To Tempt a Sheikh (4 page)

Then she again did the last thing he could have expected.

Her gaping became a glare of such revulsion and hostility,
he might as well have turned into a slimy creature before her eyes.

Then she spat, “You're one of that pack of highborn, lowlife criminals?”

H
arres stared at this woman who'd just called him and his family a pack of criminals. And he did the only thing he could.

He threw his head back and belted out a guffaw.

Now that the local anesthetic was wearing off, his wound protested the uninhibited movement, stabbed him with a burning lance of pain. It wasn't any hotter than the glare of abhorrence Talia still scorched him with. Seemed his mirth only poured fuel on her sudden antipathy.

But he couldn't help it. There was no way he could control his relief, his thrill, that instead of fawning over him, she looked ready to sock him again.

Then she did. On his good arm, hard enough to sober him a bit, save him from tearing loose her meticulous suturing efforts with laughter.

“Don't you laugh at me, you aggravating jackass!”

As if in response to her anger, the wind exploded with sudden fury around the helicopter, rocking the wreckage.

She didn't seem to notice as she braced herself, her incandescent eyes riddling him with azure-hot holes.

And he just loved it.

He raised a placating hand, tried to pretend a measure of sobriety. It was far harder than anything he'd done tonight. Right along with not reaching out and dragging her back against him. The woman sabotaged his propriety sense and either caressed, aroused or tickled all others.

“I wouldn't dare. And then, this is delight, not ridicule.” His left hand rubbed the sting of her blow, as if to trap the feel of her flesh against his, even in anger. His lips were still burning with the memory of capturing hers, his tongue from tangling with hers, tasting her intoxication and swallowing her whimpers of pleasure. All of him still tingled from having her, ton of clothes and all, pressed against him. He wanted to get this confrontation out of the way so he could have her there again. “And it's your doing again, you and your endless surprises.”

She balled her fists, her bee-stung lips pressing into an ominous line. “How about I give those a fitting end? By fracturing your nose.”

Her aggression made the pleasure bubbling inside him spill again into a chuckle as he gave his aching jaw a reminiscent rub. “To go with my jaw?” He turned his face, presented her with a three-quarters view of said nose. “Or do you think it could do with a new one?” He shook his head at her chagrined hiss. “Whoa, that alone could have done the job. It's a good thing I didn't tell you my name when you had your scalpels deep in my flesh.”

Her eyes became slits of enraged challenge. “But now I know it, and I'll have those scalpels there again while debriding the wound before closing it. Over many stages.
Or it will fester. And don't tell me you can take care of it yourself, 'cause we both know you can't. Most of the wound track is where you can't reach it. And next time, maybe my nerve block won't be as…effective.”

He gasped in mock shock. “You not only flaunt your power over me, you'd abuse that power, disregard your oath to do no harm? You would torment me while I'm under your scalpel? You'd gloat at my helplessness and need, and take pleasure in my pain?” He let excitement at her implied threat spread his lips. “I can't wait.”

Her eyes swept him with now blue-cold disdain. “So you have an extreme form of masochism among your perversions, huh? Figures.”

“Not to me, it doesn't. At least, it didn't. But I
am
discovering I'd welcome anything from you.”

She snorted. He shook his head as he huffed another chuckle. He couldn't believe it himself, how fully he meant that.

Sighing, admitting that for the first time in his life, he was experiencing something beyond his control, he reached for what had survived of his bloody clothes. And though she aimed more detestation at him, he felt her unwilling coveting spread over every inch of his cold flesh, heating it from the inside out. He shuddered at the caress of her eyes over every bulge and stretch of his muscles as he carefully pulled his clothes back on.

His satisfaction rose. Her reactions to him had not only alternated between delightful and brutal honesty, they were as overpowering as his. Her mind might be telling her to slash him open, but everything else was clamoring for his nearness, delighting in his every detail. And of course that was making her madder. At him.

He'd finished dressing before it occurred to him to try the heater. It was still working.

