In Too Deep (9 page)

Adham shook his head. “Suffering in utmost discomfort doesn't matter, when one's waiting for the time to be finally right.”

She twisted to gaze into his eyes, and saw it again. The pure, unadulterated passion of the life-changing night when he'd possessed her.

He meant those words. He had been waiting for her to heal, the incredible—if terribly misguided—man.

And she felt her life begin. Finally. For real.

T
he drive to the Seven Oaks Farm passed in a haze.

All Sabrina felt was Adham sitting beside her, his body radiating command and control, all she saw was his sculpted profile, all she could appreciate was his profound beauty. The man was gorgeous down to his last hair and pore.

And all she wanted was to carry on where they'd left off when Sebastian had interrupted them. She'd thought he'd intended to when he'd decided to have Jameel chauffeur them in a limo. But with the barrier between driver and passenger compartments down, and his bodyguards preceding and following them in other cars, she felt exposed. And then, even if she didn't, she wouldn't have acted on the desires churning in her mind, frying her body.

She wouldn't have run her hand up his inner thigh, wouldn't have leaned over him to rub his hardness with her leg and catch his maddening lower lip in her teeth. She
had to face it. She was too inexperienced; she'd probably botch any seduction attempt. Worse, she was too shy to try, even if she was assured of the desired results. She still needed him to initiate their intimacies.

No such luck. He'd been inundated with one phone call after another since they'd entered the limo. She could only watch him, vibrating with his nearness, with ratcheting need. “
Zain, kaffa.
That's enough,” he growled under his breath as he ended the last call. “I'm turning the phone off. They'll have to live without me for a while.” He turned to her. “
Aassef, ya habibati.
So sorry for all this. There will be no more interruptions. So tell me. What do you know about polo?”

Heat rushed to her face at hearing him calling her “my love.” She'd memorized everything he'd said to her in his native tongue and investigated what it meant when he hadn't provided the translation. He'd called her that only once before—when he'd been deep in her, turning her inside out with pleasure.

She mumbled her answer. “Uh…not much.”

“Let me guess. A group of men galloping on horses, hitting a tiny ball around a huge field with sticks to catapult it between goal posts.” Her heat rose another notch in embarrassment. That was exactly how it seemed to her. The amused indulgence in his eyes poured fuel on her conflagration. “And you wouldn't be wrong. That's basically it. Want to know more about the sport and the events I'm going to be involved in for the next few weeks?”

“Please.” Her heart kicked with eagerness to know more of what he enjoyed, what made up his passions and occupations. “Tell me everything.”

Something she couldn't define came into in his eyes. He looked away for a moment, catching Jameel's eyes in
the front mirror. Before she could wonder, his eyes were back, snaring hers, wiping her mind clean of anything but her yearning for him.

“I started playing polo when I was eight.” Her heart melted inside her rib cage at imagining him at that age, the most beautiful boy, the strongest and smartest, already such an accomplished rider that he could excel in the fierce sport. “And I started breeding my own horses at sixteen. For the past ten years, I've played an integral role in every major polo tournament in the world, as sponsor, horse supplier and player. But I have a special interest in the one that takes place here every summer, especially since Sebastian took over after his father was diagnosed with cancer. For the past three weeks I've been commuting here for the preseason tournament, The Clearwater Media Cup, a run-up to the main season. Clearwater Media is the company Sebastian owns with Richard Wells, who's just become engaged to one of my best horse trainers, Catherine Lawson. Their engagement almost coincided with Sebastian's to his assistant, Julia.”

She wanted to blurt out, “And with our marriage.” But she hesitated, because it didn't feel real yet. She only said, “And the season hasn't even started yet.”

“This summer's tournament
is
going to be memorable. It's always high stakes with the world's best athletes competing for one of the sport's most treasured prizes amid the splendor of the Hamptons summer scene.” He suddenly cupped her face. “But this year it will be the best ever because you're here. With me.”

She almost fainted with the surge of emotions as she gazed helplessly into the molten translucence of his eyes.

