Desert Passion

Erotica

Desert Passion

By April Reid

Desert Passion by April Reid

Amber Quill Press, LLC www.amberquill.com

Copyright ©2003 by April Reid

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DESERT PASSION by APRIL REID ~~~ ISBN 1-59279-153-0 Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.amberquill.com Also By April Reid Dark Passion Passion In The Stars The Passionate Virgin The Sultan's Passion

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DEDICATION Thank you to Caitlyn Willows for her encouragement

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CHAPTER 1 He's back. Just the sight of the mysterious desert prince standing in her small, Beverly Hills shop made Rena Winters’ heart beat faster. As before, he wore a dark, hand-tailored suit with masculine power and grace. His traditional head covering, a white kaffiyeh bordered in red and gold, gave an air of mystery to his tanned face. She'd learned the silver and gold cords binding the kaffiyeh, denoted his high rank, but she didn't need the symbol to recognize his aura of authority. What she did need was a way to protect herself from being captured by his essential maleness, his dangerous potency. As she rose from her jeweler's workbench, separated from the front displays by a wall and pane of glass, her nipples tightened into little buds aching to learn the touch of his hard, sensuous mouth. Why him? Why now? From the moment she'd first seen him two weeks earlier, when he'd come to her shop with a gorgeous twenty-carat natural Burmese ruby and twenty-four double rose cut diamonds, erotic fantasies featuring him had invaded her dreams. Now he'd returned for the jewelry she'd designed, and she was practically panting like a bitch in heat. Get a grip, she told herself, then mentally groaned at an image of his long, elegant fingers sliding across her skin, 5

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cupping her breasts, and lowering his lips to her oh-sowilling— Abruptly, she broke off the thought and shrugged into her tailored, pearl gray blazer to hide her obvious arousal. After two years of a disastrous marriage and a coldly civilized divorce, Rena had been convinced she was truly what Chet had called her—a sexless bitch. How often had he mocked her saying he should've realized anyone with the maiden name, Winters, would be as frigid as an ice queen, as cold and hard as the diamonds she used in her one-of-a-kind jewelry pieces? “Miss Winters,” Rena's clerk, Mitzie, paged her on the intercom. “Sultan El Yazid is here for his order.” “Thank you, Miss Johnson. I'll be right in.” Congratulating herself on her coolly composed tone, Rena smoothed her black hair into its already severe knot at her nape, and entered the walk-in safe to retrieve the gold, ruby, and diamond necklace. Mitzie's giggle floated in from the other room through the intercom. Flirting as usual, Rena thought enviously. Her clerk was everything she wasn't—warm, sexy, comfortably sensuous, and had a date every night. After drawing a breath to steady her emotions, she stepped into the store carrying the velvet case containing the designer piece. The sultan wore his usual impassive expression as he gestured to his aide who also functioned as interpreter. The aide said, “Is that the special piece my sidi, my master, commissioned?” 6

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Nodding, Rena opened the case, lifted the shimmering strand of gold and diamonds, and arranged it on dark blue velvet with the ruby pendant, in its stylized cloud-of-light setting, placed in the center of the display form. In a businesslike manner, Rena turned the centerpiece to show the back, explaining, “The pendant may be removed and worn as a pin.” Moving closer, El Yazid gently clasped her hand and raised it to his lips in the continental fashion. “Shukran,” he murmured, his warm breath washing over her sensitive skin. Alarmed by her unexplained attraction to him, Rena drew back and surreptitiously wiped her knuckles on her skirt. The sultan's gaze caught hers. Heat flared in his dark brown eyes, then his expression once more became impassive. Again, the sultan made a hand gesture. His aide handed her a bank draft saying, “El Yazid is pleased and says, shukran, thank you.” She already knew that since she'd taken lessons in Arabic, planning to visit Egypt and Morocco to study ancient design elements first hand. Minutes later, the two men left, the aide carrying the elegant gold bag with the discreet store logo. For the first time since she'd entered the showroom, Rena took a full breath. Just the sultan's presence had seemingly used up the oxygen. She and Mitzie watched the ever-present guards close around the two men, before the sultan brushed them away and strode ahead to the waiting limousine. 7

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Mitzie fanned her face. “Gawd, he's too damned sexy for this little southern gal,” she said in her soft accent. “Never says a word, but that doesn't matter. All he'd need to do was crook one finger and I'd follow him right into his bed.” Silently, Rena agreed. And that disturbed her. After Chet's rejection, she was confused about her reaction to the sexy sultan. **** That night, the sultan's brief touch, the intimate feel of his breath on her skin haunted Rena as she slipped into her practical cotton sleep shirt. The same intimacy followed her into her dreams...again. Once more, she found herself in an opulent room decorated in ancient harem splendor. Ivory screens, pierced with intricate designs, covered the windows, but allowed entrance to the lush fragrance of gardenias, roses, and jasmine. The door into her suite opened. Soft light from the corridor backlit the tall, fit, male body framed in the doorway. As usual, his face was hidden in shadows. But just his presence as he paced toward her, set her breasts throbbing and her body hungrily preparing itself. Tonight he wore loose, white, desert pants held by a red sash. His muscular chest was bare except for the royal goldand-jeweled medallion of power resting against his pelt of dark hair. Drawing the silken sheet from her nude body, he gazed down, his eyes hot behind a black satin scarf fashioned into a 8

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mask concealing his upper face. Her dream lover had never come to her unmasked. She shivered in anticipation. Other times, she'd felt the satin of his mask brush her inner thighs when he'd pressed his hot mouth to her clit. Would he tongue her there tonight? “My precious jewel, my pleasure slave,” he murmured, rolling one tight nipple between his thumb and finger, “Your ruby tits call for my attention. Is this what you want?” He plucked her other thrusting tip, then bent and gently nipped the sensitive flesh. Hot, electric pleasure jolted through her body. “Yes,” she gripped his hand. “More.” He chuckled. “My jewel is greedy tonight.” “Only for you, master. Only for you.” Desperate need made her voice husky. She thrust her breasts forward in a silent plea. Settling beside her on the thick mattress, he leaned against her hip. She felt the heat of his strong leg through the thin cotton trousers. His scent, a combination of sandalwood and exotic male, wove a tighter band of desire. Bending forward, he tasted each breast in turn—savoring them with his lips, drawing each tip into his mouth, tonguing, sucking, raising each throbbing peak to new heights of sensation while she twisted and moaned for more. Abruptly, he sat up. “We'll leave your delicious tits for later, sweet slave.” After he pulled away, the perfumed breeze from outside cooled her sensitive flesh. She wanted to weep in frustration, but dare not. The slave obeyed her master—always. 9

