The Desert Sheikh's Captive Wife

Rashad clamped his hands to her hips to urge her closer to the raging heat of his desire. He was as hard as iron. She wasn’t resisting a single move he made. Raw triumph flooded him with all-male energy. Too well did he recall how she had once become as unresponsive as a marble statue in his arms. He bent down and scooped her off her feet at decisive speed. The sooner he satisfied his desire for that slim, perfect body of hers, the better. She had the morals of an alley cat. As she had said herself, making a production out of the event was most inappropriate. For what reason would he wait?

Tilda gasped for air to ease her oxygen-starved lungs. Trembling like a leaf in a high wind, she opened anxious eyes to focus on Rashad’s lean darkly handsome face above hers. He had snatched her up into his powerful arms as though she weighed no more than a doll. ‘Where are we g-going?’ she stammered.

Rashad kicked open a door with controlled force. He had appointments to keep, not to mention a flight to New York scheduled. He didn’t care. Just for once in his life he was going to do what he wanted to do, not what he should do! He wanted her now; he did not want to wait one hour longer. Had he not waited five years already? He settled her down on his bed and immediately undid the clip that confined her hair. He sank caressing hands into the tumbling mass and drew it across her slight shoulders so that it fell almost to her waist in a glorious snaking tangle of platinum-blond ringlets.

Aghast to find herself on a bed when mere minutes earlier she had been safe in a drawing room, Tilda stared up at him wide-eyed. The Rashad she remembered would never have kissed her like that and swept her off into a bedroom without hesitation. He had treated her with respect and restraint. She was stunned by the change in him. Even briefly deprived of his caresses her body leapt and tingled with a sensual aftershock so powerful that it almost hurt not to drag him down to her again. ‘Rashad…’

Rashad unbuttoned his jacket with a masculine air of purpose. Scorching golden eyes assailed hers with fierce intensity. ‘Here in my bed we will seal our new understanding.’

‘Now?’ Tilda was appalled by that declaration of intent. She would not let herself think about how her enthusiastic response to his passion could only have encouraged him to believe that it was fine to regard her as a midmorning sexual snack. ‘I mean, right here and now?’

Rashad surveyed her with compelling force. ‘It is my wish.’

He was dangerously accustomed to instant acquiescence with his expressed wishes and immediate gratification, Tilda acknowledged in a daze. She was already battling to come to terms with the idea of willingly becoming Rashad’s plaything, his possession, his little toy. Suddenly the sheer weight of such expectations was too much for her to handle at that moment.

‘I can’t!’ she gasped. ‘Not right now anyhow.’

Rashad had not considered that possibility. A lean brown hand clenched in frustration and then loosened again for the depth of his reserve had made the concealment of his every private reaction instinctive. The ache of sexual arousal was so sharp and frustrating that it felt like a physical pain. ‘Then we must wait until you reach Bakhar.’

Tilda flushed to her hairline when she realised the meaning he had mistakenly taken from her outburst. She lowered her head, knowing she was not about to correct him and wondering if that made her a terrible cheat. Like one of those women who famously feigned continual headaches? But before she could let her thoughts stray in that direction, all of what he had just said finally sank in and she raised shaken turquoise eyes. ‘You’re planning to take me back to Bakhar with you?’

‘I have a palace in the desert. The harem is tailor-made for a woman like you.’ Rashad was thinking with savage satisfaction of Tilda in the Palace of the Lions, isolated by the remote location from the temptations of the rest of the world and forced to depend only on him for company and amusement. That would soon sort her out. She would be his very personal project. There would be no more lies, no more deceits and no more pretence.

Outraged and convinced he was joking in a very unfunny way, Tilda slid off the bed and hurriedly sidestepped him while trying not to look as if she was running away. She paused by the door. ‘I know you’ve got to be teasing me. You once told me that there was no such thing as a harem anywhere in Bakhar.’

Rashad gave her a sardonic appraisal, enjoying her disbelief and the hint of panic she couldn’t hide. It was but a small repayment for the sexual disappointment she had just dealt him. Again. She had had no business giving him such encouragement when she could not offer him release. But hadn’t that been typical of her? To yield just a provocative taste of her exquisite body to tantalise and tease him?

‘I mean, I know you’re too civilised to try and treat me like a concubine…or something,’ Tilda proffered in a small, tight voice of deep audible suspicion.

‘My grandfather had hundreds of concubines. We don’t talk about it. It’s not politically correct these days. But the royal household always had concubines. Most of them were gifts from their families. It was considered an honour to enter the royal harem and a good way of gaining the favour of the ruling family,’ Rashad confided lazily, watching her gorgeous eyes widen and her ripe lower lip part from the upper in disquiet. ‘Alas, I will have to satisfy myself with only you, but think of all the attention you’ll get. At least you won’t have to compete with other women or share me.’

‘I’m not going to be anybody’s concubine, especially not yours!’ Tilda shot at him vehemently, yanking open the door and hastening out into the corridor.

Rashad, who had never thought of himself as an imaginative man, pictured Tilda reclining in something very flimsy on a bed in the Palace of the Lions, counting the days and the hours until he would visit her there. He found that vivid mental image so deeply attractive that it was an effort to move on from it to consider more practical aspects. When had anyone last lived at the old palace? He would have to throw an army of servants into the ancient building and refurbish it from roof to basement for occupation. It would be a huge task. His staff would be kept extremely busy.

‘How long are you expecting me to stay in Bakhar for?’

‘For as long as I want you in my bed.’ Rashad thrust open the drawing-room door.

Tilda swallowed painfully. ‘If I agree-’

‘You’ve already agreed.’

‘You have to write off the loan and sign the house back to Mum.’

His colourful reverie most effectively dispersed by that evidence of her financial acuteness, Rashad surveyed her with hard dark eyes. ‘You think you’ll be worth that much money?’

Tilda promised herself that somehow, some day, some way, she would get revenge for what he was doing to her. Pale as death, she knotted her restive hands together and veiled her angry, mortified gaze. ‘It’s what you think that matters,’ she pointed out flatly. ‘But if you want me to hand myself over body and soul and put my whole life on hold for goodness knows how long, I need to know that my family’s going to be all right while I’m away.’

‘There speaks the martyr,’ Rashad murmured with scorn.

Tilda would not allow herself to react to that inflammatory comment. ‘When will you stop the eviction proceedings?’

‘The day you fly into Bakhar. That will give you ten days at most to get organised.’

Tilda dealt him a stricken look of condemnation. ‘You can’t do it that way!’

‘I don’t trust you, so the pressure stays on. There will be no room for renegotiating in the hope of more favourable and lucrative terms and no opportunity for you to renege on the deal.’ Having glanced out the window and noted the expensive Jaguar awaiting her return, Rashad turned his arrogant dark head to study her with chilling intensity. ‘In the meantime, you should be careful to be on your very best behaviour.’