Pregnant by the Sheikh(18)

Bombarded by his inexorable will, she felt as if she’d choke again. Before she succumbed once more, she fumbled for the purse she’d dropped on the coffee table, then stood up unsteadily.

Once she’d taken a few air-filled steps away from him, she said, “I need time to think.”

Then, on trembling legs, she strode out. He let her walk away.

As she opened the main door of the suite, she almost crumpled to the ground with fright when he caught her back.

She could swear she’d walked here all alone!

As he turned her, she started spluttering, “How...?”

He drowned her in a kiss that ended any possibility for independent thought or movement.

It was him who finally released her, only the storms in his eyes betraying his state of emotional and physical arousal.

Before he let her spill out the door, he said, “I’m giving you till tomorrow evening, then I will send my right hand for you. Tomorrow night, you sleep in my arms.”




Four

Numair watched Jenan receding down the corridor as if she was escaping a widening chasm.

Every step taking her away from him had him vibrating with dread that he’d just committed the biggest mistakes of his life. Letting her go, and before that, introducing the subject of heir and marriage so prematurely.

What if, in spite of the unstoppable desire that had exploded into existence between them, he’d come on too strong, and she’d run away thinking it the better fate to marry Hassan, a man she’d find far easier to handle?

Expending the last of what he’d previously thought was limitless willpower, he squashed the urge to stalk her, haul her back inside, lock every door and simply overpower her reluctance and misgivings. He might have decreed he’d take her tomorrow night, but everything in him was roaring for him to claim her right now.

But he’d already cornered himself, making it impossible to do anything but watch her go. Anything he did now to override her would only make things worse.

He didn’t recognize himself in this condition, as he’d never been almost out of control. He’d never been unable to project the consequences of his actions, had never acted on impulse or taken a step without premeditation. His brothers had always said he was the epitome of what it meant to be Machiavellian.

But everything he’d done since he’d seen Jenan hadn’t even been actions but reactions, all unpremeditated and uncalculated. He was suffering from something he’d never experienced. A form of insanity.

And it was because of her. Jenan. He was beginning to think she was truly her name. At least one meaning of it.

The meaning he was sure her parents had meant was the plural of jennah—garden, what the ancients called paradise. That meaning was apt, too. But it was the colloquial meaning of the word that was relevant to his condition, what he now suspected she could induce. Madness.

But even in his state, he wasn’t so far gone he didn’t realize she was returning to her Tribeca apartment in lower Manhattan alone. Whether by cab or her own car, it was still a fifteen-minute drive and it was now—he flicked a glance at his watch—2:00 a.m. Time had really flown with her.

But it would compound his self-sabotaging behavior to follow her now. To ensure her safety without further damages, he would have to settle for having her followed.

The moment she disappeared around the corner, he whipped out his phone, called Ameen, sent him a photo of her from the digital file he had on her, ordered him to tail her home then report to him.

Afterward, he stared at the photo. It superficially resembled the woman he’d spent the past six hours with. It was like a lookalike, the mask she presented to the world, hiding her true nature. The charisma that leaped in her eyes, the wit and whimsy that played on her lips and the sheer impact she’d had on his senses in reality were absent. Even so, heat spread inside him just looking at the photo, when before meeting her, he’d surveyed it with the utmost clinical coldness.

Finally closing the door, he went back inside, homing in on the spot where he’d almost made love to her.

Sitting down, he caressed the place where she’d sat, feeling her warmth, even when there was no way it was still detectable. But then her feel was imprinted on his hands, permeating his senses. Her breath still filled his lungs, and her taste still tingled on his tongue.

Jenan. Mind-twisting, will-warping madness.

He’d wanted to possess her every second of the hours he’d spent with her. But he’d managed to hold back, to do what he’d thought more vital—negotiate the terms of future, limitless intimacies. Then she’d revealed her convictions, so serious and unwavering as she lay soft and surrendering in his embrace. She’d exposed the indomitable realist who’d smashed cultural and gender restraints, who didn’t have a smidge of silliness or squeamishness in her expectations, who’d taken on the world and won.