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He stretched out beside her, his elbow on the bed, one hand propping his head, and traced her navel with the callused tip of one long finger. Next, he lightly stroked his hand across her tummy, her rib cage, and up to her breasts, circling each globe in a lazy figure eight, then made the leisurely trip back to her navel. Back and forth his seductive caress moved, but never touched where she most needed it— her swollen, sensitive nipples. He murmured, “Your skin is like a delicate rose petal at its first blossoming.” He flicked each nipple once, twice, and her back arched. “Not yet,” he murmured. “Don't move without permission.” His command made her more aware of the force that built within her body with each brush of his hands. She gripped the sheets beside her and froze, aching for the hot glory only her masked lover could give. Laughing softly, he continued his strokes. His fingers trailed down her temple, played with the damp tendrils of hair framing her face, and paused. “Your eyes have the pure color and depth of the blue diamonds in our ancient treasure vaults. But they blaze with a passion no cold gem can ever match.” Behind the mask, his eyes were dark, and his cheeks flushed with arousal. Once more, his fingers made their erotic journey across her collarbone, circled both breasts and reached her navel while every part of her flesh sizzled and sang with the power of his hands. 10

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Shifting, he replaced his hand with his lips and caressed her sensitized skin. His tongue joined the erotic dance— darting in and out of her navel—hot, intense, mimicking the rhythm of his penis into her vagina that she now craved to have. Her skin prickled. Cold fire raced through her blood. Her lower body grew heavy, hot with building pressure. “Sidi, master, more. Please. More,” she dared to whisper. “Master of your body, your life is true,” he said arrogantly. “But you, sweet gem, light the fire in my loins, in my soul. I will bathe you with my lips, anoint every part of your body with my kisses, then fill your velvet sheath with my sword of flesh, and call the gods to witness this great wonder—a slave ruling her master.” With that declaration, he shifted to one knee between her legs, and took her mouth with his in a slow, gentle tasting. An alarm sounded in the hallway. The door to the harem slammed open. El Yazid moved to block her body from view and pulled the silken cover up to her chin. The sultan's captain of the guard gave a hasty salute. “Sidi, the castle is under attack.” “Call for my weapons. I shall join you in moments.” As the captain bowed and left, the sultan drew a pouch from under his sash, opened it, and took out a short length of gold chain. Wrapping it around her left wrist, he snapped it closed with a tiny, jeweled padlock in the shape of an eagle. “You belong to me, the Golden Eagle. Remain here in safety. 11

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Guards will be posted outside the door to protect you until I return.” “Master,” her voice trembled. “Be careful. Come back to me quickly.” The sound of the alarm grew louder. The opulent room dissolved into the quiet, pale blue of her bedroom walls. Pierced ivory shutters were replaced by white curtains and dark rose drapes, and the palace alarm was replaced by the insistent beep of the clock radio alarm on her night stand. The same dream again. Rena silenced the alarm and groaned in frustration. She squeezed her legs together to find relief from the throb of unsatisfied arousal. Lifting her hands, she pressed against her breasts to ease their swollen ache. Distracted by a soft clink, she looked down and gasped. Impossible. The hair on the back of her neck rose as she stared at a gold chain, fastened by the jeweled figure of an eagle, wrapped around her left wrist. It shimmered in the pale light of dawn, then dissolved until nothing was left except her bare arm and lost fantasies. **** For the third time, Rena checked the time on her wristwatch. Only five minutes had passed since the last time she'd looked. After filling out the multiple forms, including the one on sexual fantasies, she'd returned the clipboard to the receptionist, selected a magazine, and settled into uneasy 12

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repose. Waiting for her appointment with sex therapist, Dr. Helen Rorsch, was definitely getting on her nerves. Rena looked around the waiting room tastefully furnished in muted colors and polished walnut furniture. Even the receptionist was polished, with sleek, chin length brown hair, expert make up, and a plastic smile that set Rena's teeth on edge. A sex therapist, for God's sake. She turned the page of The Smithsonian magazine, unable to recall what she'd read. If Chet knew she was here, he’ d fall off his expensive butterleather chair in laughter at the idea of her, a “sexless bitch,” trying to deal with sexually explicit fantasies and dreams. But, damn it, she had to do something. Her dream this morning had left her with aching desire—a need that flooded her every time she thought of her masked dream lover; every time she had seen Sultan El Yazid and surreptitiously gazed at the hint of masculine bulge beneath his tailored trousers. A door on one side of the waiting room opened. A nurse, clipboard in hand, called Rena's name, then led her down a short hall into an examination room. She sensed someone behind her, but before she could turn, a strong arm caught her upper chest, just below her throat, in a steely band. A quick sting on the side of her neck, and she fell into darkness.

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CHAPTER 2 Rena slowly became aware of laying in bed with a light cover pulled up over her chest. Her arms and hands rested on silk, not her crisp cotton sheets. Was she dreaming? Was the visit to Dr. Rorsch's office part of that dream? Her mind was fuzzy, her eyelids too heavy to lift. Somewhere nearby, an angry, cold voice demanded, “Dr. Boudreau, you assured me Miss Winters would come to no harm from the sedative, so why the hell is she still unconscious?” “Your Highness, I promise, on my word as a physician, the woman is in no danger from the drug.” Drugged? I've been drugged? Anger rose in her body, burning away the lingering effects of the sedative they'd injected into her neck. She tried to sit up, but didn't have the strength. Instead of frightening her, the helpless feeling made her angrier. She swallowed, licked her dry lips, and managed to open her eyes enough to see the shadowed outline of her mysterious captor behind the translucent drapes halfway enclosing the bed. The second man, with a sharply pressed neat business suit and a rumpled face sporting a neat goatee, was in plain view through the opening. His lips were set in an indignant line that slowly curved down as her captor said, “If she does not awaken soon, you will be fortunate to leave Kasama unscathed.” 14

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“Your Highness—” “Enough!” The first speaker slashed one hand down. “I want results, not excuses.” “If your servant had not injected her a second time when we were still on the airplane—” “Another excuse? Shall I have you escorted to your quarters and remain there under guard?” the captor said in a smooth, threatening tone. Rena had heard more than enough to enrage her even more. Although she seemed to be moving through thick glue instead of air, she raised up on one elbow. “You rat,” she said, glaring at the shadowy figure. “Where am I and why did you bring me here?” The sensible side of her clamored for her to keep silent, but being drugged and kidnapped had brought out her wellhidden impulsive nature. Damn it, she'd confront him and demand to be returned to her home. With that thought, she shoved aside the cover, sat up, and waited until her head stopped whirling. Cool air touched her breasts. She looked down. Sure, she was wearing a nightgown, if you could call it that. The silk fabric was so sheer, it would've put any self-respecting spider to shame. Her captor dismissed the doctor and waited for the door to close. Then he turned and prowled toward her, arrogant masculinity in every step. When he stepped more clearly into view, butterflies woke in her stomach. Like her dream lover, the captor wore a black satin mask. 15

