The Sheikh's Determined Lover (Zahkim Sheikhs Series Book 2) Read online

  Sahl stiffened, and Arif could see an argument brewing that might well end with Sahl forbidding Christine from setting foot in his domain again—or even worse, the old man might have a stroke. A vein throbbed near his forehead.

  He had no idea what the Peterborough was, but the Bodleian—the Bod—had been his stomping grounds at Oxford. He was impressed, even if Sahl wasn't. Arif took hold of Christine's elbow.

  "Tomorrow, Sahl. We shall arrive no later than ten in the morning. Please be ready to provide a tour and full access." He stressed the last words and then hurried Christine from the archives before Sahl—or Christine—could protest. Or start a war.

  Once outside the sandalwood door, Christine turned on him, her arms crossed and shoulders hunched. "Are you going back on your deal? Was your offer just a…a ploy to get me to stay?"

  Arif held up his hands. "Sahl takes his position most seriously. Would you trust a man who was not protective of the treasures of Zahkim?"

  Some of the heat left her eyes, and her arms fell to her sides. "Well, when you put it that way…I suppose I could spend the day organizing my research notes."

  Arif smiled. "Oh, I have a much better idea."

  Christine eyed the horse with about the same level of distrust she thought the horse was giving back. The last time she'd swung a leg over any animal, she'd been eight and had walked her aunt's old mule once around the barn. He'd had two paces—amble and stop. This creature, with her exotic flaxen and red coloring, large brown eyes, arched neck, dainty hooves, and high tail, looked as if she came off a carousel or a wedding cake. Drinkers of the Wind—that was what many Arabs called their horses, and this one looked as if she could not only drink it but fly on it as well. At least the saddle seemed large and safe, with a high front and back. But Christine didn't trust her skills on anything that wasn't automatic.

  She glanced over at Sheikh Arif, who stood talking to the grooms closer to the entrance of the barn aisle where they stood. His horse—as black as her mare’s mane and tale were pale—nudged the sheikh, and he absently dug into a pocket and produced a treat for his mount. Christine's heart softened. She looked away. She'd always been a sucker for guys who loved animals, and it seemed Sheikh Arif was loved at least by his horse. Also by his grooms, judging by the way they kept smiling and laughing, sharing a joke of some kind. Her Arabic was good, but the grooms had a local accent and spoke so fast she could only catch one word in three. She hoped they weren't saying something about the Westerner who didn't look as if she knew what to do with a horse.

  Holding out a hand to let the mare sniff her fingers, she said, "Make you a deal, I won't make your life hard if you don't make this ride hard for me." The mare blew out her nose and turned aside as if she wasn't offering any promises. Christine gave a sigh. Sheikh Arif stepped away from the grooms and came over to her.

  "I will help you mount." It wasn't a question, and before Christine had time to tell him she could manage, he'd gripped her waist and tossed her up onto the saddle. She sat sideways, and Sheikh Arif grinned at her. "I see we need a few lessons. Throw your leg over. Here are your reins, but Tayr will listen better if you talk to her."

  She rearranged herself, using his shoulder to keep herself from falling.

  "Tayr—bird?" Christine smiled and relaxed a little once she sat astride. "She is like a bird."

  She gathered up the leather reins. She'd changed her sandals and trousers for jeans and soft boots and had shoved a cloth boonie on her head, but now she wished she could copy the sheikh's traditional garb of loose white trousers, high black boots, and keffiyeh. They looked far more dashing—or maybe that was just Sheikh Arif.

  He walked away and swung up onto his horse. Glancing at her, he smiled. "You are ready?"

  "Ready or not," she muttered. She clucked to the mare and dug in her heels. The mare gave a squeal and trotted over to the sheikh's horse, then stopped.

  Arif smiled and shook his head. Reaching down, he stroked his horse's neck, but his eyes never left Christine's face. Heat that had nothing to do with the warming day crept into her face. "This is Mahbouba," he said, his voice soft.

  Beloved. She translated the word in her head. The way he'd said it, as if the word itself was a caress, had her thinking it was meant for her as well, and not just for his huge black mare. A smile curved his lips as if he knew he'd unsettled her. "She is Tayr's dam—her mother."

