Arabian Nights with a Rake by Bronwyn Scott Page B

sheikh and his friends. The women who tended her had told her it was a great honor to dance for the sheikh, but she could not dismiss the feeling of being a slave led to market or a cow to slaughter. She’d not been raised to this life. She’d been a diplomat’s daughter raised in a proper British household. Never in her darkest dreams had she’d thought she’d end up in a Bedouin encampment, enslaved for the personal enjoyment of a desert chieftain.
    The woman held aside the flap. It was time to go, time to set aside any self-pity over her plight. It was time to survive, and to do that, she needed to dance with all the abandon she possessed, to tease and withdraw, to conjure forth every male fantasy in the tent while allowing the sheikh to believe she danced only for him.

Chapter II
    Alex reclined on the pillows, propped up by an elbow. He reached for another date from the platters laid before them. A relaxed atmosphere permeated the sheikh’s tent. The festival had put everyone in a generous mood. Well, almost everyone. Alex amended. One dark-eyed man with a scar on his left cheek sat brooding next to the sheikh. Bassam, Alex thought his name was. The enormous tent was filled to capacity with guests, it had been hard to keep all the names straight. He’d remembered the important ones.
    There was a movement at the back of the tent and the sheikh clapped his hands for attention.
    â€œThere’s to be dancing,” Alex translated with a grin for Crispin.
    â€œDid you save me a waltz on your dance card?” Crispin replied drily.
    Alex laughed. “It’s to be the sheikh’s favorite. I do think I prefer this kind of dancing. I just get to sit here and watch. No dance cards, no introductions, no expectations.”
    â€œNo matchmaking mamas, either.” Crispin put in.
    â€œThere’s a reason I eschew England.” Alex had been about to say more but the drums began, drowning out his voice. He doubted he could have spoken anyway. The dancer had carefully navigated her way through the crowd to the open spot in front of the sheikh and even now spun before him in a whirl of turquoise silk, her pale-gold hair as much a seductive curtain as the transparent veiling she teased with.
    Gold hair .
    The sheikh’s favorite was not a dark-eyed woman of the desert. She looked English, but looks could be misleading. She might be any number of European nationalities. Alex shot a quick glance in Crispin’s direction. Only a slight movement of his eyes gave any indication he’d also noticed. It wouldn’t do for them to show any outward sign of curiosity.
    The dancer’s movements slowed, her hands moving to draw attention to the undulation of her hips, the exposed, sculpted flatness of her stomach; her hands drifted upwards, drawing Alex’s eyes to the fullness of her breasts encased in a jeweled top. The woman was exquisite, there was little wonder she was the favorite. But with her pale hair and skin, she was decidedly not one of the Bedouin, nor was she Arab.
    Whatever and whoever she was, she was positively intoxicating; her subtle scents of sandalwood and roses teasing his nostrils. His body hardened in visceral response to the promise of her sensuality. Her lips parted, a secret smile playing across them, eyes as blue as the Mediterranean met his over the transparent rim of her veils, promising all nature of erotic fulfillment as if she danced solely for him.
    Yet there was a provocative innocence in those eyes, creating the impression that this was no jaded concubine expertly tantalizing men but a passionate woman in waiting, perhaps begging to be awakened to love’s pleasures. Alex’s arousal grew in damning proportions at the prospect, at the fantasy, of taking such a woman to his bed, to teach her, to share with her the exotic mysteries of sex.
    Then she was gone, her attentions returning to the sheikh, but the fantasy remained, a potent loiterer