The Sheikh and the Surrogate Mum (17 page)

‘A feast in the desert,’ Liz murmured as she filled her plate with bits and pieces of salad and meat, trying everything as he’d been sure she would because this was a woman who lived for new experiences.

Yet she’d given up nine months of her life to produce a child for her brother? How much she must have loved him!

How great her capacity for love!

‘You’re not eating,’ she told him, pointing at him with her fork.

‘Thinking,’ he said, and she smiled.

‘Thinking makes me hungry,’ she said, then laughed at herself. ‘Actually, everything makes me hungry these days. But I’d feel a lot better about stuffing myself with food if you were at least nibbling on a lettuce leaf.’

He filled his plate and ate, enjoying the food, enjoying the company, enjoying most of all the desert, his spiritual home.

Liz wondered what he was thinking. Probably not how sexy she was, although his sexiness was one of the main topics of thought running through
her
mind. Something about the man stirred bits of her that had never been stirred before and she wasn’t entirely certain it was all physical attraction. The more she saw and learned of him as a man—the way the people obviously loved him, the way he never spoke down to anyone, his tenderness with his grandmother—the more attractive he became.

While she was the very opposite—fat and even clumsier than usual, her life in chaos—no redeeming features at all, so why he kept on kissing her she had no idea.

Kept on kissing her? It had happened, what, twice?

But even thinking of the kisses had her body stirring, her breasts growing heavy, her skin going coming out in goose-bumps.

She set down her plate, afraid she’d start trembling, and looked at the dancing flames of the fire in front of them.

Fire, heat, burning…her attraction to this man could lead nowhere, so why get burnt?

Because I want to?

She hadn’t really expected an answer to her silent question, so when it came it shocked her. What was she saying? That she’d like to make love to this man for the sheer physical pleasure of it?

Knowing nothing would come of it?

Knowing it would probably be a one-off experience?

Knowing she’d have something to remember him by—that was the real answer—a memory of a special night in a very special place with a very, very special man!

‘Are
you attracted to me?’

The question popped out without much forethought.

Klutz!

She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, burning there, but at least he was smiling.

‘You have no idea how much,’ he said softly, then he moved the platters and plates and shifted so he sat beside her, his body close but once again not touching her. ‘But you are in a strange place, both physically and mentally. If we do something about this attraction, are you sure you won’t regret it?’

She turned towards him and this time
she
touched
his
face.

‘I won’t regret it,’ she said quietly, then she leaned forward and kissed him on the lips, tasting remnants of the pomegranate drink, tasting him.

The kiss was slow and easy, not tentative but definitely the beginning of a voyage of discovery. His tongue delved, invaded, starting the fires within, nothing more than glowing embers at the moment, but Liz knew they’d flare soon.

She slid her hand beneath his shirt to feel his skin, and heard his murmur—of pleasure? Of approval?—then felt his hand against her breast, felt her nipples growing hard, and raised her hand to touch his, to brush against them, gently, teasing the tight buds.

His murmur became a growl and now his lips had moved from hers, searching along her chin, finding skin to tease beneath her hair, shivers running down her spine. His tongue flicked against the hollow of her neck and this time it was she who murmured—cried out really—wanting more, so much more.

‘I will take care of you.’ He breathed the words against her skin and before she could protest that their satisfaction should be mutual, his hand had sought the very centre of her being and with one hand on her breast and the other brushing gently but insistently against her panties, she found herself squirming with delight and need, squirming and breathing hard, wanting more yet wanting him to stop what was becoming torture.

But she, too, could tease, so she felt for him and found the hardness pressed against his jeans, finding the tip of it and running her fingers lightly over it.

‘Clothes,’ he gasped, and they separated, but though she longed to see him naked, she was less inclined to reveal her own body in all its swollen glory.

‘I
have
seen pregnant women before,’ he said gently, obviously reading her reluctance to disrobe.