  Christine sat a little straighter. "Well, perhaps she can tell Tayr to behave and take pity on me. Now where are we going?"

  Sheikh Arif put his horse into a slow jog, and Tayr seemed content to follow her mother. Christine was happy about that. The heat hit as soon as they left the thick walls and shade of the barn. Arif urged his horse to a faster pace, and Tayr followed. Christine clutched the saddle but soon relaxed; Tayr was as smooth a ride as any carousel horse. Arif struck out for the desert, following a path between the sand dunes and the rocky areas.

  It was better than flying, Christine decided. The horses skimmed over the ground, surefooted and steady. She relaxed and let her body follow Tayr's easy lope. All too soon, Arif slowed the pace to a walk as their horses climbed a hill. They crested the top and the green of date palms and blue of an oasis came into view, water sparkling in the sunlight. Two black tents fluttered in the hot, dry breeze, and black-robed nomads stopped to stare at the riders.

  Arif turned in the saddle. "Are you ready for a break? This is the Amin oasis."

  Fussing with the reins, she asked, "Aren't we interrupting these people?"

  He smiled, white teeth flashing against the black of his beard and mustache. "I've arranged a feast with the nomads of Zahkim. How can you understand the archives of Zahkim if you do not understand our people?"

  She stared at him, mouth dry, heart thudding. This was like something from a fairy tale—the exotic sheikh stealing her away to his desert oasis. He looked the part, with his keffiyeh fluttering in the breeze, his easy smile, the sunlight turning his skin bronze. He sat on his horse as if he had been riding all his life, which he must have been.

  Christine looked away and told herself not to be foolish. She just wasn't the kind of girl that guys fell for—certainly not instantly. She was too serious. Too focused. And, frankly, too obsessed with history. She usually bored a date to death with facts and trivia, just as she had this morning on the way to the archives. She could have kicked herself for prattling on like she had earlier, telling Arif things he had to already know.

  And then Tayr was following Mahbouba down to the oasis, and she had to cling to the saddle as the horse broke into a fast jog.

  Arif was pleased to see all had been arranged—a feast fit for a sultan, the music of his people playing on the stringed oud and a flute. Christine looked as if she belonged, now, in her black thobe and veil. She smoothed the garments and sat on one of the pillows arranged on the rugs inside the tent.

  "Thanks for the fresh clothes,” she said. “I was more than sweaty from the heat and the ride."

  "All my pleasure." He had left the flap of the tent tied open to allow in the scent of the cooling desert. The sun hung in the western sky like an orange ball. It was not yet late, but in this season, the cool of the evening came early. Mahbouba and Tayr stood nearby, content with their grass and water.

  Christine glanced over her shoulder at the horses. "They're like big dogs. Are they housebroken?"

  With a grin, Arif poured mint tea into tiny, gold-trimmed glasses. "Never mind the horses. Try this first. And then what is your pleasure?" Christine's cheeks flushed, and Arif smoothly added, "Lamb, chicken, breads, fruits, or something sweeter?"

  She took the glass from him. Their fingers brushed, and a small shock traveled up his arm. He wanted to pull her close, lay her back on the pillows, and kiss her. But he could not with black-veiled women moving in and out of the tent to see to their dinner.

  "Why does everything you say seem to have a double meaning?" she asked, and then sipped her tea.

  "Perhaps because y
ou are looking for something more?" Arif took her free hand and kissed her palm.

  Heat flooded through Christine. The sheikh looked up at her from under long, dark lashes. "'To love is to kiss, to touch hand or arm or to send letters whose spells are stronger than witchcraft.'"

  Face hot, she pulled her hand away—or tried to. Sheikh Arif wasn't letting go, and short of dumping her tea over his head she couldn’t think what to do. She tried for a prim tone. "The only letters of interest to me are those in the palace archive. Can we start early tomorrow?"

  He shook his head and let go of her. Putting a hand to his chest, he quoted, "'I would split open my heart with a knife, place you within and seal my wound, that you might dwell there.'"

  Christine laughed. "Okay—now you are laying it on a little thick. Whose poem is that?"

