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She hitched her bag on her shoulder, eyes spitting blue sparks at him, and Salman felt curiously weak for a moment. Jamilah had never looked so beautiful. In worn jeans, a shirt and boots, no make-up, and her hair slipping out of its ponytail to curl in long dark silky tendrils around her face. Since he’d seen her last it had felt like a century.
She hitched up her chin and said frostily, ‘I presume that there is no horse in labour?’
He shook his head, jaw clenched, and folded his arms.
‘So you’re kidnapping people now? Pretty inventive for a hedge fund manager. But really you should save your ingenuity for someone who wants to be kidnapped by you.’
Salman’s insides clenched at her blistering tone, her obvious reluctance to be here, but he couldn’t let her walk away. He needed her too badly.
Jamilah turned and started to walk away, into the village. ‘I’m going to get a horse and ride back to Merkazad if I have to. It’ll only take a day or two.’
She was grabbed from behind, her bag falling to the ground, and before she could emit a squeak of protest Salman had carried her bodily into the tent, which was lit with a hundred small lamps, imbuing the luxuriously furnished surroundings with a decadent feel. And right in the middle of the tent stood a low divan, covered in satins and silken throws. It was a seduction scene straight out of a movie.
He put her down and she whirled around, feeling her hair come undone completely. ‘Will you stop doing that!’
Her heart was careening wildly against her breastbone, but Salman just said calmly, ‘The chopper will come back in three days. As will the Jeep. And you won’t attempt to get a horse from any of the locals as they’ve been instructed not to let you have one.’
Three days!
Shock and something much more like panic made Jamilah say shakily, ‘Why on earth would you want to isolate us here for three days?’
Salman’s jaw clenched. ‘Because you’ve denied us three days by your theatrics, refusing to come back to the castle.’
Guilt lanced her at her own cowardly behaviour even as she said cuttingly, ‘I run the stables, Salman. It’s hardly theatrics to want to be near to where I work. That’s where I live.’ Sheer panic that he could wield such control over her and her emotions made her lash out unthinkingly, ‘And could you be any further from the stables here?’
Salman paled in an instant, and immediately the words were out Jamilah felt contrite. He stepped back and she put out a hand. ‘Salman, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’
He backed away, and conversely Jamilah wanted to pull him to her. He ran a hand through his hair and laughed curtly, harshly. ‘You’re right, though. It’s pathetic. I couldn’t even last a minute in that place.’
Jamilah walked up to Salman and took his hand. She said softly, all rancour gone, ‘No one could blame you—not after what you were forced to do there.’
He looked down at her, his eyes two pools of dark shadows. ‘I don’t know if I prefer you spitting and hissing and resisting me or like this, full of pity.’
Jamilah shook her head, her hair slipping over one shoulder. ‘I don’t pity you, Salman. It’s not pity…it’s empathy.’
He lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers. Feeling completely exposed, Jamilah couldn’t help but respond, and flames of passion were not far behind. When the kiss was fast developing into something much more urgent and carnal Jamilah somehow found the strength to pull away. Breathing harshly, she put her hands on Salman’s chest and leaned back. ‘I won’t do this, Salman. I told you in Paris that it was over. I won’t be your convenient plaything just because I’m here and it’s easy.’
In two seconds he had taken Jamilah’s face in his hands. His mouth swooped down on hers again, all softness gone, hard and hot and demanding. She could feel his straining body move sinuously against hers and had to lock her hips to stop herself from responding. Damn him—and her immediate response. She finally wrenched her mouth away. Her hands were still fists on his chest between them.
‘Does that feel easy to you?’ he demanded throatily.
‘You can’t use sex to avoid questions, Salman al Saqr, and I will not stay here with you for three days.’
‘Believe me, if you showed no signs of wanting me then I would have no problem leaving you alone. Women who don’t find me desirable have never turned me on.’
Jamilah could have laughed—as if such a woman existed!
‘So…what? You’ve put a time limit on this desire? Is that it? Three days and we will have exhausted ourselves and burnt it out?’ Even the thought of three days indulging in such a thing made her quiver inside.
Salman smiled and it was wolfish, sending skitters of anticipation down Jamilah’s spine. ‘In three days I’m hoping that we will be exhausted, yes. And perhaps some semblance of sanity will be restored—because one thing is certain: I haven’t felt sane where you’re concerned for a long time.’
It was suddenly important for her to know something. ‘That night…the night in Paris six years ago…did you go out with that woman as you said you were going to?’ Even now the poisonous image of the red-headed siren inserted itself with savage vividness into Jamilah’s brain.
Salman slowly shook his head, and his hands relaxed a little on her face. She could feel him brush a lock of hair away from her cheek. His body was still welded to hers and his arousal was insistent. ‘No…I never saw her again—except through work. And, believe me, she didn’t take kindly to being let down.’ His mouth thinned, as if it pained him to be admitting this. ‘I actually went out that night and got blind drunk. The one and only time in my life.’
Jamilah pushed herself free of his hold and stepped away, turning around so he couldn’t see her face. Emotions erupted in her chest. She knew he wouldn’t just say this, knew that he would not lie—why would he need to? He’d been crueller than anyone she’d ever known, so why wouldn’t he hesitate to give her the truth if he had slept with her? This revelation was inserting itself into a very vulnerable part of her, smashing aside another piece of the wal
l she’d erected around herself to keep out all hurt and feeling. He kept doing this—kept turning her memories of what had happened in Paris on their head, telling her that there had been so much more to it than the banal yet cruel rejection that had fed her anger for so long.
