Hidden In the Sheikh's Harem (6 page)

He kissed her hard and mercilessly and he didn't stop when she hissed a noise against his lips and thumped his shoulders. He didn't stop as she squirmed to get away from him and he didn't stop when the voice of reason rang out a warning inside his head.

This thing between them had started the minute she'd put those slender fingers in his mouth, maybe even before, and he was uncaring that this was something he would normally never do—uncaring about anything but having her surrender to him. Of having her wind those long legs around his hips so he could satisfy the primal need that owned him and made him want to own her.

When she moaned as if he was hurting her, it penetrated the fog of surging testosterone and he raised his head to look down at her. Her cheeks were flushed bright pink and strands of her silky hair clung to her neck. Her eyes looked too large for her face and her lips were moist and swollen from where he had ravished them. She looked wild and wanton and with every panting breath she took her breasts rose temptingly against his chest.

Shaken by the strength of his reaction to her, Zach thought about releasing her right up until the moment her pink tongue stole out of her mouth and swiped his taste from her lips. It was then he realised she was no longer struggling against him and that her eyes were trained on his mouth in a way that said she wanted more. And, by Allah, so did he.

With a pained groan he lowered his head and once more touched his lips to hers, only gently this time. He wanted to take his time to savour her lips, to feel their texture and taste their unique flavour. He wanted to feel her meet him halfway and he made a guttural sound deep in his chest when she tentatively rose against him in an innocent quest for more. Zach couldn't remember a kiss ever feeling so intimate, so good, and he fell against her, pressing her back into the door.

Thick lashes came down to shield her eyes as if the sensation was too much to bear, as if she could only focus on one thing at a time. He felt her lips give beneath his own, opening wider as he took the kiss deeper, the sensations shaking him to his core. Without even knowing it, he released her hands and wound his through her lush hair, cradling the back of her skull as he positioned her to take his tongue.

He growled as she melted against him, her tongue gliding shyly against his, and his world shrank to encompass only this. Only her. He pulled her in tighter, hitching her higher. She gave a soft, feminine whimper, her fingers clenching at his shoulders as she quivered against him. Zach cursed the amount of clothing between them, unable to stop himself from grinding his erection against the juncture of her thighs. He swallowed the catch in her breath and chased her tongue into her mouth, his hands restless in her hair, restless on her body, as he sought to pull the blasted
abaya
up and over her head so he could get to her body.

Dimly he became aware that they weren't alone. A couple of his senior officers had gathered at the entrance to the alleyway to ensure his safety and were at this moment watching him make love to his little prisoner. It wasn't the best behaviour he'd ever modelled and it took every ounce of willpower he had to let her go and step back from her.

When he did she slumped against the doorway, her eyes wide, her lips swollen and wet. She looked beautiful. Wild and untamed and just as shocked as he was.

It was the shock that finally brought him to his senses. ‘What the hell was that?'

A surfeit of emotions charged across her face, wounded pride being one of them. ‘That was you being a bully,' she accused hotly.

Zach felt as if he'd been slapped. His father had been a bully; he wasn't, and as for forcing her, her body had been primed for his kiss from the moment they met. ‘You wanted everything you just got,' he snarled. ‘And if you try to tell me otherwise I'll strip you naked and prove you wrong.'

‘Oh!'

Zach placed a hand on her shoulder and turned her to precede him. ‘Consider yourself warned.'

* * *

Oh
? Oh?
That was all she could come up with after he'd kissed her into a stupor and then insulted her?

Oh?

By Allah, she could come up with a hundred responses now and if he were here she'd give him every last one of them.

Pacing the lavish harem she'd been locked back up in, with two guards posted
inside
the room, she spun around when she heard the lock turning in the door.

She eyed Prince Zachim with open hostility as he stood in the doorway, flanked on either side by the two maids she'd sent away earlier.

‘I see your arm is still attached to your body,' she said, still feeling a little guilty at having hurt him, even though he had completely deserved it. ‘What a pity.'

‘Yes. No thanks to you.' He stepped into the room, his two lackeys shuffling to keep up. ‘I believe I left specific instructions for you to dress.'

She felt her body tense as she took in his wide-legged stance. He was no longer wearing the black robes that had made him look like a menacing pirate earlier, but now wore a regal white one, the colour emphasising his swarthy skin and the deep amber tones of his eyes.

