The Sheikh Who Desired Her. Jennifer Lewis

It had been her mother’s home and birthplace, where Jamilah had been brought up after her birth in Paris. Her French father had worked for Salman’s father as an advisor.

      Jamilah smiled widely and held up the bulging bags of shopping. ‘I’m cooking dinner.’

      The concierge smiled back, but he looked a little uncomfortable, and a shiver of unease went down Jamilah’s spine for no good reason as the lift ascended. When it came to a smooth halt and the doors opened the trickle of unease got stronger. Salman’s door was partially open, and she heard a deep-throated, very feminine chuckle just as she pushed it open fully.

      It took a few seconds for the scene in front of her to register. Salman was standing with his head bent, about to kiss a very beautiful red-haired woman who was twined around him like a climbing vine. Jamilah suddenly felt stupidly self-conscious in her student uniform of jeans and T-shirt.

      Their mouths met, and Salman’s hands were on the woman’s slender waist as he hauled her closer. Exactly the way he had done with Jamilah. She must have made a sound or something—it was only afterwards that she’d realised that was the moment she’d dropped the shopping.

      Salman broke off the kiss and looked round. But, Jamilah noted, he didn’t take his hands off the woman, who was now looking at her, too, her beautiful green eyes flashing at the interruption.

      Jamilah barely registered Salman’s thick dark unruly hair, which had always curled a touch too near his collar, or his intensely dark flashing eyes, which she’d always thought held a universe of shadows and secrets. The hard line of his jaw, and his exquisitely sculpted cheekbones which somehow didn’t diminish the harsh masculinity of his face, were all peripheral to her shock.

      Numb with that shock, and a million and one other things all at once, Jamilah just stood stupidly and watched Salman say something low and succinct to the woman, who gave a little moue of displeasure before she stepped back and picked up her bag and coat.

      She brushed past Jamilah on her way out, trailing a noxious cloud of perfume behind her, and said huskily, ‘Je te voir plus tard, cheri.’

      See you later, darling.

      The door closed behind Jamilah and reaction started to set in. Salman faced her now, hands on narrow hips, dressed in a dark suit, crisp shirt and tie. It was the first time she’d seen him dressed so formally, and it made him look austere. She knew that he was an investment banker, but he’d never really discussed it. She realised now he’d never really discussed anything personal with her—just seduced her to within an inch of her life.

      Jamilah could feel a trembling starting up in her legs, but before she could speak Salman said curtly, ‘I didn’t expect to see you this evening. We made no arrangement.’

      They’d made no arrangement to turn her life upside down in the space of three weeks, either! Jamilah’s numb brain was trying to equate this distant stranger with the man who had made love to her less than twelve hours before. The same man who had whispered words of endearment in her ears as he’d thrust so deeply inside her that she’d arched her back and gasped out loud, raking her nails down his back to his buttocks.

      She fought to block the images and felt like crying. ‘I … wanted to surprise you. I was going to cook dinner …’

      Jamilah looked down then, to see carnage. Broken eggs seeped all over the parquet floor. A bottle of wine, which thankfully hadn’t broken, lolled on its side. She looked up again jerkily when Salman said, ‘You can’t just wander in here when you feel like it, Jamilah.’

      A muscle ticking in his jaw showed his displeasure. And, from a depth she’d not known she had, a self-preserving instinct kicked in. Jamilah hitched up her chin minutely, even as her world started to crumble around her.

      ‘Of course I wouldn’t have come if I’d known that you would be … busy.’ And then she couldn’t help asking. ‘Were you …?’ A poison-tipped arrow pierced her heart. ‘Were you seeing her while you were seeing me?’

      Salman shook his head briefly, abruptly. Impatiently. ‘No.’

      Jamilah said through numb lips, ‘Clearly, though, you’re seeing her now. Evidently you’ve already grown bored. Three weeks must be your limit.’

      She was aware of the raw pain throbbing through her voice. She couldn’t hold it back. Not for the life of her. All she could think of was how she’d bared her heart and soul to this man in the early dawn hours. She’d said hesitantly, huskily, ‘I love you, Salman. I think I’ve always loved you.’

      He’d smiled his lopsided smile and said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You barely know me.’

      Jamilah had been fierce. ‘I’ve known you all my life, Salman … and I know that I love you.’ And that was when he’d pulled back and become monosyllabic. She could see it now, clear as day.

      Salman asked now, with fatal softness, ‘Just what exactly were you expecting, Jamilah?’

      Jamilah shut her emotions away. ‘Nothing. It would have been stupid of me to expect anything, wouldn’t it? You’re already moving on. Were you even going to tell me?’

      Salman’s mouth thinned. ‘What’s to tell? We’ve had an enjoyable fling. In one week you’re going back to Merkazad, and, yes, of course I’ll be moving on.’

      Jamilah felt herself recoil inwardly, as if from a blow. This man had been her first lover … to call what had happened between them a fling reduced every moment to a travesty. Reduced the gift of her innocence that she’d given him to nothing.

      Salman frowned and took a step closer. ‘You are going back to Merkazad, aren’t you?’ He cursed under his breath—an Arabic curse that Jamilah had only heard in the souks of Merkazad amongst men—and said harshly, ‘You didn’t seriously expect anything more, did you?’

      Her face must have been giving her away spectacularly, despite her best efforts, because then he said, with chilling devastation, ‘I never promised you anything. I never gave you any hint to expect anything more, did I?’

      She shook her head on auto-pilot. No, he hadn’t. The utter devastation of his words sank in somewhere deep and vulnerable. It took all of Jamilah’s strength just to stay standing. He couldn’t know how much he was hurting her. She’d played with fire and she was getting burnt by a master. Every day had been heady, magical, but at no point had Salman made a plan anything more than twenty-four hours in advance. Now she just wanted to leave and curl up into a ball, far away, where she could curse her own naivety. But she couldn’t move.

      Salman watched the woman before him. He’d cut himself off from any kind of emotion so long ago that he almost didn’t recognise it now, as it struggled to break through. An aching pain constricted his chest, but he ruthlessly pushed it down. For the past three weeks he’d indulged in a haze of unreality, in believing that perhaps he wasn’t as damned as he’d always believed. Bumping into Jamilah, seeing her again—seeing how utterly beautiful she’d become—had broken something open inside him. He’d had the gall to think for a second that some of her innately pure goodness could rub off on him.

      When he’d seen Jamilah cross the street minutes before, a huge grin on her face, he’d realised that she’d meant what she’d said that morning—she was in love with him. He’d tried to block her words out all day, tried to reassure himself that she hadn’t meant it … tried to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of guilt and responsibility.

      He’d felt in that moment as he’d watched her approach his apartment as if he was holding a tiny, delicate butterfly in his hands, which he could not fail to crush—even if he wanted to protect its fragile beauty.

      Eloise, his colleague, who had followed him up to his apartment on the flimsy pretext of getting a document, had come on to him at that exact moment, her brash, over-confident sexuality in direct contrast to the subtle sensuality of the woman approaching his apartment. In that moment he’d known he had to let Jamilah go …