Promised to a Sheik (14 page)

She took the box from him, her curiosity aroused, but kept her attention focused on Rashad. “Can you sit for a few minutes and visit?”

He looked at his watch, then nodded. “Sheik Omar is in a private meeting and it isn't due to break up for a little while. I can sit for a minute or two.” He joined her on the sofa.

“How have you been? I've hardly seen you all week,” Cara said.

“I've been well.” His eyes shone brightly. “And I have a dinner date this evening.”

“With Jane?” Cara clapped her hands together in glee as he nodded. “Rashad, I'm so glad.”

“I think I have you to thank.”

“Trust me, I did nothing more than plant a little seed about you in her head,” Cara replied.

“And how are you, Elizabeth?” His eyes gazed at her with a gentleness that told her he knew how difficult things had been.

“So you know the truth,” she replied.

“I have known since the day of your wedding.”

She eyed him in surprise, then sighed. “Then, you probably also know that Omar is very angry with me.”

“Sheik Omar can be a stubborn man.”

“I've been told that sheiks don't love like regular men, but I swear, Rashad, if I didn't think Omar loved me, I wouldn't still be here.”

“Who told you that sheiks don't love like regular men?” he asked.

“Hayfa…and Omar himself.”

Rashad frowned. “I believe that Sheik Abdul married his three wives so his affections would always be divided. It was a protection he created for himself so he would never, ever love as deeply and profoundly as he loved Omar's mother. He did love her deeply, and her loss scarred him. I think he raised Omar to believe that love was not desirable, that to love made a man vulnerable. I think perhaps he was trying to protect his son from the kind of near-mortal wound love had delivered to him.”

“But I know Omar is capable of loving.”

Rashad smiled. “I told you once that I sense great strength in you. It may take all your strength to overcome Omar's stubbornness and the anger he harbors right now.”

He stood. “And now I must go.”

Cara walked him to the door, where he turned and smiled at her again, the mischievous grin she loved to see.

“If I were a betting man, Elizabeth Cara Al Abdar, my money would be on you.” With these words, he left.

Cara closed the door behind him and went back to the sofa, where the large dress box awaited her. What on earth had the ladies sent over to her?

She pulled the lid off the box and gasped in surprise. Belly-dancing costumes. There were three—one in gold, one in silver and one a deep, lush purple. Each of the harem pants were made of translucent soft chiffon, and the tops were little more than ornately decorated bras.

Her heart expanded as she thought of the three women who had become not only family, but friends.

She carried the box into her bedroom and placed it on the bed. Picking up the gold costume, her heart thudded with anticipation. Could she really do this? Could she put on this risqué costume and dance for Omar?

O
mar was weary as he made his way from the throne room to his quarters. It wasn't just a bone weariness, but a mental exhaustion as well, and he knew much of it came from the exertion of trying to maintain his anger with Elizabeth.

Even thinking of her name shot a renewed burst of irritation through him. Not
Elizabeth,
he reminded himself. Elizabeth Fiona had been the woman he'd thought he married, the woman he'd intended to marry. Cara was the woman who was now his wife.

Cara, a woman who had been a teacher, a woman who had willingly given him her virginity. Cara, a woman who had spoken to him of her desire for children, her desire to build a family. Cara, a woman who suffered nightmares and who since last week had had nobody to hold her when she awakened afraid and crying in the night.

He shoved this thought aside, even more irritated by the disturbing ache it had evoked in his heart. He nodded to the guards on either side of the door and entered the living room.

Instantly his senses were placed on alert, titillated by the sights and smells that greeted him. The lights
were dimmed and the glow of candles filled the room. Incense filled the air along with the tinkling music of the East.

Several of the huge throw pillows had been gathered together to create a place of repose in the center of the floor.

He tensed as he threw his briefcase on the sofa. What was going on? And where were the servants—?

All thought fled from his head as Elizabeth appeared in the doorway between the master suite and the living room.

Electricity sizzled through his veins as his gaze perused her from head to toe. Her dark hair was piled high on her head and entwined with gold braiding. Her eyes glowed a bright emerald, and her cheeks were pink, although he didn't know if the color was natural or cosmetic.

He was stunned by her beauty, displayed to perfection by the brevity of the outfit she wore. The ornate gold bra seemed to be specifically designed to draw attention to her creamy breasts, which spilled over the top of the golden cups.

She wore harem pants that rode low on her hips, the see-through chiffon displaying her shapely legs from ankle to hip. The only concession to modesty was an opaque triangle of material placed strategically in the front of the pants.

“Omar, I didn't hear you come in,” she said, and moved across the room with a sensuality he'd never seen before. “Welcome home, my husband,” she
said. “I've drawn your bath, and when you're finished I'll serve you your meal.”

