Heart of the Desert
Heart of the Desert
CAROL MARINELLI
Surrender to the SheikhSheikh Prince Ibrahim refuses to bow to the duty that has destroyed his family by locking away his emotions and shunning his royal responsibility… Until the desert calls… One searing kiss is all it takes for Georgie to know Ibrahim is trouble… And she’s had more than enough of that to last her a lifetime!But, trapped in the swirling sands, Georgie finally surrenders to the brooding rebel Prince – yet the law of his land decrees that she can never really be his…
The wind screeched a warning and Ibrahim knew when he was beaten. ‘We will stay till it passes. I think we are here for the night.’
They headed back out to the lounge area and he stood as she roamed, watched her expression as she looked at the wall-hanging, as her little fingers picked up priceless heirlooms and weighed them. He would never have planned this. Would never have brought her here if he’d known they would be alone.
Her cheeks were pink from the sun and her arms just a little bit burnt. Her clothes were grubby and her hair wild from the sand and the wind. And how he wanted her … Though he would not defy the desert. He would follow the rules—but his way.
Ibrahim did not have to chase. All he had was the thrill of the catch. He had never had to want or wait, had never been said no to – except once.
And here she was.
With him tonight.
About the Author
CAROL MARINELLI recently filled in a form where she was asked for her job title and was thrilled, after all these years, to be able to put down her answer as ‘writer’.
Then it asked what Carol did for relaxation and, after chewing her pen for a moment, Carol put down the truth—‘writing’. The third question asked, ‘What are your hobbies?’ Well, not wanting to look obsessed or, worse still, boring, she crossed the fingers on her free hand and answered ‘swimming and tennis’. But, given that the chlorine in the pool does terrible things to her highlights, and the closest she’s got to a tennis racket in the last couple of years is watching the Australian Open, I’m sure you can guess the real answer!
Carol also writes for Mills & Boon
Medical
Romance!
Heart of
the Desert
Carol Marinelli
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
‘LET’s try somewhere else.’
Georgie had known that there was no chance of getting into the exclusive London club.
She hadn’t even wanted to try.
If the truth be known, Georgie would far rather be home in bed, but it was Abby’s birthday. The rest of their friends had drifted off and Abby didn’t want her special day to end just yet. She seemed quite content to stand in the impossible queue, watching the rich and famous stroll in as the doorman kept them behind a thick red rope.
‘Let’s stay. It’s fun just watching,’ Abby said as a limousine pulled up and a young socialite stepped out. ‘Oh, look at her dress! I’m going to take a photo.’
The paparazzi’s cameras lit up the street as the young woman waited and a middle-aged actor joined her, both posing for the cameras. Georgie shivered in her strappy dress and high-heeled sandals, though she chatted away to her friend, determined not to be a party pooper, because Abby had been so looking forward to this night.
The doorman walked down the line, as he did occasionally, and Georgie rather hoped he was going to tell them to all just give up and go home. Yet there was more purpose in his step this time and Georgie suddenly realised he was walking directly towards them… Her hands moved to smooth her blonde hair in a nervous gesture as he approached, worried they had done something wrong, that perhaps photos weren’t allowed.
‘Come through, ladies.’ He pulled open the rope and both women glanced at each other, unsure what was happening. ‘I’m so sorry, we didn’t realise you were in the queue.’
As she opened her mouth to speak, to ask just who he thought that they were, Georgie felt the nudge of Abby’s fingers in her ribs. ‘Just walk.’
The whole queue had turned and was now watching them, trying to guess who they were. A camera flashed and when one did, the rest followed, the photographers assuming that they must be somebodies as the heavy glass doors were opened and they entered the exclusive club.
‘This is the best birthday ever!’ Abby was beside herself with excitement but Georgie loathed the spotlight and the scrutiny it placed on her, though it wasn’t only that that had her heart hammering in her chest as they were led through a dark room to a very prominent table. There was a tightening in her throat and a strange sinking feeling in her stomach as she fathomed that this might not be a mistake on the doorman’s part.
Mistakes like this just did not happen.
And there was only one person in the world she could think of who might be at this place. One person she knew who had the power to open impossible doors. The one person she had tried for months not to think of. One man she would do her utmost to avoid.
‘Again—our apologies, Miss Anderson.’ Her thoughts were confirmed as the waiter used what he thought was her name and a bottle of champagne appeared. Georgie sat down, her cheeks on fire, scared to look up, to look over to the man approaching, because she knew that when she did it would be to him. ‘Ibrahim has asked that we take care of you.’
So now there was no avoiding him. She willed a bland reaction, told her heart to slow down, her body to calm—hoped against hope that she could deliver a cool greeting. Georgie lifted her eyes, and even as she managed a small smile, even if she did appear in control, inside every cell jolted, with nerves and unexpected relief.
Relief because, despite denial, despite insisting to herself otherwise, still she wanted him so.
‘Georgie.’ The sound of his voice after all this time, the hint of an accent despite his well-schooled intonation, made her stomach flip and fold as she stood to greet him—and for a moment she was back there, back in Zaraq, back in his arms. ‘It has been a long time.’ He was clearly just leaving. On his arm a woman as blonde as herself flashed a possessive warning with her eyes, which Georgie heeded.
‘It has been a while.’ Her voice was a touch higher than the one she would have chosen had she had any say in it. ‘How are you?’
‘Well,’ Ibrahim said, and he looked it. Despite all she had read about him, despite the excesses of his lifestyle. He was taller than she remembered, or was he just a touch thinner? His features a little more savage. His raven hair was longer than she remembered, but even at two a.m. it fell in perfect shape. His black eyes roamed in assessment, just as they had that day, and then he waited for her gaze to meet his and somehow he won the unvoiced race because, just as had happened on that first day, she could not stop looking.
His mouth had not changed. Had she had only one feature to identify him by, if the police somehow formed an identity parade of lips, she could, without hesitation, have walked up and chosen her culprit. For, in contrast to his sculpted features, his mouth was soft, with full lips that a long time ago had spread into a slow, lazy smile, revealing perfectly even teeth, but tonight there would be no smile. It was a mouth that evoked a strange response. As Georgie stood there, forced to maintain this awkward conversation as she met his gaze, it was his mouth that held her mind. As he spoke on, it was his mouth she wanted to watch, and after all this time, in a crowded club with a woman on his arm, it was those lips she wanted to kiss.
‘How are you?’ he asked politely. ‘How is your new business? Are you getting a lot of clients?’ And it told her he remembered, not just that night but the details she had so readily shared back then. She recalled all the excitement in her voice as she’d told him about her Reiki and healing oils venture, and how interested he had been, and she was glad of the darkness because maybe, just maybe, there were tears in her eyes.
‘It’s going very well, thank you.’ Georgie said.
‘And have you seen your niece recently?’ How wooden and formal he sounded. How she wanted the real Ibrahim to come back, to take her by the hand and drag her out of there, to take her to his car, to his bed, to an alley, to anywhere where it could be just them. Instead he awaited her answer and Georgie shook her head. ‘I haven’t been back since …’ And she stopped because she had to, because her world was divided into two—before and after.
Since a kiss that had changed her for ever.
Since harsh words had been exchanged.
‘I—I haven’t b-been back since the wedding.’ Georgie stammered.
‘I was there last month—Azizah is doing well.’
She knew he had been back, despite swearing she wouldn’t try to find out. She delved just a little when she spoke with her sister, searched out his name in ways she wasn’t proud of. His words were almost lost in the noise of the club, and the only way to continue the conversation would be to move her head just a fraction closer, but that, for her own reasons, Georgie could not do. As his date gave a pointed yawn and the hand on his arm tightened, Georgie thanked him for his help in getting them into the club and for the champagne, and in return Ibrahim wished her goodnight.
There was a hesitation, just the briefest hesitation, because the polite thing to do would be to kiss her on the cheek, to say farewell in the usual way—but as both heads moved a fraction for the familiar ritual, by mutual consent they halted, because even in this setting, even with the clash of perfumes and colognes in the air, the space between them had warmed with a scent that was a subtle combination of them, a sultry, intoxicating scent that was so potent, so thick, so heavy it should come with a government warning.
Georgie gave a wry smile.
It came with a royal warning!
‘Goodnight,’ she said, and as he headed out, she watched the people part, watched heads turn to this beautiful man and then back to her, curious eyes watching, because even that short contact with him, in this superficial setting, rendered her someone. Especially, when all of a sudden he changed his mind, when he left his date and strode back towards her. It was almost the same as it had once been, this charge, this pull, that propelled him to her, and she wanted to give in and run, to cross the club and just run to him, but instead she stood there, shivering inside as he came back to her, rare tears in her eyes as he bent his head and offered words she’d neither expected nor sought.
‘I apologise.’
And she couldn’t say anything, because she’d have wept or, worse, she’d have turned to him, to the mouth that she’d craved for so long now.
‘Not for all of it, but for some if the things I said. You’re not …’ His voice was husky. He did not have to repeat it, the word had been ringing in her ears for months now. ‘I apologise.’
‘Thank you.’ Somehow she found her voice. ‘I’m sorry too.’
She was.
Every day.
Every hour.
She was sorry.
And then he turned away and she could not stand to watch him leave a second time so she took her seat instead.
‘Who,’ Abby demanded as Georgie sat down, ‘was that?’
Georgie didn’t answer. Instead she took a sip of her champagne, except it didn’t quench her thirst, so she took another and then looked over to the man who never usually looked back. But in the early hours of this morning he did—and so potent was his effect, so renewed was her longing that had he even crooked his finger, had he so much as beckoned with his head, she would have gone to him.
It was a relief when the door closed on him but it took a moment for normality to return—to be back in the world without him.
‘Georgie?’ Abby was growing impatient.
‘You know my sister Felicity, who lives in Zaraq?’ Georgie watched Abby’s mouth gape. ‘That’s her husband’s brother.’
‘He’s a prince?’
Georgie attempted nonchalant. ‘Well, as Karim is, I guess he must be.’
‘You never said he was so …’ Abby’s voice trailed off, but Georgie knew what she meant. Even though Georgie’s sister had married into royalty, even though Felicity had gone to Zaraq as a nurse and married a prince, Georgie had played it down to her friends—as if Zaraq was some dot, as if royals were ten a penny there. She had not told them the details of this stunning land, the endless desert she had flown over, the markets and deep traditions in the countryside, contrasting with the glittering, luxurious city, with seven-star resorts and designer boutiques.
And certainly she had not told her friends about him.
‘What happened when you were there?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You were different when you got back. You hardly ever spoke about it.’
‘It was just a wedding.’
‘Oh, come on, Georgie—look at him, I’ve never see a more beautiful man. You didn’t even show me the wedding photos …’
‘Nothing happened,’ Georgie answered, because what had happened between Ibrahim and herself had never been shared, even though she thought about it every day.
‘Three times a bridesmaid!’ Georgie could still hear her mother making the little joke as they stood waiting for the service to start. ‘It’s a saying we have. If you’re a bridesmaid three times, then you’ll never …’ Her mother had given up trying to explain then. The Zaraquians were not interested in nervous chatter and they certainly did not make small talk—all they were focussed on was the wedding that was about to take place. Despite all the pomp and glamour, it wasn’t even the real wedding—that had taken place a few weeks ago in front of a judge—but now that the king had recovered from a serious operation, and Felicity deemed a suitable bride for Karim, the official celebration was taking place before her pregnancy became too obvious. Still, even if no one was listening, Georgie’s cheeks burnt as her mother chatted on, shame whooshing up inside her. She closed her eyes for a dizzy second, because if her mother only knew the truth … There was no reason for her to know, Georgie told herself, calmed herself, reassured herself, and then her mind was thrown into turmoil again because she opened her eyes to a long, appraising stare from an incredibly imposing man. He was dressed like his father and brothers in military uniform, but surely never had a man worn it so well. She swung between relief and regret because had they been in England she’d have got to dance with the best man.
