How to Seduce a Sheikh (3 page)

She had always been an excellent judge of character. Papa said so, and Leon, too.
Vraiment
, she had been through a dreadful experience, but it was very wrong of her to allow it to shape her views of every man she met. Besides, though she had unintentionally angered him, what she had said to Prince Zafar was true—she really had nothing to lose.

Colette took a deep breath. ‘Highness?’ He turned towards her, frowning. ‘Prince Zafar,’ she said tentatively, ‘I fear I owe you an apology. I believe I have misjudged you.’

His eyes narrowed, though he said nothing. ‘I can see you are a good man,’ she continued doggedly, ‘from the esteem in which your servants hold you. And freeing the slaves, too, your kindness in offering to send them home if they wished it.’

Still no reply, but his very stillness reassured her that he was listening. ‘I have no idea why you paid such a very large amount to save me from those other bidders,’ Colette said, ‘but I do know that you have saved me as surely as you have saved those Africans, and for that I thank you from the heart. I am in your debt.’

Impulsively, she dropped to her knees and took his hand, pressing a kiss to his fingers, but seeing his startled look she realised she had probably broken all sorts of unwritten rules and hastily let him go.

He grabbed her hands, pulling her to her feet. ‘Never abase yourself before me like that.’

‘I am sorry, I only meant—’

‘You owe me no debt. I do not want your gratitude and I certainly have no need of a woman on such terms.’

Colette stared at him in confusion. ‘I was not offering myself to you on any terms. I was merely saying thank you.’ Despite herself, her temper flickered. ‘I know perfectly well that I am not—not to your taste, Highness. You told me so yourself.’

‘I told you I didn’t want you as my concubine. I did not say that I didn’t find you attractive. Which does not mean I have any desire at all to take you in gratitude any more than I would take you by force.’

Relief and exhilaration made Colette giddy. Despite the crowd of freed slaves, servants and animals just a short distance away, it felt as if they were alone at the oasis. The desert air was warm and sweet, enveloping them in its soft caress. Awareness of the scent of him, the heat of him, the sheer power and overwhelming maleness of him, shot through her blood, making her heart pound. His hands, which had been resting in hers, now slid up her arms. Though he did not urge her, she stepped towards him. Beneath the soft folds of his tunic, she could see his chest rise and fall. The thin line of a scar ran from his ear to his throat, she noticed, stopping frighteningly close to the fragile pulse, which would have meant certain death had the wound been a fraction longer. She could not resist reaching out to touch it. ‘You had a narrow escape,’ she said softly.

His face hardened as he pushed her brusquely away. Something that looked like pain darkened his eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Quite the contrary.’ He turned away from her and nodded down at the oasis. ‘You will wish to bathe.’

Nonplussed, Colette stared at the glinting water longingly. ‘How can I?’ she asked, indicating the throng of the camp.

He held out an imperious hand. ‘Come with me.’

Chapter Three

The oasis was shaped like a figure eight, with the caravan set out by the larger of the two pools. Prince Zafar led her to the smaller one, which was bordered by large tussocks of spiky grass and small shrubs. Though she could still hear the chatter of the servants, the snuffling and bleating of the camels and mules, Colette could see none of them from the pool’s edge.

‘Your privacy is guaranteed,’ Prince Zafar said. ‘I have given orders that no one is to disturb us.’

Orders that would be obeyed unquestioningly, Colette thought with a small smile.

‘Here, there are drying cloths, soap, a fresh tunic for you to change into. I shall wait on you while you bathe. With my back turned, you may rest assured,
madame
.
’

He had obviously gone to some trouble to make the arrangements for her. Touched by his consideration Colette dropped a small curtsy. ‘
Merci
, Highness, you are most thoughtful.’

A brief nod greeted this remark before Prince Zafar turned his back. Had she offended him again? She had no idea. The man was unfathomable; there was no point in trying to understand him. Shrugging to herself, Colette made her way to the edge of the water and undressed.

