Sandra Marton - The Sheikh's Wayward Wife

When it ended, the man swung around, folded his arms and studied her.

For the first time she noticed what he looked like. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Long-legged. He wore a black dinner suit, not a djellebah . His hair was thick and dark. She couldn’t tell the color of his eyes but they were deep-set in a face that was harsh and hard…

And beautiful. Savagely beautiful, if there were such a thing.

Slowly, so slowly that she felt the deliberateness of it, his eyes moved over her. Over her face, her breasts, her body. She knew her soaked djellebah was clinging to her.

What could he see?

Everything, she thought. The shape of her breasts. The sudden tightening of her nipples. The length of her legs.

Layla made a little sound in the back of her throat. His eyes rose to hers. To her horror, she felt a rush of heat at what she saw in that beautiful, terrifying face.

The sound of the sea, the sigh of the breeze…everything faded. His lips curved in a smile, the kind that women always understood. Back home she knew exactly how to handle smiles like that.

Here all she could think of was taking a quick step back.

It didn’t matter.

He caught her by the shoulders and tugged her forward. She stumbled, fell against him, against that hard, muscled body, her breasts soft against his chest. One of his hands traced the line of her spine; he cupped her bottom, lifted her into him and she felt the shocking power of his aroused flesh press into the vee of her thighs.

She gasped. Felt herself sway in his embrace.

He said something in a low voice. She didn’t understand the words but the meaning was clear, especially when he lowered his head, threaded his fingers in her hair, tugged her head back until her face was raised to his.

“ Balashs .”

“Don’t.” She’d intended to say it forcefully, not in a tremulous whisper, but the way he was looking at her, the feel of his hand in her hair, the scent of him coupled with the scent of the sea…

Layla’s heart pounded.

They stared into each other’s eyes for what seemed an eternity. Then a muscle knotted in his jaw. He let go of her, shrugged off his dinner jacket and wrapped it around her. She clutched it without thinking, burrowed into its warmth, into the warmth that had been his. His hands closed on her shoulders again and he propelled her forward, into the outstretched arms of one of the women.

Then he turned his back, walked slowly up the beach and disappeared into the night.

CHAPTER TWO

KHALIL made his way to a little-used back entry to the palace he’d discovered as a boy.

It had been one way to avoid the rigid rules of behavior by which a prince was expected to live.

When he opened the door, a surprised royal guard snapped a quick salute; Khalil returned it without pausing and hurried up the stairs. He had no intention of returning to the ballroom. He hadn’t been in the mood for all the glitter and noise earlier; he certainly didn’t feel any different about it now.

What had happened on the beach was unsettling. Had he stumbled across something no one was supposed to see?

On the other hand, he thought, as he entered the sitting room of the suite that had been his since childhood, the scene by the sea had been played out with a lot of drama.

Who wouldn’t have found it unsettling?

His shoes squished as he crossed the ancient silk carpet and went into the bedroom. He was soaked. His shoes, his trousers…

But that was what happened when a man held a wet woman in his arms.

A wet, all-but-naked woman.

Khalil paused as he stripped off his clothes. Definitely naked, under that djellebah . He’d always thought of a djellebah as a utilitarian garment.

Not anymore.

The soaked cotton had molded itself to her body, accentuating every curve. The roundness of her breasts. The feminine vee at the apex of her thighs, the delicate bud of her nipples pushing against the wet fabric.…

His sex stirred and hardened. He shut his eyes, let his mind go back to those moments when he’d brought her against him, felt the softness of her…

Damn it!

Angrily he finished undressing, dumped his things on a chair and went into the bathroom.

He had reacted to her. So what? Any man would. There were far bigger issues involved here. Who was she? Why had she been on the beach alone? Why had she walked, fully gowned, into the sea?

Scowling, he stepped into the glass-enclosed steam shower and turned it on.

Her attendants said she was the daughter of a wealthy merchant, on her way to her wedding. She’d decided to take a swim even though they’d advised against it.

Yes, but they’d come running after her as if she’d slipped away from them. Why would she have to do that? She was their mistress. If she wanted to swim, she would. She didn’t need their approval. They would have accompanied her to the water, the women tsk-tsking, the fat thug to stand guard, but they’d have had no choice but to accept her actions.

And why go into the sea wearing the djellebah? The woman surely would have known the wet weight of the gown would make swimming difficult.

Khalil bowed his head, flattened his palms against the glass wall and let the spray beat down on his shoulders and neck.

He should have asked the woman instead of her attendants. She had not said much to him, just enough so he’d noticed she had an accent he couldn’t quite identify—and enough to rain insults on his head. She’d called him a donkey, an ass, a dog…

And he’d let her get away with it.

He’d let her stop him from kissing her, too, with that softly whispered, “Don’t.”

Not that he really would have kissed her. She was on her way to her wedding. That meant she was another man’s property. Not that he believed in that kind of thing. Women weren’t property. Not in his world, at any rate…

And why in hell would he have wanted to kiss her in the first place?

Better still, why was he wasting time thinking about a woman he would never see again?

Khalil shut off the shower, wrapped a towel around his hips, walked into the bedroom—and jerked back as the light came on and a spindly old man rose from a rug by the fireplace.

“Damn it,” Khalil said sharply. “Hassan! What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you, my lord.”

“That’s ridiculous! How many times must I tell you I don’t want you waiting up for me, waiting on me…” The expression on Hassan’s face stopped him in midsentence. His voice gentled. “Go to bed, old man. I can manage on my own.”

“It is not proper, Prince Khalil. I am your servant. I should assist you.”

“I am a grown man. I don’t need assistance.”

“You are a prince, sir. I was given to you at your birth. Tradition says—”

“Tradition says it is late,” Khalil said gruffly. He slung his arm around the old man’s shoulders and walked him through the suite to the door. “Thank you for waiting, but I can manage.”

The old man sighed, bowed so low Khalil feared he might topple over, then backed from the room.

Tradition, indeed, Khalil thought as he closed the door. Would his people ever find their way into the twenty-first century, burdened with so many useless customs? He had grown up with those customs; he had followed them, as was expected, but more than a decade of living in the West had convinced him that some things had to be changed.

He dropped the towel, pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants.

The status of servants, to begin with. The veneration of royalty. The blind rigidity of law as dictated by the sultan, the crown prince…

Or a woman’s father.

Khalil tumbled onto the bed, stacked his hands beneath his head and stared up at the coffered ceiling.