KRISTI GOLD - Her Ardent Sheikh

He was, but not necessarily for food. He stood before he lost his head, his control. “You can eat something. I shall summon Alima.”

She slumped back onto the sofa. “Alima?”

“My housekeeper.” And oftentimes thorn in his side.

Jamie shrugged again. “Okay. Does she do hot dogs? I’m really craving a hot dog.”

Ben smiled in response. “I will see what I can do.”

He then departed for the nearby kitchen to seek out Alima, glancing toward the sofa in the event Miss Morris should change her mind and try to escape. He hated holding her captive, and had he been less honorable, he might have led her to believe he was her captor, and she his slave. But honor was something his parents had instilled in him from birth, therefore he had no choice but to tell her the truth. As much of the truth as he could allow.

Alima was opening the oven door, removing fresh-baked bread. She turned around and tossed the pan onto the stove, then slipped the headphones away from her ears. “Is our guest awake now?”

“Yes. And she needs nourishment.”

She lifted the lid from a heavy black pot on the stove. “I have prepared simich in a very hearty stew.”

The wonderful bouquet made Ben’s mouth water. “She does not want fish stew. She has requested a hot dog.”

Alima narrowed her dark eyes. “I do not prepare hot dogs.”

“You will prepare something like it. She is our guest.”

She slapped the lid back on the boiling pot. “I will prepare something American, but I do no hot dogs.”

There was no sense in arguing with her. With Alima, he chose his battles carefully. He would need her assistance with Jamie in the future. No matter how stubborn Alima could be at times, she was a kind woman. She had a way with people, able to soothe them during dire moments. Jamie would need Alima’s kindness, for if she caused more trouble, put herself in more danger, then he would not be able to be kind.

“Bring the food into the living room on a tray,” he said. “We will dine there.”

“Do you wish the stew, Prince Hasim, or do you prefer the Texas food?” Her tone implied once again that she didn’t approve of his burgeoning American tastes even though she was guilty of the same.

“I will have what Miss Morris is having.”

Alima strolled to the refrigerator, muttering in Arabic under her breath as she yanked open the door and peered inside.

Ben returned to the living room to find Jamie curled up on the sofa, her eyes closed. But when he approached her, she quickly came awake and sat up. “I’m sorry. I just can’t shake this sleepiness.”

He still worried over her condition even though he had spoken with Justin several times by phone since the day before. The doctor had assured him that Jamie would be weak for a few days, but not to worry. Ben did worry, although perhaps he should be thankful she wasn’t quite recovered. The potential for her to fight him would increase with her strength.

He joined her on the sofa. “Alima will bring you something satisfactory. I am afraid we have no hot dogs.”

Jamie yawned. “That’s okay. Right now I think I could eat just about anything if it stood still long enough.”

“Then your appetite is returning. This is good.”

She smiled. A pretty smile that withered Ben’s insides like blades of grass in the sweltering Texas heat. “Yep. I’m feeling better,” she said. “And right after lunch, you can take me to my place.”

He should expect her persistence in this matter. She was not one to give up easily. “All right.”

She smiled. “You promise?”

At the moment, he would promise her anything. “You have my word.”

With her head lowered, Alima scurried into the room carrying a tray full of meats, cheeses and breads. She slipped it onto the table before them but did not raise her eyes to Jamie until Ben said, “Alima, this is Miss Morris.”

Jamie held out her small hand to Alima. “You can call me Jamie.”

Alima did not take the hand Jamie offered, as that would be disrespectful, but she did afford Jamie a smile. “I am pleased to have you in Prince Hasim’s home, Miss Morris. If you wish anything, please let me know.” She turned to address Ben. “Would Miss Morris be more comfortable dining at the table instead of here in the mayaalis, with the dead animals?” She gestured toward the cowhide rug draped on the floor in front of the hearth.

Ben repressed a chuckle. Jamie did not.

“I believe Miss Morris and I are quite comfortable here.” He regarded Jamie. “I am afraid Alima has never approved of informality. She believes that my mother spoiled me by letting me run the palace, doing as I pleased.”

Alima departed, muttering in her native tongue all the way to the kitchen.

“What did she just say?” Jamie asked.

“The monkey is a gazelle in the eyes of his mother. An Arabic proverb.”

Jamie laughed, a rich vibrant sound that made Ben want to laugh with her. “I have to remember that. Maybe while we’re stuck here together, you can teach me some Arabic.”

There were many things he would like to teach her, the least of which involved his native tongue. Or perhaps it would involve his tongue. And his hands, his body…

Thrusting the thoughts away, he said, “Arabic is best learned in an atmosphere where it is readily spoken. I only speak it with Alima on occasion and when I return home.”

She took some meat from the tray and shredded it, then nibbled a few bits. “Where is home?”

“Amythra. A small country near Oman.”

She took another bite and spoke around it. “Well, I’m not good at geography, so I’ll take your word for it.”

Ben placed some of the fare on his plate and opted to use a fork, unlike Jamie who used her fingers, licking them on occasion, causing a rising heat to stir low in Ben’s belly.

He ate in silence while watching Jamie put her all into the meal. She ate as if ravenous. As if it were her last bite.

He suspected she approached most everything with heart and soul and unyielding determination. He imagined she would approach lovemaking the same way.

Again his body stirred, and he cursed the fact he had not dressed in his djellaba. American jeans could not hide his sins should he lose control over baser urges.

Crossing one leg over the other, he pushed his plate aside and leaned back against the sofa. Jamie did the same.

“That was wonderful,” she said, rubbing her belly.

Ben visually followed the movement of her hand, imagining his own hand there.

He looked away, questioning his wisdom. How could he not touch her if she lived under his roof? How could he continue to ignore his desires if she was with him every waking moment?

He must. He would call on all his strength and avoid situations that might threaten his control. At one time he had not been in control, and his own father had paid the price. He had vowed then that never would he let anyone harm a defenseless human being, especially one he cared about. And he was beginning to see Jamie in that category, no matter how inadvisable that might be.

Needing to get away, he rose from the sofa. “Are you finished, Miss Morris?”

She stood. “Yes. And if you’ll point me in the direction of my clothes, I’ll change and we can head to my apartment.”

“You will find your clothes in the top drawer of the bureau in your room. Alima has laundered them for you.”

Again she smiled. “How nice. Remind me to thank her.”

“Yes, and I will change, too.”

When she stood, the robe gaped open, revealing the valley between her breasts. “Change into what?” she asked.

Into a madman if she did not close the robe. “My traditional dress.” He reached for the robe and she stepped back. “I am trying to cover you.”