Desert Destiny. Sarah Holland

to humiliate her further as she felt the excitement shiver through her.

      ‘Yes.’ His strong hand moved slowly to the buttons on her blouse and slid one open while she stared, trembling, hypnotised by those eyes. ‘You welcome your destiny, and your ultimate surrender.’

      ‘I don’t!’ she protested, then gasped, face flushing scarlet with hot arousal as Suliman’s strong fingers slid over her breast and they both felt her taut nipples burn in electric response to his touch.

      ‘Your body betrays you,’ he said softly, and as his head lowered to block out the light Bethsheba heard herself give a faint moan, eyes closing helplessly as that hard mouth took possession of hers.

      She struggled, but he pinned her arms to the splay of cushions. She cried out but he silenced her with his mouth, and as she lay helpless beneath him the blood raced through her body with a wild throb of excitement that made her moan as his kiss took fire, pulling her down into a sudden dark flare of hot desire that made her gasp against his mouth.

      ‘So.’ Suliman raised his dark head, breathing roughly, his face flushed as he watched her, and the soft sound of desert sands blowing in the night air came from outside the tent. ‘Let us have no more protests or denials, bint!’

      He got to his feet and reached for the brass coffee-pot, pouring hot spicy coffee into the two cups.

      Bethsheba watched him, intolerably aroused, intolerably confused, and unbelievably angry with him for kissing her like that. How dared he? How dared he bring her here against her will, kidnap her and put her in his desert encampment specifically to play some vile game with her that would end in her complete physical surrender to him…?

      She hated him! Her eyes moved over his strong back, his arrogant head, and she said hoarsely, ‘You think you can get away with this, but you’re wrong! Chris will be frantic when I don’t come back! He’ll look for me, and——’

      ‘And where will he look?’ Suliman drawled coolly, turning, and handing her a cup of rich spicy coffee. ‘At my palace of Agadir? What will he find there? Nothing but an abandoned car and my men ready with explanations.’

      ‘The car will be proof enough,’ she said fiercely, sitting up. ‘He’ll inform the authorities at once and——’

      ‘And the authorities will read the note attached to the car.’ Suliman watched her, mockery in his eyes, his stance arrogant as he raised the brass filigree cup to his lips and drank.

      ‘What note?’ she demanded, her heart missing a beat.

      ‘The note I had drafted before you arrived, chérie. The note telling Burton that you requested a tour of my land, many days’ ride, in order to give your work new depth.’

      She stared, breathless, horrified, then said on a rush, ‘You don’t seriously expect me to believe that?’

      ‘Why not?’ he drawled. ‘In America I believe it is called method acting.’

      Her mouth tightened. ‘Chris went to RADA and has often discussed acting with me. He knows I’m not an actress—and certainly not interested in the Stanislavsky method!’

      ‘Yet you were acting in the desert not three days ago.’

      ‘For a pop video! It’s hardly the same thing!’

      ‘But it will give me the time I need, bint,’ he said softly, ‘and that, I assure you, is all I require from your friend Burton!’

      Fear shot through her and she said hoarsely, ‘Chris has known me for years. He’ll know something’s wrong. He knows me better than anyone in my life. He’s almost family to me, and I to him!’

      ‘No one can ever be sure of the contents of another’s heart and mind,’ Suliman said coolly, draining his coffee and setting the cup back on the brass tray.

      ‘You say that,’ Bethsheba’s eyes were angry and frightened, ‘yet you insist you saw silent approval in my eyes last night!’

      He laughed softly. ‘I saw more than silent approval when I kissed you just now, bint!’

      Hot colour stung her cheeks and rage made her tremble as she stared at him, unable to reply for fear she would scream at him like a banshee and fly at him, hitting him for speaking such a humiliating truth.

      Suliman laughed again, and turned, walking to the tent flap, saying, ‘I will send a girl to you with water and fresh clothing. When it is time to eat you will be sent for.’

      Fury overwhelmed her. Her shaking hands closed over a silk cushion and she found herself hurling it at his arrogant head as he swept the tent flap aside. ‘Go to hell, you arrogant bastard!’ she shouted hoarsely, but the cushion hit the side of the tent with a dull thud, and the sheikh’s mocking laughter echoed in her ears to increase her rage and sense of helplessness.

      In the dusky corners of the tent, cassia oil burnt in lamps that hung from tent-poles, and the rich drapes of royal blue seemed to mock her, saying, ‘I am master here and you shall do my bidding.’

      The hell I will! she thought furiously, almost gnashing her teeth; then she realised that her hands still shook, and she struggled for self-control, for the dignity that was left her. Closing her eyes, she drew long, deep breaths, momentary calm flooding her.

      Suliman believed she had given her consent to this barbaric fantasy, and, even though her pride rose up in furious denial, she knew deep inside that the excitement had flashed from her eyes and communicated itself to him. However much she hated herself for having got herself in this position, she knew she had been at fault—partially.

      But she hadn’t meant this to happen! Panic flooded her, and she reached for her coffee with trembling hands, drinking deep, suddenly realising that she was struck by a raging thirst. She poured another cup and drank deep of the spicy coffee, and her hands reached for sweet, sticky halva and Turkish delight and biscuits as she remembered she had not eaten since this morning’s meagre breakfast of fruit.

      The tent flap was swept aside. Bethsheba’s eyes flashed to the entrance, and stared at the shadowy figure there.

      ‘I am Khalisha.’ The girl was ravishing, her voice as beautifully Arabian as her face. ‘My lord sent me to wash and clothe you.’

      ‘How kind of him,’ Bethsheba said through tight lips.

      ‘Is the sitt ready?’ Khalisha moved into the dim gold light of the tent, and Bethsheba stared in admiration. She was as slender as a gazelle, dusky-skinned, with long black hair and deep, lustrous eyes of brown above high cheekbones and a small dark red mouth. The purple silk of her harem trousers was edged with gold, as was her bodice, and little purple slippers on her feet were embroidered with gold.

      “I’m sorry, Khalisha,’ Bethsheba said angrily, unable to swallow her rage, ‘I don’t wish to offend you—but nor do I wish to be washed and clothed like a sacrifice for your master!’

      ‘A sacrifice?’ The girl’s dark brows met over her lustrous eyes in a frown.

      ‘I was brought here against my will and——’

      ‘I know nothing of this,’ said Khalisha at once, cool and serene as she moved further into the tent. ‘I know only the orders that my lord gave me.’

      ‘Your lord!’ Her nose wrinkled the pent-up anger. ‘He’s not your lord, he’s just——’

      ‘He is my lord, sitt. And without him my people would be scattered in the desert as the wind scatters dead men’s bones.’ Pride of her race and heritage made the girl even more beautiful.

      Getting to her feet, Bethsheba said, ‘Is there a bathroom I am to use?’

      ‘No. The sitt may wash behind the shiraz.’

      Bethsheba looked at once to the back of the tent where a selection of gorgeously patterned shiraz rugs hung from poles to form a protective covering