She expected him to flick his eyes away, to be embarrassed at being caught staring, but, no, he continued to look on till it was Georgie who looked away, embarrassed. She’d had no say whatsoever in her bridesmaid outfit and stood, awkward in apricot, her thick blonde hair tightly braided so it hung over her shoulder and her make-up, which had been done for her, far too heavy for such pale skin. It was just so not how you wanted to first be seen by a man so divine. She felt his eyes on her all through the wedding and after, even when he wasn’t looking, somehow she was aware of his warm attention.
She’d had no idea what to expect from this wedding and certainly it hadn’t been to have fun, but after the speeches, the formalities, the endless photographs she began to glimpse the real people and place that her sister loved. There was a brief lull in proceedings when the king and the brothers disappeared and returned out of uniform: dark men in dark suits. There was the thud of music and stamping and clapping, a sexy parade dancing the bride and groom down palace stairs to a ballroom that was waiting, lit only by candles, and Georgie watched as Karim stood as his bride danced towards him. She saw her sister dancing, usually so rigid and uptight, now sensual and smiling, and it was a woman Georgie hardly recognised.
As the guests circled the couple the atmosphere was infectious but Georgie was nervous to join in. Then there was a warm hand on her back guiding her, and the scent of Ibrahim close up, his low voice in her ear. ‘You must join in the zeffa.’ She didn’t know how to. Didn’t know how to dance freely, even on the sidelines, but with him beside her, tentatively she tried.
She could feel the beat in her stomach and it moved through her thighs and to her toes, but more than that she could feel the moment, feel the rush and the energy, taste the love in the air—and it was potent. ‘The zeffa usually takes place before the wedding, but we make our traditions to accommodate the needs of our people ….’ He did not leave her side, even when the music slowed and she found herself dancing with him. ‘Today, yesterday, we do all the formalities expected of royals, but now, amongst friends and family, it is for the couple.’
They shared one dance and even if it was for duty, it felt like something else. To be held by someone so strong, so commanding, was confusing, and to be aware of his observation was dizzying by the end of the evening.
‘Are you okay?’ He must have followed her outside once they had bade farewell to the happy couple and she stood in the hallway, accepting a glass of water from a waitress.
‘It was so …’ She shook her head to clear it, the music still reaching them in the hall. ‘I’m fine. I’m exhausted and not just from the wedding—it’s been a busy few days. I never knew there would be so many things to get through before the wedding.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘I thought Felicity and I would be spending some time together, I was hoping to see the desert …’
‘There are too many duties,’ Ibrahim said. ‘Come on. I’ll show you the desert now.’ He had nodded to the stairs and Georgie climbed them. They walked along the corridor, past her bedroom till they came to a balcony door, which Ibrahim opened—and there was the desert, spread out before them. ‘There,’ he drawled. ‘Now you’ve seen it.’
Georgie laughed. She had heard about the rebel prince who loathed the endless desert plains, who would, Karim had said with an edge to his voice, rather sit in crowded bars than find the peace only isolation could bring.
‘You prefer cities, then?’ She had made light of it, but his dark eyes were black as they roamed the shadows and when he didn’t answer, Georgie looked out again. ‘It looks like the ocean,’ she said, because it did in the moonlight.
‘It once was the ocean,’ Ibrahim said. ‘And it will be again.’ He glanced over at her. ‘Or so they say.’
‘They?’
‘The tales we are told.’ He gave a shrug. ‘I prefer science. The desert is not for me.’
‘But it’s fascinating.’ Georgie said, and they stood silent as she looked out some more. ‘Daunting,’ she said to the silence, and even if she shouldn’t have said any more, after a while Georgie admitted a truth. ‘I worry about Felicity.’
‘Your sister is happy.’
Georgie said nothing. Felicity certainly seemed happy—she had fallen in love with a dashing surgeon, not knowing at the time he was a prince. They were clearly deeply in love and thrilled there was a baby soon on the way, but Felicity did still miss home and struggled sometimes to adjust to all her new family’s ways.
‘She wants me to come and live here—to help with the baby and things.’
‘She can afford a nanny!’ Ibrahim said, and Georgie gave a tight smile, because she had privately thought the same. Still, in fairness to Felicity it wasn’t the only reason that she wanted her sister close. ‘She wants to …’ Georgie swallowed. Even though conversation came easily there were certain things she did not want to admit—and that her sister wanted to take care of her was one of them.
‘She wants to be able to look out for you,’ Ibrahim said, because he had heard about the troubled sister. One who had often run away, her teen years spent in and out of rehab for an eating disorder. Georgie was trouble, Karim had sagely warned.
Ibrahim chose to decide things for himself.
And, anyway, he liked trouble.
‘Felicity worries about you.’
‘Well, she has no need to.’ Georgie’s cheeks burnt, wondering how much he knew.
‘She had reason for a while, though. You were very sick. It’s only natural she should be concerned.’ He was direct and for a moment she was defensive, embarrassed, but there was no judgement in his voice, which was rare.
‘I’m better now.’ Georgie said. ‘I can’t get it through to her that she doesn’t have to worry any more. You know, the problem with having once had a problem is everyone holding their breath, waiting for it resurface. Like that soup …’ He laughed because he had seen her face when it had been served. ‘It was cold.’
‘Jalik,’ Ibrahim said, ‘cucumber. It is supposed to be served like that.’
‘I’m sure it’s lovely if you’re used to it. And I tried,’ Georgie said. ‘I tried but I couldn’t manage all of it, but even on her wedding day Felicity was watching every mouthful I took and so was Mum. It doesn’t all go back to having an eating disorder—I just don’t like cold cucumber soup.’
‘Fair enough.’ Ibrahim nodded.
‘And as much as I can’t wait for my sister to have the baby, as much as I’m looking forward to being an aunt, I do not want to be a nanny!’ Georgie admitted. ‘Which is what they would want me to be if I stayed on,’ she added, feeling guilty for voicing her concerns but relieved all the same.
‘You would,’ he agreed. ‘Which is fine if being a nanny is your career of choice. Is it, though?’
‘No.’
‘Can I ask what is?’
‘I’ve been studying therapeutic massage and aromatherapy. I’ve got a couple more units to do and then I’m hoping to start my own business.
‘As well as more study,’ she went on. Told him so easily, told him in far more detail than she had ever told another, about the healing she wanted to do for other women, how massage and oils had helped her when nothing else had. Unlike many people he did not mock her because, even if he did not like its mysterious ways, he was from the desert and he understood something of such remedies.
And he told her things too, things he had never thought he would tell another, as to the reason he didn’t like the desert.
‘It took my brother,’ Ibrahim said, because when Hassan and Jamal had not produced an heir and a fragile Ahmed had been considered as king, rather than face it, Ahmed had gone deep into the desert and perished.
‘Felicity told me.’ Georgie swallowed. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
Such a loss. He could not begin to explore it and Ibrahim closed his eyes, but the wind blew the sand and the desert was still there and he hated it.
‘It took my mother too.’
‘Your mother left.’
Ibrahim shook his head. ‘By the desert’s rules.’ He looked out to the land he loathed and he could scarcely believe his own words, the conversation he was having. These should be thoughts only, and he turned to Georgie to correct himself, to retract, to bid farewell, yet blue eyes were waiting and that smiling mouth was serious now and Ibrahim found himself able to go on.
‘One day she was here, we were a family; the next she was gone and never allowed to return. Today is her son’s wedding and she is in London.’
‘That must be awful for her.’
‘It pales in comparison to missing Ahmed’s funeral, or so she told me when I rang this afternoon.’ It had been a hell of a phone call but he had not backed down from it, had sat and listened and listened some more.
‘I’m sorry.’
He wanted her to say she understood, so he could mock her.
He wanted her to say she knew how he felt, so he could scathingly refute it.
He did not want a hand that was surprisingly tender to reach out and brush his cheek. But on contact Ibrahim wanted to hold her hand and capture it, to rest his face in it, to accept the simple gesture.
And he could never know, only her therapist could know, how momentous that was, that her hand had, for the first time with a man, been instinctive. She felt the breeze carry the warm heat of the desert and it seemed to circle them and all she wanted to do was stay.
‘You should go,’ Ibrahim said, because Karim had warned him about this woman, warned him sternly to remember Zaraq’s ways while he was here.
And she did that. She turned and left him staring out at the desert, and as she walked she was reeling, her fingers burning from the brief touch, her mind whirring at to the contact she had initiated.
‘I thought you said they were stuffy.’ Abby interrupted Georgie’s memories, ones she had tried to quash. ‘He doesn’t look anything like I imagined.’
‘It’s different there,’ Georgie said. ‘There are different ways, different rules …’ She didn’t want champagne, she didn’t want to dance with the man who was offering, but it was Abby’s night and, yes, it was rather more fun being inside than in the queue outside. Not for a second did Georgie let on to her friend that her mind was elsewhere, but even Abby seemed more interested in Ibrahim than in the club itself, because in the early hours of the morning the conversation turned back to him again.
‘You’re going over there next week,’ Abby reminded Georgie, and gave her a little nudge. ‘Will he be there?’
Georgie shook her head. ‘He goes as little as possible—he went for the wedding and again when Azizah was born, and he’s just been recently. He’ll be back in a few weeks when the future king is born, that’s more than enough for him. I’ll be long gone by then so I won’t be seeing him for ages.’ She took a gulp of champagne. ‘Let’s dance.’
And they did.
They danced, partied and Georgie was a good friend and stayed till 4 a.m., laughed and had fun.
Even though she’d rather be home.
Even though she’d rather be alone.
To think of his kiss.
To think of him.
It had never dawned on her that he too might be sorry.
CHAPTER TWO
SHE did leave the balcony, as he had told her to.
Georgie had left him staring out at the desert.
And he shouldn’t have turned and neither should she.
He shouldn’t have turned, for his mind was angry, damaged by the desert, because when he turned, when he saw her looking back over her shoulder, he saw a familiar escape.
And he should not walk to her, but instead go up to his suite, pick up the phone and summon safe pleasure—for there were women chosen to please a prince or king. They, his father had long ago warned, were his only option when here in Zaraq.
And they were beautiful women and had more than sufficed, he reminded himself, except there was grit in his eyes from the desert wind and there was darkness in his soul tonight. He could still feel the cool trace of her fingers on his cheek and he had never cared for rules and he chose not to now.
He walked to her.
She waited.
She had every opportunity to leave and yet she did not. Her room was behind her, but she chose not flee. She faced the terror and the beauty of the man who was striding to her and fought not to run to him. There was no logic. Only madness could explain it, a charge in the air, a line that connected, an inevitability she desired, because as he pulled her into him, as he lowered his head, she was waiting and willing, and wanted that surly, delicious mouth on hers.
And now it was.
A mouth that tasted not of smoke or whisky but the clean taste of man.
Until now she’d never enjoyed kissing just as she’d never really enjoyed sex. But held in the arms and caressed by the lips of a master, Georgie changed her mind. His mouth pressed into hers, his jaw harsh against her skin, but there was moist relief in the centre and his tongue was cool against hers and made her burn. His hands were as skilled as his lips, because her hair was freed from the braid, and she knew only by the weight of it tumbling. He caressed her long blonde hair as if he was confirming it was how he had pictured it. He smelt as he had on the dance floor, as if he had stepped out of the shower and splashed on cologne, and she wanted to kiss him for ever.
Her fingers felt the hair she had admired as his hands now roamed her waist and just when she thought nothing could be better, he pulled her hips into his, so purposefully, so specifically that for a second she thought she would topple, except he was holding her and the wall was behind her and her shoulders met it as he pulled her in.
She felt it then.
