Surgeon Sheik's Rescue Page 13

  He led her to the kitchen, where the chef was also in an upbeat and friendly mood today. Bella had met him yesterday when she’d come looking for Kiki and his demeanor had been guarded, watchful. Now his smile was hearty and warm as he greeted her and showed her the table of ingredients she’d requested. There was prosciutto, eggplant, cheeses, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, tomatoes and fresh herbs among the spread, along with two bottles of the red wine she’d asked for.

  “All yours,” he said in French. “Aprons are over there if you need one.”

  “Does he have any dietary taboos?” she asked.

  Chef shook his head. “Non, the monsieur is a connoisseur of fine food, wines—” he gave a shrug “—but he has not been interested in much. Until now.”

  “You knew him from before? I mean, before his accident?”

  A flicker of the old guardedness reentered his eyes. “Yes, I have known him awhile.”

  “You like him,” she said.

  A moment of seriousness. “We all like him. We’ve all been worried about him.” He turned to go, hesitated. “You want the radio off?”

  It was playing soft classic rock. She grinned. “No, I’m used to noisy, friendly kitchens.”

  He nodded, grinned and left.

  Bella tied on an apron and busied herself making marinade, crushing garlic, rubbing coarse salt and pepper into a leg of lamb, slicing and grilling eggplant, dousing it in oil and vinegar, chopping tomatoes. She found herself humming and moving to a punchy old tune as the hour ticked by. Locating a corkscrew she opened a bottle of wine so it could start breathing. She knew Tariq liked red, but this time she’d stayed away from Chateau Luneau, going instead with an Italian choice her father and eldest brother routinely endorsed with much gusto.

  As she worked her adoptive mother’s voice sifted in her consciousness. “You take this much oregano, like so, Bella.” As she spoke, her mother would pinch the freshly chopped green herbs between her fingers, showing Bella, the scent fragrant in the kitchen. “And a handful of basil, like this.” The basil grew in pots along the windowsill, along with tiny bright chili plants. “And just a splash of balsamic, like so. Here, taste it now—” she’d say, holding out a wooden spoon rich and red with sauce.

  Bella’s eyes burned suddenly, the warm memories blindsiding her. That longing, that quiet hole in her psyche, that need to know where she came from was still there in spite of the love she’d been given by Minnie DiCaprio. It was a yearning so simple, yet so complex, and it reared up its head at the most unexpected moments. Tariq had cracked something open inside her with his questions and talk of family. And it had made her vulnerable.

  She felt guilt, too. Because she did, truly, love her DiCaprio clan even though she didn’t go home as often as she should.

  Bella slipped the roast into the oven, put a copper pot of water to boil, set the timer and wiped her hands on a cloth. She glanced at the clock on the wall—time for a glass of wine. She reached for the open bottle and poured two glasses as she bopped her hips to a pacey late-’70s song, singing the words along with the male vocalist as she did… She reached for a glass, took a sip of wine. It was good. She untied her apron, turned around and froze.

  He stood there. In the doorway, a dark, brooding shadow. Watching her.

  Her heart skittered.

  “How—how long have you been standing there?”

  Tariq entered the kitchen, a strange intensity on his face. Bella swallowed.

  “Long enough,” he said, voice thick.

  Her cheeks heated. She wanted to smile, say something casual, easy, but the look in his features stopped her. “Long enough for what?” she whispered, thinking of his men in her room, going through her computer. The photo in her bag. Did he know?

  His gaze held hers. He come closer—very close. Bella reached behind herself, bracing against the counter where she knew there was a knife. Even so, a dark carnal ribbon of desire unfurled inside her. The kitchen felt warm. The pot was beginning to steam, the scent of the roast crisping filled the air.

  “I was about to come and find you.” Her voice came out hoarse. “I was going to bring you some wine.”

  He said nothing. Lust etched into his features, turning his eye black as oil. Bella swallowed.

  He reached past her, the inside of his arm brushing her shoulder. She could smell soap, feel his heat. His hair was damp. He picked up a glass of wine, held it out to her in a toast. “Santé,” he whispered.

