treacherous yearning and, unbelievably, a helpless and inexplicable tenderness—Jamilah gripped the lapels of Salman’s coat and held him to her, matching his kiss passion for passion. The fire was stoked higher and higher.
With a guttural groan that resonated within her, he put his arms around her back and arched her up and into him, so that her breasts were crushed against his hard chest. They ached for his touch. Mouths fused again. Jamilah’s hands delved into Salman’s silky hair, moulding his skull, holding him to her. In that moment she would have gladly given everything up just for this. This hot insanity and distraction from the pain. The ever-present pain. Caused by this man.
That thought sliced through the frantic desire and the pulse beating through her blood. She pulled back in the same moment that Salman did. She was practically supine on the back seat of the car, Salman crushing her to the seat. She could feel the hard ridge of his erection against her thigh and her lower body throbbed painfully. She felt dishevelled, undone, and utterly exposed.
Salman lifted his head. The dark colour slashing his cheekbones and his heavy breathing sent only a sliver of comfort through Jamilah. She couldn’t speak. It was only then that she noticed the privacy partition had gone up, and mortification drenched her to think of the driver witnessing this.
Salman’s voice grated across her exposed nerves. ‘Like I said … I don’t want your pity. But I do want you. And you want me, too, Jamilah. Nothing’s changed. We want each other as much as if it were that first time all over again.’
She opened her mouth to deny it, ridiculously, and Salman ruthlessly cut her off.
‘Don’t even think of saying it. You’re not a liar, Jamilah. One of the things I’ve always admired about you is your honesty.’
She shut her mouth, and with an effort slithered out from under him, pressing her legs together and pulling her coat around her. She could feel her hair falling out of its chignon, and with shaky hands attempted to repair the damage. Her mouth felt swollen; her cheeks burned. It was futile to deny it any longer. ‘I may want you, Salman, but that doesn’t mean I’ll go there. You washed your hands of me once already, remember?’
Salman was back on the other side of the car, his long legs spread out. His voice was tight. ‘I never intended to hurt you, Jamilah. I should never have seduced you.’
Utter shock had Jamilah turning to face Salman’s rigid profile. Only a deep self-preserving instinct had her saying faintly, ‘I’ve already told you that you didn’t hurt me, Salman.’ Liar. ‘What exactly are you saying?’
He flashed her a look, and she saw something indefinable in his eyes. ‘I wasn’t ready to let you go. I still wanted you. I’ve always wanted you. But I had to let you go …’ his mouth twisted ‘… when you said you were in love with me.’
As she watched he seemed to compose himself, and that smooth mask of urbanity came back. It was as if she’d just imagined his slightly tortured look. He turned to face her more fully and said, ‘But now that time has passed, and seeing as you’ve assured me that you’re unscathed are you sure you want to persist in denying that this attraction is still there? After all, what do either of us have to lose now? We’re both adults, experienced …’
Shock was rushing through Jamilah. She was trying to make sense of his words and at the same time make sure he couldn’t see the turmoil she felt. He was saying that he’d let her go just because she’d been in love with him? That he hadn’t wanted to let her go? It put such a new spin on what had happened that she wanted to go to a quiet place and assimilate the information … But even as she wanted that, she was aware that really it didn’t change much. He’d still cast her out because he hadn’t welcomed her ardent affections …
He was waiting for her response—so impassive, so implacable. Panic beat at her breast, and Jamilah cast him as cool a look as she could muster. ‘I’m not interested in pursuing this line of conversation, no matter how adult we might be. Out of the myriad women you’ve no doubt entertained in your suite, I’m sure one will be available to meet your needs. Because I am not.’
Jamilah avoided Salman’s eye as they drew closer to the iconic Paris hotel, feeling acutely vulnerable. As much as she might think she’d had the last word, she felt uncomfortably as if Salman had taken no heed at all and was merely biding his time to pounce.
As the car pulled in to a halt at the kerb outside the entrance of the hotel she could see doormen rush to the doors. Salman took her hand in a merciless grip and said softly, ‘There’s a lot to be said for slaking this desire between us, Jamilah. Here in Paris. Be done with it for good. I won’t be calling up any other women because that’s not what I need.’ His jaw clenched as if in anger for a second. ‘What I need is you … and it’s the same for you. I’ll be here when you’re ready to admit it to yourself—because your body has already spoken.’
And then her door was being opened and she had to get out. She ripped her hand free from Salman’s, saying caustically as she did so, ‘Dream on, Salman.’
A short while later Salman was looking at the ornately decorated door which had just been shut in his face. A key turned in the lock at that moment as a perfunctory accompaniment, and he smiled grimly before turning and walking into the main part of the huge suite. It consisted of two bedrooms, with their own sitting rooms and en suite bathrooms, a formal dining room and salon, and a state-of-the-art office complete with every kind of technology for the modern businessman.
Sexual frustration pounded through his body. He’d never felt it this badly before. He was used to having his needs met, and for the first time had to face the prospect that he might just be facing his match. Determination fired his blood. He’d seen through the icy veneer that Jamilah had projected all the way up to the suite. He’d seen the pulse beating hectically under the delicate skin of her neck. She’d admitted she wanted him. He was going to woo her as he’d never had to woo a woman in his life.
With that thought in mind, and quashing the prickling of his conscience because once again he was ignoring her vulnerability, he felt the burning desire finally abate to a more manageable level, and strode into the office to take care of some work.
The following morning Jamilah felt tired and gritty-eyed after a disturbed night. She’d tossed and turned for hours in the huge luxurious bed, and had finally had to resort to another cold shower in the early hours of the morning. The key she had turned to lock the door on Salman the previous night might as well have been made of air; he’d still managed to infiltrate her every sleepless thought.
Now she felt more weary and exhausted than anything else as she emerged into the opulent salon. She was dressed in a dark grey pencil skirt and matching jacket, white shirt, buttoned all the way up, and black high heels. Hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail.
But nothing could have prepared her for seeing Salman standing at the main window, decked from head to toe in traditional Merkazadi robes of cream and gold, complete with turbaned headdress. He was all at once devastating and intimidating. Her heart flip-flopped ominously.
He turned and quirked a brow, reading her look instantly. ‘What? I can play the part when I want to, Jamilah.’
Jamilah struggled to find her composure. She couldn’t believe that seeing Salman dressed like this for the first time in years was having such an effect on her, but it was. It was transporting her right back in time to when they’d been so much younger, and he and Nadim had looked like two men old before their time at their parents’ funerals. A deep melancholy assailed her and she valiantly fought down the emotion, terrified he’d see something
