Defiant in the Desert (17 page)

Tariq’s frown deepened. ‘So he never saw you?’

‘Nope. Not once. He doesn’t even know I exist,’ she answered, as if she didn’t care—and sometimes she actually managed to convince herself that she didn’t. Wasn’t it better to have an absent father rather than one who resented you, or didn’t match up to your expectations? But deep down Isobel knew that wasn’t the whole story. There was always a bitter ache in her heart when she thought about the parent she’d never had.

For a moment Tariq tensed, as an unwilling sense of identification washed over him. Her childhood sounded sterile and lonely—and wasn’t that territory he was painfully familiar with? The little boy sent far away from home to endure a rigid system where his royal blood made him the victim of envy? And, like her, he had never known what it was to be part of a ‘normal’ family.

Suddenly, he found his voice dipping in empathy. ‘That’s a pretty tough thing to happen,’ he said.

Isobel heard the softness of his tone but shook her head, determined to shield herself from his unexpected sympathy—because sympathy made you weak. It made regret and yearning wash over you. Made you start wishing things could have been different. And everyone knew you could never rewrite the past.

‘It is what it is. Some people have to contend with far worse. My childhood was comfortable and safe—and you can’t knock something like that. Now, would you like some more tea before it gets cold?’ she questioned briskly.

He could tell from the brightness in her voice that she wanted to change the subject, and suddenly he found he was relieved. It had been his mistake to encourage too much introspection—especially about the past. Because didn’t it open up memories which did no one any good? Memories which were best avoided because they took you to dark places?

He shook his head. ‘No thanks. Just show me which bathroom you want me to use.’

‘Right.’ Isobel hesitated. Why hadn’t she thought of this? ‘The thing is that there’s only one bathroom, I’m afraid.’ She bit her lip. ‘We’re going to have to...well, share.’

There was a pause. ‘Share?’ he repeated.

She met the disbelief in his eyes. He’s a
prince,
she reminded herself. He won’t be used to sharing and making do. But it might do him some good to see how the other half lived—to see there were places other than the luxurious penthouses and palaces he’d always called home.

‘My cottage is fairly basic, but it’s comfortable,’ she said proudly. ‘I’ve never had the need or the money to incorporate an
en-suite
bathroom—so I’m afraid you’ll just have to get used to it. Now, would you like me to show you where you’ll be sleeping?’

Tariq gave a mirthless smile, acknowledging that it was the first time he’d ever been asked that particular question without the involvement of some kind of foreplay. Wordlessly he nodded as he rose from the sofa to follow her out into the hall and up a very old wooden staircase. The trouble was that her movements showcased her bottom even more than before. Because this time he was closer—and every mounting step made the blue denim cling like honey to each magnificent globe.

How could he have been so blind never to have noticed it before? His gaze travelled downwards. Or to have registered the fact that her legs were really very shapely—the ankles slim enough to be circled by his finger and his thumb...?

‘This is the bathroom,’ Isobel was saying. ‘And right next door is your room. See?’

She pushed open a door and Tariq stepped inside and looked around, glad to be distracted by something other than the erotic nature of his thoughts.

It was a room like no room he’d ever seen. A modestly sized iron bedstead was covered with flower-sprigged bedlinen, and on top of one of the pillows sat a faded teddy bear. In the corner was an old-fashioned dressing table and a dark, rickety-looking wardrobe—other than that, the room was bare.

Yet as Tariq walked over to the window he could see that the view was incredible—overlooking nothing but unadulterated countryside. Hedgerows lined the narrow lane, and primroses grew in thick lemon clusters along the banks. Beyond that lay field after field—until eventually the land met the sky. There was absolutely no sound, he realised. Not a car, nor a plane—nor the distant trill of someone’s phone.

The silence was all-enveloping, and a strange sense of peace settled on him. It crept over his skin like the first sun after a long winter and he gave a sigh of unfamiliar contentment. Turning around, he became aware that Izzy had walked over to the window to join him. And she was looking up at him, her eyes wide and faintly uncertain.

