Banished to the Harem Page 4

  ‘It sounds beautiful.’

  ‘You would love it,’ Rakhal assured her, and for a moment he glimpsed her there—the jewel in his harem.

  They ate more food from his country, and she could taste the sun. When he could not hear something she said he moved his chair around the table until he sat next to her. Dessert was a shared plate, and he fed her fruit from his fingers again. Sometimes Natasha forgot she was in a busy restaurant. Sometimes she forgot her own inexperience under the gaze of this very experienced man. For his voice made her ears ache to hear him, had her inching a little closer to him.

  For Rakhal too this night was different. There was candour—he normally would not tell a woman such things about his home, about his life and his thoughts, but with her conversation was pleasing. Now they were speaking of traditions, and he was honest—telling her that one day he would marry, that he would return to Alzirz and select his bride. Though he was not completely honest, for he did not tell her it would be soon.

  ‘How do you choose?’ She was more than a little curious. ‘Will she be wealthy? From another royal family, perhaps?’

  ‘We do not need wealth—Alzirz is rare in that its royals choose their partners from the people. My grandmother was Sheikha Queen; my grandfather was a wise man from the desert. She chose him for his knowledge, for at times the country moves too quickly and we need to remember the ways and teachings of old. When I am King …’

  ‘You will be King!’ Natasha couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice. ‘Are you scared?’

  He gave her an extremely quizzical look. ‘I am never scared.’

  She doubted he was. She had never met a man so assured. ‘So you’re the eldest?’

  ‘I have no brothers or sisters.’ He saw her slight frown and it was merited—because in his country it was expected that there would be many heirs. It was imperative to the country’s survival, in fact. ‘My mother died giving birth.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Rakhal did not do sentiment. He had been brought up without it and, as his father had explained, he could not miss someone he had never known. But there was a twist somewhere inside him as she expressed her condolences.

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘She died giving birth to me,’ Rakhal said again. ‘How would I know?’

  It was certainly rarely discussed. In fact Rakhal could only recall a few brief conversations where his mother had been mentioned even in passing. Needing more, he had once spoken with an old man in the desert—a man who, it was rumoured, had lived for one hundred and twenty yellow moons. But tonight was the first time someone had directly asked him about his mother.

  ‘You must know something?’

  ‘She was from the desert too,’ Rakhal said. ‘From an ancient tribe with rare lineage.’ He remembered what the old man had told him. ‘She was apparently a wise and beautiful soul.’

  He had revealed too much—or rather more than he was used to. He looked down and saw their hands intertwined. Rakhal was not usually a man who held hands, not in this way, and so he reverted to ways more usual for him to get the night back to where he felt safer. He pressed his thumb into her palm. The beat of pressure and the slide of his fingers around her wrist had the colour rising on her cheeks. He was tired of talking. He wanted to bed her. But when she did not return the pressure, when she rather pointedly removed her hand from his, Rakhal made no attempt to retrieve it.

  ‘I should take you home.’

  He should, for the restaurant was practically empty. And yet she was curiously disappointed and terribly conflicted as he led her through the foyer. He’d been the perfect gentleman—only she wasn’t sure it was a perfect gentleman she wanted. But their night was coming to its conclusion, for she would not be asking him in.

  And perhaps Rakhal realised that. Realised that this might be his last chance. For he halted her, turned her to face him.

  ‘Have you enjoyed this evening?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘I have enjoyed talking with you.’

  She did not understand how rare, how unique this compliment was—could not understand that Rakhal did not do deep conversations with the women he dated. And yet he had enjoyed talking with Natasha.

  He smiled to himself as the colour rose from her neck to her ears. He saw the pearls that hung from her earlobes and his fingers moved and captured one.

  ‘These are beautiful.’

  ‘They were my mother’s. I don’t usually wear jewellery …’ She moved her head away from him—just a little, but enough to signal a warning. A warning Rakhal did not heed. Instead his other hand moved to the jewel that hung on her chest, a heavier pearl, and he recognised its beauty. He was surrounded by it after all.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t like it …’ She could hardly get the words out, could not carry on a conversation with his hands so close, with his fingers grazing her flesh. ‘It irritates …’ she attempted. But it didn’t tonight, and neither did the fingers near her throat. Her skin almost begged for more of him. ‘But I make an exception sometimes for these.’

  ‘I can see why. The pearls are exquisite.’

  She could hardly breathe. One hand was at her ear, the other near her throat, and she felt trapped, cornered—but deliciously so.

  ‘They were actually my grandmother’s …’ Her voice was too high and breathy. She was sure he did not want her family history—except these were the one precious thing that remained. Oh, they weren’t worth a fortune, but the antique rose-gold was precious, and there was just so much history there. ‘And her mother’s before that. She …’

  Rakhal picked up a strand of red hair that had escaped from the clasp and ran it through his fingers, then brushed it behind her ear, his fingers trailing along her neck. His knowing eyes watched the pulse quicken. Feeling the beat of it on his warm fingers, he wanted her hair down. He wanted to taste her mouth and he wanted it now.

