The Sheikh's Collection. Оливия Гейтс
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thought of Suleiman licking someone else’s breasts made dark and hateful thoughts crowd into her head. The image of him sliding his tongue between another woman’s legs made her feel almost dizzy with rage. And jealousy. And a million other things she had no right to feel.
She should have known this would happen. She should have listened to all the doubts she’d refused to listen to that day in the desert. When she’d been so hungry for him and so impressed—yes, impressed—when he’d offered to fly her anywhere in the world that she’d smiled the smile of a besotted woman and said yes.
And now look what had happened. Her feelings for him hadn’t died, that was for sure. She still cared for him—more than she wanted to care for him and more than it was safe to care. Yet deep down she knew that this trip was supposed to be about getting the whole passion thing out of their system. For both of them. Something which had begun so messily needed to have a clean ending so that they could both move on; she knew that, too.
So what had happened?
Suleiman had pulled out all the stops—that was what had happened. He was a man she had always adored, and now he had an added wow factor, because his vast self-made wealth gave him an undeniable glamour. And glamour mixed with desire made for a very powerful cocktail indeed.
He had whisked her onto his own, private jet—and she’d got the distinct feeling that he had enjoyed showing it off—and flown her to a city she’d never got around to visiting before. That was the first mistake. Was it a good idea to go to the city of romance if you were trying to convince yourself that you weren’t still in love with a man?
He had booked them into the presidential suite at the Georges V, where the staff all seemed to know him by name. Sara had been brought up in a palace, so she knew pretty much everything there was to know about luxury, but she fell in love with the iconic Parisian hotel.
Next he took her shopping. Not just, as he said, because she had brought only a very inappropriate wardrobe with her—but because he wanted to buy her things. She told him that she would prefer to buy things for herself. He told her that simply wasn’t acceptable. There was a short stand-off, followed by a making-up session which had involved a bowl of whipped cream and a lot of imagination. And because she felt weak from all their love-making and dizzy just with the sense of being there—she went ahead and let him buy her the stuff anyway.
The crisp January weather was cold so he splashed out on an ankle-length sheepskin coat and some thigh-high leather boots.
‘But you disapproved when I was wearing a very similar pair back in England,’ she had objected.
‘Yes, but these are for my eyes only,’ he’d purred, pillowing his head against his folded arms as he’d leaned back against the sofa to watch her slide them on when they had arrived back at the hotel with their purchases. ‘And they will look very good when worn with nothing but a pair of panties.’
Ah, yes. Panties. That seemed to be another area of his expertise. He indulged her taste for lingerie with tiny, wispy bras designed to highlight her nipples. He bought her an outrageous pair of crotchless panties and later on that day proved just what a time-effective purchase they could be. Silky camiknickers and matching suspender belts were added to the costly pile he accumulated in the city’s most exclusive store, with Suleiman displaying an uncanny knack of knowing just what would suit her.
Sara sat up in bed and brushed away the last few crumbs of croissant. ‘How many?’ she questioned, getting out of bed and feeling acutely aware that he was watching her.
He frowned. ‘How many what?’
‘Women.’ She walked across the room towards the windows, wondering why she had gone ahead and asked him a question she had vowed not to ask.
‘Sara,’ he said softly. ‘It’s knowing women as I do which allows me to give you so much pleasure.’
‘Yes,’ she said, staring fixedly out of the giant windows which commanded a stunning view of the city, where the Eiffel Tower dominated a landscape made light by the shimmering waters of the Seine. ‘I imagine it is.’
She listened to the sudden sound of silence which had descended on the room. One of those silences between two people which she’d realised could say so much. Or rather, so little. Silences when she had to fight to bite back the words which were bursting to come out. Words which had been building up inside her for days—years—and which she knew he wouldn’t want to hear.
Instead, she stared out at the cityscape in front of her as if it was the most wonderful thing she’d ever seen, which wasn’t easy when her vision was starting to get all blurred.
‘Sara?’
She shook her head, praying that he wouldn’t pursue it. Leave me alone. Let me get over it in my own time.
‘Sara, look at me.’
It took a moment or two before she had composed herself enough to turn around and curve him a bright smile. ‘What?’
His eyes were narrowed and speculative. ‘Are those tears I see?’
‘No, of course it isn’t,’ she said, dabbing furiously at her eyes with a bunched fist. ‘And if it is, then it’s only my damned hormones. You must know all about those.’
‘Come here.’
‘I don’t want to. I’m enjoying the view.’
His gaze slid over her naked body. ‘I’m enjoying the view too, but I want you to come back to bed and tell me what’s wrong.’
She considered refusing—but what else was she going to do in this vast arena of the bedroom, with Suleiman watching her like that? She felt vulnerable—and not just because she was naked. She felt vulnerable with each hour of every day, knowing she was losing her heart to him.
He held out his arms and she felt as if she’d lost some kind of battle as she went to him, loving the way the flat of his hand smoothed down the spill of her hair as she climbed into bed beside him. She loved the feel of his naked body entwined with hers. She snuggled up to him, hoping that her closeness would distract him enough to stop asking questions she had no desire to answer. But no. He tilted up her chin, so that there was nowhere to look except into the ebony gleam of his eyes.
‘Want to talk about it, princess?’
She shook her head. ‘Not really.’
‘Shall I guess?’
‘Please don’t, Suleiman. It’s not important.’
‘I think it is. You’re falling in love with me.’
Sara flinched. Maybe she wasn’t as good at hiding her feelings as she’d thought. But then, neither was Suleiman as clever as he thought. He’d got the sentiment right—but the tense was wrong. She wasn’t ‘falling’ in love with him—she’d always been in love with him. Fancy him not knowing that. She gave him a cool smile. ‘That’s an occupational hazard for you, I expect?’
‘Yes,’ he said seriously. ‘I’m afraid it is.’
She shook her head, laughing in spite of everything. ‘You really are the most arrogant man I’ve ever known.’
‘I have never denied my arrogance.’
‘Admitting that doesn’t make it all right!’
She was trying to wriggle out of his arms, but he was having none of it. He captured both her wrists in his hands, stilling her so that their eyes were on a collision course.
‘I can’t help who I am, Sara. And I have enough experience—’
‘And then some.’
‘To recognise when a woman starts to lose her heart to me. Sweetheart, will you please stop wriggling—and glaring—and listen to what I have to say?’
‘I don’t want to listen.’
‘I think