Zahkim Sheikhs Series: The Complete Series Page 7

  Tarek stood next to her, and she asked, "How old were you when that was painted?"

  "Sixteen, almost seventeen; right before I went off to university. I always suspected my grandmother didn't want the people to forget what I looked like. It didn't work. I flew home on a commercial flight, and only the customs agent realized who I was, and then only because he stamped my passport. I swore him to secrecy, and as far as I know, he has yet to tell a soul."

  Tess laughed. "Someday you'll have to release him from his promise. That's too good a story for him not to be able to tell his grandchildren."

  "Perhaps I will. He's the labor representative you met with the other day. The one with the terrible suit."

  The bodyguard held open the front doors of the museum, and the heat hit Tess like a wall. She shaded her eyes with one hand as they descended the steps to the waiting SUV, illegally parked. Boy, was it good to be sheikh. In the cool and plush car, Tess found it hard not to reach for Tarek's hand, as she would have with any other man in a similar situation.

  Dammit, they had a connection, one Tarek seemed very good at ignoring. Was he really all about the mind? Didn't he have feelings?

  The SUV headed past the main park—it seemed this was the road to the palace. This time Tess caught the beat of drums. She liked the rhythm and pushed the button to lower her window. A stringed instrument and a flute played the melody. The mix was like angry silk, smooth and forceful. When a voice jumped in, she grinned. This was awesome.

  The SUV stopped to let pedestrians cross, so Tess pushed open her door and stepped out. "I'll just be a minute. I've got to hear this."

  Tarek called after her, but she didn't turn back. And then Tarek's bodyguard stepped in front of her. "His Majesty requires you to return."

  She gave snort. "Yeah, in a minute." Ducking around muscles, she slipped into a cluster of women then wove her way to the concrete in front of the obelisk. Everyone fell back, and Tess glanced around. She was now flanked by Tarek and his bodyguard.

  Tarek grasped her elbow. "You cannot walk through a protest."

  "Sure I can. I just did. And I want to find this band. They're amazing."

  The bodyguard said something in Arabic, and Tarek answered, his voice clipped and tense. Everyone was now staring, but Tess barely noticed—all part of a normal day for her, wherever she was.

  The band—three drummers with different sized tablas and doumbeks, a flutist, a woman bowing a stringed instrument Tess didn't recognize, and a singer—had stopped playing and now stared at her and Tarek and the bodyguard, eyes wide.

  Tess put her hands on her hips and turned to Tarek. "Why did they stop?"

  "Because of me," Tarek explained. "It's illegal in Zahkim for women to perform in public for men. They can only play at private, women-only, parties or for family."

  "Seriously? That's stupid. And it would sure cut my career short." Tess heard gasps and snorts of quickly suppressed laughter. She fixed a stare on Tarek. "You're not going to go all petty tyrant on me again and say the law is the law, are you? Let them play. Or go back to the car so I can hear them. This is too awesome to miss."

  Tarek opened his mouth as if to say something, shut it, pressed his lips tight, and finally shook his head. Lifting his arms, he called out, “Play on!" He turned to Tess. "For you, I break the law."

  Tess pulled out her cell phone. "Well, it's a law that should be broken. I have to record this. I'm going to make this band famous." Tess grinned, and she heard Tarek mutter something about never letting his urges get the better of him again.

  Chapter Nine

  By the time they got back to the car, Tess was literally glowing, and not just from the orgasm he had given her in the museum, Tarek thought. She had been in her element, speaking with women about their art, their hopes and desires. He’d never seen her more beautiful, despite her “petty tyrant” dig. He wasn’t certain if that was good or bad, but he was certain that he kept making the same mistake—giving in to his feelings. He was acting out of character, abandoning logic and all rationality. No, he was acting more like a love-struck youth, and that was absurd. The boy in the painting was long gone. He was a man with responsibilities and duties.

  He had to admit, however, the conversations Tess had teased out from the protesters had been illuminating.

