The Desert Lord's Bride (Throne of Judar 2)

It still took the flashes burning her retinas with splotches of painful blindness to make her realize what the figures were. Paparazzi.

Helplessness and outrage lurched through her, against the merciless greed of the predators who’d invaded her life countless times, polluted her image and shattered her peace. No matter that she’d practically given them license to do so, with her arrangement with Bill. It still made her ill every time.

They were now catching her in her one moment of unguarded abandon to joy, turning her discovery of Shehab and her own unknown depths into photographic evidence that would turn all the magic into something cheap and sordid.

But before distress bubbled to her lips, Shehab offered her the refuge she hadn’t cried for yet, whirling her around, his clothes swirling around him like a magician’s cape, enfolding her into what felt like another dimension, where nothing existed but the duet of their heartbeats, hers a cacophony of irregularity, his the very rhythm of steadiness.

Then other sounds invaded her awareness. Stampeding feet, imploding flashes and shouted outrage. She clung to him, her heart invading her throat, breached, under attack.

Then she was no longer touching ground, swept up in his power, the world tilting then bounding on fast, steady thuds.

Suddenly a car screeched to a stop a few feet away from them. A gleaming black stretch limo.

Half a dozen men materialized out of nowhere, one opening the back door for them, the rest surging toward her and Shehab, overtaking them, putting themselves between them and the commotion at their back. Shehab lowered himself inside the spacious vehicle with her still held securely in his arms. The door immediately slammed shut with a muted oomph and the limo shot forward soundlessly.

Shehab’s hands ran all over her, soothing, caressing her own hands, which ached from clutching him to her.

“It’s over,” he murmured. “My men will detain them.”

She unclenched her grasp on him, squeezed her eyes shut. Yeah, sure. Good luck with that. The paparazzi had already gotten what they’d hounded her for more than two years to obtain-evidence that she was a promiscuous tart who constantly cheated on her sugar daddy. And she’d obliged them this time, leaving a party disheveled and climbing all over a man like a cat in heat.

But it was worse than that. What hurt most was his men. With the way they’d appeared on the spot, they must have been invisibly following Shehab all along, must have seen…everything…

Mortification made her struggle out of his arms, spilled her on the plush leather couch beside him.

She felt sick at heart, at the whole thing, was afraid she’d be sick for real. Her head flopped on the headrest as everything tumbled through her mind in a vicious spin cycle.

“Can you please ask your chauffeur to pull over?”

He hit a button, rapped the order in Arabic. Another button flipped open a compartment from which he produced wet towels, then with utmost gentleness he wiped her face, neck, arms and the tops of her breasts with their fragrant coolness.

Long moments later, he stopped, looked at her. “Better?”

Oh, she was so not better. His caresses had at first soothed her, but then they’d become fire, licking exposed nerve endings. Her womb was contracting so hard, it was almost painful.

How could he do this to her? Even now, when she was dying of embarrassment?

She nodded, mutely. Otherwise she’d tell him the exact truth. She’d told him enough of that for one night.

Giving her such a smile, that of an artist looking in satisfaction on his handiwork, he tried to move her again onto his lap. She resisted, and he only coaxed her with more insistent caresses, his lips rubbing against her temple. “Let me soothe you, ya jameelati. You really are shaken up by the paparazzi’s appearance, aren’t you?”

“I’ve developed a phobia where they’re concerned,” she admitted.

He pressed her harder into his containment. “They’ve pursued you before?”

Shehab pulled back when Farah made no response, watched agitation shudder over her face. It felt so real he almost felt sorry for arranging the incident.

The plan had come to him when he’d been informed paparazzi had followed her when she’d left to come to the ball without Hanson, as he’d planned. He’d known they’d swarm the park until she made an exit, hoping to succeed where they’d failed so far, to catch her in one of the infidelities everyone insisted she regularly indulged in. He hadn’t been about to risk her slipping and providing them with their coveted photographic evidence, not when he’d have to make her his princess. But he’d decided to use their presence to his advantage.

He’d ordered his men to get rid of the paparazzi, to take their place, to pretend to ambush them on his signal. He’d planned to get her into a compromising position somehow, aiming to convince her that her spotless record of never having been caught in the act was at an end. But even his best projections hadn’t included his leaving the ball with her all over him.

He’d almost forgotten to give the signal, had done it with utmost reluctance, hating to have his men witness any measure of their intimacies, even the mild kiss he’d allowed them to see.

He’d expected her to cry out for him to send his men after the paparazzi, to make sure no evidence of her indiscretion remained in existence. He’d gambled on that driving her deeper into his trap, adding the feeling of being partners in barely averted scandal to the mix, compounding desire with debt.

But her response to the whole situation had again thrown him for a loop.

She’d been scared instead of incensed, was now looking so rattled, so pained, he almost blurted out that she had nothing to worry about.

Which proved he was thinking with nothing above the neck.

Yet-why hadn’t she made any demands that he contain the situation? Did she assume he would anyway, for his reputation?

She at last let out a wavering exhalation. “They’ve been hounding me since my father-my adoptive father-died.” So, no demand yet. When would it come? She went on, her voice strangled with emotion. “They always find a reason for their sick interest in me. I’m just scared witless that this latest episode has something to do with their getting wind that I was adopted, or worse, who my newfound biological father is. If it does, they’ll never leave me alone.”

He knew he should steer away from this subject, shouldn’t risk her connecting him with the situation between her and King Atef. He couldn’t resist asking, “Because of the drama of the discoveries? Or is your bioligical father’s identity worthy of creating a sensation?”