with rugs in dark jewel colors.

`How did you do this?’ she asked, eyes fixed on the enchanting sight. With its burnished hanging lamp at the entrance and the scatter of cushions she could make out at the rear of the tent, it looked like something out of an old storybook. A place Scheherazade could have described.

His hand squeezed hers. `You approve?’

Ì love it.’ She smiled up at him and caught a glimpse of some expression, quickly hidden, in his bright scrutiny. `But how is it here? When did you-?’

`There was a security sweep of the area by helicopter a little earlier. They brought out a few supplies for our picnic on their way.’ He smiled. Ìf ever we were in the desert overnight we’d use this tent, my grandfather and I. I felt sure you’d appreciate it.’

A few supplies. Belle stared at the vision before her and stifled a laugh. Where she came from a picnic meant a hamper and an old blanket.

It’s wonderful. Thank you, Rafiq.’

`My pleasure, Belle.’ His voice had deepened to a note that sent a tremor of response through her. His eyes met hers and her breath snagged.

`Let’s clean up a little.’ He led her to the water.

`The horses-‘

`They’ll be fine,’ he said as he leaned to scoop water over his face and hands. `They won’t stray.’

The water was surprisingly cool against her heated skin, and she let it dribble down her collarbone, reveling in the refreshing trails that ran under the loose cotton of her shirt. She washed her dusty hands and turned to find Rafiq watching her. That was nothing new. He did that all the time, quietly observing and giving nothing away.

But this time there was something in his look that unnerved her.

Send the blood rushing to her face.

He held out his hand and led her into the tent.

Her immediate impression was of dim coolness after the hot, bright desert sun. Her second was of its sheer luxury. There were patterned rugs on the walls, insulation against the heat.

Overlapping carpets covered every inch of the floor, and if she’d been alone she’d have thrown herself down immediately on the inviting pile of huge cushions. There were a couple of low, polished brass tables and, incongruously, a huge portable icebox in one corner.

She followed Rafiq’s example and took off her shoes, immediately grateful when she felt the caress of finely woven silk beneath her feet. She stared. Each of these carpets must be worth a fortune.