Zahkim Sheikhs Series: The Complete Series Read online

  Before she realized what was happening, Tarek had spun and had her pressed up against the closest refrigerator. She could feel his erection against her mound, and she shifted her hips, signaling her eagerness for more.

  “Don’t tempt me, Tess,” he growled. “Don’t tease.”

  “I’m not teasing, Tarek. We have something—”

  “No.” But he lowered his mouth to the side of her neck and kissed, bit, and she bucked at the jolt of pleasure he sent through her. Wetness seeped out between her legs. God, he turned her on at light speed. She wasn't good at listening to the common sense at the back of her head that told her she was only setting herself up for an even harder good-bye.

  His lips claimed her mouth. She opened for him, battled with him for control of this kiss. Then his arm wrapped around her as he began a full-scale assault. His beard scuffed her chin, and she thrilled at the roughness. His hand slipped under her shirt, the skin-to-skin contact hot as a brand.

  She whimpered with want, and he jerked away. Without his heat, she felt only the cold of the stainless steel appliance behind her.

  “There’s no sense to it,” he said. “No logical way to make it work. There’s nothing between us but a good, hard fuck.” He frowned for a moment, as if he wasn't certain about something, and then he said, his voice husky, "Spend the day with me tomorrow. I'll show you my city."

  "Where’s the sense in that?” She threw his words back at him, more hurt than she wanted to admit at his dismissal of the connection she knew was real and strong.

  “Just come,” he commanded and then stalked out of the kitchen.

  Tess tried to catch her breath. "Oh, girl, you are getting in way too deep with this guy," she muttered.

  Chapter Eight

  Tarek never did get back to sleep. Every time he came close, the memory of Tess's mouth, her body against his, that sexy little sound she made when she wanted more brought him to high alert all over again. He was hard, and his own hand was unsatisfying. At dawn, he rose, showered, dressed, and stalked down the hall to the dining room, stopping only when Farid called out to him from behind. What could be so wrong that he was not even allowed his first cup of coffee?

  He turned to glare at Farid, whose face paled. To the man's credit, he only stumbled once and immediately straightened before he stopped in front of Tarek.

  "I haven't even had breakfast yet, Farid. And I plan to spend the day with my guest."

  Farid stood even taller and pushed his shoulders back. "Sir, word has gotten out about the reform memo from yesterday. Sheikh al Qamar and Mr. Dobbel are now waiting in your office. Your cousin Sheikh Arif asked that you be told at once. He is doing his best to alleviate their concerns about the new taxes."

  Tarek cursed under his breath. "So it begins. We make progress a tiny bit and already some want to drag us back. And how did that little tidbit of information leak, anyway? Don't answer that. I don't want to know."

  "The main markets are also reporting a shortage of fresh produce and some meats due to the airport being closed and transportation being so difficult."

  Tarek sighed and shook his head. His day was already not going as he wished. "Tell Arif I'll be there at once. And please send word to Te…to Miss Angel that I have been delayed. She shouldn’t wait for me." Tarek glanced down at his casual clothes. He could not meet two of the richest men in Zahkim in khakis. "And now I must change."

  It took three days before Tarek had smoothed things over. After the meetings with the rich, he was back again meeting with his labor ministers. Everyone wanted reassurances—the rich that they would not lose their wealth and the workers that they would get the higher wages they’d been promised. And for some reason, all of them expected an audience with Tess. He made sure all of them were disappointed on that matter. By the end, Tarek was ready to take them all out to the middle of the desert and leave them.

  At last, he seemed to have everyone settled again—and the agreement was almost ready to be put into law.

  On the fourth day, he found his grandmother waiting to pounce on him when he came to breakfast. She greeted him with a smug cat-in-the cream smile and eyes far too innocent. She had to be plotting something.

  As Tarek took his seat and poured his coffee, she said, "I hear your angel has helped you already."

  "She is not my angel. And despite her assistance the other day, the situation is just as unstable as ever and being made worse by these leaks. Do you have any thoughts on that, Grandmother?" Tarek poured his coffee and watched his grandmother.