A scratchy noise came from what felt like a mile away. She didn't realize what it was until Adham withdrew his
hand and sat back. Jameel's discreet cough, alerting them that they'd arrived.

She looked dazedly around. They'd stopped by a row of stables. There were people outside. Some seemed to be going about their business. Most seemed to be waiting for them. With cameras.

She turned to Adham, apprehension shooting up her spine. She didn't find him. Seconds later, he seemed to materialize at her other side. He helped her out and she stumbled up and into his containment as the glare and heat of the summer day and the cacophony of the newspeople bombarded her. He hugged her to his side as they walked inside the stables, preceded by rabidly eager faces, snapping photos and shouting questions.

Adham calmly confirmed the date of their marriage, and that it had been a private ceremony because of her father's condition. Then he nodded to Jameel, and bodyguards appeared as if out of nowhere, clearing their path of paparazzi.

There were still too many people inside the stables, too many eyes, all on Adham and her. She felt more vulnerable by the second under their scrutiny. She'd always hated attention. She'd realized she'd get more than ever now that she was Adham's wife, but realizing it was one thing. Experiencing it was another.

A tremor shot through her. Adham's arm tightened, making her feel he'd surrounded her with a protective force field, as if she were the most treasured thing on earth.

“I want you to meet my most important colleagues.”

Next second, all unease evaporated. It was replaced by wonder.

His horses. Or as they were called in polo, his ponies.

The sight of the mind-boggling collection of magnificent
animals had delight bubbling inside her at being so close to such a manifestation of primal grandeur and beauty.

Adham introduced her to each pony, telling her its name, breed, measurements, character, quirks and strengths on the field. And throughout, people came to salute him, awe for him as clear as their curiosity about her, the woman this desert prince and celebrity entrepreneur had picked to be his bride.

He accepted their congratulations, deflected their adulation and introduced her with supreme pride, then made it clear that he expected privacy to show his bride around.

Once everyone had retreated to an acceptable distance, Adham resumed his explanations. “My ponies travel with me wherever my team goes. Each member must have six to eight horses per game. But to make allowances for injuries and other crises, I transport around sixty to seventy horses during each season.”

Just when she thought she couldn't possibly see anything more perfect, he introduced her to his pride and joy, his prize ponies.

“Aswad and Layl, ‘black' and ‘night' in Arabic, are brothers. Their sire was Hallek, or ‘deepest dark,' my very first horse.”

She caressed one glossy velvet neck after another in wonder, flashing Adham a delighted smile. “Any relation, since your own name means ‘deepest black'?”

He let out a peal of laughter that had every head in the stables turning, relinquishing any attempt to appear as if they weren't intently watching their every move.

“My family always wondered if I have horse genes in me, the way I'm as one with them. But it's true that I feel like they're my kin, my children even. I oversaw the breeding
of each and every one of my ponies myself, followed their lives since before they were born.”

“You do share all of their unrivaled magnificence.”

At her fervent statement, his eyes flared. He plunged his fingers into the mass of curls at the back of her head, cupped her neck in his large palm as he crowded her against Aswad. “It's your magnificence that can't be rivaled,
ya jameelati.
”

At the periphery of her fogging awareness, she heard a whirring sound. It was only when Adham removed his hand and shifted his eyes to the source of disturbance that she realized what it had been. One of the paparazzi had managed to slip by the bodyguards.

Adham glared at him. The guy only grinned, taking more photos. Adham advanced on him and the thin, seedy-looking guy clambered back out of the stables.

Sabrina put her hand on Adham's clenched forearm. “Aswad and Layl are Arabian?”

He looked back at her, the knowledge that she was trying to defuse the situation filling his eyes.

He let her have her wish, visibly relaxed, smiled. “All my ponies are purebred Arabian stallions and mares. You can tell by this.” He ran his hand lovingly down Layl's head. The horse nuzzled him back in delight and affection. She knew exactly how he felt. “A refined, wedge-shaped head.” He grabbed her closer, pressing his length to her back, running his hands down her arms until he entwined their fingers before he raised her hands so they could caress each feature of Layl he mentioned.