  Perhaps he knew how his kiss would affect her. For before it was delivered he moved her to a wall, to a darkened alcove away from other guests and the night concierge, to a place where she was almost alone with him. And there was so much want in his dark eyes, so much sex in his gaze, it frightened her more than he could know.

  ‘Perhaps I should …’ Natasha had started to tell him she should perhaps get home, because now the moment had arrived she was both wanting and terrified, but then she could not speak for his mouth was on hers.

  He had chosen his moment carefully, in the midst of a sentence, when her mind was just a touch less on him. He tasted first lipstick, and he saw her eyes widen, and then he did not look any more. He closed his eyes and felt instead—felt her momentary resistance, a brief flailing in his arms and then acceptance.

  And she did accept—for how nice it was to kiss him, or rather to be kissed by such a man. Nothing came close, for when his mouth found hers quite simply it overruled.

  It overruled fear, it overruled logic, it blew out logical thought processes—all it did was consume. All night she had wondered about this moment, when the skilled attack might come, and even with him so close, still when the moment had arrived it had surprised her. And the kiss surprised her too, for it surpassed all she had known, all she’d thought she knew, all she’d even dreamed. His lips were soft, yet firm, and extremely insistent. His hands were precise. They went to her shoulders and kept her still as he kissed her thoroughly, as he drowned that first futile hint of protest with his mouth, and she felt the muscle of his tongue and flared at the taste of him.

  Completely instant was her response, and there, beneath the layer of cologne that had teased her since the morning, was a musky male scent that was simply a trigger, for her hands shot to his hair and her fingers knotted into the silken raven locks. It revealed more than teasing for her senses, for his hair was glossy with exotic pomade, and she inhaled the oils. Her mouth moved to his command, and when it did, when she was gone, when he knew she was ready, he toppled her a little more agains
t him, moved her deeper into his embrace.

  It was more instinct than a plan he was following now. For Rakhal, too, this kiss was different. It was a kiss that was not just about what was to follow.

  Rarely did he fully indulge—when he returned to Alzirz, in the time before he chose his wife, every need of his would be met by his harem. There would be no need to kiss, no need to arouse. It would be his pleasure that was the mutual goal. And then he would marry—and, yes, he would kiss and arouse his wife, but with a different aim. For she would be removed from his bed after two days. And as he waited for news of a successful coupling his harem would indulge him again.

  But here in this strange country there were different rules: women’s demands were different. It was a place where you kissed for pleasure.

  What a pleasure.

  His tongue was probing, his chin rough, his mouth smooth, and his hands knowing—reading her want as if it were dotted in Braille on her dress. They were down at her waist and then at her hips, pulling her in a little more, enough for her to feel his hardness. She gasped into his mouth and forgot her surroundings, arched into him. He pressed her in still further and she felt him through her clothes, felt a rare wild recklessness—that was what he made her feel—that a man she had met just this morning could have her cast her morals to the wind.

  He would never know the struggle as she forced her body to halt.

  He felt her lips pull away and could only admire her, for there was heat beneath his fingers and her breath was rapid and soft on his cheek, her eyes dilated with arousal. Another moment, Rakhal was sure, she’d have come—and not just to his room.

  ‘I will get you home.’

  She was shaking beneath his fingers and he must not rush her. She was a virgin, Rakhal was quite sure of it—which was an incredibly rare treat these days.

  Tomorrow, Rakhal vowed.

  On his last night as a single man in London he would bed her.

  Rakhal was completely certain.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE ride home was not what she was expecting.

  Natasha had thought, as she stepped into the limousine, that she would spend the journey fending him off—especially when this time he sat next to her. She had, after all, felt his fierce erection, had tasted the passion of his kiss. Her lips still felt bruised and swollen, and her body could not settle.

  His thigh sometimes met hers as the vehicle turned a corner, but there was no repeat of the kiss, and, unlike Natasha, Rakhal seemed completely calm, perhaps even a little indifferent. She wondered if he was annoyed—if perhaps he thought she had led him on … She wasn’t even sure, as they pulled up at her house, if she would see him again—but so badly she wanted to.

  He did not attempt to reclaim her mouth. Just gave her a brief kiss on the cheek as the driver came round to get the door. Nor did he try to angle for an invitation to come in.

  He wished her goodnight and saw the flicker of confusion in her eyes as the car door was opened and cold air climbed in. Rakhal knew exactly what he was doing. Tonight she would lie burning, recalling their kiss, wondering if he would call her, and he would keep her wondering—would time things carefully. When she was sure she had blown it, when she was sure it was over, her doorbell would ring and there would be flowers and jewels to soothe her, and …

  Rakhal watched her climb out of the car, saw the feminine curves that tomorrow he would caress, and for the second time in his life thought he would enjoy choosing a gift. He had kissed her as she wore gold and he would take her when she wore silver. A dress would be included in his gift …

  Not that Natasha knew that.

  She should be relieved, she told herself. She had had the most wonderful night, Rakhal had been a wonderful companion, not quite the perfect gentleman, and yet she was disappointed. Her body still twitched from his touch; her heart still skipped as she reached her door.

  She turned around and gave a brief wave. She certainly would not ask him in to her modest house. But as she went to push in the key she frowned as the door opened under the weight of her hand alone and she saw that the lock was broken.

