At The Sheikh's Command

She was even more stunning close up than he had imagined from the quick glimpse he had had of her through the window. She was tall, with rich, full breasts, a neat waist and curving hips. That ridiculous apron with its multicoloured flower print should have made her look anything but glamorous but the way it fastened around the slenderness of her waist emphasised the swell of her breasts, the flare of her hips. A real woman, unlike the almost boyish figures of so many of the females he had seen around London.

The sudden clutch of sexual hunger he experienced, just looking at her, was so primitive it was shocking. It was a long time since his rather jaded appetite had been stirred so strongly.

But her mood was not at all as he had anticipated. This hissing, spitting cat had little in common with the image of a warm, willing temptress he had built in his mind, letting himself consider that perhaps this trip to England might not be the boring diplomatic duty and family responsibility it had promised to be.

Instead he was faced with an aggressive, fiery creature who had marched up to him in a way that no woman in Barakhara would ever dare to do, confronting him with her hands on her hips and a blaze in her cool grey eyes.

‘I don’t need to explain! You know why you’re here!’

‘My business here is with Sir James—’

The attempt to squash her, silence her, failed as she drew in a sharp breath, then launched into a further attack, dismissing his intervention with an audacious wave of her hand.

‘Your business here is to decide Andy’s—Andrew’s—fate!’ she flung at him. ‘I don’t know who you think you are, dicing with people’s lives like that! Just what gives you the right…’

‘The law gives me the right,’ Malik broke in on her with a snap. ‘The law of—Barakhara. The same law that young Andrew chose to flout when he decided to pocket some of the items he found at that archaeological dig he was working on.’

Andy, his mind had noted, grabbing at the single word and working on the meaning behind it. She’d changed it pretty hastily to Andrew, but Andy was what she’d said at first, before she’d corrected herself.

And Andy meant a familiarity, a closeness that was more than servant to a member of the family she worked for.

‘A few paltry items!’ she scorned. ‘What? A coin or two? A fossil? And for that you’d lock him up for life!’

‘A few paltry religious items,’ Malik corrected coldly. ‘Items of deep significance to the history of Barakhara and its rulers. Items that in just the last century would have meant death for any non-Barakharanian to touch…’

He watched the colour ebb from her face with grim satisfaction. The ashen shade of her cheeks told him all he needed to know.

‘You didn’t know that?’

She could only shake her head, sending the pale gold of her hair flying as she did so.

Andy. Malik’s mind went back to the word in the way that he might worry at a sore tooth with his tongue. Andy…So what was the relationship between these two? Did they have something going between them? Was Andy perhaps her lover? The sting of jealousy that thought brought was as jagged as it was unexpected, making him move sharply, uncomfortably.

‘So he omitted to tell you the full facts about why he was arrested?’

Or was it the father who had done that? Was it the truth of the matter that James Cavanaugh—Sir James Cavanaugh— didn’t want the world to know just what his stupid elder son had been up to?

Malik’s mouth curled in distaste. The Honourable Andrew Cavanaugh was what the son called himself—what he had insisted on being called, Jalil had said. And the Honourable Andrew Cavanaugh lived in a house like this, with maids to clean and fetch and carry for him, and still he stole to line his own pockets. There was little that was honourable about that.

‘So now perhaps you’ll admit that I have a reason for what I’m doing. That I am not quite the spawn of the devil you think me?’

‘I…’

She didn’t seem able to find an answer for him. Her soft pink lips opened, but no words would come out. And clouds of confusion dulled the silvery grey of her eyes.

Suddenly Malik felt a sense of rage at the fate that had brought him here, the job he had to do. Why couldn’t Jalil do his own dirty work?

There were times when he wished he could just let his young fool of a half-brother go to damnation in his own way. But if Jalil fell, then the whole of his country would go to rack and ruin too, and he had sworn an oath to his mother—Jalil’s mother too—that he would never let that happen. A vow made within the family was sacrosanct, and he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t keep it—no matter what it took.