  She shrugged. "You know this palace, Tarek—it’s always been as leaky as a sieve. But you must have started to see how crucial Miss Angel is to the well-being of the country."

  "I'm sorry, what?" Tess stood in the doorway. "Crucial to the wellbeing of the country? Me?" She came in and sat down, nervously pushing at the plate in front of her.

  His grandmother smiled and poured coffee for Tess. "You have good instincts. It seems you and my grandson are good together."

  Tess gave a little laugh and shot Tarek a secret, amused look. He knew she must be thinking of how good they had been in bed. How good their kiss had been the other night. How good… He had to look away. No one challenged his composure as she did.

  Wrinkling her nose, Tess said, "You have a different definition of ‘good’ than I do, if you think arguments and divergent goals make a good team. I don't think policy is my forte. All I did was give Tarek's ministers a common enemy."

  "Still, a wise move. Tarek should have you sit in on his meetings. You will no doubt provide a unique perspective in the conversation."

  Tess picked up her coffee and shook her head. "I flunked both political science and economics in college. I think it’s best if I continue to keep a low profile until Phil and I can be on our way."

  Tarek saw his opening and took it. "Grandmother, let’s leave talk of politics for the conference room. I have neglected my guest due to work, but today I intend to correct that. Tess, what would you most like to see?"

  "You mentioned a museum the other day. I’d like to learn more about your country."

  His grandmother began to speak of the wonderful sights in Zahkim. Tess nodded, smiled, and sipped her coffee but Tarek could see her thoughts were far away now; perhaps she was feeling homesick. Tarek lifted a hand. A servant came to his side at once, and Tarek whispered a request into the man's ear. A few minutes later, the man came back with a small bowl containing a sliced apple and a mound of peanut butter. He placed the dish at Tess's right hand.

  She jerked her gaze up to his, blushing a becoming pink, setting off her freckles perfectly. He wondered if she was remembering their kiss in the kitchen, just as he was.

  No more kisses. But his self-directed lecture couldn’t stop his heart from racing at the memory of her body trapped beneath him.

  Tess had been looking forward to more time with Tarek, preferably alone. But Tarek seemed to come with both a driver and a bodyguard in the front seat of the SUV. They would be able to hear and see everything that happened in the backseat. She resigned herself to disappointment and polite conversation. Maybe that was his goal. His words in the kitchen made her wonder if he thought he had something to prove—that he felt nothing, that he could keep their interactions platonic from now on.

  Tarek slid into the SUV next to her, eyed the men in front, and gave her a little shrug, seemingly echoing her earlier regret. Maybe she’d been wrong about his intentions after all. Damn the man.

  "So…how's the country doing?" she asked.

  "I expect the strike to end very soon. The airport will be up and running for cargo flights initially. The airlines will need a little more time to schedule flights and prep their planes, and then your departure will all depend on your pilot's health."

  Tess tried for a smile. Leaving Tarek was no longer as appealing—or as simple—as it once had been. But she wasn't going to let that spoil what time they had. "The Sheikh of Zahkim to the rescue once again."

  T
he SUV pulled out from the palace gates, and Tarek slid a hand onto her knee. "You made a difference, Tess. My grandmother did not exaggerate that you were of help to me."

  Tess's neck and face warmed. She went for a casual tone. "So you're dipping your toe into the troubled waters of representative government after all, huh?"

  "A little toe. Two elected representatives on my board of advisors. The two richest men in the country are upset not to be appointed ministers as well, but they already have more power than I like. But enough about my troubles. How have you been amusing yourself?"

  "Visits to Phil—it seems the hospital is taking forever to schedule his surgery. And I've got my own headaches. I was supposed to be in Mumbai by now to meet with the head of Sharma Entertainment. They're a small Bollywood production company founded by an artist seven years ago—less singing and dancing, more philosophy and magical realism. If Guillermo del Toro were Indian, these are the movies he'd make. But the founder is not a great businesswoman, and now she's facing having to shut down or maybe sell out. I fell in love with her work, so I’m hoping to invest and get her back on track." She was rambling, but she couldn't help it. She couldn't tell Tarek what she wanted—that she wanted to have sex right now in the back seat of the SUV. And she wasn't sure what else to talk about. Amazingly, Tarek at least seemed interested.

