Table of Contents

Cover Page

Epigraph

Dear Reader

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Desert Destiny! I wrote it when I was twenty-eight and working as a theater actress. By day I was hurtling across a desert with a sexy Arab sheikh, and by night I was a Victorian heroine pursued across the stage by a Spanish nobleman! I’m now thirty-six but I’ve been writing for Harlequin since I was eighteen and that’s exactly half my life. It’s a wonderful real-life Harlequin Destiny for me that the twenty-fifth birthday of Presents® should fall this year. So I hope you’ll understand how much it means to me when I say, “Happy birthday, Presents,” and here’s to another twenty-five years of drama, passion and romance!

Love,

Sarah Holland

Desert Destiny

Sarah Holland

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

THE sheikh towered over her, a whip in one savage hand. She knelt at his feet, sweat on her parted lips. The hot desert sun beat down on them, and as the music rent the air she inched away from him on her knees, the whip cracking mercilessly on the sand near her sprawling thighs.

The harem silks she wore were peacock-blue. Sun-kissed hair tumbled in gold curls around her ravishing face, her belly left bare and her full breasts pouting in a golden cleavage. She was covered in gold…anklets and belly-chains and bracelets of bells, and a necklace flashing at her throat.

The shiekh’s whip tore the silk on her thigh and she gasped, staring up at him. He laughed and reached for her, his strong hand catching her wrist as he dragged her to her feet and inflicted a punishing kiss on her mouth.

Suddenly, the sound of hoof-beats rent the air.

‘What the…?’

She was turning. They were all turning, and as they stared in shock across the golden ocean of desert they saw the sands clouding up around a pack of horses riding fast towards them.

Led by a man in white robes, the horsemen thundered nearer, and as Bethsheba stared she saw the gleam of gold on the leader’s head-dress and knew he was a sheikh.

‘Leave this to me!’ Chris shouted from behind the cameras.

But Bethsheba barely heard. Her heart was thudding louder than the horses’ hoofs and her eyes were riveted on the sheikh: the real sheikh, the man who rode towards her with narrowed hawk-like eyes and a mouth that could strike passion into the heart of any woman.

He was upon them now. The white stallion danced beneath him as he brought it to a halt, sand flying up as though to clothe him in the aura of a desert god.

‘I am Sheikh Suliman El Khazir of the Auda Khazir!’ His voice rang out in dark authority. ‘And this land is mine! Who gave you permission to be here?’ His English was perfect, only the slightest trace of Arabic turning his voice throaty.

‘Sir——’ Chris—ever the diplomat—stepped forward with a deep salaam ‘—my name is Chris Burton. I am in charge here. Please accept my apologies for trespassing. I had no idea I needed permission. I assumed——’

‘I see clearly what you assumed, English.’ The sheikh’s hard mouth flickered into a cruel smile. ‘But you were mistaken. This is the land of the Auda Khazir, and I am their master.’

Yes, Bethsheba thought, breathless: that dark face held the stamp of power. Deeply tanned and hard-boned, he sat astride that Arab stallion with aristocratic ease. His eyes were narrowed, hawk-like and black, and they flicked now, suddenly, in Bethsheba’s direction, the look in their dark depths making her body quiver with awareness.

‘Then may I again extend our apologies?’ Chris Burton said with a charming smile. ‘And perhaps ask your permission to continue filming here?’

The shiekh slid his dark gaze insolently over Bethsheba’s body without even glancing at Chris. ‘What exactly,’ he asked, studying Bethsheba’s full breasts and bare belly, ‘are you filming?’

‘A pop video,’ Chris told him as Bethsheba’s heartbeat thudded faster. ‘We work in the music industry.’

He looked at Chris coolly. ‘The girl is a singer?’

‘Yes.’ Chris nodded. ‘A very famous singer. Her name is Bethsheba and she——’

‘Sheba…?’ The shiekh said under his breath, staring at her.

‘Bethsheba,’ Chris repeated, struggling to win over the desert leader, ‘a very big star in the West. She’d sold millions of records and-—’

‘I care nothing for records,’ said the sheikh, and nudged his white steed into motion, walking him over to Bethsheba, a look of dark intent in his eyes.

Involuntarily, Bethsheba backed in alarm.

‘Don’t back away from him!’ Chris muttered to her.

Pulses leaping, she stood still and looked up into the face of Sheikh Suliman El Khazir. The dark eyes watched her, black and heavy lidded and intent.

‘So,’ he said under his breath, ‘you are truly the Sheba?’

‘You—you have heard of me?’ she asked huskily.

‘Oh, I have heard of you, bint!’ he said softly, so softly that for a moment she wondered if he had said it at all. His mouth was curved suddenly in a smile, and she felt a shiver run through her body as though a premonition had touched her soul when he’d spoken.

Then, the sheikh turned, strong dark hands touching the leather reins as he wheeled the Arab stallion in a perfect circle and moved back with regal arrogance towards the cameras, towards the crew, towards Chris Burton.

‘Very well,’ he said, head lifted, ‘you may continue to film on the land of Auda Khazir.’

A sigh of relief hushed through the gathered crew.

Thank you very——’ Chris began gratefully.

‘But there is a price, English!’ interrupted the sheikh with a slow, soft drawl, and he leant forward, one strong arm resting on the pommel of his saddle.

Chris blinked blond lashes rapidly. ‘Of course!’ The diplomatic mask was nailed in place as he smiled. ‘Name it!’

The dark hawk-like eyes flicked suddenly to Bethsheba. ‘I will hear your songbird sing.’

There was a little silence, and under his strong, arrogant gaze she felt, to her humiliation, her nipples become prominently erect beneath the blue silk harem bodice she wore. The dark eyes flicked to her face, met her gaze, and made her heart skip a beat.

‘Sing?’ Chris looked baffled for a moment, staring. ‘You want to hear her sing? Well, sure…of course…I mean——’

‘Tomorrow night!’ The sheikh straightened on his horse. ‘I will hear her sing at my palace. It is the House of the Seven Suns on the outskirts of Agadir, the gateway to the Western Sahara.’

‘The House of the Seven Suns…’ Chris was saying, mystified, and someone with initiative behind the cameras grabbed a piece of paper and wrote it down.

‘It is my birthday tomorrow,’ drawled the sheikh with a faint, hard smile. ‘You will eat with me, Burton, while your songbird pleasures me with her voice.’

Bethsheba swallowed, her throat dry, and studied him through lashes damp with sweat as the sun burnt down on her tousled gold hair, her full cleavage and her bare arms and belly.

Chris had no choice but to make a deep salaam and say, ‘We are honoured.’

The sheikh gave a thin smile, and turned his horse. ‘Bring her to me tomorrow night at seven!’

Suddenly he was riding away, nudging his horse into a gallop as his men turned their horses, too, and galloped away at his side in a menacingly silent display of desert loyalty, the only sounds the thunder of hoofs.

Everything around Bethsheba felt so Western, so tame and somehow conventional. The cameras that surrounded her filled her with boredom. Just the latest in a long, long line of promotional videos for her records. Even the excitement of knowing it was a brilliant song, and would hit number one, no longer affected her.

But in the dark landscape of her mind a secret fantasy stirred in its long-forgotten, long-abandoned grave, and she knew she would have ridden away into the desert with Sheikh Suliman El Khazir had this been that dark, potent landscape instead of reality.

