Heart of the Desert. Carol MarinelliЧитать онлайн книгу.
The wind screeched a warning and Ibrahim knew when he was beaten. ‘We will stay till it passes. I think we are here for the night.’
They headed back out to the lounge area and he stood as she roamed, watched her expression as she looked at the wall-hanging, as her little fingers picked up priceless heirlooms and weighed them. He would never have planned this. Would never have brought her here if he’d known they would be alone.
Her cheeks were pink from the sun and her arms just a little bit burnt. Her clothes were grubby and her hair wild from the sand and the wind. And how he wanted her … Though he would not defy the desert. He would follow the rules—but his way.
Ibrahim did not have to chase. All he had was the thrill of the catch. He had never had to want or wait, had never been said no to – except once.
And here she was.
With him tonight.
About the Author
CAROL MARINELLI recently filled in a form where she was asked for her job title and was thrilled, after all these years, to be able to put down her answer as ‘writer’.
Then it asked what Carol did for relaxation and, after chewing her pen for a moment, Carol put down the truth—‘writing’. The third question asked, ‘What are your hobbies?’ Well, not wanting to look obsessed or, worse still, boring, she crossed the fingers on her free hand and answered ‘swimming and tennis’. But, given that the chlorine in the pool does terrible things to her highlights, and the closest she’s got to a tennis racket in the last couple of years is watching the Australian Open, I’m sure you can guess the real answer!
Carol also writes for Mills & Boon® Medical™ Romance!
Heart of
the Desert
Carol Marinelli
MILLS & BOON
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CHAPTER ONE
‘LET’s try somewhere else.’
Georgie had known that there was no chance of getting into the exclusive London club.
She hadn’t even wanted to try.
If the truth be known, Georgie would far rather be home in bed, but it was Abby’s birthday. The rest of their friends had drifted off and Abby didn’t want her special day to end just yet. She seemed quite content to stand in the impossible queue, watching the rich and famous stroll in as the doorman kept them behind a thick red rope.
‘Let’s stay. It’s fun just watching,’ Abby said as a limousine pulled up and a young socialite stepped out. ‘Oh, look at her dress! I’m going to take a photo.’
The paparazzi’s cameras lit up the street as the young woman waited and a middle-aged actor joined her, both posing for the cameras. Georgie shivered in her strappy dress and high-heeled sandals, though she chatted away to her friend, determined not to be a party pooper, because Abby had been so looking forward to this night.
The doorman walked down the line, as he did occasionally, and Georgie rather hoped he was going to tell them to all just give up and go home. Yet there was more purpose in his step this time and Georgie suddenly realised he was walking directly towards them… Her hands moved to smooth her blonde hair in a nervous gesture as he approached, worried they had done something wrong, that perhaps photos weren’t allowed.
‘Come through, ladies.’ He pulled open the rope and both women glanced at each other, unsure what was happening. ‘I’m so sorry, we didn’t realise you were in the queue.’
As she opened her mouth to speak, to ask just who he thought that they were, Georgie felt the nudge of Abby’s fingers in her ribs. ‘Just walk.’
The whole queue had turned and was now watching them, trying to guess who they were. A camera flashed and when one did, the rest followed, the photographers assuming that they must be somebodies as the heavy glass doors were opened and they entered the exclusive club.
‘This is the best birthday ever!’ Abby was beside herself with excitement but Georgie loathed the spotlight and the scrutiny it placed on her, though it wasn’t only that that had her heart hammering in her chest as they were led through a dark room to a very prominent table. There was a tightening in her throat and a strange sinking feeling in her stomach as she fathomed that this might not be a mistake on the doorman’s part.
Mistakes like this just did not happen.
And there was only one person in the world she could think of who might be at this place. One person she knew who had the power to open impossible doors. The one person she had tried for months not to think of. One man she would do her utmost to avoid.
‘Again—our apologies, Miss Anderson.’ Her thoughts were confirmed as the waiter used what he thought was her name and a bottle of champagne appeared. Georgie sat down, her cheeks on fire, scared to look up, to look over to the man approaching, because she knew that when she did it would be to him. ‘Ibrahim has asked that we take care of you.’
So now there was no avoiding him. She willed a bland reaction, told her heart to slow down, her body to calm—hoped against hope that she could deliver a cool greeting. Georgie lifted her eyes, and even as she managed a small smile, even if she did appear in control, inside every cell jolted, with nerves and unexpected relief.
Relief because, despite denial, despite insisting to herself otherwise, still she wanted him so.
‘Georgie.’ The sound of his voice after all this time, the hint of an accent despite his well-schooled intonation, made her stomach flip and fold as she stood to greet him—and for a moment she was back there, back in Zaraq, back in his arms. ‘It has been a long time.’ He was clearly just leaving. On his arm a woman as blonde as herself flashed a possessive warning with her eyes, which Georgie heeded.
‘It has been a while.’ Her voice was a touch higher than the one she would have chosen had she had any say in it. ‘How are you?’
‘Well,’ Ibrahim said, and he looked it. Despite all she had read about him, despite the excesses of his lifestyle. He was taller than she remembered, or was he just a touch thinner? His features a little more savage. His raven hair was longer than she remembered, but even at two a.m. it fell in perfect shape. His black eyes roamed in assessment, just as they had that day, and then he waited for her gaze to meet his and somehow he won the unvoiced race because, just as had happened on that first day, she could not stop looking.
His mouth had not changed. Had she had only one feature to identify him by, if the police somehow formed an identity parade of lips, she could, without hesitation, have walked up and chosen her culprit. For, in contrast to his sculpted features, his mouth was soft, with full lips that a long time ago had spread