He turned his gaze back to her with a smile, and she slammed him with a disapproving scowl.

“
Now
you turn on the heater. Were you trying to see how long you can last before you succumb to hypothermia? Or were you hoping I'd offer you the best remedy for it?”

“Flesh-on-flesh warming.” He almost shivered with imagining the mind-melting sensuality of such an act with her. “And now you've cornered me. I must admit either that I was such a remiss male that I didn't think of it, or such an inefficient field officer that I didn't remember the onboard heater. Will I get leniency points if I cite my reason for failing to think of it to be preoccupation with your golden self?”

“Nah. I have another explanation. You didn't think of it because you're cold-blooded like all
your
species. Snakes.”

A laugh overpowered him and sent another bolt of pain through him. “Ah, I've never been so inventively insulted before. I can't get enough of whatever spills from your mouth.”

Her smile was one of condescension and disgust. “I'm such a refreshing acid bath after all the slimy, simpering sweetness you usually marinate in, huh, you jaded jerk?”

He put a protective hand to his side as he laughed again and groaned in pain simultaneously. “What you are is literally sidesplitting. It is positively intoxicating what an irreverent, fearless wildcat you are,
ya nadda jannati
.”

“Don't you dare call me that again!” she growled.

“Talia…”

She slammed her fist on her thigh in chagrin. “And don't call me that, either. I'm T.J.—no,
Dr.
Burke to you. No—I'm nothing to you. So don't call me anything at all!” He began to say her name again but she bulldozed over his insistence. “And now I take back everything
I
called you.
You're not
monqethi
or
buttuli
. You're just one of those self-serving, criminal dictators. Or wait—since you were sent to retrieve me, you're probably one of their lower ranks, maybe even disposable. Not that it makes you any better than the higher-ups.”

Everything inside him stilled.

Then he slowly asked, “You don't know who I am?”

“You're an Aal Shalaan,” she spat the name. “That's all I need to know.”

Would knowing exactly who he was change her attitude? For the better? By now, he was hoping it would. Her antagonism, now that it seemed there to stay, was fast losing its exciting edge.

Then he inhaled. “I'm not just an Aal Shalaan. I'm Harres.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time. But just Harres, huh? Like you're Elvis or something!”

“Around here? I'd say I'm more Captain Kirk. And you really have no idea, eh?”

Her eyes narrowed on him. “So you're some big shot?”

He huffed, the last traces of elation snuffed. “The third-biggest shot around, yes.”

He saw that lightning-fast mind of hers reach the conclusion. She still stared at him, as if expecting him to say something else to negate his declaration and her deduction.

He quirked a prodding eyebrow at her. He wanted to reach the new status quo his identity always triggered and be done with it.

She shook her golden head dazedly, her lips opening and closing on many aborted outbursts, before she finally managed to voice one.

“You're
that
Harres Aal Shalaan?”

“You mean there are others? And here I thought I was the one and only.”

“And here I thought the dumb-blonde stereotype had been long erased. Clearly not in Zohayd, if you think I'll believe
that
.”

“Actually I think you're superiorly intelligent and extensively informed. In general. In this specific case, I think you're suffering from severe and very damaging misinformation.”

“Fine. One of the hallmarks of superior intelligence is an open mind. So here's my mind, wide as the desert and ready for amending info. What is the king's second son and Zohayd's worshipped minister of interior doing on a hostage-retrieval mission?”

“You see? Brilliant. You cut to the core of logic in any situation like an arrow. And as the question is the only one to be asked, the answer is as singular. I couldn't entrust anyone else with retrieving you. I had to be here myself. And I thank the circumstances that necessitated my presence.”

She cracked a bitter laugh. “Sure, because it turned out to be me, and I'm unique, magical, and our meeting under these circumstances is an unprecedented and unrepeatable act of munificent fate, and all that over-the-top drivel.”

His hands itched with the need to capture that proud, obstinate head, subdue her resentment, resurrect her hunger.

