Lost to the Desert Warrior. Sarah Morgan

      Was that really all she needed?

      It sounded like very little, and yet right now he wasn’t sure he could deliver even that.

      Feeling the weight of responsibility pressing down on him like a thousand tons of sand, he turned and strode to the doorway of the tent. ‘I need air.’

      * * *

      I need air.

      Layla sagged. She needed air, too. She couldn’t breathe. She was suffocating under the heavy fabric of the robes and the stifling heat in the tent and she was terrified she’d blown everything by mentioning his wife. And as for the rest of it—she’d never thought talking about sex could feel so uncomfortable. It was a natural act, performed by animals—of which man was one—since the dawn of time. Why a discussion on the topic should leave her hot and shaky she had no idea.

      It was him.

      There was something about him—a raw physicality that made her understand for the first time why women talked about him in dreamy tones.

      Confused, exhausted and desperately worried about Yasmin, all Layla wanted was to strip off the robes she’d taken from her father’s rooms and lie down.

      She looked longingly at the low bed covered in richly coloured silks that dominated the far side of the tent.

      His bed?

      Just for a moment she had an image of him lying there, strong limbs entwined with the beauty who had been his wife, sharing their love. The image shocked her. Apart from images of the sculptures of Michelangelo she’d never seen a man naked, so she had no reason to be imagining one now.

      Her body ached from head to foot and she wanted to stretch her limbs and examine her bruises, but she was too afraid to move with the dogs guarding her.

      She watched them as she carefully tried to ease herself into a different position.

      The bag she’d tied under the robes pressed uncomfortably against her hip and she pulled out the two books she’d taken from the library. One was her favourite—a book she’d read so many times she almost knew it by heart. The other—

      ‘What is that?’ His voice came from the doorway of the tent and Layla jumped and dropped both books onto the thick rug that carpeted the floor of the tent.

      ‘Books. Just books. I brought them from home.’

      Before she could snatch them back he stooped and picked one up. And of course it was that one.

      There was a tense silence while he scanned the title of the volume. Dark eyebrows rose in incredulity. ‘The Kama Sutra?’

      ‘If I’m proposing marriage then it’s important I have some knowledge of what is required. There is no skill that cannot be mastered with sufficient studying. I’m ignorant, and in my experience ignorance is never bliss.’

      She could hear the blood throbbing in her ears. She felt her mouth dry as if she had swallowed all the sand in the desert and her heart pounded like the hooves of the Arabian stallion who had thrown her onto the sand with such disdain.

      His prolonged silence was more humiliating than a refusal and she was grateful for the semi-darkness of the tent that gave her at least some protection from his scrutiny.

      Her expectations of this encounter had been modest. She hadn’t exactly expected him to embrace the idea of marriage with enthusiasm, but she’d thought he’d say something. She certainly hadn’t expected him to walk out of the tent.

      But perhaps the thought of marrying her sickened him. Perhaps people were wrong and Raz Al Zahki wouldn’t do anything that needed to be done for his country. Perhaps even he wouldn’t stoop so low as to marry the daughter of the man who had destroyed his family.

      Perhaps he didn’t want a woman whose knowledge of the world had been gained from the contents of her father’s library.

      ‘You’re not going to need this.’ He handed the book back to her and her face burned like the desert in the midday heat

      Tears formed a hot burning ball in the back of her throat and she almost choked on it.

      He was refusing to marry her.

      ‘I understand. In that case I need to try and find my sister myself, before Hassan does. He is at his most dangerous when he is angry and he will be very angry.’ She struggled to her feet, but her legs cramped from kneeling for so long in one position and she lost her balance.

      He caught her and scooped her into his arms.

      Afraid of being dropped to the ground for the second time in one day, Layla gripped his shoulders and her fingers dug into an unyielding layer of solid muscle.

      In her day-to-day life at the palace she didn’t encounter men like him. Her father had surrounded himself with men like Hassan: men whose flesh was softened from inactivity, sycophants whose purpose in life was to indulge to the fullest.

      She doubted Raz Al Zahki had ever overindulged in his life. He was lean, athletic, super-fit—and dangerous in every way.

      As she turned her head, her eyes met the fierce black of his. Curiosity turned to fascination. Her eyes dropped to his mouth, now terrifyingly close to hers. Hassan’s mouth was full and fleshy, but this man’s lips were firm and perfectly shaped. His face was beauty blended with hardness. Hardness in the savage slash of his cheekbones and the lean line of his darkened jaw. Hardness in the grim set of his mouth and the glint in his eyes. And that hardness gave him an edge of danger. Even she, with no expertise or interest in men, could see why women might describe him as spectacularly handsome.

      Something tightened deep in her stomach. Heat washed across her skin and poured through her veins.

      They stared at each other and then his mouth compressed. He strode across the tent and lowered her onto the silken cover draped over the large bed, standing over her, powerful and imposing in every way.

      ‘Where does it hurt? Explain your injuries.’

      That curt command jolted her out of her dreamy state of contemplation.

      Layla told herself there was no reason to feel intimidated. He couldn’t help his height. He couldn’t help his powerful build. And she could hardly blame him for not smiling in the circumstances.

      He’d asked about her injuries.

      All the talk of romance and emotions had stressed her beyond belief, so the practical nature of his question soothed her. She preferred the definable to the indefinable and her injuries were definitely definable.

      ‘I ache all over, but particularly my legs, my back and my arms. I suspect it’s a mixture of stiffness from unaccustomed muscle use and bruising from the fall. Based on the symptoms, I don’t believe anything is broken.’

      His eyes gleamed with irony. ‘Presumably you have studied medical texts along with Aristotle and the Kama Sutra? Your reading matter is diverse, Princess.’

      She didn’t tell him she hadn’t even started the Kama Sutra. ‘I read a lot.’

      ‘You read. Your sister talks.’ He studied her for several long and deeply unsettling minutes. ‘Take the robe off.’

      ‘What?’ Feeling like a tiny mouse in the sights of a predatory eagle, Layla stared at him. ‘Why?’

      ‘Because I want to assess the state of your injuries for myself.’

      ‘I don’t have any injuries,’ she said quickly. ‘Truly, it’s just muscular. Superficial. Nothing for you to worry about but I appreciate your concern.’ She’d been desperate to be out of the robes, but now she was equally desperate to keep them on. The thought of removing them in front of this man unsettled her.

      With a sigh he sat down on the bed, his thigh brushing briefly against hers. ‘You say you want marriage and yet you’re afraid even to remove your robe in my presence? Are