  He gave a nod, the smallest of smiles playing across his face, as if he knew exactly the kind of dilemma she faced—a choice between her personal connection to Phil and the business deal she wanted to ink. Finally, he shook his head and took her hand.

  "You're amazing, Tess. You don't talk of profit, but of films you wish the world to see. Enchanting." He leaned toward her as if to kiss her. Tess shot a glance to the driver and guard. Tarek frowned, but lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. "I know where to take you when we arrive at the museum."

  It turned out the museum in Al Resab wasn't technically open because of the strike but a staff member and two guards met them at the massive, gleaming gold doors to let them in. All three men bowed low to Tarek and took their leave. Tess thought the trio must have been there for hours, just to get all the lights turned on.

  The building took up a city block and stood four stories high. The central room itself soared up to a glass dome that washed golden light over vast murals showing a people crossing mountains and desert to eventually settle around a lush oasis. An art deco staircase rose up from behind the main entrance and then branched right and left. She wanted to grab one of the maps in the kiosk, but they were probably all in Arabic. Tarek's bodyguard posted himself at the front door, facing the entrance, which had to mean every other door was still locked.

  Tarek clearly knew how to get straight to whatever it was he wanted to show her. He grabbed her hand and strode ahead with barely a glance for the ancient carvings and pottery, the glass cases showing parchments illuminated with jewel-toned ink and gold leaf, or the tapestries woven with images of rampant lions and racing Arabian horses.

  One gallery’s display seemed to be meant to resemble a desert nomad's tent. Fabric draped the walls, and support poles in the middle of the room held up more fabric and woven hangings. Overlapping rugs lay on the floor as if to cover sand underneath, while pillows, goat-hair mats died with henna, and heaps of cushions had been scattered about. A brass table sat near what might be a small stone hearth, with pots and pans and a tea kettle nearby. A wooden chest held cups and a kerosene lamp, and a mural on the left wall showed blue sky, sand and a hundred or more camels.

  "Did your ancestors live like this?" Tess studied a female mannequin in traditional dress—long black robes, headscarf, and a cascade of gold around her neck. She could barely see the mannequin's face under all the swathing fabric.

  Tarek waved a hand. "Briefly. My people were exiles from what is now Saudi Arabia. We crossed the Red Sea, wandered over much of North Africa, and eventually came here. Some still believe angels of God led us to Zahkim but this is not what I want you to see."

  " I want to look at the art! The weaving is fantastic." Tess dragged at his grip, mostly to tease him and to strike the sparks in his eyes. It worked. His brows furrowed, and his eyes flashed bright. He tugged on her hand, and she followed, laughing.

  Two galleries, a curving staircase, and a hallway later, Tarek held aside a black velvet curtain hanging across a doorway and gestured for her to step into the dark room with a bow of his head and a sweep of his arm.

  She blinked at the blackness. This had to be some weird art installation that she wasn't understanding.

  "Look up," Tarek whispered.

  She did. White gems embedded in the dome-shaped ceiling glowed in vaguely familiar patterns. She gave a small gasp.

  Tarek's arm fastened around her waist. "They’re called desert diamonds. Geologists tell us they’re a form of quartz, but we prize them more highly than anything so common. Star stones. My great-grandfather was an astrologer, and he had this display made when he was young. It's how the night sky looked above the Amin oasis on the day our ancestors recorded discovering it. It is said to bring good fortune to anyone who visits before an important event. Not that I believe in such things."

  She gave a snort. "You don't believe, but you bring me here."

  "I thought you would enjoy it. And it’s private." His fingers ghosted over her arms. She had worn a sleeveless dress, and now she was glad she had. His fingers trailed up her arms and her breath hitched in response. She reached for him, found his waist first and couldn't decide whether to move her hand up or down from there. Chest, abs, or ass? Or that delightful beard?

