Hostage of the Hawk by Sandra Marton Page A

wasn’t feeling sympathy, he was just worried that her father might not give him what he’d asked for!
    â€˜My father’s an astute businessman,’ she said. ‘Why should he trust you? He’ll want some guarantee that you won’t hurt me after he agrees to your demands.’
    â€˜My message made no mention of hurting you,’ he said stiffly.
    â€˜Ah. I see. You simply told him you’d keep me as your guest forever if he didn’t do what you wanted.’
    Khalil began to grin. ‘Something like that.’
    Joanna’s jaunty smile faded. ‘What do you mean?’
    He shrugged lazily. ‘I suggested that if he did not want you back, we would accommodate you here.’
    â€˜Accommodate me?’
    â€˜You would learn to live among my people.’ Still smiling, he strolled across the room to where her green silk dress lay across the chair. ‘It will not be the life you know,’ he said, picking up the dress. It slipped through his fingers, incongruously delicate and insubstantial, and fell back to the chair. ‘But at least it would stop your complaining.’
    â€˜What are you talking about?’
    â€˜Our women lead busy lives. Only idle women have time to complain. You would start simply, tending the chickens and the goats, but if you showed you were interested in learning they would teach you to cook, to spin—’
    â€˜Never!’ The word exploded from her lips. ‘Never, do you hear me? I’d sooner—I’d sooner—’
    â€˜What would you sooner do?’ He looked across the room at her, his eyes dark. ‘Surely, you would have to do something. We are all productive here, everyone but the sick, the elderly, and the children.’
    He started slowly towards her. Joanna’s heart skipped a beat. She wanted to step back, to put as much distance as the confines of the room permitted between herself and the man pacing towards her, but she was determined to stand her ground.
    â€˜You fit none of those categories,’ he said, stopping inches from her. He gave her a long, slow look, one that left a trail of heat across her skin and she thought suddenly that it was a good thing she hadn’t fought him about giving her his robe, for if she had—if she had, he would surely see the quickening of her breath, the flush that she felt rising over her entire body, the terrible, hateful way her breasts were lifting and hardening as he looked at her.
    â€˜You are not elderly, or ill, or a child, Joanna,’ he said softly. He reached his hand out to her and caught a strand of auburn hair between his fingers. ‘I would have to find some other use for you, I’m afraid.’
    â€˜My father will come for me,’ she said fiercely. ‘And—and when he does—’ Her breath caught as he put his arms around her.
    â€˜I think,’ he said, his voice husky, ‘I think I would not waste you on the goats, even if you wished it.’
    â€˜I would rather—’ He put his lips to her hair and she swallowed hard. ‘I would rather tend the goats than—than—’
    â€˜One of the laws we live by is that every person should do what he or she is best suited for.’ He lowered his head and nuzzled the robe from the juncture of shoulder and throat. His mouth moved lightly against her skin. ‘And you,’ he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, ‘you are surely best suited to be with a man, to sigh his name, and drive him to the point where his bones begin to melt.’
    His teeth closed lightly on her flesh. Joanna gasped, and he touched his tongue to the pinpoint of pain, soothing it away.
    â€˜You smell of flowers,’ he whispered, ‘of flowers heated by the sun of the desert.’
    Trembling, Joanna fought for control. ‘I—I smell of soap,’ she said as he pressed kisses across her shoulder. ‘I—I didn’t use Rachelle’s