won’t leave the States.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“No.” She lifted her chin. “As it is you act as judge, jury and executioner. It hardly seems fair.”
He laughed without kindness. “I guess you’d have to work very very hard at pleasing me.”
Seething, she returned to the limousine, realizing she was only wasting time—his, hers and Ben’s. Kahlil might look like a modern man with his expensive clothes and gorgeous face, but his thinking was still feudal.
The limousine drew to a stop before her house and Kahlil’s driver opened the back door. But before she could move, Kahlil clasped her elbow.
“It might not be safe going with me,” he said softly, “but it might also be the smartest thing you’ve ever done. Everything in life is a risk. Even your freedom.”
She didn’t speak. She couldn’t.
Lightly he stroked her bare arm, his touch sending shock waves through her body. “The weekend wouldn’t be without its rewards,” he continued. “You burn for me. You’re on fire now.”
She stared at her arm in mute fascination. She did feel feverish, her skin blazing, her body melting, everything in her coming alive in response to him. He’d always made her feel like this, crazy with need. Right now her nerves throbbed, her pulse racing. He was a drug, sweetly addictive, dangerously destructive, utterly transforming. In his bed, in his arms, she would do anything for him.
Leave her home, change her name, worship at his feet. She lost control when it came to him and that loss of control completely shamed her.
She breathed deeply, dizzy, torn between wildly opposing desires. Run. Stay. Scream. Kiss.
If she went with him, she’d enjoy Kahlil’s revenge. She’d welcome the humiliation as it would be at his hands, in his hands, with his body.
A woman should have more self-respect. She had none.
She could feel the press of his thigh against hers, his hips close, his warmth stealing into her. He promised intense sensual pleasure, a pleasure she’d only ever known with him.
Color banded in high hot waves across her cheekbones. Closing her eyes, she swayed, drawn to him.
He held her in his power again.
Stop it.
Wake up. You can’t do this. Think about Ben. Think about the dangers in the palace. At the very least, think about Amin.
Her eyes opened, her lips parted, and reality returned. “I can’t do it, Kahlil. I won’t. We need to make a clean break of it.” Was that her voice? High? Thin? Panicked?”
“Clean break,” he mocked. “Hardly, darling. You’d remain my wife.”
“That’s not fair!”
“Life’s not fair.”
She averted her face, struggling to hide the tumultuous emotions from him. She was angry, aroused, torn. If she didn’t go away with him, Kahlil would discover Ben. But spending a weekend with Kahlil was like throwing herself in the mouth of a volcano.
It was Ben’s future, or hers.
Ben’s or hers.
Ben won. “No other man would force a woman to submit,” she said bitterly, unable to hide her anger or despair. He’d never planned on releasing her from their marriage vows. He’d given her time but not forgiveness. Space but not freedom. And without a divorce she could permanently lose Ben.
Kahlil didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. They both knew he wasn’t just any man. He was a sheikh, his word in his country was law.
Eyes gritty and hot, she drew a short breath. “God, I hate you.”
“I don’t care. I want what’s mine. And you, wife, are mine.”
He was going to kiss her. She knew it, felt it, just before his head dropped. Alarm shrieked through her, alarm because in his arms she was weak, so weak, it made her sick.
She tried to slip away but Kahlil moved even faster. He blocked the door and leveraged her backward, her spine pressed to the leather seat. “You can’t escape me,” he murmured, his voice husky as his palm slid down her throat, spanning the column, forming a collar with his hand. “But then, I don’t think you really want to.” And with that, his head dropped, his mouth covering hers.
His warmth caught her unawares, his skin fragrant, a soft subtle sweet spice she couldn’t place, but a fragrance that had been part of him as long as she’d known him. The very first time they’d touched she’d breathed him in, again and again, heart racing, spectacular colors and visions filling her head. She saw the full white moon above the bleached ivory sands, the grove of orange trees planted within the village walls, the warmth of the night in the darkest hour…
Kahlil.
Her lashes closed, lips parting beneath the pressure of his, welcoming him, the sweetness and the strength, the memory of their lives. She’d loved him, oh God, she’d loved him, and he’d filled her, capturing her heart and mind and soul.
Kahlil.
His tongue traced the inside of her lip, sending rivulets of feeling in her mouth, her belly, between her thighs. She tensed at the quicksilver sensation, the warmth, first hot then turning icy as he flicked his tongue across her lip again.
Helplessly she clasped his shirt, holding on to him tightly as shudders coursed down her spine. He felt so familiar, wonderfully warm, hard, real. For months she’d wept at night missing him, missing his skin, his scent, his passion for her, for their brief bittersweet year together.
The shiny green leaf of citrus, the spice of cardamom, the tangy essence of lemon…Kahlil…and her body warmed, softening for him, responding, ignoring the revolt of her mind, refusing to remember anyone or anything but the pleasure of being in his arms.
His hand slid from her throat to her breast, his touch igniting fire beneath her skin. Shuddering, she curved more closely against him, seeking more contact, more of his strength.
“Tell me,” his voice rasped, “is this how you respond to Stan, too?”
Bryn felt ice invade her limbs. Stiffening in horror, she pushed frantically at his chest, desperate to escape.
Kahlil laughed deep in his throat. “Oh, don’t stop making love to me, darling. I’m really rather aroused.”
Disgust, remorse, hurt shot through her like sharp arrows, piercing her conscience, reminding her who Kahlil really was. A savage. A savage from a savage land. Hurt turned to anger, the emotion blistering, and her arm swung up, fingers flexing, palm wide. She caught him square on the cheek, the slap echoing shockingly loud in the silent car.
He didn’t move, but she could hear the ring of her hand against his cheek, hear it play again and again in her head. My God, what had she done? How could she have hit him of all people? “I’m sorry.”
He
