Chosen by the Sheikh (5 page)

‘Pardon me if I come ever so slightly unglued at the thought of dead people—even you.'

He gave a grunt that sounded almost like a laugh, though there was no humour evident in his expression as he sternly advised her to stop thrashing around.

‘I'm quite capable,' she began, when she realised his intention of towing her to the side.

He silenced her with a look.

Beatrice struggled to hold the gaze of those pewter-flecked eyes. She even considered arguing, but decided on balance that discretion might be the more sensible alternative to valour, as
she wasn't totally sure she was capable of getting to the side herself after all.

When they reached the side he reached down, put a hand under her foot and boosted her up. Floundering, and feeling about as elegant as a beached whale, Beatrice pulled herself onto the tiled surface and lay there, with her feet in the water and her cheek pressed against the tiled surface.

‘Get up.'

She sensed him standing over her, opened one eye and said, ‘Leave me alone. I've just had a near-death experience.'

With what she considered to be a heart less laugh, he snorted. ‘Don't be so dramatic. You were never in any real danger.'

Beatrice, still breathing hard, rolled onto her back and squinted up at the dark outline of him looming over her. ‘So you're the expert on near-death experiences?' She closed her eyes and muttered, ‘I wish I'd let you drown.'

He knelt beside her as she lay there, her breasts heaving and her water-darkened hair spread about her, making her appear to him like some exotic flower. Her delicate blue-veined eyelids flickered and then lifted as her glance slid up over his body until it reached his face.

‘So, you like what you see?'

‘What can I say? You're just perfect…' she drawled, working on the theory that this was one of those occasions when the truth was the best form of defence. And it
was
the truth. From the sinewy strength of his long, muscular, hair-roughened thighs, to his broad, perfectly proportioned shoulders, and including everything in between, his body was perfect.

‘If I wasn't already spoken for…'

One corner of his mobile mouth curled sardonically. ‘So you love my brother?'

She gritted her teeth and matched the silky sarcasm in his voice, then added some of her own. ‘More than life itself.'

He laughed, throwing Beatrice off balance—he looked so sinfully attractive. She snarled scorn fully. ‘At least I'm not as cynical and twisted as you are. And where,' she demanded,
struggling to keep the panic from her voice, ‘is Khalid, you lying rat?'

From the look of astonishment that moved across his face she was thinking the Crown Prince might not be used to being called a liar or a rat. Well, while she was around he might as well get used to it, she decided belligerently.

‘I'm afraid that Khalid's presence is still required out at the irrigation project. He sent his apologies and his kisses…' he said, looking at her mouth.

Beatrice's eyes narrowed as her insides dissolved. ‘Don't even think about it!' she warned, her lips tightening with anger as she pulled herself upright and brought her knees up to her chest. ‘You probably invented the entire crisis!'

And I'm having one all of my own, she thought, trying and failing to stop her eyes filling with tears again. To display such weakness in front of this man filled her with horror—though he'd probably think any display of emotion from her was part of some act.

He appeared unperturbed by her accusation. ‘The crisis is genuine, I can assure you.'

And probably one that his brother, with his degree in engineering, was better qualified to deal with than he was. Tariq had been favourably impressed by the way his little brother had handled himself. Maybe, he mused, it was time he encouraged Khalid to make more use of his qualifications and come home? He had definitely got the impression that the playboy life style no longer exerted the same pull for his brother. Personally, the aimless existence would have bored him out of his skull in two seconds, but he and Khalid were very different people.

Though maybe they were attracted to the same sort of women. The difference was
he
was not a hopeless romantic.

‘But I will not deny it is convenient, for now we can take off the gloves without fear of interruption.'

He wasn't wearing gloves. Beatrice was extremely conscious, as he was kneeling about six inches from her, that he was actually wearing very little. Her eyes slid to his hands, brown and
shapely, with long tapering fingers—the sort of fingers that would know their way around a woman's body.

My body… A silent shiver started deep down inside her and rippled outwards until the conflicting emotions of heart-thudding fear and suffocating excitement blurred into one hunger.