“They also have a broad forehead, large eyes and nostrils, small muzzles, an arched neck and a high tail carriage. Most have a slight forehead bulge, what we call
jibbah
in Khumayrah.” He guided her fingertips in investigating the protrusion. “It's an enlargement of their sinuses that
helps them weather our desert climate. And with compact bodies and short backs, even small Arabians can carry heavy riders with ease. They're known for stamina and courage. But I've never known a horse with half of Aswad's and Layl's endurance and fearlessness. I ride them in games at critical times. They play to win.”

By now she was feeling he'd explored every inch of
her
body. Then he made it even worse, turned her to him. “The season's tournaments are played on six consecutive Saturdays and proceeds benefit charities. A match lasts about two hours, divided into six ‘chukkers,' seven minutes each. During half time, spectators indulge in the social tradition of divot stomping, or evening out the ground for the players.”

His informative discourse clashed with the hunger in his eyes, the coveting in his touch. Her state was only ameliorated when he gave her space to breathe, to play with the horses.

Then he hugged her off the ground, pressing his lips to her neck. “How about we meet my biped friends now?”

She twisted around and looked up at him. The solitary dimple in his cheek had her heart revving like a car with its accelerator pedal floored.

“Only if you promise I can see your ponies again.” She sounded as if she'd been running a mile.

“I promise you anything you want, whenever you want it.” She wanted to cry out that she wanted only one thing—him. “Everyone must be at the VIP tent, and I'm certain they can't wait to meet you. They're a great group of people. My friends are, anyway. These tournaments are celebrity populated, and they can be a magnet for all kinds.”

She nodded. She knew only too well what kind of people were attracted to fame and fortune.

He hugged her to his side again, leading her out to the tent.

She searched for something to say. Preferably something intelligent this time. She'd been a swooning idiot in his arms so far, and a giddy child with his horses. “So, what makes a good polo player?”

His eyes crinkled with pleasure at her attempt to engage him. “The ability to ride like a desert raider, to hit the ball like a medieval knight and to work the game like a champion chess player all while someone is trying to beat your knees off.”

“Yikes!” He threw his head back at her alarm, letting out a guffaw of sheer amusement. She leaned deeper into his body, delighting in having his large, solid form pressing against her again. “Have you ever been injured?”

“Injuries are part of such an intense contact sport where the competition has always been dubbed ‘bruising.'”

Her heart pounded. “But that's it, right? The worst of it is bruises?”

His eyes stilled on hers. With doubt? Disbelief?

Next second she saw nothing in them but indulgence. She must have imagined what she'd thought she'd seen. “The more experienced a player is, the fewer injuries he'll have. Sometimes everyone gets away with nothing, sometimes with a few bruises, but there's always the possibility of a more lasting souvenir. Injuries throughout polo history ranged from lacerations to fractures to brain injury to death. The worst injuries happen if a saddle breaks, or ponies collide at top speed, or someone gets thrown off.”

“Oh, God.” Her stomach squeezed into her throat as she imagined him sustaining an injury—or worse.

Her heart contracted violently with the need to beg him to never play again. But she couldn't voice her plea. She didn't feel like his wife for real yet. Not that she believed
spouses could interfere in each other's passions anyway. And then she was certain he was careful, in control of his game.

But what if…?

She couldn't bear it. She had to articulate her dread, to make sense of it all. “But if there are such risks, why play?”

He shrugged. “Life is filled with risks. People who are totally safe are already dead.”

“But you're super careful, right? No saddles of yours can break, and you always watch out for rabid antagonists?”

Again his eyes took on that enigmatic cast. “If you're asking if I'm a risk taker, I'm anything but. I'm a planner. A strategist. I set a goal, put everything in motion and invariably see my plans through to fruition.” Suddenly an edge of harshness flashed in his gaze as he added, “But then, so do you.”