* * *

He could hear the rustle of her clothes as she slipped out of them, the gentle ripple of the water as she entered the pool. He could picture her, tall and slim, pale in the light of the moon, the warm waters lapping at her toes, her calves, her thighs, her derrière, her waist, her breasts, as she made her way into the centre of the pool. He could picture her all too clearly. The urge to turn around, to see for himself how closely his imagination matched reality, was almost irresistible.

Zafar tried to focus his mind on more important matters—the business of running his kingdom, of achieving lasting peace, of promoting prosperity, matters that never failed to occupy him—but the little splashes that told him she was washing, lathering her body with his own lemon-scented soap, distracted him. Desire had not deserted him in the past two years. Since there was no shortage of willing and beautiful women eager to share his bed, it was easily sated, but this was different. He didn’t want
a
woman but this particular disrespectful, brave, opinionated woman.

The stillness of the desert night carried every sound. Colette Beaumarchais’s sighs of pleasure floated across the water to taunt him. He imagined her lying on her back, floating under the stars, the small mounds of those perfect breasts exposed to the sky. So different from—so different. And perhaps that was why she was so desirable?

An exclamation, quickly muffled, made him whirl around, his hand going instinctively to his scimitar, drawing it swiftly from his belt, slicing the vicious blade through the air above his shoulder in readiness as he covered the short distance to the water’s edge. ‘What is it? What did you see?’ Zafar scanned the surroundings for sign of an intruder.

‘What are you talking about? I dropped the soap.’

‘You dropped the soap!’ The fingers of his left hand were tight around the dagger that was strapped across his shoulder. He waded out towards her. She shrank away from him. Realising that he was still holding his scimitar at the ready, he dropped his arm. ‘I thought you were in danger.’

She shook her head. Zafar realised that she was shaking at the same time as he remembered she was naked. ‘I frightened you,’ he said remorsefully, determinedly keeping his eyes on her face.

‘I—It was just—seeing you with that sword—I just remembered...’

Her eyes were bright with tears, though she was valiantly trying to suppress them. She was hugging herself tight, obviously much more shaken than she cared to admit. Zafar threw his scimitar onto the shore and pulled her against him, wrapping his arms tight around her. ‘I am deeply sorry.’

‘I am perfectly fine now,’ Madame Beaumarchais said, and burst into tears.

Her head was on his chest, her hair soaking into his tunic, her naked body pressed against the length of his own, but he desired only to comfort her. He held her, telling her again and again that she was safe.

The storm was over as quickly as it began. Her sobs quieted. She stopped shaking. ‘I don’t usually cry. Papa always said that tears are for those who can do nothing else,’ she mumbled into his chest.

‘Women cry, men act,’ Zafar said.

‘But a general’s daughter must lead from the front.’ She pushed herself free of him. ‘I am sorry I alarmed you. And I’m sorry you have endured an unnecessary soaking.’

The water was waist height. She had wrapped her arms around her breasts again, but she did not cower or shrink. She was blushing, but her eyes met his bravely. His own tunic clung to him like a second skin. ‘I intended bathing after you,’ Zafar said.

‘I’m sorry I lost the soap.’

His laughter surprised him as much as it did her, echoing over the water. The strangeness of the day, the strangeness of the situation, all suddenly seemed absurd. ‘Please,
madame
, allow me,’ Zafar said, casting off his headdress, his belt and his dagger, throwing them all onto the shore and diving into the water.

* * *

Colette watched in amazement. He looked so much younger when he laughed, though she got the impression he didn’t laugh very often. He surfaced, water streaming down his face, took a breath and dived again, giving her a glimpse of firmly muscled buttocks, long legs, narrow feet. She knew she should not be looking, but she couldn’t drag her eyes away. His hair was short-cropped. Without his headdress he looked less intimidating and much younger.

‘Voila!’

Prince Zafar surfaced triumphant, holding the block of soap in one hand, smiling widely. His tunic clung to him, completely transparent, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, a smattering of dark hairs, the dip of his belly. Somewhere low in her own belly, the muscles tightened as she stared at him, his skin the colour of caramelised sugar at the open throat of his tunic, the strength and power of his warrior’s body, the smooth cap of his hair. His smile faded under her gaze, his eyes seeming to gleam in the moonlight as they focused on hers. Heat sizzled under her skin as he looked at her and she saw her own burgeoning need reflected on his face, though he made no move towards her.

