The Inherited Bride (11 page)

Hassan was a handsome man. She remembered that from his picture. Being married to him wouldn’t
be a terrible thing. She had never been repulsed by the thought, though it hadn’t exactly made her jump for joy either. But now … now it seemed so wrong. Adham was the man she desired, the man she….
No.
She wouldn’t go there. She could not. There was no point in it.

Adham watched Isabella run her fingers lightly over the furniture. His body tightened as he imagined those delicate hands on his body, even as his stomach churned with rage at the thought of her vacationing with Hassan, the thought of her bearing Hassan’s children.

It was a betrayal—of his brother, his country—to despise the thoughts and yet he did. He could not abide the thought of another man touching her—even if that man were his brother, a man who, according to the contract signed by Isabella’s father and by Hassan, had every right to her.

He had brought her here at Hassan’s suggestion, and also to prove to himself that he could master his desire for her. And he could. There was no other option. It didn’t matter that she appealed to him more than any woman in his memory. She was to be a member of his family, a part of his existence, a woman he was sworn to protect for the rest of his life. He had to master his body’s response to her, not simply sublimate it.

It was simply his denied libido reminding him that it had been six long months since he’d had a woman in his bed. A swim in the cold water later would take care of it. Isabella was much happier here than she’d been at the palace. He’d seen the life leech from her when they’d entered the palace at Maljadeed, but here.it seemed returned to her. It made the trip more than worth it. Even if there was a small amount of torture he would have to endure.

He could understand how she’d felt in the confines of
the walled palace. It was a difficult place for him as well. It was where his family had been killed. It represented the darkest moments of his life. It was one reason he had always been grateful he’d come into the world two years after Hassan. He had no desire to rule, to care for matters of State. To be trapped in the palace where he had lost his family.

He always felt most free in the desert—less shackled to the bonds his position demanded of him, less tied to the things of the past. In the desert his mind had to be in the present. Watching the weather for torrential downpours and sandstorms, keeping an eye out for dangerous wildlife.

He would welcome the respite from Maljadeed.

Adham cleared his throat. “Hassan is not a big fan of being out in the desert. He prefers the luxury provided by our palaces. There are several in different parts of the country. One on the coast. You will enjoy that one. It might remind you of your home.”

“It’s funny … I find I haven’t really missed my home. Turan. I’ve felt more at home away from my family than I ever have in my life. I think it’s because I was finally able to be myself. I was away from everyone’s expectations of me.” She looked at him then, a small smile tugging her lips. “Well, not everyone’s. But you … I’ve actually enjoyed being with you.”

His chest suddenly felt tight.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, knowing it was abrupt, realizing it was the question he always asked when he wanted to divert her.

“Yes.” It always worked.

“Hassan ordered some staff members to come here ahead of us and stock the fridge.”

“There’s a fridge?”

“There are windmills nearby, and they provide a small amount of power. That way, if there’s a need to charge a satellite phone, or if we need to keep food cold, it’s available. For lights we still use the lanterns.”

“Very efficient.”

“We believe in using the resources the desert provides us with.” A movement Adham had spearheaded. He’d begun drilling in the middle of the uninhabitable places in the desert, had started programs that employed harnessing solar and wind power to provide the people with electricity even in remote places.

“I like that. You’ll have to talk to my brother about all of this. He’ll be very interested in bringing this kind of thinking to Turan.”

Adham moved through the room to the small refrigerator that was in the corner. He pulled out a platter with fresh fruit, stuffed dates and meats and cheeses. His gut clenched. His brother had planned his fiancée’s seduction for him. He could not have given him better tools—unless there was also champagne in an ice bucket somewhere. Which, given his surroundings, he would not discount.

“Lovely!” Isabella said, her eyes bright.

Seeing all that excitement on her beautiful face, an excitement that seemed to be aroused by things he hardly noticed, caused a strange tightness in his entire being. She seemed to revel in everything—the taste of foods he took for granted, views he had seen thousands of times. They were all things that brightened her face, things that brought about her unbridled joy.

