At The Sheikh's Command

Hands shaking with hunger, with the urgency of need, Malik tugged at the buttons halfway down the prim white blouse, pulling them open roughly. The small opening he made was just enough to let him push his fingers in and touch the warm, swelling softness of one exposed breast. At the feel of his caress Abbie choked some incoherent, wordless sound of response, her eyes closing ecstatically, her mouth blindly seeking his.

Another button popped free from its restraint and now he could get his whole hand underneath her blouse. He cupped the softness of one breast, feeling its heat through the silk and lace confection of her bra. The nub of her nipple pushed into his palm in wanton demand and the ache of desire between his legs was almost unbearable.

He had to have her. Had to…

But, even as he closed his hand around her heated softness, his ears caught the sound outside the room that broke into and shattered the sensual delirium that had him in its possession.

CHAPTER THREE

‘I’LL leave that with you then…’

The voice sounded out in the hallway, coming clearly through the barely closed door. Calm and decisive and totally shattering to the heated mood that gripped the pair of them.

‘We’ll sort it out later.’

A male voice.

James Cavanaugh’s voice.

His host’s voice.

The voice of the man he had come here to negotiate with.

What the hell was he doing?

Dazed, shaken, blinking like a man dealing with the aftermath of a blow to his head, Malik lifted his eyes to lock with Abbie’s silver gaze. He found that she too had frozen into immobility, her eyes wide and staring straight at him. She looked glazed, unfocused, not seeing anything, and her head was tilted slightly to one side as if she was straining to hear.

‘Cavanaugh…’ he managed, his voice croaking roughly.

‘My—’

She swallowed hard, unable to continue to form the words.

‘Your boss.’

Malik nodded, understanding the embarrassment she would feel at being caught like this—especially with the important visitor that the family must want to impress and please as much as possible.

Your boss?

It took the space of a couple of uneven breaths for the words to penetrate the buzzing haze of shock that filled Abbie’s mind, and even when they did finally hit home they made no sense at all.

Your boss!

He thought that she worked for…

But then the sound of movement from behind the door, the sound of footsteps in the hallway, froze the thought in her mind, leaving instead room for her to grasp at a realisation that was far more stunning, more shocking.

Her father was outside in the hall.

And he was coming back.

Her father was crossing the hall, coming back, heading for the library, coming back to his guest…

He would open the door, would look across the room and he would find…

He would find her here, like…

With the instinct of panic her hand went to the gaping front of her blouse, fingers spread wide to cover the exposed white skin, the delicate flesh still slightly reddened by the touch of Malik’s hard fingers.

‘Here…’

Already Malik was moving, acting—taking charge. Already his behaviour was totally back under control—the control she had completely, abjectly lost without a hope of finding again.

He was tugging down her skirt, smoothing it over her hips, along her thighs, his movements brusque and—that damn word again!—controlled. He didn’t seem aware of the way that his touch, so cool and calm, distant as a doctor’s, made her want to cry out in shock and loss as it came so close to the spot where the throbbing tension of need even now held her in its grip. The sting of arousal still pricked at her breasts, demanding appeasement. The whole of her body felt like a long moan of protest at the way that the pleasure it had been seeking had been so brutally snatched away, leaving her lost and desolate.

‘Fasten yourself up.’

Malik’s tone was brusque, his curt words a cold command. His eyes were hard as jet without any trace of the burn of warmth that had been in them before. The man who had called himself ‘just Malik’ was gone and the person that Abbie thought of as The Sheikh was back and wholly in control.

He was busy tidying himself as he spoke, quickly and efficiently fastening the buttons her fingers had tugged open, tucking his shirt back into his trousers, smoothing his hand over his tousled hair.

‘I said, fasten yourself up!’

It was an order and a sound of reproof all in one and the cold disapproval in the black gaze that swept over her cut straight to her heart.

She had been lost, adrift on a sea of passion so intense that it had taken over her mind and driven all rational thought from it. The sensation had been so devastating that she was having trouble focusing on anything else. But Malik was icily, unemotionally back in control in the space of a heartbeat, and it was obvious that nothing at all had touched him in the way that it had affected her.

‘Do you want Cavanaugh to find you here like this?’

‘N-no…’

She could only manage a whisper, her voice refusing to obey her. So were her fingers as she fumbled with her disordered clothing, the sense of panic at the thought of her father finding her like this making matters worse.

‘Abbie!’

Her name hissed through Malik’s teeth in a sound of total exasperation and he reached for her again. Perhaps his intention was only to help; perhaps he meant to do what she couldn’t manage and pull things back together again, but that wasn’t the thought that crossed Abbie’s mind.

‘No!’

Remembering only the burning pleasure that those hands had brought her just seconds before and not knowing whether she most longed for a repetition of it or feared it utterly, she reacted on total instinct. An instinct that was even closer to the panic she had barely been able to control.

‘No—I—I have to go!’

There was one way she could avoid any confrontation with her father, ensure that he didn’t know what had been happening in his absence. There was a side door on the far wall of the library, one that led out of the room in the opposite direction to that in which her father was approaching.

True, it also led to the conservatory from which the only way back into the house, without retracing her steps, was to go out into the garden and come in again by the kitchen door. But at least she would have a few moments in which to draw breath. Everyone was inside so she would have time in which to pull herself together, both mentally and physically.

How could she have let this happen? How could she have lost all control, all sense of self-preservation so completely as to forget just who this man was and why he was here?