The Sheikh's Wayward Wife

Khalil paused as he stripped off his clothes. Definitely naked, under that djellebah. He’d always thought of a djellebah as a utilitarian garment.

Not anymore.

The soaked cotton had molded itself to her body, accentuating every curve. The roundness of her breasts. The feminine vee at the apex of her thighs, the delicate bud of her nipples pushing against the wet fabric.…

His sex stirred and hardened. He shut his eyes, let his mind go back to those moments when he’d brought her against him, felt the softness of her…

Damn it!

Angrily he finished undressing, dumped his things on a chair and went into the bathroom.

He had reacted to her. So what? Any man would. There were far bigger issues involved here. Who was she? Why had she been on the beach alone? Why had she walked, fully gowned, into the sea?

Scowling, he stepped into the glass-enclosed steam shower and turned it on.

Her attendants said she was the daughter of a wealthy merchant, on her way to her wedding. She’d decided to take a swim even though they’d advised against it.

Yes, but they’d come running after her as if she’d slipped away from them. Why would she have to do that? She was their mistress. If she wanted to swim, she would. She didn’t need their approval. They would have accompanied her to the water, the women tsk-tsking, the fat thug to stand guard, but they’d have had no choice but to accept her actions.

And why go into the sea wearing the djellebah? The woman surely would have known the wet weight of the gown would make swimming difficult.

Khalil bowed his head, flattened his palms against the glass wall and let the spray beat down on his shoulders and neck.

He should have asked the woman instead of her attendants. She had not said much to him, just enough so he’d noticed she had an accent he couldn’t quite identify—and enough to rain insults on his head. She’d called him a donkey, an ass, a dog…

And he’d let her get away with it.

He’d let her stop him from kissing her, too, with that softly whispered, “Don’t.”

Not that he really would have kissed her. She was on her way to her wedding. That meant she was another man’s property. Not that he believed in that kind of thing. Women weren’t property. Not in his world, at any rate…

And why in hell would he have wanted to kiss her in the first place?

Better still, why was he wasting time thinking about a woman he would never see again?

Khalil shut off the shower, wrapped a towel around his hips, walked into the bedroom—and jerked back as the light came on and a spindly old man rose from a rug by the fireplace.

“Damn it,” Khalil said sharply. “Hassan! What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you, my lord.”

“That’s ridiculous! How many times must I tell you I don’t want you waiting up for me, waiting on me…” The expression on Hassan’s face stopped him in midsentence. His voice gentled. “Go to bed, old man. I can manage on my own.”

“It is not proper, Prince Khalil. I am your servant. I should assist you.”

“I am a grown man. I don’t need assistance.”

“You are a prince, sir. I was given to you at your birth. Tradition says—”

“Tradition says it is late,” Khalil said gruffly. He slung his arm around the old man’s shoulders and walked him through the suite to the door. “Thank you for waiting, but I can manage.”

The old man sighed, bowed so low Khalil feared he might topple over, then backed from the room.

Tradition, indeed, Khalil thought as he closed the door. Would his people ever find their way into the twenty-first century, burdened with so many useless customs? He had grown up with those customs; he had followed them, as was expected, but more than a decade of living in the West had convinced him that some things had to be changed.

He dropped the towel, pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants.

The status of servants, to begin with. The veneration of royalty. The blind rigidity of law as dictated by the sultan, the crown prince…

Or a woman’s father.

Khalil tumbled onto the bed, stacked his hands beneath his head and stared up at the coffered ceiling.

Something was wrong with the story he’d been told on the beach. Weddings practices in particular were steeped in tradition, but there’d been nothing traditional about the arrangements pertaining to this one.

When her people explained that the woman was on her way to be married, that she was the daughter of a rich merchant marrying an important chieftain, why hadn’t he thought to ask the obvious questions?

Who was she marrying? And why was she traveling with such a small bridal party?

Two women. One guard. The details didn’t add up. A wedding between people of wealth and power was an important event and surely this was such a wedding. Every possible honor would be given the bride. She’d be accompanied by at least a dozen horsemen. Easily that many female attendants. Members of her family, of her village.

And what of his father’s role? Why hadn’t he invited the wedding party to attend the elaborate dinner still going on in the ballroom?

Khalil rose from the bed, walked to the window and looked out.

The beach was deserted. There was nothing to show a woman had walked into the sea, that he had gone after her, that he had held her in his arms, felt the warmth of her body, smelled the freshness of her skin.

He might have imagined it all—but he hadn’t.

Something strange had happened tonight. He knew that. He also knew it had nothing to do with him. This was Al Ankhara, an ancient place that held mysteries even he could not always understand.

Khalil went back to the bed.

One thing was certain. The incident had revealed a basic need. A need for a woman.

He’d ended an affair almost two months ago. He had a new mistress but he’d only been with her once before he’d flown here. Surely, that was the reason, the only reason, he’d been stirred by the woman on the beach.

He was hungry, and his hunger would be assuaged as soon as he was back in New York. The woman he’d left there had beauty and sophistication. She would greet him eagerly, wearing something sexy she’d picked up at Saks or Bendel’s.

What man in his right mind would choose a fire-breathing female in a djellebah over that?

Still, when he closed his eyes, the face he saw was not that of his mistress but of the woman on the beach.

All the more reason, he thought as he drifted off to sleep, to find out what his father wanted of him, do it and return to New York as quickly as possible.

His father sent word they would breakfast together in a small courtyard centered on a fountain.

He was already there when Khalil arrived, seated at a marble-topped table set for two that was laden with platters of fruit, cheese, yogurt and freshly baked bread.