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Impossible, her mind said. My God, he's gorgeous, her body replied. Every hormone came to attention. Hidden fantasies became real. Would he touch her, kiss her, ravish her tenderly? Wait a minute, Rena, she chided herself. This guy had you drugged and kidnapped. The masked sultan stopped at the foot of the bed, arms folded across his loose desert shirt. His hot gaze scanned her body under the gold, barely-there material. Hastily, she drew the sheet around her. “Who are you? The sultan of crooks?” “You have a sharp tongue, Miss Winters.” He unfolded his arms and moved around to one side of the bed. “Shall I teach you more pleasurable ways to use it?” “Forget that idea.” She scrambled to the opposite side of the mattress and stood on the thick carpet, dragging the sheet still wrapped around her. He frowned. “You're playing a dangerous game. My women must never defy me. I am the Sultan of Kasama.” “So?” she challenged. “Since I'm not your woman, what does that have to do with me?” Fingering the handle of the ceremonial dagger tucked into its sheath under his red sash, he said in a low, dangerous tone, “I hold your life in my hands.” Her pulse fluttered in her throat. Chills raced across her skin. Had she pushed him too far? For moments, everything around her grew quiet. An errant breeze swirled through the open bed drapes and carried his tantalizing scent of 16

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sandalwood and fresh-showered male. The more vulnerable side of her said, “Give in.” The stronger side of her—the side that had survived working her way through the university, a rough marriage, and setting up her own business—took control. Squaring her shoulders, she raised her chin defiantly. “The game is over. Return my clothes and give me safe passage back to California, to my home.” “No.” He gazed at her with an implacable expression. “You will stay and learn the ways of the harem.” “Not me,” she said indignantly. “I'm not some poor woman who's cowed by you because you're a male.” Angrily, she picked up a pillow and threw it at him. “I demand you return me to the U.S.” The satin cushion bounced off his chest and landed at his feet. He didn't move, just watched her with no change of expression. She tossed another pillow at him and looked around for something with more weight. Her hip bumped a small bedside table with a marble top. A golden bowl, half-filled with water, had been set there. A wrung out cloth was crumpled beside it. Quickly, she tied the cloth into a knot for more heft and threw it at him. The bowl of water followed. He ducked the bowl, but water splashed across his face and dripped down his chest. Wordlessly, he placed one knee on the bed and started across the covers toward her. That's when she realized she'd trapped herself in the corner between the carved headboard 17

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and thick folds of the shimmering drapes. Panic welled in her throat. Frantically, she batted at the fabric trying to push it aside. His hand closed on her shoulder and she screamed. Stripping away the concealing blanket, he turned her to face him, caging her between the bed and his muscular body. Behind the black mask, his dark brown eyes glittered with— what? Frustration? Anger? Her legs trembled, threatening to give way. His gaze shifted down to her breasts. Suddenly she was aware of taut nipples, and a growing excitement coursing through her blood. “Rena,” his voice was dark and edgy. “You defy me, but your body shows you desire my touch.” “Wrong. I despise you...you...beast. You throwback to the wild desert sheiks.” Liar, she chided herself. “Does a beast excite you?” He drew her closer until his chest pressed her breasts, the drops of water quickly soaking through the gossamer silk of her gown. “Shall we explore my more primitive intentions?” She opened her mouth to say, “No.” He silenced her with a kiss. Cradling her face between his hard palms, he pressed his lips to her eyelids, the bridge of her nose, her cheeks, slowly tasting her with quick flickers of his tongue. Her nerve ends rose to acute sensitivity. Each press of his lips, each new darting taste with his tongue sent delicious shivers dancing through her body. He lingered at her hairline. Who would've thought that was an erogenous zone? Under his skilled touch, a pulsing knot 18

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grew in her lower stomach. She felt the gathering heat and dampness between her legs. Tangling her fingers in his hair, she licked his chin, then gave it a little nip. With a growl, he gently took her earlobe between his teeth. The tiny pain sent jolts of pleasure through her body, like strokes of lightning. “Sultan,” she said huskily, not knowing his name. “Call me, Dabir, teacher,” he muttered against the side of her neck, his warm breath sending her desire a notch higher. His hands roamed across her back, seeking out the sensitive bundle of nerves at her nape. His long, skilled fingers danced down her spine and up under her sheer gown to the equally sensitive bare flesh at the top of the curve dividing her buttocks. Gripping her butt cheeks in both hands, he drew her against his thick erection. A warm flush swept across her body. Her breasts swelled to greater sensitivity. She had to feel his bare chest against her needy flesh. With shaking fingers, she untucked his shirt from the red sash. Pushing her hands out of the way, he pulled the shirt over his head and dropped it. The sight of muscles rippling under his tanned skin and crisp, dark hair, raised her pulse higher. The jeweled amulet of authority and power glittered with each breath he took. She cupped her breasts and brushed engorged, sensitive nipples across his chest. He groaned. She could see his penis, still caged under loose desert pants, grow longer and harder. 19

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Rena spread her legs, silently urging a closer fit, more pressure from his male sex against her hot, damp clitoris. The brush of fine cotton fabric on the inside of her thighs and groin increased her erotic hunger. The back of her legs bumped against the edge of the bed. Gripping her wrists, he carried her backward and down onto the silken sheets. Her knees bent and her feet dangled. He nudged her sheer gown higher. Now only his cotton trousers separated them. Through heavy-lidded eyes, she watched her masked lover's face. The red of sexual arousal colored his cheeks. The chords in his neck stood taut. His hot, musky scent blanketed her, and his thick sex pressed more tightly into her feminine cradle. “My treasure,” he murmured, stretching her arms higher above her head, pinning her in place. “Your body cries for my close instruction.” “Instruction, yes,” she begged. “Teach me, Dabir. Teach me.” With a low chuckle, he gazed at her. His sensual scrutiny burned her skin. She yearned, craved, for his hands and mouth to follow. “Your neck is a priceless column of unflawed alabaster— hungry to be polished.” Caught in his erotic spell, Rena turned her head, offering him better access. He laved her skin below her ear, paused, and whispered, “Tasty.” She grinned at the odd choice of words. His hot mouth and quick nip of his teeth changed her grin to a gasp. 20

