Never Seduce a Sheikh (International Bad Boys Book 2) (11 page)

Lily kept her
gaze firmly out of the window as Isma’il drove them along the rocky, desert road that led to the dunes, conscious of the fact that for the first time they were completely alone together. He’d refused to allow a couple of his security team to accompany them, so it was just him and her in the four wheel drive.

Him and her, and the crackling tension that filled up the space inside the car.

Without the distraction of the meeting or other people around, it felt suffocating, the weight of the confessions of the night before lying heavy between them.

She still didn’t know why she’d accepted his invitation. She’d been interested to see the dunes, but the way he’d left her no option but to accompany him to do so had angered her. She wasn’t a victim, but he was certainly treating her like one.

You are not alone . . .

Lily gripped on tight to the handle above the window, staring hard out into the blinding heat of the desert.

Last night, he’d offered her a piece of himself and despite what she’d told him about not wanting to trade stories and what she told herself about not letting him get to her, she had to admit she’d liked that he’d given her something in return. And it had further ignited her curiosity about him. A dangerous prospect. Being curious about him only served to heighten her awareness of him. An awareness on every level, including physical.

Lily held the handle tighter, trying not to notice the way he gripped the steering wheel in long, strong fingers. Or how he’d rolled up the sleeves of the white cotton shirt he wore, revealing lean, powerful forearms, the white in stark contrast to his bronze skin. Or how the way he sat revealed the tension in his shoulders; the lines around his mouth and the distant look in his blue eyes also telling a story.

Something about this trip was making him tense.

Lily focused her attention out the window, questions circling her brain, fighting the urge ask to ask him what was bothering him.

No, she should not have accepted his invitation. Should have insisted that one of the tribesmen take her. Should have ignored this fascination she had with him.

When I was fifteen my father beat me . . .

She didn’t want to know. She didn’t.

“You want to ask me something?” he said at last, breaking the tense silence.

“Not especially,” she lied, keeping her gaze out the window, trying not to betray her shock of how easily he’d seemed to pick up on her discomfort. “I suppose I was hoping for camels rather than a car. Being in the desert, etcetera.”

Isma’il lifted an eyebrow, but didn’t take his attention from the road in front of them. “Please. I am not a complete cliché.”

“No. If you were a complete cliché you’d be wearing your robes.”

He wasn’t today. Today, he wore a white cotton shirt much like her own, and grey utility trousers. But somehow, the more familiar clothes did not make him any less dangerous. Or settle the seething, shivering tension that made her feel like she was in the car alone with a very powerful, very dangerous animal.

“You are tense,” he said abruptly. “Are you all right?”

She shifted in her seat. “I’m fine.”

His dark head moved and she could almost feel the brush of that intense blue gaze like a touch. “You are not fine.”

“Neither are you.”

That seemed to shut him up. He shifted his attention back out the windscreen.

Silence built, thick and heavy.

“Tell me about your gold medal win,” he said, breaking it.

It wasn’t the subject she would have picked, her win spoiled as it was by memories of Dan. “Why? Is this part of your getting to know one another plan?”

“If you like.”

She didn’t want to talk about it, but answering him was better than sitting there suffocating in the tense silence. “What do you want to know?”

“What did it feel like? The moment you won?”

“I didn’t realize I had at first. When you’re in the water, everything fades away. It’s just you swimming your guts out as hard as you can, as fast as you can. Nothing else matters. I remember being surprised when my hand hit the wall and I realized the race was over. Then, I looked around and saw everyone cheering. And it was me they were cheering for.”

“That must have been an incredible moment.”

Unexpectedly, she felt her throat close at the memory. The triumph of it. Standing on the dais, her parents cheering from the stands as the medal was hung around her neck. Her father’s proud face. And Dan’s—

Ruined. It was ruined.

“Very.” The word came out flat and unconvincing.

Blue flashed as he glanced at her, but she turned her head away, looking out the passenger window once more.

Another tense silence fell.

“Don’t let him take that from you,” said Isma’il, roughly. “Don’t let him ruin that for you.”

Lily closed her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about. You told me last night. Your coach. What he did to you the night you won. Pretending you do not understand will not make the memories go away. Neither will pretending it does not matter.”

“I don’t want to talk about—”

“That moment was your triumph, but you are letting him take it from you.”

Anger twisted inside her, escaping her rigid control. “I’m not letting him take anything. And you know nothing about it, so don’t you dare presume to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do.”

“You cannot run from it forever, Lily. You cannot pretend it doesn’t exist.”

Hot, angry words crowded in her throat. She forced them down. “I’m not.”

“Then, why do you keep denying it?”

“I—” She stopped, the words sticking in her mouth. And from somewhere, other words came out, hoarse words. “Because admitting it happened makes it real.”
Turns me into a victim.

More silence and she wanted to reach out and snatch the admission back. Armor herself once more in denial. But it was too late. Far, far too late.

He stayed silent, his attention on the road ahead of them. Not looking at her.

And somehow that made it easier to say, “It did happen though. Dan stole my victory. He stole my medal from me.”

Abruptly, Isma’il jerked hard on the wheel, the car bouncing over some rocks to come to a halt before the flat, rocky desert surface began its transition into dunes. Then, he turned, blue-green eyes blazing into hers. “That medal is yours,” he said fiercely. “All your effort. All your hard work. And he can only take it from you if you let him.”

Lily’s heart squeezed tight inside her chest. “But that’s the thing. I did let him. I didn’t fight him. I didn’t protest. I let him take it, because I thought I was in love with him.”

