Lucy Gordon: The Sheikh’s Reward

He held her left hand in both of his and studied the fingers.

‘No rings,’ he observed. ‘You are neither married nor promised, unless you are one of those modern women who scorn to tell the world that you belong to a man. Or maybe you scorn to let yourself belong?’

‘I belong to no man,’ she said. ‘I belong to myself, and no man will ever own me.’

‘Then you have never known love. When you do, you’ll find that your aloof ideas mean nothing. When you love, you will give, and it must be all of yourself, or the gift means nothing.’

‘And who do you belong to?’ she demanded with spirit.

He laughed. ‘That is quite another matter. But I could say that I belong to a million people.’ Kamar had a population of one million. ‘No part of my life is entirely my own. Even my heart is not mine to give. Tell me about the little man with you. I wondered if he might have been your lover.’

‘Would that have made any difference to you?’

‘None at all, since he made no effort to protect you from me. A man who cannot hold onto his woman is no man.’

‘Do I need protecting from you?’ Fran mused, teasing him with her eyes.

He laid his lips against her hand. ‘I wonder if we’ll discover that we each need protection from the other?’ he said thoughtfully.

‘Who knows?’ she murmured, replying as she felt her role required. ‘The pleasure will come in discovering.’

‘And you are a woman made for pleasure.’

Fran drew a slow breath, shocked at how much the words affected her. She was used to hearing her brains praised. Howard admired her looks but was just as likely to acclaim her common sense. And her common sense told her that, while passion mattered, it wasn’t the whole of life. Suddenly she was no longer sure of that.

He listened to her silence and added, ‘You’re not going to pretend not to know what I mean.’

‘There are many kinds of pleasure,’ she fenced.

‘Not for us. For you and I there is only one kind- the pleasure to be shared by a man and a woman in the heat of desire.’

‘Isn’t it a little soon to be thinking of desire?’

‘We were thinking of desire the moment our eyes met. Don’t try to deny it.’

She couldn’t have begun to deny it. The truth was shocking but it was still the truth. She wondered wildly if she could jump out of the car and flee, but he was holding her hand in a grip that was only superficially gentle. Underneath, it was unbreakable.

He touched her face with his fingertips. The next thing she knew, his lips were on hers in the lightest kiss she’d ever known. It was so light that it might not have happened, except that it was followed by another on her chin, her jaw, her eyes, and again on her lips. She barely felt them, but she felt their effects in the tingling excitement they produced all over her body.

This was alarming. If he’d tried to overwhelm her with power she could have defended herself. But Sheikh Ali was an artist, putting out all his artistry to bring her under his spell. And there seemed to be no defence against that.

She moved helplessly against him, neither returning his kisses nor fending him off. He looked down into her face, but it was too dark in the car for him to find what he wanted to know. Nor could she see the little frown of uncertainty between his eyes.

The long, sleek car glided to a halt in a quiet street in London’s most exclusive area. Slowly he released her. The chauffeur opened the door and Ali took her hand to assist her out. Then she was stepping out onto the pavement, and realising what she ought to have thought of before-that he had brought her not to a restaurant but to his home.

She knew this was the moment when she should act sensibly and run, but what kind of journalist ran away at the first hint of danger?

She gave herself a little shake. Of course there was no danger. What had put that thought into her head?

The tall windows of the mansion were filled with light. One on the ground floor had the curtains pulled back, revealing crystal chandeliers and lavish furnishings.

Slowly the front door opened. A tall man in Arab robes and headdress stood there massively.

‘Welcome to my humble home,’ said Prince Ali Ben Saleem.

AS SHEentered the house Fran blinked at her gorgeous surroundings. She was in a large hallway, dominated by a huge, sweeping staircase, and with double doors on either side. There were exotic tiles beneath her feet, and more of them covering the walls. It was bewildering but gorgeous.

Every set of doors leading off the hall was closed, but at that moment one pair was thrown open and a man emerged. He approached Ali, not appearing to notice Fran, and addressed him in a language she didn’t understand. While the two men talked she glanced through the doors and saw that the room was an office. The walls were covered with charts and maps, there were three fax machines, a row of telephones and a computer unlike any she had ever seen. Fran guessed that it was state of the art. So that was where he did the deals that earned him a million a day.

Ali noticed the direction of her glance and spoke sharply to the man, who retreated into the office and closed the door. Ali put his arm about Fran’s shoulder, guiding her firmly away. He was smiling, but there was no mistaking the irresistible pressure he was exerting.

‘That is only my office,’ he said. ‘In there I do very dull things that wouldn’t interest you.’

‘Who knows? Perhaps I would be interested?’ Fran said provocatively.

Ali laughed. ‘Such a beautiful woman need think only how to be more beautiful still, and to please the man who is enchanted by her.’

How about that? Fran thought, annoyed. Prehistoric, male chauvinist-

Ali threw open another set of doors and Fran gasped at the sight that met her eyes. It was a large, luxuriously decorated room with a bay window, in which stood a table laid for two. The plates were the finest porcelain with heavy gold bands around the edge. By each place stood three glasses of priceless crystal. The cutlery was solid gold.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she murmured.

‘For you, nothing is too good,’ Ali declared.

For me-or for whoever you happened to pick up, Fran thought, determined to keep her wits about her. But aloud all she said was, ‘You’re too kind.’

He led her to the table and pulled a chair out for her like the humblest of attendants. Part of the act, Fran decided, amused. All her journalistic instincts were on full alert, and while she seemed to be merely languidly accepting whatever happened she was actually observing every detail.

At the same time, she couldn’t deny that she was enjoying herself. Ali was simply the most handsome man she’d ever seen. In the casino she’d seen him mainly sitting at the table, or at a distance. Now he was on his feet and close to her she felt the full impact of his magnificence.

He was about six feet two in height, with long legs and broad shoulders. Yet he didn’t give the impression of being heavily built. He walked softly, making no sound, but nobody could have overlooked him. His movements had the lightness of a panther ready to spring.

His face was more than merely good-looking. It was a study in contradictions. At first glance it was European, inherited from his mother. Yet his Arab father was also there. Fran had read about Prince Saleem, a fierce man who inspired terror and devotion among his people. He too was in Ali’s face in the dark chocolate eyes, the curved, stubborn mouth, and the air of proud authority.

Yet Ali had more than looks. His charisma was so strong that it was practically a force field. He radiated strength and intensity. And, while some of it must have come from having been born to rule, her instincts told her that his vibrant, emotional power was all his own.