Stolen By The Sheikh

Excerpt:
Morocco, 1912

Lady Christine Langtry shivered under the dark, heated gaze of the mysterious desert lord who held her captive. His eyes pierced her skin as though he touched her with the scalding hot tip of a blade. She pulled at the bonds about her wrists which were tied to the center pole of a lavishly decorated tent. <br>
He towered over her as she crouched on the floor, and he slowly lowered his face veil revealing his handsome face. Dark skin against the clean white linen of his abaya, a robe, and the indigo fabric of his tagelmost, a combination of a turban and protective face veil, he was a vision of dreams—the very sexual and scandalous kind. His eyes, black as onyx, were hot and mysterious, and his smile shone bright against the contrasting brown of his skin. He wore a neatly trimmed black goatee and mustache that perfectly accentuated his full lips.<br>
He said nothing but merely peered down at her. His presence was commanding, and his air was arrogant. He knew of his appeal and seemed to expect her to feel warm honeyed desire for him.
“Please let me go. Return me to Casablanca,” she pleaded, breaking the silence of the tent.<br>
“No.”<br>
“But why?” She was almost afraid to ask. It was obvious he’d not intended to kill her. She was still alive.<br>
“Because you belong to me.” She was surprised at his use of perfect English laced with an Arabic accent. He had a sensual sounding voice making her insides clench. <br>
“This is insane.”<br>
“I can see you will not be easy to tame.”<br>
She struggled against the ropes once again. “Let me go this instant, you…you...beast!”<br>
He smiled devilishly. “No.”<br>
“So what are you going to do with me? You could have killed me hours ago.” She paused before breathing aloud the other possibility. Did I come to this foreign place just to be raped? Why did I ever agree to come? How did I get into this mess?
When her husband, Lord Edmund Langtry, had announced the trip to Morocco to improve their stock of horses with the sturdy Arabian breed, she’d welcomed his absence. Her marriage was not created from love, and tender emotion had never developed between them over the years. They existed in the same house but pursued different lives outside their few social appearances where they acted the happily married couple.
Her marriage to Edmund had been arranged by her father, and she had little input in the matter. Edmund needed her wealth and connections to re-establish his family’s title and financial losses. For six years Christine lived at arms length from her husband as she built a successful business in supplying fine horseflesh to the rich and elite. Edmund’s interests, however, were gambling and dallying with the upstairs maids, and Christine welcomed his disinterest.
After he’d left, months passed without word from Edmund. Then the letter arrived summoning her to come to Casablanca. While en route, she received a telegram at her hotel in Lisbon as she awaited her ship to Casablanca. Edmund had been found dead in the desert with a gunshot wound to the shoulder. There was no doubt in her mind he’d been murdered, left out in the desert to die. But who would do such a thing?
Edmund had never been overly useful in her business, but he had managed to collect several fine horses she could cross breed with her existing stock. She had the horses shipped to England on the next ship to Lisbon and then on to England. She hoped this last purchase would secure her financial future and give her the means to continue the business despite Edmund’s suspicious death.
Could this kidnapping be connected to his murder? She peered at the man who held her as captive. He could be dangerous. She had to escape. But how?
As though reading her thoughts, he said, “Do not think of running.”
“You can’t keep me here.” She hoped someone at the hotel had noticed her absence at lunch and already contacted the authorities.
“You are mine.” His voice was harsh, strong and unwavering.
“What do you mean ‘yours’?”
“Do not question me,” he snapped.
She paused under his dark gleam of anger, and her first instinct was to fight. “I am a British citizen, and you can’t just take me off the street and say you own me.” She tugged at her ropes but to no use.
“You are the widow of Lord Langtry, yes?”
She stilled, concerned how he knew her identity. Maybe this wasn’t as random of an act as she first thought. This may very well be connected to Edmund’s death. “Yes,” she answered warily.
“Then you are charged to fulfill his debt.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“It does not matter that you understand. Only know that you belong to me, and I find your spirit refreshing and your pale beauty…appealing.” He stroked a brown finger along her cheek and she turned away from his touch. His warmth scorched her, and she gasped with surprise at her body’s reaction to his simple touch.
“Don’t touch me,” she said quietly. She didn’t want to feel anything but contempt for this man, but her skin tingled where he’d touched her. It was too alarming…she reacted to his touch like a virgin about to lose her maidenhead to her first lover. Anticipation was not how she wanted to feel, nevertheless, she shook with sexual expectancy.
He roughly picked her off the floor, her wrists still securely tied to the pole. He shoved her against him and her breath caught in her throat. He was strong and powerful, and his eyes were like hot coals lit with heated, angry desire. Her cunt tingled as he pierced her with his dark gaze.
“You will give yourself to me, woman, willingly…or otherwise.”