Promised to a Sheik (15 page)

She didn't feel as if they were just making love; rather, she felt as if they were rejuvenating the marriage vows they had taken. She felt as if they were reaching across the chasm that had separated them for the past week.

“You are a beguiling love slave,” he whispered as his mouth left hers to trail down the length of her neck.

He increased the rhythm of his hips against hers, and she met him thrust for thrust as new need welled up inside her.

She clutched at his back, and whatever control he'd still maintained seemed to break. He groaned, and his movements became frenzied, his strokes shorter and faster.

Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. She tried to cry out his name, but the sensations were too intense to allow speech.

He whispered her name as he stiffened against her. She felt him spilling into her, and she hoped they'd make a baby right now, at this moment.

Afterward he rolled to the side of her, his breathing slowly resuming a more normal rhythm. He didn't look at her, but stared up at the ceiling.

A renewed flutter of pain swept through her as she felt his emotional distance. Apparently there was to be none of the afterglow hugging and kissing, whispering and caressing that they'd always enjoyed.

She leaned up on her elbow, gazing at his handsome but stern countenance. How she wished she could place a smile on his features, see his eyes deepen with gentleness, watch his entire face light up with love.

But there was a forbidding harshness to his features that held her at bay. “Is there anything else my husband would like his love slave to do for him?” she asked with a forced lightness in her tone.

He turned his head, his gaze lingering on her for a moment. In the depth of his impossibly dark eyes she tried to find a hint of any positive emotion. But there was nothing warm, nothing tender, nothing yielding there.

“I have no further need of you for the evening,” he said as he sat up and grabbed his robe. “It's been a long day and I'm just going to retire to my bed.” He stood. “I'll see you in the morning.”

As he left the living area and disappeared into the master suite, Cara wondered if he had any idea how his callous dismissal of her cut through her very soul.

She stood, feeling vulnerable and stupidly naked, and quickly grabbed for the pieces of the belly dancing costume. It had certainly achieved its purpose,
having seduced Omar into making love to her once again.

But she had wanted so much more. She had wanted their lovemaking to lead to his forgiveness. She'd wanted it to remind him of all she could give him, would give him as his wife.

As she put the pillows back where they belonged, then carried the dishes to the kitchen, she wondered how long she would be cast in the role of love slave? When would he decide that she had done enough penance?

What if he
never
forgave her? What if he intended to have her play the role of love slave for the rest of their married lives?

Could she do that? Could she let him take his physical pleasure from her and offer her nothing more? Could that ever be enough for her?

Where's your self-respect?
a voice whispered in the back of her head. She recognized the voice. It wasn't her own, but Fiona's.

Cara knew that her sister would never allow a man to treat her the way Omar had treated Cara for the past week. But Fiona hadn't lied…and Fiona didn't love Omar. Did she, Cara, love Omar enough to continue to be satisfied with only her husband's physical desire for her and nothing more?

 

“Sir, we just got word that Commander Westin has been taken by the enemy and is being held about twenty-five miles from here.” The soldier stood at attention in front of where Luke sat at a desk.

At the news, Luke stood, shocked. “Do we have any other details?” he asked tersely.

The young soldier shook his head. “That's all we know at this time.”

“Thank you, that will be all.” Luke dismissed the soldier, needing time to digest, time to assess.

He and a band of soldiers had spent weeks in the jungle, fighting terrorists, attempting to gain ground. After those weeks, exhausted and filthy, they had returned to the military base where they now had been for two days.

Luke eased back into his chair, frowning as he thought of Phillip Westin in the hands of the enemy. Phillip Westin was not just a commander, but a friend, a man who had once saved Luke's life.

It had been during the Gulf War. Luke and four of his buddies—Ricky Mercado, Tyler Murdoch, Flynt Carson and Spence Harrison—had been on a mission, spying on an enemy camp.

Somehow, a round of ammunition had inadvertently gone off in Tyler's gear and the five of them had been captured. They had been held for six weeks. Half-starved and given just enough water to keep them alive, the men had stared their own mortality in the face.

