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Mortification made her struggle out of his arms, spilled her on the plush leather couch beside him.
She felt sick at heart, at the whole thing, was afraid she’d be sick for real. Her head flopped on the headrest as everything tumbled through her mind in a vicious spin cycle.
“Can you please ask your chauffeur to pull over?”
He hit a button, rapped the order in Arabic. Another button flipped open a compartment from which he produced wet towels, then with utmost gentleness he wiped her face, neck, arms and the tops of her breasts with their fragrant coolness.
Long moments later, he stopped, looked at her. “Better?”
Oh, she was so not better. His caresses had at first soothed her, but then they’d become fire, licking exposed nerve endings. Her womb was contracting so hard, it was almost painful.
How could he do this to her? Even now, when she was dying of embarrassment?
She nodded, mutely. Otherwise she’d tell him the exact truth. She’d told him enough of that for one night.
Giving her such a smile, that of an artist looking in satisfaction on his handiwork, he tried to move her again onto his lap. She resisted, and he only coaxed her with more insistent caresses, his lips rubbing against her temple. “Let me soothe you, ya jameelati. You really are shaken up by the paparazzi’s appearance, aren’t you?”
“I’ve developed a phobia where they’re concerned,” she admitted.
He pressed her harder into his containment. “They’ve pursued you before?”
* * *
Shehab pulled back when Farah made no response, watched agitation shudder over her face. It felt so real he almost felt sorry for arranging the incident.
The plan had come to him when he’d been informed paparazzi had followed her when she’d left to come to the ball without Hanson, as he’d planned. He’d known they’d swarm the park until she made an exit, hoping to succeed where they’d failed so far, to catch her in one of the infidelities everyone insisted she regularly indulged in. He hadn’t been about to risk her slipping and providing them with their coveted photographic evidence, not when he’d have to make her his princess. But he’d decided to use their presence to his advantage.
He’d ordered his men to get rid of the paparazzi, to take their place, to pretend to ambush them on his signal. He’d planned to get her into a compromising position somehow, aiming to convince her that her spotless record of never having been caught in the act was at an end. But even his best projections hadn’t included his leaving the ball with her all over him.
He’d almost forgotten to give the signal, had done it with utmost reluctance, hating to have his men witness any measure of their intimacies, even the mild kiss he’d allowed them to see.
He’d expected her to cry out for him to send his men after the paparazzi, to make sure no evidence of her indiscretion remained in existence. He’d gambled on that driving her deeper into his trap, adding the feeling of being partners in barely averted scandal to the mix, compounding desire with debt.
But her response to the whole situation had again thrown him for a loop.
She’d been scared instead of incensed, was now looking so rattled, so pained, he almost blurted out that she had nothing to worry about.
Which proved he was thinking with nothing above the neck.
Yet—why hadn’t she made any demands that he contain the situation? Did she assume he would anyway, for his reputation?
She at last let out a wavering exhalation. “They’ve been hounding me since my father—my adoptive father—died.” So, no demand yet. When would it come? She went on, her voice strangled with emotion. “They always find a reason for their sick interest in me. I’m just scared witless that this latest episode has something to do with their getting wind that I was adopted, or worse, who my newfound biological father is. If it does, they’ll never leave me alone.”
He knew he should steer away from this subject, shouldn’t risk her connecting him with the situation between her and King Atef. He couldn’t resist asking, “Because of the drama of the discoveries? Or is your bioligical father’s identity worthy of creating a sensation?”
“Both. Just the fact that Francois Beaumont isn’t my father would make them salivate. But oh, boy, is my biological father’s identity sensational. If I can hardly believe it, imagine what the tabloids would make of it.”
He had to be satisfied with that, would recall her answer later for analysis. For now he had to end this strain of thought, divert her to safer grounds.
He shrugged. “They could have been after me.”
“But no one knew who you are, except me…”
Her breath left her in a rush. He gritted his teeth at the response its freshness and femininity wrung from him. At the surge of what felt too much like shame.
Anger at the stupid feeling roughened his voice. “Yes.”