  The driver awaited Rakhal’s instruction, and Rakhal waited for her to step inside. He frowned as she turned to him. Her eyes were urgent and he could see the fear on her face. Immediately he stepped from the car.

  She didn’t need to say it. One look into the hall and it was clear she had been burgled.

  He walked past her, went straight inside, and saw that it was in chaos. Drawers had been pulled out, and the sofa had been slashed. He halted Natasha as she went to run upstairs, caught her wrist and pulled her down to his level.

  ‘I will check upstairs,’ Rakhal said, instantly taking control. ‘You will wait in my car.’

  He was relieved that he had not driven off sooner, worried too as to what might have happened if he had not taken her out that night. He went to climb the stairs and check for himself if the intruder was still there. Rakhal had no fear, his irritation was only that she did not obey him—for as he reached the top of the stairs Natasha came up behind him.

  ‘Go back down,’ he ordered. ‘I told you to wait in the car.’

  But she brushed past him, opening her bedroom door, and he heard her sob of horror. He was black with fury. The mattress was slashed too, the wardrobe emptied, boxes, bags—everything lay strewn and torn.

  ‘You are to go down and wait in the car.’ His driver had come into the house now, and he was almost as dark and as forbidding as his master. Rakhal spoke to him in Arabic. ‘Go with him,’ Rakhal said. ‘You are safe. I will call the police …’

  ‘Please don’t.’ They were the first words she had spoken since leaving the car and he could hear the shock and terror in her voice. ‘Please, Rakhal, I don’t want you to call the police.’

  ‘Of course I must. You must report this …’

  ‘No!’

  She’d held onto her tears for so long, scared of what she might unleash, and she held them back now. She pressed her fingers into her eyes to stop them from falling, clamped her mouth on her chattering teeth and swallowed the scream that was building.

  She managed words instead, scarcely able to believe what she was saying, yet knowing in her heart that it was true. ‘I think that’s exactly what my brother wants me to do.’

  She was incredibly grateful that Rakhal was here, that he did not ask questions, that he did not pry. Instead he held her for a moment and then led her to his car. He poured something into a small glass and then added water and ice. She watched the fluid turn milky. This time it was not tea.

  ‘Arak,’ he informed her, and she took a sip.

  It was strong and sickly and she tasted anise. It burnt as it made its way down to her stomach. She sipped slowly as he made a few phone calls—though not to the police, for he spoke in his own language.

  ‘I have people coming to the house to make sure it is safe.’ He looked at her. ‘Are you sure you do not want me to call the police?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be calling to report the robbery,’ Natasha said.

  ‘You really believe that your brother would do this to you?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think at the moment,’ Natasha admitted. ‘But if it was him I’m not sure I’m ready to turn in my own brother.’ Panic was rising within her. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe it was a simple burglary. ‘I don’t know what to do—’

  ‘I told you earlier,’ Rakhal interrupted, ‘you do not have to make any decisions tonight.’ There was no question of him leaving her here to deal with this alone. ‘You will come back to my hotel with me.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘EVERYTHING is being taken care of.’

  They were back at the hotel, in his sumptuous suite, though Natasha didn’t really take in her surroundings. She sat on a chair as he made another phone call, and despite the warmth of the room she felt as cold as if she was sitting out in the street. It wasn’t so much the burglary that had upset her, more the thought that Mark cou
ld stoop so low. She knew that now she was safe, and that now that things were being dealt with, Rakhal would have some questions, but when he came off the phone he told her first what he had done.

  ‘I have a member of my staff at your home,’ Rakhal explained. ‘I have informed him that he is not to touch anything—that will give you some time to decide how you want to proceed. Now, I must ask you again—do you really think your brother did this?’

  ‘Yes.’ It was the most terrible admission, it actually hurt to say it, but she was tired of covering up for Mark and exhausted from the stress.

  ‘Why would he terrify you like this?’

  ‘Money.’ Natasha’s eyes briefly met Rakhal’s, but then she tore her gaze away, guilty at her admission, as if she were betraying Mark by voicing it. She still hoped that she was wrong. ‘I’m going to ring him …’

  ‘And say what?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Natasha admitted. ‘Maybe I’m wrong …’ Her heart lurched with hope she knew was false. ‘Maybe I’ve just been incredibly unlucky to have my car stolen and my house broken into on the same day …’ Then she closed her eyes, remembering what her brother had said about the car insurance.

  ‘I will give you some privacy,’ Rakhal said, and she was grateful for that.

  She spoke with Mark for perhaps a minute at best, and then sat for a moment or two more in silence, till Rakhal came out. She gave him a pale smile.

  ‘I’m not unlucky.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  So too was Natasha—more than he could know.

  ‘Did he admit to it?’ Rakhal asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ Natasha said. ‘And he doesn’t even suspect that I think it’s him—I just knew from his voice, from the questions he asked …’

  ‘Natasha, can you tell me what is going on?’

  ‘It’s not your concern.’ She really hadn’t told anybody. Oh, her friends knew in part, but she had never really revealed all of it to anyone. ‘It’s better that you don’t get involved.’