As his mouth savaged hers, as his erection pressed in, she felt all the promise in that lithe, toned body, glimpsed the delicious place to which they were leading. Always she had shied from that path, but she felt tonight as if she wanted to run down it. They could have been in Peru or at a bus stop, they could have been anywhere, and it didn’t matter because she was absolutely lost in the moment he made.
It was Ibrahim who had control, because he stopped then, pulled that noble head back just a fraction and looked as no man, no person, no soul had ever looked. He looked so deeply into her eyes that she wanted to climb into him, to dive into the beauty they mirrored.
‘Come …’ He had her hot hand in his and he would take her to his bed, right now. He would lead her, and soon he would have her, but Georgie was greedy, she was hungry and she could not wait, could not climb a single stair if it kept her from the moment that was waiting to be made. She was out of control and for the first time she liked it, because somehow with him it felt safe.
‘Here.’ Her room was here behind her, her bed was here, and she wanted them both safe and unsafe behind closed doors, but Ibrahim was a prince and his seed so precious, the orders so ingrained, that he hesitated.
‘We need …’ His own room would be better. There were discreet drawers, regularly replenished for the women sent to entertain the young prince, but in the guest rooms there would be nothing,
And, yes, they did need. Her scrambled brain, her rushing thoughts were grateful for his care yet she raced to a speedier solution and her voice leapt in delight as she recalled.
‘I’ve got some.’ She thanked the gods watching over Heathrow Airport who’d taken the two pounds she’d put into a machine and delivered not the mouthwash she had selected but a little parcel she hadn’t wanted, but she was very grateful for it now.
And worlds collided for Ibrahim.
That she came prepared was perhaps to be admired. In London he would not give it a thought, but here …
He did not belong here, he reminded himself.
The rules did not apply.
So why the pause?
Why did it matter?
It did not, he told himself as they moved into her suite, and then when he kissed her again, he didn’t have to tell himself any more because it simply did not … matter.
It did.
For Georgie something else mattered.
She closed her eyes to his kiss and tried not to think about it, tried to forget and just be warmed by his tongue, which was hot now.
Hot and probing and done with her spent mouth. Now that he had kissed her onto the bed, he pulled the straps on her dress and licked down her chest, his hand pushing up the hem of that hateful dress, but not all the way, because her hips rose so high into him he was blocked. It was urgent, urgent and desperate and completely delicious, her body responding as if it had been waiting for ever to join him. She tore at his jacket, his shirt, her mouth in his hair, on his ear, her hands on his back, her stilettos tearing the silk of his trousers as their legs entwined, wishing the heat from their bodies would melt their clothes so they could connect with skin.
It mattered.
She could not ignore it—could not forgo her strange principle. As she knelt on the bed and lifted her hem as Ibrahim lowered his head, not knowing whether or not it would matter to him, Georgie said, ‘We can’t …’
He liked her game.
‘We can.’
He liked her feigned reluctance.
Liked the sudden shyness as his mouth met her stomach.
‘I can’t.’
‘You can,’ he breathed as his hands pulled at her panties and brushed off the hands that sought to keep them on.
‘Ibrahim, please …’ And he realised then that it wasn’t a game. Or rather that she’d been playing a very dangerous one, because he could not have been closer, could not have been closer. He was still hard and he was back to angry and for a moment there he did not like his own thoughts, but he hauled himself from her, looked down at his torn clothing, could feel the scratches from her nails in his back and shot daggers at her with his eyes.
‘I’m sorry …’ Georgie gulped, and wondered how could she explain it suddenly mattered.
‘I’m not like that.’
‘You pretending to be demure was lost in the hallway.’
‘I haven’t—’
‘Don’t try to tell me you’re a virgin.’ He gave a nasty smirk. ‘A condom-carrying virgin.’
‘I’m not.’ She wasn’t and she certainly wasn’t about to explain to him in this mood about the Heathrow gods. ‘I didn’t mean to lead you on.’
‘You meant it,’ he said. ‘You meant every second of it.’ He wasn’t hard any more, he was just pure angry. He’d been told she was trouble and he should have listened. ‘What are you holding out for, Georgie?’ It dawned on him then. ‘Jealous of your big sister, are you? Want a rich husband of your own?’ He mocked her with a black smile. ‘Here’s a tip for the future—men like a little or the lot.’
She was angry too. Angry at herself and now at him for not letting her explain. And she was embarrassed, which wasn’t a great combination because she bit back with harsh words of her own.
‘Oh, so you’d have loved me in the morning?’ She answered her own question. ‘As if.’ He was a bastard, a playboy and she’d been playing with fire from the beginning, she just hadn’t known it at the time.
But there was a beat, a tiny beat where their eyes met.
A glimpse of a tomorrow that might have been, which they’d lost now.
That made him even angrier, ‘I wouldn’t touch you again if you were on your knees, begging. I’ll tell you what you are …’ Ibrahim said, and he added an insult that needed no translation and it hurtled from his mouth as he walked from her room.
She pulled up her knees as he slammed closed her door and then pulled a shaking hand across her mouth because how could she tell him what had suddenly mattered?
Georgie wasn’t looking for a husband.
She already had one.
CHAPTER THREE
IT DID not abate.
Ibrahim Zaraq rode his horse at breakneck speed along the paths, across the fields and back along the paths, his breath white in the crisp morning air, and, despite the space, despite the miles available to him to exercise his passion, today, this morning, and not for the first time lately, Ibrahim felt confined.
London had been the place that had freed him, the place of escape, and yet as he pulled up his beast, as he patted the lathered neck, Ibrahim, though breathless, wanted to kick him on, wanted to gallop again, to go further, faster, not follow a track and turn around.
There, in the still, crisp morning, in the green belt of a city, the desert called him—just as his father had told him it would.
And though Ibrahim resisted, again he felt it.
This pull, this need for a land that supposedly owned him, and for just a moment he indulged himself.
‘You would love it.’ He climbed down and spoke in Arabic to his stallion, a beast who kicked and butted the walls of his luxurious stable, who paced the confines of his enclosure and bit any stranger who ignored his stable-door warning and was ignorant enough to approach. ‘For there,’ he said to the beast, stroking the rippling muscles, hearing the stamp and kick of his hooves, ‘you would finally know and relish exhaustion.’ Only the desert could sate. Again Ibrahim glimpsed it—the endless dunes, the fresh canvas the shifting desert provided each morning. He did not just glimpse it, he felt the sting of sand on his cheeks, the scarf around his mouth, the power of a horse unleashed between his thighs.
Yet his life was in London.
A life he had created, business and riches that came with no rules attached, because he had built them and they were his. His mother was here—forbidden to return to Zaraq because decades ago she had broken the rules.
‘I’ll take him, Ibrahim.’ A young stablegirl he sometimes bedded made her way over and he handed her the reins. Ibrahim saw the invitation in her eyes, and perhaps that would help, he thought, as she unstrapped the saddle. Ibrahim took the weight of it from her, saw her hands soothe the angry beast, saw the stretch of her thighs as she put on the horse blanket. He waited and wanted to feel something, for it would have been easier, so much easier to soothe the burn of his body and the turmoil in his mind with his favourite solution. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ Hopeful, beautiful, available, she turned to him—and the answer on any other morning would have been yes.
It wasn’t today.
Neither had it been the other night.
After seeing Georgie, he had directed his driver to his date’s home instead of his and had declined her invitation to come in.
‘Come to bed, Ibrahim.’ Her mouth and her hands had moved to persuade but Ibrahim had brushed her off and when tears hadn’t worked, she’d got angry. ‘It’s that tart from the nightclub that’s changed things, isn’t it?’
‘No,’ Ibrahim had said coolly. ‘It’s entirely you.’
‘Ibrahim?’ The stablegirl smiled and he looked down at her breasts, which were pert and pretty. He gauged the length of her hair and then walked away because, though her hair was dark, it was long and thick and her frame too was slender. Ibrahim knew he’d have only been thinking of her.
Of Georgie.
He did not want to think of her and his mind turned to the desert instead.
He picked up pace, his boots ringing across the yard. He would go to his property in the country this weekend, for he knew if he was in London he would end up calling Georgie. He did not like unfinished business, did not like to be told no, and seeing her again had inflamed things, but more trouble with his family was the last thing he needed now. The country was a good option—there he would find space, there he could ride for ever, except as he climbed into his sports car he glanced at the sat-nav and felt as if he were staring at an aerial map. He could see the fields, the houses, the hedges, the trees, the borders …
And his father had been right, and so too his brothers, who had told him that one day the desert would call him.
The king had let his son go with surprising ease when he had left to study engineering, confident that when the time was right he would return.
‘Of course I will be back.’ Surly, arrogant, back from his compulsory stint in the military, a young Ibrahim had been ready for London. ‘I will visit.’
‘You will be back as a royal prince to share your new knowledge, and your country will be waiting.’
‘No.’ Ibrahim had shaken his head. ‘For formal functions occasionally I will return and, of course, to see my family …’ His father did not seem to understand, so he had spelt it out. ‘My life will be in London.’
But the king had just smiled. ‘Ibrahim, you are going to study engineering. Remember as a child all the plans you had for this country of ours, all you could do for the people.’
‘I was a child.’
‘And now you are a man—you get to make real your dreams. When it is time, you will come back to where you belong.’ Ibrahim had rolled his eyes but the king had just smiled. ‘It is in your blood, in your DNA. You may not want to listen to your father, but the desert has its own call—one you cannot ignore.’
He wanted to ignore it.
For years now he had, but everything had changed when he’d returned for the wedding.
Ibrahim sped the car through the grey Sunday morning, out of the city and into the country. He hugged tight bends and accelerated out of them. His father’s patience was running out, his future awaited him and he raced from it till his tank was almost empty and again rules rushed in.
‘Breathe till I tell you to stop,’ the policeman ordered, and Ibrahim did. He even emptied out his pockets and let the man inspect his boot. He saw the suspicion in the officer’s eyes when everything turned up clean.
‘Where are you going in such a hurry?’ the officer asked again. He had seen Ibrahim’s driver’s licence and was sick of the rich and the young royals who thought the laws did not apply to them. This man was both.
‘I don’t know,’ Ibrahim answered again. Normally it would have incensed the policeman, normally he would have headed back to the car to perform another slow check just to make the prince wait because a fine would not trouble him, but there was something in Ibrahim’s voice that made the policeman hesitate. There was a hint of confusion in this arrogant, aloof man’s tone that halted him. ‘I’m sorry.’ The officer frowned at Ibrahim’s apology. ‘I apologise for not following your laws.’
‘They’re there for your own protection.’ And Ibrahim closed his eyes because, albeit in English now, those were the words that had swaddled him through childhood, through teenage years and into adulthood.
‘I appreciate that,’ Ibrahim said, then opened his eyes to the concerned face of the policeman. ‘Again I apologise.’
‘Is everything okay, sir?’
‘Everything is fine.’
‘I’ll let you go with a warning this time.’
He would rather have the ticket.
As he climbed back into the car, Ibrahim would far rather have paid his dues, accepted the punishment, and it had nothing at all to do with the fact he could afford to—he did not want favours.
Ibrahim drove sensibly, even when the police car left him as he turned into the petrol station. Ibrahim stayed within the speed limit all the way back to London, and as he turned into the smart West London street he did not look at the stylish three-storey house but at the railings in front of it, and the neatly trimmed hedge, to the houses either side and the next house and the next, and he couldn’t bring himself to go in.
Had the policeman been behind him he would have pulled him over again, for Ibrahim executed a highly illegal U-turn and then reprogrammed his sat-nav. His decision was made.
He would get it out of his system once and for all.
The future king was due to be born in a few weeks’ time and he certainly didn’t want to get caught up in all that. He would ride his horses in the ocean and desert for a few days, hear what his father had to say and then he would return to London.
To home, Ibrahim corrected himself.
Despite what his father said, London was his home.
