style="font-size:15px;"> They spoke for a few more minutes about other things, and then Rashid ended the call. He sighed and went out onto one of the many terraces that opened off his rooms. There was a soft breeze tonight, hot and scented with jasmine from the gardens. In another few hours, it would turn chilly, but for now it was still warm.
The minarets glowed ocher in the last rays of the setting sun. The sounds of vendors shouting in the streets filtered to him on the wind, along with the fresh scent of spicy meat and hot bread.
Rashid breathed it all in. This was home. Unbidden, an image of Sheridan Sloane came to mind. She had a home, too, and he’d forced her out of it. For her own protection, yes, but nevertheless she was here in a strange place and nothing was familiar.
Guilt pricked him. He should not care about her feelings at all, but if she was truly carrying his child, did he want her upset and stressed? Wasn’t it better to make her welcome?
He sighed again, knowing what he had to do. Tomorrow, he would take lunch with her. They would talk, she would be happy and he would leave again, content in the knowledge he’d done his part.
It was only an hour—and he could be nice to anyone for an hour.
* * *
Sheridan awoke in the middle of the night. It was dark and still and she was cold. She sat up, intending to pull the blanket up from the bottom of the bed, but she wasn’t all that tired now. Her sleep was erratic because of the time difference. She checked her phone for the time—still no signal—and calculated that it was midafternoon at home. She never napped during the day, so it was no wonder she was messed up.
She got up and pulled on her silky robe over her nightgown before going into the bathroom. Hair combed, teeth brushed, she wandered into the living area. And then, because she was curious, she went and opened the door to her suite. The guard was not there. She stood there for a moment in shock, and then she crept into the corridor.
She didn’t know where she was going or what she expected, but she kept moving along, thinking someone would stop her at any moment. But no one did. The corridors were quiet, as if everyone was asleep. She didn’t know how it usually worked in palaces, but it made sense they were all in bed.
When she reached the end of a corridor and came up against a firmly locked door, she turned and went back the way she’d come. There were doors off the corridor, and she tentatively opened one. It was a space with seating, but it wasn’t quite as ornate as hers. It was, not plain precisely, but modern. Personally, she preferred some antiques, but this space was intended for someone who liked little fuss.
She thought perhaps she’d stumbled into a meeting area since it was so sterile. A breeze came in through doors that were open to the night air and she headed toward them. She hadn’t been outside since she’d arrived, and she wondered what it would be like in the desert at night.
She stepped onto a wide terrace. The city lights spread out around her and, in the distance, the darkness of the desert was like a crouching tiger waiting for an excuse to pounce. She moved to the railing and stood, gripping it and sucking in the clean night air. It was chilly now, which amazed her considering how hot it had been when she’d arrived.
A frisson of excitement dripped down her spine. It surprised her, but in some ways it didn’t. She’d never been to the desert before. Never been to an Arab country with dunes and palaces and camels and men who wore headdresses and robes. It was foreign, exotic and, yes, exciting in a way. She wanted to explore. She wanted to ride a horse into that desert and see what was out there.
She heard a noise behind her, footsteps across tile, and she whirled with her heart in her throat. How would she explain her presence here to her guard? To anyone?
But it wasn’t just anyone standing there. It was a man she recognized on a level that stunned her. Rashid al-Hassan stood in a shaft of light, his chest and legs bare. He looked like an underwear model, she thought crazily, all lean muscle and golden flesh. He was not soft—not that she’d expected he would be after he’d pressed her against him—but the corrugated muscle over his abdomen was a bit of a sensual shock. Real men weren’t supposed to look like that.
“What are you doing here, Miss Sloane?” he demanded, his voice hard and cold and so very dangerous.
The warmth that had been undulating through her like a gentle wave abruptly shut off.
Run! That was the single word that echoed in her brain.
But she couldn’t move. Her limbs were frozen. Not only that, but Rashid al-Hassan also stood between her and escape....
SHERIDAN SUCKED IN a deep breath and pulled her robe tighter, even though it couldn’t protect her from the fury in his dark eyes. She thought of Fatima’s fearful look earlier today and wondered if perhaps this man was more frightening than she’d thought. Her blood ran cold.
“The door was open. I—I wanted to see outside.”
“You are in my quarters, Miss Sloane.”
Oh, dear. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
He still hadn’t moved. He stood in the door, his broad frame imposing. She told herself not to look below the level of his chin. She failed.
“So you decided to wander in the middle of the night and open random doors?”
She twisted the tie of her robe. “Something like that. I’m on a different schedule than you, I’m afraid. Wide-awake and nothing to do.”
“Nothing to do.” His voice was somehow full of meaning. Or perhaps she imagined it.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
He still looked imposing and impossible. And then he shoved his hand through his hair and moved out of the doorway and onto the terrace. Sheridan stood frozen.
“You didn’t disturb me. I was awake.”
“You should try hot milk. It helps with insomnia.” Oh, no, she was babbling. Sheridan bit her lip and told herself to shut up. This man was dangerous, for heaven’s sake. Not at all the sort to put up with babbling in the middle of the night.
“I don’t need much sleep,” he said. “And I don’t like hot milk.”
“I don’t either, actually. But I understand it works for some.”
He went and leaned on the railing, near her. She thought she should take this opportunity to escape, and yet she was curious enough to want to stay. He made her nerves pop and sing. It was an interesting sensation.
“When it’s light, you can see all the way to the gulf from here,” he said. He lifted his hand. “In that direction, you can see the dunes of the Kyrian Desert. The Waste is out there, too.”
“The Waste?” She moved closer, reached for the railing and wound her fingers around the iron.
He turned his head toward her. “A very harsh, very hot part of the desert. There is no water for one hundred miles. The sands are baked during the day, and at night they give up their