Phillip Westin had orchestrated a daring rescue and had managed to get all of them out of there alive, creating a lasting bond among them.

And now Phillip was in trouble and Luke would do everything in his power for the man he cared about and respected, the man who had once saved his life.

His mind worked to develop a plan of attack, and the first man he thought of to aid him in attempting a rescue of Phillip was Tyler Murdoch.

Luke knew Murdoch had a reputation as a lone wolf, but he was a tough man and a bomb expert, and Luke knew those qualities would come in handy on a job like this. Besides, Murdoch owed Phillip his life, too.

Luke stood, energized with determination. He'd see that Tyler was brought in, he'd find out as much as he could about Westin's exact location and condition; then it was time for action. Time to pay back a debt.

O
mar fought off irritation and tried to concentrate on the physical pleasure of his wife massaging his back with sensual oil.

For the past two nights, she'd been at his beck and call. Wearing breathtakingly sexy belly-dancing costumes, she'd played the role of harem girl, dancing for him, pleasuring him in a thousand ways and making love to him.

Tonight she had met him at the door wearing a deep purple outfit that had absolutely stunned him. The dark, plush color had brought out the lush creaminess of her skin tones and made her eyes seem impossibly green.

It had been late when he'd come in, long after dinner and just before his usual bedtime. He'd assumed she would already have retired to her room, but she'd greeted him at the door and offered him a back massage.

Most men would revel in his position. He was a powerful, wealthy sheik in charge of a prosperous, peaceful country. His wife was a credit to him in all public appearances and a superb lover in privacy.

However, Omar wasn't satisfied. In fact, with each
passing day he grew more dissatisfied—and he knew the reason. While he had certainly been drawn to Cara's physical attractiveness and sensual nature, he'd also enjoyed her intelligence, her quick wit and her laughter during the weeks that he hadn't known the truth about her identity.

And those were all of the things his anger had deprived him of. The problem was, he still wanted to hang on to his anger toward her. The lie she had perpetrated on him was immense, and he refused to find forgiveness in his heart.

Still, anger was difficult to maintain beneath the gentle massage of her warm hands and with her perfume wafting in the air.

She straddled his back on the large master bed, and each time she worked her hands up to his shoulders, her upper body made warm contact with his.

He wanted her again. Despite the fact that they'd made love last night and the night before, he wanted her again with an intensity that surprised him.

“That's enough,” he said. “If you relax me any more I shall be asleep, and I'm not ready to sleep yet.”

She scooted off him and left the bed, and he turned over on his back and looked at her. The purple harem outfit transformed her from beautiful into stunning. It displayed her physical attributes to perfection.

But when had her eyes lost their brilliant sparkle? When had her features become so drawn, so utterly lifeless? For just a moment, a brief moment, sadness
flooded him as he looked at her unsmiling countenance.

“I'm glad you aren't ready to sleep yet, Omar, because we need to talk.”

Instantly his defenses kicked in. He sat up and eyed her through narrowed eyes. “I can't think of anything we would need to talk about.”

She held his gaze steadily. “We need to talk about us.”

He frowned and got out of the bed, summoning the anger that was never far from the surface. He pulled on his robe, then looked at her again. “There's nothing to discuss,” he said.

Her chin lifted, and for the first time that evening sparks appeared in her eyes. “Perhaps you have nothing to say on the subject, but I have some things to say.”

“That doesn't mean I have to listen,” he replied, and stalked into the bathroom.

But she refused to allow his escape, and followed him to the shower, where he started the water running in a steamy stream.

“For heaven's sake, Omar, how long do you intend to continue to punish me?”

He didn't answer her, but stripped off his robe and stepped into the shower. He remained beneath the hot water for a long time in an attempt to tamp down the desire that had roared through him minutes earlier, also recognizing that he was using the shower as an escape from a conversation he didn't want to have.

But he had underestimated her determination.
When he shut off the water and stepped from the shower confines, she stood in front of him, a towel in hand.

“Please, Omar, just listen to what I have to say.” Her eyes held an appeal he found difficult to resist.

“Speak your mind, then be done with it,” he exclaimed as he dried off, then pulled on his pajama bottoms. He left the bathroom with her following right behind him.