  He'd heard from women who had no recourse when living with abusive husbands, even though the laws of Zahkim declared that a woman was a treasure. Others were skilled musicians who could not perform outside of their homes or were mathematicians or programmers who could not be hired for any job other than secretary, nurse, or teacher. The laws had been meant to protect women, but it was clear to him they protected no one.

  "Thank you," he said to Tess as they pulled away from the park. But he was uncertain what he was thanking her for—for causing him to break his own laws? For turning him into a man who was acting too much on wild impulses?

  She smiled, and he couldn't breathe for a moment from wanting her. The memory of kissing in the dark, of his fingers inside her, swamped him. He'd been called Highness, Majesty, Prince, Sheikh, Emir, or King all his life, not only by servants and subjects, but also by lovers. Never had any of them sounded as sexy as Tess's husky “my king.” This was not good. He had to find some way to get her out of his system so he could regain his usual calm, rational mind.

  "I want to get that band into a studio," she said. "People will go nuts for that sound back in the States. Is there a studio I can rent? I can run the board myself if I need to, but they need some recording time."

  Tarek loved seeing her so excited, and he hated to disappoint her. "The palace has a studio for recording speeches. It's outdated and small. Our musicians record live in clubs, post videos online, or go to Dubai or Cairo for professional-quality records."

  She frowned. "Meaning you're losing talent. Well, it'll wait until I've gotten Phil home. I can come back."

  You could stay. The words almost came out of his mouth. He'd never let his grandmother hear that he had even thought such a thing, but the idea nagged at him. What if Tess was better for the country—better for him—than he'd dreamed possible?

  She drummed her fingers on the armrest, recalling the band’s rhythms. "I wish I could stay, but I really try to wrap one deal before I start the next. I have a habit of getting too many things going. Speaking of Phil, can we swing by the hospital for a visit?"

  "Of course." He instructed the driver on their change of plans and then noted the sun's position, low in the western sky. Inspiration struck. He would spend the entire night with Tess. That was the problem after all—he was simply not getting enough of her. Once he had, he would be able to smile, say good-bye, and get on with his duties and his life. He glanced at her and fought down the urge to sweep her into his arms there and then.

  Instead, he said, his voice kept flat, "Afterwards, I'd like to take you out to the Amin oasis. It's my favorite place to relax." He would also ensure they had privacy.

  She tipped her head to one side, her windblown hair—it hadn’t been tidy since the museum, honestly—sweeping across her shoulders. "Where your great-grandfather studied the stars? I'd like that. Very much."

  Tarek spent the hour after dropping Tess at the hospital ensuring the evening would be perfect. He returned to find Tess standing near the entrance. She straightened and smiled when she saw the SUV.

  Once she was inside, Tarek asked, "How is your friend?"

  "Much better, thanks. He had surgery today and has a cast on now. Dr. Al Din said Phil can start walking tomorrow, but he's a little vague about when it'll be okay for him to fly home. ‘Wait and see’ seems to be the doctor's motto. Oh, and I saw your grandmother at the hospital, but from a distance. Was she visiting someone?"

  "My grandmother often does not enlighten me on her plans," Tarek said. An uneasy stirring in his stomach had him pressing his hand over his belly. He disliked these kinds of hunches—they were too vague and could be interpreted any number of ways, and more ofte
n than not meant nothing at all. It was one of the reasons he much preferred logic. A man could wrap his head around facts and deal with them. Foreboding feelings—he'd had one before his parents had died—were worse than useless. He had given up even trying to understand them, on the rare occasions he felt them.

  Now, he was having trouble believing his grandmother attended the hospital either for her own health or to visit the sick. Was this part of a plan to keep Tess in the country for as long as possible? He was uncertain, but he would speak to her. Tomorrow.

  Tonight was all about Tess.

  Chapter Ten

  They returned to the palace, but only long enough for Tess to change into the traditional garb—trousers, tunic, robe—Tarek had chosen for her. They were gold tonight, stitched with pure white embroidery and dotted with white gems. Desert diamonds, or real ones? She wasn’t sure she couldn’t tell the difference any longer.