He just had to be sure of it.
His mind flicked to Georgie, to unfinished business, to a woman who did not want the desert, who had been on his mind for far too long now, and another decision was made … he would visit the desert and return, and then he might call her.
CHAPTER FOUR
THERE was a new lightness to Georgie as she took out her blonde hair from its ponytail and combed it, and there was a smile on her lips as she applied lip balm. Not even the prospect of the long flight ahead could dim a world that suddenly felt just a little more right.
That her divorce had come through that morning might not seem to many something to be pleased about, and a marriage that had been a mistake might seem nothing to be grateful for, but it had taught her a lot.
Even though she had left him years ago—left a marriage of just a few weeks—the fact it was officially over brought her relief.
Now she was free.
Her only regret was that it hadn’t come through sooner. That the morals that kept her from sleeping with anyone, even with her divorce pending, had kept her from Ibrahim that night.
Georgie closed her eyes for a moment, told herself not to go there—it was a path she had chosen. Her illness, her father’s abuse, a marriage that had seemed an escape—it would be so easy to look back with regret, yet she had learnt so much from it all. She had grown into a strong woman, a confident woman who knew herself, because she had chosen to learn from, rather than rue, her mistakes. It was a hard path to follow but, for Georgie, the right one. Guilt and regret had led her to troubled places, but no more. She wanted to talk with Felicity, wanted to thank her for all her support through the difficult years. Georgie swallowed, because she was still undecided, but she wanted to tell Felicity about Mike, to clear the past and make way for a glorious future.
Ibrahim’s apology had helped too.
It had been unsettling seeing him, of course, but she took his apology as a sign that the chapter was closed and that it was time to move on.
To have no regrets.
The air ticket her sister Felicity had sent meant she bypassed the nightmare queues at Heathrow. She sat, awkward at first, in a first-class departure lounge, but as she sipped champagne and checked her emails, it was soon easy to relax. She accepted the delicacies on offer without thought. A new smile spread across her face as she realised just how far she had come. The endless abacus was finally silent—no more calories versus treadmill, no penance for pleasure, just the sweet taste of a pistachio macaroon dissolving on her tongue. She didn’t need a plane to fly to Zaraq. Her mood was so buoyant as she boarded, her high so palpable, Georgie could have flown there on happiness alone. Finally, the dark days were over—the soul-searching, the introspection, the agony of healing was behind her. She was ready to move on, even if the plane wasn’t.
Just a little nervous of flying, Georgie took a vial of melissa oil from her bag and massaged a drop into her temples. The attendant offered her another drink, but Georgie didn’t want one. ‘When are we taking off?’ Used to economy class, Georgie half expected to be speaking to thin air by the time the words were out, or at best to receive a brusque answer, but she was reminded she was travelling first class when the attendant smiled and lingered. ‘We’re sorry for the delay but we have an unexpected passenger. He shouldn’t be too much longer …’ But even in first class there was a pecking order, because the attendant’s voice trailed off and Georgie was no longer the focus of her attention. She watched as the woman’s cheeks darkened. Curious, Georgie followed the woman’s gaze and her heart seemed to stop as all efforts to move on were halted, any chance of forgetting lost.
‘Your Highness.’ The attendant curtsied as he strode past but even she couldn’t halt the flicker of confusion on her smooth brow at their passenger’s attire. He was dressed in mud-splattered white jodhpurs and black jumper, and there was a restlessness to him, a wild energy that seemed to have boarded the plane along with him. He didn’t respond to the attendant, neither did he glance in Georgie’s direction. There was such purpose to his stride it looked as if he was heading for the cockpit, prepared to fly the plane himself, but at the last minute he turned and, yes, there were levels of first class because it would appear Ibrahim had his own suite. The attendants fluttered away from their charges and gathered together to discuss the latest arrival, and just a moment or so later a steward slipped into the suite with a bottle of brandy as the others watched.
She wanted to stand, to stop the plane that was now taxiing along the runway, to get off, for she could not face being there with him.
She didn’t even notice the plane rise off the ground, or dinner being served, her mind consumed by her fellow passenger. ‘Is everything okay, Miss Anderson?’ The flight attendant removed her plates untouched and Georgie just nodded, too stunned to answer, let alone eat. The thought of being back in the palace with him, of being in such close proximity to him, had her reeling.
She had done everything possible to ensure that he wouldn’t be there—oh, so casually asking her sister about his movements—and even in the nightclub he had given no clue.
But, then, neither had she.
Maybe there had been an emergency. His father had recently been sick after all. Why else would he be boarding a plane dressed like that? Or maybe this was how the rich lived, Georgie pondered. Who flew long haul in riding boots? Maybe he was so laid-back about travelling that he didn’t even give it a thought. He could step off a horse and onto a plane … But later, when she got up to go to the toilet, a steward was coming out of his suite carrying a laden tray and shaking her head. Georgie got a glimpse of Ibrahim before the doors to his suite were closed—he lay sprawled out on the bed. He hadn’t bothered with the gold pyjamas Georgie had on. He was unshaven, boots off, sprawled out on a bed and fast asleep.
She got only the briefest look as the door was quickly closed, but it was an image that stayed with her through the flight.
Anguished.
Even in sleep his face wasn’t relaxed. His full mouth was tense. Even at rest he somehow looked troubled—but more worrying than that was just how much Georgie wanted to know what was on his mind
She’d been looking forward to the luxurious bed the airline offered in first class, had been looking forward to stretching out and sleeping, but knowing he was so close she found she couldn’t.
‘Can I get you anything?’ the attendant asked countless times through the flight, and each time Georgie bit her lip on her true answer.
Him, she wanted to respond. Can you take me to him? But instead she shook her head and tried to work out what she’d say when she saw him.
The flight was broken by a stop in Abu Dhabi and Georgie took the chance to stretch her legs. She braced herself to face him, but Ibrahim must have decided to stay on the plane so she amused herself watching the gorgeous attendants boarding with designer bags, one even carrying a large pink teddy. This time, when the plane took off, finally Georgie fell asleep, except there was no respite. Her dreams were flooded with thoughts of him.
‘Miss Anderson, would you like some breakfast before we prepare for landing?’ The attendant woke her. Georgie nodded, and felt just a slight wobble of guilt: she had always kept her name, though used Ms in London. Felicity had booked her ticket and, given she had no idea about the brief marriage, had naturally put Miss.
Georgie stared out of the window at the glorious blue waters and as the plane banked gently to the right she caught the first glimpses of Zaraq—the endless golden desert giving way to sandy-colored villages and domed buildings. The plane swept along the shoreline, the cabin lights dimming. The palace that would be her home for the next couple of weeks wasn’t what grabbed her attention. Instead it was the mirrored skyscrapers of the capital Zaraqua that made her breath tight in her chest. There were pools and bridges seemingly suspended in mid-air and Georgie marvelled at their design rather than think of him. She tried not to guess his reaction when she exited the plane and they finally came face to face.
He didn’t get off.
For a little while she wondered if somehow she’d imagined him, for not once during the flight had she seen him.
‘Georgie!’ Felicity looked great. Georgie had wondered how she’d be dressed, but as a married woman her sister did not need to wear a veil and looked stunning in a white linen trouser suit, her hair longer than Georgie had ever see it. Felicity oozed happiness and good health, but it was little Azizah who enthralled Georgie from the moment she landed—her niece, just a few months old and with the fascinating mix of her mother’s blonde hair and her father’s black eyes. Azizah had been just a couple of weeks old when Karim and Felicity had brought her to the UK for a brief visit, but she was her own little person now and, for Georgie, the love was instant.
‘She’s stunning.’ Georgie said as she held her in the VIP lounge. ‘I can’t wait to get to know her. Where’s Karim?’
‘He’s here. We had a call from the airline a couple of hours ago—it would seem his brother was on the same flight as you. He’s gone to meet him.’
‘I thought I saw him,’ Georgie said carefully, ‘though he didn’t see me. Is everything okay?’
‘Of course it is.’ Felicity said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘No real reason. I just wondered if he’d dashed back for an emergency. He looked …’ Her voice trailed off and she chose not to tell her sister after all. Felicity would see for herself soon and could make up her own mind.
‘Karim might have to dash off once we get home,’ Felicity explained as Georgie fussed over her niece. ‘There’s a bit of health scare with the Bedouins. You know how much work he does for them.’
Georgie nodded. ‘Is he still doing the mobile clinics?’
‘Shh,’ Felicity warned, because no one, not even the king, knew the full extent of Karim’s involvement with the local people. We’ll talk about it later. I just want you to understand if he has to suddenly leave—I don’t want you to think he’s not thrilled that you’re here.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘Here they are now!’
As Karim and Ibrahim entered the lounge, Georgie was glad she hadn’t aired her concerns to her sister. She’d have looked like a liar because Ibrahim looked far from troubled and unkempt now—clean-shaven, dressed in linen trousers and jacket, sleek sunglasses on, he looked every bit a first-class passenger as he walked towards with his brother, carrying the large pink teddy Georgie had seen the attendants bring on the plane. He must have sent them shopping, Georgie realised, watching as his jaw tightened at the sight of her—not that Felicity noticed the tension.
‘Thank you, Ibrahim.’ Felicity took the huge teddy. ‘Did you have to book another seat for her?’
‘Georgie!’ Karim kissed the cheek of his sister-in-law. ‘You may remember Ibrahim from the wedding.’
‘Of course.’ Georgie gave a smile but he didn’t immediately return it. All she could see was her reflection in his glasses. She couldn’t read his eyes.
‘I wasn’t aware you were visiting.’ Only then did he manage to force a smile. ‘It is nice of you all to come and greet me,’ Ibrahim said, ‘but it was completely unnecessary. I didn’t want a fuss, it’s just a brief visit.’
‘We’re not here to fuss over you!’ Felicity grinned. ‘We’re actually here to greet Georgie—she was on your flight.’
And Georgie was positive, completely positive that his dark skin paled, that behind those thick sunglasses, even if she couldn’t see it, there was alarm in those dark eyes.
‘Really?’ Ibrahim responded. ‘And you didn’t say hello?’ His question was polite and so too was her response, even if was a lie.
‘I didn’t actually see you.’ She gave a vague wave of her hand as she lied. ‘I just heard the steward saying that you were on board. I’m sorry if I was rude.’
‘No need to apologise.’ There was, Georgie was sure, a breath of relief in his voice. He even smiled again in her direction. ‘Just make sure next time you say hello.’
The driver came up and had a brief word with Karim.
‘What are we waiting for?’ Felicity asked.
‘Georgie’s luggage has been loaded, but Ibrahim’s is taking a while to come off.’
‘La Shy,’ Ibrahim said and Felicity, who must have picked up some of the language, frowned.
‘You’ve got no luggage?’
‘Just carry-on.’ He held up a smart bag that Georgie was positive he hadn’t been holding on boarding.
The car ride was short, the conversation seemingly pleasant, but it was mainly Georgie and Felicity speaking.
Back at the palace Ibrahim had an extremely cursory chat with his family, then excused himself with an outright lie.
‘I couldn’t sleep on the plane.’
When he left them, Georgie could relax a little and after Felicity had fed the baby, she was delighted to have a proper cuddle. ‘She’s stunning.’ Georgie enthused again.
‘Her lungs are!’ Karim said. ‘Half the palace was woken at four a.m. this morning.’
‘I had the French windows open to let in some air.’ Felicity grinned and Georgie could only marvel at the changes in her sister. She had always been so tense and uptight, but there was a lightness to her now. Her face glowed as she smiled up at her husband. ‘Anyway, soon it won’t just be Azizah disrupting the palace.’
