Never Resist a Sheikh (International Bad Boys) Page 4

  Felicity blinked. “So you went out and stole one?”

  For the first time something rippled across the sheikh’s face, gone so fast she couldn’t tell what it was. “I meant to steal a princess worthy of my country. But she was not in the car as our intelligence had told us.” He paused. “You were.”

  Her mouth opened. Then shut. “She wasn’t there so you took me instead?” she asked eventually. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I was not intending to, believe me.”

  There was something in his voice. Not regret, but something that sounded…almost disdainful. As if taking her was the last thing he’d wanted to do. It should have made her feel relieved, and yet it didn’t. In fact, it made a horribly familiar feeling of hurt twist in her gut. Which was just ridiculous. Why should she be hurt? She didn’t actually want to be kidnapped.

  “Then why did you?” she said, unable to keep the edge of demand from her voice. “Because I certainly didn’t want to be taken.”

  “You saw my face. I could not leave you there where you could identify me.”

  “But I had no idea who you were!”

  “That did not matter. The risk was still too great.”

  “So you kidnapped me?”

  He shifted on his feet, a cold expression coming over his face. “Have a care, Miss Cartwright.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s right. You’re the king and I should be bowing and scraping.”

  Another heavy silence fell.

  The sheikh stared at her, the aura of danger around him getting thicker and thicker.

  You’re an idiot. He really could kill you if he wanted.

  Yes, he could. But somehow that made no difference to the anger inside her. She wanted to walk right up to him and poke him again. Hard. Just to let him know how furious she was. Furious and afraid.

  She didn’t want to be kidnapped by this beast of a man. She didn’t want to wake up in some strange country after having been drugged. She didn’t want to have her life in the balance just because she’d touched him. She really didn’t want to be his bride prize.

  And most of all, she didn’t want to feel inexplicably hurt because she hadn’t been the one he’d wanted in the first place.

  Swallowing, she tried to moderate her tone. “So? Why don’t you just take me back and get her instead? Like I was trying to tell you earlier, I was on my way to a really important meeting I can’t miss. One that’s vital to my company and when I say vital, I mean vital.”

  “I cannot. It is too dangerous to undertake another raid. And the princess I wanted will be marrying within days.”

  Felicity stared at him in shock as it belatedly came to her who he was actually talking about. “You wanted Princess Safira?”

  He didn’t look in the least bit ashamed of the fact he’d been about to kidnap an already engaged woman. “I was hoping to.”

  “But…she’s already taken.”

  “She refused the sheikh of Al-Harah,” he said as if explaining to a child. “If a woman refuses, then she is eligible to be a bride prize for another man.”

  Okay, so when he said his was an old country with old ways, he really hadn’t been kidding.

  “So she can refuse then? Or do you force her?” Her voice had risen. “Drug her and kidnap her like you did with me?”

  Again that ripple of expression passing over his features. “No,” he said flatly. “In Al-Harah, a woman can refuse. That is her right.”

  “Except if she’s me, of course.” She was being snarky and that was probably stupid given her situation, but she couldn’t help it. For years she’d kept quiet, tiptoeing around in the brittle atmosphere of her childhood home, not wanting to say a word in case she brought it crashing down, keeping all her emotions to herself. As an adult, she’d always sworn she wouldn’t do that again, so she didn’t now. “Except if she’s some poor tourist who just happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and caught a glimpse of the wrong man.”

  The sheikh said nothing, eyeing her.

  “So what about my rights?” She went on, increasingly furious, suddenly needing to get it all out, otherwise she was going to explode, death threats or not. “What about my right to refuse? I wasn’t asked if I wanted to be drugged. I wasn’t asked if I wanted to come here to your country. And I definitely wasn’t asked if I wanted to be your s-stupid bride prize!” She’d taken a few unconscious steps toward him, anger propelling her. “And, for the record, I don’t. I refuse! Red Star—that’s my company in case you didn’t know—depends on me being in Al-Harah at a meeting right now. And because you decided to kidnap me, I’m not at that meeting. And because I am not at that meeting, my company will in all likelihood fail to get the Al-Harahan money we need. And if we don’t get that money, my company is screwed.” The words tumbled over each other and stupidly, she could feel the backs of her eyes stinging. Oh God, please don’t let me cry, that would be truly pathetic.