Suddenly she was very much looking forward to singing at his palace tomorrow night…

Next day they worked in the studio. Chris owned a villa in Tangier, and it was here that they were staying to record and film. High on a curving hill overlooking the city, the villa gave a ravishing view of flat red roofs and clean white walls leading down to the rich, spicy heart of Tangier: the bazaars and little dirty alleyways filled with jewels and rugs and spices. The wail from a nearby mosque filled the air at regular intervals and the cry of ‘Allah!’ echoed in the city heat.

‘We’ll take it once again from the top,’ Chris said through Bethsheba’s headphones.

‘Can’t you drop me in for that line?’ she asked over the microphone, watching him through the smoked-glass studio windows.

‘I can if you prefer not to work hard,’ Chris said flatly, watching her from the control-room.

‘Oh, all right, then! From the top!’ And she sang the whole chorus verse again, her pride rising to the fore as always when Chris criticised her. It had always been this way between them. Their platonic relationship was like a family relationship that blended perfectly with business.

‘Perfect!’ Chris said when she had finished. ‘Outstanding vocal! Well done, Beth!’

Bethsheba studied him, wondering why she no longer felt a thrill of pleasure when he was pleased with her. She hung her headphones on the mike, walked across the gleaming parquet floor and slid open the glass doors to the control-room.

‘We’ll add all the choruses tomorrow for the sampler,’ Chris said.

‘You don’t need me for that, do you?’ she asked rhetorically.

Chris replied by pressing the sampler keyboard, making Bethsheba’s voice burst through the speakers, singing, ‘Sheikh! Sheikh! Sh-sh-sh-sh-sheikh!’

‘We’ll have to release a greatest-hits album for you soon,’ Prudence, her pneumatic peroxide-blonde backing singer, drawled from the sofa. ‘Listen to this,’ she said, flicking through last month’s Q magazine: ‘“Bethsheba’s fifteenth number-one single proves the old adage that you can never underestimate the stupidity of the masses!”‘

‘Bastards!’ said Chris.

‘I never read my reviews.’ Bethsheba sank on to a stool beside Chris at the control-desk and toyed idly with the sampler. ‘It’s too painful!’

‘They’re just jealous.’ Chris flicked off the power and dropped a kiss on her tawny-gold head. ‘It’s the name of the game. Success brings criticism—failure brings praise. If you only sold ten records a month they’d call you an artist and you’d be worshipped as a cult figure.’

‘Or you could always commit suicide on stage,’ Prudence drawled. ‘That’ll get you sensational reviews!’

Chris laughed. ‘Do you want to be famous or do you want to be famous!’

Bethsheba felt an overwhelming urge to escape again. It gnawed at her constantly these days. Her life had become a trap, and there was no way out of studio work, concerts, touring, television appearances, interviews, photograph sessions…

Suddenly the urge to escape was too strong. Her gold eyes flicked to the walls of the studio. Black walls…windowless walls…oppressive walls. No light, no view, no outside world. No sense of time; here, in this airless room with its forty-eight-track mixing-desk, it could be morning, afternoon or evening; winter, summer or spring; London, New York or Paris.

‘I’m going out,’ Bethsheba said suddenly, standing up.

Everyone turned to look at her. Mark, pro-gramming the drum computer, almost dropped his ice-cold beer.

‘Out?’ Chris frowned. ‘What do you mean—out?’

‘I need some air,’ she said rapidly. ‘I want to go out!’

‘But we’ve got to leave in an hour.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve got to be at the sheikh’s palace at Agadir at seven. It’ll take at least four hours to drive there.’

‘I won’t be long,’ she said quickly, and moved to the door.

‘Wait!’ Chris leapt in her way, at his most autocratic now, that RADA training leaping into evidence as his voice took on a distinctly Shakespearian ring. ‘You are not, I repeat, not going out into town. I know you love the place, Beth, but I can’t allow you to walk off into a bazaar and get lost.’

Frustration made her mouth tremble. ‘But, Chris, I haven’t been out of this studio since I arrived!’

‘Yes, you have—you were in the desert yesterday.’ He patted her head. ‘Now, be a good girl and go down to the pool. Prue will go with you, won’t you, Prue?’

‘I’m a great chaperon,’ drawled Prudence, getting to her feet.

Bethsheba struggled to be obedient, nodding and saying, ‘You’re right…it’s best…I’ll go to the pool and have a swim.’ But the resentment burned in her—was Chris so blind that he didn’t see how she was changing?

‘Good girl.’ Chris smiled and moved back to the desk. ‘I’ll stay here and play around with the mix. I’ve got a great idea for the middle section…’

They drove to Agadir in the black limousine through acres of desert on a road that seemed incongruous. It cut a black swathe through gold sands with strange rock formations on either side, scattered boulders and sand around a modern road with modern signs in blue Arabic and English.

Occasionally they passed a village of tiny bleached stone hovels without glass or windows, dogs as skinny as the boys who threw sticks at them, and old men in long caftans smoking spindly pipes.

Bethsheba sat in the back of the limousine with Prudence and Chris. They drove past Agadir as night fell. Then, suddenly, they saw the palace, standing in magnificent splendour in the centre of endless desert, its bleached and dusty walls like a Moorish castle.

‘What a magnificent place!’ Bethsheba was breathless with the impact of it. ‘So romantic!’

‘Talk about cultural differences,’ Chris agreed, staring at the forbidding walls.

They swung into ancient stone gates. A vast courtyard opened out around them, fountains lilting cool water on marble, mosaic walls gleaming with palace lights under the velvet sky, guards holding guns and dogs.

‘Whoever he is,’ Chris murmured as the car halted, ‘he’s obviously very rich and very powerful. I’m glad we didn’t make an enemy of him.’

Bethsheba got out of the car, trembling with nerves and excitement. Her ivory silk strapless dress clung to her slender curves. She wore a long gold silk jacket over it.

‘Greetings!’ A tall dark Arab in red robes appeared at the doors to welcome them. He gave a deep salaam. ‘Follow me, please.’

Excitement quickened Bethsheba’s step as she followed him into corridors of Moorish beauty, arched hollows in walls of blue-white mosaic, fountains in other courtyards, statues of lions and Arabic script flowing on bleached stone walls.

They swung into a final corridor. Two bare-chested Arabs in red-gold harem trousers stood guarding double doors like living art nouveau statues. The Arab leading them clapped his hands. The bare-chested Arabs swung open the double doors.

Music filled the air. Bells, tambourines, flutes and handclaps. Dazzling colours littered the magnificent Arabic ballroom, and Bethsheba stepped in, staring, her breath caught in her throat.

Bethsheba looked immediately for Sheikh Suliman El Khazir, but he was nowhere to be seen, and as her gold eyes moved restlessly around the room so she reeled under the dizzying impact of what she saw.

There were rows of richly embroidered silk cushions scattered on the floor in purple, blue, red, maroon, oxblood, royal blue, bright blue, sky-blue…Incense filled the air with a sweet, spicy opiate scent, flowing from gold filigree lamps which hung from the ceiling on gold chains. The walls were ivory stone, engraved in gold with Arabic script, and the sensual ribbons were words, words she did not understand but longed to.

‘My God…’ she breathed, pulses leaping at the sight of such barbaric luxury, ‘I’ve never seen anything so beautiful!’

‘I thought you were born in Bahrain?’ Chris said, frowning.

