The Sheikh's Wayward Wife

He’d often played here on rainy days when he was growing up. He remembered rich tapestries, polished marble floors, gilded furnishings and frescoed walls. All those things were still in place but they had not stood up well to the ravages of time. The harem was dark and dreary; it smelled of mildew and age.

He thought of Layla, spending her days and nights here, and felt his jaw tighten as he swung toward her guard.

“Where is your mistress?”

“She is safe.”

“I didn’t ask you that. Where is she? I wish to see her.”

“You cannot see her. It is forbidden. She is betrothed. She belongs to—”

“Do you want to die the death of a thousand cuts? Where is she?”

Hate burned in the man’s tiny eyes but he jerked his head toward a closed door.

Kahlil strode toward it. Part of him was on the alert; part wanted to burst out laughing. The death of a thousand cuts? What bad movie had that come from?

Any desire to laugh vanished the moment he opened the door and saw Layla.

She stood within the confines of a room that had once surely been elegant. Now the couch behind her was covered with a grimy blanket; the walls were gray with age.

And yet Layla, standing straight and tall, hands fisted at her sides as if she were ready to take on the world, was magnificent.

She made his breath catch.

Her hair spilled like liquid sunshine over her shoulders. The day, and the room, were warm; her skin held a glint of moisture and the ivory silk gown clung to her body like a lover’s gentle kiss.

“What do you want?”

She said it in Arabic. Now, though, he could definitely tell that it wasn’t her native tongue. And though her voice trembled, she delivered the question with a rebellious lift of her chin.

“The council sent me to tell you its plan.”

“Do I look like I give a damn about its plan?”

“Nevertheless, you will listen.”

“To hell with you and the council! I will not—”

“You will do as you’re told,” Khalil roared.

“My lord,” Ahmet said, “I’ll deal with this.”

“I will deal with it,” Khalil snarled. “Alone.”

He slammed the door in the thug’s face. Then he moved quickly toward Layla, shook his head and put a finger to his lips.

“Now,” he growled, raising his voice enough so the man outside the door would hear him, “you will behave yourself, woman.”

Deliberately, she turned her back to him. Khalil clasped her shoulders and spun her around.

“Did you hear what I said? Behave yourself, or—”

She flew at him, all fists and nails. He grabbed her hands, folded them against his chest.

“Stop it!”

“Bastard,” she hissed, “mad al haram! You no-good, despicable—”

Her words were all-American, and his reaction was all male. There was only one way to silence her and he took it, lifting her to him and capturing her lips with his.

She struggled. She fought. He kept kissing her, told himself it was the best way to keep her quiet.

Told himself that, even as he felt himself drowning in her taste, her scent, her heat.

“Don’t fight me,” he whispered, against her lips.

And, for one amazing moment, she obeyed. Her body softened. He let go of her fists and gathered her in his arms, bringing her tightly against him. Her lips softened, too, and parted just enough so he could slip the tip of his tongue into her mouth and savor its sweetness.

Savor it, until he felt the sharp bite of her teeth.

Khalil cursed, jerked back and dragged his handkerchief from his pocket. He put it against his lip, looked at the tiny crimson smear on the creamy white linen—and laughed.

Layla stared at her attacker in disbelief. She’d bitten him and he’d laughed? Maybe she was losing her mind. It was the only thing that made sense.

What had happened during the past week must have done it.

She had been lured to Al Ankhara. Taken prisoner. Threatened. Tormented. Told, explicitly, what awaited her and told, too, that she would accept it or pay the price for disobedience.

Now a stranger who thought he owned the universe had kissed her and she…and she had—

Her breath caught.

She had let him kiss her. Let herself lean into his strength, let herself feel the power of his embrace, the thrust of his erection against her belly…

The doorknob rattled.

“Lord Khalil?”

The man—the prince, Lord Khalil—slapped one hand against the door and pulled her to him with the other.

“Who are you?” he said in a low voice.

Layla gasped with surprise. He was speaking English. He’d understood her, then. When she’d spoken to him in the garden this morning, the desperate words had tumbled from her lips in English. She hadn’t realized it until a long time after, and then her heart had shriveled at the realization that she’d wasted her one possible chance to get help, even worse, that she’d broken the vow she’d been forced to make not to reveal the truth about herself.

“I asked you a question. Who are you?”

What to tell him? What to say? What risks were worth taking? The door shuddered again; her eyes went from it to his face. He looked cold and dangerous. And he’d kissed her as if he owned her.