  Bella inhaled, chinked her glass against his, her gaze meeting his, as they both took a deep sip. He was watching her lips. His mouth was so close. Heat arrowed to her stomach and suddenly she couldn’t think straight.

  “This is good,” he said, glancing down at the label.

  “My father’s and brother’s favorite.” She watched his Adam’s apple work as he took another swallow.

  “I…I came early,” she explained. “I wanted to get started on the dinner—your butler showed me in.”

  “I know.”

  What else did he know? She had to come out, say it. Now.

  “Tahar, I need to—”

  But he touched her mouth with his fingertips, taking the glass from her hands. “Not now,” he whispered, moving his body up against hers. “Don’t talk.”

  Bella felt the insides of her stomach begin to tremble as heat blossomed through her groin and her nipples ached. She began to throb with a need that rose from her center, and suddenly she couldn’t breathe. She knew once she did talk this would be over. Maybe it was the same for him. And a lust rose so forceful it was mind-blowing—she wanted him. All of him. Inside her. She wanted to wrap herself around him, feel him move naked in her arms. She’d loved him from afar for so many months. Now he was here, his body hot, hard. Real. Against hers. But maybe only for a fleeting moment.

  He cupped the back of her head, threading his fingers into her thick hair, pulling her head back. She felt his powerful thighs press against her body. His biceps were iron-hard under his black T-shirt, his skin dark against her pale sweater.

  He tilted her chin up with his thumb, lowered his mouth, touched his lips to hers.

  Bella’s world spiraled so fast she thought she’d faint. She hooked her arms around his neck, drew him down, kissing him back, opening her mouth under his. She felt his tongue, teasing the inside seam of her lips, then he entered her mouth, deep. Her knees turned to water. She arched her back, pressing against him, holding him closer as her tongue tangled with his, and she could feel the hard, hot length of his erection against her pelvis.

  Suddenly, with a strength that startled her, he lifted her onto the kitchen counter, her short skirt riding high up her hips as her bare legs opened around his thighs. She kissed him harder, more desperately. Behind her a salt-and-pepper pot knocked over, rolled off the counter, crashed to the ground. The pot on the stove started a rolling boil, steam rising through the kitchen, melding with the rich fragrances of rosemary and garlic. In the back of her mind Bella noted the heat would have to be turned down soon or the roast would burn, but desire wiped her mind clean as she felt his hand on her bare thigh. He groaned as his fingers touched skin. She wrapped her booted legs around him, emotion burning fierce in both of them, electricity crackling through their bodies as the music on the radio changed to a thrusting rock. His hand went higher up her thigh. A buzzing sounded in the distance of Bella’s mind. He kissed harder. She tasted blood, didn’t care. The buzzing grew louder and a burning scent fingered down into her consciousness, and with shock she realized it was the timer—the meat was burning.

  Bella pulled back, breathless, lips swollen. “Oh, God.” She laughed. “The roast!”

  She wriggled free, hopped to the ground, opened the oven and heat billowed out. Grabbing an oven glove, she removed the roast as he turned off the buzzer and took the boiling pot off the stove.

  Her heart was hammering, her cheeks flushed with the heat, a sudden awkwardness rushing through her. “It’s fine—we got it in time,” she sai
d to the roast, unable to meet his eyes, fearful of the power of her own lust and rawness of emotion. Of the deception between them.

  “I put it high to seal it.” She covered the pan loosely with foil as she spoke. Turning the heat down, she returned the roast to the oven. “It’ll be fine on low now for a while.”

  She set the oven glove on the counter. He came up behind her, placing his hand over hers on the glove. Bella swallowed.

  “Tahar,” she said quietly, struggling with the use of his alias now. “I need to tell you something. We…need to talk.”

  “Amelie.” He took her by the shoulders, turning her gently to face him.

  “Come with me,” he whispered. “Let’s go to the pool room.”

  Chapter 8

  Tariq left the room in darkness but he put on the underwater lights, dimming them to a haunting glow. Outside, the sky was dark and low with clouds, rain lashing at the abbey and running in silver streams down the windows. Bella could almost hear, feel, the distant heave and push of the waves crashing and sucking at the base of the cliffs below. And beyond the soft notes of a cello concerto feeding into the pool room sound system, she could hear the eerie moan of wind in the turrets.