“Where are the servants?” he asked, trying to focus on anything but the desire that swept through him as he looked at her.

“I gave them the evening off,” she replied. “And now I need to go check on your dinner.”

As she left in the direction of the kitchen, Omar went into the bathroom, wondering what she had planned.

If she thought by cooking him a meal and wearing a provocative little outfit she could somehow ease his disappointment and anger with her, she was sadly mistaken.

Still, moments later as he relaxed in the scented hot water of his bath, he thought of how delicious she had looked, and he couldn't help the physical response that soared through him, a physical response he had no intention of following through on.

A man punishing a woman didn't make love to her, he reminded himself. And he certainly wasn't finished punishing Cara for her dishonesty. He was stronger than any desire he might feel for her.

He finished his bath and pulled on a pair of silk pajama bottoms and a robe, then went into the living room and eyed the pillows she'd apparently arranged for him.

He considered sitting on the sofa just to be perverse, but decided to play along with her game and see where the evening headed.

Stretching out amid the pillows, he closed his eyes
for a moment, thinking of the past week. He knew he'd been as ill-tempered as a spitting camel with his staff and knew eventually he would have to make amends.

“A glass of wine?”

He opened his eyes to see her standing near him, a fluted glass in one hand and a platter in the other. “Thank you.” He took the glass from her, trying to ignore the poker of heat that stabbed through him as their fingertips met.

She sat down next to him, and his head was momentarily filled with the sweet, achingly familiar scent of her. He quickly swallowed some wine, as if it could clear his head.

“I made you some stuffed grape leaves to begin,” she said, and picked up one of the savory rolls that had been cut into bite-size pieces. He parted his lips to receive the bite, trying not to notice the body heat that radiated from her nearness.

“Is it good?” she asked. She sat so close to him that her warm breath fanned his face. “I got the recipe from the chef. He told me it was one of your favorites.”

“It is,” he said curtly, and when she offered him another piece, he took it from her fingers instead of allowing her to place it in his mouth.

He didn't want to inadvertently taste her finger, didn't want to dwell on the fact that it had been a week since he'd held her in his arms, kissed her sweet lips, made love to her. “Are you not eating?” he asked.

She shook her head, her eyes beautiful but somber. “I ate before you came home so I could be at your service for the evening.” She stood. “I'll be back in just a moment with your entrée.”

He watched as she left the room. Her hips swayed with a rhythm that struck a chord deep inside him, and suddenly he wondered who was being punished more by his abstinence—him or her.

The entrée was smothered steak with roasted potatoes, and as Omar ate, Cara sat nearby, her green eyes watching him as if to anticipate whatever he might want or need.

What he needed was to take her into the bedroom and release the physical tension that the past week had built inside him. But he refused to be a slave to his desire.

He ate in silence, although he found himself wondering how she spent the time when he wasn't around. Did she spend long hours alone, perhaps sitting in the gardens surrounded by the flowers she so loved?

She wasn't a woman meant to spend time alone. In the month that they had come to know one another, he had learned that she loved to socialize, to share, to laugh. He missed the sound of her laughter.

When he finished eating, she removed his dishes, then returned to his side. “Would you like me to rub your back? Massage your feet?” Her eyes gleamed with a provocative light. “Or would you prefer that I entertain you by dancing for you?”

Dancing for him? The blood in his veins heated. Although he knew he should tell her he didn't want
her entertaining him, he found himself nodding. “Yes, dance for me.”

She looked self-conscious as she stood and backed away from him. The glow from the many candles that surrounded them cast a lush golden radiance to her skin, making it appear achingly touchable.

However, he didn't want to touch her, he told himself firmly.

And then she began to dance.

Slowly, sensually she moved to the music, her arms gracefully extended outward as her hips moved in a lover's rhythm.

Her upper body moved, as well, and it looked as if she were offering him the slender column of her neck, the delicate curve of her collarbone, the voluptuous rounded tops of her breasts. He could see the muscles in her shapely legs working, and imagined those legs wrapped around his hips.

A ball of heat flared in the pit of his stomach, suffusing his body as he watched her with narrowed eyes. Who had taught her to move like that? Omar had seen enough belly dancers to know that although her movements were rudimentary and simple, they were the traditional motions of a true belly dancer. He was relatively certain they didn't teach this kind of dancing in Mission Creek, Texas.

Her dainty bare feet brought her closer to him, and again he smelled her fragrance—it dizzied him and made thought next to impossible.

Blood thundered through his veins, and despite his determination to the contrary, desire followed. Her
eyes glittered brightly, as if she recognized that she was getting to him.

He didn't
want
to want her, but at the moment he couldn't remember why he'd been denying not only her but himself the pleasure of making love.