But he knew that would backfire. He was finally realizing the gravity of the situation. The depth of her prejudice. He had no idea what had formed such an iceberg within her, but if he wasn't careful, all his efforts to win her trust would be wrecked against it.

He let the last trace of the smile go. This needed to be serious, heartfelt. That would be easy. He didn't have to act either sentiment. “A few minutes ago, before learning
my identity turned you from an ally into an enemy, you would have agreed with all that you now consider devious nonsense.”

Her eyes lashed him with more vexation. He realized that her belief that she'd been taken in was exaggerating her anger. “Sure I would have. I was being worked by a master manipulator. But then, after I escaped being interrogated to death by a gang of desert hooligans, anyone would have seemed a knight in camouflage to my fried mind and senses. But you're not being very clever. Telling me who you are was the worst mistake you could have made. You would have served your goal far better if you'd let me believe you were small fry, one of the hundreds of ‘princes' with the odd drop of Aal Shalaan blood. Exposing yourself as the premium pure brew only makes you more accountable for the crimes your family perpetrated. It makes you the enemy I'm here to bring down.”

 

Talia watched her words sink into Harres Aal Shalaan.

She'd managed to wipe away that indulgent smile that had seemed permanent on his face a couple of minutes ago. Now she'd gone a dozen steps further, causing his expression to be engulfed in a tide of grimness.

She almost bit her tongue, but she might get poisoned by the venom flowing from it.

But she couldn't stop. Disappointment urged her to pour it out before it ate through her. Her hero, her savior, the man who'd risked his life to rescue her, was an Aal Shalaan. And not just any Aal Shalaan. One of the four big guns. And the one who had as much jurisdiction and even more law-enforcement power than the king himself. Which meant only one thing.

He had more to lose than any other member of his family.

He had
everything
to lose.

And she was using her considerable provocation powers to declare herself in a position to affect those incalculable losses. While she was stranded in the desert with him, with no way of rejoining humanity except through him.

Any bets she ever would now?

She held her breath for his reaction. So rage and indignation and—damn him—
him
were loosening every last one of her discretion screws. But not to the point where she'd lost track of the possible, and expected, consequences.

He lowered his gaze, relinquishing hers for the first time. She watched the long sweep of his downcast lashes as they stilled, her heart ramming her ribcage. Next time he raised those eyes he'd take off the mask of geniality and tolerance. They'd be cold and ruthless. And he'd no longer be her persuader but her interrogator, not her rescuer but her warden.

Then he raised his eyes and almost had her keeling over in his lap.

Those golden orbs were emitting a steady energy, a calming power that seeped through hers, into her brain, flooding her whole body.

The son of a…king was trying to hypnotize her!

And he was almost succeeding. Even now.

So. She'd gravely underestimated him. She'd thought, with the novelty of her resistance depleted, his facade of endless patience and indulgence would crack, exposing his true face. That of an all-powerful prince used to having people cower before him. But it seemed he was also an infallible character-reader, realized that intimidation would get him nowhere with her. So he wasn't playing that card just yet. Not before he gave all the others in his formidable arsenal a full demo.

So Prince Harres Aal Shalaan wasn't who he was just
because he'd been delivered into the royal family, hadn't qualified for his position in the family business because he'd grown up playing desert raiders. He evidently had staying power, was in command of himself at all times. He had long-term insight and layered intelligence, remained on top of any situation. And he had uncanny people skills and truckloads of charisma, made willing followers of everyone he crossed paths with.

He had of her, too. But no more.

The bucket of drool stopped here.

Then he spoke in that polyphonic voice of his, which made her feel as if it was coming from all around her, from inside her, and she almost revised her certainty. Almost.

“I don't know what you've been hearing about the Aal Shalaans, or from whom, but you've been misled. We're neither despots nor criminals.”

“Sure. And I'm supposed to take your word for it.”

“Yes, until I'm in a position to prove it. I would at least demand you grant us the benefit of the doubt.”