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CAROL MARINELLI
Surrender to the SheikhSheikh Prince Ibrahim refuses to bow to the duty that has destroyed his family by locking away his emotions and shunning his royal responsibility… Until the desert calls… One searing kiss is all it takes for Georgie to know Ibrahim is trouble… And she’s had more than enough of that to last her a lifetime!But, trapped in the swirling sands, Georgie finally surrenders to the brooding rebel Prince – yet the law of his land decrees that she can never really be his…
The wind screeched a warning and Ibrahim knew when he was beaten. ‘We will stay till it passes. I think we are here for the night.’
They headed back out to the lounge area and he stood as she roamed, watched her expression as she looked at the wall-hanging, as her little fingers picked up priceless heirlooms and weighed them. He would never have planned this. Would never have brought her here if he’d known they would be alone.
Her cheeks were pink from the sun and her arms just a little bit burnt. Her clothes were grubby and her hair wild from the sand and the wind. And how he wanted her … Though he would not defy the desert. He would follow the rules—but his way.
Ibrahim did not have to chase. All he had was the thrill of the catch. He had never had to want or wait, had never been said no to – except once.
And here she was.
With him tonight.
About the Author
CAROL MARINELLI recently filled in a form where she was asked for her job title and was thrilled, after all these years, to be able to put down her answer as ‘writer’.
Then it asked what Carol did for relaxation and, after chewing her pen for a moment, Carol put down the truth—‘writing’. The third question asked, ‘What are your hobbies?’ Well, not wanting to look obsessed or, worse still, boring, she crossed the fingers on her free hand and answered ‘swimming and tennis’. But, given that the chlorine in the pool does terrible things to her highlights, and the closest she’s got to a tennis racket in the last couple of years is watching the Australian Open, I’m sure you can guess the real answer!
Carol also writes for Mills & Boon
Medical
Romance!
Heart of
the Desert
Carol Marinelli
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
‘LET’s try somewhere else.’
Georgie had known that there was no chance of getting into the exclusive London club.
She hadn’t even wanted to try.
If the truth be known, Georgie would far rather be home in bed, but it was Abby’s birthday. The rest of their friends had drifted off and Abby didn’t want her special day to end just yet. She seemed quite content to stand in the impossible queue, watching the rich and famous stroll in as the doorman kept them behind a thick red rope.
‘Let’s stay. It’s fun just watching,’ Abby said as a limousine pulled up and a young socialite stepped out. ‘Oh, look at her dress! I’m going to take a photo.’
The paparazzi’s cameras lit up the street as the young woman waited and a middle-aged actor joined her, both posing for the cameras. Georgie shivered in her strappy dress and high-heeled sandals, though she chatted away to her friend, determined not to be a party pooper, because Abby had been so looking forward to this night.
The doorman walked down the line, as he did occasionally, and Georgie rather hoped he was going to tell them to all just give up and go home. Yet there was more purpose in his step this time and Georgie suddenly realised he was walking directly towards them… Her hands moved to smooth her blonde hair in a nervous gesture as he approached, worried they had done something wrong, that perhaps photos weren’t allowed.
‘Come through, ladies.’ He pulled open the rope and both women glanced at each other, unsure what was happening. ‘I’m so sorry, we didn’t realise you were in the queue.’
As she opened her mouth to speak, to ask just who he thought that they were, Georgie felt the nudge of Abby’s fingers in her ribs. ‘Just walk.’
The whole queue had turned and was now watching them, trying to guess who they were. A camera flashed and when one did, the rest followed, the photographers assuming that they must be somebodies as the heavy glass doors were opened and they entered the exclusive club.
‘This is the best birthday ever!’ Abby was beside herself with excitement but Georgie loathed the spotlight and the scrutiny it placed on her, though it wasn’t only that that had her heart hammering in her chest as they were led through a dark room to a very prominent table. There was a tightening in her throat and a strange sinking feeling in her stomach as she fathomed that this might not be a mistake on the doorman’s part.
Mistakes like this just did not happen.
And there was only one person in the world she could think of who might be at this place. One person she knew who had the power to open impossible doors. The one person she had tried for months not to think of. One man she would do her utmost to avoid.
‘Again—our apologies, Miss Anderson.’ Her thoughts were confirmed as the waiter used what he thought was her name and a bottle of champagne appeared. Georgie sat down, her cheeks on fire, scared to look up, to look over to the man approaching, because she knew that when she did it would be to him. ‘Ibrahim has asked that we take care of you.’
So now there was no avoiding him. She willed a bland reaction, told her heart to slow down, her body to calm—hoped against hope that she could deliver a cool greeting. Georgie lifted her eyes, and even as she managed a small smile, even if she did appear in control, inside every cell jolted, with nerves and unexpected relief.
Relief because, despite denial, despite insisting to herself otherwise, still she wanted him so.
‘Georgie.’ The sound of his voice after all this time, the hint of an accent despite his well-schooled intonation, made her stomach flip and fold as she stood to greet him—and for a moment she was back there, back in Zaraq, back in his arms. ‘It has been a long time.’ He was clearly just leaving. On his arm a woman as blonde as herself flashed a possessive warning with her eyes, which Georgie heeded.
‘It has been a while.’ Her voice was a touch higher than the one she would have chosen had she had any say in it. ‘How are you?’
‘Well,’ Ibrahim said, and he looked it. Despite all she had read about him, despite the excesses of his lifestyle. He was taller than she remembered, or was he just a touch thinner? His features a little more savage. His raven hair was longer than she remembered, but even at two a.m. it fell in perfect shape. His black eyes roamed in assessment, just as they had that day, and then he waited for her gaze to meet his and somehow he won the unvoiced race because, just as had happened on that first day, she could not stop looking.
His mouth had not changed. Had she had only one feature to identify him by, if the police somehow formed an identity parade of lips, she could, without hesitation, have walked up and chosen her culprit. For, in contrast to his sculpted features, his mouth was soft, with full lips that a long time ago had spread into a slow, lazy smile, revealing perfectly even teeth, but tonight there would be no smile. It was a mouth that evoked a strange response. As Georgie stood there, forced to maintain this awkward conversation as she met his gaze, it was his mouth that held her mind. As he spoke on, it was his mouth she wanted to watch, and after all this time, in a crowded club with a woman on his arm, it was those lips she wanted to kiss.
‘How are you?’ he asked politely. ‘How is your new business? Are you getting a lot of clients?’ And it told her he remembered, not just that night but the details she had so readily shared back then. She recalled all the excitement in her voice as she’d told him about her Reiki and healing oils venture, and how interested he had been, and she was glad of the darkness because maybe, just maybe, there were tears in her eyes.
‘It’s going very well, thank you.’ Georgie said.
‘And have you seen your niece recently?’ How wooden and formal he sounded. How she wanted the real Ibrahim to come back, to take her by the hand and drag her out of there, to take her to his car, to his bed, to an alley, to anywhere where it could be just them. Instead he awaited her answer and Georgie shook her head. ‘I haven’t been back since …’ And she stopped because she had to, because her world was divided into two—before and after.
Since a kiss that had changed her for ever.
Since harsh words had been exchanged.
‘I—I haven’t b-been back since the wedding.’ Georgie stammered.
‘I was there last month—Azizah is doing well.’
She knew he had been back, despite swearing she wouldn’t try to find out. She delved just a little when she spoke with her sister, searched out his name in ways she wasn’t proud of. His words were almost lost in the noise of the club, and the only way to continue the conversation would be to move her head just a fraction closer, but that, for her own reasons, Georgie could not do. As his date gave a pointed yawn and the hand on his arm tightened, Georgie thanked him for his help in getting them into the club and for the champagne, and in return Ibrahim wished her goodnight.
There was a hesitation, just the briefest hesitation, because the polite thing to do would be to kiss her on the cheek, to say farewell in the usual way—but as both heads moved a fraction for the familiar ritual, by mutual consent they halted, because even in this setting, even with the clash of perfumes and colognes in the air, the space between them had warmed with a scent that was a subtle combination of them, a sultry, intoxicating scent that was so potent, so thick, so heavy it should come with a government warning.
Georgie gave a wry smile.
It came with a royal warning!
‘Goodnight,’ she said, and as he headed out, she watched the people part, watched heads turn to this beautiful man and then back to her, curious eyes watching, because even that short contact with him, in this superficial setting, rendered her someone. Especially, when all of a sudden he changed his mind, when he left his date and strode back towards her. It was almost the same as it had once been, this charge, this pull, that propelled him to her, and she wanted to give in and run, to cross the club and just run to him, but instead she stood there, shivering inside as he came back to her, rare tears in her eyes as he bent his head and offered words she’d neither expected nor sought.
‘I apologise.’
And she couldn’t say anything, because she’d have wept or, worse, she’d have turned to him, to the mouth that she’d craved for so long now.
‘Not for all of it, but for some if the things I said. You’re not …’ His voice was husky. He did not have to repeat it, the word had been ringing in her ears for months now. ‘I apologise.’
‘Thank you.’ Somehow she found her voice. ‘I’m sorry too.’
She was.
Every day.
Every hour.
She was sorry.
And then he turned away and she could not stand to watch him leave a second time so she took her seat instead.
‘Who,’ Abby demanded as Georgie sat down, ‘was that?’
Georgie didn’t answer. Instead she took a sip of her champagne, except it didn’t quench her thirst, so she took another and then looked over to the man who never usually looked back. But in the early hours of this morning he did—and so potent was his effect, so renewed was her longing that had he even crooked his finger, had he so much as beckoned with his head, she would have gone to him.
It was a relief when the door closed on him but it took a moment for normality to return—to be back in the world without him.
‘Georgie?’ Abby was growing impatient.
‘You know my sister Felicity, who lives in Zaraq?’ Georgie watched Abby’s mouth gape. ‘That’s her husband’s brother.’
‘He’s a prince?’
Georgie attempted nonchalant. ‘Well, as Karim is, I guess he must be.’
‘You never said he was so …’ Abby’s voice trailed off, but Georgie knew what she meant. Even though Georgie’s sister had married into royalty, even though Felicity had gone to Zaraq as a nurse and married a prince, Georgie had played it down to her friends—as if Zaraq was some dot, as if royals were ten a penny there. She had not told them the details of this stunning land, the endless desert she had flown over, the markets and deep traditions in the countryside, contrasting with the glittering, luxurious city, with seven-star resorts and designer boutiques.
And certainly she had not told her friends about him.
‘What happened when you were there?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You were different when you got back. You hardly ever spoke about it.’
‘It was just a wedding.’
‘Oh, come on, Georgie—look at him, I’ve never see a more beautiful man. You didn’t even show me the wedding photos …’
‘Nothing happened,’ Georgie answered, because what had happened between Ibrahim and herself had never been shared, even though she thought about it every day.
‘Three times a bridesmaid!’ Georgie could still hear her mother making the little joke as they stood waiting for the service to start. ‘It’s a saying we have. If you’re a bridesmaid three times, then you’ll never …’ Her mother had given up trying to explain then. The Zaraquians were not interested in nervous chatter and they certainly did not make small talk—all they were focussed on was the wedding that was about to take place. Despite all the pomp and glamour, it wasn’t even the real wedding—that had taken place a few weeks ago in front of a judge—but now that the king had recovered from a serious operation, and Felicity deemed a suitable bride for Karim, the official celebration was taking place before her pregnancy became too obvious. Still, even if no one was listening, Georgie’s cheeks burnt as her mother chatted on, shame whooshing up inside her. She closed her eyes for a dizzy second, because if her mother only knew the truth … There was no reason for her to know, Georgie told herself, calmed herself, reassured herself, and then her mind was thrown into turmoil again because she opened her eyes to a long, appraising stare from an incredibly imposing man. He was dressed like his father and brothers in military uniform, but surely never had a man worn it so well. She swung between relief and regret because had they been in England she’d have got to dance with the best man.
