Sandstorm

He drove himself, an infrequent occurrence, she later learned, but in this instance essential to their privacy. They had wandered together through the magnificent park and gardens of the palace, gazing at the flowerbeds and ornamental lakes, the statuary and the fountains, and when Rachid captured her hand to draw her attention to the spectacular chariot rising from the waters of the Bassin d’Apollon, it seemed natural that her fingers should remain within the firm coolness of his.

It was another wonderful day, and by the time they drove back to Paris, Abby had almost forgotten the reasons which had brought her there in the first place. Unfortunately Brad had not, and the row that ensued on her return made her realise how selfishly she was behaving. His diatribe, too, on the recklessness of what she was doing did not improve the situation, particularly as he was only saying the things she herself had thought previously, and which even now were struggling for existence. He said she was a fool, and an innocent if she imagined the Prince Rachid Hasan al Juhami wanted anything more than to satisfy his lust for her body, and that if that didn’t trouble her the way Arabs treated their women would. They were just chattels, he maintained, there to satisfy a purpose, but without any rights to take enjoyment from it.

Abby had been shocked and appalled by the things he had said. Brad was not a prude, and he had no way of knowing whether or not she was still a virgin, and she half believed his outraged indignation. The fact that she had never been with a man made his words that much more terrifying, and while her senses rejected his angry denigration, her frightened logic could not.

In consequence, when Rachid arrived the following morning she refused to see him, and spent the day with Brad, attending a business meeting in the morning and lecture in the afternoon. She had told herself it was the sensible thing to do, and even though that night had been the first of the many when she cried herself to sleep over Rachid, she was convinced it was the only thing to do.

Unfortunately, the following day brought her into contact with the Abareinian delegation once more. Attending a reception at one of the other embassies, Rachid was the first man she saw on their arrival, and in spite of her determination, her eyes were drawn again and again to his dark-suited figure. Not that Rachid appeared to notice. He seemed quite content to remain with his own party, listening to what his colleagues had to say in that distinctive way he had of inclining his dark head in their direction, a faint smile of acknowledgement tugging at the corners of his mobile mouth.

Naturally Brad had been well pleased that his advice had appeared to work, and if he noticed that Abby’s lips were a little tighter when they left the Embassy, and her smile a little forced, he feigned ignorance. With supreme indifference to the fact that she had already been there with Rachid, he took her to the Louvre, and they spent the rest of the afternoon walking through the museums that house the most important artistic collection in the world, before returning to their hotel to take dinner in the restaurant.

By the time she left Brad in the foyer of the hotel, Abby’s head was aching and there was a curiously hollow feeling inside her, despite the excellence of the food she had just consumed. She put it down to fatigue and nervous exhaustion, but as she rode up in the lift she knew it was due in no small part to Rachid’s defection. It was to be expected, of course, after the way she had behaved, but she was amazed at the turmoil it had left inside her.

Her room was on the tenth floor, overlooking the Place de la Concorde, but this evening she had no interest in her surroundings. She felt raw and vulnerable, and it was not a pleasant experience. To alleviate her discomfort, she decided to take a bath, and minutes later, relaxing in the soapy scented water, she felt she had made the right decision. The water was warm and soothing, and swirled about her like a protective cocoon.

The knock that was repeated at the outer door dispelled the brief illusion of immunity. Guessing it was Brad with some instructions for the morning, she called to him to wait, and quickly patted herself dry before donning the ankle-length towelling robe which she normally used as a dressing gown. With her hair spilling from an improvised knot on top of her head, and the robe wrapped securely about her, she opened the door, and then expelled her breath on a gasp when she found Rachid on the threshold.

‘Can I come in?’ he asked, and she was convinced that no single item of her state of déshabille had escaped his notice. The dark eyes were all-encompassing, and she clutched the lapels of the towelling robe as if it was essential to hide every inch of burning flesh from him.

‘It’s late,’ she said foolishly, realising a more vehement refusal should have been forthcoming, but his unexpected appearance when she was feeling most susceptible had temporarily robbed her of calm reasoning.

‘I have to talk to you,’ he insisted, supporting himself with one hand against the door frame, the lapels of his jacket falling open to reveal the shadowy outline of his chest beneath the sheer silk of his shirt. ‘Abby, I beg of you, let me come in. At least for a moment. I would prefer not to be seen hanging about your bedroom door at this time of night, if possible.’