  "Ah, you have found me out. Those are ancient Arabic poems. Are you not pleased? What more could a woman ask for—fine food, a perfect afternoon, a man who is laying his heart before you."

  "Well…I am impressed. Back home, I'm lucky to even find a guy who likes to read."

  Tipping his head to one side, he studied her. "Are the men where you live blind that they do not read and do not appreciate a woman such as you?"

  "No, they just prefer a girl who isn't too much of a bookworm. I don't get out much."

  "Ah, well, that is because you were fated to be mine." He smiled and turned to select pieces of fruit from the plate.

  She frowned. He seemed utterly sincere, but she couldn't help but think maybe this was just a line he used on women to get them into bed.

  And would that be so bad?

  She knew the answer—it wouldn't be bad at all. She snuck a glance at him—straight nose, strong jaw, those dark eyes and the sweep of black lashes over them. He'd taken off his keffiyeh and his boots. He had strong feet, elegant hands. She liked those long fingers of his and tried not to imagine how they'd feel, stroking over her skin. It wouldn't be at all bad to have a fling with him. The trick would be not losing her heart and her head. How dangerous was it to mix pleasure and the business at hand of getting to the research she needed?

  Sheikh Arif offered her a date with his fingers. "Try this. The honey and spices are an old recipe from my great-great-grandmother." He held up the date. She put up her hand to take it, but he pulled back and shook his head. Smiling, she let him pop the date into her mouth. Her tongue slipped over his finger. His eyes darkened, the pupil expanding. Her breath caught. Sweetness exploded in her mouth, but all she could think about was how beautiful he looked.

  She swallowed and tried to focus on the feast spread out before them, but the sheikh caught her chin and turned her face to him. For an instant, she couldn't breathe, couldn't move. His eyes held her captive. There seemed to be such need in those depths—such longing. He moved closer, and when his mouth covered hers, Christine closed her eyes.

  Chapter Five

  Ah, but she was beautiful—his Christine. And such an innocent. Her eyes fluttered closed, but Arif kept his open. He wanted to remember everything about this instant. The way her lashes looked against her pale skin. How she tasted of honey. How her scent—something warm and musky—mixed with the earthy spices of the meal. How she opened to him like a flower to the warmth of spring.

  He kept one hand on her chin and the other on the rug to anchor himself. That kiss—something so simple—seemed to set him on fire. He had kissed her last night as a promise. But this was more. He drank her down like a man parched by the desert, exploring her mouth with his tongue, taking his time, drawing a moan from her that had him hard in an instant.

  Pulling back, he could see that her breathing had quickened and her pulse beat in her throat. He wanted to press her back against the rug, strip her clothes off one by one and take her here and now. But there were the servers to consider. He would do nothing to embarrass them or his Christine.

  Instead, he pulled a ring from his little finger, a square-cut sapphire set flush in gold. He glanced down. His Christine had strong hands—large for her size. He judged the ring would fit. He put it onto her finger—not her ring finger, but the third finger of her right hand. "When you are ready, move this to your left hand, and I will know you are willing to be my wife."

  Her cheeks pinked. She touched a finger to the ring. "I couldn't possibly accept this. It's…it must be worth a fortune."

  "A prize beyond price for a woman beyond measure. Please, you must. It’s a perfect fit, which is a sign that we are indeed meant to be."

  Looking up, eyes bright, she shook her head and gave a small laugh. "More like a coincidence. I don't believe in fate, karma, or what you might call luck. I've found hard work gets you ahead in this life."

  He pulled back slightly. "How can you say that? Did not fate bring you to your friend's wedding so I might meet you? Did not fate have a say in your friend's becoming Sheikha of Zahkim? Some things cannot be altered—including our destiny."

  Shifting away from him a little, she tore off a chunk of bread and asked, "How early can I get started in the archives tomorrow?"

  Arif almost groaned. It seemed his Christine was even more hard-headed and practical than his cousin had ever been. And she would be satisfied with nothing less than just what she wanted. Well, it was his pleasure to give her what she wished. The next trick would be to make certain she started wishing for him.

  He didn't ravish me. The thought kept popping up at every quiet moment, and she still wasn't sure if she was happy about that or not.