Her breath caught now. Savoring the depth of the privilege he’d imparted to no one but her? Let her. It was the best way to snare a woman, appealing to her vanity.
Just as he was sure he’d fathomed her reaction, she frowned. “Do you realize how stupid that was? To blow your anonymity like that to someone you just met?”
That was again the last thing he’d expected her to say.
Unsure how to react, he raised an eyebrow. “I trusted you?”
Her glower, her tone, only grew sharper. “And which part of your anatomy made that monumental decision?”
What he’d just been thinking. He shook his head as if it would make this turn in conversation make better sense. “I have made it so far by trusting my instincts…”
The irony of his words made him stop. For his instincts were lying. They’d been lying ever since he’d laid eyes on her.
She mistook his pause for belated realization. “See what I mean? So you were right to trust me, but what if you weren’t? Worse still, what if someone overheard you on the terrace?”
He stared at her. Anyone would have sworn that she cared. Knew how to care. But he knew better.
“No one heard me. And then no one who does know me could have recognized me. I was covered from the eyes down…”
She huffed a sardonic laugh. “And you consider that a disguise? Do you think anyone wouldn’t recognize your eyes? Not to mention your physique. Put them together, and anyone who’d seen you across a street would recognize you.”
He was used to women flattering him, knew much of their flattery used truths as ammunition. But he’d always recognized the self-serving intentions behind the adulation. He detected none now in hers, delivered in this no-nonsense, exasperated-at-his-obliviousness way. He barely stopped himself from hauling her on top of him again and showing her how he reciprocated in kind.
Which was probably the effect she’d planned. Or was that as far-fetched as it sounded to him?
Getting more confused, he exhaled. “I was in that ball for over an hour before you arrived. No one recognized me.”
“Then the paparazzi were after me.” She seemed to deflate beside him. “It’s weird, but I’m actually relieved they were.” Suddenly she shot up straight again, clutched his forearm. “But— the photos…” Here it came. The belated demand. “They might have taken some of your face. I’m used to being pursued, but I can’t bear it if being with me is going to expose you to their viciousness.”
And? Where was the demand for him to undo it? For his own privacy and comfort, of course, not hers?
None came. Instead, her eyes suddenly sparkled with moisture and she choked, “I’m so sorry, Shehab.”
And he gave in. He lowered his head with a groan, stilled her tremulous words and lips with his, his tongue gliding over her plumpness, unable to wait to plunge into her again. She opened for him with a whimper, overpowering him with her surrender, allowing him all the licenses he needed.
Desire crested, threatening to overcome all considerations. He severed their meld, looked down on her. “Don’t be sorry, ever, yajameelati.” Then he gave in again, ending his own maneuver, giving her what she hadn’t asked for, gaining nothing for himself. “And don’t worry, either. Never fear anything when I’m with you. I’d defend you against anything.” And he would. Only because she was the key to protecting the throne of Judar, he insisted to himself. “My men will make sure those paparazzi have nothing to publish.”
“You mean they’ll…? Oh…oh.” Her eyes widened, the tears stagnating in them, making them gleam like jewels in the semidarkness. Then tears surged again, dejection replacing agitation in her expression. “Not that that makes me feel any better.” It didn’t? “The paparazzi probably saw far less than your men did.”
It took him a second to understand. She thought his men had witnessed all their intimacies in the gardens.
His outrage felt real even to himself when he growled, “You think I would have almost taken you if my men were all around?”
She blinked, tears receding, if not before two escaped, rolled down the velvet of her cheek. “They weren’t?”
“B’Ellahi…” He caught the drops of precious moisture in his mouth, kissed his way to her trembling lips again. “Of course not. I buzzed for them the moment the paparazzi appeared.” Which was as near the truth as could be.
This time she sagged in his arms, an exhalation wracking her voluptuous frame. “Thank God. I was mortified thinking they must have seen it all, how it must have looked to them even though it felt like magic to me…”
This was what had so upset her so much? The thought that others had witnessed their lovemaking, defiling the moments of magic with base thoughts and sordid projections?