‘Yes,’ Bethesda turned in surprise, ‘but I never saw the inside of a sheikh’s palace. I was only allowed to mix with army officers’ children.’

‘Snobbery!’ Prudence’s beautiful nose curled. ‘Can’t stand it!’

‘Do you know where the word “snob” came from?’ Chris asked lazily. ‘It just means sans noblesse—without title. They used to write it next to pupils’ names at Eton. Some were titled—some not. So they wrote either noblesse or sans noblesse next to your name.’

‘Well, whoever this guy is,’ drawled Prudence, ‘he’s got more noblesse than he knows what to do with.’

Suddenly, all music ceased. The doors at the far end of the ballroom were flung open. Footsteps approached, and as they were heard so people stood up, bowing deeply.

Sheikh Suliman El Khazir strode into the ballroom in white robes, dark eyes flashing round restlessly then fixing on Bethsheba as she met his arrogant gaze, golden head lifted, unaware of her equally regal stance.

For a second they studied each other across those bowed heads. Then a slight smile touched the hard mouth of the sheikh and he clapped his hands.

The music began again. Everyone sat down on the rich cushions. Flutes and bells and tambourines cascaded in the air as the sheikh walked towards Bethsheba.

‘Good evening,’ Sheikh Suliman said in that deep, rich voice as he reached them. ‘Welcome to my palace.’

‘Good evening,’ Chris said, taking charge as usual. ‘Your palace is magnificent. We are honoured to be your guests tonight.’

The sheikh inclined his head coolly, and Bethsheba noticed for the first time how very tall he was: at least four inches taller than Chris Burton, and Chris was six feet.

‘Is Beth to sing in here?’ Chris asked now, glancing around the room. ‘She might need a microphone to be heard above——’

‘She will not sing here,’ said the sheikh, ‘but in the Gardens of Scheherazade.’ He clapped strong dark hands. ‘Achmed—take Mr Burton to the gardens and allow him to inspect the stage. He may do as he wishes.’

‘Thy will is my will,’ said Achmed, bowing in long dark robes.

‘Thank you!’ Chris was more than a little taken aback. ‘Right. Well—coming, Beth? Prue?’

‘I…Bethsheba darted a glance at the sheikh, knowing that she preferred to stay with him, the thought of inspecting mikes and PA and running a sound-check too boring to contemplate.

‘The Sheba will stay with me,’ said the sheikh at once, and his strong brown fingers curled over her wrist. ‘I will take care of her.’

Chris hesitated, hands thrust in black evening-trouser pockets. ‘You ought to do a sound-check, Beth.’

‘This way, Mr Burton,’ Achmed said, ‘Miss Prue…’

‘You must be hungry, Sheba,’ the sheikh said deeply, and his strong hand moved to the small of her back as he guided her away.

It was all very smooth, very fast, and before she knew what was happening she was walking away in gold silk beside the sheikh while Chris and Prudence were led to the Gardens of Scheherazade.

He led her down gold-scripted steps to the central floor.

‘Please,’ he said deeply, and gestured to the luxurious cushions scattered there, ‘sit with me.’

Slowly, she sank down on them, her body as sensual and provocative as her eyes, her mouth. He smiled and sank down beside her, relaxing full-length. Their eyes met and held in a mutual acknowledgement of the strong crackle of attraction between them that was like an electric current.

He clapped his hands. A ravishing young girl in transparent scarlet harem silk appeared. Kneeling to the sheikh, she offered a long silver tray laden with delicacies. Placing it before them, she bowed, and left.

‘Your slave?’ Bethsheba asked with a cool glance.

‘Slaves choose their own master,’ he said softly, and his eyes slid to her breasts.

Her heart quickened as she felt her nipples become erect under his gaze. ‘In Western civilisation, possibly. But out here in the desert?’ She lifted her head. ‘I think not!’

‘You know the desert well?’

‘I’ve never been to the Sahara before, but——’

‘Then do not judge our ways until you understand us.’ He reached out a strong hand, selected a small honey-coloured delicacy, and offered it to her. ‘A crystallised bee, Sheba.’

‘A bee?’

He slid it between her pink lips. ‘We of course remove the sting.’

Bethsheba’s mouth watered as his fingers slid the honeyed crystal inside, and the sweetness exploded on her tongue. The way he watched her, spoke to her, touched her, made her body throb with awareness, and she shifted on the silk cushions, her ivory silk dress drawing his dark gaze down over her breasts, slender waist and softly curved hips.

‘You are a very beautiful woman, Sheba,’ he said softly, and shifted too, reaching to touch her long gold hair. ‘Hair the colour of the sun, of the sand-cat…’

She smiled. ‘It’s just blonde.’

‘But you are blonde all over,’ he said, ‘are you not?’

A flush burnt her cheeks and she said acidly, ‘I presume you’re used to touching women whenever the mood takes you?’

‘Only those who welcome my touch.’

‘I’m sure you have a harem full of such women!’

‘A harem!’ His laughter was deep and rich as his long fingers lingered on her bare golden shoulder. ‘We enter the realms of fantasy, bint! Western fantasy dictates that every sheikh shall have a harem quivering with nubile women ready to do his bidding!’

‘And do you deny that?’

He watched her with mocking eyes. ‘There are many Western fantasies of the East. Shall we explore them, Sheba?’

‘I really don’t mind,’ she said with a light shrug, although her body was marching to the beat of his drum, and they both knew it.

‘I saw a film once,’ he said lightly, ‘about a sheikh and a beautiful blonde Englishwoman…’

‘I saw that, too,’ she said, equally lightly.

‘It was arousing, was it not,’ the sheikh remarked lazily, ‘to see him kidnap her on horseback, though she screamed and struggled? Take her to his desert camp, throw her on the pillows of his tent and…’ He paused, flicking those dark eyes coolly to her enraptured face.

‘She fought him!’ Bethsheba said thickly, heart thumping.

‘Ah, yes,’ he agreed, ‘she fought bravely and well. But that was part of the fantasy for them both—was it not, bint?’

She was quite still, unable to tear her eyes from him.

Suddenly, he was motionless too, watching her intently. ‘Did you like that film, Sheba?’ his dark voice asked, and she answered without thinking.

‘Yes.’

CHAPTER TWO

SUDDENLY Achmed was returning at a brisk pace. Chris was behind him, and Bethsheba tensed inwardly, not wanting the intrusion of the modern world, of pop music and studios and a twentieth-century businessman. It grated harshly with this living, breathing fantasy in white robes and gold iqal, his hard body sprawled beside her on the silk cushions, and his dark eyes as mesmeric as his mind.

‘The PA is superb!’ Chris said as he reached them. ‘Absolutely first class! Where on earth did you——?’

‘I had them brought here this morning from Casablanca,’ said the sheikh coolly.

‘But this is marvellous!’ Chris’s handsome face was alive with pleasure. ‘There’s even a band, Beth! It’s going to be a really good performance.’

The sheikh inclined his regal head. ‘Of course.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Sit, please. Eat what you will. You are my guests.’

The music changed.

Out from the shadows of the pillars at the far end came dancing girls, bracelets jangling, ankle bells ringing, slender bodies twisting and turning in transparent silks of scarlet and gold, blue and gold, purple and gold. Bethsheba suddenly longed to dance with them, to wear such sensual scraps of silk, her hair flowing as she flashed out of the shadows like a jewelled bird of paradise for her sheikh.