His words hardened her resolve. ‘Then go,’ she said tightly. ‘No one asked you to come here.’

‘Abby!’

The night-dark irises pleaded with her, and combined with the magnetic appeal of the man himself, they were a potent seducement. Moving her head silently from side to side, not trusting herself to speak, she tried to close the door, but his foot was in the way and with a little sound of protest she fell back from him, seeking the farthest corner of the room. He must not know how he affected her, she thought desperately, but how could she disguise it?

Rachid came into the room slowly, closing the door behind him and leaning his broad shoulders back against the panels. Then, tipping his head on one side, he looked at her with half reproachful impatience.

‘Why are you frightened of me?’ he asked, dark brows drawing together above the faintly arrogant curve of his nose. ‘What did I do to make you afraid of me? And why did you refuse to see me yesterday? Do we not enjoy ourselves together? I was under the impression that you liked my company. Was I wrong?’

Abby didn’t know how to answer him. To tell him that she had not enjoyed their time together would be an outright lie, yet to admit the contrary would be to invite who knew what familiarities.

‘I—did find your company—informative,’ she ventured at last, choosing her words carefully. ‘You obviously know Paris very well, and your knowledge of Versailles—’

‘I did not mean that, and you know it,’ he exclaimed, pushing himself away from the door and moving towards her with a firm pantherlike tread. ‘We were beginning to know one another, that is the important thing, and I want to know why you chose to sever our relationship with the sensitivity of a camel driver!’

He came round the end of her bed, imprisoning her in a corner of the room with no escape except across the bed itself. Abby considered climbing across the counter-pane, but such behaviour seemed undignified, and besides, if he attacked her she could always scream. Brad’s room was next door, and by now he must surely have finished the drink he had intended to have in the bar before coming upstairs.

‘I think you ought to go, Prince Rachid,’ she insisted tremulously, endeavouring not to look as anxious as she felt. ‘It—it was good of you to give me your time, but—’

‘It was not good at all,’ he interrupted roughly, now only inches away from her. ‘I wanted to spend my time with you, Abby. I can think of nothing I have enjoyed more, and—’ he reached out a hand to touch her cheek, ‘—I do not believe you did not enjoy it, too.’

Abby’s instinctive flinching away from him brought a faint flush of anger to his cheeks. ‘Haji, what is wrong with you?’ he demanded, gazing down at her without comprehension. ‘What kind of man do you think I am that you tremble like a gazelle just because I lay my hand on you?’

‘Please go,’ she got out chokingly, panic rising unbidden inside her. ‘Please, I want you to leave. At—at once. And I never want to see you again.’

‘No? Is this so? And what has happened to change your mind?’

He was so close now that she could see the flecks of lightness in those dark eyes, approve the texture of his skin, that was firm and tanned, and only slightly shadowed by the shaven growth of his beard. She could see the strong column of his throat rising from the collar of his shirt, and smell the clean odour of his body, mingling with that of his clothes and his shaving lotion. His hair clung smoothly to the shape of his head, free of any of the greasy dressings some men needed to keep their hair in order, and beneath the flaring pendulum of his tie his quickened breathing strained the buttons of his shirt. Her eyes dropped lower, only to dart up again swiftly, in case he imagined she was as curious about him as he appeared to be about her.

‘Prince Rachid—’

‘Rachid will do.’

‘Rachid, then…’

She put out a hand to ward him off, but he was too close. Her fingers made contact with the taut silk that covered his chest, and as they recoiled in embarrassment he bent his head and touched her ear with his lips.

It was the lightest caress, a brief meeting of the flesh, but Abby quivered in the grip of emotions far greater than the touch warranted, and as if compelled in spite of himself, he slipped an arm around her waist and brought her close against his hard body.

‘Rachid—’ she began again, more frantically now, but the smouldering passion of his gaze rendered her speechless. Almost involuntarily her lips parted, and this time when he bent his head, his mouth found hers.

