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It was a frantic, wordless coupling—one in which they couldn’t seem to get enough of each other. She had never known Murat quite so out of control before. He bit at her breasts and she bit him back and her orgasm seemed to be torn from some deep, dark place inside her. It ripped her open and left her breathless and dazed. More dazed than she had ever been. Because she knew this was the last time?
She closed her eyes as he jerked violently against her, muttering something soft and indistinct in his native tongue, and Catrin could feel the salty prick of tears at the backs of her eyes as his body grew still at last.
For a moment, neither of them said anything and then his hand tightened at her waist. ‘Cat?’
Keeping her eyes tightly closed, she said nothing. There was nothing to say. She didn’t know what she expected next, but it was not to hear the sound of slow and rhythmic breathing.
Cautiously, she turned her head to look at him.
He was asleep!
The callous brute had fallen asleep!
Anger and indignation flooded through her. How could he go to sleep after what had just happened? Something she had let happen. After everything she’d vowed not to do, it seemed she was as weak as a kitten when it came to resisting him.
And now what?
Was she expected to lie here and go to sleep, too? To trot down to breakfast in the morning and face those people as if nothing had happened?
She couldn’t.
She ran the tip of her tongue over bone-dry lips. It seemed that, despite all the experience she had gained, she was still capable of being completely naïve and stupid. Or had she really imagined that intimacy wasn’t going to happen with a man as virile as Murat? A man she still loved and wanted, no matter how much she told herself it was wrong.
Because as always Murat was in charge. Everything he touched, he controlled—even here, in a house he did not own. He was still calling the shots, wasn’t he? Just as he always did. Having sex with her even though she’d told him she didn’t want it.
But you did want it, didn’t you?
And if she stayed here, it was only going to happen again. She would keep making the same mistakes, over and over.
Cautiously she rolled away from him, but he didn’t stir and she forced herself to lie there until she could hear the sound of the other guests going to bed—the sounds of their goodnights echoing through the silence.
She lay there until the hand of her watch crept around to two o’clock and the house was completely still, and then she slipped from the bed, tiptoeing across the room to switch the light off. Murat stirred a little, but he did not wake.
Under the cover of darkness, she felt more secure. She crept over to the wardrobe and fished out a clean pair of panties and then put on a pair of cotton trousers beneath her dress. Wrapping a soft pashmina around her neck, she walked quietly over to the desk where Murat had left the official paraphernalia which accompanied him everywhere.
With fingers which were miraculously steady, she found his wallet. The amount of Euros inside was substantial, but she needed enough to pay for a taxi to the airport and a one-way ticket on a commercial airline. So she didn’t feel a flicker of guilt as she extracted a wad of notes.
Sliding her feet into her canvas shoes, she picked up her handbag and crept from the bedroom. Through the silent house she moved, using the back door of the kitchen to gain access to the grounds.
Beneath the starry skies, all was quiet and she thanked heaven that there were no guard dogs patrolling the premises. But her heart was still thundering with anxiety as she slipped among the shadows to the boundaries of the property, terrified that one of the bodyguards might hear her.
Among neat rows of broad beans and tomato plants, she found an unlocked gate—presumably one used by the gardener—and she let herself out. Her breathing was laboured as she descended the dusty track they’d driven up earlier. In the distance, she could hear a faint grunting sound and then a rustle. She wondered if that was the sound of wild boar, scrabbling around in the forested area, then told herself not to let her imagination run away with itself. Because rural Italy wasn’t so different from rural Wales, was it? She had grown up in the countryside and knew there was little to fear as long as you were sensible.
But nothing had prepared her for a such a night-time journey, in a strange country whose language she did not speak. She experienced a couple of moments of panic, before reminding herself that she had spent her life being adaptable. She was good at it. And how difficult could it be? She could see the small, hilltop glitter of lights in the distance. Lights meant a village and that village must have a taxi.
She had a smartphone with a bilingual dictionary and plenty of money. Even if she couldn’t find a cab until morning, it was a warm night and she was perfectly prepared to wait.