Other guests arrived, and were treated with great respect, salaams from everyone. They were obviously rich, their robes signifying authority. Watching raptly, Bethsheba remembered Bahrain and smiled with pleasure.

‘You will sing for me very soon,’ the sheikh murmured in Bethsheba’s ear suddenly. ‘Are you prepared?’

‘Of course,’ she said with a tilt of one gold brow. ‘It’s my job.’

A smile touched his hard mouth. ‘Then come.’ He got to his feet with arrogant grace and extended a strong brown hand. ‘I will take you to the gardens myself.’

Together they walked across that beautiful gold-scripted floor, he in white robes and gold iqal, she in ivory silk, and, as they moved, their heads held high, people stared at them both, but particularly at Bethsheba, and she knew the look in their eyes.

‘Your people are staring at me,’ she said quietly.

‘They stare because you are beautiful.’

‘No,’ she said frowning, ‘I feel recognised. But I’m not famous here, so——’

‘So how can it be?’ he agreed calmly, and clapped his hands, signalling that the double doors leading to the gardens should be opened. They walked through, and the cool night air touched her cheek as Suliman said, ‘The Gardens of Scheherazade…’

The gardens were breathtaking, tiled in blue-white mosaic, dotted with fountains and flowers and high walls. The profusion of colour dazzled, bright yellow marigolds mingling with the smooth pearl of oleander, the cream clusters of jasmine, the rich russet of harmal and henna. Slim-stemmed palms fanned their lush silhouettes beside the draping fringes of jacaranda, and beyond blazed the most beautiful sight of all: the desert sky. So clear, so perfect—each star blazing with light and colour like a tray of diamonds on black velvet at Tiffany’s.

‘Do you enjoy your fame?’ asked the sheikh suddenly, his deep voice startling her.

‘Oh…!’ She turned to find him watching her with those dark, mesmeric eyes and shrugged lightly. ‘It’s something I’ve learned to live with.’

‘But do you wish it to be so, Sheba?’

She moistened her lips and found herself saying truthfully, ‘I find it rather suffocating. Fame, publicity, studio work. I often feel like a caged bird.’

‘A dove, bien sÛr!’ he murmured, a smile touching the hard mouth. ‘And, like any dove, you long to escape.’

‘Sometimes,’ she admitted.

‘But how,’ he asked coolly, ‘does a caged bird learn to be free? Perhaps it must simply find a new master.’

‘I need no master,’ Bethsheba said, lifting her gold head.

‘Yet you describe your life as suffocating and caged,’ he said calmly, and his strong hand curled at her arm. ‘Are these the words of a free woman?’

She looked into his eyes and suddenly needed to change the subject. ‘Have you always lived here?’ she asked lightly, flicking her gaze from his to the palace walls.

The sheikh recognised why she had asked that and was faintly amused, drawling, ‘No. I have another palace, deep in the heart of the Sahara. The Great Palace of Suliman.’

There was a little silence as his eyes narrowed on her, and she looked at him, suddenly realising that he expected some kind of reaction from her to those words.

‘The Great Palace of Suliman?’ she repeated, frowning. ‘You say it as though I should have heard of it——’

‘No,’ he said at once, and led her to walk beside him, his hand lingering on her arm as they moved slowly, bodies in harmonious step. ‘It is the palace of my ancestors. Suliman El Khazir the Great built it; he once ruled most of the Sahara. It is special to me, Sheba. And to my people.’

‘I should think any palace in the middle of the Sahara would be special.’

He looked at her, then away. ‘I also have a douar—a desert encampment—a few hours’ ride from here.’

‘A desert man, then?’ she asked, trailing her fingers through clusters of creamy jasmine petals.

‘I am.’ He stopped walking and looked at her, black brows like scimitars over his dark eyes. ‘I was born here, Sheba. Born to rule these people and this land. I was destined, always, to love the wild beauty of the desert; and my sense of kismet—of destiny—is stronger than any force in my life.’

She smiled. ‘I understand destiny. But I don’t feel I have truly found mine yet——’

‘And if you did?’ he asked at once, his hand tightening on her arm. ‘What then, Sheba? Would you run from it? Or surrender utterly?’

‘If I had a destiny,’ she heard her voice say as their gazes once again locked, ‘I would surrender to it utterly.’

‘And feel it possess you,’ he said intently.

‘Yes…’ Shivers ran through her, her heartbeat thudded faster, and her voice was rich with longing as she found herself saying, ‘And feel it possess me.’

‘Destiny often comes in the shape of another person,’ he said tensely. ‘If it came thus—what then? Would your surrender be…’ his eyes slid suddenly to her breasts, and her heart missed a beat as she felt her nipples harden prominently under that burning gaze as though he had touched her ‘…as complete?’ His voice roughened as his gaze flicked back to hers. ‘Your possession as absolute?’

Pulse throbbing, she looked into those dark eyes and knew he was telling her something. But what? And why did she feel that somewhere, deep inside herself, she already knew?

Later, Bethsheba stood under the white heat of the spotlight on stage and sang for Sheikh Suliman El Khazir, surrounded by his guests and servants in the Gardens of Scheherazade.

Her voice floated out above the music in high, breathy seduction of her audience. The band played behind her, all Arabian and obviously experienced musicians. Prudence undulated and sang at a mike to her left. It should have been a purely professional performance—polished and skilled—but nevertheless just work.

But some divine spark had entered her, and she sang only for the sheikh, only for Suliman, her eyes closed now as she gleamed in the spotlight like a living, breathing golden statue and raised her slender arms in triumph as the song ended.

Applause burst from every corner of the gardens, and Bethsheba was elated, taking her bows with a dazzling smile, eyes flashing like yellow diamonds to Suliman for the first time since she’d begun the performance and saw him smile as he realised she had known exactly where he was sitting from the moment she’d stepped on stage.

‘His Majesty Sheikh Suliman El Khazir,’ Achmed said when she came off stage, ‘requests that you join him at his table.’

Bethsheba swayed towards Suliman’s table, her body pulsating with adrenalin, face flushed and eyes feverish, every inch a star, and revelling in it for the first time in years.

‘You are a gifted songbird,’ Suliman drawled as she sank on to the chair beside him, his eyes moving restlessly over her. ‘Mr Burton must be very proud of his caged dove.’

Indignation made her eyes flash. ‘I’m not his——’ She broke off, refusing to give any more away to him than she already had tonight. With a light shrug she smiled coolly and said, ‘At any rate—I’m not his only songbird.’

‘He has many like you? Impossible! There can only be one golden-skinned Sheba!’

‘I mean he has other singers. About fifteen, in fact. He runs a recording company, writes all the material, arranges, produces and—well, runs the whole show.’

‘Ah.’ Suliman nodded, unsmiling. ‘He is your producer?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not your lover.’

She caught her breath, staring, silenced, her lips parted as her gaze locked into his once more and the crackle of attraction flashed between them like a tangible force.

‘A simple question, bint,’ he said softly. ‘Is Burton your lover or not?’

‘No!’ she said under her breath, her face burning with hot colour. ‘He is not my lover!’ Good heavens, she had never even had a boyfriend or a stolen kiss—let alone a fully fledged lover! ‘We’re friends and colleagues—that’s all.’

Suliman gave no reply, but his eyes darkened further, and his gaze dropped to her mouth, then away. ‘How long do you intend to stay in the Sahara, bint?’