He had hoped that a little dalliance with the blonde maid would at least provide some entertainment, some relaxation after the delicate negotiations he was going to have to handle. But from the stubborn, mulish expression on her face, he was going to have to work harder at winning her over than he had ever thought.

The unwanted and uncomfortable thought suddenly hit him that if she knew the son—this Andy—so well, then maybe she was close to the daughter as well.

That was a complication he could do without. He had seen no sign yet of the Gail that Jalil had talked about, but if she and this girl were friends…

‘No—he didn’t tell me,’ she managed now, stumbling over the words faintly and a raw colour washed those pale cheeks, betraying her embarrassment…

And making her look damnably sexy. It might be mortification that had put the blush on her skin but it made her look as if she had just got out of bed after a long, passionate session of sexual indulgence. It might have been the way that she had bitten down hard on her lower lip that had made it so pink, with all the blood rushing to the surface, but in his mind he knew that her mouth would look like that when she had been kissed senseless, taken to ecstasy and beyond.

‘What’s your name?’ he demanded suddenly, his voice rough with the effort of trying to distract himself from the heated blood that seemed to be pooling low in his body, hardening and tightening so that it was a struggle to think straight—to think at all.

‘I’m Abbie,’ she told him, looking a little startled that he should ask.

Not Gail, Malik thought on a rush of relief. Just for one uncomfortable moment he had wondered…

‘And what should I call you?’

She’d pulled back some of her confidence now, some of the strength there had been in her in the moment of her arrival in the room. There was a definite edge of sarcasm to her tone on the question. One that tugged a smile at the corner of his mouth, one that was impossible to hold back.

‘You can call me Malik.’

‘Malik…’ Abbie’s tongue curled around the exotic sound of the word as if she were tasting it.

It sounded rich and exotic, strong and firm—just right. Just like him.

‘Is that all?’

Her voice was softly husky, dragged from a throat that was too dry, too tight, to speak naturally. She swallowed hard and slicked a moist pink tongue over suddenly parched lips, watching his black gaze drop just for a moment to follow the tiny revealing gesture. And when his eyes lifted again, burning straight into hers, she knew that she was lost. She had fallen into sensual slavery without knowing why or how it had happened. But she was in and tumbling head over heels into an endless chasm of awareness, one from which she already knew she had no hope of escape.

Not that she wanted to. That smile had rocked her world. It had only been a small curl at the corners of his sexy mouth but it had made her shiver in instant reaction, heated pinpricks of awareness tormenting her sensitised skin.

‘Shouldn’t I add something else?’

Her question brought those brilliant eyes swiftly back up to her face, locking with her own bemused gaze, holding it fixed.

‘Add something?’ he asked, the musical sound of his voice coiling round her senses like warmed silk. ‘Like what?’

Like what? Abbie asked herself, scrabbling through the disorder of her thoughts, trying to find the original track they had been running on, the one she had meant them to follow.

‘Like—like sir,’ she managed hesitatingly.

He was a sheikh, wasn’t he? A ruler. Of the royal house of Al’Qaim. Surely he must have some official title that she had to use.

‘Or—or Your Majesty—or…Highness—’

The words broke off, her voice cracking as he moved suddenly, coming so very close. In spite of the heat, she found that she was once again shivering as if a cold draught had blown over her skin.

Having looked into the dark depths of his eyes, she found she couldn’t look away again but was held frozen, mesmerised, captive. She couldn’t have moved away if she’d tried. But she didn’t try—couldn’t try—didn’t want to try.

Instead she knew that the saving grace of all that anger was deserting her, evaporating in the warmth of that smile. And when she saw the faint golden glow of amusement that lit those amazing eyes then she was lost. All the resistance in her melted like ice before a fire.

‘Just Malik…’ he murmured. Somehow he had moved closer so that the heat of his breath on the words brushed along her cheek, stirring a tendril of hair at the lobe of her ear.

She inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of him, the warm musk of his skin, and let her breath out again on a sigh.