  Still, the sheikh said nothing, his black eyes studying her with a strange intensity.

  Her throat felt thick, the nausea left over from the drug they’d fed her unsettling her stomach, and the unfairness of it all welled up inside her, choking her.

  She’d worked so hard to get Red Star where it was, all the hours and the money she’d put into it, and to have it all fall apart just because this…man had decided to kidnap her to fulfill some ancient custom was beyond upsetting.

  She blinked fiercely to stop the sting of stupid tears. “I don’t want to be your bride prize, and if you think I’m going to marry you, you’re insane.”

  If he found that insulting he didn’t show it, standing there immovable as a stone door, and she had the impression she could shout at him all day and he wouldn’t move. She could push him, hit him, take out all her rage on him and he would still be there, unchanged. Unaffected.

  Remind you of anyone?

  The thought of her father was enough to send another little pulse of fury through her. “Well?” she demanded suddenly. “You’re not going to say anything?” She took another few steps toward him, shaking. “Take me back. Take me back to Al-Harah right now!”

  He hadn’t responded to her before, and she wasn’t expecting a response now.

  But as the last echoes of her shout died away, he moved. Toward her. Closing the distance so fast she had no time to get away. And then his hand came out and her chin was taken between his thumb and forefinger in a grip so strong she couldn’t break it.

  She went absolutely still like she had in the SUV, her heart was thudding in her ears, some primitive part of her telling her not to move so the tiger wouldn’t eat her.

  There was a dark, fierce gleam in his eyes, and she became aware, overwhelmingly, of his physical presence. Of how warm his fingers were on her skin and though his grip was firm, it wasn’t so hard as to cause her pain.

  His body was very hot, burning like the radiators back in her New York apartment in midwinter when she was cold and wanted to press herself against them. And he smelled like clean sweat and sandalwood and some other spice she couldn’t quite pinpoint. It made something inside her flip over.

  She’d never had a man touch her like this before.

  “No,” the sheikh said in that rough, gravelly voice of his, the word heavy as a slab of stone falling onto the ground. “You are staying here.”

  * * *

  She was upset, but he’d expected that. The moment he’d revealed what she was here for, he’d thought she wouldn’t be happy and indeed, she hadn’t been.

  But he’d also expected tears and pleas, and although he could see a faint reddening of her eyes, neither the tears nor the pleas had appeared.

  Instead there had been a very real anger, and for some reason that had moved him more than tears ever would.

  She stared up at him now, her pointed jaw held fast between his fingers, and he could see that anger sparking in her eyes. He could feel it in the quiver of her chin and the tremble of her body.

  Up close, the
grain of her milky skin was fine and the scatter of freckles across her nose was like gold dust. Her lashes were as red as her hair, a kind of dark copper with a sheen of gold to it, the perfect frame for her silvery, smoky eyes. A faint scent of sweet flowers came from her, a simple, uncomplicated yet feminine scent that sent the blood rushing to his head.

  Her skin was very soft and very smooth, reminding him of the silk pillows that had once graced the harem. And also the skin of the women he’d had there, soft, fragrant, and yielding…

  Desire shifted in the dark, right down deep inside him. An unwanted sensation. He should probably let her go, but he wasn’t going to. He was stronger than the desire. Strength was one of his gifts and he chose to exercise it whenever possible.

  So he kept tight his hold on her, watching the ebb and flow of color under her skin. Ignoring the pull of his baser instincts.

  She was very angry, he could see that. And no wonder, if what she said about her company was true. Pity that was irrelevant at this particular point in time.

  “You can’t stop me if I want to leave,” she said hoarsely. “You can’t keep me here.”