‘Another ten days,’ she said huskily, aware that her voice shook, and angry with herself for betraying the depth of her reaction to him. ‘We’re recording at Chris’s villa in Tangier.’

‘And do you have a man staying with you? A boyfriend? A——’

‘No,’ she said quickly, before he could mention lovers again and force that hot blush to her face.

‘Family?’ He was idly fingering a delicate filigree cup on the carved brass table. ‘Is your family in England or here with you?’

‘I have no family,’ she said huskily. ‘My parents died when I was fourteen.’

His lashes flickered. His gaze slid to meet hers. ‘Tell me, Sheba—do you ride?’

‘Ride?’ The question surprised her. ‘Yes—I ride very well, as a matter of fact.’

‘Good. Then tomorrow you will ride with me.’

‘Tomorrow!’ Her eyes widened. ‘I don’t know if——’

‘Here,’ he said coolly, ‘I am but a few hours’ drive from Tangier. I have a stable of pure-bred horses, and the Sahara surrounds me. Why should you not come here to ride with me?’

‘Well, I don’t know if Chris would altogether approve and——’

‘We shall not tell him,’ drawled the sheikh, a smile touching his hard mouth. ‘It will be our secret. Our secret…’ his gaze slid to her breasts, then up to her eyes again ‘…fantasy. Hmm?’

Bethsheba’s mouth went dry. She felt suddenly unable to reply, her heart drumming wildly.

‘You will be my golden-haired Englishwoman,’ Suliman said under his breath, ‘and I your sheikh. Together we will live out our fantasy and surrender ourselves to destiny.’

She was staring at him through gold lashes, her lips parted, face flushed, eyes glittering, and as she remained silent so her breasts rose and fell unsteadily with the thud of her heart.

‘Say yes, Sheba,’ Suliman’s eyes never wavered, ‘and it shall be done.’

Bethsheba’s voice whispered, ‘Yes…’

She woke next morning to the sound of ‘Haya alla Salat!’ echoing across the city of Tangier from the mosque tower. Suliman’s face leapt into her mind and she sat up in bed with a gasp, a hand clutching her heart as the pace leapt.

Had she really agreed to ride with him at three this afternoon? She must have been out of her mind! Of course she couldn’t ride with him, or even consider going back to his palace!

Bethsheba spent the morning working in the studio. They were laying down the backing vocals on various tracks, and it was harder work than the lead vocal because it was a rather bitty job and intensely repetitive. Chris cheered them up by doing the ‘To be or not to be’ monologue from Hamlet every time they wound the tape back. But Bethsheba had heard him do it a million times before, and it had begun to grate on her nerves.

Bethsheba felt guilty as she watched Chris through the glass panel. She owed him every- thing—how could she be so mean as to feel bored with the friend who had saved her from penury?

Christopher Burton had discovered Bethsheba when she was fifteen and singing with an unknown band in a dingy London pub. Obviously under age, she had been desperate for money and for something to cling to that was hers.

Her parents had been killed in a car crash when she was fourteen. She had been living with her maiden aunt for a year, and felt restless, trapped, alone and unhappy. With few friends and no money, Bethsheba had been desperate for someone to come along and help her.

Chris recognised her talent as well as her desperation, and took her under his wing.

At that time, Chris had a small twenty-four-track studio in a London suburb. Working every hour of the day, he too was desperate: desperate to finally succeed in the music business.

Bethsheba learnt the ropes of the industry with him, watching him write, record, arrange and produce song after song, then suffer the painful setbacks and frustrations of life on the fringes of the music business.

She virtually lived in that studio for three years. They rarely performed live in the end; just spent endless hours recording, followed by more endless hours hiking their demos around major record labels, trying for a deal.

Eventually Chris lost his temper with the major labels. In a whirlwind of furious determination he formed his own record company, released his own singles, and pushed Bethsheba as his first release.

He had to mortgage his house to do it. Everything was riding on Bethsheba’s single, and she suffered agonies of guilt as they waited for DJs to play it, magazines to talk about it, and the public to buy it.

The record went to number one and stayed there for eight weeks.

Over the next four years Bethsheba released fifteen records, all of which went to number one. Teen magazines featured her continually, television videos made hit after hit.

Now Chris Burton was the biggest force in the music industry. Everyone wanted to work with him. He had a stable of international stars and more money than he could even count.

But Bethsheba was still his biggest star—and his favourite, for she had been there with him at the beginning, in the dark ages, when they had lived on black tea, chips and grim determination.

‘Let’s have lunch out!’ Chris said when they had finally finished recording. ‘Go to the kasbah, get some knick-knacks, discover an intriguing harem, perhaps.’

‘I’m rather tired,’ Bethsheba heard herself say. ‘I think I’ll stay home and get some rest.’ As the words left her mouth her stomach started to churn and she knew she was going to Suliman’s palace.

They left on foot, and Bethsheba watched them go, her body alive with sick excitement. As soon as they had disappeared from view in their bright summer clothes, she raced upstairs, tugged on cream jodhpurs, a white shirt, long black boots and brushed her tousled curls into a mass of silk, then added a dash of pink gloss to her mouth for luck and rang down to the kitchen to get the car keys.

‘Got bored and decided to go sightseeing in Rabat,’ she wrote on a piece of paper. ‘Might have dinner there. Don’t worry.’

Leaving the note on the kitchen table, she slipped out of the front door so that Mohammed, their manservant, would not see her leaving and ask awkward questions about her riding outfit.

The drive to the sheikh’s palace was long but relatively easy, a straight road, more or less, all the way there. As she approached the palace from Agadir she began to panic again, her stomach churning and her mouth as dry as ashes.

But as she drove through the main gates, and saw Achmed waiting for her at the doors, her stomach lurched with excitement. Suliman had not forgotten either.

The courtyard was so different by daylight—there were stone arcades and guards with dogs and a slumbrous air of mystery about it; fountains gushing into sculpted marble, greenery hanging from meshed wood balconies, and the dogs were roused from their slumber, barking as Bethsheba stepped from the car.

‘Greetings, sitt.’ Achmed gave a deep salaam. ‘The sheikh is expecting you. Please to follow me.’

Locking the car door, she shoved her keys in her handbag and followed Achmed into the palace. This time she was led a different way. The cool arcades with high Moorish arches were carved with Arabesque script, and small alcoves with richly embroidered divans nestled along the way, the scent of spicy coffee clinging to the air and the low murmur of Arabic voices lazy in the hot afternoon. Obviously, these were the day quarters.

Achmed stopped outside a purple hanging, swept it aside and gestured for her to enter.

The room was vibrant with colour and brass-ware. Incense filled the air, cushions littered the floor, and everywhere was the stamp of barbaric luxury that seduced her with its blatant sensuality.

‘So, Sheba.’ Suliman stood at the far end of the room, magnificent in white robes and gold iqal, oxblood riding boots on his strong legs, the dark blue and red of his shirt deepening that skin to mahogany. ‘You have kept our appointment.’

Her heart missed several beats. ‘I always keep my promises.’

The hard mouth curled. ‘So do I, bint!’ he said softly, and the look in those dark eyes made her body throb in response to him as he stepped forward, tall, primitive and magnificent. ‘Come.’ He took her hand. ‘Let us ride while the sun lights our way!’ He led her across the room and into the corridor, drawling, ‘We start as we mean to go on—the hawk leading the dove!’