And with that he lifted the loose top she wore up and over her head, then with seemingly practised ease he dispensed with her bra before reaching down and sliding off her long trousers and panties.

‘You are beautiful,’ he said, pushing away the arms she had wrapped around herself. ‘Radiantly beautiful.’

‘Fat,’ she retorted, ‘while you…’

He’d shucked off his own clothes and knelt beside her, the light from the flickering fire dancing on his naked skin.

She touched him, more in awe than anything, but he took her hand and kissed her palm, then drew her thumb into his mouth and suckled it, taunting her to distraction before turning his attention to her breasts, teasing at one with his tongue, at the other with what seemed to her like magic fingers.

The slow dance of foreplay began again. Liz finally relaxed, telling herself it was for the memory, and that she had to grab as much enjoyment as she could from it. But conscious thought soon disappeared, her body revelling in sensation, her brain numbed by delight. Unhurried by some unspoken but mutual consent, they explored each other’s bodies, learning the shape of them, the taste and texture of the skin, the places where the slightest touch stirred the embers of desire, making them flicker until suddenly they became flames.

He lay behind her now, pleasuring her with his hands, building the tension in her body to gasping point then easing back until he was certain she was ready. Only then did he slide into her, gently and carefully, but still touching and teasing so she was lifted to another plane then burst apart, coming with a shuddering sob, then coming again as he, too, climaxed and held her tightly to him.

They lay together, the crackling of the dying fire the only noise in the empty desert, the stars above so bright Liz felt she could reach out and touch them, pull them down and hold them in her lap in the same way she held the happiness their lovemaking had given her.

‘No regrets?’ Khalifa whispered in her ear, and she snuggled closer to him.

‘How could there be?’ she queried softly. ‘This is an experience that I’ll treasure for a lifetime.’

His arms tightened around her, then one hand slid down to rest on her belly where the baby kicked obligingly.

Had it been mine, I would never have to let her go, her or her baby, Khalifa thought, then he wondered where the thought had come from. This woman could never be his, for all he was fairly certain he might love her.

Love her?

An even more bizarre thought to be having. What did he know of love?

Yet melancholy enfolded him as he held the woman in his arms, and melancholy was something he never felt out here in the desert.

Did love always lead to sadness?

‘Thank you,’ the woman in his arms whispered softly, the words like a benediction.

He wanted to thank her, too, to talk about his feelings, but he didn’t know how to start because men of his tribe didn’t do that kind of thing.

‘Talk to me,’ she said—reading his mind.

She had turned so she faced him, resting her hand on his chest as if she needed to maintain physical contact with him.

‘About what?’ he countered, not certain enough of love to talk of it.

‘About you,’ she responded. ‘About your wife—your feelings about the baby?’

She patted her naked belly and added, ‘I’ve been so determined not to feel anything about this poor wee soul’s arrival, I’ve no idea how a pregnant woman might feel, let alone a man. Were you pleased? Excited? Would you marry again? Have another child?’

Was there a shadow of pain behind her questions? Or was he imagining he heard it?

He didn’t know, but she’d asked and now he wanted to answer her, to talk about Zara and his child as he had to no one else.

‘My wife was over the moon, totally absorbed in her pregnancy, but me…?’

He hesitated.

‘You will think this very silly, but to have a pregnant wife, somehow it is a confirmation of a man’s virility. I was proud.’

Again he stopped, partly distracted by a finger drawing whorls around his nipple but also uncertain how to proceed.

‘Keep talking,’ the owner of the finger said, and now he found it easier.

‘I was excited by the thought of a child, more than a baby. Seeing a child grow, explaining things as he or she explored and learned about the world.’

The finger stopped moving and in the moonlight he saw her turn her head so she could study him as she asked her next question—study him as he answered.

‘And now?’

He touched the upturned face.

‘Now I am a coward. Although I know if I had a pregnant wife I would be far more involved with her pregnancy, the guilt I felt—still feel—at not realising all was not going well for Zara would probably haunt me.’