‘Malik…’ she said softly, her tongue savouring the exotic sound of his name. The frantic beat of her heart had slowed, become heavy, indolently sensual, and the honeyed warmth of arousal was uncoiling low down in her body, all that was most feminine in her reaching out to all that was masculine in him.

‘Malik…’ she said again, wanting to say so much more but not having the courage to do so.

Touch me! she wanted to say. Let me feel the heat of your skin on mine, the strength of your hand, the stroke of your caress…

But the words died on her lips; she couldn’t make her tongue form the words even though she felt as if they were screaming inside her head. She had never felt this way before in her life.

No—the truth was that she had never known that it was possible to feel this way. To know this hunger, this desire for a man she had only just met. A man who made her heart thud, her pulse race, who made her aware of him in every part of her body so that her breasts stung and heat pooled in the most intimate spot between her thighs.

She’d had boyfriends in the past, but no one—no one—had ever affected her like this.

‘You’re beautiful…’

Malik moved slightly, coming even nearer, and once again the scent of his skin, the faintest hint of the perfume of cedar wood, reached out to surround her, tormenting her senses. She couldn’t take it any more. Couldn’t bear just to stand here and know he was so close—and yet not close enough.

She had to touch.

Throwing caution to the wind and giving in to the primal need that made her skin burn, her bones ache with need, she reached out a hand at last…

And encountered his hand reaching for her at the same time.

Their fingers met, touched, and it seemed to Abbie that sparks flew in the air, fizzing between them like fireworks. But then those long bronzed fingers tangled with hers, twisting together, holding tightly, drawing her closer to him with an irresistible strength. Abbie knew she had to give in to the need that swamped her, dark waves of sensuality breaking over her head as she almost fell against him and his mouth came down to claim hers.

The kiss that Malik had been imagining since the moment he had first seen her was far more in reality than it had ever been in his mind. The soft feel of Abbie’s lips against his own was like setting a match to the tinderdry brushwood of the hunger that was just waiting to burst into flames, flaring savagely through the whole of his body, making him burn with need. The taste of her on his own mouth, his tongue, was like the most potent aphrodisiac, driving him to plunder the soft interior as she opened to him, yielding in the same moment that she demanded more.

And he would give her more. He wanted this woman so much it was like a thunder in his head, pounding at his thoughts, obliterating all sense of reality. He forgot where he was and why he had come here, the mission he had set out to achieve. All he could focus on was the soft, feminine body in his arms, the tender mouth that opened under his, the hands that clung…

‘You’re beautiful…’

Her fingers were making a path up his arms, stroking their way over his shoulders, tangling in his hair. The faint scrape of her nails over the sensitive skin of his scalp made him drag in a raw, shaken breath before crushing her closer, taking her mouth yet again. His own hands had found the elastic band that fastened her long blonde hair back and tugged it loose, tangling hard in the silken strands, holding her just so—so that he could kiss her exactly the way he wanted to.

And she wanted it too.

There was no resistance in her supple body, no stiffening or drawing away; instead, she pressed closer than ever, the fine bones of her pelvis cradling the heat and hardness of his erection. Each tiny movement she made stoked the fire of need, making it flare higher and hotter and fiercer than ever before.

‘I want you…’

He barely recognised his own voice, barely understood the language he spoke, it was so hard and thick and rough with the hunger that tortured him. His accent was harsher than ever before and for a moment it crossed his mind that she might not be able to make out a single word he had spoken.

But the woman in his arms simply sighed and muttered something against his mouth, something so muffled and indistinct that he was forced to wrench his lips away from hers. He tugged her head back with his imprisoning grip on the blonde length of her hair to look down into her passion-flushed face, seeing the sensually glazed eyes, the swollen mouth.

‘What?’ he demanded, needing to hear the words in spite of the evidence his eyes were giving him. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said…’

But she didn’t even trouble to finish the sentence, reaching up instead to fasten one arm tight around his neck and drag his head down to her again.

‘Yes…’

It was a sigh against his mouth again—or a moan. A sound of surrender? A sound of demand?