  When they finally pulled up at the Amin oasis, Tess took a moment to catch her breath. She hadn't seen much of the place on her first visit, at least not much that she could recall. She remembered tents—now only one stood in the shade of the tall date palms—and there had been camels, and the water which lay like a huge, oval sapphire in the golden sands.

  Tarek hopped out of the SUV and had her door open before she or the driver could move. Taking her hand, Tarek gestured toward a path through the trees. He'd worn traditional clothing—a loose robe over trousers and a tunic, but he'd left off the headscarf, the keffiyeh. A carpet, of all things—deep red and purple and gold—covered the sand and showed the way through the grove. She gave a small gasp when she saw what Tarek had arranged.

  A huge tent with straight walls and a peaked roof—held up with thick wooden poles at the corners and in the center of each of its three sections—rose up before her, the black fabric slapping faintly in the breeze. The canvas sides had been rolled up and tied so she could see through to the desert and look back at the oasis. Inside, the tent seemed to be all carpets and enormous pillows, low brass tables and glowing lamps with colored shades.

  She touched one of the cloth walls, stroked the smooth fibers that had woven the fabric. "Tarek, it's amazing."

  "We're right on time." He smiled, led her into the tent's main room and turned her around so they looked out over the lake. He swept his arm out. "Look."

  The sky glowed brilliant orange, the sunset's rays streaking the few clouds with every shade of yellow, red, pink, and purple. The trees turned into black silhouettes against the light, the tips of the fronds glowing as if made from molten gold. High above, the sky deepened to midnight blue, speckled with the first stars of the evening twinkling brighter than the desert diamonds in the museum. The two worlds met in the surface of the deep waters, a nightly battle between light and dark. Inch by inch, as she watched in silence, the dark won. But light had the final say as stars streaked the sky and the water with a band of brilliance.

  She shivered slightly in the breeze. Sand slipped between the toes of her sandals, and cool air wrapped around her face, scented by the dry aroma of the desert.

  When the last thread of sunlight faded, Tarek's low voice washed over her. "When our people had to find a new home, they came this way and were about to turn back when their official astrologer saw a shooting star that seemed to hit the ground right here. They came to investigate and found the oasis. They believed God had given them this country for their own. The oasis was, in fact, created by a meteorite."

  She grinned. "And you like that part of the story best—the facts. Doesn't life ever feel to you as if some things are meant to be? I know I was fated to form Angel Productions. Maybe we do have real angels in our lives, and one led me here."

  In the light cast by the lamps, she saw his mouth tighten. He put his hand to her cheek and seemed to study her for a long moment. "I think we should eat." He threaded his fingers through her hair. "And then we will see if you would rather talk or not."

  She wanted to punch his arm. He was ducking her question. But she knew the answer anyway. He liked things to make sense, to be ruled by facts. To be rational. Before she could figure out what to say to him, he kissed her.

  He pulled her against that hard body of his, his arm sealing her to him, his hand tight on her ass. She rubbed herself against him, already desperate for more of him—more of his mouth on hers, more of his scent wrapping around her and stealing away her mind, more of everything.

  She broke away, gasped for breath, and said, "I thought you mentioned food."

  He smiled. "Famished, are you? Very well. We'll finish that later. More than once."

  Her face flamed. Tarek clapped once, and plates of food appeared, brought in by servers dressed in traditional garb. A jug of water and a pot of tea—mint by the aroma—clanked onto the brass tray. The servants vanished as quickly as they’d come, followed by the smooth hum of an engine. They were alone now. Tarek washed her fingers himself, as well as his own, and dried them with a white linen cloth. He pointed out the various dishes and fed her one bit at a time.

  "We eat with our fingers—and the bread. This is a favorite of mine—it is like a lamb pie." He popped a bite into her mouth. She rolled the spices over her tongue. He broke off warm flatbread and scooped up spiced rice and couscous for her. In turn, she poured tea for him. She broke off a pastry that smelled of chicken and spices and took a bite—Tarek leaned in and swiped his tongue over her lips.

  "Delicious, my Ashira." His eyes darkened, and he stood, took her hand and pulled her to her feet. "My Ashira," he said, his voice a soft rumble.

