Desert Jewels: The Sheikh's Undoing / The Sultan's Choice / Girl in the Bedouin Tent. Annie West
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it, what then?
When she’d told him about her father he’d seen a streak of steel and determination which might indicate that she wasn’t a total marshmallow—but still he couldn’t risk it. She was far more valuable to him as a member of staff than as a temporary lover.
He saw that she was still waiting for an answer to her question, the anxious hostess eager for reassurance, and he gave her a careless smile. ‘I think it will be perfectly adequate for my needs,’ he answered.
Isobel nodded. Not the most heartfelt of thanks, it was true—but who cared? She was feeling so disorientated that she could barely think straight. Had she imagined that almost electric feeling which had sizzled between them just now? When something unknown and tantalising had shimmered in the air around them, making her blood grow thick with desire? When she’d longed for him to pull her into his arms and just kiss her?
Apprehension skittered over her skin as she tried to tell herself that she didn’t find Tariq attractive. She didn’t. Her innate fear of feckless men had always protected her from his undeniable charisma.
So what had happened to that precious immunity now? Was it because they were in her home, and on her territory instead of his, that she felt so shockingly vulnerable in his presence? Or because she’d been stupid enough to blurt out parts of her life which she’d always kept tucked away, and in so doing had opened up a vulnerable side of herself?
Suddenly she was achingly aware of his proximity. Every taut sinew of his powerful body seemed to tantalise her and send a thousand questions racing through her mind. What would it be like to be held by him? To be pressed against that muscular physique while his fingertips touched her aching breasts?
Aware that her cheeks had grown flushed, she lifted her eyes to his, wondering what had happened to all her certainties. ‘Is there…is there anything else you need?’
He wondered what she would do if he answered that question honestly, and a wry smile curved the edges of his lips as he noted her sudden rise in colour. Would her lips fall open with shock if he told her that he longed for her to fall to her knees, to take him in her mouth and suck him? Or would she simply comply with the easy efficiency she showed in all other elements of their working relationship? Would she swallow? he found himself wondering irreverently.
His desire rocketed, frustrating him with a heavy throbbing at his aching groin. He needed her out of here. Now. Before he did or said something he might later regret.
‘Leave me now, Izzy,’ he commanded unsteadily. ‘Unless you’re planning to stay and watch while I shower?’
SOMEHOW, Isobel managed to hold onto her composure until she’d closed the bedroom door, and then she rushed back down the creaky staircase to the kitchen. Once there, she leaned against one of the cupboards, her eyes squeezed tight shut as she tried not to think about the Sheikh’s powerful body, which would soon be acquainting itself with her ancient little bathroom. Her heart was hammering as an imagination she hadn’t known she possessed began to taunt her with vivid images.
She thought about Tariq naked. With little droplets of water gleaming against his flesh.
She thought about Tariq drying—the towel lingering on his damp, golden flesh as he rubbed himself all over.
Swallowing down the sudden lump which had risen in her throat, she shook her head. Weaving erotic fantasies about him would lead to nothing but trouble—and so would baring her soul. Taking Tariq into her confidence would only add to the vulnerability she was already experiencing. She wondered what had made her confide in him about her father, and the fact that she’d never known him.
She knew she had to pull herself together. She had been the one who’d invited him to stay, and he was going to be here for the next few days whether she liked it or not. Just because her feelings towards him seemed to have changed—what mattered was that she didn’t let it show.
Because Tariq was no fool. He was a master of experience when it came to the opposite sex, and he was bound to start noticing her reaction if she wasn’t careful. If she dissolved into mush every time he came near, or her fingers started trembling just like they were doing now, wouldn’t that give the game away? Wouldn’t he guess that her senses had been shaken into life and she’d become acutely attracted to him? And just how embarrassing would that be?
She needed a plan. Something to stop him from dominating her mind with arousing thoughts.
Opening the door of the freezer, she peered inside and began to devise a crash course in displacement therapy which would see her through the days ahead. She would make sure she had plenty to occupy her. She would be as brisk and efficient as she was at work, and maybe this crazy awareness of him would go away.
But that was easier said than done. By the time Tariq came back downstairs she was busy chopping up ingredients for a risotto, but she made the mistake of lifting her head to look at him. And then found herself mesmerised by the intimate image of her boss fresh from the bath. His hair was damp and ruffled, and he carried with him the faint tang of her ginger and lemon gel.
Isobel swallowed. ‘Bath okay?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘You didn’t bother telling me that you don’t have a shower.’
‘I guessed you find out soon enough.’
‘So I did,’ he growled. ‘It’s the most ancient bathroom I’ve used in years—and the water was tepid.’
‘Don’t they say that tepid baths are healthier?’
‘Do they?’ He looked around. ‘Where’s your TV?’
‘I don’t have one.’
‘You don’t have a TV?’
Isobel shot him a defensive look. ‘It isn’t mandatory, you know. There’s a whole wall of books over there. Help yourself to one of those.’
‘You mean read?’
‘That is what people usually do with books.’
With a short sigh of impatience, Tariq wandered over to examine the neat rows of titles which lined an entire wall of her sitting room.
The only things he ever read were financial papers or contracts, or business-related articles he caught up with when he was travelling. Occasionally his attention would be caught by some glossy car magazine, which would lure him into changing his latest model for something even more powerful. But he never read books. He had neither the time nor the inclination to lose himself in the world of fiction. He remembered that stupid story he’d read at school—about some animal which had been abandoned. He remembered the tears which had welled up in his eyes when its mother had been shot and the way he’d slammed the volume shut. Books made you feel things—and the only thing he wanted to feel right now were the tantalising curves of Izzy’s body.
But that was a bad idea. And he needed something to occupy his thoughts other than musing about what kind of underwear a woman like that would wear beneath her rather frumpy clothes.
In the end he forced himself to read a thriller—grateful for the novel’s rapid pace, which somehow seemed to suck him into an entirely believable story of a one-time lap dancer successfully nailing a high-profile banker for fraud. He was so engrossed in the tale that Izzy’s voice startled him, and he looked up to find her standing over him, her face all pink and shiny.
‘Mmm?’ he questioned, thinking how soft and kissable her lips looked.
‘Supper’s ready.’
‘Supper?’
‘You do eat supper?’
Actually he usually ate dinner—an elegant feast of a meal—rather than a large spoonful of glossy