‘Do you think you could be comfortable here?’ she questioned.

Contentment forgotten now, he watched as she bit her lip and her teeth left behind a tiny indentation. He saw the sudden gleam as the tip of her tongue moistened the spot. Her tawny eyes were slitted against the sunlight which illuminated the magnificent Titian fire of her hair. Wasn’t it peculiar that before today he’d never really noticed that her hair was such an amazing colour? And that, coupled with the proximity of her newly discovered curvaceous body, made a powerful impulse come over him.

He forgot that she was sensible Isobel—the reliable and rather sexless assistant who organised his life for him. He forgot everything other than the aching throb at his groin, which was tempting him with an insistence he was finding difficult to ignore. He wanted to kiss her. To plunder those unpainted lips with a fierce kind of hunger. To cup those delicious globes of her bottom and find if they were covered with cotton or lace. And then...

He felt the rapid escalation of desire as his sexual fantasy took on a vivid life of its own and the deep pulse of hunger began a primitive beat in his blood. For a moment he let its tempting warmth steal into his body, and he almost gave in to its powerful lure.

But Tariq prided himself on his formidable will-power, and his ability to turn his back on temptation. Because the truth was that there wasn’t a woman in the world who couldn’t be replaced.

What would be the point of seducing Isobel when the potential fall-out from that seduction could have far-reaching consequences? She’d probably fall in love with him—as women so often did—and when he ended it, what then?

When she’d told him about her father he’d seen a streak of steel and determination which might indicate that she wasn’t a total marshmallow—but still he couldn’t risk it. She was far more valuable to him as a member of staff than as a temporary lover.

He saw that she was still waiting for an answer to her question, the anxious hostess eager for reassurance, and he gave her a careless smile. ‘I think it will be perfectly
adequate
for my needs,’ he answered.

Isobel nodded. Not the most heartfelt of thanks, it was true—but who cared? She was feeling so disorientated that she could barely think straight. Had she imagined that almost
electric
feeling which had sizzled between them just now? When something unknown and tantalising had shimmered in the air around them, making her blood grow thick with desire? When she’d longed for him to pull her into his arms and just
kiss
her?

Apprehension skittered over her skin as she tried to tell herself that she didn’t find Tariq attractive. She
didn’t.
Her innate fear of feckless men had always protected her from his undeniable charisma.

So what had happened to that precious immunity now? Was it because they were in
her
home, and on
her
territory instead of his, that she felt so shockingly vulnerable in his presence? Or because she’d been stupid enough to blurt out parts of her life which she’d always kept tucked away, and in so doing had opened up a vulnerable side of herself?

Suddenly she was achingly aware of his proximity. Every taut sinew of his powerful body seemed to tantalise her and send a thousand questions racing through her mind. What would it be like to be held by him? To be pressed against that muscular physique while his fingertips touched her aching breasts?

Aware that her cheeks had grown flushed, she lifted her eyes to his, wondering what had happened to all her certainties. ‘Is there...is there anything else you need?’

He wondered what she would do if he answered that question honestly, and a wry smile curved the edges of his lips as he noted her sudden rise in colour. Would her lips fall open with shock if he told her that he longed for her to fall to her knees, to take him in her mouth and suck him? Or would she simply comply with the easy efficiency she showed in all other elements of their working relationship? Would she
swallow?
he found himself wondering irreverently.

His desire rocketed, frustrating him with a heavy throbbing at his aching groin. He needed her out of here. Now. Before he did or said something he might later regret.

‘Leave me now, Izzy,’ he commanded unsteadily. ‘Unless you’re planning to stay and watch while I shower?’

CHAPTER FOUR

S
OMEHOW
, I
SOBEL
MANAGED
to hold onto her composure until she’d closed the bedroom door, and then she rushed back down the creaky staircase to the kitchen. Once there, she leaned against one of the cupboards, her eyes squeezed tight shut as she tried not to think about the Sheikh’s powerful body, which would soon be acquainting itself with her ancient little bathroom. Her heart was hammering as an imagination she hadn’t known she possessed began to taunt her with vivid images.

