Never Seduce a Sheikh (International Bad Boys Book 2) (9 page)

Belly dancers.

The women took up their positions and then, as the music began, they danced, stamping their feet, hips moving to the beat, their armsa graceful curve above their head. The dancers were beautiful, scarves whirling around their lush bodies, the undulation of their hips an inherently sensual movement. The assembled tribesmen began to respond, smiling and laughing, clapping and cheering.

Lily felt her whole body tense, a sense of threat closing in on her. The men were watching the women and she could see the lust in their faces. She knew what they wanted. What men always wanted from women—sex. And these men, men in positions of power, they would take it. Because that’s what those kind of men always did.

Words of warning flooded her mouth, because the dancers didn’t seem to be afraid. They didn’t see the threat. They were smiling, teeth white against golden skin, dark eyes flashing with sensual promise. Almost as if they were enjoying themselves.

One of them pulled up one of the older chiefs to dance, everyone in their vicinity cheering, and Lily wanted to get up and stop her. Ask her if she knew what she was doing. Ask her if she understood that men such as these could not be trusted.

“What is wrong?” Isma’il’s voice close to her ear.

A shiver went through her, intensifying the sense of threat, paralyzing her. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t find her voice to speak. The dancers were beautiful. Sensual.

Sexual.

“Don’t blame me for this, Lil.” Dan’s voice heavy with drunken anger. “It’s your own damn fault, wandering around in a wet swimsuit half the time. Everything on show. I’m not bloody made of stone you know.”

“Lily?” Isma’il asked, softer this time.

The dancer stopped next to her, holding out a hand. The woman was smiling, obviously enjoying herself. Utterly comfortable with her sensuality. As if there was nothing wrong with being nearly naked in a tent full of men.

“She wants you to dance,” Isma’il prompted.

Panic flooded through Lily, a primitive fight or flight reflex triggering. She couldn’t get up there before all these men. She couldn’t put herself on show like that. The dancers may not know what men were capable of but she was. She knew exactly.

Lily surged to her feet. But not to take the hand the woman held out.

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” she said hoarsely. “Please excuse me.”

Then she turned and walked out of the tent.

*     *     *

Isma’il only just
stopped himself from calling out after her as Lily fled. To do so would make him appear weak, not to mention indicate the fact that something was amiss and he could not do either in front of the chiefs. But he could see the frowns registering on the men’s faces at Lily’s abrupt exit. To leave in the middle of a banquet without even an excuse or a request for permission was disrespectful. They would see it as disrespect for their ruler too.

The dancer looked confused. To have her invitation refused was rude and the girl clearly didn’t expect it.

Allowing no trace of his anger to show, Isma’il smoothly handled the situation, reassuring the dancer and excusing Lily’s behaviour to the chiefs. The heat, gentlemen. Westerners are unused to it, ladies in particular. This seemed to be acceptable and the dancing continued, discussion resuming. No harm done for the moment.

He rose to his feet, making sure to keep the movement measured, controlling the fury that burned inside him. Hadn’t he told her what was expected of her just before the banquet? Hadn’t she listened to a word he said?

Leaving the tent himself was not ideal, but he had to get Lily to return to present her apologies for her rudeness. Not to do so would be noted and held against her, jeopardizing the goodwill of the chiefs and putting into doubt Harkness’ suitability for the contract. He could not let that happen. Not only would it reflect badly on him, but then he would be left with two other contenders who, if he were totally honest with himself, did not compare with Harkness. And that wasn’t only due to his growing attraction to Harkness’s beautiful CEO.

Isma’il stepped outside the tent. A couple of his security team came to attention, but he waved them away, scanning around for Lily’s tall figure. Eventually, he spotted her not far away, near the little stand of palms at the center of the camp, her head bent.

He walked over to her, keeping the anger inside, the fury very carefully at bay.

“You left.” It came out harsh but he made no attempt to soften his voice. “Did I not tell you that you need to remain in the tent for the duration of the banquet?”

“I’m sorry.” Her usual cool tones sounded worn and frayed. “I just . . . needed some air.”

An excuse. His anger leapt and he took a step towards her, unable to stop himself. “It is not me you need to apologize to. Your departure was rude and disrespectful and has undone the good impression you made earlier.”

Her mouth tightened, the skin drawn tight over her lovely features. “Did I offend the dancer?”

“You offended everyone.”

Abruptly, she looked away and in the light coming from the tent, he saw color burning on the pale skin of her cheeks. “I’ll apologize.”

“Of course you will. And you will also explain yourself to me. Because you are not the only one who has been made to look bad by your actions.”

“I don’t have to give you any—”

“I will have an explanation, Lily, and I will have it now.”

The color on her cheeks burned brighter, the cool mask she so often wore slipping to reveal something dark glittering in her eyes. Anger. “I didn’t like the dancing,” she said, the words clipped and short. “I just . . . ” she stopped, her mouth closing with a snap as if she’d said too much.

He stared at her, not understanding. “Why would the dancing offend you? You have belly dancers in the West do you not?”

“Yes but the way those men were looking at them. Those women were just objects to be leered at and lusted after.” Her jaw tightened. “I didn’t like it and I didn’t want to be part of it.”