She brushed her finger across his lips and asked, oh, so gently, ‘Was there anything you could have done? Would being with her more have made a difference?’

He didn’t want to answer, knowing answering would release him from his guilt, but his guilt was all he’d had of Zara after her death…

‘Tell me.’

‘No.’

The word came out far too bluntly. Could he really have
not
wanted to lose the guilt?

‘I don’t mean, no, I won’t tell you but, no, there was nothing I could have done,’ he said, more gently now, and going on to explain the genetic heart problem that had killed his wife and child, a problem that had never been known or even suspected.

The woman who’d prised this confession from him snuggled closer and reached out to clasp his head against her breast, running her fingers across his short hair, offering solace with touch.

He reached for her hands and held them, squeezing them gently, silently thanking her for the blessing of her understanding. Thanking her for pointing out how pointless his guilt had always been.

She eased her hands away and he touched the bulge of her pregnancy, running his hand over the taut skin, wishing…

Her hand closed over his.

‘Thank you again,’ she said, as if in telling her he’d given her some kind of gift, then she moved so she could lie in comfort, and whispered a quiet ‘Goodnight’.

He lay, still propped on his elbow, watching how quickly she slid into sleep, feeling guilt—was he obsessed by it?—about their lovemaking, thinking she’d already been tired…

Once certain she was sleeping, he eased away from her and went into the tent to find a rug to cover her, but when he returned he simply stood and looked at her, bathed in starlight. He looked at the pale creamy skin, the spread of hair, the swollen belly that stirred him more than anything. To him, at this moment, she was the epitome of womanhood and he was pretty sure he loved her.

CHAPTER TEN

H
E WAS
asleep when Liz awoke to find herself covered by a soft, warm blanket. For a moment she lay there, remembering—first her body remembering, warming, delighting in reliving the sensations—then her mind remembered Khalifa’s conversation and her heart ached for the pain he’d carried. Meanwhile, a tiny spark of delight glimmered in the darkness—delight that he’d talked to her about something so personal.

But remembering was wasting time, because right now she had pressing physical needs of a different kind. She eased herself away from him, trying not to wake him, then pulled on her clothes rather randomly, although it was stupid to think she had to get dressed when there was no one but the bird to see her as she crept around to the back of the tent for a bathroom break.

She squatted behind the tent, feeling the unfamiliar tenderness Khalifa’s lovemaking had left behind, revelling in it and the sense of well-being in her body.

Satisfaction, that’s what it was—satisfaction that had produced enormous pleasure and great release.

Straightening up, she looked up at the heavens, searching for the Southern Cross, although she knew she wouldn’t see it in a northern sky. But all the stars looked friendly, and she thought about what people said—about stars aligning.

Her stars and Khalifa’s had aligned, for just a short time, and now she had the memory of this very special night.

She sank her toes into the sand and wondered about the sand sprite. Had
her
lovemaking been as satisfying? Had it been so special that she’d had no regrets about having to remain a mortal?

‘Sand sprites indeed!’ Liz muttered, and she shook herself out of her fantasies and focussed on the purely practical.

Her teeth itched!

Could she risk opening the car to get out her small overnight bag?

She was walking towards it when she saw the bag sitting on the front of vehicle. She reached for it. She’d need to find water, maybe in the tent, so she could have a wash and clean her teeth.

And put on clean clothes.

She had opened the bag and was delving in it to find her toiletries when she felt the pain—a sharp jab, so agonising she forgot about the sleeping man and screamed, hopping around on one leg while she tried to find the source of the pain on her other ankle, hopping so she tripped and fell against the car, unable to stop her cry of dismay.

The scream came to Khalifa in a dream, but he was soon awake, aware Liz was no longer in his arms, aware it hadn’t been a dream. He sat up, searching for her, angry he’d been so deeply asleep he couldn’t place the direction the noise had come from.

‘Liz?’

He heard his own panic in his cry, but her answer—‘I’m okay, something bit me and I fell’—did little to reassure him.