  “Yes, I can.” He made his voice harsh so she could be in no doubt. “My palace is full of guards and you have no money or passport. Even if you were to somehow manage to avoid my soldiers, you would not get far.”

  Her throat moved and he had the most peculiar desire to stroke his hand down the graceful white column of it. He remembered the feeling of her pulse beneath his palm back in the SUV, fluttering hard and fast, like a bird.

  “You said I could refuse.” Her voice had gotten thicker. “You said a woman has to give her consent.”

  Prompted by some urge he couldn’t name, he stroked his thumb experimentally on her chin. “That is true in most places, Al-Harah for example. But here, in Al-Shakhra, our customs are much older. Here the right of refusal happens only when a woman is claimed by more than one man.” She gave a little shiver as his thumb moved, her eyes going wide with surprise. Very interesting. Had she not been touched like this before? “So you may refuse, Miss Cartwright. But only if you already have a husband or a man who will come for you.”

  Something flashed across her face then, a raw kind of emotion he didn’t recognize. Then her expression closed up, those pretty red-gold lashes veiling her gaze. “I have a government,” she said stonily. “Once they’ve found out what’s happened to me, they’ll come for me.”

  Well, she might very well have a government who would help, but she had no man to come for her, to claim her, of that he was sure.

  If he’d had a heart he might have felt sorry for her. But he’d cut the remains of it out when Farid had killed himself. He had no pity left.

  “Your government would have to know where you are in order to come for you and I have made sure they will not find you for some time.” He should release her now, yet he didn’t. As if he wanted to test himself against her sweet scent and the feel of her skin beneath his fingers. It had been too long. It had been far too long…

  She tensed and he could feel the subtle pull of her chin against his hand. She wanted to get away, escape him, but he continued to keep a tight hold on her, studying her delicate features.

  Back in Al-Harah, lying unconscious on that street, he’d thought she was a rather insignificant consolation prize when compared to Princess Safira. Not for her looks because beauty wasn’t a quality that drew him—as a soldier he had no use for beauty. But because she looked weak. And he respected strength.

  Yet this small creature had proved to have a certain strength after all. She hadn’t cowered before him or begged for mercy. Instead she’d raged and shouted. Had jabbed him in the chest with her finger. And even now, though she was held fast in his grip, she was trying to get away.

  Perhaps she would make a good sheikha after all.

  Her lashes rested on her cheeks, her gaze firmly on his chest. “Please,” she said unexpectedly, her voice husky. “Please, s-sire. Take me back to Al-Harah. Let me go.”

  That stutter again. It made something unfamiliar tighten in his chest. Something unwelcome. No, it could not be regret. Or sympathy, or any one of those weak emotions. The ones that had ultimately led to Farid and Maysan’s death. He would not let them in, not ever.

  Zakir released her, stepping away and trying to ignore the warmth from her skin that lingered on his fingertips. “I cannot do that, Miss Cartwright.” He kept his tone cold. “Your place is now here. With me.”

  Slowly she raised her chin, looking at him, and this time he couldn’t read the look in her eyes. But there was no mistaking the determined line of her jaw. “And my company? My whole life? What about that?”

  Yes, this would be hard for her. But then what was life if not hard? Everyone who lived in the Al-Shakhra, the Stone Kingdom, knew that.

  “You will not need a company,” he said steadily. “You will have a new life. As queen of this country. As my sheikha.”

  Her jaw became even more determined, hard and set, a furious silver flame burning in her eyes. “Over my dead body.”

  Well, he hoped it would not come to that.

  Zakir turned, going over to the one of the benches and sitting down, reaching to undo his desert boots. After he’d trained, he liked to swim in the pool, and especially now, with the strange, tight feeling remaining in his chest and the heat in his blood, he could do with immersing himself in some cold water.

  Putting the boots beside the bench, he then reached for the buttons on the black combat pants he wore, pulling them open.

  “What are you doing?”