She knew now why he hesitated, why he would not move. Honour rather than a lack of desire. He would not make the first move. Colette had never been bold, but nor had she ever felt the headiness, the power of being wanted so blatantly. If she did not move, nor would he. But if she did... Though she had only the haziest idea of what she would be missing, she did not want to miss it. She had come so close to death she wanted, needed, to feel alive.

She reached out her hand and touched his cheek, running her fingers down the long column of his throat to the opening of his tunic. His eyes widened. His breathing quickened with hers. She stepped closer, dropping the arm that covered her breasts, and pressed herself against him, pressed her naked flesh to the damp fabric of his tunic.

He shuddered. The waters of the pool caressed them. She was dimly aware of the talking, the muted laughter, the sounds of the animals coming from the encampment. The night sounds of the desert—the cry of a hawk, the rustling of animals in the shrubs—added to the mystery, the strangeness, the exoticness of the scene. Practical Colette Beaumarchais, war widow, general’s daughter, captive, with Zafar al-Zuhr, warrior, prince, rescuer, in an oasis in the desert.

One of his hands was twined in the long strands of her hair. The other was clenched tight at his side. She could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against her breasts. ‘
Madame
,
’
he said, his voice husky, ‘I told you, I do not want your gratitude.’

‘This is not gratitude.’ That he could resist, even while she offered herself so blatantly, was no longer an insult but the best, most flattering of compliments. She closed the final gap between them, moving her hips against the thick length of his erection under the water, knowing that he wanted her, knowing that despite his wanting her he would not take what she did not offer. Leon would be appalled by her utter lack of modesty, by the very idea that she might just be surrendering to desires of her own, wishes of her own. This thought gave her confidence. The look of raw passion that Prince Zafar gave her made her bones melt.

She pulled him towards her so suddenly that he staggered as her mouth found his. For an appalling moment she thought he would shrug himself free, that she had misread the whole situation. Then he put his arms around her, lifting her feet from the sandy bottom of the pool, and kissed her hard on the mouth.

* * *

Her lips were cool and soft. Her body was wet, hot, surprisingly supple, delightfully curved. Her kiss sent him spinning almost out of control as she clung to him, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing her breasts against his chest. In an instant he was aflame with desire, lost in the smell of her, the taste of her, the exoticness of her, this conundrum of a woman, this astonishingly generous woman, this woman of so many contrasts and contradictions.

She tasted of soap and clean water and something most definitely female, spicy and sweet. He pulled her closer, kissing her more deeply, groaning as his tongue met hers, touching, tasting, tangling with his. He wrapped her legs around his waist, holding her high against him in the water, shuddering as the throbbing hardness of his erection was enveloped in the soft, damp heat of her thighs.

She was panting, moaning, kissing him, astonishingly just as wild as he, clinging, tugging at his flesh to bring him closer, closer. He staggered to the water’s edge, setting her down in the sand, breaking contact for the briefest of aching seconds to yank his sodden tunic over his head.

Casting it onto the sands, he caught her watching him, her eyes wide, unblinking. No woman had ever dared to look at him so. No woman had ever expressed such raw desire before. He found he liked it. He stood there as her eyes travelled over his body, relishing the way she looked, taking her hands, urging her to touch where her eyes fell, his shoulders, his chest, his belly, his flanks. As her fingers curled around his shaft, he groaned aloud. Blood pulsed through him, stretching the skin taut. That smile of hers, did she know what it did to a man?

Gently, reluctantly removing her hands from him, he cupped her derrière and kissed her swiftly, encouraging her to arch into him, feeling the heat, the wetness of her, against his shaft. He kissed his way down her throat to her breasts, taking one pink, hard nipple into his mouth and sucking, still supporting her, holding her tight against his erection. She gave a rousing little gasp.

Her other breast now, sucking, licking, sucking. Another little gasp. He was throbbing, concerned that he would lose control, he whose life was all about control, succumbing to his urgent need to be inside her too swiftly, too soon.