Sheikh's Defiant Wife: Defiant in the Desert. Maisey Yates
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tempting.’ Her smile didn’t slip. ‘But how about when you’re not around? When you’re jetting off to the States or swanning off somewhere being an oil baron?’
‘You can amuse yourself, for there is much that you will enjoy. Swim in the pool. Explore my extensive library.’
‘Just like one long holiday, you mean?’ she questioned brightly.
‘Not necessarily. You will find a role for yourself there, Sara. I know you will. I think you will find that the desert lands are changing. How long is it since you visited the region?’
‘Years,’ she said distractedly. ‘And I think you’d better stop right there. It’s very sweet of you and I’m sure your home is perfectly lovely, but I don’t want to go to Samahan. I want to go back to London because there are still loose ends to tie up. I owe Gabe an explanation about what happened and I want to finish up the project I was working on.’ Her eyes met his. She realised that she wanted him and loved him enough to want to try to make it work. So why not reverse his question to her? ‘But you could come back with me, if you like.’
‘With you?’ His black eyes were hooded.
‘Why not? We can see if we can exist compatibly there—and if we can, then I’ll think about giving Samahan a try. Does that sound reasonable?’
She saw the sudden hardening of his lips and realised that ‘reasonable’ was not on the top of Suleiman’s agenda. He wasn’t used to having his wishes thwarted, particularly not by a woman. He had expected her to fall in with his plans—without stopping to think that she might have plans of her own.
But was he seriously suggesting she might be happy being ensconced in what sounded like the luxury prison of his desert home? Hadn’t that been what she’d spent her whole life rebelling against?
‘What do you think?’ she questioned tentatively.
He slipped his hand between her legs. ‘I think we have wasted enough time talking about geographical escape.’
‘Suleiman—’
He bent his head to her neck and kissed it.
‘You want me to stop?’
‘That’s the last thing I want.’
She thought she heard soft triumph in his laugh as he sheathed himself in a condom and then lay back against the mattress with a look of satisfaction on his face. Like a conquering hero, she thought as he lifted her up like a trophy, hating the part of her which enjoyed that.
His moan echoed hers as he slid her down slowly onto his erection. With each angled thrust of her hips she took him deeper and deeper and she wondered what he was thinking. She knew he was watching her as her blonde hair swung wild and free—and suddenly she found herself performing for him.
Was she trying to prove that she was a match for all those women who had preceded her—by playing with her breasts and biting her lips, her eyes closed as if she was indulging in some wild and secret fantasy?
Whatever it was, it seemed to work because he went crazy for her. Crazier than she’d ever known him. He splayed his dark hands possessively over her hips as he made the penetration deeper still. And each time she was close to orgasm, he stopped. Stopped so that once she actually screamed out loud with pent-up frustration, because he made her build it up all over again.
He did it to her over and over again. Until she begged him to release her and then at last he slid her onto the floor and drove into her, as if it were the very first time all over again. She felt her body shatter with the most powerful orgasm she’d ever known but once it began to recede, she felt a sudden sense of unease.
An unease which grew stronger with every second. Because that had been all about power, hadn’t it? Suleiman was a man who was used to getting his own way and by refusing to conform to his wishes she had taken control of the situation. She had taken control and he would use whatever it took to get it back.
Sex.
Power.
Palaces.
Even words of love which sounded wonderful, until you wondered if he actually knew what they meant. Were they just another lever to get her to see things his way? she wondered.
He’d never even seen her in her usual environment. He didn’t know that very important side of her personality.
‘I want to go back to London,’ she said stubbornly. ‘Do you want to come with me or not?’
‘SAY THAT AGAIN.’
Bathed in the light which flooded into Gabe Steel’s enormous penthouse office, Sara met her boss’s eyes as he drawled his question. He was leaning back in his chair with a look of curiosity in his grey eyes. And Gabe didn’t usually do curiosity. At least, not with his employees. She guessed that leaving him a rather dramatic letter saying she was going away and then asking to be reinstated just a few weeks later was enough to stir anyone’s interest. Even your incredibly high-powered and often cynical boss.
‘I know it sounds incredible,’ she said.
He laughed. ‘Incredible is something of an understatement, Sara. How come you kept it a secret for so long?’
She shrugged. ‘Oh, you know. I’d hate to make out that I’m some poor little rich girl—but everyone treats you differently once they know you’re a princess.’
‘I guess they do.’ His pewter eyes narrowed as he twirled a solid gold pen between his long fingers. ‘So what’s brought about the sudden change of heart?’
Change of heart.
She wondered if Gabe had any idea of how uncannily accurate that particular phrase was. Probably. You didn’t get to be head of one of the world’s biggest advertising agencies without having a finely tuned degree of insight.
‘I was...’ She wondered what he would say if she told him the truth. I was due to get married to a Sultan, but I put a stop to that particular arrangement by having sex with his closest friend. Probably not a good idea. Men could be notoriously tribal about that kind of thing and she didn’t want to portray Suleiman as some sort of bad guy. And anyway, that wasn’t the whole truth, was it? Suleiman wasn’t the reason behind the cancelled wedding. He was just a symptom.
She stared sightlessly out of the penthouse window. A symptom who was currently prowling around her London apartment and making her feel as if she had imprisoned a tiger there.
It was a big apartment—everyone said so. So how come the rooms seemed to have shrunk to the size of matchboxes since Suleiman had accompanied her back from Paris and moved in with her? It had been her mother’s apartment and Sara loved every inch of it, a feeling clearly not shared by her lover.
He had walked through the three huge—or so she’d thought—reception rooms, had barely deigned to look at the kitchen and had given the bedrooms only a cursory glance, before turning to demand where the garden was.
She had hated the way her voice had sounded all defensive. ‘There isn’t one.’
‘No garden?’ He had sounded incredulous, while all her explanations about the convenience of having a nearby park had fallen on deaf ears.
He had complained about the plumbing—which admittedly was fairly ancient—and insisted on having black-out blinds installed in her bedroom. He had commandeered the second bedroom as some kind of makeshift office. Suddenly emails began arriving at odd times of the day and night. Important documents from the US and the Middle East were delivered daily, while a series of efficient sounding staff would ring and she would hear him speaking in his native tongue. She told him it was like living at the United Nations.
He said he was trying to decide whether or not to set up a London headquarters. But that was a big