He tried to contain his anger, keep it within the iron boundaries of his control. “You are self-righteous, Ms. Harkness. The men in that tent were not treating those dancers as objects. Yes, they were enjoying the dancers’ beauty, but they were also admiring their skill. Grabbing or touching, or leering is considered shameful. Unlike men in the West.”

Her lashes came down, veiling her gaze. But not before he saw something else lurking in her eyes. Something that looked like fear.

Unthinking, he took another step towards her. “This is not just about the dancing is it? There is more to it than that.”

Lily folded her arms across her chest, turning her face away. She said nothing.

“Your explanation,” he ordered. “Give it to me.”

For a long moment she didn’t move. Then her shoulders went back and her chin lifted. Her head turned, dark eyes meeting his like a prize-fighter measuring up a challenger.

“You want an explanation? Very well. Years ago, I was assaulted.” Her voice was hard, flat and emotionless. “Sexually assaulted to be exact. So forgive me if I find women being objectified by a room full of men a little difficult to handle.”

Icy shock slid down his spine. A man had hurt her. In a way a man should never hurt a woman. A way a man should never hurt anyone.

His anger, already hot, leapt like a bonfire doused with petrol, the darkness rising behind his eyes, demanding blood. The blood of her attacker.

“Who?” His voice had gone hoarse, violence like acid in his blood. “Who did that to you? How? When?”

“My swimming coach. I was sixteen.” She threw out the facts in hard little bursts, like bullets. “The night I won my gold medal. He’d had too much to drink at the celebration party. He tried to kiss me and when I said no, he forced me to kiss him.” Her expression was tight but she didn’t hesitate or flinch. “Then, he touched me.”

Isma’il’s fingers curled into fists at his sides and he couldn’t seem to get a handle on the rage that gripped him. Her coach. A man she was supposed to trust. A man who’d done this . . . this thing to her. A sixteen-year-old girl.

How old had he been when his father had beaten him? Fifteen. Another man in a position of trust abusing that trust. A man in a position of power.

Like you. When you pushed her against the wall. When you touched her without asking.

A burst of self-loathing went through him. The knowledge of what had happened to her made his behaviour at the palace the night even more inexcusable.

Why should that surprise you? You know what you’re capable of.

Isma’il pushed the thought away. “Did he—”

“Rape me?” she finished. The words sounded shocking in the night air. Clear and cold and utterly detached. “No. He was interrupted and I managed to get away.”

That she’d been spared rape did nothing to lessen the rage pushing at the borders of his control, or dim the instinctive need to protect her. Because, people who were vulnerable needed protection. The way someone should have protected him.

“I touched you,” he said roughly. “Last night. Is that why you were afraid?”

“No, of course not.” Her dark eyes held no emotion whatsoever. “The assault was years ago, Sheikh. Obviously, some things are a little difficult to handle, but I can assure you, a repeat like this evening won’t happen again.” She stood there, shoulders back like a soldier. “Shall we go in? I have some apologies I need to make.”

*     *     *

Isma’il didn’t reply
nor did he move. He stood in front of her, powerful in his desert robes, and the look on his face . . . Uncivilized and harsh, raw fury glittering in his blue eyes.

Perhaps, she should have been afraid of him. Yet she wasn’t. She felt nothing at all.

She’d never told another living soul about Dan, not even her father. She’d been too ashamed. Blaming herself for not protesting more, for not fighting more. And after the shame had worn off, she’d just wanted to forget. Never think of it again.

For twelve years that had worked. Until she’d come to Dahar. Until she’d met Isma’il.

Telling him had been like flinging down a gauntlet. As if the cold, hard facts of what had happened to her could reduce the intensity of the emotions that had overwhelmed her. Stripping the memories of their power. That way, she could pretend it had happened to some other person. Some other woman. But the anger burning in the depths of his eyes was not on some other woman’s behalf. It was for her.

“Don’t,” she said curtly. “Don’t be angry. It’s got nothing to do with you. It was a long time ago and in another life.” If she said enough times it would be true.

“Lily . . . ”

“I would prefer it if we didn’t speak of this again, Sheikh.” She didn’t make it a request. “I didn’t tell you so I could discuss it in detail. I told you because you demanded an explanation. Because I don’t want to offend these people or put you in a difficult position. Or put the oil deal in doubt.” She met his gaze. “So, now that you have your explanation, could we please move on?”

For a long moment she though he’d push it, but he remained silent, staring at her. Then he stood abruptly to one side, held out a hand towards the banquet tent, exquisitely formal. “Certainly. After you.”

The rest of
the banquet passed without incident.

She buried the anger she felt. Anger at herself for letting Dan and what he’d done to her affect something as important as this oil deal. She put all her efforts into regaining the ground she’d lost by leaving so precipitously, making her personal apologies to each and every one of the chiefs present, including the dancers. She thought it made a difference.

She would even have been satisfied with her progress if it hadn’t been for Isma’il.

Because things had changed between them, she’d sensed it as soon as they’d returned to the tent. No longer charming and teasing, his manner became distant. Formal. The way he looked at her guarded. Watchful. Like a shepherd over a lamb.

Whenever one of the dancers came close, he somehow managed to divert them away from her. And whenever one of the chiefs became too blunt in the questions directed to her, he would step in, smoothly changing the subject. Protecting her.