She thought about Tariq naked. With little droplets of water gleaming against his flesh.

She thought about Tariq drying—the towel lingering on his damp, golden flesh as he rubbed himself all over.

Swallowing down the sudden lump which had risen in her throat, she shook her head. Weaving erotic fantasies about him would lead to nothing but trouble—and so would baring her soul. Taking Tariq into her confidence would only add to the vulnerability she was already experiencing. She wondered what had made her confide in him about her father, and the fact that she’d never known him.

She knew she had to pull herself together.
She
had been the one who’d invited him to stay, and he was going to be here for the next few days whether she liked it or not. Just because her feelings towards him seemed to have changed—what mattered was that she didn’t let it show.

Because Tariq was no fool. He was a master of experience when it came to the opposite sex, and he was bound to start noticing her reaction if she wasn’t careful. If she dissolved into mush every time he came near, or her fingers started trembling just like they were doing now, wouldn’t that give the game away? Wouldn’t he guess that her senses had been shaken into life and she’d become acutely attracted to him? And just how embarrassing would that be?

She needed a plan. Something to stop him from dominating her mind with arousing thoughts.

Opening the door of the freezer, she peered inside and began to devise a crash course in displacement therapy which would see her through the days ahead. She would make sure she had plenty to occupy her. She would be as brisk and efficient as she was at work, and maybe this crazy
awareness
of him would go away.

But that was easier said than done. By the time Tariq came back downstairs she was busy chopping up ingredients for a risotto, but she made the mistake of lifting her head to look at him. And then found herself mesmerised by the intimate image of her boss fresh from the bath. His hair was damp and ruffled, and he carried with him the faint tang of her ginger and lemon gel.

Isobel swallowed. ‘Bath okay?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘You didn’t bother telling me that you don’t have a shower.’

‘I guessed you find out soon enough.’

‘So I did,’ he growled. ‘It’s the most ancient bathroom I’ve used in years—and the water was tepid.’

‘Don’t they say that tepid baths are healthier?’

‘Do they?’ He looked around. ‘Where’s your TV?’

‘I don’t have one.’

‘You don’t have a TV?’

Isobel shot him a defensive look. ‘It isn’t mandatory, you know. There’s a whole wall of books over there. Help yourself to one of those.’

‘You mean
read?
’

‘That
is
what people usually do with books.’

With a short sigh of impatience, Tariq wandered over to examine the neat rows of titles which lined an entire wall of her sitting room.

The only things he ever read were financial papers or contracts, or business-related articles he caught up with when he was travelling. Occasionally his attention would be caught by some glossy car magazine, which would lure him into changing his latest model for something even more powerful. But he never read books. He had neither the time nor the inclination to lose himself in the world of fiction. He remembered that stupid story he’d read at school—about some animal which had been abandoned. He remembered the tears which had welled up in his eyes when its mother had been shot and the way he’d slammed the volume shut. Books made you
feel
things—and the only thing he wanted to feel right now were the tantalising curves of Izzy’s body.

But that was a
bad
idea. And he needed something to occupy his thoughts other than musing about what kind of underwear a woman like that would wear beneath her rather frumpy clothes.

In the end he forced himself to read a thriller—grateful for the novel’s rapid pace, which somehow seemed to suck him into an entirely believable story of a one-time lap dancer successfully nailing a high-profile banker for fraud. He was so engrossed in the tale that Izzy’s voice startled him, and he looked up to find her standing over him, her face all pink and shiny.

‘Mmm?’ he questioned, thinking how soft and kissable her lips looked.

‘Supper’s ready.’

‘Supper?’

‘You
do
eat supper?’

