The Sheik Retold(16)

This wave of anger rushed the color back into my cheeks, but my self-satisfaction was cut short with the faint scent of rich Turkish tobacco, the same scent from the night of the party, the same that had enveloped me during the wild ride across the desert. I froze at the appearance of white robes behind me, blotting out my limited view of the room. The sheik had entered with his peculiar noiseless tread.

"I trust that Zilah has taken proper care of you?" His soft, slow voice contrasted oddly with his neat, clipping French.

I exhaled at the sound of his voice, my illusion of restored self-confidence already shattered. Though he stood at my back, I refused to acknowledge him.

"Look at me."

I shivered, my downcast gaze wavering only briefly before defying him again.

"Look at me." An inflection had crept into his low tone that was unmistakably commanding.

I lifted my gaze with great reluctance and met his in the mirror. Though I wanted to, I could not look away from his handsome sun-bronzed face with those inscrutable eyes. They were not black as I had thought, but the deepest indigo blue. Dark and intense, they burned into me. I was fascinated. Mesmerized.

He swung me around to him, taking my chin in hand and tilting it upward. "Bon Dieu! Do you know how beautiful you are?" His gaze dropped to my clothing, and his eyes became fierce again, his stern mouth parting in a cruel show of teeth. "Perhaps you are unaware that Zilah shall be severely punished for your foolish rebellion?"

"No!" I cried, straining back as far as his grip allowed. "It wasn't her fault. I sent her away."

"You sent her away before my wishes were carried out?"

"Will you kill her too? Like you did the horse?" I accused. "If you kill everything that does not obey you, you might as well shoot me now!"

"I will deal with the girl as it suits me." His glower had broken, replaced by a mixture of mild anger and patent amusement. "As to you, ma belle, it appears I must be your valet, as well as your lover."

"Lover?" I gave a contemptuous laugh. "Is that how you perceive yourself?"

He lifted a brow above his fathomless eyes. "You question my prowess?"

I remained stoically defiant, letting my silence speak.

His black brows met in a thunderous scowl. "There are many things you must learn, ma chère. Of utmost import to your well-being is that, save only for Allah, there is no will in this camp above my own." He continued impassively, "I could have you now, you know. In this very moment, I could tear your clothes, throw you down on that bed, and take you any way and as many times as I wish." He paused, smiling at the flare of fear in my eyes. "Fortunately for you, that is not my wish…at present."

He stroked the pad of his thumb over my lips. His expression grew almost whimsical. "Shall I make you care, cherie? Shall I make it your deepest desire, your only desire, to please me? I can make any woman love me when I choose."

He was amusing himself at my expense. He did not care if I hated or loved him, but was only enjoying a new form of torture, one that was even more detestable than anything that had gone before it. The mere suggestion that I could ever care for him, that I would ever look on him as anything but a brutal savage, infuriated me. I felt degraded and soiled that he would class me with the other women he spoke of. "I would rather you killed me," I replied coldly.

"So would I." He chuckled drily. "If you loved me, you would bore me to death. While as it is…I do not regret the chance that took me into Biskra. It is Kismet, cherie." He gave a feral smile and another soft laugh, but just as suddenly, the humor disappeared from his eyes.

"Mon Dieu, how I want you."

His fierce mouth came down on me, kissing my hair, my eyes…my lips. Once more I resisted him, turning my head, twisting in his arms, persisting with the courage of desperation. Though I was at his mercy, I still refused to surrender, to give him what he wanted. His tongue invaded my mouth. I sucked it in deeper and then bit down. Hard.

He recoiled from me with a bitter curse. I broke away but stumbled backward, sprawling to the ground where I crouched, gasping. Waiting. Agonizing. Watching as he touched his fingers to his mouth and chuckled at the spots of blood.

"So my English rose has thorns." His voice mocked, but the cold rage in his eyes sent a shiver down my spine.

"You have no idea," I responded with a choking cry. "Let me go at once…or …or I swear I shall spill all of your blood!"

"But you have already tried and failed, have you not?"

My scornful retort died away in my throat. I was no match for him, and we both knew it. I just refused to confess it aloud. To admit defeat would be more demeaning than I could bear, so I maintained my pretense, testing him just as he tested me. I was humiliated, yet this man had it in his power to hurt and humiliate me much more.

His gaze tracked me as I scrambled back to my feet. "You refused to change your clothes. You continue to defy me. I perceive my earlier words of warning have fallen on deaf ears."

He had warned me, had clearly drawn the line in the sand, and I had knowingly and defiantly crossed that line. For the first time in my life, I had pitted my will against one stronger than my own. I had met an arrogance that was greater and a determination that was fiercer than mine. Panting, trembling, my gaze fixed on him. I wondered if he would strike me.