  Tariq took her by the hand, and led her barefoot to the edge of the bubbling whirlpool. Steam rose gently from the surface of the water and the air was warm, humid.

  Bella turned to him, burning with a need to confess who she was, but he placed two fingers on her lips and shook his head. “No words,” he whispered, drawing her closer, sliding his hand under her sweater.

  Bella’s pulse began to race as he lifted her sweater slowly up over her head, his warm skin brushing against hers. Holding his gaze, Bella reached behind her back and unclasped her bra. Tariq’s eye darkened to a pitch as her breasts swelled free. She dropped her bra to the floor and then unzipped her skirt, letting it fall to her bare feet. Still holding his gaze, she rolled her lace panties down her hips, and dropped them to the floor along with her skirt. His breathing became light and he stepped closer to her.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said, placing the palm of his right hand on her hip, sliding it over her curve and round to the small of her back, then down the swell of her buttocks, drawing her hips against his. Heat pooled like fire low in her belly.

  “I thought you said no words,” she whispered hoarsely as she began to lift his T-shirt over his chest. She could feel the hot, hard, length of his arousal pressing firmly against her bare hips, and a wild urgency filled her, but she forced herself to move slowly, to savor every moment of being with him—this prince she’d only dared dream about. Under her hands, his skin was supple, smooth, firm. Bella dropped his black T-shirt to the floor and traced her fingers gently over the scars down the side of his torso. She felt him tense as she touched the injuries, and she thought again of that photo she’d spent so many hours staring at over the past months, falling into a deep infatuation. And now he was here, in her arms, even if for just this moment. And she wasn’t going to blow it by talking. Because suddenly Bella no longer wanted to confess right now who she was—she didn’t want to destroy this.

  Moving her hands lower, she unzipped his pants, sliding one hand inside. She moaned as she felt him, hard, hot. Her urgency spiked, and her breathing became light, pressure building low and fierce in her abdomen. Bella quickly slid his pants down his hips. His stomach was hard and his thighs muscular, strong, his skin dusky. She moved her hand along the inside of his thighs, stroking him as she kissed the hollow at the base of his neck, teasing his skin with her tongue. He groaned suddenly and grabbed her by the back of her head, thrusting his fingers deep into her curls and jerking her hard up against his naked body. Bella could feel his heart hammering a wild staccato beat against her breasts. He tilted her head back, lowering his mouth to hers, forcing her lips open, kissing her hard, fierce, hungry, deep, as he moved her backward toward the whirlpool.

  Kissing fiercely, tongues tangling, they stepped into the warm water, lowering their bodies into the tickling bubbles. The waves rippled warm and sensual over bare skin, and Bella drew back for a moment, catching her breath, her heart pumping, her lips burning, her body aching inside for him. She looked into his face, and cupped the injured side of his cheek, her heart full of compassion and desire, and she knew he could feel it in her touch, see it in her eyes. Because he inhaled deeply, closing his eye, leaning into her as she teased her fingers down the length of the scar on his cheek, slowly going lower, lower, her eyes holding his, until she reached the downward curve of his lips.

  He moved his head suddenly to the side, snaring the tip of her fingers in his teeth. He bit softly, then took two fingers into his mouth, caressing her with his tongue, sucking her in deeper. Her nipples went taut, a reciprocal feeling arrowing between her legs where the water was warm, moving, and bubbles caressed. She could feel his erection pressing against her bare thigh, feel the tickle of the small gold pendant buoyant between her breasts.

  In the mirrors along the one side she could see their reflection, a yin yang of male and female, alabaster skin against dusk. The notes of the cello rose in crescendo and her heart beat faster, her breathing coming lighter. Bella didn’t want to think about anything beyond this moment. She wanted to steal it, savor it, devour it before their worlds crashed down around them.