Bethsheba laughed, allowing him to lead her along the cool arcade. ‘The hawk and the dove…! Arabia…!’

‘You embrace my culture,’ Suliman observed, flicking a glance at her. ‘I have noticed it before.’

‘I find it very beautiful,’ she agreed.

‘And it is,’ he drawled coolly, ‘particularly in regard to women. Here, our women are admired for everything that is uniquely feminine about them. They are the goddesses of our desires, our hearts, our childhood—and we anoint them with our love.’

‘That is not the Western view of the East,’ she said.

‘You are but one woman,’ he pointed out, ‘not one quarter of the world, and it is your view of my culture that I desire, not theirs.’

Suddenly they reached a vast arched doorway, and beyond it lay the bleached stone-dust of a courtyard. The scent of horses, of manure, of leather and of sweat pervaded the air.

A groom in grubby beige jellaba led two horses to them. A white Arab stallion and a gold Arab stallion with a mane the colour of honey. Bethsheba was handed a riding whip, and the groom made a bridge with his hands for her to mount the gold-coloured horse.

She mounted, laughing with a sudden rush of excitement as she sat astride that honey-coloured stallion and felt it dance beneath her as the sheikh swung on to his powerful white steed and met her gaze, laughing also.

‘You are keen, bint!’ he shouted across to her, and kicked his horse. ‘Let us ride!’

They cantered out of the courtyard, hoofs clattering as the men cried in Arabic, hands raised in salute to their sheikh as he thundered into the desert, white robes flowing.

Exhilarated, the wind in her hair and sand stinging her face, Bethsheba galloped beside her sheikh and saw the light of dreams in the blue, blue sky above that ocean of golden sand. She felt brave and beautiful and free, the scent of horseflesh in her nostrils and the feeling of power as she rode fast, fast, faster.

The spurs on the heels of Suliman’s dark red boots flashed gold in the hot sun. His head-dress flashed back to show the strength of his jaw, the narrowed determination of his dark eyes.

Desert landscape engulfed them, a great silence broken only by the sound of their horses’ hoofs. She saw thick clumps of greenery strangled by clustered boulders near a well, and the dusty white gleam of dead animals’ bones close by. Sweat covered her face and body, the saddle thudded against her thighs, her hair whipped back in a golden, tousled banner.

How far had they come? The sun was a furnace in the sky. There was nothing, had been nothing, for miles, and still they rode, still they bore down across the desert as a hawk flew overhead with a piercing cry.

‘Stop!’ Bethsheba reined in her horse suddenly, but Suliman rode on, and she was left cantering in a wide circle, struggling to prevent her horse following its master. ‘Stop!’

Suliman reined in his horse, a quick look over one shoulder making his eyes narrow as he turned, cantering back to her, his dark, handsome face sheened with sweat.

‘What is it?’ he called harshly. ‘Do you need water?’

‘Why didn’t you stop earlier?’ she demanded angrily. ‘You heard me calling!’

‘We have only two hours before sunset,’ he said, black brows meeting like scimitars above his arrogant eyes. ‘We must reach the douar before dark.’

Her breath caught. ‘The douar!’ She knew what that meant! It conjured up a world of long ago, a world she had almost forgotten: of tents and gold sands and elegant men and women drinking hot mint tea at trestle-tables in the sun.

‘Come!’ Suliman waited, stallion dancing beneath his powerful thighs. ‘Let us waste no more time!’

‘I can’t go there with you!’ Bethsheba cried hoarsely. ‘Not there!’

‘But you must!’ The dark eyes flashed. ‘It is written.’

‘It is not written!’ she cried fiercely. ‘It is not written and I won’t go there with you!’ Turning her horse, she tried to kick it back the way they had come, but it whinnied, worried and unsettled.

‘You cannot go back!’ Suliman shouted. ‘Not without me!’

‘I can and I will!’ Fear made her whip the horse sharply on its flanks as it danced out of control.

The horse rose up in angry protest, and Bethsheba cried out in shock as she was flung backwards into the air. The last thing she saw was a blur of white Arab robes and white horse thundered towards her as the sand slammed into her and blackness claimed her.

CHAPTER THREE

THE jingle of the harness soothed Bethsheba, the swaying motion of the Sheikh’s horse lulling her continually back into sleep. Occasionally, she opened her eyes, felt the stabs of agony in her head, and slipped back into unconsciousness, unable or unwilling to face what was happening.

The sheikh’s chest was strong and warm and comforting. Her face rested against it, her nostrils breathing in the scent of his flesh, and sometimes when her lids flickered open she looked drowsily at that tanned skin and the dark hairs that grew on it and thought of Arabia as though it were a dream; a colourful vivid dream of gold and silk and all the perfumes. The air grew steadily cooler. The sands, once gold, were now cool pink as the sun began to set, and the next time her eyes flickered open she saw the desert was lilac, then purple, then, finally, black.

Suddenly she heard voices and the crackle of wood fires, and when the horse came to a standstill she knew they had reached the douar.

‘Awake, Sheba.’ Suliman’s deep voice echoed in his chest. ‘Awake and behold your dream.’

Opening her eyes, she looked up into his hard, handsome face, and for a moment saw only his features; the heavy-lidded eyes, the strong arrogant nose and the firm sensual mouth below.

Then she saw beyond and knew it was night. Camp-fires flickered and spat in the darkness. Hair tents were dotted around the encampment, horses tethered beneath a tree, and the cool waters of the oasis gleamed with starlight from above. Men and the shadows of men were all about. They wore turbans and jellabas, some carried guns, some stood guard and some sat by the fires, eating.

‘Is it to your taste, Sheba?’ Suliman asked with a hard smile. ‘The douar of your fantasies?’

‘No!’ The fierce cry was weak, but her eyes flashed gold fire. ‘You must take me back at once.’

He laughed, and suddenly dismounted, catching Bethsheba before she unbalanced. His strong arms were around her, holding her as he strode in dark red boots and white robes towards the royal tent.

A servant leapt to sweep the tent flap aside. Suliman carried Bethsheba in as though she were a gazelle, and her startled eyes took in the luxurious surroundings; the royal blue cloth walls of the tent, the embroidered rugs, low brass trestle-table covered in Arabesque script, and the central bed of silk cushions.

The sheikh laid her on the bed of cushions. ‘How is your head, Sheba?’ he asked, sprawling beside her, his dark face above hers as he studied her. ‘You fell on the slope of a dune and your fall was softened. But still you lost consciousness…’

‘It throbs a little,’ she admitted, gold eyes wary. ‘But you must take me back, Suliman! You cannot keep me——’

‘You are my prisoner now, bint!’ he said softly, and his dark eyes mocked her as he flicked a cool, proprietorial gaze to her mouth. ‘And you will do my bidding!’

‘You’re out of your mind,’ she whispered, but her head was thudding like a drum and she could not take her eyes off that firm, sensual mouth. ‘You must know that what you’ve done is against the law.’

‘I am master here,’ he said under his breath, ‘and here—I am the law!’

‘No…!’ Her heart stopped and she tried to sit up.

‘Lie back, bint!’ he said, pushing her down again into the cushions. ‘And accept your fate!’

‘I will not!’ she said heatedly, ‘I won’t stay here a——’ The tent flap was swept aside, silencing her protest.