She expected him to flick his eyes away, to be embarrassed at being caught staring, but, no, he continued to look on till it was Georgie who looked away, embarrassed. She’d had no say whatsoever in her bridesmaid outfit and stood, awkward in apricot, her thick blonde hair tightly braided so it hung over her shoulder and her make-up, which had been done for her, far too heavy for such pale skin. It was just so not how you wanted to first be seen by a man so divine. She felt his eyes on her all through the wedding and after, even when he wasn’t looking, somehow she was aware of his warm attention.
She’d had no idea what to expect from this wedding and certainly it hadn’t been to have fun, but after the speeches, the formalities, the endless photographs she began to glimpse the real people and place that her sister loved. There was a brief lull in proceedings when the king and the brothers disappeared and returned out of uniform: dark men in dark suits. There was the thud of music and stamping and clapping, a sexy parade dancing the bride and groom down palace stairs to a ballroom that was waiting, lit only by candles, and Georgie watched as Karim stood as his bride danced towards him. She saw her sister dancing, usually so rigid and uptight, now sensual and smiling, and it was a woman Georgie hardly recognised.
As the guests circled the couple the atmosphere was infectious but Georgie was nervous to join in. Then there was a warm hand on her back guiding her, and the scent of Ibrahim close up, his low voice in her ear. ‘You must join in the zeffa.’ She didn’t know how to. Didn’t know how to dance freely, even on the sidelines, but with him beside her, tentatively she tried.
She could feel the beat in her stomach and it moved through her thighs and to her toes, but more than that she could feel the moment, feel the rush and the energy, taste the love in the air—and it was potent. ‘The zeffa usually takes place before the wedding, but we make our traditions to accommodate the needs of our people ….’ He did not leave her side, even when the music slowed and she found herself dancing with him. ‘Today, yesterday, we do all the formalities expected of royals, but now, amongst friends and family, it is for the couple.’
They shared one dance and even if it was for duty, it felt like something else. To be held by someone so strong, so commanding, was confusing, and to be aware of his observation was dizzying by the end of the evening.
‘Are you okay?’ He must have followed her outside once they had bade farewell to the happy couple and she stood in the hallway, accepting a glass of water from a waitress.
‘It was so …’ She shook her head to clear it, the music still reaching them in the hall. ‘I’m fine. I’m exhausted and not just from the wedding—it’s been a busy few days. I never knew there would be so many things to get through before the wedding.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘I thought Felicity and I would be spending some time together, I was hoping to see the desert …’
‘There are too many duties,’ Ibrahim said. ‘Come on. I’ll show you the desert now.’ He had nodded to the stairs and Georgie climbed them. They walked along the corridor, past her bedroom till they came to a balcony door, which Ibrahim opened—and there was the desert, spread out before them. ‘There,’ he drawled. ‘Now you’ve seen it.’
Georgie laughed. She had heard about the rebel prince who loathed the endless desert plains, who would, Karim had said with an edge to his voice, rather sit in crowded bars than find the peace only isolation could bring.
‘You prefer cities, then?’ She had made light of it, but his dark eyes were black as they roamed the shadows and when he didn’t answer, Georgie looked out again. ‘It looks like the ocean,’ she said, because it did in the moonlight.
‘It once was the ocean,’ Ibrahim said. ‘And it will be again.’ He glanced over at her. ‘Or so they say.’
‘They?’
‘The tales we are told.’ He gave a shrug. ‘I prefer science. The desert is not for me.’
‘But it’s fascinating.’ Georgie said, and they stood silent as she looked out some more. ‘Daunting,’ she said to the silence, and even if she shouldn’t have said any more, after a while Georgie admitted a truth. ‘I worry about Felicity.’
‘Your sister is happy.’
Georgie said nothing. Felicity certainly seemed happy—she had fallen in love with a dashing surgeon, not knowing at the time he was a prince. They were clearly deeply in love and thrilled there was a baby soon on the way, but Felicity did still miss home and struggled sometimes to adjust to all her new family’s ways.
‘She wants me to come and live here—to help with the baby and things.’
‘She can afford a nanny!’ Ibrahim said, and Georgie gave a tight smile, because she had privately thought the same. Still, in fairness to Felicity it wasn’t the only reason that she wanted her sister close. ‘She wants to …’ Georgie swallowed. Even though conversation came easily there were certain things she did not want to admit—and that her sister wanted to take care of her was one of them.
‘She wants to be able to look out for you,’ Ibrahim said, because he had heard about the troubled sister. One who had often run away, her teen years spent in and out of rehab for an eating disorder. Georgie was trouble, Karim had sagely warned.
Ibrahim chose to decide things for himself.
And, anyway, he liked trouble.
‘Felicity worries about you.’
‘Well, she has no need to.’ Georgie’s cheeks burnt, wondering how much he knew.
‘She had reason for a while, though. You were very sick. It’s only natural she should be concerned.’ He was direct and for a moment she was defensive, embarrassed, but there was no judgement in his voice, which was rare.
‘I’m better now.’ Georgie said. ‘I can’t get it through to her that she doesn’t have to worry any more. You know, the problem with having once had a problem is everyone holding their breath, waiting for it resurface. Like that soup …’ He laughed because he had seen her face when it had been served. ‘It was cold.’
‘Jalik,’ Ibrahim said, ‘cucumber. It is supposed to be served like that.’
‘I’m sure it’s lovely if you’re used to it. And I tried,’ Georgie said. ‘I tried but I couldn’t manage all of it, but even on her wedding day Felicity was watching every mouthful I took and so was Mum. It doesn’t all go back to having an eating disorder—I just don’t like cold cucumber soup.’
‘Fair enough.’ Ibrahim nodded.
‘And as much as I can’t wait for my sister to have the baby, as much as I’m looking forward to being an aunt, I do not want to be a nanny!’ Georgie admitted. ‘Which is what they would want me to be if I stayed on,’ she added, feeling guilty for voicing her concerns but relieved all the same.
‘You would,’ he agreed. ‘Which is fine if being a nanny is your career of choice. Is it, though?’
‘No.’
‘Can I ask what is?’
‘I’ve been studying therapeutic massage and aromatherapy. I’ve got a couple more units to do and then I’m hoping to start my own business.
‘As well as more study,’ she went on. Told him so easily, told him in far more detail than she had ever told another, about the healing she wanted to do for other women, how massage and oils had helped her when nothing else had. Unlike many people he did not mock her because, even if he did not like its mysterious ways, he was from the desert and he understood something of such remedies.
And he told her things too, things he had never thought he would tell another, as to the reason he didn’t like the desert.
‘It took my brother,’ Ibrahim said, because when Hassan and Jamal had not produced an heir and a fragile Ahmed had been considered as king, rather than face it, Ahmed had gone deep into the desert and perished.
‘Felicity told me.’ Georgie swallowed. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
Such a loss. He could not begin to explore it and Ibrahim closed his eyes, but the wind blew the sand and the desert was still there and he hated it.
‘It took my mother too.’
‘Your mother left.’
Ibrahim shook his head. ‘By the desert’s rules.’ He looked out to the land he loathed and he could scarcely believe his own words, the conversation he was having. These should be thoughts only, and he turned to Georgie to correct himself, to retract, to bid farewell, yet blue eyes were waiting and that smiling mouth was serious now and Ibrahim found himself able to go on.
‘One day she was here, we were a family; the next she was gone and never allowed to return. Today is her son’s wedding and she is in London.’
‘That must be awful for her.’
‘It pales in comparison to missing Ahmed’s funeral, or so she told me when I rang this afternoon.’ It had been a hell of a phone call but he had not backed down from it, had sat and listened and listened some more.
‘I’m sorry.’
He wanted her to say she understood, so he could mock her.
He wanted her to say she knew how he felt, so he could scathingly refute it.
He did not want a hand that was surprisingly tender to reach out and brush his cheek. But on contact Ibrahim wanted to hold her hand and capture it, to rest his face in it, to accept the simple gesture.
And he could never know, only her therapist could know, how momentous that was, that her hand had, for the first time with a man, been instinctive. She felt the breeze carry the warm heat of the desert and it seemed to circle them and all she wanted to do was stay.
‘You should go,’ Ibrahim said, because Karim had warned him about this woman, warned him sternly to remember Zaraq’s ways while he was here.
And she did that. She turned and left him staring out at the desert, and as she walked she was reeling, her fingers burning from the brief touch, her mind whirring at to the contact she had initiated.
‘I thought you said they were stuffy.’ Abby interrupted Georgie’s memories, ones she had tried to quash. ‘He doesn’t look anything like I imagined.’
‘It’s different there,’ Georgie said. ‘There are different ways, different rules …’ She didn’t want champagne, she didn’t want to dance with the man who was offering, but it was Abby’s night and, yes, it was rather more fun being inside than in the queue outside. Not for a second did Georgie let on to her friend that her mind was elsewhere, but even Abby seemed more interested in Ibrahim than in the club itself, because in the early hours of the morning the conversation turned back to him again.
‘You’re going over there next week,’ Abby reminded Georgie, and gave her a little nudge. ‘Will he be there?’
Georgie shook her head. ‘He goes as little as possible—he went for the wedding and again when Azizah was born, and he’s just been recently. He’ll be back in a few weeks when the future king is born, that’s more than enough for him. I’ll be long gone by then so I won’t be seeing him for ages.’ She took a gulp of champagne. ‘Let’s dance.’
And they did.
They danced, partied and Georgie was a good friend and stayed till 4 a.m., laughed and had fun.
Even though she’d rather be home.
Even though she’d rather be alone.
To think of his kiss.
To think of him.
It had never dawned on her that he too might be sorry.
CHAPTER TWO
SHE did leave the balcony, as he had told her to.
Georgie had left him staring out at the desert.
And he shouldn’t have turned and neither should she.
He shouldn’t have turned, for his mind was angry, damaged by the desert, because when he turned, when he saw her looking back over her shoulder, he saw a familiar escape.
And he should not walk to her, but instead go up to his suite, pick up the phone and summon safe pleasure—for there were women chosen to please a prince or king. They, his father had long ago warned, were his only option when here in Zaraq.
And they were beautiful women and had more than sufficed, he reminded himself, except there was grit in his eyes from the desert wind and there was darkness in his soul tonight. He could still feel the cool trace of her fingers on his cheek and he had never cared for rules and he chose not to now.
He walked to her.
She waited.
She had every opportunity to leave and yet she did not. Her room was behind her, but she chose not flee. She faced the terror and the beauty of the man who was striding to her and fought not to run to him. There was no logic. Only madness could explain it, a charge in the air, a line that connected, an inevitability she desired, because as he pulled her into him, as he lowered his head, she was waiting and willing, and wanted that surly, delicious mouth on hers.
And now it was.
A mouth that tasted not of smoke or whisky but the clean taste of man.
Until now she’d never enjoyed kissing just as she’d never really enjoyed sex. But held in the arms and caressed by the lips of a master, Georgie changed her mind. His mouth pressed into hers, his jaw harsh against her skin, but there was moist relief in the centre and his tongue was cool against hers and made her burn. His hands were as skilled as his lips, because her hair was freed from the braid, and she knew only by the weight of it tumbling. He caressed her long blonde hair as if he was confirming it was how he had pictured it. He smelt as he had on the dance floor, as if he had stepped out of the shower and splashed on cologne, and she wanted to kiss him for ever.
Her fingers felt the hair she had admired as his hands now roamed her waist and just when she thought nothing could be better, he pulled her hips into his, so purposefully, so specifically that for a second she thought she would topple, except he was holding her and the wall was behind her and her shoulders met it as he pulled her in.
She felt it then.
As his mouth savaged hers, as his erection pressed in, she felt all the promise in that lithe, toned body, glimpsed the delicious place to which they were leading. Always she had shied from that path, but she felt tonight as if she wanted to run down it. They could have been in Peru or at a bus stop, they could have been anywhere, and it didn’t matter because she was absolutely lost in the moment he made.