By all that was holy, she still couldn't believe the way she had responded to his kisses back in the alley, and her fingers curled into her palms in an attempt to stave off the memory.

She'd never been kissed like that before. Certainly Amir had never tried to kiss her. In fact she'd only ever been kissed once before, by a youth from a neighbouring country who hadn't had the sense to be afraid of her father. It had been rushed and impossibly chaste compared to the Prince of Bakaan's kisses, which she was not going to think about any more.

‘I am dressed,' she said, knowing that he was referring to the purple silk gown that had been brought to her earlier and which she hadn't touched.

His lips quirked. ‘So you are. Unfortunately your current outfit will not work for my brother's wedding.'

‘What do I care about your brother's wedding?'

‘Nothing. Obviously. But I find myself uncomfortable with the notion of leaving you alone again.'

Farah crossed her arms over chest. ‘Am I supposed to feel sorry about that?'

‘No, my bloodthirsty little heathen, but given your recent behaviour I have no wish to be sitting at my brother's wedding, wondering what plans you're hatching down here in my absence.'

Farah tried not to be pleased at causing him some measure of discomfort. ‘Just leave me with your guards. I'm sure we can find some way to occupy ourselves.'

‘No doubt,' he murmured. ‘But I have no wish to have to discipline any more of my men.'

‘Am I really so dangerous, Prince Zachim?'

His mouth kicked up into that crooked grin that made her heart trip just a little. ‘More like troublesome.'

‘My father won't take the bait, you know,' she asserted, hoping that it was true.

‘We'll see.'

Farah gnashed her teeth together at his cavalier attitude. He was so cool as to appear almost bored, but why wouldn't he be? It wasn't his life hanging in the balance.

‘In the meantime, Isla and Carine are here to prepare you to be my guest at the wedding.'

Farah's eyes cut to both the women and for the first time she noticed that they were carrying towels and drawstring bags that held goodness knew what.

‘And you will cooperate this time.'

The prince's insolent drawl brought her eyes back to his. He looked hard and unyielding, as if she had no choice in the matter. ‘There is no—'

‘Way you're going to attend?' He flicked his hand in her direction as if she were an irritating insect. ‘Yes, I know.' He walked towards her and raised his hand to stay the women, who immediately obeyed. Farah's eyes narrowed and she forced herself to remain rigid as he took the last two steps into her personal space. ‘But you will. And you will behave.'

As she was about to tell him to go to hell, he shook his head slowly. ‘I can of course just lock you in a cell. Or perhaps it would be better to chain you to your bed. I'd hate you to be uncomfortable.'

The air between them grew thicker, making it harder for her to breathe, and Farah automatically stepped back from him. ‘It would be better than having to endure your company for the night.'

She heard one of the women gasp. The prince's eyes narrowed. ‘But who said anything about you being alone in that big
harem
bed?'

A dark, thrilling desire rose up inside of Farah as her head filled with all sorts of debasing images of her shackled to a bed with the prince gloriously naked and aroused in front of her. On top of her.
Inside
of her. Because he would be glorious naked; he would be... Farah clamped down on the thoughts running amok inside her head and tried to think straight.

‘What if I apologise on behalf of my father?' she gushed, finally prepared to humiliate herself and bow and scrape for this man if it meant she could get her father out of trouble and her life back to normal. ‘What if I make up for what he did in some way?'

He leaned back against the cabinet behind him, his fingers tapping a lazy beat against the curved wood. ‘What did you have in mind,
habiba
?'

Farah glanced at the maids. ‘I could work for you. I could cook or clean or—'

‘I already have enough staff in my employ.'

She bit her lip. ‘I could...' She wracked her brain to come up with something else. Surely there was something? ‘I could train your horses. Your camels.'

‘The palace no longer keeps camels and my horses are well taken care of.'

‘Damn it, surely there is something you need?'

His gaze ran over her body, lighting a fiery path as it went. ‘Keep going, I'm sure you'll hit on something mutually agreeable at some point.'

Farah frowned. Did he mean...?

You wanted everything you just got...and if you try to tell me otherwise I'll strip you naked and prove you wrong.

Farah's face flamed hotly as his words in the alleyway came back to her. ‘Not that!' she cried. ‘
Never
that!'

‘Then we have nothing to discuss,' he said in a bored tone.

