Lord of Desire

Determined to ignore such weakness in himself, Jafar crossed his arms over his chest. He could not allow his

resolve to be softened by her despair. There was far too much at stake.

"Allah is merciful," he said tauntingly. "He has seen fit to bless me with a model captive."

Her only response was a narrow-eyed glance over her shoulder.

"A silent woman is unique in my experience."

There was mockery in his tone and in his eyes. Alysson stiffened in fury. The scathing look she sent him could have torched wet kindling.

In response, Jafar slowly strode across the tent to her side. When he raised his hand to gently brush her cheek, though, Alysson recoiled from his caress.

"If you touch me, I swear I'll kill you!"

His golden gaze hardened. "You dare defy me?" he asked in a voice that was lethally quiet.

"Yes, I dare defy you, you . . . barbarian."

Deliberately, with careftil precision, he reached up and grasped her chin. Alysson cringed.

His eyes surveyed her flushed face, her frightened expression. "That would not be wise, chérie. For then I would have to punish your defiancé."

Holding her breath, Alysson quivered with outrage and fear and something else that she didn't want to name.

"Perhaps," Jafar added softly, his gaze dropping to her trembling lips, "I should punish you with kisses, since you profess to dislike them so much."

The desire that she had refused to acknowledge made her heart race and her skin turn hot. "N-no . . ." she whispered, but he didn't seem to hear. His fingers shifting, he stroked his thumb slowly over her lower lip, barely grazing the warm moist interior.

"Temellal," he murmured. "My beauty."

I shall be your lover. He hadn't spoken the words, and yet she heard the silent whisper. And, incredibly, she wanted to believe.

Her emotions in turmoil, Alysson stared at Jafar, trying to fathom the bewildering way he made her feel. How could she be so affected by a man she hated? How could she feel this unnerved, this feminine, this shivery? What gave him the power to make her knees so weak, to make her heart hammer so? What gave him the ability to shatter her firmest resolve with merely a look from his hot, amber eyes?

Try as she might, she couldn't prevent what his nearness did to her, or ignore the stunning awareness she felt for this man. All she could do was remember how he had once kissed her—the heat of his mouth, the masculine taste of him, the tender skill of his hands. Jafar overwhelmed her with sensations, made her forget who she was, who he was. He made her own body betray her. She wanted him to kiss her again, to touch her, to take her in his arms . . .

"No," she whispered again, desperation giving her the strength to protest.

His expression was gentle, his stroking touch erotic, his tone low and husky as he murmured, "You should thank me, Temellal, for taking you away from Bourmont. He is no match for your intelligence or spirit. Nor is he man enough to make a woman of you."

The remembrance of Gervase, of the peril he was in, sent a wave of guilt flooding through Alysson. Guilt for desiring Jafar. Guilt for even momentarily forgetting her responsibility to Gervase, to her uncle, to her country, even. It made her humiliatingly aware of how dangerously close she had been to succumbing to Jafar's sensual caress. With near- panic, she pulled away from his hold. "Don't talk to me of Gervase!" she nearly shouted at him. "You aren't fit to polish his boots!"

A muscle flexed in Jafar's jaw. He stared at her for a long moment before letting his hand fall, and turning, finally, left the tent.

Watching with fervent relief, Alysson set her teeth. She couldn't allow him to bait her like this. She couldn't allow him to use her this way, as his pawn, his instrument of revenge. She couldn't allow his vital male presence to overwhelm her senses.

She had to pull herself together. She had to think, to plan. She had to eat in order to keep up her strength. She had to sleep so she would have the energy to escape this fiend who had abducted her and who threatened the lives of those she loved. She had to discover any information she could about her captors which might give her even the slightest advantage.

With that objective in mind, she questioned Mahmoud later that afternoon about Jafar and his conflict with the French.

The conversation did not go smoothly. The moment she mentioned the French, Mahmoud cursed. "Zfft! May those sons of jackals live in misery and contempt!"

But she did manage to draw from the boy more details about his master. From what she could glean, Jafar was a powerful amghar—administrator of a large Berber tribe. He also held the additional title of caid, which meant he had been appointed by the Sultan of the Arabs, Abdel Kader, to act as the local official of the loosely organized Arab government.

Mahmoud's prideful disclosures only confirmed what Alysson already suspected. Jafar el-Saleh was a monolith of authority and fearlessness, a Berber chieftain who had taken the field for the freedom and independence of Algeria.

In all honesty, she couldn't blame Jafar for defying his enemy, the French. That she could understand. She even could almost admire his fortitude in the face of such vast odds. He was fighting for what he believed in, against oppression, against his country's conquerors.