He didn’t know and he didn’t care. This wasn’t a time for words, for talking, but for action. And the action that his hotly aroused body demanded was that he take this willing and wanton woman hard and fast—and now!

With his mouth still on hers, his hands locked in her hair, he half walked, half carried her backwards, moving awkwardly, stiff-legged, supporting her in his arms, dodging furniture by instinct rather than sight until they came hard up against the wall with a thump that drove the breath from her body on a gasp that went straight into his mouth.

Swallowing down the shaken breath, Malik cupped her face in both his hands, tilting it again to get just the right angle to kiss her hard and long, taking the sweetness from her mouth and feeling it intoxicate his already fizzing senses, heat his blood even higher.

‘Yes!’ he muttered against her lips. ‘Yes! You’re mine. I knew that from the first moment—’

The words broke off, raw breath rasping in his throat as he felt her hands push between them, tugging at his tie, pulling it loose at his neck, her fingers seeking the warm flesh beneath, raking it hungrily.

‘Abbie…’ Her name was just a rasp, a sound, barely a real syllable of a word.

‘Malik…’ Her voice was no better. It shook on his name, coming and going like an untuned radio. ‘Malik…’

He crushed her against the wall, unable to get close enough, to feel her warmth and softness against every part of his body. He wanted to spread her out beneath him, to tear her clothes from her body, to feel her heat and tightness enclose his aching sex. But at the same time he didn’t want to move away from her for even those few seconds it would take to get them both into that position.

Moving would mean ending that delicious pressure of body against body, heat against heat. It would mean breaking away from the hungry, demanding caress of her hands, the way that her fingers fumbled and snatched at the buttons of his shirt, seeking out the flesh beneath, tugging lightly, tormentingly at the curls of dark hair she found there.

But he had to touch her. Just the caress of her mouth, the feel of her body beneath the thin cotton blouse, was nowhere near enough. He needed—yearned for—the sensation of skin on skin. Of hot flesh burning into flesh, the heady perfume of arousal reaching into the air and stimulating already strained senses to breaking point.

‘Abbie…’

With a rough movement he jerked her into a slightly different position, holding her captive against the wall as he brought his hands down over her thighs, reaching out and grabbing the hem of her skirt, pulling it roughly upwards, rucking it over her hips, exposing the soft skin of her legs.

The soft bare skin, he noted on a sound of surprised satisfaction, feeling the silky smoothness beneath his greedy fingertips. Just skin, not the appalling synthetic scratch of tights—just skin, soft as heated velvet, enticing as hell. Just Abbie.

And just Abbie was all that he wanted.

Her hands had found his skin, buttons were wrenched open, his shirt pulled out of the way until it was skin on skin at last and a sigh broke from her on a gasp of contentment. Her fingers smoothed over his chest, tangling for a brief moment in the curls of body hair before that wandering touch curved over his shoulders, finding the tension in his muscles, then slid down his back, along each vertebrae as far as she could reach.

And Malik needed to touch too. The pressure and heat of body against body just weren’t enough. A pressure and heat was building inside him too, rising to boiling point, creating a sensation inwardly that was like some violent volcano that was about to blow. And he would explode if he didn’t touch her.

Muttering thick-tongued endearments in his native language, he pushed the clinging skirt even higher. The feel of his fingertips on her hot flesh sent sensations like the shock of a bolt of lightning right through him and he felt the shudder that shook her. The same shudder that tormented his own hungry body.

He heard her moan softly—or was it his own voice he heard? He had no idea but the next moment his mouth captured hers, plundered deep, but then was wrenched fiercely away when just to kiss no longer satisfied. He needed to go further, explore deeper, taste more of her. And she understood totally, arching her neck into his caress, mutely inviting him to take what he wanted.

‘Yes…’

It was a sound of yearning, of encouragement, of pure need. One that made an answering need kick hard at him low down in his body.

The ridiculous apron was always in the way. Fastened tight around her waist, about her neck, it hindered every move he tried to make. But by throwing it upwards from below, he had access to the heated core of her. To the lilac-coloured, flimsy bit of nothing that guarded the centre of her femininity. The frivolous bit of silk was such a contrast to the severely practical and sensible outerwear that it brought a shaken laugh into his throat, making him catch his breath in shocked response.

