Shamed in the Sands

Because that was simply not on the cards. There was no future for them. She knew that. Not now and not ever—and she sensed that in her vulnerable post-orgasm state she might have been tempted to overlook that simple fact.

She sucked in a deep breath, telling herself that what was done was done and she wasn’t going to feel ashamed about something she had enjoyed so much. Not when for the first time in her life she had behaved like a free-thinking woman instead of a puppet whose strings were constantly being pulled by her powerful brother, the Sultan.

But she could also see now that her thinking had been skewed. She had been foolishly naive to approach the Englishman in the first place. Had she really imagined that Gabe Steel—no matter how powerful he was in his own country—could persuade her brother to let her work with him? Did she really think she could go from pampered princess to Westerner’s aide in one easy transition?

She could feel Murat’s eyes on her and knew he was waiting for some kind of response. He might be her brother, but he was first and foremost the Sultan—and, as such, the world always revolved around Murat.

‘There is no need for me to express my hope that your banquet will be successful, Murat,’ she said formally. ‘For that is a given.’

There was a pause as he inclined his head, silently acknowledging her praise.

‘I thought you might wish to attend,’ he said.

For the second time, Leila was glad she was sitting down. She narrowed her eyes, thinking she must have misheard him. ‘The banquet?’

The Sultan shrugged his shoulders. ‘Why not?’

‘Why not?’ She laughed. ‘Is that a serious question? Because it’s “business” and these affairs are traditionally men only.’

Murat gave a little shake of his shoulders and Leila thought he seemed a little unsettled tonight. Which wasn’t like her brother at all. Maybe the cancellation of his arranged marriage had affected him more than it had appeared to do at the time.

‘Then perhaps it is time that Qurhah embraced the untraditional for a change,’ he said.

Leila stared at him in growing disbelief. ‘What on earth has brought all this on?’

Murat glowered. ‘Does there have to be a reason for everything? You have harangued me for many years for a more inclusive role in state affairs, Leila—’

‘And you always ignore everything I say!’

‘And now that I am actually proposing a break in tradition,’ he continued implacably, ‘I am being subjected to some sort of inquisition!’

Leila didn’t answer because her heart had grown disconcertingly light. She tried to ignore the flutter in her stomach and the rush of blood to her cheeks, but she couldn’t ignore the glorious words which were circling round and round in her mind. She had been invited to the banquet! She was going to see Gabe again!

Her heart pounded. How would it feel to face him again at a formal palace dinner? And how would he react to seeing her in the last place he would ever expect to see her?

She felt the sudden rush of nerves and sternly she told herself not to get carried away. It didn’t matter how he reacted because that was irrelevant. Yes, he had been the kind of lover that every woman dreamt of, but Gabe was just a man. And she knew about men. She knew about the pain and heartbreak they caused women. The muffled sound of her mother’s tears had characterised her childhood and she reminded herself not to weave any foolish dreams about Gabe Steel.

‘You are very quiet, Leila,’ observed the Sultan softly. ‘I had imagined you would be delighted to meet my Western guest.’

Leila gave a cautious smile. ‘Forgive me for my somewhat muted response,’ she said. ‘For I was a little taken off-guard by your unexpected generosity. Naturally, I shall be delighted to meet Mr Steel.’

‘Good. And you will wear the veil, of course. I like the thought of our Western visitor observing the quiet decorum of the traditional Qurhahian woman.’ Murat frowned. ‘Though I hope you’re not coming down with a fever, Leila—for your complexion has suddenly grown very flushed.’

* * *

Gabe barely registered the gleaming golden gates which had opened to allow his bulletproof car through. Just as he had failed to register the colourful and bustling streets of Simdahab on his way to the palace. The journey through the city had been slower than he had anticipated—mainly, he suspected, because the car was so heavily armoured. He guessed that was one of the drawbacks to being a fabulously powerful sultan—that the risk of assassination was never far from the surface.

Yet instead of focusing on the task ahead or reflecting on the cultural differences between the two countries, as he usually would have done, he had spent the entire journey thinking about the woman it was probably safer to forget.

Leila.

When he’d woken from a deep sleep in that sex-rumpled bed, he had known a moment of complete and utter peace—before disjointed memories had come flooding back. For a moment he’d thought that he must have dreamt the whole bizarre incident. And then he had seen the faint red spots of blood on the sheet—not knowing if it had sprung from her broken hymen or when her fingernails had clawed deep into the flesh of his shoulders at the moment of orgasm.

He stared out of the car window at the vast splendour of the palace gardens, but this faint feeling of disorientation would not leave him.

He had always been successful with women—and not just because of his hard body and what the press had once described as his ‘fallen angel’ looks. He had quickly learnt how best to handle the opposite sex, because he could see that it was in his best interests to do so. To take what he wanted without giving any false hope. He’d learnt that guaranteeing pleasure was the most effective way of having someone overlook your shortcomings—the main one being his aversion to emotion. He knew that he couldn’t give love—but he could certainly give great orgasms.

He’d seen it all and done it all—or so he’d thought—though he’d avoided any situation involving cameras or threesomes. But he had never had a beautiful, virginal stranger turning up at his hotel room and allowing him to seduce her within minutes of meeting.

He felt his heart miss a beat as he recalled the way she had made him feel. That initial hard thrust against her tight hymen. Who was she? And why had she chosen to give her innocence to a man she didn’t know?

He thought about the photographs she’d shown him. Nobody could deny that she was talented. Did she think that her sexual generosity would guarantee her the offer of a job? Yet if that was the case, then surely she would have left him her card—or some number scribbled down on a sheet of hotel notepaper, so that he could contact her again. But she hadn’t. There had been nothing to mark the fact that she’d been there. Only her very feminine fragrance lingering with the unmistakeable scent of sex when he’d woken to find an empty space beside him and silence in the adjoining suite of rooms.

Gabe shook his head as the limousine drew to a halt and a robed servant opened the door for him. He must put her out of his mind and concentrate on the evening ahead. It didn’t matter who his mystery virgin was. It had happened and it was over. He could shut the door on it, just as he did with every other aspect of his past. He was here at the palace to meet formally with the Sultan and none of the other stuff mattered.