at the lounge’s door, added with a deep vocal caress, “I’ll rush back to you in minutes.”
She slumped back in her seat, closed her eyes for a moment before she took his advice, got up and headed to the lavatory.
She came out to find him waiting for her where he’d left her. She did a double-take, faltered, gulping air around a lump that materialized in her throat. He’d taken off his costume.
And no. He wasn’t naked. But he probably wouldn’t affect her more if he was. OK, he would, but it was bad enough now that she wasn’t ready to think how much worse it could get. And he was wearing only a simple white shirt and black pants. If anything about him or what he provoked in her could be called simple.
He smiled that slow smile of his, no doubt noting the drool accumulating at her feet. Then he extended a powerful hand in invitation. It felt as if it was by his will alone that she covered the space between them, unable to stop devouring everything about his relatively exposed grandeur, what she’d thought she’d imagined beneath his robes, in unmanageable gulps.
Reality again far outstripped her imagination. The regal shape of his head, the vigorous waves and the deep, dark gloss of his hair accentuated the chiseled sculpture of his face, deepened the hypnosis of his eyes.
She tore hers away from their influence and almost moaned. The breadth of his shoulders and chest had owed nothing to the obscuring clothes and was magnified now that they were covered only in a layer of finest silk. They, and his arms, bulged with power and symmetry under the cloth that hid and detailed at once, both actions wickedly tantalizing. His abdomen was sparse and hard, his waist narrow, as were his hips, before his thighs flowed with strength and virility on the way down to endless legs.
Magnificent was certainly no fitting description. He did far surpass her adolescent visions.
“Come sit down, Farah.”
She sat down where the tranquil sweep of his hand indicated. Before she collapsed. The way he said her name, the way he looked at her, the way he moved, breathed, just was—it was all…too much.
He followed her down on the couch, secured her in a seat belt, buckled his own, then turned away as he pressed a button on a remote control–like device. The engines, which she’d just realized had been on for a while now, revved higher and the jet started moving.
But she couldn’t even feel surprise.
She felt nothing but her blood freezing inside her veins.
As he’d turned away, she’d caught something in his eyes, something coming over his face.
A maliciousness. A ruthlessness.
Suddenly the ice fractured, and a geyser of alarm scalded through her.
She’d gotten on his plane with him, the plane that was now taking off for only he knew where, someone she’d met just hours ago, trusting him without question, that he was who he’d said he was, that he hid his identity for privacy reasons and not for sinister ones.
But what if she’d been wrong? All along? What if their meeting had more to it that she thought? That he’d targeted her for some reason? Being who she was, at first Francois Beaumont’s daughter, then Bill Hanson’s right hand, had been reason enough for people, especially men, to target her, each with their own agenda. And Shehab, if he was who he’d said he was, must consider Bill a rival, could have arranged the whole ball to find an opening to the unfathomable Bill. He might, like many others before him, think she was it.
Why hadn’t she considered this before?
Wait—wait…Had he expressed interest in her before or after she’d told him who she was?
God—why was she wondering? It wasn’t as if her identity was a secret. He could have come to the ball knowing all about her. Then she’d gone and given him the best opening to get her alone, to work his magic on her. It wouldn’t be the first or last time a man tried to seduce her to get to Bill.
But the glimpse of harshness she’d seen in his eyes…
Oh, God—it could be even worse. He could just be an all-powerful and jaded predator who liked to seduce and abuse women. But she’d thrown herself in his trap too easily, depriving him of the thrill of the hunt and he hadn’t wanted to act out his plans for her until he had her totally at his mercy…
He turned unfathomable eyes to her and she felt all her doubts congeal into ugly reality.
Whatever he was, whatever he intended, none of the past hours had been real. None of it had been for her.
How could she have thought he wanted her? No one ever had. How could she have thought he, of all people, could be at the mercy of such a brutal attraction as hers was to him?
Misery engulfed her whole. But she couldn’t succumb to it now. Whatever she did, she had to be very careful. She couldn’t let her suspicions show. At best she could corner him into an admission, make him turn nasty. At worst she could enrage him, make him show her his true face, make him—make him…
One cabled arm went around her shoulder, pulling her into his hardness and heat, his other hand gentleness itself as he cupped her face and turned it up to him, his eyes blazing with desire once again.
And she couldn’t bear it.
All her resolutions crumpled and she blurted out, “Please, stop. Whatever you want with me, please, just tell me what it is and get it over with.”
Four
Shehab stiffened at Farah’s words.
They could only have one meaning.
She’d realized he was playing her.
How had she suspected? He was certain he’d done nothing to give himself away. So what was it? Intuition? Or was she playing a counter-game of her own? If so, to what end? To have him on the defensive, ready to do anything to negate her accusation, tipping the balance of power in her favor?
But she was trembling in his arms, her eyes brimming with tears again, her breathing so erratic it made her breasts shudder against his chest. Not that she seemed aware of this, or the effect it was having on him even now.
Was she that good an actress? He’d known the best virtuoso improvisers and situation analysts who played out impromptu roles wholeheartedly. But he’d always had an infallible detector for insincerity. He sensed none from her now.
Whatever this was, it had struck him from a blind spot. He had to tread with extreme caution until he figured out what was going on. He must maintain the ground he’d won.
To do that, he couldn’t pressure her. Even if every instinct was telling him to crush her in his arms and kiss her until she was incoherent with need again.
He took his hands away from her, unbuckled his seat belt, rose to his feet. He struggled to empty his eyes of urgency, to infuse them with all the gentleness he could muster. “Farah, ya azeezati—my dear, I don’t understand anything. What’s wrong?”
“Please, stop acting.” She slumped forward, her spun-silk hair and hands hiding her face, her voice thickening with emotion. “I can take anything but that…”
He
