Delectably Undone! (21 page)

Chapter Two

A
lex reclined on the pillows, propped up by an elbow. He reached for another date from the platters laid before them. A relaxed atmosphere permeated the sheikh’s tent. The festival had put everyone in a generous mood. Well, almost everyone. Alex amended. One dark-eyed man with a scar on his left cheek sat brooding next to the sheikh. Bassam, Alex thought his name was. The enormous tent was filled to capacity with guests, it had been hard to keep all the names straight. He’d remembered the important ones.

There was a movement at the back of the tent and the sheikh clapped his hands for attention.

“There’s to be dancing,” Alex translated with a grin for Crispin.

“Did you save me a waltz on your dance card?” Crispin replied drily.

Alex laughed. “It’s to be the sheikh’s favorite. I do think I prefer this kind of dancing. I just get to sit here and watch. No dance cards, no introductions, no expectations.”

“No matchmaking mamas, either,” Crispin put in.

“There’s a reason I eschew England.” Alex had been about to say more but the drums began, drowning out his voice. He doubted he could have spoken anyway. The dancer had carefully navigated her way through the crowd to the open spot in front of the sheikh and even now spun before him in a whirl of turquoise silk, her pale-gold hair as much a seductive curtain as the transparent veiling she teased with.

Gold hair
.

The sheikh’s favorite was not a dark-eyed woman of the desert. She looked English, but looks could be misleading. She might be any number of European nationalities. Alex shot a quick glance in Crispin’s direction. Only a slight movement of his eyes gave any indication he’d also noticed. It wouldn’t do for them to show any outward sign of curiosity.

The dancer’s movements slowed, her hands moving to draw attention to the undulation of her hips, the exposed, sculpted flatness of her stomach; her hands drifted upward, drawing Alex’s eyes to the fullness of her breasts encased in a jeweled top. The woman was exquisite, there was little wonder she was the favorite. But with her pale hair and skin, she was decidedly not one of the Bedouin, nor was she Arab.

Whatever and whoever she was, she was positively intoxicating; her subtle scents of sandalwood and roses teasing his nostrils. His body hardened in visceral response to the promise of her sensuality. Her lips parted, a secret smile playing across them, eyes as blue as the Mediterranean met his over the transparent rim of her veils, promising all nature of erotic fulfillment as if she danced solely for him.

Yet there was a provocative innocence in those eyes, creating the impression that this was no jaded concubine expertly tantalizing men but a passionate woman in waiting, perhaps begging to be awakened to love’s pleasures. Alex’s arousal grew in damning proportions at the prospect, at the fantasy, of taking such a woman to his bed, to teach her, to share with her the exotic mysteries of sex.

Then she was gone, her attentions returning to the sheikh, but the fantasy remained, a potent loiterer in his mind. Later in the evening when the torches burned low and only a few men remained in the tent to discuss news, Alex asked with a feigned nonchalance, “Where did the woman come from?”

“Still in her thrall?” The sheikh gave a commiserating laugh. “She enchants every man, does she not?”

“She is lovely, indeed,” Alex agreed, schooling his own features in the dimness of the tent to hide any sign of his own desire. But the sheikh had not answered his question and Alex wanted his answer. “How did you come by her?”

The grim man with the scar leaned forward to speak. “My brother-in-law does not share his concubines. She is not available to you if that’s what you’re asking.”

Alex felt Crispin’s languid repose transform into alertness. Alex took the man’s measure easily. Bassam was jealous. Bassam wanted the lovely concubine for himself.

“She is a spoil of war, nothing more,” The sheikh offered benevolently. “Please, have some more wine.”

Englishmen! Englishmen were here, and not just any Englishman, but Alex Grayfield, the Blond Bedouin. She’d only seen him once when she’d traveled to Cairo with her father, but those green eyes could belong to no other. Susannah’s heart beat rapidly with excitement, in part over the prospect of rescue and in large part over the presence of a man whose very presence exuded power and sexuality. In the dark privacy of her tent, Susannah gave herself over to the memory.

He’d looked upon her boldly tonight, living up to his reputation. His eyes had answered hers as she’d danced with a message of passion every bit as sensual as the one she was meant to convey.

Her body tingled in remembrance. The sheer male physicality of him had been overpowering even in a tent full other men. Beneath his flowing robes, there’d been no mistaking the breadth of his shoulders or the strength of his body even in repose. Power resided in that body as surely as intelligence lit his mind. There’d been no doubt that his gaze had studied her, his sharp green eyes seducing her. She’d never been more aware of herself as a woman than she’d been in those few moments when she danced before him, their eyes meeting over her veil.

