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Tonight he looked more like a sheikh than ever. For the first time he had put aside the western garb she was used to seeing him in and that was so much a part of business in modern Hebra and instead he wore the traditional robes of the region. In the fine white shirt, the traditional headdress with its double cord of woven goat-hair and sheep’s wool, and the long black robes edged with gold braid, Khaled looked larger than life, a real desert king.
She’d seen the way he’d watched her tonight, had felt his eyes on her, and on those times she’d been unable to resist looking his way she’d been held by the authority of his features, the sheer power of his eyes, the potent message they contained.
He wanted her.
Sure, she’d known it before, she’d felt his need on his lips and in his kiss, but never had it taken on the significance it had now, the way it rocked her as they made their way almost silently across the pebble-strewn sands to her tent. He knew she was leaving yet still he wanted her.
Under her long robe a multitude of sensations beset her. Silk slid across her skin at every move, the metal belt shimmying softly over her hips, and tiny bells jangled softly on her ankles. She felt ultra-feminine, exquisitely sensual and sexy in a way she never had before.
Was it the garments that lay hidden under the abaya or was it the way Khaled had looked at her through dinner, as though he was already slowly peeling off her clothes, that made her flesh tingle and gave her such a rush of moist heat?
It didn’t matter. What suddenly did was the realisation that she could no longer deny.
She wanted him too.
It made no sense. She was leaving soon. Returning to her fashion-industry life in Milan and leaving the desert far behind her. She was getting what she really wanted, wasn’t she? Escape and freedom. Whereas Khaled meant the exact opposite. Khaled would keep her here forever. Even though his crazy marriage plans had been aborted, she knew he would possess her if she let him. How then could she even imagine that she wanted any part of him?
But imagination didn’t come into it. What she wanted was real.
They reached her tent, and he followed her through the opening, the heaviness of her need threatening to swamp her, to drown all rational thought. Suddenly she didn’t want to say goodnight. Suddenly she wanted to prolong this moment, this time out here, in the soft lamplight of a lush Bedouin tent.
He placed one hand on her shoulder, angling her towards him. ‘You have the most expressive eyes, did you know?’ He lifted the other hand to her mask, tracing her cheek through the fabric. ‘You didn’t mind wearing this? It must seem strange to you.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said. Her voice sounded clouded and thick. ‘It’s the custom here. I don’t mind.’
‘Well, you have no need of it now,’ he said, his hand reaching behind to release the tie that held it in place. It dropped to the floor at the same time he removed her scarf. Automatically she reached up a hand to smooth back her hair, suddenly nervous, expectant.
‘Your cloak too,’ he said, his voice heavy with need. ‘If you wish.’
She hesitated fractionally. It was only an outer robe, but by taking it off, what was she saying to him? The silken garments that she wore beneath hardly constituted a barrier between them. But then, the way her body was humming, her need accelerating, maybe it was time the barriers came down.
Her fingers fumbled their way to the closures that ran from her neck to her waist, undoing them in turn. Only when she had finished, her hands unsure of where to go next, did he put his hands to her shoulders, parting the robe and peeling it down her arms, finally letting go and allowing its weight to drag it to the floor, exposing her to his gaze.
She held her breath.
Breath hissed through his teeth. After the severity and relative shapelessness of the abaya, he had expected that her feminine shape in the garments his seamstresses had prepared would please him. But his thoughts and preconceptions had in no way prepared him for this.
She was a goddess.
The blue skirt hugged her low down on her hips, the golden threads of the fabric winking in the lamplight with every tiny movement, the shadow of her long legs an enticing promise beneath. More gold bound her breasts, concealing even as it accentuated her womanly curves, leaving bare the exquisite skin-scape of her midriff.
She might not have been happy about having her clothes swapped but right now she didn’t look as if she held it against him. He’d wanted to strip away all the shackles of her previous life, to let her absorb and enjoy the full experience of the desert without the barrier of western clothes to hide behind.
And, if he was honest, there was more than a modicum of self-interest involved. He’d longed to see her out of her usual attire, her well-designed yet far too tailored attire.