‘You are every bit the tyrant your father was,' she accused, turning away from him.

Embarrassment and despair swamped her. If she had been a man, this whole situation would never have happened. She would have been by her father's side when he'd come upon the prince's SUV and been able to talk sense into him. And she certainly would never have given into this man's challenge and tried to feed him. What had she been thinking?

About his mouth
, a little voice reminded her.
You were thinking about his dreamy mouth.

Self-disgusted, she was about to stalk over to her bedroom when the prince grabbed her and swung her back to face him, his fingertips digging into her upper arms.

‘Dammit, you know how to push my buttons but your father took me hostage for three days before I escaped. If you think that will go unpunished, you're sadly mistaken.' He glowered down at her. ‘Now get dressed. And if you cause either of these women another problem you won't find me so lenient next time.'

Farah swallowed hard, determined to show zero emotion in the face of his fury, while inside her whole being was quaking. Watching him stride from the room she waited for the resounding echo from the slammed door to pass before she turned to the two wide-eyed maids, who had probably never said a cross word to the prince in their lives. ‘I will bathe myself, is that understood?'

‘Yes, my lady.'

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘S
TOP
 
FIDGETING
,' the prince whispered out of the side of his mouth for about the fifth time.

Farah dropped her hands to her side once more and pretended to focus on the gorgeous wedding ceremony taking place in front of her. ‘This dress doesn't fit,' she complained under her breath.

‘It's perfect,' he growled.

It wasn't perfect. It was tight across the bodice, the slender straps exposing her arms and upper chest. The stiletto-heeled shoes she'd been given to wear were also surely torture devices with the way they made her feet ache. In the magazines they had always looked so glamorous and beautiful. On the feet they felt like pincers.

‘And smile.'

Tired of his instructions—‘no sneering, no balled fists and no attacking anyone at the wedding'—Farah pinned a wide smile to her lips. ‘Like this?'

The prince's Adam's apple bobbed as he looked at her. ‘Better,' he mumbled, followed by something that sounded like, ‘I'd hate to experience the real thing,' before turning back to the proceedings.

Farah surreptitiously studied him in his royal white robes and headdress. He was so virile and masculine and so utterly charming when he wanted to be that she almost believed he was as nice as he seemed.

Except that he'd been grouchy towards her ever since he'd picked her up from the harem and she had no idea what she'd done to prompt his ire again other than exist. Earlier, after he'd stormed out, she had done everything that had been asked of her, intending to lull him into thinking that she would cooperate from now on. She'd let the women apply her make-up, dress her and brush her hair until it gleamed, pinning it up at the front and letting it fall down around her shoulders. When she'd finally looked in the mirror she had barely recognised herself. In fact, she'd thought she looked quite pretty until the prince had taken one all-encompassing glance at her and scowled—just like her father had, over her boots! She didn't know why the prince's bad opinion of her affected her so much but it did and the realisation had set her on edge all over again.

She wondered if he believed her when she'd agreed to the truce he'd requested before marching her from the harem and decided that it didn't matter right now. His brother was in the middle of marrying a Western woman so lovely that Farah had no wish to spoil things. There was just something so utterly romantic about the way Sheikh Nadir gazed at his bride that was totally riveting for Farah.

What would it be like to have a man look at her that way?

Debilitating
, a little voice reminded her. It would place her in a life of servitude where her wishes would be overlooked or overruled. It certainly wouldn't make her happy.

She shifted her weight into her heels to relieve the pressure on the balls of her feet and felt Prince Zachim tense. Given his importance in the ceremony, they were standing at the front of the glamorously packed ballroom that was overflowing with white and pastel-pink flowers and deep-green foliage with softly lit candles on every available surface.

She had felt the imprint of a thousand curious eyes on her as she had made her way slowly to the front of the guests but she hadn't recognised a single face who could help her.

A loud cheer went up in the crowd and Farah realised that the ceremony was over, the glowing couple smiling brightly, the groom totally besotted as he took their daughter from a male guest who hadn't stopped beaming the whole time.

Moving slowly, they stopped in front of Farah and the prince, accepting their congratulations. When the little girl reached out and patted Prince Zachim's jaw, he laughed and murmured to her tenderly, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. Farah was so surprised by the action her whole body went still. He really was the most confounding man, she thought a touch tetchily—one minute hard and ruthless and the next charming and...devastatingly male. Confused and feeling too many emotions at once, she was glad when they hung back and let the procession of guests precede them from the stately room.