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Moving lower, he licked the skin under the neckline of her sheer nightgown, and blew short puffs of air. Her skin cooled, shivered. Pleasure raced through her blood. She twisted her hips, pressing tighter against his steely shaft separated from joining fulfillment by his desert pants. Once more, his mouth slid lower, this time to her swollen breasts, stroking each in turn through the sheer fabric of her gown. The gossamer material did nothing to cool his heated breath, but the silky strands rubbed against her achingly sensitive nipples in painful pleasure. She arched her back to get closer to his mouth, silently pleading for the release only he could give. Her wrists held down in his powerful hands increased her hot arousal. “Please,” she begged huskily. “Take me. Fill me ‘til I scream.” His eyes gleamed with silent laughter. “When my tutoring is complete, I'll stab my shaft of pleasure deep into your hungry sheath, teach you the endless joys of sexual delight, and yes—make love until you can't move, then begin again. “But not yet.” Dipping his head, he took one beaded nipple between his lips, batting it with his tongue, pressing it against the roof of his mouth, sucking, nipping, each change heightened by the stretched-tight strands of the gown. He moved to her other swollen tit, repeating the treatment. His thick, heavy penis, sheathed in cotton, rocked against her pubic mound and pressed into the flesh over her quivering vagina. Her juices flowed, dampening his trousers. She twisted and bucked under his hips. 21

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Mindlessly, she chanted, “Now, now, now.” Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her skin, her whole body, grew feverish with desire. Pleasure, hunger, incandescent need, twisted and coiled tighter—ran in sheet lightning through her nerves—always circling back to that most feminine place between her legs. “Can't wait,” she groaned. “Soon,” he murmured, and once more twisted his hips, increasing the pressure below her pubic mound— And the world exploded.

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CHAPTER 3 Sharif Azzam El Yazid, Sultan of Kasama, closed the door to the chief concubine's suite, tucked the mask under his sash, and cursed the necessary change in his plan to make Rena Winters his woman. He had a hard-on that ached like a son-of-a-bitch, but before coupling with her, he wanted her wet, willing, and wild, no reservations, no holding back. His oh-so-reserved Ms. Winters had certainly been wet, willing, and wild once she'd lost the first battle of wills to him earlier. But how did he know if her response just had been due to lingering effects of the sedative, combined with the instinctive need to placate her captor? He smiled grimly. A guardsman standing duty paled and snapped to attention. Damn the Tribal Council of Sheiks and the few members who kept slipping back to the old ways of banditry. Just before entering Rena's room, the council messenger had arrived with their request for him to personally judge the rebellious Fahd Matin Ibn Najjar. The youngest son of Asim Najjar was well named—Fahd, the lynx. He'd slink around, under the cover of his father's power in the council, stirring up trouble among men who dreamed of blooding their swords—and filling their purses—as bandits. That request had made him revise his strategy with Rena. He'd have to reveal his identity to her before they left for the Oasis of Peace and the fateful trial. **** 23

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Rena woke to the sound of voices, the harsh tones of command by an unfamiliar male voice and the lighter tones of a woman—probably the servant who'd cleaned up the water yesterday afternoon. “Yesterday,” she muttered, and pressed her legs together at the erotic heat blooming between her thighs. The trauma of the kidnapping had melted away under Dabir's skillful body, his heady masculine scent. Then she recalled her pleas, “Take me. Fill me ‘til I scream.” Had that been her? Miss Uptight-Prim-and-Proper? She touched her nipples, already beaded, pressing against her thin, silk gown. “Yes,” she said on a sigh. That wild woman had been her. As her memory supplied more images of the fiery interlude, the pressure in her pubic area begged for relief. Last night, she'd used her own hand to ease her aching need, but it hadn't been enough. Only Dabir held the key—one he could withhold until she completely surrendered. Rena heard the door close. The servant, whom she'd learned last evening was named Shunnareh, hurried toward her. “My lady,” she said in heavily accented English. “Our sidi, our master, leaves for the Oasis of Peace in thirty minutes. You will accompany him.” “Me? Travel to some dusty oasis?” Even as she spoke, the idea of crossing the desert with Dabir, of spending more time with him intrigued her. Intrigued? Who was she kidding? He'd given her a taste—a teaser of sensual delights—and damn it, she wanted more. 24

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“Shunnareh, are my American clothes here? I can't travel in this sheer gown.” Rena knew her neat business suit would be as out of place on the hot desert as a rhinestone would be matched with a flawless diamond. She eyed the silky sheet on the bed. Maybe she could use that as a type of an abayah, a woman's outer concealing garment that would protect her from the fierce sun. Bowing, the servant said, “My lady, our master has provided all you will need.” “All see-through if this gown is any indication,” she said, lifting a shimmering fold between thumb and forefinger. “Oh, no, mistress. Those garments are only for times when you are alone with him. You are guzdeh—in the Sultan's eye— for you have caught his attention and his desire. When his men brought you here unconscious, our sidi stood at your side while Dr. Boudreau examined you. Then he dismissed everyone and saw to your needs, even bathed your face and neck to give you comfort.” And I threw the bowl of water at him, Rena thought in dismay. She scrambled out of bed. “I'll bathe, dress, and be ready. I don't want to keep the sultan waiting.” **** The sultan kept her and his whole entourage of men waiting in the dark hour before dawn. The moon had set. A loose net of stars glittered in the high mountain air. And a few lights shone in the centuries-old homes perched on the side of the valley. Here, the palace staging area was lit by gas-fed torches. 25

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Impatiently, Rena stood in the dubious shelter of the outer court where a chill mountain wind, carrying the scents of sage and mountain evergreens, rippled her white garments. Like the guards standing beside their Barbary horses, she wore white, loose trousers, a soft cotton top, and desert boots. Unlike them, her blouse bore designs in rich embroidery. Each man had a red sash wrapped around his waist, a sheathed sword, bandoliers of cartridges across his chest under a burnoose, and carried a rifle. She had a white sash embroidered in patterns of red and gold, a full-flowing white abayah and headscarf with a veil— which she left unfastened at one end. Her only weapon was an elegant little dagger—an eating knife—in a dainty holder tucked under her sash. The door behind her opened. She turned in time to see the sultan step through, followed by his advisor. Shadows hid the sultan's face, but she caught a flash of gold in his hand. “Rena, come here,” he commanded. “Typical arrogance,” she muttered. “May as well obey his majesty's order and get this Arabian Nights show on the road.” “I heard that,” he said in a low voice, underlaced with steel. “I meant you to hear it. You assume I'll jump at your word, just like you assume I can ride horseback.” He gripped her left hand, drawing her closer. “My research on you included an assessment of your riding skills.” “You spied on me?” she yelped. 26

