saw the incredulity that had narrowed his dark eyes and wondered if anyone had ever ordered him from their bed before, or tried to oppose his wishes. Probably not. But she needed to do this. She needed to put distance between them and she needed to find an inner strength. Because, despite her furious denial that she was hoping for some kind of future with him, wasn’t there a part of her that was doing exactly that? A part that had grown closer to this complex and compelling man and wanted to grow closer still, if only he would let her. A part that badly wanted to love him, as she suspected he needed to be loved.
And she couldn’t afford to think that way. Because falling for a desert sheikh who was still in love with his dead wife was asking for trouble.
He sat up in bed, the sheet falling away from him. ‘You’re really asking me to leave?’ he demanded.
‘I really am.’ She forced a smile. ‘Think of it as character-building.’
Saladin felt a fury and a frustration racing through his blood as he stared into her stubborn face. Who the hell did she think she was, trying to take control like this? She would leave his employment when he was good and ready and not a moment before. Yet she enjoyed taking control, didn’t she? She had laid down her rules right from the start—not seeming to realise what kind of man she was dealing with—and had expected him meekly to accept them. Well, maybe it was time she realised that he’d had enough of her rules and her control.
Yes, he had enjoyed her time here—who wouldn’t have done? She had entranced and pleased him on so many levels and cared so beautifully for his beloved stallion. But that was all pretty much academic. Because where could this relationship go? Absolutely nowhere—no matter how much he liked her. And wouldn’t her infernal refusal to be sublimated by his power and position irritate him after a while?
‘You want to go?’ he snapped, getting out of bed and picking up his discarded robe. ‘Then, go!’
He saw the brief look of alarm in her eyes that she couldn’t quite hide.
‘Right,’ she said uncertainly.
‘I’ll arrange transport for you tomorrow. You can leave first thing.’
With a sinking feeling of dread, Livvy watched as he pulled the robe on over his naked body and jammed his headdress into place and then stormed across the room. He didn’t slam the door behind him, though he looked as if he would have liked to have done.
And she was left in the empty room with the dread growing heavier inside her and all she could think was, what had she done?
IT WAS ICY cold back in England after the seductive warmth of the Jazratian sun. Livvy returned to a stack of unopened mail, a cat determined to ignore her and the realisation that she didn’t have a clue what she wanted to do with the rest of her life—except that deep down she knew it no longer involved making beds and cooking breakfasts.
She had left Jazratan with a heavy heart—without even a final kiss from Saladin—knowing she had only herself to blame. She had kicked him out of her bed and told him she was returning to England and he had retaliated by angrily telling her to go ahead. Had she really expected the proud sheikh to mount some sort of campaign to get her to change her mind? She kept telling herself that he’d been offering sex, not security or love. And anyone with half a brain could see it was better to get out now, while her heart was still intact.
Unless it was already too late. Hadn’t her heart felt crushed when she’d left Jazratan on Saladin’s private jet? When, earlier that same morning, she’d crept along to the stables to rub her cheek against Burkaan’s thick mane and the stallion had stamped one of his hooves—almost as if he had shared her grief at parting and had known the reason why salty tears were flowing down her face.
Saladin had been courteous when she’d been granted an audience to say a formal farewell to him—in the throne room, where he was surrounded by his powerful advisors and bodyguards. Had he correctly interpreted the silent plea in her eyes that had asked for a moment alone with him—and simply chosen to ignore it? Or had his mind already been on other things?
Either way, he had given her nothing but a brief handshake and a flicker of a smile, accompanied by a few words of thanks—which had only added to her feelings of misery as one of his staff had presented her with a cheque. And she felt as if she’d sold herself somewhere along the way.
But she hadn’t, she told herself fiercely. She wasn’t a victim—not anymore. She’d been sexually awoken by a man who had turned out to be an amazing lover. She had been persuaded back onto a horse and had realised just how much she loved riding, and she must be grateful to him for that. If she had learned anything it was that you couldn’t let yourself live in the past and be dominated by it. Not like Saladin and the beautiful young wife he was unable to forget. And that was the irony of it all—that he didn’t follow the same advice he’d so eagerly given her. He could dish it out, but he couldn’t take it.
And if she now believed herself to be in love with him, well—she would have to wait for it to pass.
At least Stella—her part-time help—had disposed of the Christmas tree, and the decorations had been returned to the loft. The snow was all melted and the holiday was nothing but a distant memory when Livvy arrived home. All that remained were a few stray mistletoe berries, which had rolled underneath a bureau in the hall and somehow escaped being swept up.
Livvy wrote an email to Alison Clark and her friends saying what a shame it was they’d had to cancel their visit and expressing her hope that they’d enjoyed their Christmas in the London hotel. Unenthusiastically, she looked down at the blank pages of her diary. Could she really face trying to drum up more business for the year ahead? To wipe out most of her summer by clearing up after people, when she’d been doing it for so long? All to maintain a house that just didn’t feel the same any more. Her inherited home now seemed like nothing but a pile of bricks and mortar, not something she was tied to by blood. She found herself looking around the rooms with a critical eye. It was just a too-big house that needed redecoration and a family to bring it alive, not some aging spinster who rattled around in the rooms.
‘So what was it like?’ questioned Stella as they were cleaning one of the bedrooms a few days after Livvy had returned from Jazratan.
Livvy gave the bedspread another tug. ‘What, specifically?’
Stella shrugged her generous shoulders. ‘You know. Living in the desert.’
Livvy puffed out her cheeks and sighed as she straightened up. ‘It was...different.’ She hesitated, trying to be objective. Trying to forget the man who was the very heart of the place. The man who made her own heart ache whenever she thought about him. ‘It was lovely, actually. Really lovely. The palace itself is unbelievable—and so are the gardens. There’s a kind of beauty in all that heat and starkness, and the stars are the brightest I’ve ever seen.’
‘And didn’t they feed you?’ asked Stella critically. ‘You’ve lost weight.’
‘Of course they did. It’s just that—’ Livvy gave a wan smile ‘—I didn’t seem to have a lot of appetite. It was very...hot.’
No, not because it was hot. Because she’d been so obsessed with Saladin that she’d barely been able to think about anything else. She still couldn’t and it was driving her crazy.
