Bedded By The Desert King

But it was all right for Abbas to see her dressed like this? Even as her hackles rose, Zara felt a twinge of guilt. Perhaps it was the only robe the trader had that was suitable and Abbas needn’t have troubled to buy it for her. Glancing at her travel-worn clothes lying crumpled on the floor, she realised how grateful she was to have something clean to wear, especially something new and so undeniably feminine…But her doubts returned the moment she slipped her feet into the dainty jewelled mules Abbas had just pushed under the curtain. She had taken a bath in a man’s tent in the middle of a desert—a powerful hunk of a man she didn’t even know, and now she was wearing a seductive outfit of his choice.

‘Do the mules fit? I took a guess at the size of your feet.’

‘It was a very good guess.’ And if he knew her shoe size, what else had come under his close scrutiny? Zara wondered.

‘Are you ever coming out of there?’

Abbas’s impatience sent a little shiver of awareness rushing through her. Pressing the robe to her body, she was just checking to see if it was transparent when he spoke again.

‘May I?’

Making a last pass with her hands down the front of the robe to make sure she was decent, she straightened up. ‘Of course…’

He flung the curtain back.

‘Our fashions suit you…’

‘It’s very kind of you to say so…’

‘Not kind at all—a simple fact,’ Abbas assured her.

Closing her eyes, Zara inhaled the faint scent of sandalwood and tried not to imagine what could happen in these sumptuous surroundings with her authoritative, seductive host. She thought about the easy command he had over his words, his actions, his body…

What would it be like when they were making love?

Zara banished that thought immediately, conscious that Abbas was still waiting for her. ‘I’ll just sponge these clothes down and then I’ll be right with you,’ she assured him briskly. She might be dressed for seduction, but the practical side of her nature always won through. She was keen for him to be aware of that. Pushing the silk chiffon up her arms, she got to work.

She would have to keep a tight rein on her thoughts, Zara reflected, hanging her clothes carefully over the stand to dry out. All these fantasies about harems and seduction were dangerous. Combing through her hair with her fingers, she adjusted the robe so that it hung properly and tried the veil. With the veil on it felt like dressing up—different, fun, glamorous…‘What shall I do about the water in the bath?’

Did he think she was going to leave that for Aban to deal with too? Zara wondered as she came to join Abbas in the tent. Hunkered down by the brazier, he was putting fresh coffee grounds into the pot. As he stared up in frank admiration their gazes clashed, which brought fresh streams of sensation rushing through her veins. She had to let the veil slip in order to clutch the robe a little closer. Shouldn’t he look away now? Zara wondered, feeling her cheeks flame. To distract from her discomfort she attacked him on another front. ‘I’m surprised you’d allow Aban to carry up water from the wadi just so you could bathe.’

‘I brought every drop of water up from the wadi. Aban is my man, not my slave.’

She couldn’t help but feel a small glow of appreciation at his words. Or maybe the glow had started when she stared at his lips—they were such sensuous lips.

‘You have beautiful hair,’ Abbas observed softly.

Zara was suddenly conscious of the weight of her waist-length hair and its silky lustre. It felt soft to her touch and the brush of it against her cheek had never felt so sensuous. Even the way it fell into natural waves when it had been washed, which had always annoyed her in the past, seemed suddenly an advantage. She had never thought of herself as beautiful before.

Abbas made her feel beautiful, Zara realised, wrinkling her brow in confusion. She was relieved when he turned away at last. It gave her a chance to study him covertly. But now the glow she had felt moments before raged into an inferno. Heavily shaded with dark stubble, his face was the hardest face she had ever seen…and she just knew that his body, concealed beneath the flowing folds of his robe, would be the body of a fighting man, hard and beautiful.

‘I’m going to shave,’ he said, picking up a knife. ‘Why don’t you sit by the brazier and dry your hair while I’m gone?’

‘Gone?’ She didn’t want him gone…not with a storm threatening outside.

‘I won’t be long—’

‘Fine…’ She tilted her chin at a confident angle, but something in her voice made him turn to reassure her.

‘I’ll secure the tent before I leave. You’ll be quite safe.’

A fierce gust of wind made the decision for her. ‘I’m coming with you.’ She grabbed her camera.

‘No, stay here and dry your hair—’

‘I like to dry my hair outside.’

‘Where the air is full of sand? And you don’t want sand in your camera, do you?’

Clean out of reasonable excuses, Zara sank down on the cushions again. It was getting progressively darker inside the tent—another indicator that forces were at work over which she had no control. According to Abbas, she wasn’t safe outside and she didn’t feel safe inside. She was his prisoner as surely as if she were locked inside a cell. And somehow she had to subdue the frisson of excitement that provoked.

‘Stay here—where you’ll be safe,’ he repeated as a parting shot.

Did she want to be safe with Abbas?

Reduced to drumming her fingers on the hide couch, Zara was longing to pick up her camera. But she had given Abbas her word. She would ask his permission before taking any more photographs. It was only fair when he was sheltering her from the storm. She couldn’t betray his trust. Her heart lurched when he walked back inside the tent and she saw his gaze flick to the camera. It was still in its case just as she had left it. The approval in his eyes sent fire racing through her veins, but even a shave couldn’t soften the hard planes of his rugged face. His cheekbones seemed more pronounced than ever, his jaw stronger.

‘What are you worrying about?’ His brow creased.

‘Worried? I’m not worried.’ She met his gaze levelly, but the expression in Abbas’s eyes added a dangerous spark to the scent of hard, clean man.

She watched him seal the entrance with strong, capable hands. A few robust tugs and he appeared to be satisfied that everything was secure. He moved on around the tent, checking the supports and ignoring her. She should be pleased about that, Zara told herself. The wind had picked up and sand was hitting the sides with an ominous hissing sound. When the tent poles groaned beneath the pressure she began to get worried.

‘Are you sure it’s safe?’ She had to yell to make herself heard above the noise.

‘I’m sure—’

‘And Aban? Do you think he will have reached safety by now?’

Abbas looked pleased that she had remembered. ‘Yes, I checked on him while I was out.’ Pulling a satellite phone out of his pocket, he tossed it on to the bed.

She could have rung for help. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? ‘Could I borrow your phone?’ Her mobile was still in the Jeep.

‘There’s too much static for a call to get through now.’

She hid her disappointment. ‘How about the trader?’

‘He’s safe too—’

And then, before Abbas could say any more to her, a juddering blast made her exclaim with fright.

‘Don’t worry.’ Abbas ran his hand down the ballooning sides of the pavilion. ‘This dense fabric is made from camel hair. There’s nothing better for keeping out the weather. And these supporting poles may look flimsy, but they flex to accommodate the force of the gale just like the trunk of a palm tree.’ Wrapping his fist around one, he caressed it.

‘How long do you think we’ll be here?’

‘It’s impossible to know, so you might as well relax and get used to your confinement…’

Relax? That was easy for Abbas to say—her bones were turning to liquid fire at the thought of being secured inside the tent with him and her heart was vibrating frantically, though not from fear.