Never Seduce a Sheikh(23)

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.