How long had he dreamed about this night? How long had those visions plagued him? Tonight, though, the dreams would become reality. Tonight she would be his.
He growled on an exhale, trying to dispel some of his burgeoning need. Admiring the sunset would be safer. For it was a stunning sunset: the sun a fireball sinking lower, the sky awash with colour.
Colour.
Which reminded him of the package he’d brought with him—the only purchase Suleman had permitted him to negotiate himself. He reached behind the seat for it, but stopped when he saw Sera huddled alongside, pressed tight against the door, her eyes lost, her expression bleak as her hands twisted first at her necklace and then in her lap.
And something shifted in his gut: guilt, emerging in an unfamiliar bubble. What had caused her sudden misery when so recently she had been warm for him? Had he provoked this slide into desolation?
He almost reached out to her. Almost lifted a hand to touch her. To reassure her.
But just as quickly he snatched his hand back, snuffing out the notion. Because that would mean he cared. And he didn’t care. Not really. He wanted her—there was no doubting that. But caring? He had long since given up caring about Sera.
Besides, he thought, shrugging off the unfamiliar sense of guilt, what evidence did he have that he had upset her? For all he knew she could be thinking about Hussein and wishing he were still here.
He swung his head away, disgusted with himself. That thought was no consolation. Hussein might have been her husband for a decade, but he did not want her so much as thinking about the man.
Not that it would last. Tonight he would drive every memory of Hussein from her thoughts.
Tonight she would discover what she had missed.
CHAPTER NINE
IT WAS impossible. Sera shrank further back into the leather of her seat, not understanding what had just transpired. There had been brief moments today when Rafiq had seemed different, when they had seemed to be able to share the same planet without sniping at each other. But they had gone from discussing the day’s success to suddenly being at each other’s throats—before the atmosphere had changed again and suddenly become more charged. More intense.
More dangerous.
She fingered the emerald choker at her neck as she stared out of her window, remembering the feel of Rafiq’s fingers as he had secured it around her neck—more a lover’s caress than that of a man who abhorred her. She despaired of the inconsistency, wishing she could focus on the glorious sunset instead of having these thoughts constantly thrashing through her mind. Wishing even more that she could control her own wayward emotions. But there was no focus. No control.
For every time he had looked at her today, every time he’d been near, she had felt the increasing pull between them, the flare of desire that charged the air with a shimmering need, a force that served to draw them together.
And when he touched her—the pad of his fingers against her neck, the lacing of his fingers through her hair—it was simply electric.
Had anyone else around them felt it? Could anyone else tell?
She sighed against the glass. Of course they could. They all could. The women had seen him kiss her. Everyone had seen the way she’d spun in his arms as if she belonged there.
Everyone knew—even, it seemed, a woman whose cataracts had nearly blinded her. And was it any wonder, when she felt her own need so badly?
For how had she reacted when he had told her he would kiss her again? Not with outrage or anger, or even offence at his arrogant statement. No! Instead she’d looked at him with big puppy eyes, sad because she’d missed out on the treat of him kissing her then, suddenly excited because he’d given her the promise of a kiss later, when there was no chance they would be interrupted.
Tremors ran down her spine anew, shooting out laterally through soft tissue to find nerve-endings too receptive, too ready to surge into life. She squeezed her eyes shut, dragged in air, trying unsuccessfully to deny the sensory assault. Why did his promise fill her with such fear and such anticipation at the same time? Why was she so suddenly conscious of her swelling breasts, her nipples, and the insistent yearning between her thighs? How could he reduce her to this when she felt so ashamed?
She had to stop herself from crying out with the unfairness of it all. Why should she feel so much, so intensely? She was no teenager any more. She was a mature woman. Perhaps not as experienced as most, but she’d been a wife, a married woman, for almost a decade. She’d long since buried her teenage hopes and wishes, just as she’d buried her body’s needs and desires under a public face that aimed for serenity. Control. Cool composure.
Why, now, should her body betray her?