Not knowing what to think anymore, he pressed her harder to his chest. She surrendered to his caresses for a long moment, then she stiffened by degrees, until she pushed out of his arms, sat up facing him in the prim pose of someone about to deliver an unpleasant message to a total stranger. It was her transparent features that betrayed her real emotions. Embarrassment, awkwardness, hesitation.
“We may have shaken them off, but now that you’ve deprived them of prime scandal material, they’ll be more rabid than ever. They’ll be waiting for us back at my place.” She suddenly groaned. “Listen, just drop me off at any hotel. I’ll spend the night there, then they can photograph me alone to their hearts’ content when I return tomorrow after work.”
So, the maneuver hadn’t led where he’d projected, was now backfiring. He had to improvise a course correction.
He took her hands to his lips slowly, made sure he had her trembling in his power again before he said, “I have a better idea. The night is still young and we can stall them until they believe you won’t go back. Have dinner with me.”
Her hand convulsed around the kiss he placed in her palm, her fingers digging in his jaw. He’d kept his eyes on hers all the time, watched as she capitulated under the surge of eagerness for more of him. He still waited until she gasped, nodded her consent. Then he opened the channel to his chauffeur again.
“Seeda. To the airport.”
“The airport?”
At her croak, Shehab smiled at her, slow and hot. “We’re going to have dinner on board my jet.”
Of course. Had she thought—if she could still count thinking among her brain functions anymore—that he’d take her to a restaurant, no matter how lavish, or even a yacht or a mansion, as any ordinary tycoon would have done?
He pulled her into a loose embrace and held her all the way to the airport, his hands cascading caresses all over her until she felt he’d scrambled her nervous transmissions forever.
The limo finally stopped and he got out, came around to open her door for her and almost had to carry her limp form out.
She looked dazedly around, realized they were beneath a giant silver-finished jetliner. The warm moisture of the night after the cool dryness of the limo sprouted goose bumps all over her, adding to her imbalance. She was thankful for his support all the way up the Air Force One–style air-stairs that led from the tarmac to the inside of the jet.
She’d been on private jets before. But none had come close to Shehab’s. Her father had been a mere multimillionaire who’d had two small jets, and his acquaintances had been on par with him. While Bill, who was as big a multi-billionaire as they came, had started out penniless and to this day couldn’t bring himself to spend a penny more than needed to fulfill his needs in terms of function and convenience. It was clear Shehab believed in fulfilling those same needs but spared no expense in pursuit of esthetics and luxury. She said so.
He smiled down at her. “I spend a good deal of my life in the air, and I travel with staff on many occasions. Also, I often don’t have the luxury of commuting into the cities I land in and have to conclude all my conferencing and entertaining onboard.”
“So you have to have a palace in the sky to do it in, huh?”
He raised one eyebrow. “That’s a strange chastisement coming from someone who inhabits the world of high finance.”
“Oh, I certainly don’t inhabit it. According to whichever of my skills is needed on a given day, I range between being the tarot card reader, the resident nag, the cleaning lady and the…uh…guide dog of the world of high finance.”
He tipped his head back and his laughter boomed, sending her heartbeats scattering all over the jet’s lush carpeting.
“Ya Ullah, will I ever even come close to guessing what you’ll say next?” He still chuckled as he led her through many compartments, where his staff hovered in the background, to the spiral staircase leading to the upper deck, all the time casting his enjoyment down on her. “So you consider this jet too pretentious? A waste of money better spent on worthy causes?”
Her lips twisted. “I think any personal item with a telephone number price is ludicrous.”
“Not when it’s a utility that enables me to steadily make hundreds of millions of dollars more, money I assure you I use in many venues that do serve worthy causes.”
Her eyes widened. “I remember now. Many of the global interests you have controlling shares in have varied, not to mention widely effective, aid programs. When I investigated your investment portfolio, I thought to myself, that Aal Ajman guy is trying to build himself a reputation as a philanthropist on par with Bruce Wayne…” She stopped when his laughter boomed again, then mumbled, “It’s a relief you’re invulnerable to the shrapnel that keeps flying out of my mouth.”
