The Sheik Retold(25)

I thrust it from me with a snort of disgust.

"Perhaps madam would prefer jasmine or the rose flower oil?"

My hand had hovered over the jasmine, a scent I often wore, but the mention of roses suddenly reminded me of home. Although I had never thought of myself as distinctly English, but rather a citizen of the world, I now felt a strange compulsion to cling to anything connected with my Englishness. I eschewed the jasmine for the scent of roses.

I sank into the scented water and closed my eyes, willing my mind to empty and my body to relax. I was drifting away to another place when the sound of movement disturbed me. I opened my eyes, a sharp retort ready on my lips, but it was not Zilah. The sheik stood in the doorway, watching me with an unreadable expression.

I stifled a gasp.

"Don't look so frightened, ma belle." His manner and tone were languid and his gaze deliberately lazy as it raked over every inch of me. I internally writhed and tamped down the urge to cover myself. He had already seen it all before.

He had come into my bath devoid of his customary coverings. While I had seen him briefly last night without the outer vestments, he had still worn his linen shirt and trousers. Now the shirt was stripped away to reveal more of the man beneath. I tried not to stare, but I could not help myself. I have already confessed my admiration and natural attraction to all things beautiful, and Ahmed Ben Hassan in the flesh was nothing less than magnificent.

His face and form were both an artist's dream—tall and exquisitely well made. His body was sculpted of lean, hard muscle painted over with sun-bronzed skin that offset his white teeth and unmistakable, fascinating eyes. Like a stalking tiger, his mesmerizing gaze lingered on me with a hunger that his languid manner could not disguise.

I remembered the tiger I had shot just last year in India. After hours of weary, cramped waiting in the machan, the beautiful creature had slipped noiselessly through the undergrowth to emerge into the clearing. He had moved with the sheik's same long, free stride, with the haughty poise of a thrown-back head. The cruel curl of the animal's mouth and the glint in the ferocious eyes were also identical to this man’s. Then, I had admired the creature without fear and had hesitated at wantonly destroying so perfect a thing, until brought back to fact that the "perfect thing" had eaten a woman the previous week. And this tiger looked very much like he wished to do the same to me.

I hated him with all my strength. Even his personal beauty was an added offence. I loathed him all the more for his handsome face and graceful, muscular form. His only redeeming virtue was his total lack of vanity. He was as unconscious of himself as the tiger to which I compared him.

He perched a hip on my bath and stretched out his long legs. His attitude and casualness both offended and frightened me. He was so sure of himself, so sure of his possession of me. He cocked a dark brow. "You think I wish to ravish you in your bath?" His taunting tone stung me once again. "Rest assured, my dove, I don't want anything more nefarious than some soap and water. Surely even a savage sheik may be allowed to wash his hands?"

Warm blood poured up my neck and over my face. I thrust my fingers through my loose curls, to shield my embarrassment from his eyes.

He picked up a razor from the table and left with a shake of his head and a soft laugh. I watched his departing back with a tumult of emotions. I knew he wanted me or I would not be here, yet he seemed to take immense pleasure in ridiculing me at every turn.

When I got out of my bath, Zilah waited on me with downcast eyes. She had laid my gown of green silk upon the bed, the same I had worn two nights ago with Jim and Aubrey. Dear God! Was it only two nights? I stared at the jade-green silk, knowing that wearing the gown was no longer my choice. He would not allow me to defy his wishes again, but when Zilah offered to dress me, I shooed her away and slipped it on by myself.

I sat down at the dressing table to complete my toilette. My short curls needed little care, and I cared little to arrange them just for his gratification. I looked at my watch, my only remaining piece of jewelry. I'd consigned all the rest into the care of my maid, who had gone on to Paris. I thought of Paris and wished earnestly that I had gone there instead of stubbornly trekking into the Sahara. Why had I not listened to Aubrey or Jim? It was a quarter past eight. I was late, and the sheik would not be pleased, but I still could not bring myself to move.

I heard his voice at the door and started. Although the thick rugs deadened the sound of his movements, I could feel his gaze on me, and I quivered with the consciousness of it. I kept my back turned, waiting for him to speak or move. This was a game of his, a special torment constantly to set me on edge. His methods of torture were diverse, but this was a game I would not play.

"Come here…Diane."

I hardly recognized the Gallic rendering of my name. It was the first time he had used it, and it was almost musical from his lips. But the thought that I could find anything about him appealing made me flush in anger at myself. I still sat, refusing to jump at the snap of his fingers. No, whatever he wanted, he must come and take. I would volunteer nothing.

"Come here," he repeated sharply.

Still, I took no notice of him. His proprietary tone had roused all of my inherent obstinacy, but the face that he could not see was growing very white. I sat with my hands gripped tightly in my lap, breathing rapidly.

"Did you learn nothing today?" The more sinister tone shattered my remaining resolve. I was too unnerved to fight him any further. What would be the use? It would only end in defeat. With my heart beating faster, I rose and went to him, but slowly and reluctantly, with mutinous eyes.