All she knew was that she was going to do this—and she was going to do it on her own.
She could be strong and she would be strong.
She was going to need to be.
CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_ada9369c-1314-573b-a3b6-3c8db801aa3b)
THE LOUD POUNDING inside her head wouldn’t seem to stop and Catrin raised her fingertips to her throbbing temples and groaned. Her mouth felt bone-dry and her skin was burning up—so why were her teeth chattering as wildly as if she’d been camping out all night on some Arctic waste?
Rolling over on the narrow bed, she picked up her wristwatch and tried to focus on it as the pounding miraculously stopped. She swallowed. Should she take another couple of aspirin to try to bring her temperature down? Was it four hours since she’d had the last lot?
The incessant noise resumed and she realised that it wasn’t coming from inside her head, but from outside her door.
‘Go away,’ she mumbled.
But if whoever was knocking had heard her, they certainly weren’t taking any notice. She wondered if she could get away with ignoring the summons, but, whoever it was, they were persistent. It was almost as if somebody knew she was in there and wasn’t going to give up until she answered. Probably someone who wanted to borrow milk. Or maybe just someone who was lonely and fancied a chat. The place was full of people like that. Staff accommodation in hotels like this seemed to be teeming with people who had sad stories to tell. She had one of her own, but she suspected that nobody would ever believe it.
Wearily, she got up off the bed and walked over to the door with something like a smile pinned to her face. She would say she was ill and hopefully they would take the hint and beat a hasty retreat.
But her smile faded the moment she pulled the door open, and her overheated body grew completely still. She blinked once or twice, as if her vision had become faulty, but she quickly realised that it hadn’t. That the most feared and most longed-for outcome had materialised and Murat was standing in her doorway, looking completely out of place in his expensive Italian suit, with his black eyes boring into her.
A wave of dizziness washed over her—a mixture of lust and fever and sheer apprehension. She thought about shutting the door in his face to avoid a confrontation she didn’t want. But what would be the point? You didn’t shut the door on the Sultan of Qurhah because he would probably use his royal privilege to get the owner of the hotel to come and open it for him. Or kick it down himself, most probably. And besides, wouldn’t that be a cowardly gesture? She wasn’t afraid of Murat and what he had to say, was she?
Was she?
She ran the back of her hand over her damp brow.
No. She wasn’t.
It had taken guts to run away and leave him in the dead of night in that remote part of Italy, and to sit alone in that bus shelter until the small village had woken up and she’d persuaded a taxi to take her to Rome airport. And even more guts to throw her phone away once she’d arrived back in England and Murat had rung her, furiously demanding to know what had happened. She had reassured him that she was safe but she had realised that, as long as he had her number, there would always be the chance that he might contact her. And the chance that she might be weak enough to go back to him.
But it seemed he had found her anyway—and it would only play into his hands if she showed him she was scared. Why be scared when he was on her territory? All she had to do was concentrate. To remind herself that he was no good for her. She had played out this scene in her head many times, imagining what she’d do if she ever saw him again—and she knew that the most important thing of all was to act as if she didn’t care.
‘Murat,’ she croaked.
There was a short silence as he stared at her and, although he seemed to be swimming in and out of focus, the shock on his face was almost palpable. Did she look that bad? She supposed she did. She hadn’t washed her hair in days and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. Her jeans felt looser than they used to and her T-shirt was crumpled and creased.
‘You’re sick!’ he accused, as if she’d done something wrong.
‘No. I’m fine.’ It was unfortunate that she chose just that moment to produce another of those horrible, hacking coughs.
Black eyes raked over her. ‘You don’t look fine to me. Or sound it.’
‘That’s none...’ She coughed again, putting her hand over her mouth, which made her words come out all muffled. ‘None of your business.’
