Hostage of the Hawk by Sandra Marton Page B

precious bath oils to—’
    â€˜Then the scent in my nostrils is of you.’ He threaded his hand into her hair, knotting it around his fist like a bright, gleaming band, so that she had no choice but to meet his eyes, eyes that had gone as dark as the sea at night. ‘By Allah,’ he whispered, ‘it is a scent more sweet than any I have ever known.’
    He bent and kissed her throat again. Joanna’s eyes closed and she swayed in his arms, hating herself for whatever weakness it was that possessed her when he touched her, hating him even more for finding that weakness and exploiting it.
    â€˜The only name I’d ever call you is bastard,’ she said unsteadily. ‘And—and that would be only the beginning.’
    Khalil laughed softly. ‘Has no one ever taught you manners?’
    â€˜No one’s ever tried to tell me how to live my life, if that’s what you mean!’
    She had meant to insult him, but her words only made him grin. ‘Ah. We’re back to that, are we? Khalil the dictator.’
    â€˜We never left it! You think—you think you can—’
    â€˜The first thing you must learn,’ he said, ‘is not to talk so much.’
    His mouth dropped to hers. She had been expecting the kiss, steeling herself against it, and she went rigid at the first touch of his lips. But his kiss was like a whisper—gentle, almost soft—and it sent a swift frisson of pleasure shimmering through her blood.
    Don’t, she began to say. But the thought never became a word. Instead, it emerged a sigh against his mouth. Khalil’s arms went around her and he gathered her so closely to him that Joanna couldn’t tell whose heart it was she felt racing, whose skin it was she felt blazing with heat.
    His teeth caught her bottom lip and he drew the soft flesh into the warmth of his mouth.
    â€˜Joanna,’ he whispered.
    He swept the robe from her shoulders and the lightly knotted towel fell to her waist. He drew back, just far enough so he could see her. Her skin was flushed, her breasts full and hardened with desire.
    â€˜How beautiful you are,’ he said, his voice thick.
    Joanna felt as if the room was spinning around her. ‘Please,’ she whispered, ‘please...’
    â€˜What? What do you want me to do, Joanna?’ He reached out blindly, his fingers trailing across her collarbone, and she caught her breath. ‘This?’ he said softly, his eyes on her face. He touched the rise of her breast, circling the aureole lightly. Joanna whimpered and now it was he who caught his breath. ‘Or this?’ he said, bending his head and putting his mouth to her flesh.
    She moaned, would have fallen, but he caught her and gathered her fiercely to him, his hands cupping her bottom, lifting her into the hardness of his arousal.
    â€˜Joanna,’ he whispered, his voice unsteady, and she moved blindly against him, exulting in the hard feel of him, her flesh on fire...
    â€˜No!’ The strangled cry burst as much from her heart as from her throat. What was he doing to her? She wasn’t the sort of woman who fell into bed with a stranger or with a man she loathed! Joanna slammed her hands against Khalil’s chest and pushed him away.
    â€˜All right,’ she said, her breathing swift, ‘you’ve convinced me. You’re bigger than I am, and stronger, and—and—’ She closed her eyes, then opened them, determined to face her humiliation without flinching. ‘And there’s something you do that—that makes me—makes me receptive. But—’
    â€˜Receptive?’ He laughed, and whatever unsteadiness she’d thought she’d heard in his voice was gone, replaced by smug satisfaction at her embarrassment. ‘What you are, my charming Miss Bennett, is ready and willing.’ Her hand flashed up but he caught it before she could slap him. ‘But, of course, you’d have