Page 32 of Kismet

Chapter 9

Christ Jesus, he wanted to throttle the woman. She’d actually had the audacity to compare him to that bastard Nassar. He strode through the camp, a grunt the only form of greeting he offered up to those he passed. Worse yet, he didn’t like the way her accusation hit so close to the target. He was keeping her against her will. And he knew his rationalization for doing so was only part of the reason. The treaties were important, but it was pointless to deny his attraction to her. An attraction he’d admitted when he’d made his decision to rescue her from Nassar’s camp. When he’d seen her covered with nothing but the moisture of her bath, a raging lust had swept through him with the force of a Sahara wind.

It had taken control of his senses, blinding him to everything. And the sultry creature had immediately recognized the effect she had on him. She’d used her voluptuous body to her advantage. With a graceful wave of her hennaed hand, she’d exuded supreme confidence in her nakedness. Not even Frances had been so self-assured with her body. But Allegra hadn’t been the least bit disconcerted by his presence. Naked curves glistening with water, she’d dried herself off with a sangfroid that hadn’t just astonished him. It had aroused him.

The sight of her had sent desire twisting through him. Urgent and hot, his need had made his cock swell tight and hard until he ached to thrust into her soft core over and over again. He’d been driven to kiss her simply to prove to himself that he could control his carnal need. He’d been a fool to think that. God Almighty when she’d grabbed his hand and forced him to touch her, his body had betrayed him with a vengeance. Cupped in his hand, she’d been firm and full, her nipples hard with desire. The feel of her had made him think he’d come right then and there. Not even Frances had demonstrated such a raw, potent sexuality, let alone used it with such skill. It explained why men said Allegra’s name with such hunger.

Having reached the edge of camp, he braced his hands against his waist and stared out at the Atlas Mountains. Their rocky façade was awash in the varying hues of red and orange the setting sun painted so vividly on the craggy cliffs and furrows. The sight of them soothed his soul. Despite the sometimes harsh Amazigh lifestyle, he’d found peace here on the plains of Morocco. But that contentment was being rocked by one woman.

A courtesan no less. The type of woman he’d sworn never to become involved with again. He grunted as he remembered that moment in the Agdal Gardens when she’d challenged him to that ridiculous wager. He’d known she would try to seduce him, but he’d been unprepared for her virtuoso performance. She’d more than earned her right to leave the gardens without him with that incredible display of sensual pleasure.

The memory of her slowly sliding a banana past her lips still had the power to suck the air from his lungs. The unspoken images her performance conjured up had been enough to make him hard as an iron pole in seconds. And when she’d swallowed the damn thing, she’d created a burning need in him to have her hot mouth drawing down on his cock in the same fashion. Even his nights refused to give him rest from the memory. Over the past week, he’d found himself awake more than once in the middle of the night, forced to use his hand as a poor substitute for Allegra’s skilled mouth and tongue.

No, he needed to get her out of his system, and he wasn’t quite sure how to do it, except to send her back to Marrakech. Send her back to Shaftsbury. The thought made him grimace. He wasn’t ready to give her up to his cousin just yet.

The mere thought of doing so stirred a primitive emotion inside him that he didn’t like. It signaled a departure from his usual clearheaded thought. For almost fifteen years, Morocco had absorbed all his passion, but in less than two weeks, Allegra had distracted him in a way nothing else had ever done.

A strong hand gripped his shoulder for a brief moment, and he turned his head to see Jamal standing beside him. The Bedouin’s gaze focused on the mountains, his friend squinted as he stared at the landscape.

“Are you certain it is wise to keep the anasi here against her will, Shaheen?”

“It’s unfortunate, but necessary.” He shrugged, but didn’t look at his friend.

“This Viscount who is trying to find you. He’s your cousin?”

With a grimace, he nodded. “A distant one, but part of the family. I met him once or twice while living in London.”

“Is it possible he has a message from your father?” There was a bit of censure in his friend’s voice, and his jaw clenched.

“Whatever the message is, I have no wish to hear it.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment before Jamal bent and gathered a handful of dry dirt in his hand. Straightening, he examined it carefully. As if coming to a decision, the Amazigh extended his arm to show the earth filling his palm. “This dust contains the ashes of those who came before us. Things that die eventually become dust and the land reclaims them.”

He watched as Jamal allowed the dirt to slowly drift through his fingers back to the ground. With a small sound of irony, he shook his head at the Bedouin’s actions. “I’m guessing all of this musing is leading somewhere.”

“Unlike the bones of our ancestors, memories never return to dust. They’re a part of us until the day we die.” Jamal looked toward the mountains. “The past is always there, waiting for that one moment when we least expect it to rise up and torment us.”

Holding himself rigid, Shaheen glared at his friend. “I’ve never been willing to discuss my past before. What makes you think I’ll do so now?”

“I do not think you are willing.” Jamal shrugged. “But I consider you to be the son I never had, and I cannot remain silent. The anasi is a reminder of your past. Keeping her here will not rid you of the demons locked inside you.”

“Allegra is here to ensure the treaties aren’t jeopardized. We both know my impartiality would be questioned if the English or French discover I’m not Amazigh. The only reason Nassar hasn’t used the information against me is that he fears the Sultan.”

“As a member of Khalid’s council it was natural for you to negotiate the treaties. You were Amazigh then just as you are now.” Jamal’s face grew pensive. “Do you remember the day I found you Shaheen?”

“Yes,” he said with just a hint of amusement. “As I recall, my gratitude was less than apparent.”

“True.” A smile crossed the Bedouin’s face. “For a man near death, you were quite adamant in your demands that I not help you live.”

“Clearly you didn’t listen to me.”

“Ah, but I did.” Jamal said quietly. “I listened to the feverish ravings of a young man tortured by something he believed was his fault.”

Muscles growing taut, Shaheen met his friend’s steady gaze. “Whatever you think you heard, they were the mutterings of a man dying of thirst, nothing more, nothing less.”

“Perhaps, but with each passing year, I find myself wondering when you will return to your homeland to free yourself of the memories that haunt you.”

“This is my home now. The Amazigh are my family. There’s nothing for me in England.”