Defiant in the Desert (2 page)

The conversation had moved on to other topics, though she had still been conscious of the curious expression in his eyes. He had asked her about her life at boarding school and she’d told him that she was planning to go to art school.

‘In England?’

‘Of course in England. There is no equivalent here in Dhi’ban.’

‘But Dhi’ban isn’t the same without you here, Sara.’

It was a strangely emotional thing for Suleiman to say and maybe the unexpectedness of that was what made her reach up to touch her fingertips to his cheek. ‘Is that in a good way, or a bad way?’ she teased.

A look passed between them and she felt him stiffen.

The fireworks seemed to stop—or maybe that was because the crashing of her heart was as deafening as any man-made explosion in the sky.

He caught hold of her hand and moved it away from his face, and suddenly Sara could feel a terrible yearning as he looked down at her. The normally authoritative Suleiman seemed frozen with indecision and he shook his head, as if he was trying to deny something. And then, almost in slow motion—he lowered his head to brush his lips over hers in a kiss.

It was just like all the books said it should be.

Her world splintered into something magical as their lips met. Suddenly there were rainbows and starlight and a deep, wild hunger. And the realisation that this was her darling, darling Suleiman and he was
kissing
her. Her lips opened beneath his and he circled her waist with his hands as he pulled her closer. She clung to him as her breasts pressed against his broad chest. She heard him groan. She felt the growing tension in his body as his hands moved down to cup her buttocks.

‘Oh, Suleiman,’ she whispered against his mouth—and the words must have broken the spell, for suddenly he tore himself away from her and held her at arm’s length.

For a long moment he just stared at her, his breathing hard and laboured—looking as if he had just been shaken by something profound. Something which made a wild little flicker of hope flare in her heart. But then the look disappeared and was replaced with an expression of self-contempt. It seemed to take a moment or two before he could speak.

‘Is this how you behave when you are in England?’ he demanded, his voice as deadly as snake poison. ‘Offering yourself as freely as a whore when you are promised to the Sultan? What kind of woman are you, Sara?’

It was a question she couldn’t answer because she didn’t know. Right then, she didn’t seem to know anything because her whole belief system seemed to have been shattered. She hadn’t been expecting to kiss him, nor to respond to him like that. She hadn’t been expecting to want him to touch her in a way she’d never been touched before—yet now he was looking at her as if she’d done something unspeakable.

Filled with shame, she had turned on her heel and fled—her eyes so blurred with tears that she could barely see. And it wasn’t until the next day that she heard indulgent tales of the princess weeping with joy for her newly crowned brother.

The memory cleared and Sara found herself in the uncomfortable present, looking into Suleiman’s mocking eyes and realising that he was waiting for some sort of answer to his question. Struggling to remember what he’d asked, she shrugged—as if she could shrug off those feelings of humiliation and rejection she had suffered at his hands.

‘I hardly describe being a “creative” in an advertising agency as being an executive,’ she said.

‘You are
creative
in many fields,’ he observed. ‘Particularly with your choice of clothes. Such revealing, western clothes, I cannot help but notice.’

Sara felt herself stiffen as he began to study her.
Don’t look at me that way,
she wanted to scream. Because it was making her body ache as his gaze swept over the sweater dress which came halfway down her thighs, and the high boots whose soft leather curved over her knees.

‘I’m glad you like them,’ she said flippantly.

‘I didn’t say I liked them,’ he growled. ‘In fact, I wholeheartedly disapprove of them, as no doubt would the Sultan. Your dress is ridiculously short, though I suppose that is deliberate.’

‘But everyone wears short skirts round here, Suleiman. It’s the fashion. And the thick tights and boots almost cancel out the length of the dress, don’t you think?’

His eyes were implacable as they met hers. ‘I have not come here to discuss the length of your clothes and the way you seem to flaunt your body like the whore we both know you are!’

‘No? Then why are you here?’

There was a pause and now his eyes were deadly as they iced into her.

‘I think you know the answer to that. But since you seem to have trouble facing up to your responsibilities, maybe I’d better spell it out for you so that there can be no more confusion. You can no longer ignore your destiny, for the time has come.’

‘It’s not my destiny!’ she flared.

