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at night.
She glanced in the mirror, barely recognising the white face staring back at her. She found her black swimsuit, deeming it more suitable than her bikini, unaware of how it accentuated her curves, flattering her slim shape, drawing attention to the valley between her breasts, the silky sheen of her skin. As she pulled it on she realised that in the move from Kuwait she had forgotten to buy herself a fresh supply of salt tablets. She shrugged. It hardly mattered now. She would not be here much longer—just as long as it took Raschid to read Faisal’s letter. She did not think he would allow her to stay under his roof one moment more than necessary, birthday celebrations or no!
Although he might not know it, Raschid had won. How ironic that it should be Faisal who was responsible for his victory; the same Faisal who had sent her out here in the first place to win his uncle over. It seemed that Raschid had known Faisal far better than she had done.
It was hot outside, away from the protective shelter of the house. The pool shimmered under the bright sun. Felicia dived in, the water like cool silk against her heated skin. She swam a couple of lengths, then turned over to float luxuriously on her back, her hair a bright cloud of molten fire against the vivid blue of the water. She closed her eyes, letting her tense muscles relax. In the distance she could hear voices raised in angry protest, but they faded and then there was only the benevolent heat of the sun and the soothing slap of the water against the sides of the pool.
As she lay there she wondered idly why neither Nadia nor Zahra used the pool, and then dismissed the thought, as she struck out for the far side in a lazy crawl.
She trod water for a few seconds, trying to find the energy to haul herself out. Her eyes stung from the chlorine in the water and she closed them, rubbing them with one hand.
Someone grasped her arms, hauling her unceremoniously out of the water, to stand at the side of the pool dripping moisture on to soft leather boots.
Her eyes travelled upwards. Wide trousers were tucked into the boots, a dark cloak flung back from broad shoulders.
‘Miss Gordon!’
‘Raschid!’ Awareness shivered through her. Was this it? Was he going to tell her that she was going home?
She forced herself to look up into his face. His expression was forbidding, his mouth tight, although whether with distaste or anger she could not tell.
‘I was on my way to the stables when I saw you here.’
Felicia gritted her teeth, willing him to get to the point. Tears were not very far away, but she comforted herself with the knowledge that after today she would probably never need to endure his anger again. Oddly, it brought her no relief.
‘What were you doing in the pool?’
She stared at him. ‘Do I have to have your permission before I can swim now?’
His glance impaled her, sending sharp splinters of apprehension through her trembling body. Her wrap was on the other side of the pool, and she glanced helplessly at it, wishing for its admittedly frail protection against the steely thrust of his eyes.
Even the doves seemed to have ceased their endless cooing and in the unnerving silence she felt sure he must hear the frightened thudding of her heart. His eyes searched her face, looking for she knew not what, and then, as though satisfied, he smiled coolly.
‘I have been looking for you. I wish to speak to you.’
Of course he did. He wanted to gloat over Faisal’s defection, no doubt.
Head held high, she refused to let him see how she felt. ‘I’ll go and get changed, and….’
He forestalled her, his touch on her deceptively light. ‘I think not. What I wish to say to you requires privacy, and where better than here in the seclusion of this courtyard, where none will disturb us, since it is my own private domain.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘YOURS?’
The word trembled between them, as Raschid inclined his head in sardonic acknowledgement.
‘In my country, Miss Gordon, a woman does not flaunt herself unclad before male eyes—but I have already told you this. This pool and courtyard are part of my own private quarters—but then I’m sure you know that already.’
What on earth was he accusing her of now? Despite his suave manner Felicia had the distinct impression that he was battling with overpowering rage, and yet she could not understand why this should be so.
‘I’m sorry if I intruded into your private domain,’ she apologised stiffly, but he swept the words aside, his mouth twisting contemptuously.
‘Oh, come, you can do better than that. It seems that I owe you an apology for the other night, and opportunist that you are, I’m sure you are aware that I would have to seek you out to tender it. Where better than here, where we could not be disturbed; where the enticement of your unclad body can tempt my instincts to overrule my common sense? I am a man as any other, Miss Gordon, and no more immune than they to the charms you so provocatively display, in that apology for a swimsuit.’
A note of iron had entered his voice as his glance burned over her, but it was lost on the girl standing at his side, filled with a growing indignation and longing only to be free of the smooth voice and its hateful insinuation. She forgot about Faisal and his letter, and why she had assumed that Raschid had sought her out, and demanded,
‘Are you suggesting that I deliberately came down here to entice you?’ Incredulity sharpened her normally soft voice, but Raschid seemed unaware of her heated cheeks and flashing eyes. His mouth curled cynically.
‘Are you suggesting that you did not?’ He shook his head. ‘There is no need for pretence between us, Miss Gordon.’ He lowered his head suddenly, grasping a handful of half damp hair and twisting it round his hand, imprisoning her.
As she struggled his grip tightened inexorably, propelling her towards him until there was nothing between them but the flimsy barrier of her swimsuit, and not even that where it plunged seductively to reveal the taut thrust of her breasts.
Her muffled protest was lost. She could feel the heat coming off Raschid’s skin. She arched desperately away from him, but his strength was the greater and her tired muscles were forced to concede victory and allow him to draw her slender body against the hard length of his own. Muscle for muscle he overpowered her, her body losing its fight to reject the punishing familiarity of his. His shirt was open, allowing him to hold her captive against his golden skin, her senses swimming with the emotions she was fighting to control.
Useless to protest that she had never been held so close to any man before, or that the intimacy he was forcing upon her with the hard arrogance of his body was a violation of her innocence, because she knew he was beyond all reason.
As his hands slid the straps of her swimsuit from her shoulders she cried a protest, embarrassed colour flooding her cheeks as he stepped back to look down at her unprotected body. Her hands went instinctively to shield her breasts, but he grasped her wrists, looking his fill until her skin was on fire with rage and humiliation.
‘Charming, but not necessary,’ he drawled, plainly amused. ‘Faisal may have been deceived by that air of mock modesty, but you waste it on me, Miss Gordon.’
‘Miss Gordon!’ Felicia swallowed mounting hysteria. Dear God, he had the audacity to treat her body as though it were just another of his possessions, and yet he still called her ‘Miss Gordon’!
Stiff as a figure of marble in the circle of the arms Raschid clamped round her, she tilted her own head upwards to meet the sardonic mockery she knew would be written in his eyes.
‘You have a strange way of apologising, Sheikh Raschid!’ She was trembling with fury, but he barely spared her flushed face a glance; his eyes rested on the fragile bones of her shoulders, his mouth traced a downward path that spelled destruction to her self-control.
‘You think