The Desert Lord's Bride / Wed by Deception: The Desert Lord's Bride. Emilie Rose
ordered his men to get rid of the paparazzi, to take their place, to pretend to ambush them on his signal. He’d planned to get her into a compromising position somehow, aiming to convince her that her spotless record of never having been caught in the act was at an end. But even his best projections hadn’t included his leaving the ball with her all over him.
He’d almost forgotten to give the signal, had done it with utmost reluctance, hating to have his men witness any measure of their intimacies, even the mild kiss he’d allowed them to see.
He’d expected her to cry out for him to send his men after the paparazzi, to make sure no evidence of her indiscretion remained in existence. He’d gambled on that driving her deeper into his trap, adding the feeling of being partners in barely averted scandal to the mix, compounding desire with debt.
But her response to the whole situation had again thrown him for a loop.
She’d been scared instead of incensed, was now looking so rattled, so pained, he almost blurted out that she had nothing to worry about.
Which proved he was thinking with nothing above the neck.
Yet—why hadn’t she made any demands that he contain the situation? Did she assume he would anyway, for his reputation?
She at last let out a wavering exhalation. “They’ve been hounding me since my father—my adoptive father—died.” So, no demand yet. When would it come? She went on, her voice strangled with emotion. “They always find a reason for their sick interest in me. I’m just scared witless that this latest episode has something to do with their getting wind that I was adopted, or worse, who my newfound biological father is. If it does, they’ll never leave me alone.”
He knew he should steer away from this subject, shouldn’t risk her connecting him with the situation between her and King Atef. He couldn’t resist asking, “Because of the drama of the discoveries? Or is your bioligical father’s identity worthy of creating a sensation?”
“Both. Just the fact that Francois Beaumont isn’t my father would make them salivate. But oh, boy, is my biological father’s identity sensational. If I can hardly believe it, imagine what the tabloids would make of it.”
He had to be satisfied with that, would recall her answer later for analysis. For now he had to end this strain of thought, divert her to safer grounds.
He shrugged. “They could have been after me.”
“But no one knew who you are, except me…”
Her breath left her in a rush. He gritted his teeth at the response its freshness and femininity wrung from him. At the surge of what felt too much like shame.
Anger at the stupid feeling roughened his voice. “Yes.”
Her breath caught now. Savoring the depth of the privilege he’d imparted to no one but her? Let her. It was the best way to snare a woman, appealing to her vanity.
Just as he was sure he’d fathomed her reaction, she frowned. “Do you realize how stupid that was? To blow your anonymity like that to someone you just met?”
That was again the last thing he’d expected her to say.
Unsure how to react, he raised an eyebrow. “I trusted you?”
Her glower, her tone, only grew sharper. “And which part of your anatomy made that monumental decision?”
What he’d just been thinking. He shook his head as if it would make this turn in conversation make better sense. “I have made it so far by trusting my instincts…”
The irony of his words made him stop. For his instincts were lying. They’d been lying ever since he’d laid eyes on her.
She mistook his pause for belated realization. “See what I mean? So you were right to trust me, but what if you weren’t? Worse still, what if someone overheard you on the terrace?”
He stared at her. Anyone would have sworn that she cared. Knew how to care. But he knew better.
“No one heard me. And then no one who does know me could have recognized me. I was covered from the eyes down…”
She huffed a sardonic laugh. “And you consider that a disguise? Do you think anyone wouldn’t recognize your eyes? Not to mention your physique. Put them together, and anyone who’d seen you across a street would recognize you.”
He was used to women flattering him, knew much of their flattery used truths as ammunition. But he’d always recognized the self-serving intentions behind the adulation. He detected none now in hers, delivered in this no-nonsense, exasperated-at-his-obliviousness way. He barely stopped himself from hauling her on top of him again and showing her how he reciprocated in kind.
Which was probably the effect she’d planned. Or was that as far-fetched as it sounded to him?
Getting more confused, he exhaled. “I was in that ball for over an hour before you arrived. No one recognized me.”
“Then the paparazzi were after me.” She seemed to deflate beside him. “It’s weird, but I’m actually relieved they were.” Suddenly she shot up straight again, clutched his forearm. “But— the photos…” Here it came. The belated demand. “They might have taken some of your face. I’m used to being pursued, but I can’t bear it if being with me is going to expose you to their viciousness.”
And? Where was the demand for him to undo it? For his own privacy and comfort, of course, not hers?
None came. Instead, her eyes suddenly sparkled with moisture and she choked, “I’m so sorry, Shehab.”
And he gave in. He lowered his head with a groan, stilled her tremulous words and lips with his, his tongue gliding over her plumpness, unable to wait to plunge into her again. She opened for him with a whimper, overpowering him with her surrender, allowing him all the licenses he needed.
Desire crested, threatening to overcome all considerations. He severed their meld, looked down on her. “Don’t be sorry, ever, ya jameelati.” Then he gave in again, ending his own maneuver, giving her what she hadn’t asked for, gaining nothing for himself. “And don’t worry, either. Never fear anything when I’m with you. I’d defend you against anything.” And he would. Only because she was the key to protecting the throne of Judar, he insisted to himself. “My men will make sure those paparazzi have nothing to publish.”
“You mean they’ll…? Oh…oh.” Her eyes widened, the tears stagnating in them, making them gleam like jewels in the semidarkness. Then tears surged again, dejection replacing agitation in her expression. “Not that that makes me feel any better.” It didn’t? “The paparazzi probably saw far less than your men did.”
It took him a second to understand. She thought his men had witnessed all their intimacies in the gardens.
His outrage felt real even to himself when he growled, “You think I would have almost taken you if my men were all around?”
She blinked, tears receding, if not before two escaped, rolled down the velvet of her cheek. “They weren’t?”
“B’Ellahi…” He caught the drops of precious moisture in his mouth, kissed his way to her trembling lips again. “Of course not. I buzzed for them the moment the paparazzi appeared.” Which was as near the truth as could be.
This time she sagged in his arms, an exhalation wracking her voluptuous frame. “Thank God. I was mortified thinking they must have seen it all, how it must have looked to them even though it felt like magic to me…”
This was what had so upset her so much? The thought that others had witnessed their lovemaking, defiling the moments of magic with base thoughts and sordid projections?
Not knowing what to think anymore, he pressed her harder to his chest. She surrendered to his caresses for a long moment, then she stiffened by degrees, until she pushed out of his arms, sat up facing him in the prim