The Desert Lord's Bride / Wed by Deception: The Desert Lord's Bride. Emilie Rose

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СКАЧАТЬ can wonder why you would want to spend more time with a lout who didn’t even ask your permission before taking you out of your national airspace. But I won’t. We agreed to think the best of each other’s actions and motivations.”

      She gave him a sardonic look. “I didn’t agree to anything. But you’re used to this, aren’t you? You announce stuff and assume everyone’s in agreement with it.”

      “See?” His eyes crinkled. “I did it again. You’ve uncovered my biggest vice. I’m part bulldozer.”

      She gave in to the urge, ran a finger down a slashed cheekbone. “Only part? And that’s your biggest vice? You sure there aren’t bigger ones?”

      “As much as I’d love to have you take my character apart and haul out vices for examination, we have more pressing issues to worry about now. Like food. Didn’t you work up an appetite after all the upheavals? I ordered my chef to prepare my favorite dishes from my country’s cuisine for you to sample.”

      The way he said that, and in his mouth-watering voice, too, made her stomach grumble.

      His lips spread wide. “I guess I have my answer.”

      He pushed more buttons. In minutes he opened the door to a parade of waiters holding their trays high. Even under covers, aromas emanated from the dishes that had her licking her lips.

      He rose to his feet, held out his hand. She took it, let him pull her to her feet. Before she fell against him, he pulled back, his eyes once more becoming unfathomable. This time the only alarm she felt was that she might have, in spite of his assurances, introduced distance between them.

      He led her behind the screen to a dining area with stainless steel–backed, burgundy velvet-upholstered chairs and a Plexiglas table for two laid out in stunning hand-painted china, silver, crystal and burgundy silk.

      As soon as the last waiter had departed, Shehab raised a silver dome off a service plate. The sight and aroma hit her senses in unison.

      At her moan he said, “This is matazeez—veal cubes cooked in tomato sauce before adding okra, aubergine and zucchini. The stuff that looks like ravioli is specially prepared dough that’s rolled out and cut and dropped in the mix before it’s fully cooked so that it retains its chewiness. Some people consider this a full meal, some eat it with rice or khobez.”

      “That’s this bread?” He nodded, and as she bent for a closer sniff, his smile grew as hot as the dish simmering on the flames. “Who would have guessed you’d know so much about the preparation of the dishes you love.”

      “You didn’t think it possible for me to know how to cook?”

      “If you do, I’ll know you’re a hallucination.”

      He chuckled as he pushed a button, made a chair retract from the table on rails embedded in the fuselage.

      She flopped into it, groaned. “Don’t describe any more dishes. Just looking at them and smelling them was making my stomach lick its lips, but your descriptions are making it grow forks and knives.” He laughed. She moaned. At the sound. At the scents of food mixed with that of virility.

      He served her a portion, but when she tried to reach for a real fork and knife, he stopped her, sat and maneuvered the opposing chair until it touched hers, picked up a fork and started feeding her, all the time caressing her with his eyes.

      And what could she do but wallow in the incredible experience of being waited on, fed, by this god?

      She demolished the portion in minutes, exclaiming at the taste and texture, participating in his quiz of guessing the elusive seasonings, correctly identifying cinnamon and nutmeg. That very distinctive spice turned out to be something she’d never heard about before, semmaq, a spice unique to his region.

      At some point, he started alternating forkfuls between them, and sharing the meal with him that way surpassed even the intimacy of the frenzied time they’d shared in the gardens.

      When he started feeding her dessert, she moaned. “This I have to ask about. You can resume your recipe description.”

      He chuckled. “That’s maasoob. It’s khobez, cut into small pieces, fried crispy, mashed with banana and brown sugar and caramelized in butter. The sprinkling on top is paprika, saffron and the tasty black seeds are hab el barakah, literally, blessing seeds.”

      She moaned again as the sinful concoction slid on her tongue and down her throat. “Blessing or curse? My hips and thighs are already screaming the latter.”

      “Those are a blessing unto themselves. A little more of them would be a bigger blessing.”

      “Oh, no. I struggled long and hard with my weight as I grew up and I’m never going back there.”

      He put the spoon down, his eyes a heavy caress over her body. “I wanted you to sample the richness of the flavors of my culture, but if this perfection is a result of your hard work, I certainly won’t do anything to sabotage it.”

      A tightness clutched her throat. Whenever she’d made a statement like that in the past, everyone had scoffed at her with reactions ranging from disbelief that she had such concerns, to accusing her of fishing for compliments, to choosing to believe she’d just been blessed with a nuclear metabolism and could gorge herself on junk constantly and not gain an ounce.

      But he understood. And supported. He was just phenomenal.

      And he was on his feet, inviting her to leave the table.

      She let him lead her back to the lounge, where he took her to a different seating area, this time sitting on an armchair across from her. She watched him, obsessing over his every detail.

      He watched her examining his every inch for a long moment, then he suddenly said, “It just came to me, one more thing that I think caused your alarm. The man you trusted and wanted was the man you saw in the Tuareg garb. Seeing me in these clothes must have made you feel as if I were someone else.”

      Her eyes jerked up from watching the ripple of steel muscles below the fine cloth of his pants. “This—uh, Tuareg garb is how you usually dress in your country?”

      “Hardly. Tuaregs come from and still live mostly in the North African desert and are quite proud of the purity of their lineage. My ancestors, who come from all over Asia wouldn’t have been allowed within a mile of marriage into their tribes.”

      “God, I must sound so ignorant, assuming all Arabs have the same origins.”

      The teasing in his eyes intensified. “Tuaregs can’t be called Arabs. They call themselves Kel Tamajag, or Speakers of Tamasheq, a language that has nothing in common with Arabic. But it’s understandable that you might lump peoples who hail from a general direction into one basket. Back home, a lot of people consider all white people ‘Americans.’”

      “I’m sure that’s not true of those above a certain education level. People with my education anywhere in the world have no excuse for being so oblivious and making such generalizations. I’m lamentably ignorant about your part of the world.”

      “I will teach you. Everything you want to know.”

      And СКАЧАТЬ