The strength of the primal reaction shook Beatrice to the core and, both appalled and ashamed, she wrenched her gaze from his hands. Staring at the mosaic floor instead, she took a deep breath and struggled for control. Of course she knew that a lot of women would have dissolved like ice cream in the desert sun when faced with Tariq's primitive brand of raw sexuality, but the shock was to discover, after a period of successful self-denial, that she was one of them.

It was always useful to know your weaknesses, but actually this was an occasion when blissful ignorance would have been infinitely preferable. Not that she intended dwelling on it—after all, this wasn't about her, or her previously un suspected weakness for arrogant, unreconstituted chauvinists with perfect bodies, and it had absolutely no bearing on why she was here.

This was about Emma and Khalid.

‘Are you all right?'

The abrupt enquiry brought Beatrice's head up. Squinting, she lifted a hand to shade her eyes from a shaft of sunlight that fell directly on her face.

‘Fine,' she lied, ignoring the apparent concern in his expression. Concern that would undoubtedly turn to smug amusement if he ever got an inkling of the effect he had on her hormones. ‘Take off the gloves…?' she added with a scornful snort. ‘Because up until now you've been so incredibly subtle?'

She took a hank of water-drenched hair and twisted it, allowing the excess moisture to pool on the ground before flicking it back over her shoulder. She lifted her eyes and her gaze brushed his, before dropping to the stern, sensual outline of his lips. Heaving a deep breath, she pushed away the images that threatened to invade her thoughts.

‘Just what gives you the right to decide who your brother should or should not marry?'

He ignored the furious question the same way she suspected he would have liked to ignore her. Everything about her clearly offended him.

‘What will it cost to make you give up Khalid?'

‘I thought that wasn't open to negotiation? I must have got you worried.' She allowed him to see that the possibility she had got under his skin amused her. ‘Or did your lawyers advise you to up the offer?'

‘There are no lawyers here. Just you and I.'

The reminder was quite unnecessary. Beatrice could not have been more aware of the isolation of their position. ‘Is that a threat?' she husked, sticking out her chin to show it hadn't worked…if only!

Tariq's sable brows lifted as he settled back on his heels, maintaining his squat ting pose with no apparent difficulty. ‘It is a fact.'

Beatrice swallowed and lowered her eyes; it amounted to pretty much the same thing from where she was sitting.

‘I was simply saying that you can speak frankly.'

A laugh was wrenched from Beatrice. How wrong could a man be? Speaking frankly at that moment would get her into deep trouble.

‘You probably have the place bugged.' She would put nothing, nothing at all, past this man, she thought wildly as he leaned closer, and her heart started to hammer even faster, as though it was trying to batter its way out of her chest.

‘I offered you a lot of money, and pre sum ably if that was all you wanted you would have taken it. So you want more than financial security for life? Is it the social position you want? The kudos of being the wife of a powerful man?'

‘I hate to interrupt the great mind at work, but has it occurred to you that I'm simply in love?' she challenged, wondering how that would feel—to love a man as Emma loved Khalid?

Maybe she would never find out…maybe she was one of those people who were simply not capable of losing their hearts? And maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. After all, love hadn't brought poor Emma undiluted joy.

He threw back his head and laughed.

Beatrice clenched her teeth and eyed him with loathing cloaked behind a brilliantly insincere smile.

‘I can see I can't fool you. Maybe I don't love Khalid,' she conceded, ‘not the way you mean. But then how do you define love?'

‘A very philosophical thought.'

‘However,' she added, longing with a violence that was outside her nature to slap that supercilious, disdainful smirk off his face, ‘I am very fond of him, and I think he will make a very…comfortable husband. He's rich, not too set in his ways…'

‘You mean easily led?'

He looked furious, which to Beatrice's way of thinking was slightly unreasonable, considering she was obliging him by being exactly the sort of woman he had decided she was before he had even met her.

‘He won't know he's being led. The trick,' she confided, with a smile that caused him to audibly grate his teeth, ‘is making him think it was his idea anyway.'

‘You expect me to believe you will be faithful?'

‘I'll be discreet. I'll never embarrass Khalid.' A choking sound escaped Tariq's throat and she tilted him a look of innocent enquiry. ‘I'm not a romantic. The fact is—and I'm sure you'll agree…'

She paused for a second, but he didn't take up her invitation to say anything. He actually looked ready to throttle her.