He lived his life with his emotions kept carefully in check, yet Isabella wore hers boldly. She had said back in Paris, just before he had made the mistake of kissing her, that she felt everything. It seemed that she did.

She sat on the divan, her legs tucked under her, eyes
bright with happiness, her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders. The sight made him ache. Blood pulsed, hot and hard, down to his groin. He wanted her.
Her.
Not a nameless, faceless woman to take the edge off his desire.

He wanted Isabella Rossi—his brother’s fiancée. But that was a line he refused to cross. He would not abandon everything of importance in his life to find physical satisfaction in the arms of a woman. Even if it was a woman who called to him, body and soul, more than anyone ever had.

Isabella couldn’t sleep. It was comfortable in the tent; the night air of the desert was cool. She could hear thick drops of rain hitting the canvas roof, beating on it mercilessly. She knew that sudden downpours, along with flash flooding, were common in this region. But it wasn’t fear that kept her awake.

No. She was so hot inside. Burning. Emotions were at war with desire—a desire that was growing quickly into a need as powerful as her need for food. Water. Breath.

She didn’t know what it was she felt for Adham. She wasn’t certain she wanted to know. It was nothing she had planned. She’d wanted to get to know herself better. To find out if she liked blue because she liked it, or because her mother had told her it flattered her coloring. She’d found a lot more than that, and with it she’d started a battle inside herself.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, padding out into the living area. Adham was there, reclining on a divan, his eyes closed, his muscles tensed, sleep obviously eluding him.

“You can’t sleep either?” She pulled her robe tightly around herself. Beneath the robe she was wearing the
peach negligee, but she felt reasonably secure with thick terrycloth covering her curves.

“I don’t sleep very often.” He opened his eyes and straightened.

She noticed his jaw tighten, noticed the muscles in his forearms tensing as he looked at her. A rush of feminine satisfaction rocked her. Never had she felt more beautiful than in that moment—barefoot, in a robe, and making Adham very uncomfortable.

“It’s hard for you to rest and it’s hard for you to smile,” she said, feeling sad for him. He really was an example of life experience being a bad thing. She wished she could shield him from it. Offer him some comfort. She wished it with everything she had.

The ring on her left hand suddenly felt very heavy. Because it was holding her back, keeping her from what she desired most. She had thought it was freedom that she wanted, but freedom seemed like an empty, elusive thing now. Something that didn’t matter—not if she had it alone, not if she didn’t have Adham.

“But everything else is so easy for me,” he said, dark humor lacing his voice.

“That is true. I won’t challenge you there.” She pulled a downy blanket from one of the sofas and sat on the soft floor, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders. “Duty and honor—that seems to come easily to you. You
want
to do it. I … I’m just sort of going along with it. It seems meaningless. But you … it means something to you.”

“Because I have seen what happens when men turn from it. If I do not protect the High Sheikh, who will? If I do not put my all into protecting my people, where does that leave them? I cannot turn away from it. I cannot resent it.”

“I resent my lot in life plenty.” She dipped her head
forward and her hair slid over her face, making a shield between Adham and herself.

Suddenly she felt warmth. Adham’s warmth. He was kneeling on the floor, his knee nearly touching hers. He brushed her hair back over her shoulder. “Your duty costs you. I understand why you felt the need to escape it. Even for a while.”

“You didn’t think that at first. What changed your mind?”

“Knowing you. Knowing that you are not a spoiled child, but a woman who simply wishes to make her own decisions.”

Tears formed in her eyes, thick and hot, and as she blinked they fell, sliding down her cheeks. Adham brushed them away, his thumbs rough, comforting against her skin.

“Your duty has cost you too,” she said, looking at the scars that marred his perfect skin, at the slashing line that started at his collar and disappeared beneath his shirt.

“These scars are nothing,” he said, shrugging. “I live. My family does not.”

“Your
family?”
Horror stole through her, chilling her, making her shiver.