It was a devastating experience, the firmness of his lips tasting hers with sensuous enjoyment. She felt a dizzying sense of imbalance in the increasing pressure of his embrace, and her hands groped blindly for his lapels in an effort to maintain some hold on reality. She was imprisoned against him, her breasts crushed by the sinewy strength of his chest, the bones of her hips melting against the powerful muscles of his thighs.

‘Abby…’

He said her name against her mouth, and a weak sense of inadequacy gripped her. She was no match for his experienced advances, and contrary to what Brad had told her, Rachid was no amateur in the matter of sensitivity. His whole approach was skilful, measured, and she was helpless against the sensual needs he was deliberately arousing. There was no need for brutality, no need to force her at all. In his hands, with the pulsating heat of his desire thrusting against her, she only wanted to respond, and her moan of submission was as much a plea for possession as a protest at his undoubted expertise.

With unhurried movements he slid the towelling robe from her shoulders, his mouth tracing its passing with lingering pleasure. Then, when she was desperately trying to recover her modesty, his hands loosened the cord that circled her waist so that the robe fell open before him.

‘Rachid, no…’ she gasped, but her denial was submerged beneath the sharp thrill of indulgence she felt when his long fingers cupped the swollen fullness of her breast.

‘Beautiful,’ he said, his voice low and husky with emotion. ‘So perfectly formed. So round and pink and delicious. I must taste…’

‘Oh, Rachid,’ she whispered tremulously, as his tongue probed the roseate peak, and his eyes narrowed with emotive anticipation.

‘You do not really want me to stop, do you?’ he murmured, as the towelling robe fell to the floor. ‘Do not be ashamed of your body. It is a temple at which I worship, and never have I held so much beauty in my hands.’

Abby was totally bemused. She had never shared such intimacy with any man, but when he tossed off his own jacket and tie, and unfastened the buttons of his shirt, the lingering memory of Brad’s insinuations returned to torment her.

‘I—I can’t,’ she got out chokingly, as he swung her up into his arms and lifted her on to the bed. ‘Rachid, I haven’t—I’ve never—’

‘Do you think I do not know that?’ he demanded huskily, lowering his weight beside her. ‘But do not be afraid. I will not hurt you. I will just caress you—so, and you will have nothing to fear.’

Abby’s trembling limbs were weak with longings she hardly knew or understood, but still she had to understand him. ‘You mean—you mean—you’re not going to—to—’

‘—make love to you?’ he finished, nuzzling her shoulder with his lips. ‘Not if you do not want to, no. There are—other ways of pleasing one another, and if you are afraid…’

‘Oh, Rachid…’

Relief made her wind her arms around his neck, bringing his mouth down to hers with hungry urgency, and the burning pressure of his mouth ignited the stirring flame inside her. Hardly aware of what she was doing, she moved beneath him eagerly, arching against his hard length, until only the layer of his clothes separated her from his throbbing possession.

‘Abby…’

Now it was Rachid who protested her innocence, but the imprisoning weight of his body drove all desire to resist from her, and her mouth opened beneath his.

The smooth expanse of his chest spread beneath her palms, warm and male, and only slightly roughened by the fine dark hair that was abrasively virile to the touch. Her hands investigated his shoulders, her nails probing the hollows of his ears, the strong column of his neck where the hair grew down to his nape. She wanted to know every inch of him, and time and place were forgotten in the delights of exploration.

Rachid’s mouth devoured hers as his hands searched the curve of her waist and the swell of her hips. His touch aroused her to unknown heights of excitement and anticipation, and she was all yielding woman in his arms.

She heard his muffled imprecation when her fingers found the buckle of his belt, but by then neither of them was capable of thinking beyond the moment, and the moment demanded surrender. With a groan of submission, Rachid lost what little control he had left, and his legs parted hers.

The heat of him against her promoted its own consummation. What happened was as natural as the turning of the season, and Abby’s cry of pain was stifled beneath the probing hunger of his kiss. She was hardly aware of the moment when he started to move within her, or indeed of the moment when the pressure began to build. But it happened, and they climbed together, scaling the boundaries of human experience, reaching the peak of sensual fulfilment. It was an unbelievable sensation, and looking up into Rachid’s sweat-moistened features, Abby knew that he was feeling it too. They sank together through the veils of shimmering ecstasy, and it was she who sought his lips with hers in the glorious aftermath of their lovemaking.

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