“Come with me to the breakfast nook. I'll make us some coffee. I'm begging you, Omar. Just a few minutes of your time.”

He sighed and raked a hand through his damp hair. “All right,” he relented. It was probably better that they talk in the kitchen rather than in the bedroom, which was filled with memories of a happier time.

He followed her to the huge kitchen and sat at the table in the breakfast nook, watching as she moved across the room to the coffeemaker.

If it weren't for the placing of the beauty mark on her face, he never would have known that she wasn't Elizabeth Fiona. If he hadn't realized the truth himself, would she never have told him? Had she just assumed that he would never learn the truth?

Once again anger roared through him. Had her deception been the result of bored jet-setting sisters plotting a little fun at his expense? He couldn't imagine what had possessed her to play such a game, or how he had been so blinded by her seeming innocence.

By the time she placed a cup of coffee in front of him and joined him across the table, his anger was as
rich and bold as it had been the night of the celebration dance when he'd first discovered the truth.

She was nervous. She licked her lower lip twice, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached for her cup. Instead of taking a sip of the hot brew, she wrapped her fingers around the cup, as if needing the warmth to calm her.

“Omar, I have done a terrible thing,” she began. “And I'd give anything in this world if I could go back and undo it, but I can't.”

She paused, as if waiting for him to say something, anything, but he didn't speak. He took a sip of his coffee and continued to gaze at her.

Her cheeks pinkened and she gazed down at the tabletop for a moment, then looked at him once again, a hint of tears in her beautiful eyes. “I tried to tell you the truth before we got married. But every time I managed to get up my nerve, something else would interfere.”

“If you had wanted me to know the truth, you would have found the time and place to tell me,” he responded coolly.

Again her cheeks stained with color. “You're right,” she finally said. “But you quoted words from my letters back to me. You made me believe you'd fallen in love with the woman who had written those letters, and I had already fallen in love with you.”

So at least one of the questions he'd entertained had been answered. The letters that had touched him had been written by her, not the woman he'd thought to make his bride.

“I told you, Omar, that what I did was terrible,” she continued. She stood abruptly and began to pace the floor in front of the table, tears once again gleaming in her eyes. “I had been hidden in the shadow of Fiona for most of my life. You have no idea what it's like to grow up with a twin who is so bright, so beautiful and desirable.”

She paused and drew a deep breath, her voice softer as she continued. “I'm not trying to make excuses for what I did, but I do want to try to explain.”

“The reasons that drove you are unimportant,” he replied, refusing to be moved by anything she might say.

“Perhaps they are unimportant to you, Omar, but they are important to me.” She sank back into the chair opposite him. “When you first showed up at my cottage, I was stunned, and I told myself there was no real harm in having just one meal with you. Then I walked into that private dining room that you had filled with flowers, and I realized I was in love with you.”

Despite his intention to the contrary, her words slipped through his anger to pierce his heart. He got up from the table, needing to distance himself, needing to break eye contact with her, for in her eyes he saw her heart.

“What I did by keeping the truth from you was wrong, Omar,” she exclaimed, the sound of a sob rising in her voice. “But I did it because I loved you and I was so afraid that if you found out the truth, you wouldn't want a pale, sorry imitation of the vi
vacious, beautiful woman you had seen at that cotillion so long ago.”

Omar slammed a fist down on the countertop. “You made a fool of me.” The words ripped from his throat. “You made a mockery of our marriage.”

Wearily she nodded her head. “So, how long do you intend to punish me, Omar? Weeks? Months? Years? My crime was a lie based on love for you. Please, tell me what my sentence is to be.”

“You talk too much about love,” he said angrily. “I told you before, a sheik doesn't love the way normal men love.”

“Stop saying that. Who told you that, anyway?” For the first time since they'd begun their conversation he saw a flash of anger in her eyes.

She rose and walked over to where he stood, stopping mere inches from him. As always, the scent of her stirred him, which only increased his ire.