‘I have come to take you to Qurhah to be married,’ he said coldly. ‘To fulfil the promise which was made many moons ago by your father. You were sold to the Sultan and the Sultan wants you. And what is more, he is beginning to grow impatient—for this long-awaited alliance between your two countries to go ahead and bring lasting peace in the region.’

Sara froze. The hands which were still concealed in her lap now clenched into two tight fists. She felt beads of sweat break out on her brow and for a moment she thought she might pass out. Because hadn’t she thought that if she just ignored the dark cloud which hung over her future for long enough, one day it might just fade away?

‘You can’t mean that,’ she said, hating her voice for sounding so croaky.
So get some strength back. Find the resources within you to stand up to this ridiculous regime which buys women as if they were simply objects of desire lined up on a market stall.
She drew in a deep breath.
‘But even if you do mean it, I’m not coming back with you, Suleiman. No way. I live in England now and I regard myself as an English citizen, with all the corresponding freedom that brings. And nothing in the world you can do or say will induce me to go to Qurhah. I don’t want to marry the Sultan, and I won’t do it. And what is more, you can’t make me.’

‘I am hoping to do this without a fight, Sara.’

His voice was smooth. As smooth as treacle—and just as dark. But nobody could have mistaken the steely intent which ran through his words. She looked into the flatness of his eyes. She looked at the hard, compromising lines of his lips and she felt another whisper of foreboding shivering its way down her spine. ‘You think I’m just going to docilely agree to your plans? That I’m going to nod my head and accompany you to Qurhah?’

‘I’m hoping you will, since that would be the most sensible outcome for all concerned.’

‘In your dreams, Suleiman.’

There was silence for a moment as Suleiman met the belligerent glitter of her eyes, and the slow rage which had been simmering all day now threatened to boil over. Had he thought that this would be easy?

No, of course he hadn’t.

Inside he had known that this would be the most difficult assignment of his life—even though he had experienced battle and torture and real hardship. He had tried to turn the job down—for all kinds of reasons. He’d told the Sultan that he was busy with his new life—and that much was true. But loyalty and affection for his erstwhile employer had proved too persuasive. And who else possessed the right amount of determination to bring the feisty Sara Williams back to marry the royal ruler? His mouth hardened and he felt the twist of something like regret. Who else knew her the way that he did?

‘You speak with such insolence that I can only assume you have been influenced by the louche values of the West,’ he snapped.

‘Embracing freedom, you mean?’

‘Embracing disrespect would be a more accurate description.’ He drew in a deep breath and forced his lips into something resembling a smile. ‘Look, Sara—I understand that you needed to...what is it that you women say? Ah yes, to
find yourself.
’ He gave a low laugh. ‘Fortunately, the male of the species rarely loses himself in the first place and so such recovery is seldom deemed necessary.’

‘Why, you arrogant piece of—’

‘Now we can do this one of two ways.’ His words cut through her insult like a honed Qurhahian knife. ‘The easy way, or the hard way.’

‘You mean we do it your way, rather than mine?’

‘Bravo—that is exactly what I mean. If you behave reasonably—like a woman who wishes to bring no shame onto her own royal house, or the one you will embrace after your marriage to the Sultan—then everyone is happy.’

‘Happy?’
she echoed. ‘Are you out of your mind?’

‘There is no need for hysteria,’ he said repressively. ‘Our journey to Qurhah may not be an expedition which either of us would choose, but I don’t see why we can’t conduct ourselves in a relatively civilised manner if we put our minds to it.’

‘Civilised?’ Sara stood up and pushed herself away from the desk so violently that a whole pile of coloured felt-tips fell clattering to the ground. But she barely registered the noise or the mess. She certainly didn’t bend down to pick them up and not just because her skirt was so short. She felt a flare of rage and
impotence—
that Suleiman could just march in here as if he owned the place. Start flexing his muscles and telling her—
telling
her—that she must go back and marry a man she barely knew, didn’t particularly like and certainly didn’t
love
.

‘You think it’s civilised to hold a woman to a promise of marriage made when she was little more than a child? A forced marriage in which she had no say?’

‘Your father himself agreed to this marriage,’ said Suleiman implacably. ‘You know that.’