  He leaned in, bringing his mouth down to hers, and this time his kiss was so gentle, so slow, it made her want to scream with need inside. He cupped her breasts, teasing her nipples, and she closed her eyes, sinking lower into the warm water as his tongue tangled with hers. His hand moved down her waist, along her hip, to her thigh, then he cupped her gently between her legs. Bella’s mind spun. She opened her legs and he teased her, the combination of warm, swirling water and his fingers driving her wild. He slid a finger up into her, then another and she couldn’t breathe.

  “No,” she whispered against his lips, about to shatter around his fingers. “I…want it to last.”

  She straddled him loosely instead, felt his arousal tickling, teasing her as currents of water moved between them. Bella touched his eye patch. It was wet, like his hair, which slicked back off his aristocratic, high brow.

  “May I?” she whispered.

  He stilled, said nothing. Gently, she took it off.

  His eyelid was closed, a little depressed into the socket. She realized he had no eye at all. Emotion surged fierce into her chest.

  “There,” Bella whispered as she put the wet patch on the side of the pool. “Now I can see all of you.” She leaned in, breasts pushing against his hard pecs. “And I want all of you.” She lowered her mouth as she held his face. Pressing her lips to his, she slid her tongue into his mouth, teasing his lips as she sank slowly down onto his erection. She widened her thighs, going lower, lower, and gasped, throwing her head back with pleasure when he was fully inside her. She held still for a while, nerves tingling throughout her entire body as she adjusted the size and heat of him inside her.

  Then she began rocking her pelvis against his, milking him with her muscles, the movement making the water suck and splash around them. The nerves inside Bella grew hotter as she increased friction, growing more sensitive, and she moved faster, kissing him now, fiercely, her movements turning aggressive, desperate. He bucked his hips up, meeting her thrusts, her rhythm, his shoulder muscles rolling smooth under her hands. Outside the wind rose, and rain battered in bursts against the glass.

  Bella moved harder, breathless, heat pricking over her skin, throwing her head back, mouth open, the need inside her growing almost preternatural. An incredible pressure soared into her chest, into her throat. Her vision swirled into shades of scarlet and black as the cello concerto rose in crescendo, the pace of the music growing angry, deep, fast. Loud.

  And abruptly, she came, digging her fingers into his skin, arching her back, head back as she cried out loud, her muscles releasing in rolling contractions that seized the length of her body.

  It cracked something in him. Tariq
swung her sharply round, water sloshing over the side as the cello music grew restless, edgy, and the wind began to scream in the turrets. He slipped one hand beneath the small of her back and braced against the pool wall with the other as he thrust into her, crushing her against him, as if he could beat away the things that haunted him with sheer, pounding force. His shoulder muscles felt strong after his swim, he felt powerful inside her. But she was lean, strong, and though small in his arms she met his rhythm, thrust for thrust, wrapping him up with her legs, hooking her ankles behind his back, pulling him in deeper and deeper.

  It only made him more desperate and he moved almost wildly, waves rippling from them into the pool. Deep in the far recesses of his mind, Tariq knew this was wrong, that he should wait to hear from Omair, that he should not be doing this without telling her who he really was. But he was afraid Omair’s news would be bad, and he wanted her, Amelie, like she said she was. He bucked harder, fiercer, driving his pain into dark corners, finding his strength, his raw power. She arched suddenly against him, gasping as she came again. And he could no longer control the exquisite, painful pleasure building inside him. He stilled for a moment, unable to move, quivering hot inside her, then as he watched her face, he grabbed her buttocks, yanking her tight against him as he released into her with a low groan of pleasure.

  Tariq felt liberated, a strange lightness in his limbs as he gathered her into his arms. Her body was now soft, relaxed, supple, a magical luminosity to her face. And he just held her in the warm water like that, emotion pricking into his eye—sweet, poignant, exquisite.

  She was watching him.

  “Are you okay?” she whispered.

  He smiled softly and kissed her face, moving a wet strand of hair off her brow. “More than okay,” he said gently. “You make me forget. You make me feel whole.”

  He kissed her again, a million feelings racing through him. After seeing her in the kitchen like that, long boots to her knees, short skirt, body-hugging sweater, bopping her hips to that tune, surrounded by the warmth of the kitchen, the scents of hearth and home… He’d been unable to stop himself.