Isma’il went still. “You were sixteen. What does a sixteen year old know of love?”

“Enough to want to be kissed. To be touched.”

The look in his eyes went hard. “And how old was he?”

She didn’t know why she was talking about it. She didn’t want to, didn’t want to revisit it and yet, she couldn’t seem to stop the words from coming out of her mouth. “Thirty. He was thirty. And he knew I was in love with him.”

“You blame yourself.”

“No, I never—”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, I know that. Of course—”

Isma’il’s hand reached out, cupped her cheek, a gentle touch that made her whole body go tense and still. “It wasn’t your fault,” he repeated, sounding out each word with careful emphasis. “You were sixteen, Lily. And whether you were in love with him or not, what he did to you was wrong.”

No one had ever told her that, because she’d never told anyone. Oh, she’d known in her heart that Dan had done something he shouldn’t have, but always there had been the secret fear she’d led him on in some way. Courted his attention without meaning to. That because she’d had a crush on him, she’d asked for it.

There were tears in her eyes and she hated them, because she knew it wasn’t her fault. She didn’t need him to tell her that.

Don’t you?

A terrible sense of exposure crept up on her. The realization that her guard was down, that she was vulnerable again.

Lily jerked away from him, her cheek burning where he’d touched her. Her eyes burning with unshed tears. She pulled on the door handle.

“So?” She struggled to get her voice going. “I guess we’re here then.”

*     *     *

Isma’il curled his
fingers around the lingering warmth the touch of Lily’s cheek had left in his palm. He’d forced her into the admission, pushed her, and he knew it. But he hadn’t been able to stop himself. The flat sound of her voice as she’d talked about what should have been a triumph had made him so angry. The thought of what her coach had taken from her. It made him want to kill the bastard.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked her about the medal in the first place, but he hadn’t been thinking straight. The approaching dunes and their attendant memories had made him tenser than he’d thought. And being in close quarters with her, inhaling her scent . . . that had been difficult too.

“Yes,” he said, the rough edge still sounding in his voice. “We are here.”

She didn’t look at him, pushing the door open and getting out, keeping her face turned away.

Protecting herself.

He badly wanted to take her chin in his fingers, turn her back to face him. Tell her that she didn’t have to protect herself from him. That he would never hurt her. But the way she’d jerked away told him he’d gone as far as he could for now. Pushing her further wouldn’t help.

Letting out a breath, he sat back in his seat, stared out the windscreen.

The desert. The dunes.

That terrible slick feeling coated his fingers. He looked down, but as usual, his hands were clean.

Glancing out the car window, he saw Lily approach the foot of one of the great mountains of golden sand. The memories receded at the sight of her graceful figure. Yes, look at her. Keep thinking about her. Perhaps on the starting blocks, ready to throw herself into the water, power her way to gold. Tall and strong and magnificent.

Pushing open the door, he got out, the sand shifting underneath his desert boots.

Lily’s dark eyes watched him, her expression unreadable. But he knew she’d somehow sensed his tension. That she’d guessed something was wrong.

The words he’d thrown at her came back to haunt him.

You cannot run from it forever . . .

But he wasn’t running, was he? He was here. And those memories no longer had any power over him. He would make sure of it.

“The best view is up there,” he said, pointing to the top of the dune. “It is not an easy climb.”

“I didn’t expect it to be.” She glanced up at where he’d pointed. “I think you should know I find the lack of camels very disappointing.”

The comment was silly and he nearly smiled, reminded at last of who he was supposed to be. “Camels are not as comfortable to ride as you think.”

“Damn sight easier than climbing a hill full of sand.”

“Complaining,
Habibti
?” The endearment slipped out before he could stop it, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“No, of course not. I’m a gold medal winner after all. Climbing a sand dune is nothing.”

The tightness in his chest began to loosen, the weight of memory easing. “Then, show me, Ms. Harkness. I am keen to see how fast you can get to the top.”

Dark eyes glanced back at him. “Faster than you.”

“Is that a challenge I hear?”

But she’d already gone, climbing up the dune like a mountaineer.

Sand though was different from rock and he soon caught her, cheeks pink, her forehead gleaming with sweat. The sun had descended farther down the horizon, so it wasn’t so hot, but still the heat coming off the sand was enough to make things uncomfortable.

“Do you need help?” he asked.

She frowned. “Do I look like I want help?”

“Truthfully? Yes. You do.” He held out his hand to her.

Her frown deepened. “Nothing worse than smugness, Sheikh.” But she reached out. Took his hand. And he felt everything go still within him, as her fingers closed around his. Somehow, the gesture meant something.

Lily gave him an impatient look. “Come on then. What are you waiting for?”

Ten minutes later, at the top of the dune, he released her hand, and watched the awe cross her face as she stared at the view.

In every direction, stretched the sands, the setting sun painting them a million different shades of pink and red and orange, the sky almost the same color as the dunes themselves.

She collapsed on the dune, out of breath. “It’s so beautiful.”

He wanted to say the obvious thing. That it wasn’t the desert that was beautiful. It was her.

But he didn’t. Instead, Isma’il sat down beside her, watched as the colors of the desert around them turned her skin pink, made gold highlights gleam in the depths of her dark eyes.

Easier to focus on her than the memories the desert conjured up.

The pain of wounds barely healed, sand under his feet as he ran. Ran and ran and ran, on and on into the burning heat. Into the blinding light. Into the silence. Letting the rawness of the desert burn away the sight of the bruises on his father’s face. The cuts across his cheek.