the
sensible lecture he was angry! There was not another person on this planet who
dared to speak to him as she had just done, and the hell if he was going to
apologise for responding to that!
He flicked a glance at
her. She hadn't moved. If she was even breathing he could see no evidence of
it. Her hair was untidy. Long silken tendrils had escaped from the band she'd
had it tied up in all day and were now caressing her nape, framing her stark
white profile to add a vulnerability to her beauty that wrenched hard on his
heart-strings. Her feet were bare, as were her slender arms and long slender
legs. And she was emulating a statue again, only this time instead of art-deco
she portrayed the discarded waif.
He liked the waif. His
body quickened; another prohibited sigh tightened his chest. Curiosity replaced
anger, though pride held his arrogant refusal to be the first one to retract
his words firmly in place. She moved him like no other woman. She always had
done. Angry or sad, hot with searing passion or frozen like ice as she was now.
Inshaliah. It was Allah's will that
he loved this woman above all others. Let her go? Not while he had enough
breath in his body to fight to hold onto what was his! Though he wished he
could see evidence that there was breath inside hers.
He picked up an ornament
measured the weight of the beautifully sculpted smooth sandstone camel then put
it back down again to pick up another one of a falcon preparing to take off on
the wing. And all the time the silence throbbed like a living pulse in the air
all around them.
Say something—talk to me,
he willed silently. Show me that my woman is still alive in there, he wanted to
say. But that pride again was insisting he would not be the one to break the
stunning deadlock they were now gripped in.
The light tap at the door
meant the ordered tea he didn't even want had arrived. It was a relief to have
something to do. She didn't move as he went to open the door, still hadn't
moved when he closed it again on the steward he'd left firmly outside. Carrying
the tray to the low table, he put it down, then turned to look at her. She
still hadn't moved.
Inshallah, he thought again, and
gave up the battle. Walking over to her, he placed a hand against her pale
cheek, stroked his thumb along the length of her smooth throat then settled it
beneath her chin so he could lift her face up that small inch it required to
make her look at him.
Eyes of a lush dark
vulnerable green gazed into sombre night-dark brown. Her soft mouth parted; at
last she took a breath he could hear and see. 'Be careful what you wish for,'
she whispered helplessly.
His legs went hollow. He
understood. It was the way it had always been with them. 'If true love could be
made to order, we would still be standing here,' he told her gravely.
At which point the ice
melted, the gates opened and in a single painfully hopeless move she coiled her
arms around his neck, buried her face into his chest and began to weep.
So what do you do with a
woman who breaks her heart for you? You take her to bed. You wrap her in
yourself. You make love to her until it is the only thing that matters any
more. Afterwards, you face reality again. Afterwards you pick up from where you
should never have let things go astray.
The tea stewed in the
pot. Evening settled slowly over the room with a display of sunset colours that
changed with each deepening stage of their sensual journey. Afterwards, he carried
her into the shower and kept reality at bay by loving her there. Then they
washed each other, dried each other, touched and kissed and spoke no words that
could risk intrusion for as long as they possibly could.
It was Leona who
eventually approached reality. 'What now?' she asked him.
'We sail the ocean on our
self-made island, and keep the rest of the world out,' he answered huskily.
'For how long?'
'As long as we possibly
can.' He didn't have the heart to tell her he knew exactly how long. The rest
would
sensible lecture he was angry! There was not another person on this planet who
dared to speak to him as she had just done, and the hell if he was going to
apologise for responding to that!
He flicked a glance at
her. She hadn't moved. If she was even breathing he could see no evidence of
it. Her hair was untidy. Long silken tendrils had escaped from the band she'd
had it tied up in all day and were now caressing her nape, framing her stark
white profile to add a vulnerability to her beauty that wrenched hard on his
heart-strings. Her feet were bare, as were her slender arms and long slender
legs. And she was emulating a statue again, only this time instead of art-deco
she portrayed the discarded waif.
He liked the waif. His
body quickened; another prohibited sigh tightened his chest. Curiosity replaced
anger, though pride held his arrogant refusal to be the first one to retract
his words firmly in place. She moved him like no other woman. She always had
done. Angry or sad, hot with searing passion or frozen like ice as she was now.
Inshaliah. It was Allah's will that
he loved this woman above all others. Let her go? Not while he had enough
breath in his body to fight to hold onto what was his! Though he wished he
could see evidence that there was breath inside hers.
He picked up an ornament
measured the weight of the beautifully sculpted smooth sandstone camel then put
it back down again to pick up another one of a falcon preparing to take off on
the wing. And all the time the silence throbbed like a living pulse in the air
all around them.
Say something—talk to me,
he willed silently. Show me that my woman is still alive in there, he wanted to
say. But that pride again was insisting he would not be the one to break the
stunning deadlock they were now gripped in.
The light tap at the door
meant the ordered tea he didn't even want had arrived. It was a relief to have
something to do. She didn't move as he went to open the door, still hadn't
moved when he closed it again on the steward he'd left firmly outside. Carrying
the tray to the low table, he put it down, then turned to look at her. She
still hadn't moved.
Inshallah, he thought again, and
gave up the battle. Walking over to her, he placed a hand against her pale
cheek, stroked his thumb along the length of her smooth throat then settled it
beneath her chin so he could lift her face up that small inch it required to
make her look at him.
Eyes of a lush dark
vulnerable green gazed into sombre night-dark brown. Her soft mouth parted; at
last she took a breath he could hear and see. 'Be careful what you wish for,'
she whispered helplessly.
His legs went hollow. He
understood. It was the way it had always been with them. 'If true love could be
made to order, we would still be standing here,' he told her gravely.
At which point the ice
melted, the gates opened and in a single painfully hopeless move she coiled her
arms around his neck, buried her face into his chest and began to weep.
So what do you do with a
woman who breaks her heart for you? You take her to bed. You wrap her in
yourself. You make love to her until it is the only thing that matters any
more. Afterwards, you face reality again. Afterwards you pick up from where you
should never have let things go astray.
The tea stewed in the
pot. Evening settled slowly over the room with a display of sunset colours that
changed with each deepening stage of their sensual journey. Afterwards, he carried
her into the shower and kept reality at bay by loving her there. Then they
washed each other, dried each other, touched and kissed and spoke no words that
could risk intrusion for as long as they possibly could.
It was Leona who
eventually approached reality. 'What now?' she asked him.
'We sail the ocean on our
self-made island, and keep the rest of the world out,' he answered huskily.
'For how long?'
'As long as we possibly
can.' He didn't have the heart to tell her he knew exactly how long. The rest
would
Similar Books
