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It was crazy. What he was saying was crazy, yet still the anticipation of his touch threatened to wipe out logical thought. And she needed to think straight, needed to harness every shred of reason that she could muster in order to fight her way out of his onslaught.
‘You were the one who insisted on a fitting.’
‘It’s not my dress.’
‘Isn’t it? Then whose measurements do you think were provided to you? That dress was made to fit you like a glove. That dress was made for you.’
‘How?’ she asked even as the realisation hit her—they’d taken her measurements her first morning here. She’d let them take them. ‘You tricked me. You said those were so they could make some sort of gift. You lied to me.’
He shook his head. ‘I did not lie. Your traditional Jebbai garments have been made for you. I just did not tell you all of the truth.’
‘This is mad. I’m not your bride. I won’t be your bride. You can’t make me.’
‘I won’t need to. You’ll come to me willingly.’
She laughed, her tension betrayed in the short, fractured sound. ‘Now you kid yourself. Why the hell would I do that?’
‘Because,’ he said, curling one hand around her neck, while the other snaked its way around her waist, pulling her close and extinguishing the space between them, ‘you want me.’
She fought the pressure of his hands, not allowing herself to be collected as easily as he might wish. ‘In your dreams.’
‘I do dream, as it happens,’ he said, his voice low and close to her ear, so that his breath curled against her skin, the sensation assailing her senses. ‘And I dream of you, in my bed, under me, on top of me, bucking with me. Every way I dream of you and your eyes flashing blue as you explode in my arms.’
Her breath stuck fast in her throat as his lips caressed the skin under her ear while the very same pictures played wide-screen in her mind.
It wasn’t just her then.
The attraction she’d felt, the pull, the magnetism—if what he said was true it wasn’t just one-sided. He felt it too, this allure, this desire.
Clothing faded to insignificance as she was dragged into contact with him, from her chest to her thighs, and, for all the protection they gave her, her clothes might not have been there. His arousal pressed firm and hard into her belly, proof of his own attraction and upping the gears on her own need. Involuntarily she squirmed against him, driven more by passion than by common sense.
He uttered something in Arabic, something primal and guttural, a low roar that spoke of his own desires, as he lowered his head, meshing his mouth with hers.
Her senses blurred in the rush of blood, the bloom of hotness that came at the touch of his lips, as his mouth moved over hers. Intoxicating. How could one mouth feel so persuasive, so magical?
The urge to comply with the sweet demands of his lips was almost irresistible, the urge to let her own mouth open and blossom under his overwhelming. He tasted of intensity and power, of the timeless desert sands, and he tasted so right. He felt so right. Her body was already preparing itself for more, wanting more.
But he wasn’t right.
He was wrong.
Wrong about her—wrong for her—just plain wrong. And she would be making the mistake of her life to give into his sensual onslaught.
How could she believe anything he said or did? This was a man who’d brought her to Jebbai under false pretences. This was a man who’d got her here by claiming he was marrying another, only to think he could claim her for his bride.
This was a man who had lost his grip on reality.
And she would not be part of his fantasy!
She wrenched back her head, fighting off the band of his arm around her neck, pushing him away at his shoulders.
‘No,’ she breathed, her mouth dodging his searching lips. ‘Let me go.’
He caught her hands in his, trapping her forearms against his chest. ‘You want me, don’t try to deny it.’
‘No. I don’t want you,’ she insisted, her voice defiant, even though she knew she was hardly telling the whole truth. ‘Why would I? I have a boyfriend.’
Strangely he smiled. It was the last thing she’d expected and his cool reaction to her words stilled her fight.
‘Ah, of course. Paolo.’ In her motionless state he transferred one wrist to join the other. With his free hand he drew a slow line from her forehead to her chin. ‘The newspapers seemed to suggest he was more than just a boyfriend, though. Wasn’t there talk of marriage between you?’
Her veins turned to ice even as his fingers seemed to sear her soul. How would he know that? Just how long had he been watching her?