  She stepped toward him and put her palms on his chest. "What does that mean?"

  "In Zahkim's mythology, when a star falls from the sky, she becomes a desert spirit, a beautiful creature of heat and passion. Sometimes she is a messenger. Sometimes she deliberately falls to walk among mortals. No matter the reason, she is a rare and precious find. They say the trail you can see behind Ashira as she falls is the source of desert diamonds."

  "Desert diamonds—I keep thinking that would make a great song title."

  Tarek laughed. "I would rather have you singing my name just now." He pushed the long robe off her shoulders. It pooled into a gold heap around her feet. "I need to touch you, Tess. See you."

  Tarek guided her backwards, heading for the thickest carpets and cushions. His golden gaze never left her face. Her heels bumped a pillow. She slipped her feet from her sandals. The desert breeze brushed her skin, left her tingling and her heart pounding.

  Tarek slipped his robe and sandals off and then walked her tunic up her body until he had exposed a sliver of skin. He tugged at the drawstring at the trousers’ waistband, unknotting it. "Take them off."

  She smiled and hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her trousers. They wanted to fall to the ground. She wanted to tease for another moment. "Yes, my king." She released them.

  He made a noise low in his throat, and Tess couldn't decide if it was a growl or a purr. His hands were on her before her trousers hit the ground. She gasped at the heat in his palms and the way his fingers wrapped around her waist, as if she were a little, delicate thing.

  She forgot about his hands when his mouth found her throat.

  He bit lightly, sucked and then licked. She gave a sigh as heat pooled in her belly. She arched her back, pushing her breasts toward him, wordlessly begging for more. Reaching down, he pulled her tunic up over her head and off, then bent over her and took one nipple in his warm mouth. He licked once, pulled away and blew cool air on the nipple making her moan, as both nipples hardened in response. She grabbed hold of his shoulders. This time he took the other nipple in his mouth and bit. An arc of pleasure shot through her like an electric jolt.

  She cried out, threaded her fingers through his silky hair, and tugged. He moved back to the first breast, took the nub in his mouth and sucked hard. She dragged open her eyes to watch. He bit, sucked hard again. She didn't recognize the sounds coming from her own mouth, but the waves of pleasur
e washing through her, hot and tingling, were those that only Tarek seemed able to give her.

  The breeze cooled her skin. She ran her hands over Tarek's smooth, broad chest. He still had on his trousers, and she tugged on the soft fabric.

  Pulling back, he told her, "Lie down. Spread yourself for me like the feast you are."

  With a smile, she slid to her knees and lay back on the pile of pillows, arms stretched over her head and legs splayed. She felt wanton like this—open for him. His eyes darkened as his gaze traveled over her, leaving her dripping wet. He shucked off his trousers, and his cock sprang free. It stood ramrod straight and dusky, the head almost purple, a bead of fluid shining on the tip. She licked her lips, and he stroked himself once.

  Her heart gave a hard thump.

  She wanted to wrap her mouth around him. She imagined how he would taste—salty, spicy, every bit as delicious and exotic as the meal he had fed her.

  Kneeling in front of her, he kissed her belly and slid his tongue to her hip, to her inner thigh. She shifted on the pillows and gave a moan. His beard scraped her skin, and then his mouth fastened on her clit. She bucked up, and he grasped her hips and held her down. The world narrowed to the feel of his mouth on her, the flick of his tongue, the warmth of his touch, the sparks sizzling through her at every sharp tug he gave. She gripped his hair to keep from falling off the edge of the world and let out a little whimper.

  As if he'd been waiting for that, he sat up and shifted to straddle her, kneeling so that his hard erection settled within reach of her mouth. She wrapped her hand around him—God, he was thick. And so deliciously hard. Leaning up, she licked the head once, ran her fingers over the soft tip, and gave a hum.

  He moved away before she could do more, trailing his erection across each breast, pausing to stroke her hard nipples with a thumb.

  She reached for him, but he stood, moved to his clothes, and came back opening a condom packet. She propped herself up on an elbow.