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“I wouldn't hand over a fortune in jewels to anyone until I knew they were honest.” Her irritation drained away at his validation of her reputation, and the seductive warmth of his presence curling through her blood. At the corner of her vision, she saw the advisor walk toward the waiting guard. “Rena, look at me,” the sultan said sharply. “It's important you learn my real identity before we leave.” At the odd note in his voice, a shiver rippled through her. She focused all her attention on him, trying to pierce the shadows veiling his features. His mask was gone. She stared in shock, betrayed beyond words by her discovery. “Your expression shows you recognize me as Sultan Sharif Azzam El Yazid.” While she was distracted, he wrapped a gold chain around her wrist and fastened it with a jeweled gold padlock shaped like a golden eagle. “I'm also your masked dream lover, the Golden Eagle.” She stared at the chain—just like the one in her dream. Her mind whirled and skidded. “How—” Her throat closed up. The night held its breath. Weakly, she reached a shaky hand toward a nearby column for support. “Rena, for God's sake, snap out of it.” “I...I should've seen the resemblance between Sultan Dabir and Sultan El Yazid, but I don't understand how you came to me in my sleep.” “I'll explain that later. It's more important you trust and obey me without question.” He took her elbow, drawing her 27

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toward the waiting guards. “You'll have many hours to settle it in your mind. We have a long ride ahead.” **** They traveled all day, sometimes walking beside their mounts. Always, a few guards remained in their saddles, obviously on alert for trouble. From their conversation, she understood the threat to the sultan was real. El Yazid had selected Moon Shadow, a sweet-tempered Barbary mare, for her. In a short time, Rena fell in love with Moon Shadow's soft, intelligent eyes, her quick response to the reins and smooth, easy gait. From the moment El Yazid had tossed her up into the Arab saddle with its high cantle and broad stirrups, questions had raced around in her mind. Where were they going? Why did she sense imminent danger? If so, why had El Yazid brought her along? And above all, what had occurred to change her sensuous lover to the grim sultan who rode in silence, his face set in an aloof expression? Late in the afternoon, they paused at the top of a trail overlooking the wide, rumpled sweep of the Sahara. Sand piled into dunes or spilled in long beige-and-rust red fingers against the red, rocky flats. An incredibly blue sky contrasted with the desert sand and plains. Another range of mountains rose in massive steppes and peaks far to the northeast. El Yazid swung off his horse and lifted Rena down, bracing her until her legs would hold her after hours in the saddle. His burnoose billowed in the hot wind flowing up from the desert far below. A great Golden Eagle rode the thermals high 28

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above, its six-and-a-half-foot wingspan longer than the height of most men. Rena stood in the arms of her own Golden Eagle, savoring the feel of his body pressed against her, surrounded by his warm, male musk. A pulsing knot formed in her stomach. Turning them both away from the plateau edge so his body sheltered hers from the wind, he murmured, “You've traveled all day, without complaint, at a pace that has tried the stamina of my toughest warriors.” Her heart swelled at the admiration in his voice. “Sultan El Yazid, you've done everything you could to make it easy.” Lifting one hand to the hollow of his tanned throat above the soft cotton shirt, she felt his strong, steady pulse. “You made sure I drank enough water. You dampened a cloth from your own canteen so I could freshen my face and hands. You chose a wonderful mare for me to ride. And you stayed nearby.” “Call me, Sharif.” He raised her hand to his lips. “Rena, at the oasis, we'll be closer. You will sleep in my bed—in my arms—skin to skin.” His words, his breath, sent pleasure shimmering through her body. Her nipples grew beaded and sensitive. “My treasure—” He glanced down where her breasts pressed against his chest. “Even through our clothes, I feel the proof of your desire. I long to explore the pleasure and tastes of your flesh, to sheath my cock in your velvet yoni, and together enter the gates of ten thousand delights.”

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Although she was distracted by his erotic words, she realized that any other man would've sounded odd saying them—but coming from Sharif, they were natural. He gave a low laugh, half carried her to a smooth slab of rock, and helped her sit. “Do you know how much your willing response arouses me? If my gonads get any harder, I'll hobble like a crippled, old man and lose face with my warriors.” “Your...warriors?” Suddenly, Rena realized they were still surrounded, at a short distance, by the royal guards. “Oh, damn, I forgot.” Sharif chuckled. “Don't worry. They're probably envying me.” He turned at the sound of rapid hoof beats and faced one of the scouts, his fists on hips as if braced for trouble. The horseman slid to a halt in a shower of dirt and pebbles, dismounted, handed the reins to one of the nearby warriors then knelt in front of the sultan. As the other guard led the horse away, Sharif gave the scout his own water skin. “Drink first, then report.” The scout bowed lower. “Shukran, sidi.” He swallowed a few gulps, while Sharif beckoned to his captain of the guards to join them. Closing the stopper, the scout saluted his captain, then faced Sharif. “Sire, there are no women in the tents of Sheik Asim Najjar at the Oasis.” “Which shows he has good reason to expect trouble.”

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“I also observed Sheik Najjar's son, Fahd, meeting with small groups of unfledged, would-be warriors from his father's tribe and those of other sheiks.” Sharif's mouth drew down in a hard, cold line. “So the young lynx gathers his own hunting pack. You did well to bring me this information. Were you able to escape detection?” “Yes. I also tracked a handful of scouts headed in this direction. In the course, I found an ancient trail with many places overlooking the one we travel on, and saw the renegades set up their observation posts.” The sultan gripped the scout's upper arm in manly approval. “Well done, Hassan. Rest, eat. We leave in ten minutes.” As the scout departed, Sharif said, “Captain, inform the men of these events. We will continue to the Oasis of Peace as if ignorant of any trouble. Choose five men to go with Hassan. They will take the secondary trail and keep watch on the observers.” Saluting with fist over his heart, the captain said, “I hear and obey, sidi. As usual, the Golden Eagle will triumph over the enemies of his people.” Sharif watched the captain stride toward his men, issuing orders. Rena touched the sultan's arm. “Your men put their full trust in you.” He nodded, his eyes full of dark shadows. “They've fought beside me in the past. Now I'm leading them into a situation that will try each man's loyalty. It could end up with brother 31

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fighting brother in a battle that will either establish greater peace in Kasama, or tear the country apart.” Hearing the grim resolve and hint of pain in his voice, she said, “You're asking them to choose between a life of peace and prosperity—or a war that would devastate their families. They'll make the right decision.” “By the gods, I hope so.” As if in answer, the ceaseless winds quieted. The Golden Eagle returned to riding on the thermal currents. It gave a harsh hunting cry, and, claws extended, dropped toward the desert floor a thousand feet below. Gripping her shoulders, Sharif gazed into her face as if searching for something. “Rena, I was wrong to bring you on this trip where you'll be exposed to danger.” Her heart turned over at his worried tone. She gave him a confident smile. “Life is dangerous. In California, I could've been hit by a car, robbed in my shop, been swallowed by a fissure during an earthquake—” He pressed a finger to her lips. “I get the picture. I can't guarantee you'll be safe, but I can promise to do my best to keep you protected.” She touched his cheek. “Just so you don't protect me from your sexy lovemaking—teacher.” “The lessons will continue tonight.” His lips came down on her mouth, firm, hard—nipping, tasting—his tongue dancing with hers in an erotic rhythm that set fire to her blood. Her breasts swelled and ached. More heat bloomed between her legs. Her body was ready—eager to open to him. How could she wait until tonight? 32

