The Sheikh Who Desired Her. Jennifer Lewis
Merkazad stables, and to be doing it at her relatively young age was no small feat.
She shrugged lightly and avoided Salman’s intense gaze. ‘You know I always loved animals, I dreamed of running the stables ever since I was tiny.’
Something hollow sounded in Salman’s voice. ‘I know. Which is why it was good that you went home and followed your path.’
She looked at him, but his face showed no discernible emotion. And then the waiter came with their main courses and their conversation was interrupted. She’d often told him of her dreams when they’d been younger, when he’d listen in silence as she prattled on. Now she had to recall that he’d never really shared anything personal of himself—just as he hadn’t in Paris. There had just been this intangible quality between them. And it still hurt to think that he’d seen her as an encumbrance.
But was he saying now that on some level he’d been concerned that she’d sacrifice her dreams for what had essentially been a fling in Paris? Coupled with what he’d revealed in the car the day before, she had to acknowledge that his rejection of her had perhaps not been as arbitrarily cruel as she’d believed it to be.
That thought made her quiet as she ate. But finally curiosity overcame her, and she asked Salman about his own work. He wiped at his mouth with a napkin before telling her that he’d graduated to the much more risky world of hedge fund management.
He grimaced slightly. ‘I’m now a part of that most reviled breed of bankers, the scourge of the recent banking crisis, and yet …’ something cynical crossed his face ‘… reviled as we may be, business has never been so good.’ He smiled, but it was without warmth.
‘You have your own company?’
He nodded and took a sip of water. ‘Yes, it’s called Al-Saqr Holdings.’
Jamilah’s fingers plucked at her napkin. ‘And you don’t mind being thought of … badly?’
He shrugged, eyes glinting. ‘I’ve developed a thick skin. If people still want me to invest their money for them, to take risks on their behalf, who am I to deny them?’
‘It sounds so soulless.’
‘Much like living out of a hotel and leading a disconnected existence? You should know by now, Jamilah, that my soul is lost. I told you a long time ago that I’m dark and twisted inside.’
Jamilah had the shocking realisation in that moment that he really meant what he said. Why would he think that? On some level he truly did believe he was lost, and her heart squeezed. She could still see the boy who had come to comfort her at her parents’ grave, who had instilled within her a sense of strength she sometimes still drew on. Which was ironic, when he was largely the reason she needed strength.
But for those three weeks he’d been gentle and infinitely generous. He’d been as she had remembered him—affectionately indulgent to her, and tolerant of her constant chatter and exuberance. But when she’d trespassed too far she’d been subjected to his icy-cold front and dismissed like all the others—cast out to the periphery.
She couldn’t and would never forget his cruelty to her, but it was already becoming a more ambiguous, multi-faceted thing. Why would he feel like that about himself? What had happened to him to make him believe that? She knew if she kept on this path it would be a very dangerous one. She shouldn’t be curious. She shouldn’t care.
Abruptly she put down her napkin and stood up, making a hasty excuse, hating herself for it. ‘I need to get some papers from the suite for my own meeting this afternoon.’
With smooth grace Jamilah saw Salman make a discreet gesture to someone behind them, and he stood up, too, indicating for her to precede him out of the gazebo. She was surprised he wasn’t pushing for them to stay for coffee and dessert. She walked out a little unsteadily. And then he took her arm to lead her back into the hotel through the gorgeous private gardens.
As they neared the doors, where staff waited, she cursed her gullibility. She stopped and turned to him, looked up. ‘You knew very well what you were asking for when you requested a table outside, didn’t you?’
Eyes as black as sin turned her insides molten. He smiled wickedly. ‘It was a mere manipulation of the truth to get you to stay.’
Jamilah fought the lazy tendrils of desire unfurling inside her. ‘I don’t want you to seduce me, Salman. I won’t be seduced.’
‘It’s too late, Jamilah. We’re here now … for a reason.’ His mouth firmed, ‘I don’t believe in fate, but I believe in this.’
He pulled her into him and his mouth was on hers before she could even squeak in protest. One hand went to his chest, to push him away, but his steely strength called to her, making her legs weak. She emitted a groan of pure self-disgust mixed with the inevitable rise of wanton desire. Their mouths clung, tongues touching and tasting. It grew more heated, and Jamilah found that her arms and hands had climbed up to Salman’s neck and she was straining on tiptoe to get even closer.
She pulled back, her heart racing, disgusted to find herself in this position—again.
He held her fast against his body, where she could feel the heat and strength of his burgeoning arousal. ‘Tell me again you won’t be seduced …’ It wasn’t even a question.
Jamilah wanted to deny him, but the way she kept falling into his arms and responding so forcibly mocked her. Her heart fell at the unmistakable light of triumph in his eyes.
‘The problem is that we are dealing with a force greater than ourselves, and the fact that our desire never got a chance to burn itself out,’ he said.
Jamilah finally managed to pull away. ‘Unlike you, I have a healthy respect for things that aren’t good for me. I can resist this, and I will. Find someone else, Salman, please.’ And she hoped to God that he would listen to her plea.
CHAPTER FIVE
JAMILAH had only gone back downstairs when she was due to have her own meeting with the envoy from Dubai. To her abject relief she hadn’t seen Salman again, but she steeled herself now for the evening ahead, when they were due to go to a black tie function.
When she heard Salman moving around in the main salon she took a deep and shaky breath in. She regarded herself in her bedroom mirror. Make-up covered most of the ravages of the last sleepless night, and the aftermath of that lunch and the kiss. There was an awful feeling of inevitability burning low in her belly, and she couldn’t ignore it much as she wanted to.
Her dress was strapless silk and floor-length, midnight-blue in colour—almost black. It managed to be effortlessly chic even while the low back presented a much more daring view.
Her mother had been a famous fashion model—one of the first Arabic women to break into the international scene—which was how she’d met Jamilah’s father in Paris. Before Jamilah’s parents had died so tragically her mother had already instilled within her a love and appreciation for classic elegant clothes and jewellery. Jamilah didn’t buy much, but when she did it was always quality pieces.
She’d twisted her hair up, and now added a pair of her mother’s sapphire earrings to match the simple necklace that adorned her neck. With another shaky breath she picked up her short faux fur coat and evening bag and left her room.
Her hands clenched tight around her bag when she saw Salman, standing and flicking idly through a magazine on the table. He looked up, and for a moment Jamilah felt as if she was drowning. She’d seen Salman in a tuxedo before, but something about seeing him now, tonight, seemed to hit her right between the eyes. He was simply the most stupendously handsome man she’d ever seen.
Salman looked at Jamilah. She was a vision in dark silk which showed off every elegant curve of her body. Her breasts were soft pale swells above the bodice, and a gem hung with tantalising provocation just above the vee in her cleavage. Her eyes glittered a dazzling blue, and Salman knew that