  Staring out of her balcony window, Christine rubbed her arms against the chill of the dawn. Her oversized T-shirt that served as a nightgown was a little too thin for a desert night, it seemed. The sun wasn't up yet, and she was still wondering why Sheikh Arif hadn't invited himself into her bedroom last night. Had she done something wrong? Or was he starting to realize—like her other two boyfriends eventually had just before they'd bailed—that she had a life that involved her own pursuits?

  Or was he just that much of a gentleman?

  With a sigh, she turned away from the brightening sky and headed for the shower. A hot bath last night after they'd ridden back from the oasis had prevented too many stiff muscles—she tried to work out three times a week, but it seemed riding used a whole different set of muscles. A shower this morning would keep her from walking like a cowboy. She dried off and dressed in loose khaki trousers and a black, long sleeve linen top. And then the ring flashed up at her, winking in the dawn's light.

  The stone was spectacular—a square cut that wasn't very common these days—and the setting wouldn't catch on papers. But she couldn't keep it. She'd return it to him once she finished her research—and once Sheikh Arif realized she was not going to marry him. She had a life back in New Hampshire, a teaching job to get back to after her sabbatical ended, and…well, just and. She wasn't cut out to be a sheikh's wife.

  Oddly, the ring didn't feel strange on her hand. If anything, it was…comforting. Which was an odd notion. She didn't wear jewelry very often. She'd never had her ears pierced, and only had one necklace, which had been her mother's.

  Touching the ring brought back memories of the sheikh's kiss. It hadn't been a demanding kiss, but somehow it still felt as if he'd marked her. His lips had been soft, the scrape of his beard had been exciting, and the touch of his tongue to hers had set her heart pounding.

  "I'm here to do research for Dad." She said the words again to herself, but at the same time, she wondered if Arif had fallen asleep thinking of her. Had he been up, remembering that kiss? Had it gotten him excited? She'd felt his erection yesterday, pressing into her, and now her nipples tightened, and a tingle spread upward from low in her belly. An image of Arif naked flashed in her head. She pushed it away, but it popped back up. Would he be huge? Big hands, big feet, big…well, all over.

  With a growl, she dug her fingers into her hair. "Enough. Time to get to work." And time to stop thinking of his beautiful body and those charming gray eyes. Grabbing her tablet
computer, she headed for the archives.

  It seemed as if she had the palace to herself. She didn't meet any servants, didn't hear any other footsteps, and made it to the archives without the sheikh waylaying her with the idea of another ride or any other adventures.

  However, it seemed Sahl ibn Harun was also an early riser. He met her at the main entrance as if he'd been waiting there all night. She tried a smile and a “Good morning,” in Arabic.

  Arms folded, he looked her up and down. She thought he was about to deny her access or read her a long list of rules. Instead, he turned on his sandaled foot and led the way into the archives.

  Squaring her shoulders, Christine followed. She'd met stuffier librarians and archivists, but not many. "I'd like access to the oldest parchments and scrolls. Anything you have copied from the Library of Alexandria."

  Sahl ibn Harun gave what might have been a snort—she couldn't see his face. He stopped next to a large, bare desk.

  "Sheikh Arif said to give you full access and I was not to hinder you in any fashion. Enjoy your day." With that, he left, his sandals slapping against the tiles. Christine glanced around the archive, both thrilled and daunted. At last, she had access to some of the oldest documents in the world. But it seemed she was also on her own here.

  Four hours later, her stomach rumbled. She pulled off the loose cloth gloves that kept her skin oils from contaminating the aged parchment and blew out a breath. Her temper had frayed to a fine thread, and if Sahl ibn Harun had poked his nose in, she would have punched it for him. What kind of archivist was he that he didn't have any organizing system? Nothing was cataloged—just stored. Shelves and shelves of material without so much as a label as to what was where left her furious—and itching to get in here and start establishing proper records. She was here to do research, however, not catalog this…this amazing mess. She'd spent the morning trying to get a handle on what was here. She had found one tantalizing book that at least referenced older histories and seemed to be a rough list of materials in the archives, but of course it couldn’t tell her where to find anything in the chaos.