There was a brief silence while Murat noted her flushed cheeks and dull eyes and he felt a sharp pang of something he didn’t recognise. He hadn’t seen her for weeks. Not since she’d left him in Italy and he’d woken up and reached for her and found the other side of the bed empty. And hadn’t he completely lost it at that moment? Hadn’t he run outside and threatened to sack every one of his bodyguards for failing to hear her leave? He had been beside himself with worry and fear until word had reached him that somehow she had managed to get herself to Rome airport, where she’d caught a scheduled flight back to London.
And now she was standing in front of him and nothing was how he’d thought it would be. Had he thought her face would light up when she saw him again? That she’d admit that running out on him had been the biggest mistake she’d ever made?
Because if that was the case, he had been badly wrong.
She was staring at him suspiciously—the way an animal did when it was backed into a corner—and she looked terrible. Her hair was plastered to the side of her hot cheeks and there were angles on her face where there hadn’t been angles before.
‘Let me in, Cat,’ he said grimly. ‘Please.’
Catrin flinched, knowing she ought to refuse, but she opened the door anyway. It was pointless to engage in a battle you stood no chance of winning and she was too weary to try. He had come all this way—had stepped outside his usual luxurious habitat to find himself in the staff quarters of a Welsh seaside hotel. She could hardly turn him away.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But please keep the noise down. Some of my colleagues are on night duty and some might still be asleep. I don’t want you making some kind of racket and waking them up.’
Murat’s mouth hardened as he stepped inside the room. It was clean but it was also very cramped, and he thought how bare it looked. Why, even the servants at his palace in Qurhah had better accommodation than this. On a small dressing table, he could see that over-sized hairbrush she always used to rake through her thick hair, along with a framed photograph of her and her sister. As always, there was an open book on a locker beside the narrow bed and, on the wall, an ugly notice warning inhabitants what to do in case of fire.
Finishing his brief reconnoitre, he returned his gaze to her face but he could do absolutely nothing about the sudden protective clenching of his heart. She looked as if a light breeze might be enough to make her float away.
He walked over to the small window and looked out onto a yard filled with bins, before turning back—his black eyes narrowed in question. ‘Why did you run out on me in Italy like that?’
‘You know the answer to that question—so please don’t insult my intelligence by pretending you don’t. I went because I needed to get away and I didn’t want to have to ask your permission. I’m a free agent now and I look after myself.’
‘You didn’t think I’d be worried?’
‘Funnily enough, your reaction wasn’t the biggest thing on my mind. For once, it wasn’t about you, Murat. It was about me.’ The effort of saying so much had tired her out and she sat down on the bed and leaned back against the pillows. ‘What are you doing here?’
Once again, he swept his gaze over the small room, countering her question with one of his own. ‘Why have you come back to Wales?’
‘Because of...family reasons.’ Rather defensively, she stared at him. ‘I like it. It’s a decent enough hotel and quite adequate for my needs. How did you find me?’
‘A person can always be found.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’
‘The answer isn’t important. I have means at my disposal—you know that. What matters is why you’re here.’ His black eyes narrowed. ‘What kind of family reasons?’
She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes, it does.’
She had forgotten about his stubborn nature and autocratic determination to get his own way. She’d forgotten that, a few minutes in his company, she would be longing for him to hold her in his arms again. She pushed a strand of hair away from her hot cheek and met the question which was lancing from his eyes.
And why was she resisting telling him? Wouldn’t the truth kill off any residual dreams of romance for good—and send him running from here at the speed of light? Was that what she was secretly afraid of?
Catrin felt a sudden rush of nerves constricting her throat as the inevitable moment of revelation approached. If only she were somebody different, it might not have mattered. If she’d been one of those high-born aristocratic women with bishops and artists in her lineage, then an eccentric relative would have been perfectly acceptable.
But she wasn’t.
She was just ordinary Catrin Thomas, who always dreaded this moment more than any other. She hated the shame and the pity which always hardened people’s eyes when they found out. And she would have given anything not to see it in Murat’s.
‘My sister asked me to come back to Wales to help with my mother, who is...sick.’
A frowning look of consternation crossed over his face. ‘Then why on earth didn’t you just say so?’
She didn’t answer for a moment.
‘Cat?’
