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“My phone,” I point out.
“No reception.”
A shiver runs down my spine. We are completely alone.
His voice is a low growl and he paces towards me, something in his expression I do not understand. “You do not need to look at me as though I am a wolf about to rip you from limb to limb.”
I suck in a shallow breath.
“Not to say the idea doesn’t hold some appeal.” His voice is throaty, and it’s like he’s wrapping some invisible string around me, making breathing almost impossible. “But I have never touched a woman against her will and I have no intention of starting now.”
I try to breathe normally. “You said you need a baby.”
“Yes,” his eyes lance mine. “And you agreed to this in our contract.”
“So you intend to have sex with me now?”
He doesn’t smile. “Right now?”
My nerves are vibrating to breaking point. I wait on tenterhooks for him to speak, preparing myself, my body at fever pitch as I imagine leaning forward and losing myself in his arms. What the hell has come over me?
“Let us make a deal.”
Impatience screeches through me.
“I will touch you here.” He presses a finger to my chin, lifting my face to his. “And here.” He pads his thumb over my lower lip. I have to hold back a deep, throaty moan. “And here.” His other hand lifts to my hip, his fingers tapping against the soft curve of my buttocks. Heat surges inside of me. “But if you want me to touch you anywhere else, you will ask me.”
I should be reassured by that and yet it feels like a trap – a cunning way to make me admit that I want him to touch me. “And if I don’t?”
His smile pours lava into my bloodstream. “You will.”
I force a smile of my own. “You don’t know my stubborn streak.”
His eyes hold mine as he strokes my thigh slowly, rhythmically, until my blood is awash with heat. Pleasure explodes at the prospect of what he’s offering. “There is not much I do not know about you, Amy Al Adari.” It’s the first time I’ve heard my married name spoken.
My eyes scan his. “What does that mean?”
He drops his hands and steps back. “Come. Enough talk. I’m starving.”
I ignore the disloyal pang of disappointment.
“Is there food out here or do I need to hunt something for us to eat?” I can’t help quipping. When he draws back the thick calico curtain of the tent, anything but surprise is pushed from my mind. This place is like nothing I’ve ever seen before.
No, that’s not true. “In the picture books my father used to read me, there were tents like this.”
He’s very still, but I barely notice because I’m so absorbed in cataloguing the beauty of this space. From the outside, it’s reasonably unassuming – large, certainly, but plain calico. Inside, it’s a luxurious palace. Thick, bright carpets are spread over the ground, each overlapping the next to keep sand at bay. The furnishings are regal and ancient. A low set timber bed with bright cushions and quilt, a sofa, ottomans spread over the ground. In the corner there’s a table with a little lamp, the shade made of fine brass, cut in a detailed pattern.
“What picture books?”
“Oh, children’s books,” I explain, moving to the bed and lifting a pillow – a deep purple with fine gold thread. “He was able to get some sent to us after –,” the words are sharp in my throat. I can’t help looking at him reproachfully. “After you exiled him.”
His expression doesn’t change. There is no remorse though, no sympathy either. It is the best antidote to desire, pushing anything I had been feeling for him deep down inside of me. How can I possibly want this man, who single-handedly ruined my father’s life?
I replace the cushion on the bed and move towards the table.
“You said you were starving?”
“Yes.”