‘Well, personally I don't think it's realistic to expect a person to be sexually satisfied by just one person.'

His lips curled in disgust, and there was grim sincerity in his voice as he informed her, ‘You will
never
marry my brother. No matter what it takes, I will prevent this union.'

B
EATRICE
struggled not to recoil as a shiver of fear traced a shaky path down her spine. She had the distinct feeling that he meant what he said quite literally. She was beginning to realise that she was playing with a ruthless man who was capable of breaking the rules when they inconvenienced him—in fact he was able to rewrite them if he felt like it.

‘Now, there's no need to get emotional about this,' she chided. ‘You wanted me to be frank—aren't you being just a tad hypocritical?'

A hissing sound of astonished outrage escaped the barrier of his clenched teeth. ‘I think you would be wise to take care in what you say to me. I am not at this moment…safe.'

Beatrice made a pretence of being mystified by his reaction. ‘There's no need to get on your high horse. Are you trying to tell me that
you've
always been totally faithful to the ladies in your life?' She loosed a tinkling laugh. ‘I don't think so.'

His features stiffened into a rigid mask of hauteur. ‘You know nothing of me.'

‘And I don't want to!' she flashed back, slipping out of character for a moment as she glared at him.

‘When I marry I will respect my wife, and I will not humiliate her by being unfaithful,' he informed her coldly.

‘How sweet. But maybe you haven't got a healthy sexual appetite. I have…'

It was about halfway through delivering her provocative retort that Bea knew she had gone too far. But she was already
committed, and the words just kept coming—until he leaned across her, his arm brushing her breasts as he placed a finger under her chin. Her words died along with rational thought as her eyes collided with his hungry, burning gaze.

The most disturbing aspect of this situation was not the fear that filled her, but the exhilaration and excitement that raced like a flash fire through her blood as he took a hank of her hair in one hand and angled her face up to his.

‘I have a healthy sexual appetite…' he rasped.

‘Great…' Her nervous little laugh emerged as a choked gasp as she babbled. ‘That is, I believe you. I'm sure you're as macho as hell, and…' Her eyes drifted to the sensual outline of his mouth and the words dried on her tongue.

In her head she could hear the thunderous wild pounding of her own pulse. Her limbs felt like cotton wool, not totally connected to the rest of her body, as he ran a finger down the curve of her cheek. The smouldering heat in his eyes sent her senses spinning out of control.

‘I enjoy a skilled lover who knows how to please a man.'

The words shocked Beatrice back into sanity.

What the hell am I doing?

She held up her hands in an instinctive gesture of rejection and they were immediately trapped between their bodies as Tariq jerked her to him, his body half-covering hers, only his supportive elbow stopping him pressing down on her.

Her raw gasp of shock merged with a series of shaky gasps from her lungs. She tried and failed to inject a note of amusement into her voice as she said, ‘I'm not going to please
you
.'

I wouldn't have the faintest idea where to start!

Her glance drifted to his mouth, and a voice in her head said,
But it might be fun learning.
Her green eyes widened with horror as she caught herself agreeing with this aberrant thought.

He smiled, his glittering eyes sweeping across her passion-flushed face. ‘Then I shall please you.'

The throaty promise paralysed Beatrice with lust, and she
started to tremble as she struggled to control the scary and intoxicating wildness that was burning in her blood.

This isn't me. I don't do this.

But she was doing it, and what was more she wanted to do it—more than anything in her life before. She wanted to let go and let instinct take over. She wanted to respond to him. But she couldn't let herself. She had to stay in control.

Tariq's lashes lifted from the razor-sharp edges of his cheekbones as he looked into her passion-glazed eyes and confided huskily, ‘This is something I enjoy…pleasing a woman.'

Beatrice laughed, clinging like a drowning person to the shreds of her cynicism. ‘Because you're such a giving man…?' The retort lost a lot of its bite because of the breathy delivery.

Her eyes closed and a fractured sigh was drawn from somewhere deep inside her as he swept his hands slowly down the curve of her back until they came to rest on the firm, rounded contours of her bottom.

‘You feel how much I want to give you?' he slurred.