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**** Sharif scanned the tents arranged in tribal clusters along two sides of the oasis. He quickly found the location of Sheik Asim Najjar's camp—at the end of the oasis, farthest away from the royal tent. The setting sun behind Sharif and his warriors and him sent shadows racing ahead. Rena rode his prize mare just even with his leg on his left side. She'd traveled hard all day without one complaint. His heart filled with pride. My woman even though she doesn't realize that—yet. Tonight he'd fulfill his sensual promise to her. The thought made blood rush to his groin. His cock stirred. Damn, not here, not now. With danger all around, he dare not be distracted. He watched a large group of warriors gallop toward them, each man waving a rifle in traditional greeting. Their shouts carried through the hot air. While his own men moved in closer, forming tighter protection on three sides, Sharif left his own rifle in its holster and rode with one fist on his hip. Deliberately, he projected an image of supreme confidence and the silent message he was ready to meet problems head-on—especially rebellion and banditry. In a short time would be the feast of welcome. Tomorrow, he'd hear grievances, dispense justice, and conduct the trial of Fahd. Hiding his impatience to finish the necessary formalities expected of a sultan, he greeted the sheiks representing the gathered tribes. But in the back of his mind was a picture of 33

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Rena's face and body—flushed with passion, nipples erect, arching toward him, pleading for his mouth, his fingers, and the thick, hot thrust of his aroused cock into her moist, glistening yoni. He'd have all that and more—tonight. **** Rena gazed around the silk and tapestried room—the women's area within the large royal tent. Her space was furnished with a bed piled with cushions, a padded bench, and a small stand holding a jug of water and a bowl of fruit. An exquisite bronze-and-glass lamp was suspended from a ridge pole by a gleaming chain. The gas flame burned clean and bright. Her bare feet sank into the layers of priceless Persian and Berber carpets covering the ground. Earlier, after she'd eaten a light dinner, the two smiling women who'd brought her the food had, returned with a large copper tub. They'd set it up on a piece of canvas, filled it with buckets of warm water, and poured in fragrant bath salts. Now, clothed in a soft, silken, white robe with red and gold embroidery, she brushed her almost-dry hair and waited for Sharif to come to her. When she leaned forward on the padded bench, sweeping her long hair over to one side, the golden bracelet and jeweled padlock shifted on her wrist. “My Golden Eagle,” she murmured yearning for his touch. As if in answer, she heard one of the guards call a challenge, then the sultan's firm voice respond. Moments later, Sharif brushed aside the drape separating her quarters from the outer tent. Once more, he wore loose, white desert 34

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pants held by a red sash, but no shirt. He rolled the shaft of a white feather between his thumb and forefinger, the way he had her nipples. Her breath caught and her breasts rose in response to the steamy memory. Then more heat bloomed in her body at the sight of his tall, fit male body. Water drops glittered in his hair and trickled through his pelt of dark chest hair. The royal gold-and-jeweled medallion of power rested against his muscular chest. “Rena, at last.” Covering the distance between them in three long strides, he clasped her hands. “I thought the sheiks would never run out of toasts and boasts.” His hunter's gaze swept her body, lingered on her mouth, then moved to her breasts. They grew tight, more sensitive under his scrutiny. Her nipples beaded and ached for him. He drew her to her feet. “The tribal council finally ran out of protests and gossip. I stopped in the oasis bathing pool to wash off the dirt of travel before coming to you—my treasure.” She watched his face come down toward hers and realized he had the most beautiful mouth she'd even seen—hard, sensual, and utterly male. His lips hovered above hers. His eyes grew dark. A sensual flame danced in them. She stared at his lips, remembering the night he'd taken each breast into his mouth, gently nibbling, sucking, pulling on the sensitized tip while she'd arched upwards wanting...wanting. “What are you thinking?” he asked in a low, husky voice. 35

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She shivered and, licked her lips. “I need your mouth more than I need food and water.” The low confession brought a thick, guttural sound from him. His mouth closed over hers hungrily. She opened her lips to him, inviting him into her heat, and trembling when his tongue rubbed in hot passion over hers. The heady scent of sandalwood and male called to her at the deepest level. With their mouths still pressed together, she curved her fingers around the nape of his neck, flexing under his thick hair, her nails sinking into his hard muscles. Muttering, “My treasure has claws,” he untied her robe, slipped his callused palms across the flesh covering her ribs, and down her back to the curves of her hips. While his long fingers kneaded her flesh in sensual luxury, he continued exploring her mouth, each glide of his tongue triggering a new storm of erotic lightning crackling through her nervous system to her sultry, pulsing feminine core. She rubbed her sensitized breasts across his soft pelt and hot muscles, melting against him, trying to fit her body to him as perfectly as their mouths meshed. He groaned and thrust his tongue deeper into the warm recesses of her mouth, even while his thick, swollen cock bumped slowly against the cradle of her thighs—separated, as before, by the thin barrier of cotton. She wanted to fall to her knees—tear away that fabric obstacle with her teeth, smell and touch and taste his pure male essence. But he held her in a sensual vise. Each glide of mobile flesh past her lips, each press of steel veiled in flesh 36

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and cotton below her pubic mound, built a hot coil of sensations beyond her experience. Fire. Desire. Pleasure. Ravening need—fueled by the tempo of his tender assault—curled, coiled, tightened— exploded. She climaxed, her cries flowing into his mouth. Holding her securely, he nuzzled the side of her neck, under her hair. “Sharif,” she murmured, still consumed by a strange weakness. “I've never felt like that—as if my bones and blood had turned to liquid honey.” Laughing softly, he braced her with one arm, reached under his sash, and brought out the feather and a black mask. At the sight of the mask, a shiver of excited anticipation rippled across her skin. “Dabir, Teacher?” She looked up into his eyes. “More lessons?” “Rena, sweet treasure,” He stroked her cheek with the feather. “We've only just begun.”

