Sheikh's Woman. ALEXANDRA SELLERS

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СКАЧАТЬ want to get off!” Anna shouted at the uncomprehending woman. “Stop the plane! Tell the captain it’s a mistake!”

      The woman turned to Ishaq Ahmadi with a question, and he shook his head on a calm reply. Of course he had the upper hand if the cabin crew spoke only Arabic. Anna had a dim idea that all pilots had to speak English, but what were her chances of making it to the cockpit?

      And if it was a private jet, the captain would be on Ishaq Ahmadi’s payroll. No doubt they all knew he was kidnapping his own wife.

      Ahmadi got to his feet, holding Anna’s wrist in a grip that felt like steel cables, and forced her to move towards him.

      The plane slowed, and they all stiffened as the captain’s voice came over the intercom—but it was only with the obvious Arabic equivalent of “Cabin staff, prepare for takeoff.” Ishaq Ahmadi barked something at the hostess and, with a consoling smile at Anna, she returned to her seat behind the bulkhead.

      Ishaq Ahmadi sank into his seat again, dragging Anna inexorably down onto his lap. “You are being a fool,” he said. “No one is going to hurt you if you do not hurt yourself.”

      She was sitting on him now as if he were the chair, and his arms were firmly locked around her waist, a human seat belt. The heat of his body seeped into hers, all down her spine and the backs of her thighs, his arms resting across her upper thighs, hands clasped against her abdomen.

      Wherever her body met his, there was nothing but muscle. There was no give, no ounce of fat. It was like sitting on hot poured metal fresh from the forge, hardened, but the surface still slightly malleable. The stage when a sculptor removes the last, tiny blemishes, puts on the finishing touches. She had taken a course in metal sculpture at art college, and she had always loved the metal at this stage, Anna remembered dreamily. The heat, the slight surface give in something so innately strong, had a powerful sensual pull.

      She realized she was half tranced. She felt very slow and stupid, and as the adrenaline in her body ebbed, her headache caught up with her again. She twisted to try to look over her shoulder into his face.

      “Why are you doing this?” she pleaded.

      His voice, close to her ear, said, “So that you and the baby will be safe.”

      She was deeply, desperately tired, she was sick and hurt, and she wanted to believe she was safe with him. The alternative was too confusing and too terrible.

      The engines roared up and the jet leapt forward down the runway. In a very short time, compared to the lumbering commercial aircraft she was used to, they had left the ground.

      As his hold slackened but still kept her on his lap, she turned to Ishaq Ahmadi. Her face was only inches from his, her mouth just above his own wide, well-shaped lips. She swallowed, feeling the pull.

      “Where are you taking me?”

      “Home.” His gaze was steady. “You are tired. You will want to lie down,” he murmured, and when the jet levelled out, he helped her to her feet and stood up. He took her arm and led her through a doorway.

      They entered a large, beautifully appointed stateroom, with a king-size bed luxuriously made with snowy-white and deep blue linens that were turned down invitingly. There were huge, fluffy white pillows.

      It was like a fantasy. Except for the little windows and the ever-present hum you would never know you were on a plane. A top hotel, maybe. Beautiful natural woods, luscious fabrics, mirrors, soft lighting, and, through an open door, a marble bathroom.

      “I guess I married a millionaire,” Anna murmured. “Or is this just some bauble a friend has loaned you?”

      “Here are night things for you,” he said, indicating pyjamas and a bathrobe, white with blue trim, that were lying across the foot of the sapphire-blue coverlet. “Do you need help to undress?”

      Anna looked at the bed longingly and realized she was dead on her feet. And that was no surprise, after what she had apparently been through in the past few hours.

      “No,” she said.

      She began fumbling with a button, but her fingers didn’t seem to work. Even the effort of holding her elbow bent seemed too much, so she dropped her arm and stood there a moment, gazing at nothing.

      “I will call the hostess,” Ishaq Ahmadi said. And that, perversely, made her frown.

      “Why?” she demanded. “You’re my husband, aren’t you?”

      His eyes probed her, and she shrugged uncomfortably. “Why are you looking at me like that? Why don’t you want to touch me?”

      She wanted him to touch her. Wanted his heat on her body again, because when he touched her, even in anger, she felt safe.

      He made no reply, merely lifted his hands, brushed aside her own feeble fingers which were again fumbling with the top button, and began to undo her shirt.

      “Have you stopped wanting me?” she wondered aloud.

      His head bent over his task, only his eyes shifted to connect with hers. “You are overplaying your hand,” he advised softly, and she felt another little thrill of danger whisper down her spine. Her brain evaded the discomfort.

      “Did you commission work from me or something? Is that how we met?” she asked. She specialized in Mediterranean and Middle Eastern designs, painting entire rooms to give the impression that you were standing on a balcony overlooking the Gulf of Corinth, or in the Alhambra palace. But what were the chances that a wealthy Arab would want a Western woman to paint trompe l’oeil fifteenth-century mosaic arches on his palace walls when he probably had the real thing?

      “We met by accident.”

      “Oh.” She wanted him to clarify, but couldn’t concentrate. Not when his hands were grazing the skin of her breasts, revealed as he unbuttoned her shirt. She looked into his face, bent close over hers, but his eyes remained on his task. His aftershave was spicy and exotic.

      “It seems strange that you have the right to do this when you feel like a total stranger,” she observed.

      “You insisted on it,” he reminded her dryly. He seemed cynically amused by her. He still didn’t believe that she had forgotten, and she had no idea why. What reason could she have for pretending amnesia? It seemed very crazy, unless…unless she had been running away from him.

      Perhaps it was fear that had caused her to lose her memory. Psychologists did say you sometimes forgot when remembering was too painful.

      “Was I running away from you, Ishaq?”

      “You tell me the answer.”

      She shook her head. “They say the unconscious remembers everything, but…”

      “I am very sure that yours does,” Ishaq Ahmadi replied, pulling the front of her shirt open to reveal her small breasts in a lacy black bra.

      She knew by the involuntary intake of his breath that he was not unaffected. His jaw clenched and he stripped the shirt from her, his breathing irregular.

      She wasn’t one for casual sex, and she had never been undressed СКАЧАТЬ