A servant entered in white jellaba and turban. He carried an ornate carved brass tray. On it, a coffee-pot gleamed, two brass filigree cups and a brass plate holding squares of halva, Turkish delight and spicy biscuits. He bowed low, placed the tray on a side-table, and said something respectful to his master.

‘What did he say?’ Bethsheba asked as the servant left. ‘That he disapproves of your kidnapping an English girl?’

The sheikh laughed under his breath. ‘He would not dare, bint!’

‘And I suppose you think I shouldn’t dare either.’ Rebellion flashed in her eyes.

‘You are brave and spirited, and I know you will fight me,’ he drawled coolly, one strong hand firm on her hip as he held her captive, ‘but it is part of our…shared fantasy, is it not, bint? That you will fight and I will conquer?’

Her breath caught and she said shakily, ‘You will not conquer me!’

Suliman smiled slowly and flicked his gaze from her to the table beside them. ‘Come. You need to rest and eat. Have some coffee and sweetmeats. They are prepared specially for you by one of my handmaidens in the——’

‘I don’t want any sweetmeats!’ she said, heart thumping at the nearness of his hard body and the sexual threat implicit in that soft, dark voice. ‘I want to go home right now!’

‘You do not listen, bint,’ Suliman said flatly, mouth hardening as he looked back at her. ‘And you do not learn. You are my captive: I am your master. And eventually, bint, you will admit your own silent approval of this shared fantasy.’

She stared, breathless, heart thudding. ‘My approval! What do you mean—my approval?’

‘We discussed it in great detail last night,’ he said softly, and the long fingers selected a sweetmeat for her, sliding it on to her lips and watching her with a slow, lazy smile.

‘We did not!’ She pushed the sweetmeat away from her mouth with a shaking hand.

‘I made myself more than clear,’ the sheikh told her, and allowed his gaze to move insolently, possessively over her body, resting on the full breasts beneath her white blouse. ‘And you, Sheba, responded in kind.’

‘No…’ She knew his gaze was provoking her to remember the way her breasts had swollen under his gaze then, as they did now, and the erection of her pink nipples only served to humiliate her further as she felt the excitement shiver through her.

‘Yes.’ His strong hand moved slowly to the buttons on her blouse and slid one open while she stared, trembling, hypnotised by those eyes. ‘You welcome your destiny, and your ultimate surrender.’

‘I don’t!’ she protested, then gasped, face flushing scarlet with hot arousal as Suliman’s strong fingers slid over her breast and they both felt her taut nipples burn in electric response to his touch.

‘Your body betrays you,’ he said softly, and as his head lowered to block out the light Bethsheba heard herself give a faint moan, eyes closing helplessly as that hard mouth took possession of hers.

She struggled, but he pinned her arms to the splay of cushions. She cried out but he silenced her with his mouth, and as she lay helpless beneath him the blood raced through her body with a wild throb of excitement that made her moan as his kiss took fire, pulling her down into a sudden dark flare of hot desire that made her gasp against his mouth.

‘So.’ Suliman raised his dark head, breathing roughly, his face flushed as he watched her, and the soft sound of desert sands blowing in the night air came from outside the tent. ‘Let us have no more protests or denials, bint!’

He got to his feet and reached for the brass coffee-pot, pouring hot spicy coffee into the two cups.

Bethsheba watched him, intolerably aroused, intolerably confused, and unbelievably angry with him for kissing her like that. How dared he? How dared he bring her here against her will, kidnap her and put her in his desert encampment specifically to play some vile game with her that would end in her complete physical surrender to him…?

She hated him! Her eyes moved over his strong back, his arrogant head, and she said hoarsely, ‘You think you can get away with this, but you’re wrong! Chris will be frantic when I don’t come back! He’ll look for me, and——’

‘And where will he look?’ Suliman drawled coolly, turning, and handing her a cup of rich spicy coffee. ‘At my palace of Agadir? What will he find there? Nothing but an abandoned car and my men ready with explanations.’

‘The car will be proof enough,’ she said fiercely, sitting up. ‘He’ll inform the authorities at once and——’

‘And the authorities will read the note attached to the car.’ Suliman watched her, mockery in his eyes, his stance arrogant as he raised the brass filigree cup to his lips and drank.

‘What note?’ she demanded, her heart missing a beat.

‘The note I had drafted before you arrived, chérie. The note telling Burton that you requested a tour of my land, many days’ ride, in order to give your work new depth.’

She stared, breathless, horrified, then said on a rush, ‘You don’t seriously expect me to believe that?’

‘Why not?’ he drawled. ‘In America I believe it is called method acting.’

Her mouth tightened. ‘Chris went to RADA and has often discussed acting with me. He knows I’m not an actress—and certainly not interested in the Stanislavsky method!’

‘Yet you were acting in the desert not three days ago.’

‘For a pop video! It’s hardly the same thing!’

‘But it will give me the time I need, bint,’ he said softly, ‘and that, I assure you, is all I require from your friend Burton!’

Fear shot through her and she said hoarsely, ‘Chris has known me for years. He’ll know something’s wrong. He knows me better than anyone in my life. He’s almost family to me, and I to him!’

‘No one can ever be sure of the contents of another’s heart and mind,’ Suliman said coolly, draining his coffee and setting the cup back on the brass tray.

‘You say that,’ Bethsheba’s eyes were angry and frightened, ‘yet you insist you saw silent approval in my eyes last night!’

He laughed softly. ‘I saw more than silent approval when I kissed you just now, bint!’

Hot colour stung her cheeks and rage made her tremble as she stared at him, unable to reply for fear she would scream at him like a banshee and fly at him, hitting him for speaking such a humiliating truth.

Suliman laughed again, and turned, walking to the tent flap, saying, ‘I will send a girl to you with water and fresh clothing. When it is time to eat you will be sent for.’

Fury overwhelmed her. Her shaking hands closed over a silk cushion and she found herself hurling it at his arrogant head as he swept the tent flap aside. ‘Go to hell, you arrogant bastard!’ she shouted hoarsely, but the cushion hit the side of the tent with a dull thud, and the sheikh’s mocking laughter echoed in her ears to increase her rage and sense of helplessness.

In the dusky corners of the tent, cassia oil burnt in lamps that hung from tent-poles, and the rich drapes of royal blue seemed to mock her, saying, ‘I am master here and you shall do my bidding.’

The hell I will! she thought furiously, almost gnashing her teeth; then she realised that her hands still shook, and she struggled for self-control, for the dignity that was left her. Closing her eyes, she drew long, deep breaths, momentary calm flooding her.

Suliman believed she had given her consent to this barbaric fantasy, and, even though her pride rose up in furious denial, she knew deep inside that the excitement had flashed from her eyes and communicated itself to him. However much she hated herself for having got herself in this position, she knew she had been at fault—partially.

But she hadn’t meant this to happen! Panic flooded her, and she reached for her coffee with trembling hands, drinking deep, suddenly realising that she was struck by a raging thirst. She poured another cup and drank deep of the spicy coffee, and her hands reached for sweet, sticky halva and Turkish delight and biscuits as she remembered she had not eaten since this morning’s meagre breakfast of fruit.

The tent flap was swept aside. Bethsheba’s eyes flashed to the entrance, and stared at the shadowy figure there.

‘I am Khalisha.’ The girl was ravishing, her voice as beautifully Arabian as her face. ‘My lord sent me to wash and clothe you.’

‘How kind of him,’ Bethsheba said through tight lips.