I want you,
those eyes had said. But for all the ways in which he’d riveted her, she had entranced him as well. A woman did not need to be a whore to know when a man desired her, and now she sought to turn his desire to her advantage.

Alex Grayfield’s arrival changed everything. She could avoid the dangers of traveling the desert alone if she could persuade him to take her with him. Providing, of course, she could persuade the sheikh to let her go.

No. The sheikh would never simply let her go. Susannah sank down on the low cot that served as her bed. She had to think. Asking to be set free was far too direct. If asking were a viable alternative, she would have asked months ago. She had to be subtle. She’d learned the value of subtlety during her time among the Bedouin. In the beginning, she’d taken what she’d hoped to be the quickest route to freedom—being so troublesome to the sheikh that he’d let her go out of sheer frustration. But those rash acts had only served to prick his pride and make her situation worse. The sheikh had to be maneuvered carefully.

Susannah absently peeled off her veils, her mind perusing her options. What was it her father had always said about diplomacy? The successful diplomat knew how to play to a man’s strengths, how to praise a man’s assets. She’d learned, too, that assets weren’t always material items but sometimes characteristics.

The sheikh viewed himself as a man generous with his hospitality. And he was, when it came to political generosity. She’d danced at enough of his entertainments to know there was truth in that. He lavished his best food and drink on merchants and their caravans when their paths crossed. In return, she was certain he received the most accurate news and insights the merchants brought with them.

Politics were heating up the desert. This
moussem
was a festival, but it would also be a chance for the remaining tribes to decide if they’d throw in their lots with the Emir of Mascara. There was danger here, too, for the English whether they knew it or not. The sheikh did not support the emir and, by extension, he did not support the English. He would want to determine what the English meant by this visit. To do that, he would court them. But he could not court the English with his traditional largesse of figs and wineskins or the occasional camel. The English had no use for the standard luxuries of the desert.

The sheikh would need a gift substantially more English than that to impress his visitors. He needed
her
. She was the most English gift the sheikh possessed. The sheikh needed to be made to see that returning her out of bondage, and restoring her to her people would be a sign of his ‘Western thinking,’ a chance to convince the English the Bedouin were not nomadic barbarians, but people of a certain civility who should be left to their own devices.

Susannah reached for a thin cotton shift and pulled it over her head. It was the only truly English garment left to her. Her other clothes had been taken from her that first humiliating day. She wore only what the sheikh provided and at his behest. Putting on her shift had become something of a nightly ritual, a homecoming of sorts, a chance to be an Englishwoman for a few hours instead of this man’s fantasy slave.

Making herself a gift was a good idea. It would play to the sheikh’s view of himself as a generous lord of the sands. She was astute enough to know the suggestion could not come from her. It would have to come from Grayfield. He had not bothered to hide his interest in her. Such boldness would make his request believable, but it could also be used as leverage against him. He’d best tread carefully lest Bassam and the sheikh see an opportunity to exploit that desire before she could. If she could bind him to her, he would be more likely to take her away regardless of the risk or the permission.

She needed to move quickly. Susannah covered her shift with a dark robe and belted it. She reached for a veil to hide the sheen of her hair. The camp would be busy. With luck she would pass unnoticed, but if questioned, she could say she was on her way to the sheikh’s tent. Her decision was made and she did not want to delay. It would be harder to arrange an opportunity to encounter the Englishmen tomorrow.

Susannah took a deep breath and slipped out into the night. She was off to make her “suggestion” to Grayfield, and as with any suggestion, the idea would need to be planted in order for it to take root.

Chapter Three

A
lex was dreaming of houris, or rather of one houri in particular. Even in sleep he did not quite forget that he was an Englishman who favored monogamy. In his dream, he reclined on a couch, pillows behind his head, a goblet of wine at his arm and the woman of his evening fantasies dancing before him. Her hips swayed in a provocative prelude. She came closer, the rose and sandalwood scent of her wreathing him in sensuality.

She bent over him, her long curtain of hair sweeping his chest, her naked breasts brushing his bare skin with dusky-hued nipples. She whispered a throaty promise he couldn’t quite hear. If he raised his head just an inch he could kiss those tantalizing lips, and then move on to those delectable breasts.

