LITMIR.BIZ

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night.

      “Cold?” he inquired in a quiet voice, never letting go of her hand.

      She was running hot and cold at the same time. “Yes.”

      “It’s late. You go back to the tent. I’ll join you in a minute.”

      Her pulse quickened as she started back. Already the wind, dancing about, had erased the footprints they’d made coming up. It is written in the wind was a phrase she’d heard many times. Now she understood what it meant.

      The wind had changed her life. She wasn’t the same woman who’d flown to El-Joktor on a quest to know more about her grandfather. That woman had been buried in the sand. After her body had been transported to Al-Shafeeq, a new woman had been brought back to life by forces greater than she knew, by a man greater than any other.

      Taking advantage of being alone, she lifted the tent flap and tossed her cloak inside, then went around the back. When she’d refreshed herself, she moved to the front and sat down inside the doorway to pull off her boots. After she’d held them over the sand and tipped them upside down, she emptied her socks and stashed everything in a corner with her cloak.

      The wind blew enough that she lowered the flap to keep out the sand. It was pitch-dark inside, but she loved it. Still in her jeans and cotton top, she picked her side and climbed under one of the puffy quilts. Tucking the nearest pillow beneath her head, she lay there and waited while he did whatever needed doing to make their camp secure.

      Soon she saw a small glow and watched his shadow as he moved about. After a few minutes the flap went up. He’d lit a lantern beneath an overhang with sides that prevented the wind from coming in. He set it on a rug he’d rolled out. Next to it sat a bowl of water and a pile of hand towels. He’d already removed his cloak and boots.

      Her gaze flew to his in surprise. The black fires in his eyes started her body trembling. She lay there entranced. “Are you thirsty?”

      “A little.”

      He handed her the water bag. After she’d drunk from it, he put his mouth to the same place and drank. The gesture wasn’t wasted on her. She watched the way the cords worked in his throat. His male beauty captivated her.

      “Hand me your boots. I’ll put them with mine.” She did his bidding. “Now stretch your hands toward me.”

      She got to her knees and put out her hands. He knelt before her and dipped a towel in the water before washing them. The water was warm and scented with the faint fragrance of rose.

      No one had ever washed her hands for her before. When he reached for another towel, she got a fluttery feeling in her chest. This time he began washing her face. With slow gentle strokes he covered her forehead and cheeks, her nose and mouth. With the tenderest of touches he wiped her neck and throat, even her ears.

      Once he put the towel aside, she took a clean one. Imitating his actions, she washed his hands and forearms, wanting to bring him the same exquisite pleasure. His body was a miracle to her. She relished being able to touch him like this.

      Another dip in the water and she was able to bathe his face to her heart’s content, from his widow’s peak to the crease in his bold chin. He’d shaved before coming. She marveled over his incredible olive skin burnished by the elements. His black eyebrows were beautifully shaped. His nose—every bold, rugged feature—was perfect to her.

      Then there was his mouth. Like the mesmerizing dunes, its shape changed with his mood. Hard, soft, brooding, compelling. Sensuous. She put the towel aside, needing to feel it beneath hers. She ran her thumb across it, aching with need.

      “Oh, Rafi,” her voice shook. “If you don’t kiss me again, I think I’m going to die.”

      “I’ve already died several deaths because of you,” he whispered against her lips. “What a perfect mouth you have. I came close to eating you alive at the cabaret. That’s why I forced us to leave. I didn’t trust myself.”

      He cupped her face in his hands and began with a series of light kisses he pressed to all the places he’d washed, barely grazing her mouth.

      She wasn’t satisfied and protested with a moan. “Don’t tease me. I can’t take it.”

      “Then show me what you want,” he said in a voice of velvet.

      “You know what I want. This.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and covered his mouth with her own, not allowing him any hiding place. A profound hunger had grown inside her. She was after his soul and his mouth was the conduit.

      “Lauren—“ he cried her name. His hands roamed her back and waist, drawing her into him as they drank both deeper and deeper. Her passion for him was so intense, her body quivered.

      He lay her back down and followed her, giving her the kiss she’d been dying for. He was starving for her, too. She knew he was, but after a few minutes she seemed to be doing most of the work.

      While the cold wind blew against the tent, a fire roared inside her. Her body, her senses yearned for him. Every kiss had grown more intoxicating, yet she felt he was still holding back and couldn’t understand it. Was something wrong?

      “I want you, Rafi, and know you want me. I want you to love me all night,” she cried from the depths of her being. “What’s stopping you? Have I grown less desirable?”

      “No.” He sounded so distant. How could that be when only a little while ago he’d washed her hands and face in a ceremony so erotic, she would never be the same again. “You’re infinitely desirable and you know it.”

      “Then—”

      “Tell me who you are, Lauren Viret,” he broke in.

      “Who am I?” she whispered dazedly. She didn’t understand. “What do you mean?”

      “The Garden of the Moon is a sacred place of the royal family no one knows about, yet you admit you had knowledge of it before you came here. You claim that it was Mustafa who informed you. But if that’s really true, then he will have to be punished.”

      “What?” Her intoxication had been so complete, she could scarcely comprehend he’d brought an end to their rapture. She sat up to clear her head.

      “Mustafa knows there’s a penalty for divulging that information.”

      “No—” she cried out, putting her hands on his arm. “He wasn’t the person who told me. I swear it! He’s a good man who saved me from the storm.”

      Rashad raised up on one elbow. That mouth she loved had tightened to a thin line. She felt his body go rigid beneath her fingers. “Who then?”

      He was deadly serious, sending her into shock. “Someone else told me about it.”

      “Was it Prince Faisal?”

      At the mention of the name, she drew in a surprised breath.

      “You do know him—” Suddenly Rafi sat up and became the forbidding chief of security.

      “No—” she cried, shaking her head.

      His hands circled her arms. “Don’t lie to me, Lauren.”

      She could hardly swallow. “I’m not, but I did recognize the name just now. Paul, the man who wanted to marry me, told me he’d met a minor prince from the northern Arabian kingdom at the casino in Montreux. He’d said his name was Faisal.”

      “When was this?”

      “A month ago, maybe less. He got an interview with him and some pictures.”

      “Go on.”

      Lauren moistened her lips nervously. “There isn’t much to tell except that he told Paul there were photographic opportunities in the Nafud where he would rule supreme one day. When Paul came back to the apartment, he begged to come with me to the desert, but I’d already told him no. Why did you

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