Testing her weight on her toes, Farah gingerly stepped forward, trying not to feel as though she was walking on stilts.

‘Take smaller steps,' the prince advised roughly.

Farah's head came up. ‘Smaller steps?' She stared at him. ‘Have you seen the things on my feet?'

* * *

Yes, he had, and they were beautiful. She was beautiful, standing there scowling at him, and he wondered how a woman who had never genuinely smiled at him, who had never been anything but defiant in his presence, managed to drive him half-crazy to the point that, even now, he was contemplating taking her to bed regardless of who she was or who he was.

Would she be amenable to the idea? No, not likely, but he knew she'd been as lost in their interlude in the alleyway as he had been, and it probably wouldn't take much effort to return her to that state of stupefied, delirious lust. It sure as hell wouldn't take him long.

He saw a flash of vulnerability cross her delicate features as he continued to eat her up with his eyes and he realised she was nervous. A pang different from lust went through him.

‘These are not shoes,' she said indignantly, raising the hem of her gown to reveal delicate stiletto sandals designed with lingerie and sex in mind. ‘I have no idea why women wear them.'

Zach swallowed heavily but it did nothing to dislodge the gravel from his voice. ‘They elongate the leg and highlight a woman's calves.' And she had sensational legs that went on forever. A sheen of sweat rose up along his hairline.
Absolutely sensational
.

She scowled. ‘I think they are meant to control women. Next you'll ask me to darn your socks.'

‘I throw away my holey socks.'

‘Rich
and
wasteful. It figures.'

She lifted her nose at him and he ground his teeth. ‘That's some opinion you have of me, sweetheart.'

‘Are you saying I'm wrong?'

‘Yes, you're wrong.' She sniffed as if he was a servant who had just offered her substandard fare. ‘And not only that but you're prejudiced.'

That snapped her out of her holier-than-though repose. ‘I am not,' she declared hotly.

The scent of jasmine and honey entwined together and invaded his senses: his favourite. He sighed, not wanting to fight with her. ‘Take my arm.'

She cocked an eyebrow. ‘Where would you like me to take it?' she asked sweetly. ‘The garbage?'

He bit back a laugh and noticed her own lips twitching. So she had a sense of humour. Who knew? ‘As long as you don't take a sharp object to it again, you can take it wherever you like.'

Surprise showed on her face at his rejoinder and then she laughed, a dead sexy, full-on, throaty chuckle he thought he could listen to forever.

Finally she stopped and he lifted his gaze to hers. ‘You can lean your weight on me until you get used to the heels,' he offered gruffly.

She hesitated before releasing a long breath and reluctantly placed her hand on his arm as if she were touching dynamite.

Zach lifted her hand off his forearm and placed it in the crook of his elbow. When he felt her fingers curl into the fabric of his robe and cling, he felt as if a heavy object had been placed on his chest. He rubbed it but the sensation remained. So did the memory of the way she had fit in his arms earlier; the heat of her response to his kisses.

He swore under his breath and she glanced at him from beneath kohl-rimmed eyes, her long hair falling forward over one shoulder. Whether she was dressed to the nines as she was now, or wearing combat trousers and an old tunic with her hair matted against her head, she was more beautiful than any woman he'd ever seen in his life. Which couldn't be right. Surely Amy's classically cool beauty had touched him more than Farah's exotic dark looks?

He knew bedding the woman at his side would probably put an end to the hunger he felt for her but that wasn't an option. She was the daughter of his enemy and wanting it to be otherwise was just a fool's errand.

‘Why are you looking at me like that?'

The words could have come from a petulant teenager to a parent and he shook his head. ‘Because I didn't expect to find you so beautiful.'

A pink flush rose along her cheekbones and she dampened her lips. By Allah...

‘You're just saying that to try and lull me so that I won't try to escape again,' she said.

No, he hadn't been, he thought grimly, but now he knew that she intended to do so—even though he had trusted her when she'd agreed to cooperate with him earlier—and he felt like an idiot. ‘You know that gold sash draped so artfully around your waist?' he asked.

She raised her pointy little chin at him. ‘What of it?'

He leant in so close her scent filled him. ‘You take one step in the wrong direction tonight and I'll wrap it around your elegant throat and use it as a leash.'