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CHAPTER 4 Sharif adjusted the mask across his eyes, tied it, then stroked the feather across Rena's throat. “Tonight we'll be master and pleasure slave.” “Yes, master,” she said huskily. Her head fell back and her arms dropped to her sides in submission. At her surrender, pure lust rolled through his body and sizzled in his already heavy arousal. He swept Rena into his arms, enticed by the feel of her warm body through the silk robe. The untied front slipped away exposing the lush swell of her breasts, the feminine curves pointing the way to the soft, black pubic bush, and below—her moist petals—ready to be tasted, tantalized, invaded. In two long strides, he reached the bed, peeled the robe down her arms, dropped it, and placed her on the satincovered mattress. Warm lamplight flowed across her body as she sprawled in sexy abandon— arms spread, legs parted, rosy nipples full and, erect. Her silky black hair tumbled against the red, gold, and white spread and pillows. His royal tent, his colors—his woman. Her sapphire eyes, dark with hunger, gazed at him as if only he held the secrets of her universe. The pressure increased in his groin. He had a hard-on that threatened to erupt before his dick was seated deep in her channel. No woman had ever made him this hot, this ready, 38

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and he was damned if he'd let his body be dominated by his gonads. Intent on ruling her passions—and his, he dropped the feather on the edge of the bed, and unwound his sash but left his desert pants in place. “Dabir, teacher and master,” she said in a husky voice, staring at his crotch. “May I touch you?” Damn. He knew one stroke of her hand and, clothes or no clothes, he'd explode like a volcano. That wasn't in his plan— until later. She reached toward him and he intercepted her hand. “Not yet, slave. You must prove your worthiness.” Worthiness? Who am I kidding? Her legs and hips shifted on the bed. He saw rebellion flare in her eyes, and gripped her left hand. Raising her wrist to his mouth, he tasted the delicate skin over her pulse—under the golden chain. “Remember, you are my pleasure slave. You will obey me in all things.” “Pleasure slave.” She seemed to consider the possibilities. “Then I must pleasure you.” Her gaze fastened on the bulge in his pants. She licked her lips. The unconscious motion wiped away his objections. “Slave"—he stretched beside her on the bed, arms over his head—"I command you to gratify my sexual hunger.” “Oh, yes, master.” Rising to her knees, she scanned him from his fingers lightly curved into fists, down across his torso, legs, and long feet, and up again. Her pink tongue appeared between parted lips as if she was surveying a feast of delicacies. 39

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Her black hair fell in a tousled mass around her nude body. Sitting back on her heels, she brushed the gleaming strands to one side without lifting her gaze from him. Her lush breasts—the ones she'd hidden, along with her sensuality, behind buttoned-up jackets and a buttoned-up life—swayed gently. “Houri,” he said, huskily. “You're like one of the fabled women of paradise who give sensual pleasure beyond a man's wildest wet dreams.” “Is that so?” She lightly brushed the back of her fingers across his swollen dick. Fire shot through him. It was all he could do to force himself not to go off like a pistol. She gave him a smile as old as Eve. “Now I know where to begin.” Like a sleek lioness, she rocked forward to her hands and knees, lamplight gleaming on her naked nude body. Nuzzling her chin, then her cheek against one side of his groin, she wordlessly urged him to part his legs. He did, waiting, hoping, for the same treatment to his cock tenting the front of his pants. She licked the fabric on each side of his heavy shaft, and he groaned at the hot-cold sensation. **** That groan, and the proof of Sharif El Yazid's helpless male reaction to her went through Rena like sheet lightning— melting the last barrier of inhibitions. Yes. She was an houri, a woman who pleasured men—one man—Sharif. In her failing attempts to save her marriage, she'd studied sex manuals, searching for ways to please Chet. However, 40

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when the time came in bed to put her knowledge into practice—her lawful husband's pale body and his snide comments about, “Sexless bitch,” had repelled her. But not Sharif. The sight of his long, strong body set her juices humming. His heady male heat and scent woke fantasies she'd only known in dreams. Dreams—masked lover—hers. Lowering her head, she gripped the waistband of his cotton pants in her teeth. This close, his musky aphrodisiac was stronger. She wanted to slowly peel away the fabric and at the same time build anticipation to white heat. “Wait,” he said in an urgent tone. “I can get them off faster.” Swiftly, she raised her face. “Don't. I'll do it my way.” His hands froze. He crooked one eyebrow. “A slave giving orders to her master?” She pressed the broad tip of his erection outlined under soft cotton, smiled at his quick intake of breath. “Master, you commanded me to, ‘gratify your sexual hunger.’ I'm obeying your instructions.” “Caught by my own orders.” His lips quirked wryly as he once more stretched out. “Sidi,” she said, deliberately using the title that implied a mutual obligation—hers to obey him, and his to protect and honor her position—even as a slave. “In order to follow your instructions, I need your promise you won't interfere.” Leaning forward, she found his flat nipple nestled in the thick pelt and took it between her teeth, gently biting. His chest jerked. “Promise?” he asked in a raw tone. 41

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“Lock your hands behind your head and give me your word you won't move them or interrupt me until I give permission.” “How...kinky.” Grinning, he shoved a velvet pillow under his head and shoulders, then laced his fingers under his nape. “Okay. Ready. I hear and obey.” “Word of honor?” She found the soft, white feather and picked it up between thumb and first two fingers, the way an artist holds a brush. Sharif eyed the feather. “I promised, damn it.” “Good.” Smiling in anticipation of his reaction, she asked, “Ticklish?” and drew the feather, oh-so-lightly from his left armpit to his ribs. His grin had disappeared at the first stroke. She brushed his throat with the lightest possible touch, traveled lower to his chest and leisurely combed through the hair, deliberately teasing both nipples into tighter attention. “Reee-na.” His voice rose to a tone halfway between warning and passion. Breathing faster, fighting to contain her own erotic reactions, she circled the dark hair on his right armpit, and continued lower—ribs, belly, then lifting his waistband with one hand, explored the sensitive skin down to the thicker pubic hair. He shuddered and muttered a curse. “Did you know,” she said in a conversational tone, “that our skin is also an erogenous zone?” “No argument here.” His voice held a gritty edge. Drops of moisture collected on his forehead and chest. 42