‘Tariq, you're…oh, goodness!' Beatrice groaned as her head fell forward onto his shoulder.

He looked down at her graceful supine figure, one hand thrown above her head, her hair spread about her flushed face. She was breathing fast and shallow, her full breasts straining against her bikini top, her nipples clearly outlined, straining against the sheer black fabric.

He could no longer hear the alarm bells in his head as he leaned across and pressed his open mouth to the pale smooth skin of her stomach. Her body arched and she loosed a feral cry as he ran his tongue up the gentle curve of her belly.

Anchoring her hips to the floor with his hands, Tariq continued to taste and tease the silky flesh, not stopping until he drew cries of raw pleasure from her.

When he finally arranged his body down beside her she was shaking, her entire body covered in a fine sheen of sweat. As he covered her mouth with his, thrusting deep into the warm, moist recesses, she wrapped her arms around his neck and met his invasion with her own tongue.

She threw one long shapely thigh across his hip and he held it there, stroking the smooth skin with his fingers until she was shaking like someone with a fever. As she responded to his every touch Tariq struggled to rein in his hunger. His frantic need to possess her was like nothing he had ever experienced.

Welcoming the sensual demands of his lips, Beatrice was in the grip of a reckless excitement. Every nerve-ending in her body was alive and screaming for more as she ran her hand down his chest. Her fingertips caught in the swirls of body hair and she felt his muscles contract sharply, whilst the muscles of his belly tightened as she slid her hand lower.

Without taking his mouth from hers, he took her hand and laid his own fingers to hers, palm to palm. Then he arched over her and pressed her arms to the floor—either side of her head.

How did a man who would have someone to put the toothpaste on his brush if he wanted come to have calluses on his hands? The question ceased to be important as she felt his sensitive fingers move to her breasts. A cry was torn from her throat as he rubbed her engorged nipple through the thin fabric of her bikini top, sending hot stabs of burning pleasure through her aching taut body.

Hunger licked his body and hardened his desire to the point of a pleasure that bordered on pain as he heard his name torn from her lips.

Beatrice's head was spinning as he bent and touched his mouth to the aching nipple of one breast and then the other.

She felt herself spiralling out of control and didn't care. ‘Don't stop!' she begged as he raised himself up over her on one hand.

He didn't respond to the plea, but instead slid the narrows straps of her top down over her shoulders, exposing the quivering peaks of her full breasts.

Still holding her gaze, he took her face between his hands and lowered himself down until her bare breasts were brushing his hair-roughened chest. Then he kissed her—a deep, drowning
kiss. A multitude of emotions churned inside her as she clung to him, but up per most—quashing the guilt, fear and confusion—was the des per ate need to give herself body and soul to this man.

It shouldn't have felt right, but it did.

At first Beatrice had no idea why he suddenly rolled off her, presenting his back to her. She reached for him, curling her fingers around his arm, then she heard him speak—and not to her.

She couldn't see Sayed, who must be standing in the doorway, because Tariq's body blocked him from her view, but she could hear him.

Mortified colour scored Beatrice's cheeks as she covered her bare breasts with her hands, her breath still coming in choppy, uneven bursts. She lay wishing with all her heart that she didn't know how he tasted, how he felt, how he smelt.

What have I done?

They did not speak for long.

When Tariq turned back her bikini top was in place and she sat huddled in her robe, with her knees drawn up to her chin.

‘I have to go.'

Her expression wooden, she didn't look at him. She couldn't. A cocktail of shame, embarrassment and self-loathing churned inside her.

She tried to think of something to say, but could only think about how his mouth had felt on hers. She shrugged in a manner she hoped indicated she wasn't much bothered what he did.

Actually, everything he did bothered her deeply. She could count on one hand the number of thoughts she'd had since they'd first met that hadn't included him.

Why the fascination? she asked herself. Sure, he was an incredible-looking man, and his back ground was about as glamorous as it came, but it was more than that…much more.

Something twisted hard inside her as she watched covetously through her lashes as he walked away.

He paused and looked back. It seemed to Beatrice that he
was about to say something, but then he appeared to change his mind and carried on walking.

Beatrice didn't know how long she sat there, shivering and alone, before she returned to her room.