Yasmine searched deeper in those beautiful eyes until she found genuine caring wrapped around a pragmatic soul.
She let herself indulge in the warmth of safety, being free to talk with another person and to share a piece of herself. "I have eleven other sisters here from my father's other wives. It should not matter to me so much that this one sister hates my guts."
"Eleven sisters? No brothers?"
"No brothers," she confirmed. "Apparently my father did not produce that Y chromosome when making a baby."
Drew coughed on a laugh. She liked that, making this rugged man find the laughter he buried too deep.
Yasmine draped her scarf over her knees, the gift from her father draping comfort over her battered nerves, as well. "We were spoiled, all of us. Sons are undoubtedly prized in my culture, but my father never made mention of disappointment in front of us. He called us his treasures. I think, though, that perhaps he adored all of the attention from a houseful of females." She smoothed wrinkles from the silk. "I am sure you think it is a strange practice for a man to have four wives."
"I guess it's more important what you think of the practice."
Oh, she could get to like this man who not only listened but also valued her opinion. "I believe Monica would tell you I am selfish. And she would be right." Yasmine looked up from her scarf. "I could not share a man with anyone else."
For a weak moment she let herself dive into those beautiful eyes of his and even permitted him a peek into herself. Quiet fell between them, stretched with only the low thrum of the bass beat from the music below.
Or was that her heart?
He glanced away, down, connection easing yet not breaking. "You still miss your father."
"Of course." Understatement of the century.
She missed both her parents. How easily she had taken for granted something like a cruise with them to celebrate her graduation from the university.
Tears burned after all. Much more talk of her parents and she would start blubbering all over this man who already found her childish enough.
"Urn—" she tried to sniffle up her tears "—I think I would like to spit some more fire now if you do not mind."
A whisper of air brushed by her cheek a half second before his hand fell to rest on the back of her head. His fingers cupped the base of her skull with firm comfort.
No movement. No stroke. Yet the heavy touch of his hand against her hair was so alien and sensual. Forbidden, which made it all the more arousing. She held still and savored the moment because undoubtedly once she looked up, things would change forever. Either he would jerk away and scramble for his nice safe distance from the woman who seemed determined to chase him down hallways.
Or he would kiss her.
And that scared her all the more because then her lies would someday send this honorable man running faster than any meaningless age difference.
Chapter 11
He should run. Drew knew it deep in his battle-seasoned bones that insisted a wise man who wanted to live to fight another day understood when to retreat.
Right this moment with his fingers buried in Yasmine's dark hair and her exotic scent drifting all around him, he wasn't feeling particularly wise. As a matter of fact, he was feeling downright reckless and unable to stop staring at a perfect pair of lips. Perfect lips on the face of the most exasperating woman he'd ever met.
With her jet hair caressing her face, she looked more American, less foreign, more approachable. Drew cupped the back of her skull with a firmer touch, nudged her forward and, God help them both, Yasmine didn't need much persuasion. If she'd shown any resistance, he could have scavenged the grit to pull away.
Instead she drifted forward into his arms with more of that fluid grace that sent lust hammering through him until he couldn't think about anything but getting na*ed with her. Taking the release his libido demanded with sex, long, hot, physical sex, her hair tangled around their sweaty bodies as they both worked through whatever the hell insanity twisted them inside out.
Lust. It had to be lust along with the sense of the forbidden. He refused to consider it could be anything more. Once he kissed her, she would become like any other woman in his mind, and therefore easy to walk away from. The sooner he kissed her, the sooner he could forget her.
Yeah, that made sense.
His mouth met hers partway, slanted over, found the unique feel of her. Taste of her. Mint toothpaste and pure Yasmine.
His other hand slid up to grasp her arm, his fingers wrapping around the delicate give of womanly flesh. In a world of hard dirt beds and harder decisions, he'd forgotten anything could be this soft. Brushing another kiss over her lush mouth, he tried to stay gentle, to remember this woman was half his weight. Half his strength.
Half his age.
Damn, but he didn't want to remember that just yet with her lips moving under his. Parting with enough encouragement to assure him he hadn't misread a thing here.