‘Because it’s not the kind of illness you want to shout from the rooftops,’ she said. ‘My mother is...’
‘Your mother is what?’ Murat prompted and now his voice sounded almost gentle and, in an awful way, that made it worse. She didn’t want him being gentle, or understanding or any of those things he wasn’t supposed to be. She wanted him to be hard and stern and autocratic, because surely that would help prepare her for the revulsion which he’d be unable to disguise when eventually she told him.
‘She’s an alcoholic.’
Her bald words sounded brittle and sour, and it took a moment or two before she could bear to look into his eyes. And when she did they were hard. Hard as unpolished chips of jet. Just as she’d known they would be all along.
‘Explain,’ he said curtly.
Her clenched fingers wouldn’t seem to stop shaking. ‘It doesn’t require much in the way of explanation. My mother is a drunk. She...she drinks in a way that other people don’t. She doesn’t know when to stop, or, rather, she can’t stop. She’s one of those people for whom one sip is too many, and a million not enough. She can’t...’ She shrugged, trying to do the acceptance thing again. But sometimes acceptance was difficult when it made you face what was breaking your heart. She drew in a deep breath and it was only with an effort borne out of years of practice which stopped her voice from breaking down completely. ‘She can’t help herself. She loves to drink, but one day it will k-kill her. She’s been on yet another binge. It started weeks ago—that’s why I came back from Italy so suddenly. And living closer means that I can help out when there’s another catastrophe—which seems to be most of the time.’
He didn’t speak at first and when he did his words were so quiet that she had to strain her ears to hear them.
‘I see.’
‘You’re shocked,’ she said numbly.
‘Of course I’m shocked—but mainly because it’s such a startling thing to discover at this stage of knowing you. I’m wondering why you never told me any of this before,’ he said. His black gaze bored into her. ‘Why not, Cat?’
Wearily, she lifted her palm to her hot brow in a failed attempt to cool it down. ‘Because we didn’t have that kind of relationship, did we? Our pillow talk never really got personal. Your life in Qurhah was completely separate and mine in Wales was the same. You never asked me questions about my past and I guess I liked it that way.’
But she knew that wasn’t the whole truth and something inside tugged at her conscience. Made her want him to see things as she had seen them. ‘Plus we mustn’t forget that you’re a sultan,’ she continued hoarsely. ‘And I was afraid.’
Her words tailed off and he looked at her.
‘What were you afraid of?’
Once she wouldn’t have dreamed of telling him this. When she was trying to be that perfect woman who never wanted to bring any stress into his life. When she was trying to be what she thought he wanted her to be. But now she was free. She might be relatively poor and worried sick about the future, but at least she was free to speak her mind.
‘I was afraid you would dump me if you found out.’
He gave a short laugh. ‘You really think I’m that shallow?’
‘I think maybe sultans are forced to be shallow.’ She gave another hacking cough. ‘Otherwise why choose a bride just because she happened to be a royal virgin? A sultan certainly couldn’t ever marry a woman whose mother might turn up drunk, w-with bottles of liquor clinking in a brown paper bag.’
Murat didn’t answer. Not at first. He was too busy absorbing the significance of what she had told him. But currently her words were of far less concern than the wild light which was filling her eyes with a strange green fire—so that her skin looked as if it was bathed in an unearthly glow.
Walking over to the bed, he leaned over to put the back of his hand on her forehead, frowning as her teeth began to chatter. ‘What have you been doing to yourself, Cat? You’re sick.’
She coughed again and this time her whole frame was wracked with paroxysms. ‘It’s just a cold.’
‘It is not just a cold. It’s a damned fever.’
‘Whatever.’ Cat could feel the light touch of his hand on her clammy brow as new waves of dizziness swept over her. Suddenly, the chattering was making her teeth hurt and she felt as if ice had started creeping around her veins. She started trying to pull the duvet out from beneath her but her fingers were fumbling too much. ‘I’m c-cold.’
‘You are not cold,’ he said grimly. ‘You are burning up.’