Actually he usually ate
dinner
—an elegant feast of a meal—rather than a large spoonful of glossy rice slapped on the centre of an earthy-looking plate. But to Tariq’s surprise he realised that he was hungry—and he enjoyed it more than he had expected. Afterwards Izzy heaped more logs on the fire, and they sat there in companionable silence while he picked up his novel and began to race through it again.

* * *

For Tariq, the days which followed his accident were unique. He’d been brought up in a closeted world of palaces and privilege, but now he found himself catapulted into an existence which seemed far more bizarre.

His nights were spent alone, in an old and lumpy bed, yet he found he was sleeping late—something he rarely did, not even when he was jet-lagged. And the lack of a shower meant that he’d lie daydreaming in the bath in the mornings. In the cooling water of the rather cramped tub he would stretch out his long frame and listen to the sounds of birds singing outside the window. So that by the time he wandered downstairs it was to find his Titian-haired assistant bustling around with milk jugs and muesli, or asking him if he wanted to try the eggs from the local farm.

For the first time in a long time he felt
relaxed
—even if Izzy seemed so busy that she never seemed to stop. She was always doing
something
—cooking or cleaning or dealing with the e-mails which flooded in from the office, shielding him from all but the most necessary requests.

‘Why don’t you loosen up a little?’ he questioned one morning, glancing up from his latest thriller to see her cleaning out the grate, a fine cloud of coal dust billowing around her.

Izzy pushed a stray strand of hair from out of her eyes with her elbow. Because action distracted her from obsessing about his general gorgeousness, that was why. And because she was afraid that if she allowed herself to stop then she might never get going again.

What did he expect her to do all day? Sit staring as he sprawled over her sofa, subjecting her to a closer-than-was comfortable view of his muscular body? Watch as he shifted one powerful thigh onto the other, thus drawing attention to the mysterious bulge at the crotch of his jeans? A place she knew she shouldn’t be looking—which, of course, made it all the more difficult not to. She felt guilty and ashamed at the wayward path of her thoughts, and began to wonder if he had cast some kind of spell on her. Suddenly the clingy behaviour of some of his ex-lovers became a little more understandable.

Her nights weren’t much better. How could they be when she knew that Tariq was lying in bed in the room next door? Hadn’t she already experienced the disturbing episode of him wandering out of the bathroom one morning with nothing but a small towel strung low around his hips?

Tiny droplets of water had clung to his hard, olive-skinned torso, and Isobel’s heart had thumped like a piston as she’d surveyed his perfect physique. She’d briefly thought of suggesting that perhaps he ought to be using a bigger towel. But wouldn’t that have sounded awfully presumptuous? In the end, she had just mumbled, ‘Good morning...’ and hurried past him, terrified that he would see the telltale flush of desire in her cheeks.

Almost overnight the cool neutrality she’d felt towards her boss had been replaced with new and scary sensations. She felt almost molten with longing whenever she looked at him—yet at the same time she resented these disturbing new feelings. Why couldn’t she have felt this sharp sense of desire with other men? Decent, reliable men? The kind of men she usually dated and who inevitably left her completely cold? Why the hell did it have to be
him?

‘Izzy?’ His deep voice broke into her disturbed thoughts. ‘Why don’t you sit down and relax?’

‘Oh, I’m happier when I’m working,’ she hedged, as she swept more dust out of the fireplace. ‘Anyway, we’re going back to London tomorrow.’

‘We are?’ He put his book down and frowned. ‘Has it really been a week?’

‘Well, five days, actually—but you certainly seem better.’

‘I feel better,’ he said, acknowledging that this was something of an understatement. He hadn’t felt like this in years—as if every one of his senses had been retuned and polished. He was looking forward to getting back to London and hitting the ground running.

But his last night in Izzy’s little cottage was restless, and the sound sleep he’d previously enjoyed seemed to elude him. Inexplicably, he found himself experiencing a kind of regret that he wouldn’t ever sleep in this old-fashioned bed again, beneath the flower-sprigged linen. He lay awake, wondering if he was imagining the sound of Izzy moving in her sleep next door, her slim, pale limbs tossing and turning. Maybe he was—but he certainly wasn’t imagining his reaction to those thoughts.