It was Ibrahim who had control, because he stopped then, pulled that noble head back just a fraction and looked as no man, no person, no soul had ever looked. He looked so deeply into her eyes that she wanted to climb into him, to dive into the beauty they mirrored.
‘Come …’ He had her hot hand in his and he would take her to his bed, right now. He would lead her, and soon he would have her, but Georgie was greedy, she was hungry and she could not wait, could not climb a single stair if it kept her from the moment that was waiting to be made. She was out of control and for the first time she liked it, because somehow with him it felt safe.
‘Here.’ Her room was here behind her, her bed was here, and she wanted them both safe and unsafe behind closed doors, but Ibrahim was a prince and his seed so precious, the orders so ingrained, that he hesitated.
‘We need …’ His own room would be better. There were discreet drawers, regularly replenished for the women sent to entertain the young prince, but in the guest rooms there would be nothing,
And, yes, they did need. Her scrambled brain, her rushing thoughts were grateful for his care yet she raced to a speedier solution and her voice leapt in delight as she recalled.
‘I’ve got some.’ She thanked the gods watching over Heathrow Airport who’d taken the two pounds she’d put into a machine and delivered not the mouthwash she had selected but a little parcel she hadn’t wanted, but she was very grateful for it now.
And worlds collided for Ibrahim.
That she came prepared was perhaps to be admired. In London he would not give it a thought, but here …
He did not belong here, he reminded himself.
The rules did not apply.
So why the pause?
Why did it matter?
It did not, he told himself as they moved into her suite, and then when he kissed her again, he didn’t have to tell himself any more because it simply did not … matter.
It did.
For Georgie something else mattered.
She closed her eyes to his kiss and tried not to think about it, tried to forget and just be warmed by his tongue, which was hot now.
Hot and probing and done with her spent mouth. Now that he had kissed her onto the bed, he pulled the straps on her dress and licked down her chest, his hand pushing up the hem of that hateful dress, but not all the way, because her hips rose so high into him he was blocked. It was urgent, urgent and desperate and completely delicious, her body responding as if it had been waiting for ever to join him. She tore at his jacket, his shirt, her mouth in his hair, on his ear, her hands on his back, her stilettos tearing the silk of his trousers as their legs entwined, wishing the heat from their bodies would melt their clothes so they could connect with skin.
It mattered.
She could not ignore it—could not forgo her strange principle. As she knelt on the bed and lifted her hem as Ibrahim lowered his head, not knowing whether or not it would matter to him, Georgie said, ‘We can’t …’
He liked her game.
‘We can.’
He liked her feigned reluctance.
Liked the sudden shyness as his mouth met her stomach.
‘I can’t.’
‘You can,’ he breathed as his hands pulled at her panties and brushed off the hands that sought to keep them on.
‘Ibrahim, please …’ And he realised then that it wasn’t a game. Or rather that she’d been playing a very dangerous one, because he could not have been closer, could not have been closer. He was still hard and he was back to angry and for a moment there he did not like his own thoughts, but he hauled himself from her, looked down at his torn clothing, could feel the scratches from her nails in his back and shot daggers at her with his eyes.
‘I’m sorry …’ Georgie gulped, and wondered how could she explain it suddenly mattered.
‘I’m not like that.’
‘You pretending to be demure was lost in the hallway.’
‘I haven’t—’
‘Don’t try to tell me you’re a virgin.’ He gave a nasty smirk. ‘A condom-carrying virgin.’
‘I’m not.’ She wasn’t and she certainly wasn’t about to explain to him in this mood about the Heathrow gods. ‘I didn’t mean to lead you on.’
‘You meant it,’ he said. ‘You meant every second of it.’ He wasn’t hard any more, he was just pure angry. He’d been told she was trouble and he should have listened. ‘What are you holding out for, Georgie?’ It dawned on him then. ‘Jealous of your big sister, are you? Want a rich husband of your own?’ He mocked her with a black smile. ‘Here’s a tip for the future—men like a little or the lot.’
She was angry too. Angry at herself and now at him for not letting her explain. And she was embarrassed, which wasn’t a great combination because she bit back with harsh words of her own.
‘Oh, so you’d have loved me in the morning?’ She answered her own question. ‘As if.’ He was a bastard, a playboy and she’d been playing with fire from the beginning, she just hadn’t known it at the time.
But there was a beat, a tiny beat where their eyes met.
A glimpse of a tomorrow that might have been, which they’d lost now.
That made him even angrier, ‘I wouldn’t touch you again if you were on your knees, begging. I’ll tell you what you are …’ Ibrahim said, and he added an insult that needed no translation and it hurtled from his mouth as he walked from her room.
She pulled up her knees as he slammed closed her door and then pulled a shaking hand across her mouth because how could she tell him what had suddenly mattered?
Georgie wasn’t looking for a husband.
She already had one.
CHAPTER THREE
IT DID not abate.
Ibrahim Zaraq rode his horse at breakneck speed along the paths, across the fields and back along the paths, his breath white in the crisp morning air, and, despite the space, despite the miles available to him to exercise his passion, today, this morning, and not for the first time lately, Ibrahim felt confined.
London had been the place that had freed him, the place of escape, and yet as he pulled up his beast, as he patted the lathered neck, Ibrahim, though breathless, wanted to kick him on, wanted to gallop again, to go further, faster, not follow a track and turn around.
There, in the still, crisp morning, in the green belt of a city, the desert called him—just as his father had told him it would.
And though Ibrahim resisted, again he felt it.
This pull, this need for a land that supposedly owned him, and for just a moment he indulged himself.
‘You would love it.’ He climbed down and spoke in Arabic to his stallion, a beast who kicked and butted the walls of his luxurious stable, who paced the confines of his enclosure and bit any stranger who ignored his stable-door warning and was ignorant enough to approach. ‘For there,’ he said to the beast, stroking the rippling muscles, hearing the stamp and kick of his hooves, ‘you would finally know and relish exhaustion.’ Only the desert could sate. Again Ibrahim glimpsed it—the endless dunes, the fresh canvas the shifting desert provided each morning. He did not just glimpse it, he felt the sting of sand on his cheeks, the scarf around his mouth, the power of a horse unleashed between his thighs.
Yet his life was in London.
A life he had created, business and riches that came with no rules attached, because he had built them and they were his. His mother was here—forbidden to return to Zaraq because decades ago she had broken the rules.
‘I’ll take him, Ibrahim.’ A young stablegirl he sometimes bedded made her way over and he handed her the reins. Ibrahim saw the invitation in her eyes, and perhaps that would help, he thought, as she unstrapped the saddle. Ibrahim took the weight of it from her, saw her hands soothe the angry beast, saw the stretch of her thighs as she put on the horse blanket. He waited and wanted to feel something, for it would have been easier, so much easier to soothe the burn of his body and the turmoil in his mind with his favourite solution. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ Hopeful, beautiful, available, she turned to him—and the answer on any other morning would have been yes.
It wasn’t today.
Neither had it been the other night.
After seeing Georgie, he had directed his driver to his date’s home instead of his and had declined her invitation to come in.
‘Come to bed, Ibrahim.’ Her mouth and her hands had moved to persuade but Ibrahim had brushed her off and when tears hadn’t worked, she’d got angry. ‘It’s that tart from the nightclub that’s changed things, isn’t it?’
‘No,’ Ibrahim had said coolly. ‘It’s entirely you.’
‘Ibrahim?’ The stablegirl smiled and he looked down at her breasts, which were pert and pretty. He gauged the length of her hair and then walked away because, though her hair was dark, it was long and thick and her frame too was slender. Ibrahim knew he’d have only been thinking of her.
Of Georgie.
He did not want to think of her and his mind turned to the desert instead.
He picked up pace, his boots ringing across the yard. He would go to his property in the country this weekend, for he knew if he was in London he would end up calling Georgie. He did not like unfinished business, did not like to be told no, and seeing her again had inflamed things, but more trouble with his family was the last thing he needed now. The country was a good option—there he would find space, there he could ride for ever, except as he climbed into his sports car he glanced at the sat-nav and felt as if he were staring at an aerial map. He could see the fields, the houses, the hedges, the trees, the borders …
And his father had been right, and so too his brothers, who had told him that one day the desert would call him.
The king had let his son go with surprising ease when he had left to study engineering, confident that when the time was right he would return.
‘Of course I will be back.’ Surly, arrogant, back from his compulsory stint in the military, a young Ibrahim had been ready for London. ‘I will visit.’
‘You will be back as a royal prince to share your new knowledge, and your country will be waiting.’
‘No.’ Ibrahim had shaken his head. ‘For formal functions occasionally I will return and, of course, to see my family …’ His father did not seem to understand, so he had spelt it out. ‘My life will be in London.’
But the king had just smiled. ‘Ibrahim, you are going to study engineering. Remember as a child all the plans you had for this country of ours, all you could do for the people.’
‘I was a child.’
‘And now you are a man—you get to make real your dreams. When it is time, you will come back to where you belong.’ Ibrahim had rolled his eyes but the king had just smiled. ‘It is in your blood, in your DNA. You may not want to listen to your father, but the desert has its own call—one you cannot ignore.’
He wanted to ignore it.
For years now he had, but everything had changed when he’d returned for the wedding.
Ibrahim sped the car through the grey Sunday morning, out of the city and into the country. He hugged tight bends and accelerated out of them. His father’s patience was running out, his future awaited him and he raced from it till his tank was almost empty and again rules rushed in.
‘Breathe till I tell you to stop,’ the policeman ordered, and Ibrahim did. He even emptied out his pockets and let the man inspect his boot. He saw the suspicion in the officer’s eyes when everything turned up clean.
‘Where are you going in such a hurry?’ the officer asked again. He had seen Ibrahim’s driver’s licence and was sick of the rich and the young royals who thought the laws did not apply to them. This man was both.
‘I don’t know,’ Ibrahim answered again. Normally it would have incensed the policeman, normally he would have headed back to the car to perform another slow check just to make the prince wait because a fine would not trouble him, but there was something in Ibrahim’s voice that made the policeman hesitate. There was a hint of confusion in this arrogant, aloof man’s tone that halted him. ‘I’m sorry.’ The officer frowned at Ibrahim’s apology. ‘I apologise for not following your laws.’
‘They’re there for your own protection.’ And Ibrahim closed his eyes because, albeit in English now, those were the words that had swaddled him through childhood, through teenage years and into adulthood.
‘I appreciate that,’ Ibrahim said, then opened his eyes to the concerned face of the policeman. ‘Again I apologise.’
‘Is everything okay, sir?’
‘Everything is fine.’
‘I’ll let you go with a warning this time.’
He would rather have the ticket.
As he climbed back into the car, Ibrahim would far rather have paid his dues, accepted the punishment, and it had nothing at all to do with the fact he could afford to—he did not want favours.
Ibrahim drove sensibly, even when the police car left him as he turned into the petrol station. Ibrahim stayed within the speed limit all the way back to London, and as he turned into the smart West London street he did not look at the stylish three-storey house but at the railings in front of it, and the neatly trimmed hedge, to the houses either side and the next house and the next, and he couldn’t bring himself to go in.
Had the policeman been behind him he would have pulled him over again, for Ibrahim executed a highly illegal U-turn and then reprogrammed his sat-nav. His decision was made.
He would get it out of his system once and for all.
The future king was due to be born in a few weeks’ time and he certainly didn’t want to get caught up in all that. He would ride his horses in the ocean and desert for a few days, hear what his father had to say and then he would return to London.
To home, Ibrahim corrected himself.
Despite what his father said, London was his home.
He just had to be sure of it.
His mind flicked to Georgie, to unfinished business, to a woman who did not want the desert, who had been on his mind for far too long now, and another decision was made … he would visit the desert and return, and then he might call her.