He levered himself on one arm to cover the small distance, his mouth taking the invitation of her lips. She tasted of honey and surprise, a gasp escaping her in a short exhalation of breath. Instinctively, he reached out an arm to steady her, meaning to draw her firmly to him. He met with unexpected resistance. In Islamic mysticism the houris didn’t resist. This was an odd dream indeed.

Or no dream at all
. Alex’s eyes flew open. Oh the woman was very real, that part was in no doubt. He woke to find himself holding the sheikh’s favorite about the slender curve of her waist, the fullness of her breasts illumined through the thin cotton of her chemise by the flickering light of the tent’s lantern. The deep rose of her nipples had been no figment of imagination either. The chemise offered her very little protection against the proximity of his gaze and the lantern-cast shadows.

The resistance hadn’t been feigned either. Her body was tense within his embrace, her eyes questioning and wary. Her plans for him had plainly gone awry. The very thought raised Alex’s well-honed sense of suspicion. He hadn’t survived this long on luck alone. In his world, nothing was freely given.

Whatever she’d planned, it hadn’t been seduction, more was the pity. Alex slackened his grip and she backed away. For a moment, he feared she would bolt. He moved his grip to her wrist, shackling it easily with his hand.

“What are you doing in my quarters?” His voice was harsh, demanding an answer. In the dim light he searched her for evidence of a weapon, to no avail. She was too scantily dressed to conceal anything on her person and her other hand was clenched into an empty fist.

Her gaze shifted infinitesimally to the dark heap on the floor—a cloak most likely, a covering that had been discarded on purpose, leaving her virtually naked to his gaze. Another man might rethink the possibility of seduction, but Alex had been schooled in the Persian world where not all was what it seemed on the surface. His first inclination had been correct. She’d not come to seduce. If she had, she would not have resisted his overture. She would have entered the game boldly with his awakening.

“Release me,” she ordered, matching his demand with an admirable hauteur of her own. Definitely an Englishwoman, Alex decided. He could hear it in her voice and in her defiance. He’d known many women from many backgrounds in his time and had yet to meet any except perhaps the Americans who matched an Englishwoman in boldness when cornered.

“I want answers,” he replied. “What have you come here for? Is it the custom of the sheikh to send uninvited women to his guests’ tents?” If she said yes, he’d know she was lying. It might indeed be the sheikh’s custom; he’d met tribes where the practice was not uncommon as an act of hospitality. But the sheikh would not send his favorite, not after what Alex had witnessed in Bassam’s response earlier that night.

She tossed her magnificent length of hair in a haughty maneuver. “I came to talk.” She shot her eyes at his hand gripping her wrist.

“Naked? I was unaware of that particular desert custom.” She might have been better off with the sent-by-the-sheik defense after all.

Her blue eyes flashed. “It’s the truth.” She tugged against his grip in her irritation. “I have no reason to lie to you.”

“I have no reason to believe you. Perhaps the sheikh has sent you to ferret out my secrets, my reasons for being here. It is convenient for you to come while I’m alone.” Alex raised a querying brow. “All the better for conquering and dividing, eh?”

“That’s ridiculous logic,” she spat. “Why would the sheikh send an Englishwoman to a compatriot? It would be tantamount to asking us to conspire against him.”

“Would it?” Alex shrugged with feigned nonchalance, his mind rapidly sorting and discarding scenarios. What did she want that she would steal into a sleeping man’s quarters and stand before him virtually unclothed? “Perhaps the sheikh has offered you something of value in exchange for whatever services he’s sent you to perform.” He raked her body deliberately with his eyes. There was no mistaking what “services” he suspected she offered.

“I’m not here to seduce you.” She stammered, her nerve failing her for a moment. Alex watched her realize how exposed she was to his gaze, how little the fabric hid and how much the candle showed. “I’m here to talk.”

“Then let’s talk.” Alex smiled wickedly, rising from the bed of blankets, the coverlet slipping from his body to reveal the unabashed glory of a naked man, aroused and not the least bit self-conscious over it. Indeed, there was nothing to be embarrassed about. His body was tanned from the tawny streaks in his blond hair to the muscled curves of his calves, implying that he engaged in nakedness quite often to have acquired so even a tan. Not even his buttocks had hidden from the sun’s kiss. The thought brought a blush to her cheeks.

He stalked her, circling on purpose, with a wicked smile. “Nakedness can be a bit distracting….”

Stopping his pacing, he eyed her critically. “Is that why
you
dressed thus for our ‘talk,’ my dear? Did you mean to distract me with your charms while you did whatever it was you meant to do? That part of your plan is working admirably, as you can see.” He cast an obvious glance downward to his engorged member.