“Was it your father?” she asked. “Because if it was, then he lied to you, and I have a feeling if you ask him about your mother, you'll discover that sheiks
do
love.” Tears tracked down her cheeks. “And if you don't love me, can't love me, then, please let me go. Divorce me.”

He reached out, grabbed her and pulled her tight against him. “Never. I don't give up what is mine. I will never divorce you.”

He could feel her heartbeat against his chest, the frantic flutter of a captured bird. Her cheeks were wet with her tears, and he fought the impulse to reach up and gently wipe them away.

“If you won't divorce me, then, forgive me,” she said softly.

“I can't do that,” he said stiffly.

Like a dervish wind, she spun out of his arms and stepped away from him. Her eyes glistened with the remnants of her tears and a renewed flare of anger. “If you cannot find it in your heart to forgive, then, you will never be a great sheik, only an adequate one. You can't be a good ruler and not have any forgiveness in your soul.” Tears once again spilled from her eyes. “And if you can't forgive me, then, you aren't the man I thought you were.”

She laughed bitterly. “You thought I was my sister when you married me, and I thought you were a man with a loving heart and a gentle soul. I'd say we're even when it comes to deception.” She turned and ran from the kitchen before he could reply.

He returned to the table and sat down, trying to forget the sight of her tearstained face, the depth of emotion in her voice.

He finished drinking his cup of coffee, then shut off the coffeemaker and went to his bed, where her perfume lingered in the air.

Sleep was a long time in coming for Omar that night. Cara's words danced in his head, while the thought of her woeful tears ached in his chest.

Damn her. Damn her for confusing him. A sheik was not supposed to entertain confusion, especially when it came to a woman. And a sheik was supposed to guard his heart when it came to love. Wasn't that what he'd heard over and over from his father?

And what had she meant by telling him to speak to his father about his mother? What could she know of her father's relationship with the woman who had died at his birth?

He awakened the next morning later than usual and left immediately for a morning of meetings. But he found it difficult to concentrate on business.

Cara consumed his thoughts. Her words about him never being a great sheik because of his unforgiving nature rankled.

He wanted to be a great leader for his people. He had a feeling she had said that just to hurt him. It had been another manipulation to try to get her way, to try to get him to forgive her.

But how could he forgive a woman who had lied about something as basic as her name, a woman who had taken his name in a legal ceremony under false pretenses?

When he'd looked at the marriage certificate, he'd realized that at least she hadn't lied on it. She'd signed it Elizabeth C. Carson.

He looked at Rashad, who sat at his right hand and was taking notes. Rashad had known the truth but hadn't told him. Rashad had let his feelings about Cara be known. He adored her, and he'd been unable to hide his displeasure with Omar this past week.

Elizabeth Cara Carson.
Her name went around and around in his head.
What difference does her middle name make?
a tiny voice asked.
She makes you happy, so what difference does it make if her beauty mark is on a different side of her lips?

By the time his morning meetings were finished, he was feeling irritable and tired. But he decided to seek out his father, bothered by what Cara had said to him the night before.

He found Sheik Abdul in the garden with his three wives. His face lit with pleasure as Omar approached where they sat at the patio table.

“My son, what a pleasant surprise,” Sheik Abdul exclaimed.

Hayfa stood to offer her son her chair. He kissed her on the cheek, than sat in the chair she had vacated. “Have you come for lunch?” Hayfa asked.

“No, thanks. But I would like a few minutes alone with my father.”

“Certainly,” Hayfa replied, as the other two women rose from their chairs.

Sheik Abdul waited until his wives were out of sight, then he turned to his son, his dark eyes filled with speculation. “I have heard through the grapevine that the past several days my son has had the sting of a scorpion.”

Omar frowned. “A bit of an exaggeration,” he said defensively. His father continued to gaze at him, his eyes sharp and wise. “All right, I'll admit it, I have been rather irritable lately,” he finally confessed.

“The oil negotiations are finished?” Sheik Abdul asked.

Omar nodded. “A fair arrangement that will assure Gaspar future prosperity.”

“Then, it isn't business that has you unusually contentious?”

Omar sighed and looked away from his father. Flowers. Everywhere around them were flowers, and of course his thoughts turned to his wife.