‘Is the sitt ready?’ Khalisha moved into the dim gold light of the tent, and Bethsheba stared in admiration. She was as slender as a gazelle, dusky-skinned, with long black hair and deep, lustrous eyes of brown above high cheekbones and a small dark red mouth. The purple silk of her harem trousers was edged with gold, as was her bodice, and little purple slippers on her feet were embroidered with gold.

“I’m sorry, Khalisha,’ Bethsheba said angrily, unable to swallow her rage, ‘I don’t wish to offend you—but nor do I wish to be washed and clothed like a sacrifice for your master!’

‘A sacrifice?’ The girl’s dark brows met over her lustrous eyes in a frown.

‘I was brought here against my will and——’

‘I know nothing of this,’ said Khalisha at once, cool and serene as she moved further into the tent. ‘I know only the orders that my lord gave me.’

‘Your lord!’ Her nose wrinkled the pent-up anger. ‘He’s not your lord, he’s just——’

‘He is my lord, sitt. And without him my people would be scattered in the desert as the wind scatters dead men’s bones.’ Pride of her race and heritage made the girl even more beautiful.

Getting to her feet, Bethsheba said, ‘Is there a bathroom I am to use?’

‘No. The sitt may wash behind the shiraz.’

Bethsheba looked at once to the back of the tent where a selection of gorgeously patterned shiraz rugs hung from poles to form a protective covering where she might bathe. Memories of Bahrain flooded through her at the sight of the rugs, and she moved slowly towards them.

Khalisha held one up to let her pass, and gold bangles jangled softly on her dusky-skinned arm as she watched Bethsheba. Behind the rugs was a little makeshift room, with a bowl, soaps, scents, a dark blue towel and a small mirror.

Khalisha emptied her own jug of water into the bowl. Steam rose from it, scented steam, which made the room feel even more Eastern. Khalisha turned to Bethsheba to unbutton her blouse.

‘I can do that!’ Bethsheba jumped back from the girl’s fingers, shocked.

“The sitt will find it more pleasant if she is bathed by another.’

Flushing, Bethsheba said, ‘It is not my way, Khalisha! In England, we bathe alone!’

‘I have heard it is so.’ Khalisha nodded. ‘But I am glad to be of a more hot-blooded and sensual race. Here, we are taught to give our bodies the pleasure they crave.’

‘We consider ourselves to be a sensual race,’ she said defensively.

‘Yet you bathe alone?’ Khalisha smiled, eyes gently mocking. ‘Come! The sitt is weary and I am fresh. Close your eyes and let me wash the scent of the horse and the desert from your body!’

Feeling she now had something to prove, Bethsheba allowed Khalisha to undress her. The white blouse fell to the floor, followed by her lacy white bra, and she kept her eyes closed, burning with embarrassment, but refusing to show it. No doubt they would gossip about the cold-blooded English girl around the camp-fires tonight if she refused to let Khalisha wash her! Yet, after the girl had tugged Bethsheba’s jodhpurs off, she couldn’t help feeling a leap of shame as her lace panties followed them a moment later and she stood naked at last.

There was a splash of scented water, then Khalisha’s hand guiding a soft sponge over Bethsheba’s slim thighs. Gradually, she began to relax. The warm water slid softly over her aching shoulders, her back, and her joints began to unbend until at last her eyes flickered open and her shame receded in the trappings of the sensual Orient all around her.

‘Truly,’ Khalisha said suddenly, ‘the sitt is as beautiful as I had heard.’

‘You had heard?’ Bethsheba stared down at the girl who knelt at her feet.

‘It was whispered this morning that you would arrive. They said my lord the sheikh had found his Sheba, and that she was as beautiful as it was written she would be.’

Bethsheba stared, incredulous. ‘Written!’

‘Now that I see you,’ said Khalisha, ‘I see they did not lie. The sitt is the Sheba with hair of gold and skin the colour of the sand-cat. Truly, you are the she-cat.’

‘The she-cat?’ Bethsheba was frowning, completely bewildered and suddenly even more uneasy about her situation. ‘But what does that mean? And why do you call me Sheba, as Sheikh Suliman does?’

‘It is written,’ Khalisha said simply, and picked up the royal blue towel to dry her body.

‘Can’t you tell me what is written?’ Bethsheba studied her. ‘I must know what you——’

‘I have said enough.’ Khalisha’s mouth tightened.

Bethsheba sighed, then changed tack, asking, ‘Where are we?’

‘In the Sahara.’

‘Yes,’ she smiled, ‘but where exactly in the Sahara?’

‘I will not help you saddle a horse and escape, sitt.’

‘Khalisha, can’t you see how I feel?’ Bethsheba said at once. ‘I’m a prisoner here!’

Suddenly Khalisha got to her feet, small mouth tightening as she said, ‘I know nothing of this, and my lord will be angry with me if I say more. Come! Stand, please. I will dress you and go.’

Bewildered, she got to her feet, staring at the girl, who bent to get her clothes. Bethsheba’s body was partially reflected in the mirror; she looked leonine, gold and scented and beautiful.

‘You will wear these.’ Khalisha presented her with a luxurious pile of gold silk clothes, jewellery, slippers and make-up of kohl, henna and red-staining cream in small earthenware pots.

Bethsheba’s mouth tightened, but she obediently slipped into the gold silk briefs, the tiny scrap so fragile, so luxurious that she felt almost nude in them. She searched for a bra and found only a gold silk caftan remained.

‘Am I not to wear a bra?’

Khalisha shook her head. ‘My lord does not wish it.’

Bethsheba’s eyes flared angrily. ‘Your lord is a selfish, arrogant——’

‘He is a prince of royal blood, sitt!’ Khalisha’s eyes flared back, just as angry suddenly. ‘And you are honoured to be chosen by one such as him!’

Shocked by the girl’s outburst, Bethsheba realised now that she was jealous. Jealousy! she thought, staring as Khalisha flushed betrayingly and bent her head, mouth angry.

‘Khalisha…’ Bethsheba reached out to comfort her ‘…I’m sorry if I trod on your feelings. But you must understand—I’ve been brought here against my will, and I don’t want to stay. Certainly not to be “chosen” by an arrogant sheikh to——’

‘The sheikh is arrogant, yes!’ Khalisha’s head lifted angrily. ‘But he is magnificent in his arrogance! He would make a woman cry with pleasure if she was lucky enough to be chosen to lie in his arms! Yet all you can do, English sitt, is to——’

‘Enough!’ Sheikh Suliman El Khazir’s voice cracked like a whip from the main entrance to the tent, making Bethsheba jump out of her skin, her heart suddenly banging like a drum.

Khalisha gasped and turned. The sheikh’s approaching footsteps were accompanied by bitten- out words in Arabic, and then the shiraz rug was swept angrily aside.

‘No!’ Bethsheba cried instinctively, whirling to stare at his hard face, her hands up to protect herself from his searing gaze as he stopped dead, staring down at her almost nude body clothed only in transparent gold silk briefs.

There was an electric silence. She couldn’t look him in the face, her mouth open with shock, her hands shaking as she realised there was nowhere to hide herself from his burningly intense gaze.

Khalisha threw herself at his feet. He stood watching her, unmoved, and when she whispered her apologies to his dark leather boots he said something harsh in Arabic and lifted her to her feet with a strong hand. She gave a muffled sob, bowed to him, then ran from the tent, ankle bracelets jingling with tiny gold bells as she moved.

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