The Sheikh Who Desired Her. Jennifer Lewis

intoxicating dance.

      The music faded, and everything dissolved into the heat of the kiss and Salman’s arms around her, holding her like an anchor. Neither one of them heard the crude wolf-whistle from a passing crowd of teens. They didn’t come up for air until the man asked brusquely if they were prepared to pay for another go.

      Cheeks scarlet with embarrassment, Jamilah slithered off the horse, legs wobbly, and was grateful for Salman’s steadying hand on hers as he led her away. Her heart was pounding and her skin prickled with anticipation. She had no doubt that right at this moment Salman intended taking her back to the hotel and making love to her.

      Maybe he was right? Maybe they should indulge in this madness in Paris and be purged of this crazy desire and obsession? Perhaps that was what it would take to get him out of her system for good?

      Just then Salman got distracted by something. She heard the rat-tat-tat of rapid tinny gunfire coming from a shooting range, and saw where a small boy of about eight was in floods of tears because he’d obviously missed his target. His mother was trying to console him, telling him she had no more money, pleading with the owner of the stall of give him something, but the owner was sour-faced.

      Before Jamilah knew what was happening Salman was striding over to the stall, dragging her along in his wake. When they reached it, he let Jamilah’s hand go and bent down to talk to the little boy in perfect French. Jamilah smiled awkwardly at the beleaguered-looking mother, and wondered what Salman was up to.

      After a few minutes of consulting with the now sniffling boy, who had pointed out the prize he wanted, Salman handed some money to the owner. Then he lifted up the boy and rested his feet on a rung of the fence around the stall. He helped him to aim—showing him how to balance the rifle on his shoulder, explaining how to keep a steady hand. With his arms around him, Salman encouraged the boy to take the shot. To his ecstatic surprise and the owner’s evident disgruntlement he hit it first time. A perfect hit, right in the bullseye—and it was the hardest target to hit, as it was clearly the most coveted prize.

      Amidst much effusive thanks, Salman finally took a bemused Jamilah’s hand again, and with a wave they walked off, leaving the now chirpy boy with his grateful mum. But as they approached the car, she could sense his mood change as clearly as if a bell had gone off.

      When they were in the car, Jamilah turned on a tensely silent Salman.

      ‘Where did you learn to shoot like that?’

      Salman didn’t turn to face her, and just said quietly, almost as if to himself, ‘I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have encouraged him to take the shot. It was good that he missed. Better that he be disappointed and not want to do it again than …’ He trailed off.

      Jamilah asked, ‘Than what? Salman?’

      Suddenly a chasm existed between them when minutes ago it had been all heat and urgent desire. Salman had withdrawn to somewhere impenetrable. He looked at her, but his eyes were opaque, unreadable. ‘Than nothing. It doesn’t matter.’

      It did matter, though. She knew it with a grim certainty when she thought back to that little scene, and when she recalled the automatic way Salman had handled even a toy gun with such unerring dexterity. Like a true marksman.

      Jamilah said now, ‘He didn’t take that shot. You did. You just made him think that he took it. It’s no big deal. It’s just a game.’

      Salman smiled, but it was grim. ‘It’s never just a game.’

      ‘How do you know this? And you didn’t answer me—where did you learn to shoot?’

      For such a long time he said nothing, and she almost thought he was going to ignore her, but then he said, in a scarily emotionless voice, ‘It was just luck … pure fluke.’

      He turned back to look out of his window, and Jamilah felt as if she’d been dismissed. The rest of the drive to the hotel was made in a silence which had thickened so much that by the time they got up to the suite Jamilah felt too intimidated to speak.

      Salman just looked at her, and for a second she saw such a wealth of pain that she instinctively stepped forward with a hand outstretched. ‘Salman, what is it?’

      And then the enigmatic look was gone, and a stony-faced Salman said a curt, ‘Nothing. Go to bed, Jamilah.’

      He turned on his heel and walked into his own rooms. Thoroughly confused, Jamilah stared after him for a long moment. And then, galvanised by something she couldn’t even understand, she strode forward and opened Salman’s bedroom door without knocking. He was standing in the dark, looking out of the window, hands in his pockets.

      He didn’t turn around, just said, ‘I thought I told you to go to bed.’

      ‘You’re not my father, Salman. I’ll go to bed when I feel like it.’

      She walked over to where he stood and looked up. When he didn’t turn around exasperation made her take his arm to turn him. He looked down at her, face expressionless in the moonlight.

      ‘What’s going on, Salman? One minute you’re kissing me, and the next you’re treating me as if I’ve got leprosy.’

      Salman smiled mockingly and Jamilah wanted to slap that look off his face. ‘Are you saying you’re ready to fall into bed with me?’

      He cast a look at his watch and gave a low whistle. ‘Not bad. It only took twenty-four hours. I was convinced it would take at least two days. Was it my concern for the boy’s distress that melted your soft-hearted resistance, or was it the impressive way I wielded the gun?’

      Jamilah’s hand came up then, and she did slap him. Hard enough to make his head turn. Her hand tingled and burned. Shakily she said, ‘You deserved that—and not for what you just said, but for what you did to me six years ago.’

      She turned and walked to the door, and Salman said softly from behind her, ‘Make no mistake, Jamilah, I do want you. But if we sleep together I won’t and can’t offer you anything more than I offered last time.’ Bitterness rang in his voice. ‘At least you can’t say that I’m not warning you up-front.’

      Jamilah turned back. ‘Go to hell, Salman.’

      As she turned again and walked away she heard him say quietly, ‘I’ve already been there for a long time.’

      Something stopped her in her tracks at that. She turned again, despite all the screaming voices and warning bells going off in her head. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

      CHAPTER SIX

      SALMAN heard Jamilah’s words, and his whole body contracted as if from a physical blow. Damn the woman, why wouldn’t she just leave? A voice mocked him. Like the way you forced her to leave six years ago?

      A wave of weariness nearly knocked Salman sideways then. He’d been so rigid, so controlled, so angry for so long. And this woman was taking a sledgehammer to all of that and smashing it aside without even knowing what she was doing.

      Grimly he turned to face her, his face still stinging from her slap. He welcomed it.

      When Jamilah saw the lurid print of her hand on Salman’s cheek in the shadows she felt huge remorse. She came forward on stiff legs, and in a rush made a stilted apology for hitting him. She’d never hit another human being in her life, and was genuinely mortified at her behaviour.

      But he just said grimly, ‘I’m not sorry you hit me. I deserved it. And I probably deserve more.’

      Jamilah shook her head. ‘I don’t get it, Salman. It’s almost as if you want to be punished.’

      He cracked a tight smile. ‘Don’t I?’

      Jamilah was silent. She suspected he wasn’t referring to his behaviour six years ago with her—or he was, but it was only a small part of a much bigger thing. ‘What really happened with that boy tonight? Why did it affect you like that?’

      Salman