  He helped her decide by pulling her against him. No room for her hand between them, now. When his went to her cheek, hers dropped to his rock-hard butt.

  He gave a little grunt. His nose bumped hers. She found his mouth by following the sweet sweep of his breath across her lips. He claimed her as if she were his property, as if he knew he could take her any time he wanted. She shivered in shameful delight. A tingle surged into damp wetness between her legs and she'd soaked her panties in short order. She nipped his lips and wrapped one leg over his hip. Tarek slipped his hand between them, found her breast, and pinched her nipple.

  With a groan, she rocked her hips into him, determined to feel the press of his cock against her. She found just the right position—thank God she was tall—and sighed. He fastened his mouth on her neck and nibbled, more teasing than his frustrated bites in the kitchen. She surrendered. Utterly. Her head fell back, and she let him walk her backwards until he pressed her against a wall. She'd let him strip her naked right there, if he wanted to, and take her under the star stones.

  Reaching under her dress, he dragged down her underwear and then pushed two fingers inside her. She gave another moan and a guttural, "Yeah. There."

  Tarek needed no further urging. Three fingers. Then four. She groaned again, her arousal scenting the room with the elemental smell of ocean. Reaching for him, she tried to rub his erection with her palm, but he grabbed her wrist and pinned it to the wall above her head.

  "This is for you," he said, his voice a low growl.

  "Tarek, please…" She let the words fade. She didn't know if she was begging for more or pleading for him to stop while he could. She couldn't. He pulled his fingers out and pushed in again; his thumb brushed over her clit. She cried out. She was coming apart in his arms. He growled again and finger fucked her slowly and mercilessly. She wiggled her hips, and he pinned her with his body, his fingers pushing in and pulling out, going deeper each time. She gave a small scream, and he put his mouth over hers, stole her breath and fed off her pleasure.

  Dragging open her eyes, she stared up at the star-stones. They whirled around her and then exploded into light. Tarek pushed his fingers into her again and again and kept his mouth on hers until she was trembling and ready to sob. He stopped at last, still held her pinned to the wall. His erection still pressed into her hip, and she wanted to fall to her knees and take him in her mouth.


  He kissed her neck, and whispered, "I hope you enjoyed your tour. I hope I didn’t take too many liberties."

  She couldn't talk. Could barely stand. He stepped back, and Tess staggered at the loss of his embrace and almost fell on her face. She let out a long breath.

  "Enjoy is the wrong word for it." She stepped toward his voice and the dark shape of him. Leaning forward, she whispered, "And you're welcome to take whatever you like from me, my king."

  He gave her fifteen minutes in the bathroom to try to fix her hair—a mess now—and straighten her dress. She gave up on her panties—they were soaked—and stripped them off. Coming out of the bathroom, she stuffed them into Tarek's trouser pocket, brushing her fingers over his erection as she did. "In case I need them later."

  He fixed her with a hot glance, but she danced out of his reach.

  For the rest of the tour, Tess kept wanting to touch him. She walked hip-to-hip with him, slipping her arm around his waist, teasing him with a brush of her fingertips over his beard. She wanted to drive him crazy for a change but Tarek was made of sterner stuff and kept himself utterly and madly in check.

  The star room marked a transition in the museum's exhibits from traditional and historical to modern art, sculptures and paintings. They didn't linger in any one gallery, and Tess only stopped for an extended examination once. On their way back through the main lobby—the closed gift shop on one side, a dark café on the other—she spied a life-size portrait that looked to be of a young Tarek. She stopped in front of it, her arms folded over her chest and her head tipped to one side.

  His painted self seemed almost studiously serious, as if the painter had told him to “put on your king face.” He stood in a lush garden, which she recognized as the central garden at the palace, and wore traditional robes and a white keffiyeh held in place by black ropes. A falcon perched on a stand behind him. She would recognize those amber eyes of his anywhere.