forgot everything but the violence of her own sensations as he made himself master of her every reaction.
Her ecstatic release scared her; she lay panting in his arms, shocked at the strength of her feelings, her body still hungry for something he couldn’t give her.
When she could speak again she unclenched her hands from the sheets and whispered hoarsely, ‘You didn’t—you haven’t…’
Her voice trailed away as she met his eyes. Ruthless, utterly determined, they made her flinch. ‘Not yet,’ he said, his voice harsh and raw. ‘Not yet, my dove, my beautiful woman…’
And he began all over again. That searing, primal look warned her. She braced herself to be plundered, but this time—ah, this time—it was slow and erotically voluptuous. Like the conqueror he was, he made himself master of her body, his hands coaxing, his mouth taking its fill of the satin perfection of her breasts, of every inch of her skin except for the place that longed for him.
Frustrated, she reached for him, but he pushed her hands above her head and held them in a loose grip while he bent his head to continue the exquisite, gentle torture, knowing with experience and a sure male instinct which were her most sensitive pleasure points, exactly how long to work each one, and when to leave and find the next…
Helpless, she began to whimper with anguished pleasure, muttering, ‘Please—oh, please, Rafiq—now…now…’
And then he took her in a stark, slow thrust; almost she convulsed around him, but he eased out, leaving her bereft, aching with loss, until he took her again, this time even deeper, even slower…
She struggled, but he said steadily, ‘It is hard, I know, but wait. Just wait.’
So she did, and he continued his slow, erotically charged strokes until at last she could hold back no longer. Her body arched uncontrollably—she cried out his name as ecstasy swept over her and through her.
After he’d left her she wept for his cruel tenderness, his total, complete consideration and absorption in his exploration of her body, the way he’d skilfully coaxed her into ecstasy before sending her soaring beyond it into a place she’d never been before.
And would never find again, she knew. For the rest of her life she’d long for that place, the security of his arms, the knowledge of his hunger for her—and know that it wasn’t enough.
She wanted his love: total, unconditional, without strings. The way she loved him.
And as she couldn’t have it, she’d just have to learn to live without it.
They met the next morning for an oddly formal farewell.
Lexie thanked him for his hospitality. In turn, he thanked her for her help, and finished, ‘I ask you not to speak of what has happened here.’
‘Of course I won’t,’ she said rapidly. When she got home she was going to try her hardest to forget everything about the island. She met his keen, intimidating scrutiny with a direct look. ‘And you don’t have to thank me—I did nothing but complicate things!’
‘You kept your head in a situation that must have terrified you.’
With an irony that hid the sound of her heart cracking again, she said, ‘I should have known—actually, I did know—that you had a plan. I was just afraid that he might kill you before you were able to carry it out.’
For a second she caught a glimpse of that desert ancestor, autocratic and powerful and ruthless. ‘Thank you.’ Without pausing, he went on, ‘I want to hear from you as soon as you know whether or not you are pregnant.’
‘Very well.’
He said with an undernote of menace, ‘Don’t put me to the trouble of coming after you, Lexie.’
She stiffened. ‘Don’t worry about that,’ she said pleasantly. ‘I won’t.’
Their eyes locked. ‘I’m glad,’ he said with silky distinctness. ‘If at any time or place you need help—whatever sort—contact me.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, knowing it meant nothing. Oh, if she asked, he’d move heaven and earth to do what he could for her, she was quite sure.
But she’d never ask.
He smiled, its irony echoing hers. ‘Thank you, Lexie. Goodbye.’
And it was over. She was taken to the airport in a discreet car and settled into a first-class seat. As the huge jet lifted over the grasslands, she watched a herd of horses galloping, galloping, galloping, and thought bleakly that at least she’d seen them.
The shrill summons of her mobile phone woke her from a deep sleep. Wearily, she groped for it and muttered, ‘Hello?’
‘Lexie, get out here fast. Sultan’s Favourite’s in trouble.’
Exhaustion fled in a rush of adrenalin. ‘What?’
‘The foal’s not coming easy.’
‘Be there in ten.’
Fingers clenched on the steering wheel, she drove through the night to the stables owned by a good friend of hers. ‘How is she?’ she demanded on arrival, scanning the mare—who, she was grateful to see, looked as comfortable as any female could in her condition.
It was a condition Lexie didn’t share. She’d been back in New Zealand for a month—long enough to establish that she wasn’t pregnant. As soon as she’d known, she’d sent a formal registered letter to Rafiq to tell him that he was free of any prospect of fatherhood. His reply had been equally formal. He wished her everything good in her life. And he was sincerely hers, Rafiq de Couteveille.
The irony wasn’t lost on her, but she’d suppressed the pain, forcing it down until it was merely a deep-seated ache. Sometimes it came to the surface in dreams of loss and anguish, but mostly she could function as though she’d never been anywhere east of Zanzibar.
‘I think she’s OK now,’ her friend said with a wry smile. ‘I panicked.’
But the mare needed help, and it was almost dawn when Lexie drove back home. Fortunately it was the weekend and she wasn’t on call, so she could go back to bed once she got home.
Sleep didn’t come easily anymore. She wondered how much longer she was going to be tormented by this fierce hunger for a man who’d used her. How was it that film stars and the glamorous people who filled the gossip magazines seemed able to flit from lover to lover without wasting time on grief?
No such luck for her. She rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling. She’d hoped that the aching emptiness inside her would soon dissipate, but so far time had only intensified it. Fill her days with work as much as she could, she still missed Rafiq.
One day she’d see a notice of his engagement to some suitable woman, and then she’d be forced to get on with her life.
A week previously she’d decided she’d had enough. Mourning a love that had never had a chance was a futile waste of time; from now on, she’d ignore it and live life to the full instead of moping like some Victorian heroine intent on devoting the rest of her life to the memory