  He looked up to see Felicity staring at him, her eyes wide.

  “I am going swimming. I prefer to do so after a training session.” He paused. “You wish to join me?”

  “God, no.”

  Perhaps she didn’t like to swim. “You are quite welcome to use the pool at any time.”

  “But…but…”

  She looked flustered, though he couldn’t imagine why. “But what?”

  “What about me?”

  “What about you?” He began to push down his pants and the briefs he wore under them.

  “Oh.” The word came out on a funny squeak, color rushing into her already pink face. Her mouth opened, her gaze dropping down his body as he stepped out of his pants completely.

  This was his palace and he was king of it. And shame was another emotion he no longer felt. So it didn’t bother him that she went redder than her hair at his nudity. In fact, it was almost…intriguing to see her look at him with such wide eyes. As if she’d never seen an unclothed man in her life.

  It made him want to play with her a little.

  “Do you see something…unusual?” he asked bluntly.

  Her gaze jerked up to his face and he didn’t think it was possible, but she went an even deeper shade of red. “What? Uh, no, of course not.” She blinked. “Can I go now? I mean, am I dismissed?”

  “No.” He found he wasn’t in any hurry to let her leave. “You will stay.”

  That small, delicate jaw of hers firmed. “Well, you could have given me a little warning that you were just going to…you know…strip.”

  “I always swim naked. Besides, you will have to get used to seeing me like this.” He turned toward the pool, a peculiar sense of satisfaction at her reaction resting inside him, which was strange because he really didn’t care what she thought of him.

  “Why will I have to get used to seeing you like that?” Her voice sounded shaky.

  He walked to the edge, looking down at the blue water. “Because one day I will need an heir.”

  Without waiting for her response, which would no doubt be an unhappy one, he dove cleanly into the cool water. It was the very height of luxury to have so much water purely for swimming in, but unlike the harem, it was the one pleasure from Farid’s reign he’d allowed himself to keep.

  Coming up for air, he lifted his hands and wiped the water from his eyes.

  Felicity stood a
t the side of the pool with her arms folded, a mutinous expression on her face, silver sparks flashing in her eyes. “Just so you know, if I’m refusing to be your wife, I’m also refusing…a-anything else.”

  Playing with her was unfair, especially when he had all the power and she had none. But again, it was better she got used to it because that was life in the Stone Palace, where he was the king and his word was law. Al-Shakhra wasn’t an absolute monarchy for nothing.

  Zakir slicked his hair back with one hand. “I am prepared to wait until you are ready.”

  Truth be told, he was in no hurry to consummate the marriage himself. Part of the reason she would make him a good sheikha was the fact that he wasn’t attracted to her. Sex would only happen in the creation of heirs, he’d already vowed that to himself, and if they had no physical chemistry then he wouldn’t be tempted to break that vow. He would never give into passion the way his brother had.

  Yet he hadn’t counted on the strange stirrings of desire he’d experienced these past ten minutes, where he’d found his control with her a little less complete than he liked it to be.

  So, no. He would wait. He was very good at waiting.

  “You don’t understand. I will never be ready.” She’d started pacing beside the pool, her arms folded tightly. “I’m only twenty-four. I don’t want marriage. I don’t want kids. I graduated MIT with a PhD when I was twenty-one and I own one of the fastest growing software companies in the States. A company that needs this deal with Al-Harah. That’s where my life is. That’s what I want.” She stopped all of a sudden, a fierce look on her face. “How can I make you see that?”

  If she was trying to make herself less of an asset as a sheikha, she wasn’t succeeding. So it seemed she was not only an accomplished businesswoman—which he already knew from the research Jamal had done—but she was also highly intelligent as well. That only reinforced his decision to keep her.

  “What I can see,” he said, “is that I made the right choice in taking you, after all. Intelligence is valuable in a sheikha.”

  A look of what he thought was surprise flickered over her face, before it gave way to frustration. “That’s great. Apart from the small fact that I do not want to be a sheikha.”