‘So this is what you have hidden away under this absurd uniform. This is what the real woman wears. I like it—more than like it.’

He could feel the heat of her even from this distance, feel the moisture that betrayed her hunger. The scent of her aroused body filled his nostrils, obliterating all thought, driving him wild.

And her kisses drove him wilder. Fierce, urgent, demanding little kisses that pecked at his cheek and neck like an insistent, hungry bird. Her hands didn’t seem to know where they most wanted to be—in his hair or over his shoulders or down his arms. The jacket he wore was skimmed off, dropped to the floor, discarded carelessly. More buttons were wrenched undone, his shirt was tugged from his waistband, her fingers…

Oh, by Allah, her fingers were unstoppable, probing lower, seeking, touching, caressing…

‘Abbie,’ he groaned, but whether in encouragement or in protest at the impossibility of actually doing anything here and now, he didn’t know. ‘We can’t. We must—We—’

But a wild shake of her head denied his words, not giving him the chance to continue.

‘Kiss me,’ she demanded. ‘Kiss me!’

He would do more than kiss her! So much more!

Her breasts were tight against his chest, the hard points of her nipples communicating the sharpness of the arousal she made no attempt to hide. He wanted to get his hands on those richly curved mounds, to touch—to feel—to taste…

But first he had to get past the bib of that damned apron. The appalling flowered cotton was there between him and what he wanted so much—but not for long! With a muttered curse he wrenched at it, pulling hard at each shoulder. The thin cotton straps snapped without much difficulty, ripping apart the worn seams.

At last!

Hands shaking with hunger, with the urgency of need, Malik tugged at the buttons halfway down the prim white blouse, pulling them open roughly. The small opening he made was just enough to let him push his fingers in and touch the warm, swelling softness of one exposed breast. At the feel of his caress Abbie choked some incoherent, wordless sound of response, her eyes closing ecstatically, her mouth blindly seeking his.

Another button popped free from its restraint and now he could get his whole hand underneath her blouse. He cupped the softness of one breast, feeling its heat through the silk and lace confection of her bra. The nub of her nipple pushed into his palm in wanton demand and the ache of desire between his legs was almost unbearable.

He had to have her. Had to…

But, even as he closed his hand around her heated softness, his ears caught the sound outside the room that broke into and shattered the sensual delirium that had him in its possession.

CHAPTER THREE

‘I’LL leave that with you then…’

The voice sounded out in the hallway, coming clearly through the barely closed door. Calm and decisive and totally shattering to the heated mood that gripped the pair of them.

‘We’ll sort it out later.’

A male voice.

James Cavanaugh’s voice.

His host’s voice.

The voice of the man he had come here to negotiate with.

What the hell was he doing?

Dazed, shaken, blinking like a man dealing with the aftermath of a blow to his head, Malik lifted his eyes to lock with Abbie’s silver gaze. He found that she too had frozen into immobility, her eyes wide and staring straight at him. She looked glazed, unfocused, not seeing anything, and her head was tilted slightly to one side as if she was straining to hear.

‘Cavanaugh…’ he managed, his voice croaking roughly.

‘My—’

She swallowed hard, unable to continue to form the words.

‘Your boss.’

Malik nodded, understanding the embarrassment she would feel at being caught like this—especially with the important visitor that the family must want to impress and please as much as possible.

Your boss?

It took the space of a couple of uneven breaths for the words to penetrate the buzzing haze of shock that filled Abbie’s mind, and even when they did finally hit home they made no sense at all.

Your boss!

He thought that she worked for…

But then the sound of movement from behind the door, the sound of footsteps in the hallway, froze the thought in her mind, leaving instead room for her to grasp at a realisation that was far more stunning, more shocking.

Her father was outside in the hall.

And he was coming back.

Her father was crossing the hall, coming back, heading for the library, coming back to his guest…

He would open the door, would look across the room and he would find…