“Like Clark Kent, you mean? Very flattering, being likened to two superheroes inside two sentences.”
“I did think earlier you’d fill out one of their costumes very nicely…” She groaned, looked up at him helplessly.
His eyes told her how much he enjoyed her uncensored opinions, then his lips brushed her burning cheek. “I am beyond flattered. I want to be a superhero in your eyes, ya jameelati.”
Only reaching the upper deck stopped her from saying he was. He walked her across an ultrachic foyer and through an automatic door that he opened using a fingerprint recognition module. It whirred shut behind them as he guided her to one of the cream leather couches. She hit the plush surface, looked around the grand lounge drenched in golden lights, earth tones and the serenity of sumptuousness and seclusion. At the far end of the huge space that occupied the full breadth of the jet, a folding screen decorated in Middle Eastern designs of complimenting colors obscured another area behind it.
Shehab bent, brushed her temple with his lips. “This—” he gestured to a door at the other end of the lounge “—is the lavatory. Those buttons access all functions and services. Order refreshments or whatever you wish for until I come back.” He straightened up and turned away. Before she could run after him, demanding to be taken wherever he was going, he paused at the lounge’s door, added with a deep vocal caress, “I’ll rush back to you in minutes.”
She slumped back in her seat, closed her eyes for a moment before she took his advice, got up and headed to the lavatory.
She came out to find him waiting for her where he’d left her. She did a double-take, faltered, gulping air around a lump that materialized in her throat. He’d taken off his costume.
And no. He wasn’t naked. But he probably wouldn’t affect her more if he was. OK, he would, but it was bad enough now that she wasn’t ready to think how much worse it could get. And he was wearing only a simple white shirt and black pants. If anything about him or what he provoked in her could be called simple.
He smiled that slow smile of his, no doubt noting the drool accumulating at her feet. Then he extended a powerful hand in invitation. It felt as if it was by his will alone that she covered the space between them, unable to stop devouring everything about his relatively exposed grandeur, what she’d thought she’d imagined beneath his robes, in unmanageable gulps.
Reality again far outstripped her imagination. The regal shape of his head, the vigorous waves and the deep, dark gloss of his hair accentuated the chiseled sculpture of his face, deepened the hypnosis of his eyes.
She tore hers away from their influence and almost moaned. The breadth of his shoulders and chest had owed nothing to the obscuring clothes and was magnified now that they were covered only in a layer of finest silk. They, and his arms, bulged with power and symmetry under the cloth that hid and detailed at once, both actions wickedly tantalizing. His abdomen was sparse and hard, his waist narrow, as were his hips, before his thighs flowed with strength and virility on the way down to endless legs.
Magnificent was certainly no fitting description. He did far surpass her adolescent visions.
“Come sit down, Farah.”
She sat down where the tranquil sweep of his hand indicated. Before she collapsed. The way he said her name, the way he looked at her, the way he moved, breathed, just was—it was all…too much.
He followed her down on the couch, secured her in a seat belt, buckled his own, then turned away as he pressed a button on a remote control–like device. The engines, which she’d just realized had been on for a while now, revved higher and the jet started moving.
But she couldn’t even feel surprise.
She felt nothing but her blood freezing inside her veins.
As he’d turned away, she’d caught something in his eyes, something coming over his face.
A maliciousness. A ruthlessness.
Suddenly the ice fractured, and a geyser of alarm scalded through her.
She’d gotten on his plane with him, the plane that was now taking off for only he knew where, someone she’d met just hours ago, trusting him without question, that he was who he’d said he was, that he hid his identity for privacy reasons and not for sinister ones.
But what if she’d been wrong? All along? What if their meeting had more to it that she thought? That he’d targeted her for some reason? Being who she was, at first Francois Beaumont’s daughter, then Bill Hanson’s right hand, had been reason enough for people, especially men, to target her, each with their own agenda. And Shehab, if he was who he’d said he was, must consider Bill a rival, could have arranged the whole ball to find an opening to the unfathomable Bill. He might, like many others before him, think she was it.
Why hadn’t she considered this before?