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His actions had ignited her arousal. Her nipples had grown more achingly sensitive. Her crotch was warm and slick. “Oh, dear,” she murmured with a false note of sympathy. “Is my master hot?” She sat back on her heels, the silky bedcover stroking her swollen clit, and tapped her lips as if thinking. Sharif's eyes narrowed. The ruddy flush of male lust bloomed under his tanned skin. His jaws tightened. “Finish your damned lesson and release me. I'll show you hot.” “Patience, patience,” she taunted, secure in her belief he wouldn't break his word. “First your houri—your pleasure slave—must try to cool your fevered body.” Placing the feather to one side, she straddled him—her humid folds brushing the cotton just past his groin. Cradling his face between her palms, she daintily lapped up the drops of sweat on his forehead and cheeks—tracing the edge of the black mask. The muscles in his arms bunched in tension. He muttered her name like a curse. Yielding to his tempting lips, she took his mouth in a long kiss, stoking her own desires higher, and he froze as if caught at the edge of control. Struck by the wild impulse to make him lose that control, she leaned forward, lifted her breasts in her hands, and lightly brushed her nipples across his thick, male pelt. He let out a shuddering breath and stared at her, hot desire in his eyes. Meanwhile, cotton-covered temptation pressed into the back edge of her sensitized vaginal wall. With each rocking 43

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motion as she teased him with her beaded tips, she tormented herself. Closing her eyes, she threw back her head caught in the fiery vise of cascading passions. Bending his knees, he pressed them against her buttocks, shoving her closer to the fraying limits of her control—closer to the edge of her own surrender. Sharif inhaled another deep, shuddering breath and the chain holding his medallion of power scraped one of her nipples. Acute pleasure and pain raced through her nerves in shock waves. She couldn't wait any longer to finish her “pleasuring.” Swiftly, she left her place straddling his body and knelt at his side. Bending over his thighs, she licked the top of his penis through the fabric, then gripped the band and pulled the pants down and off, dropping them on the carpet. His erection sprang free, thick and heavy. A shimmering drop, that had nothing to do with her tongue, trembled at the tip. Helplessly drawn to his primal maleness, she sank lower and licked the tender skin on the inside of both his thighs. Mingled with his unique scent was the clean spice of the sandalwood soap he'd used to bathe in spring waters before coming to her. His engorged shaft stroked her cheek. Turning her head, she stared at the fully extended erection. Tenderly, she kissed the fine-grained skin of his broad penis, marveling at the velvety smoothness. Pressing her open mouth near the bulbous top, she flicked the skin with butterfly kisses. Then she curved her tongue part way around the pulsing flesh and slowly licked. With each glide, the whole length jerked. 44

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Sharif said her name on a low groan. Urged on by his husky cries, she sat up, circled his penis with her hand, slid her fingers down to the base, then started at the crown with her other hand and repeated the slide as if he were penetrating a tight, infinitely long vagina. Another drop of liquid appeared in the cleft at the top. The scent of her own arousal swirled around her, mingling with his. “Rena, release me from my promise,” he said in a strangled voice. “I release you,” she said on a breath ragged with desire. He came up off the bed with rush, rolled her onto her back, and positioned himself over her. His thick cock brushed her swollen clit, and she looked up into his tense face. “Your body's ready, so hot, so wet.” His shaft pressed a short way in and stopped. “Are you? Once I start, I won't be able to stop.” “Sharif,” she said urgently, “Please. I want you more than my last breath.” “Rena—” “Now!” She gripped his muscled hips, digging her nails into skin. Swiftly, he filled her with one powerful thrust, deeper than she'd ever known. She cried out at the shattering pleasure, and he froze in place. “Hurt?” he asked through gritted teeth. “Good—so good.” She raised her hips to him, wanting deeper, wanting more. “Don't stop. Never stop.” 45

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He gripped her butt with both hands, tipped her vagina to a better angle and filled her again and again, his warm breath flowing over her skin while his hot, thick shaft sweetly lifted her, branded her in a rhythm as old as the beginning of time. Her body tensed. She vibrated with wave upon wave of liquid fire. The coiling pressure built, expanded, and swallowed her in a glittering ball of pleasure—so stunningly bright it took away her breath; so beautifully intimate, she never wanted it to end. Ripples began deep in her core. He withdrew part way, holding her at the edge, denying her completion. Writhing, gasping, she locked her legs around him, demanding him to finish. “Now,” he growled pumping faster, deeper, harder. For Rena, it was like being swept into the center of a hot, wild tumbler with liquid crystals of all colors being stripped, smoothed, molded into the elemental parts. Or, like nephrite jade locked in small metal barrels—anchored at the edge of the Pacific Ocean—set to tumble in the tides until they were reborn as precious gems. He gave one more twist of his hips, his seed spurted into her, and she abandoned everything, even breath, to the hot, flaring primal wave that carried her into ecstasy, into flames. Into paradise. **** “Rena, my sweet, wake up. Open your eyes,” Sharif murmured.

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“Hmmm?” Eyes still closed, she stretched, luxuriating in his scent, his touch, his arms holding her. “Why did you tell me to wake up?” He chuckled. His lips brushed her forehead. “You experienced, la petite mort, the little death. You were unconscious for a short time.” “Unconscious? I passed out on you?” She looked up into his warm brown eyes behind the mask. “That's a first for me.” He ran a thumb across her lips. “Next time, I'll know what to expect.” Next time. At the thought, her heart skipped a beat. “Soon, I hope.” “How about now—if you're up to it.” He brushed the back of his fingers across her breasts. Her breath clogged in her throat at the delicious sensations swarming through her blood. She raised her right hand to his jaw and realized she didn't want him masked. Sitting up among the tumbled spread and pillows, she said, “Sharif, please take off the mask.” With a savage gesture, he ripped the mask up over his head. “No more sex play?” he asked in a voice devoid of emotion. Gently, she pried the black cloth from his fingers and laid it aside. “Try, making love. I don't need a masked fantasy anymore. I want you, my real teacher and lover.” Silence fell as she waited for his answer. He sat in naked splendor, bathed in the glow from jeweled lamps. Small scars on his body proclaimed his life as a warrior, a man who'd 47

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fought shoulder to shoulder with his people for their freedom. The unruly council of sheiks had chosen him to take the title of sultan and to bring the diverse tribes together into one nation governed by his wise, strong leadership. She cradled his hand in hers and traced the hard, warrior calluses on the edge and palm. For him, she would gladly stay and work to bring greater prosperity to the land. It would have to be his choice. Bending her head, she touched her lips to each of his fingertips. A shudder went through him. His eyes took on a sensuous gleam. “Rena, from the first day I walked into your jewelry store and saw you buttoned up in your prim suit and stiff formality, I sensed the fire under those cool layers and wanted you. Then, you were a challenge.” He cupped the back of her head at her nape and drew her toward him. “Now, I want the real you—your intelligence, humor, caring nature, your courage and fire. Marry me and we'll spend the next hundred years or so making love.” She wound her arms around his neck, as joy flowed through her like a bright river. “Sharif, you're the only man for me. Yes, I'll marry you and spend those hundred years or so showing you the depths of my love.” Whispering her name, he bore her back down onto the silky bed and gave her a stunning preview of those hundred years of desert passion.

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