She blushed furiously, desperately. He could see the flush of her skin even in the dim light. The act was entirely winsome and convincingly pure. It kept him unusually off balance. It seemed he’d discomfited the little temptress. Well, good. She needed to know there were consequences for her actions, for her as well as for him. Two could play this enticing game of “naked interrogation.”

“Distract you? To what end?” she challenged, finding her wits. “I carry no weapon with which to do you harm.” she protested, holding her arms wide from her side. “As you have noted, I have no place to conceal a weapon.”

Alex knew the gesture cost her greatly. She knew by now how visibly exposed she was to him, that her modesty had been surrendered from the beginning and he’d made her acutely aware of it. She played the voluptuous, pure houri of the Koran so exquisitely, Alex nearly believed her. He’d seen the same innocence before as she’d danced. But no innocent came so wantonly displayed.

He began circling her again. “No weapon? I beg to differ, my lady. You, in and of yourself, are the most perfect of weapons for driving a man to distraction and much else.”

In a swift move, he fettered her wrists in his grasp, lifting them immobile over her head. She gasped, her eyes wide with startled wonder and perhaps a little fear. Had someone threatened her in the past? Alex met her gaze with a knowing smile, recognizing the first signs of her passionate cravings. He was not the only one affected by their game. Desire enlarged the dark pupils of her eyes. Even now he caught the essence of her arousal mingled with the scent of her roses, her wonder winning out over whatever she feared.

“Shall I show you all the ways you distract a man?” His voice was a husky whisper, meant to compel. Dexterously, Alex slid the buttons of the chemise free of their loops, giving his hand access to the warm skin beneath. His hand skimmed the length of her torso, feeling her tremble beneath the stroking caress before returning to cup each full breast, taking them by turn completely in the palm of his hand. He ran the pad of his thumb ever so lightly over the peaks of her breasts, calling them to life beneath his caress.

“What are you doing to me?” she managed, her voice nothing more than a sob of pleasure.

He whispered close to her ear, his attentions turned now to her throat. “Making love to you.” His mouth dropped to her breasts, suckling, delighting in her untutored response, part shock at the intimacy of the act and part honest woman enjoying the passion. “A man would do anything to claim this body.” God knew he would, was in fact about to do just that no matter the risk. He was blind to all else in these moments but the bounty before him. He was nearly driven to the brink of his control by the firm fruits of her breasts, the scent of her, the innocent responses of her body. Houri, spy, sheikh’s tool, increasingly, he cared not.

“Let go of my hands,” she begged with a whimper, her desire mounting to the point of insensibility.

He nipped at her neck. “No, I like you entirely at my disposal. You like it, too, your body admits it, your body trusts me, let your mind do the same.” He reached around her, drawing her against him with one arm so that she could feel his erection against her bare skin. He kissed her full on the mouth, stifling her pro forma protests as his hand dropped to between her legs. Her mouth opened under his with a silent gasp of pleasure. Christ, she was beautiful.

“‘Thus it shall be, that we shall pair, in these gardens will be mates of modest gaze whom neither man nor invisible being will have touched ere then.’” He quoted between kisses, his breathing heavy. There was a reason the Koran equated the houris of Muslim lore with an ecstatic awareness of Allah.

She cried out, taken by early waves of pleasure and Alex knew all resistance had been swept aside in the wake of her passions. He would take her, and they would know mutual fulfillment together this night, whatever other less-pleasant agendas lay between them.

Susannah was oblivious to all else but the feel of Alex’s hands on her body, coaxing it to extraordinary levels of pleasure. He covered her entirely, all thoughts of her plans and escapes fleeing her mind in the wake of this new world of ecstasy.

Alex rose above her, golden and strong, his knee parting her thighs with little opposition, the desire in his gaze mesmerizing. Then he shifted, his body lowering, entering her, surging hard into her until she cried out. She was full of him and yet, arching her body wantonly into his, it still wasn’t enough. Suddenly there was pain, a shocking realization amid all the pleasure.

She cried out against it, but he was already pressing forward and when the recognition hit him, it was too late. A look of surprise crossed his features, his body stilled momentarily inside her, but passions were too high for them to stop. Even now the pain was subsiding and her body reached for the promise of awaiting pleasure. Her legs wrapped about his waist, trapping him to her. “Please,” Susannah whispered.

It was all the invitation Alex needed. His body answered the call to passion, full-sheathed within her, until climax took her and she cried her release into his shoulder, feeling him shudder deep inside her.