“My mother, my father … they were killed in front of me. I could not stop it from happening.”

“Adham….” His name escaped her lips on a sigh of anguish. She ached to hold him, but she was certain he wouldn’t allow it, so she kept still, kept her hands in her lap.

“That was when I got this.” He pulled the collar of his shirt to the side, exposed a light-colored patch of skin that was raised up from his undamaged skin. “I was shot as well. They thought I was dead. That is the only reason I’m alive today. That is why I welcome my duty. I will
protect my people, my High Sheikh, from men like that. Men who would kill for money, power, land. Men who would take life for things that mean nothing.”

She let her fingertips brush the scar, whispered a prayer of thanks that he was still here, still living, even when his parents were not. Unbidden, her fingers moved to the first button of his shirt, and she pushed the button through the hole, revealing a wider wedge of bronzed skin, revealing more livid scars that marred the landscape of his perfect body.

Without pausing to think she reached out and touched the raised skin. She felt him tense beneath her fingertips, felt his body go rigid with tension. She began to release each button, all the way down, exposing a slim strip of flesh from his chest all the way down to his washboard-flat belly, bared for her inspection. She swallowed, her mouth dry, her heart hammering in her chest, another tear sliding down her cheek.

She moved the edges of his shirt aside, baring a ridge of scars that ran along his ribcage. With the tip of her finger she traced a slashing line that rose up from the waistband of his trousers and extended up through the indentation of his navel. The scars were lighter, ridges of flesh that were hard and smooth.

The body surrounding the damaged skin was perfect. Deep bronze and well muscled, without an ounce of spare flesh to hide his superb definition from her hungry gaze. His chest was sprinkled with just the right amount of dark hair. She let her fingers drift over his muscles, let them slide over the hard-cut edges, the rough hair tickling her fingertips, teasing her senses.

He inhaled deeply, his chest expanding under her hands as she continued to touch him, explore him.

Adham stiffened, pulling away from her hot touch.
His heart was hammering in his chest, his muscles so tight they ached. His whole body ached for her—for her to flatten her palm against his skin, to continue her exploration into more intimate territory. He should stop her. Should have stopped her the moment she placed her hand on him. Yet he had been held—a captive of what she was doing to him, of what she made him feel.

It had started out as an innocent, comforting gesture. Because Isabella
was
an innocent. A virgin. A woman he had no business touching.

Some of the fractured light from the overhead lanterns danced over her hand, made the ring on her finger glitter brightly. He gripped her wrist and pushed her away.

“Bella,” he said roughly, “do you know what you’re doing to me? “

She moved closer to him, her eyes glistening with hurt and a heartbreaking undertone of confusion. “I hope it’s close to what you’re doing to me. I hope I’m not the only one that feels this.”

She licked her lips and leaned in, pressing a kiss to the first scar. His muscle, his body, jumped beneath her lips. She slid her hand up to his pectoral.

“I’ve never touched a man like this before,” she said softly.

Arousal pounded through him. Unneeded. Unwanted. And hotter than anything he’d ever experienced before in all his thirty-one years. That an innocent could appeal to him like this—could tempt him to betray the man he protected above all others, the brother he had always loved more than his own life, made him feel as though he were bewitched. He wanted to break the spell, and yet he was caught in its thrall. And part of him was so unbelievably tempted to see what would happen if he gave in.

If a simple touch could arouse him so easily, so intensely, what would happen when he eased inside her slick, tight body? If he made her his.

His.

His heart pounded heavily, his blood flowing hot, thick.

“That night in the alley … I’d never been kissed before that.”

She began to move her hand over his chest again, heading to his stomach, and a shock of desire so strong, so overpowering that it nearly undid him, shot through him. He captured her wrist again and pushed her away with more force than he’d intended. She wobbled in her spot on the floor, but caught herself with her hand, her eyes huge, the pain in them clear.

“Bella.” Remorse filled him. “Are you hurt?”

“I … no.” She shook her head.