* * *

Oh! Farah felt like screaming. One minute she was enjoying his company and the next she hated him again. But his comment had been a good reminder that she was not, in fact, his guest at this wedding, but his prisoner, and she had her own agenda: escape!

Smiling dutifully at the little group they had joined, she watched the covetous glances the women—the very
married
women—gave the prince. Instinct no doubt told them that the reason he was so completely at ease in his own skin was because he was a man who had known pleasure—and had given it.

A hot flush swept up her neck and she raised her hand to mask it. What she wouldn't give to be back in her little hut and arguing with her father about why she didn't want to get married. It seemed so much more simple than parading around with a man who disturbed her on so many levels.

‘I said stop fidgeting.' He cupped her elbow as he directed her away from the avid faces of their small group. ‘How are your feet?'

‘Hobbled. Yours?'

He chuckled. ‘You're delightful.'

She scowled. ‘I'm not trying to be.'

‘I know. Dance with me.'

Not expecting that request, she wasn't ready when he slid a hand to her lower back, his gaze hot on hers when she glanced up at him. ‘I don't dance.'

He considered her for a long moment. ‘Don't or can't?' he asked shrewdly.

Farah felt another flush heat her cheeks. ‘I...' she began, only to stop as he cast her a crooked grin.

‘Can't, then,' he concluded, turning her towards him. ‘Don't look so outraged,
habiba
, I will teach you.'

A shiver went through Farah as he moved in closer, his warmth hitting her like a wall. Then his spicy scent made her head foggy. This was so not a good idea. Especially when he was right: she couldn't dance. She'd never thought about learning before, preferring to watch from the sidelines. She hadn't thought about sex much, either, but since meeting the prince it was the single most dominating thought that occupied her time. If he'd been an ordinary man in her village or a neighbouring one, who was considerate of her needs, she might have thought about exploring the chemistry that made her stomach flutter and her insides feel liquid, but he was Zachim, Prince of Bakaan, and he was cut from the same controlling cloth as their fathers.

‘Not interested,' she said, trying to ignore the little voice in her head that said dancing with him would be fun. Riding Moonbeam full pelt through the desert was fun. Sitting by the fireside dreaming up impossible adventures with her friends was fun. Dancing with Prince Zachim would not be fun. It would be out-and-out dangerous.

As if reading her mind, he gave her a devastating half smile. ‘Come on. You know you want to.'

And there was that innate arrogance of his popping up at the right moment to remind her why she disliked him so much. ‘No.'

‘Just follow my lead.'

His grin widened as she flashed him a look. ‘Do you even understand the word
no
?'

‘You never know, Farah, you might enjoy it.'

And wasn't that half the problem? She knew that maybe she would enjoy it. Too much.

Before she could rally her defences against him, he raised his left hand. ‘Right hand in mine.'

Farah froze so he reached down and clasped her hand in his. ‘Now, left hand on my shoulder.'

Again she froze and again he took control and did it for her.

‘Now what?' she asked, her whole body taut as she tried to remain impervious to this nearness.

‘Now I put my hand here.' He placed his left hand lightly against her hip and Farah's spine lengthened as she registered the heat of his touch.

Her lips felt dry and she mashed them together. He watched her like a hawk zeroing in on its prey. ‘And now?'

‘Now we move together.' He smiled, clearly amused by her stoicism. ‘It's called a waltz. When I lead with my right leg, you move your left leg back. No, not like that—smaller steps, remember, and slower. My leg is supposed to slide against yours so that it looks like we're moving as one.'

A lone sitar player filled the dance floor with a gentle, teasing ballad and Farah desperately focused on the music as the prince's muscular body lightly brushed her own.

‘Close your eyes.'

Her eyes flew to his and she moved her face back when she realised how close they were. ‘Why? What are you going to do to me?'

‘Nothing you don't want me to.'

Time seemed to grind to a halt as those gravelly words grazed along her nerve endings. She felt her pulse race. Those blasted magazine images wove into her consciousness and heat made her dizzy. Then she realised she was holding her breath and let it out.

‘Closing your eyes might help you feel the music,' he suggested, watching her closely.

It might help her forget about how devastatingly handsome he was as well, so she did. On some level it made her awareness of him even more intense, but on another it did help, and before she knew it she could feel herself moving much more gracefully than she would have thought possible.