He fought to find his anger, but it seemed to have fled him beneath the stronger emotion of desire. As she leaned even closer to him, he stood and grabbed her wrist. She gasped, but stood still, her chest heaving.

“What are you doing, Cara?” he asked softly.

The tip of her tongue smoothed over her lips, and her gaze held his. “I'm dancing for you,” she replied, her voice deeper, huskier than usual. “If you will not allow me to share your life as your wife, then perhaps you will allow me to share your bed as a lover would.” She punctuated her sentence by opening his robe and leaning into him, allowing her breasts to rub against his chest.

Her words and the contact of her skin against his shattered the last remnant of self-control he'd been desperately clinging to. He grabbed her to him and devoured her mouth with his, reveling in the fullness of her lips, the sweet familiar taste of her.

She welcomed his kiss, opening her mouth to him and wrapping her arms around his neck. He unwound her arms and broke the kiss, then took a step away from her. “Then, you would be happy to be my lover, my harem girl, my love slave?”

“For tonight that would be enough,” she replied softly.

She stepped to him, her hips against his, and began to dance again. The friction of her movements against him stirred him in a way nothing ever had before, and he knew she was aware of his intense arousal, knew it by the wicked glitter of her beautiful eyes.

For a torturously long couple of minutes, she brushed her hips against his, then brought her hands up behind her back and released the clasp to her top. She caught the bra before it could fall, holding it against her breasts as her gaze continued to hold his.

“If you wish me to be your love slave, Omar, then, that's what I'll be.” She dropped her hands to her sides, allowing the bra to fall to the floor before her.

Omar had never before known that passion could be physically painful, but he ached with it, burned with it, and knew only she could assuage the yearnings of his body.

He sank back to the pillows and pulled her down with him, once again seeking her mouth with his own. At the same time he captured one of her breasts in his hand and could feel her heartbeat thrumming deep beneath the hot, silky skin.

“Elizabeth…Elizabeth,” he moaned into her mouth, lost in tidal waves of passion that swept over him, through him. “I have missed the taste of you, the feel of you in my arms.”

“And I've missed you,” she gasped back, at the same time her hands worked his robe off his shoulders. He removed his arms from the material and allowed it to fall from his body.

He wanted to tell her that this changed nothing, that
he was still angry with her, still felt betrayed and manipulated, but he couldn't find the words, not when her mouth moved from his and down his chest.

He moaned as her fingers tugged at the waistband of his silk pajama bottoms, and he lifted his hips to help her remove them.

When he was naked, she stood once again and removed the harem pants that covered her, then rejoined him on the mound of pillows.

He reached for her, but she stopped him. “Just lie back and relax,” she murmured. “And let me bring you pleasure.”

She moved her hands over his chest, splaying her fingers as if to make as much contact as possible.

Her hands were hot and her eyes held a fevered light as she lightly caressed his upper chest. She smiled at him.

“Your skin feels so good. I love the way it feels.”

As her fingers moved to his abdomen, he drew in a sharp breath, surprised to find himself trembling with need.

Her mouth joined her fingers, hotly kissing and nipping at his flesh, moving down his body with deliberate intent. As her mouth and hands moved lower, lower, he tangled his fingers in her hair, fighting for control as pleasure racked his body.

When her fingers wrapped around his hardness, he drew in a sharp breath, knowing if she did anything more it would be over. And he wasn't ready for it to be over.

 

Cara gasped as he rolled her to her back. He hovered over her, his dark eyes flaming with fires that she knew would consume her. And she wanted to be consumed.

His mouth claimed hers as his hands covered her breasts and his fingers swept over the pebblelike hardness of her nipples.

The contact with her breasts pulled sensations through her entire body, and a sweet familiar tension began to build inside her.

Although the physical aspect of what they were doing nearly overwhelmed her, it was the emotional side of things that brought a shimmer of tears to her eyes.

Surely this would heal the wounds she'd inflicted upon him with her deception. Surely this would make him realize he'd married the right woman, after all, and his anger would finally and forever leave him.

He kissed her with a ferocity that called up a ferocity of her own. She tangled her hands in his hair as their kiss continued.

His hands left her breasts and moved down her sides, across her ribs and to her hips. He gripped her hips as he broke the kiss, and his gaze once again held hers. “If I had to choose a woman I wished to be my love slave, my choice would be you.” With these words, one of his hands moved to touch her intimately.

She cried out, unsure which brought her more pleasure, his words or his touch. She only knew that she ached with the need for him, wallowed in the scent
of him and was overwhelmed by the feel of his arms around her again.

Closing her eyes, she gave herself to him, as the mastery of his touch swept her higher and higher. As she felt the tension inside her building to an impossible level, she clung to him and shattered.

Immediately he entered her, filling her up with his heat. He moaned deep in the back of his throat, then took possession of her mouth as his hips moved against hers.