The Arabian Mistress

‘Tariq…’ she said a little shakily because, although she was embarrassed, a hysterical giggle brought on by nerves was tugging at her throat and she was terrified it would escape and cause huge offence for she could see he was trying to be diplomatic and reassuring. ‘I really can’t believe we’re having this crazy conversation.’

‘When we first met, I made the mistake of assuming that you were as innocent as you appeared.’ Tariq lifted a broad shoulder in a fluid dismissive shrug. ‘But that was a boy’s fantasy. Many Arab men cherish similar fantasies but I am now more contemporary in my outlook.’

Contemporary? His use of that particular word absorbed Faye the most. She focused on the dagger in the headboard and skimmed her gaze away again, suddenly extraordinarily reluctant to state an opinion on that score.

Powerful emotion was welling up inside her but she could not have put a name to what she was feeling. Tariq ibn Zachir was what he was, a feudal prince. His patina of cool sophistication had once grossly misled her. Not too far below that surface was the infinitely more conservative male whose existence she had not recognised until too late. The male with the reputation of a womaniser who had, nonetheless, been shattered when she’d asked him to stay overnight.

Why? Only now could she understand why. Prior to that fatal invite, Tariq had placed her on a lofty pedestal labelled ‘pure as driven snow’. And then she had so shaken his faith in his image of her that he had decided he had never known her at all. She had made it that much easier for him to credit that she had been involved in her stepfather’s strenuous efforts to make money out of their relationship.

Cheeks warm, Faye plucked an imaginary piece of lint from her sleeve. ‘You seem very sure that I’ve had other lovers…’

‘What else am I to believe after that invitation you gave me last year?’

So they were back to the catastrophic phone call during which she had virtually asked him to sleep with her and she could still only cringe at the mention of it. Barely twelve months had passed but the resulting fallout had ensured that she had since grown up a lot for, while she had believed she was being daring and romantic, he had believed she was being crude and cheap. While she was willing to admit to herself that she had misjudged her man and made a mistake, she was not prepared to admit that to him.

Ignoring what she saw as a most ungallant reminder of her most humiliating moment, Faye said tightly, ‘What if I told you…well…er…that there hadn’t been other men?’

Tariq screened his stunning golden eyes. ‘I would tell you that you don’t need to lie on that score.’

‘But I wouldn’t be lying if I told you that…and if you have so much respect for a woman’s virtue, you should be keeping your hands off me, shouldn’t you be?’

His amusement broke through to the surface in a flashing smile that disconcerted her a great deal. ‘No…’

‘Why not?’

‘Take it from me, you are a special case…so last-ditch efforts to change my mind are destined to fail. I cannot understand why you should even attempt to change my mind. With every look you give me you let me know how much you want to feel my hands on you. I saw that at our first meeting in the Haja.’

‘Really?’ Her face was hotter than hell-fire. She met molten golden eyes set between lush ebony lashes. She saw the kind of absolute confidence that shook her.

‘Seeing that longing in you filled me with an unholy rush of triumph…I freely admit that as a fault.’ With that frank admission, Tariq strolled up to her and lifted her back into his arms with complete cool. He settled her down on the edge of the bed and removed the tiara from her hair. Long, sure fingers detached the earrings, first one, then the other before dropping to her wrist to unclasp the bracelet. It was all achieved at a leisurely pace. ‘But then I was not brought up to be a good loser. I was taught to be ruthless and competitive. I was made to be strong.’

Dumbfounded by his dexterity with jewellery and that sense of being in the power of an overwhelming force, Faye watched him set the exquisite diamond set down on a silver tray on a dresser and mumbled in dazed and belated repetition. ‘A fault?’

‘You have already noticed the temper—’

‘Rafi has it too—’

Dispensing with his sword belt and kaffiyeh, Tariq sent her a dark look of reproof which let her know just how much he still felt the shame of his little brother’s behaviour. ‘Never have I raised my hand to anyone in anger!’

‘He’s four and all mixed-up…you’re twenty-eight and…’ A slight gasp escaped her parted lips as he bent down to tug off her shoes. His proud, dark head was within reach. She curled her fingers to stop herself from stretching out a hand to touch the enticing luxuriance of his black hair.

It was really going to happen, Faye thought, swallowing hard; they were definitely about to share the bed. No sandstorm, no Percy to keep them apart. But now that they were finally at the brink, Faye just could not imagine being in bed with Tariq, when to date she had never so much as seen him with his shirt off…

‘I’m twenty-eight and?’ Tariq prompted.

‘I’ve forgotten what I was about to say. You’re really planning on going through with this, aren’t you?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I just…I just can’t imagine it—’

‘I have more than sufficient imagination for both of us.’

‘Well, I’ve had enough of this!’ Faye threw herself off the bed with the intention of stalking away. But she had forgotten the length of the gown she wore and the train wrapped round her ankles, tripping her up. As she teetered dangerously, Tariq caught her back into his arms to steady her.

‘I think I have only had enough of you talking.’ Running down the zip on the gown, he eased it off her taut shoulders. The sheer weight of the embroidered fabric sent the garment sliding straight down her arms and into a heap at her feet. In speedy succession, the underdress travelled the same way.

‘Tariq!’ Faye, left standing in her lacy bra and panties with little warning, was paralysed by dismay and mortification.

Scanning her hot face and the self-conscious arms she folded in front of her, his gaze narrowed. ‘Ignore my last comment,’ he advised softly. ‘I do believe you should talk some more.’

‘What about?’

A sudden smile curved his wide, passionate mouth. She saw the charm, the rueful amusement which had once reduced her to a mindless level of tongue-tied longing. It did so again. As he lifted her up and settled her on the bed again, she coiled back against the crisp white pillows, conscious only of a heartbeat that seemed to be thumping madly in her eardrums rather than where it ought to have been.

In the thrumming silence, Tariq reached up and plucked the dagger from the headboard. Sheathing the blade, he tossed it aside again. Smouldering golden eyes roamed over the full swell of her breasts, the feminine curve of her hi

p and the slim, shapely length of her legs and then whipped back to her strongly disconcerted face.

‘So…’ he murmured lazily ‘…perhaps you would care to explain why a virgin would make the kind of bold invitation you made to me last year?’

Her soft mouth compressed and she jerked a shoulder, eyes veiled, chin at a mutinous angle. ‘Since you didn’t take me up on it, I don’t think you have the right to ask that—’

‘When I saw you in that towel in your bedroom, I had every intention of taking advantage of the offer,’ Tariq countered in level disagreement. ‘However, it seems obvious to me now that your stepfather must’ve forced you into making that distasteful phone call…’

Her lovely face taut with flushed discomfiture, Faye muttered, ‘No. I can’t let Percy be blamed for that. That call was entirely my own idea—’

‘So even now you will not tell me the truth!’ Raising a highly expressive lean hand and dropping it again in scornful dismissal, Tariq strode away from the bed, soundless and graceful as a jungle cat on the prowl.

‘No,’ Faye said tensely. ‘I just won’t tell you any more lies…no matter what the cost.’

Tariq swung back, unimpressed brilliant eyes clashing with hers.

Faye sucked in a deep breath. ‘I still don’t know how my stepfather found out that I had asked you to the house that night. Maybe it was just a horrible coincidence…him turning up when he was supposed to be in London and walking in on a situation which he thought he could use to his own advantage. But there was no set-up as far as I was concerned. I honestly believed we would be alone that night—’