‘My father had no choice!’ she flared. ‘He was almost bankrupt by that point!’

‘I’m afraid that your father’s weakness and profligacy put him in that position. And let us not forget that it was the Sultan’s father who saved him from certain bankruptcy!’

‘By demanding my hand for his only son, in return?’ she demanded. ‘What kind of a man could do that, Suleiman?’

She saw that her heartfelt appeal had momentarily stilled him. That his flat black eyes had narrowed and were now partially obscured by the thick ebony lashes which had shuttered down to veil them. Had she been able to make him see the sheer lunacy of his proposal in this day and age? Couldn’t he see that it was barbaric for a woman of twenty-three to be taken back to a desert kingdom—no matter how fabled—and to be married against her will?

Once Suleiman had regarded her fondly—she knew that. If he allowed himself to forget that stupid kiss—that single lapse which should never have happened—then surely there still existed in his heart some of that same fondness. Surely he wasn’t happy for her to enter into such a barbaric union.

‘These dynastic marriages have always taken place,’ he said slowly. ‘It will not be as bad as you envisage, Sara—’

‘Really? How do you work that out?’

‘It is a great honour to marry such a man as the Sultan,’ he said, but he seemed to be having to force some kind of conviction into his words. He gave a heavy sigh. ‘Do you have any idea of the number of women who would long to become his Sultana—’

‘A sultana is something I put on my muesli every morning!’ she spat back.

‘You will be prized above all women,’ he continued. ‘And given the honour of bearing His Imperial Majesty’s sons and heirs. What woman could ask for more?’

For a moment Sara didn’t speak, she was so angry. The idea of such a marriage sounded completely abhorrent to her now, but, as Suleiman had just said, she had grown up in a world where such a barter was considered normal. She had been living in England for so long that it was easy to forget that she was herself a royal princess. That her English mother had married a desert king and produced a son and a much younger daughter.

If her mother had been alive she would have stopped this ludicrous marriage from happening, Sara was sure of that. But her mother had been dead for a long time—her father, too. And now the Sultan wanted to claim what was rightfully his.

She thought of the man who awaited her and she shivered. She knew that a lot of women thought of him as a swarthy sex-god, but she wasn’t among them. During their three, heavily chaperoned meetings—she had felt nothing for him. Nada.

But mightn’t that have had something to do with the fact that Suleiman had been present all those times? Suleiman with his glittering black eyes and his hard, honed body who had distracted her so badly that she couldn’t think straight.

She glared at him. ‘Doesn’t it strike at your conscience to take a woman back to Qurhah
against her will
? Do you always do whatever the Sultan asks you, without questioning it? His tame puppet!’

A nerve flickered at his temple. ‘I no longer work for the Sultan.’

For a moment she stared at him in disbelief. ‘What...what are you talking about? The Sultan values you above all other men. Everyone knows that. You are his prized emissary and the man on whom he relies.’

He shook his head. ‘Not any longer. I have returned to my own land, where I have built a different kind of life for myself.’

She wanted to ask him what kind of life that was, but she reminded herself that what Suleiman did was none of her business.
He doesn’t want you. He doesn’t even seem to like you any more.
‘Then why are you here?’

‘As a favour to Murat. He thought that you might prove too much of a challenge for most of his staff.’

‘But not for you, I suppose?’

‘Not for me,’ he agreed.

She wanted to tell him to wipe that smug smile off his face and get out of her office and if he didn’t, then she would call security and get them to remove him. But was that such a good idea? Her eyes flickered doubtfully over his powerful body and immovable stance. Was she seriously suggesting that
anyone
could budge him if he didn’t want to go?

She thought about her boss. Wouldn’t Gabe Steel have Suleiman evicted from the building if she asked him? Though when she stopped to think about it—did she really want to go bleating to her boss for help? She had no desire to blight her perfect working record by bringing her private life into the workplace. Because wouldn’t Gabe—and all her colleagues—be amazed to discover that she wasn’t just someone called Sara Williams, but a half-blood desert princess from the desert country of Dhi’ban? That she had capitalised on her mother’s English looks and used her mother’s English surname to blend in since she’d been working here in London. And blend in, she had—adopting the fashions and the attitudes of other English women her age.