With a small groan he turned onto his side, and then onto his stomach—feeling the rising heat of yet another erection pressing against the mattress. It had been like this for most of the week, and it had been hell. Night after night he’d imagined parting Izzy’s pale thighs and sliding his hot, hard heat into her exquisite warmth. He swallowed as the tightness increased. Was his body so starved of physical pleasure that he should become fixated on a woman simply because she happened to be
around?
Yet what other explanation could there be for this inexplicable lust he was experiencing?

In the darkness of the bedroom he heard the distant hoot of an owl in the otherwise silent countryside and his mouth thinned. He needed a lover, that was for sure—and the moment he got back to London he’d do something about it. Maybe contact that beautiful Swedish model who had been coming on to him so strong...

Resisting the urge to satisfy himself, he buried his cheek against a pillow which smelt of lavender, and yawned as he fantasised about a few more likely candidates.

But sleep still eluded him, and at first light he gave up the fight, tugged on a pair of jeans and went downstairs—still yawning. He made strong coffee in Izzy’s outdated percolator, and after he’d drunk it settled down to finish his thriller.

And that was where Isobel found him a couple of hours later—stretched out on the sofa, the book open against the gentle rise and fall of his chest. The feathery dark arcs of his lashes did not move when she walked in, and she realised that he was fast asleep.

Her barefooted tread was silent as she padded across the room towards him, unable to resist the temptation to observe him at closer quarters—telling herself that she only wanted to see if he looked rested and recovered. To see whether it really was a good idea for him to go back to London later that day.

But that was a lie and she knew it. Deep down she knew she was going to miss this crazy domestic arrangement. Despite the pressure of wanting him, she had enjoyed sharing her living space with her boss. Even if it had been an artificial intimacy which they’d created between them, it didn’t seem to matter. She’d seen another side to him—a more
human
side—and she couldn’t help wondering what it would be like once they were back in the office.

Yet, despite her mixed thoughts, she felt a quiet moment of pride as she looked down at him—because he was certainly back to his usual robust self. If anything, he looked better than she could ever remember seeing him. Less strained. More relaxed. His olive skin was highlighted with a glorious golden glow, and his lips were softened at the edges.

But the hard beating of her heart made her realise that her new-found feelings for him hadn’t gone away. That stupid softness hadn’t hardened into her habitual indifference towards him. Something had changed—or maybe the feeling had always been there, deep down. Maybe it was a left-over crush from her schooldays and she’d only buried it rather than abandoning it. But, either way, she didn’t know what she was going to do about it.

She continued to stare at him, willing herself to feel nothing—but to no avail. She was itching to touch him, even in the most innocent of ways. Because what other way did she know? A thick ebony lock of hair had curled onto his forehead, and she had to resist the impulse to smooth it away with the tips of her fingers.

But maybe she moved anyway—if only fractionally—because his lashes suddenly fluttered open to reveal the watchful black gleam of his eyes.

Did she suck in a sudden breath and then expel it with a sigh which shuddered out from somewhere deep in her lungs? The kind of sigh which could easily be mistaken for longing? Was that why his arm suddenly snaked up without warning, effortlessly curling around her waist before bringing her down onto his bare chest in one fluid movement?

‘T-Tariq!’ she gasped, feeling the delicious impact as their bodies made unexpected contact.

‘Izzy,’ he growled, as every fantasy he’d been concocting over the last few days burst into rampant life.

Izzy with her hair loose and cascading around her shoulders. Izzy wearing some ridiculously old-fashioned pair of pyjamas. Izzy warm and soft and smelling of toothpaste, just begging to be kissed. Reaching up, he tangled his fingers in the rich spill of her curls and brought her mouth down on his.

‘Oh!’ Her startled exclamation was muffled by his kiss, and it only partially blotted out the urgent clamour of her thoughts. She ought to stop him. She knew that. A whole lifetime of conditioning told her so.