CHAPTER FOUR
THERE was a new lightness to Georgie as she took out her blonde hair from its ponytail and combed it, and there was a smile on her lips as she applied lip balm. Not even the prospect of the long flight ahead could dim a world that suddenly felt just a little more right.
That her divorce had come through that morning might not seem to many something to be pleased about, and a marriage that had been a mistake might seem nothing to be grateful for, but it had taught her a lot.
Even though she had left him years ago—left a marriage of just a few weeks—the fact it was officially over brought her relief.
Now she was free.
Her only regret was that it hadn’t come through sooner. That the morals that kept her from sleeping with anyone, even with her divorce pending, had kept her from Ibrahim that night.
Georgie closed her eyes for a moment, told herself not to go there—it was a path she had chosen. Her illness, her father’s abuse, a marriage that had seemed an escape—it would be so easy to look back with regret, yet she had learnt so much from it all. She had grown into a strong woman, a confident woman who knew herself, because she had chosen to learn from, rather than rue, her mistakes. It was a hard path to follow but, for Georgie, the right one. Guilt and regret had led her to troubled places, but no more. She wanted to talk with Felicity, wanted to thank her for all her support through the difficult years. Georgie swallowed, because she was still undecided, but she wanted to tell Felicity about Mike, to clear the past and make way for a glorious future.
Ibrahim’s apology had helped too.
It had been unsettling seeing him, of course, but she took his apology as a sign that the chapter was closed and that it was time to move on.
To have no regrets.
The air ticket her sister Felicity had sent meant she bypassed the nightmare queues at Heathrow. She sat, awkward at first, in a first-class departure lounge, but as she sipped champagne and checked her emails, it was soon easy to relax. She accepted the delicacies on offer without thought. A new smile spread across her face as she realised just how far she had come. The endless abacus was finally silent—no more calories versus treadmill, no penance for pleasure, just the sweet taste of a pistachio macaroon dissolving on her tongue. She didn’t need a plane to fly to Zaraq. Her mood was so buoyant as she boarded, her high so palpable, Georgie could have flown there on happiness alone. Finally, the dark days were over—the soul-searching, the introspection, the agony of healing was behind her. She was ready to move on, even if the plane wasn’t.
Just a little nervous of flying, Georgie took a vial of melissa oil from her bag and massaged a drop into her temples. The attendant offered her another drink, but Georgie didn’t want one. ‘When are we taking off?’ Used to economy class, Georgie half expected to be speaking to thin air by the time the words were out, or at best to receive a brusque answer, but she was reminded she was travelling first class when the attendant smiled and lingered. ‘We’re sorry for the delay but we have an unexpected passenger. He shouldn’t be too much longer …’ But even in first class there was a pecking order, because the attendant’s voice trailed off and Georgie was no longer the focus of her attention. She watched as the woman’s cheeks darkened. Curious, Georgie followed the woman’s gaze and her heart seemed to stop as all efforts to move on were halted, any chance of forgetting lost.
‘Your Highness.’ The attendant curtsied as he strode past but even she couldn’t halt the flicker of confusion on her smooth brow at their passenger’s attire. He was dressed in mud-splattered white jodhpurs and black jumper, and there was a restlessness to him, a wild energy that seemed to have boarded the plane along with him. He didn’t respond to the attendant, neither did he glance in Georgie’s direction. There was such purpose to his stride it looked as if he was heading for the cockpit, prepared to fly the plane himself, but at the last minute he turned and, yes, there were levels of first class because it would appear Ibrahim had his own suite. The attendants fluttered away from their charges and gathered together to discuss the latest arrival, and just a moment or so later a steward slipped into the suite with a bottle of brandy as the others watched.
She wanted to stand, to stop the plane that was now taxiing along the runway, to get off, for she could not face being there with him.
She didn’t even notice the plane rise off the ground, or dinner being served, her mind consumed by her fellow passenger. ‘Is everything okay, Miss Anderson?’ The flight attendant removed her plates untouched and Georgie just nodded, too stunned to answer, let alone eat. The thought of being back in the palace with him, of being in such close proximity to him, had her reeling.
She had done everything possible to ensure that he wouldn’t be there—oh, so casually asking her sister about his movements—and even in the nightclub he had given no clue.
But, then, neither had she.
Maybe there had been an emergency. His father had recently been sick after all. Why else would he be boarding a plane dressed like that? Or maybe this was how the rich lived, Georgie pondered. Who flew long haul in riding boots? Maybe he was so laid-back about travelling that he didn’t even give it a thought. He could step off a horse and onto a plane … But later, when she got up to go to the toilet, a steward was coming out of his suite carrying a laden tray and shaking her head. Georgie got a glimpse of Ibrahim before the doors to his suite were closed—he lay sprawled out on the bed. He hadn’t bothered with the gold pyjamas Georgie had on. He was unshaven, boots off, sprawled out on a bed and fast asleep.
She got only the briefest look as the door was quickly closed, but it was an image that stayed with her through the flight.
Anguished.
Even in sleep his face wasn’t relaxed. His full mouth was tense. Even at rest he somehow looked troubled—but more worrying than that was just how much Georgie wanted to know what was on his mind
She’d been looking forward to the luxurious bed the airline offered in first class, had been looking forward to stretching out and sleeping, but knowing he was so close she found she couldn’t.
‘Can I get you anything?’ the attendant asked countless times through the flight, and each time Georgie bit her lip on her true answer.
Him, she wanted to respond. Can you take me to him? But instead she shook her head and tried to work out what she’d say when she saw him.
The flight was broken by a stop in Abu Dhabi and Georgie took the chance to stretch her legs. She braced herself to face him, but Ibrahim must have decided to stay on the plane so she amused herself watching the gorgeous attendants boarding with designer bags, one even carrying a large pink teddy. This time, when the plane took off, finally Georgie fell asleep, except there was no respite. Her dreams were flooded with thoughts of him.
‘Miss Anderson, would you like some breakfast before we prepare for landing?’ The attendant woke her. Georgie nodded, and felt just a slight wobble of guilt: she had always kept her name, though used Ms in London. Felicity had booked her ticket and, given she had no idea about the brief marriage, had naturally put Miss.
Georgie stared out of the window at the glorious blue waters and as the plane banked gently to the right she caught the first glimpses of Zaraq—the endless golden desert giving way to sandy-colored villages and domed buildings. The plane swept along the shoreline, the cabin lights dimming. The palace that would be her home for the next couple of weeks wasn’t what grabbed her attention. Instead it was the mirrored skyscrapers of the capital Zaraqua that made her breath tight in her chest. There were pools and bridges seemingly suspended in mid-air and Georgie marvelled at their design rather than think of him. She tried not to guess his reaction when she exited the plane and they finally came face to face.
He didn’t get off.
For a little while she wondered if somehow she’d imagined him, for not once during the flight had she seen him.
‘Georgie!’ Felicity looked great. Georgie had wondered how she’d be dressed, but as a married woman her sister did not need to wear a veil and looked stunning in a white linen trouser suit, her hair longer than Georgie had ever see it. Felicity oozed happiness and good health, but it was little Azizah who enthralled Georgie from the moment she landed—her niece, just a few months old and with the fascinating mix of her mother’s blonde hair and her father’s black eyes. Azizah had been just a couple of weeks old when Karim and Felicity had brought her to the UK for a brief visit, but she was her own little person now and, for Georgie, the love was instant.
‘She’s stunning.’ Georgie said as she held her in the VIP lounge. ‘I can’t wait to get to know her. Where’s Karim?’
‘He’s here. We had a call from the airline a couple of hours ago—it would seem his brother was on the same flight as you. He’s gone to meet him.’
‘I thought I saw him,’ Georgie said carefully, ‘though he didn’t see me. Is everything okay?’
‘Of course it is.’ Felicity said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘No real reason. I just wondered if he’d dashed back for an emergency. He looked …’ Her voice trailed off and she chose not to tell her sister after all. Felicity would see for herself soon and could make up her own mind.
‘Karim might have to dash off once we get home,’ Felicity explained as Georgie fussed over her niece. ‘There’s a bit of health scare with the Bedouins. You know how much work he does for them.’
Georgie nodded. ‘Is he still doing the mobile clinics?’
‘Shh,’ Felicity warned, because no one, not even the king, knew the full extent of Karim’s involvement with the local people. We’ll talk about it later. I just want you to understand if he has to suddenly leave—I don’t want you to think he’s not thrilled that you’re here.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘Here they are now!’
As Karim and Ibrahim entered the lounge, Georgie was glad she hadn’t aired her concerns to her sister. She’d have looked like a liar because Ibrahim looked far from troubled and unkempt now—clean-shaven, dressed in linen trousers and jacket, sleek sunglasses on, he looked every bit a first-class passenger as he walked towards with his brother, carrying the large pink teddy Georgie had seen the attendants bring on the plane. He must have sent them shopping, Georgie realised, watching as his jaw tightened at the sight of her—not that Felicity noticed the tension.
‘Thank you, Ibrahim.’ Felicity took the huge teddy. ‘Did you have to book another seat for her?’
‘Georgie!’ Karim kissed the cheek of his sister-in-law. ‘You may remember Ibrahim from the wedding.’
‘Of course.’ Georgie gave a smile but he didn’t immediately return it. All she could see was her reflection in his glasses. She couldn’t read his eyes.
‘I wasn’t aware you were visiting.’ Only then did he manage to force a smile. ‘It is nice of you all to come and greet me,’ Ibrahim said, ‘but it was completely unnecessary. I didn’t want a fuss, it’s just a brief visit.’
‘We’re not here to fuss over you!’ Felicity grinned. ‘We’re actually here to greet Georgie—she was on your flight.’
And Georgie was positive, completely positive that his dark skin paled, that behind those thick sunglasses, even if she couldn’t see it, there was alarm in those dark eyes.
‘Really?’ Ibrahim responded. ‘And you didn’t say hello?’ His question was polite and so too was her response, even if was a lie.
‘I didn’t actually see you.’ She gave a vague wave of her hand as she lied. ‘I just heard the steward saying that you were on board. I’m sorry if I was rude.’
‘No need to apologise.’ There was, Georgie was sure, a breath of relief in his voice. He even smiled again in her direction. ‘Just make sure next time you say hello.’
The driver came up and had a brief word with Karim.
‘What are we waiting for?’ Felicity asked.
‘Georgie’s luggage has been loaded, but Ibrahim’s is taking a while to come off.’
‘La Shy,’ Ibrahim said and Felicity, who must have picked up some of the language, frowned.
‘You’ve got no luggage?’
‘Just carry-on.’ He held up a smart bag that Georgie was positive he hadn’t been holding on boarding.
The car ride was short, the conversation seemingly pleasant, but it was mainly Georgie and Felicity speaking.
Back at the palace Ibrahim had an extremely cursory chat with his family, then excused himself with an outright lie.
‘I couldn’t sleep on the plane.’
When he left them, Georgie could relax a little and after Felicity had fed the baby, she was delighted to have a proper cuddle. ‘She’s stunning.’ Georgie enthused again.
‘Her lungs are!’ Karim said. ‘Half the palace was woken at four a.m. this morning.’
‘I had the French windows open to let in some air.’ Felicity grinned and Georgie could only marvel at the changes in her sister. She had always been so tense and uptight, but there was a lightness to her now. Her face glowed as she smiled up at her husband. ‘Anyway, soon it won’t just be Azizah disrupting the palace.’
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Carol Marinelli
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Surrender to the SheikhSheikh Prince Ibrahim refuses to bow to the duty that has destroyed his family by locking away his emotions and shunning his royal responsibility… Until the desert calls… One searing kiss is all it takes for Georgie to know Ibrahim is trouble… And she’s had more than enough of that to last her a lifetime!But, trapped in the swirling sands, Georgie finally surrenders to the brooding rebel Prince – yet the law of his land decrees that she can never really be his…