Hidden In the Sheikh's Harem Page 8

  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 he
at 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.

  ‘You’re a quick study,’ he murmured against her ear. ‘How are the feet now?’

  Farah shivered and opened her eyes. She’d forgotten all about her feet but now she could feel the balls of them throbbing. ‘Not great.’

  He pulled her indecently close. ‘Lean against me,’ he said roughly.

  She wanted to say no, she wanted to move away, but gremlins had invaded her body and suddenly her lids drooped closed and she entered some dreamy realm where her body took over. She wouldn’t have said exactly that she was dancing because they were barely moving but it felt lovely. She could feel him against her, hard and so solid. His body was so different from her own and it amazed her how they fit together—as if they were made for each other.

  When the music changed tempo her eyes drifted opened and she was embarrassed by how lost she had been in the moment. Her heart beat double time and she was shocked to realise how aroused she was just by dancing with him.

  It used to be that her body was more like a machine that did her bidding: arms, legs, hands, feet. Now she was aware of useless things, like her breasts, the hollow space between her thighs, the prince’s hand on her hip and a tingling weakness at the back of her knees. Sensations that made her feel fragile and defenceless. And then she wondered if it was the same for him. Did men feel weak and defenceless when lust overtook them? Did Prince Zachim feel that right now, for her? It seemed impossible and yet more shocking was how much she wanted him to want her—she, a village girl, with all the sophistication of a desert mouse. Why, he must have had the most sophisticated lovers in the world. Women like the ones that peppered the wedding and gazed at him with a deep longing. A deep longing Farah never wanted to feel for anyone.

  Suddenly feeling claustrophobic, she surprised them both by pulling out of his arms. Wanting Prince Zachim was a betrayal to her father and to everything she wanted for herself: self-sufficiency, independence. Self-respect. ‘I need to use the bathroom,’ she said, furious all over again.

  ‘I’ll take you.’

  Of course he would, and it was a welcome reminder that she wasn’t really a wedding guest but a captive. And she no longer cared about his threats if she tried to escape.

  Inside the bathroom there were no windows or back doors so she finished up quickly and returned to the ballroom with him, alert now to where the guards were.

  A few men dressed in Western attire came over and talked to the prince and he turned to engage in conversation. Farah half listened and smiled politely, as if she were part of the group when she wasn’t. She noticed a small knot of women standing close by and realised they were the partners of the men talking and she was the only woman in this group—a lone gazelle in a pride of male lions.

  She didn’t bother getting the prince’s permission before making her way over to them. Let him stop her if he dared. It wasn’t for her to decide how long the leash was and, although earlier she had not doubted he’d tie her dress cord around her neck as punishment for defying him, she knew now that he wouldn’t jeopardise his brother’s wedding by causing a scene. He wasn’t that uncivilised.

  When one of the women she was only half listening to complained she was hot, Farah could have hugged her.

  Taking charge, she suggested they walk on the terrace. Lush gardenias and roses scented the warm evening air but Farah was only interested in where the exit points were.

  Cursing the torture devices on her feet, she realised she would have to leave them behind, Cinderella-like, if she got a chance to escape. Only she would be leaving both behind and she didn’t want the prince to come after her. Ever.

  Making her apologies to the women, she quickstepped down the stone steps as if she knew exactly where she was going and skirted the plethora of plants in the verdant garden. Clearly water restrictions did not apply inside the palace—another black mark against the Darkhan family.

  A large stone wall covered in a passion-fruit vine loomed in front of her and she paused to get her bearings.

  ‘The gate is about fifty metres to your left,’ the prince drawled from behind her.

  Farah groaned softly and expelled all the air in her body. ‘I got hot.’

 
; ‘Really?’ His eyebrow rose. ‘And I thought that was only while we were dancing.’

  Oh! ‘A simple enough mistake to make for a man with your sized ego.’ She smiled sweetly, giving up all pretence of cooperating with him. What did it matter? He wouldn’t let her get away from him now.

  His eyes gleamed, no doubt taking her response as some sort of challenge. ‘You had goose bumps.’

  She hated that ring of confidence in his voice. ‘Maybe I was cold,’ she retorted.

  He grinned. ‘Now, we both know that’s not true.’

  His suggestive tone grated along every one of her nerve endings. ‘Oh, to be so sure of yourself.’

  ‘You know,’ he began conversationally. ‘I almost want you to make a run for it so that I can use that cord on you after all.’

  Farah’s hand strayed to her neck. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Oh, I’d dare, Miss Hajjar. Remember, I’m a barbarian prince.’

  ‘Your brother—’

  ‘Is about to leave with his new wife.’

  Farah swallowed. He moved in closer and the urge to take flight warred with a deep-seated determination to stand her ground.

  ‘Your skin looks almost luminescent in the moonlight.’ He reached out and stroked his hand down the side of her face. Farah reeled back and would have scratched herself on the vine if the prince hadn’t grabbed her elbow. ‘Careful, you could hurt yourself.’

  Only by giving into the pull of attraction between them, she thought wildly, her heart racing as she fought to maintain control over her senses. ‘I’ll take my chances with a spiky plant any time,’ she threw at him.

  Ignoring her smart comment, he drew her inexplicably closer. ‘You don’t like being told what to do, do you?’

  Sensation zipped through her as his hands dropped to her hips and splayed wide. ‘Not by men like you, I don’t,’ she bit out scathingly. Anything to put him off.