The truth was he’d been attracted to Josie Dalton from the moment they’d met on Christmas Eve, in the Salad Shack. Kissing her in the back of his Rolls-Royce yesterday, far from satiating his desire, had only made him want her more. Her shy, trembling, perfectly imperfect kiss had punched through him like a hurricane, knocking him over and sucking him down beneath the sensual undertow of her sweet, soft embrace.
Why did she have such power over him?
He felt a sudden hard thwack against his shin.
Exhaling, Kasimir looked down at her, sitting on his bed. “Stop trying to kick me, and I’ll untie you.”
“Mmph!” Josie responded angrily. If looks could kill, a lightning bolt would have sizzled him on the spot, leaving only the ash of his body to be carried away like smoke on the hot desert wind.
With a sigh, he reached down and untied the white sash from her mouth. “I warned you what would happen if you didn’t stop screaming,” he said regretfully. “You were driving the pilot crazy. Tark’s been in some rough places, flown military missions all over the world. But even he had never heard the kind of curses that came shrieking out of your mouth.”
Her mouth now free, Josie coughed. “You kidnapped me, you—” And here she let out a torrent of new invective against his manhood, his intelligence and his lineage in her sweet Sunday-school voice, that left him wide-eyed at her creative vulgarity.
“Ah, my dear.” He gave a soft laugh. “I’m beginning to think you are not quite the innocent I thought you were.”
“Go to hell!”
He tilted his head. “Who taught you to swear like that?”
“Your mother,” she bit out insultingly. Then with an intake of breath, Josie looked up, as if she’d just remembered that his mother had died. She bit her lip, abashed. “I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice. She held out her wrists. “Would you mind please untying me now?”
Kasimir stared at her. After the way he’d thrown her bodily into his helicopter, ignoring her protests, tying her up—she felt guilty for her single thoughtless insult? She was afraid of causing him pain?
Bending to untie her wrists, he muttered, “You are quite a woman, Josie Xendzov.”
“So you keep telling me.” She looked around his enormous, luxurious white canvas tent, from the four-poster bed to the luxurious Turkish carpets lining the hard-packed sand floor. A large screen of carved wood covered the wardrobe, illuminated by the soft golden light of a solar-powered lamp. “Where are we?”
“My home. In the Sahara.”
“Where in the Sahara?”
“The middle,” he said sardonically.
“Thanks.” Narrowing her eyes she tossed her head. “I’m grateful you’re not just going to leave me in chains. As your prisoner.”
“It’s tempting,” he said softly. “Believe me.”
As he loosened the knots around her wrists, he tried not to notice the alluring softness of her skin. Tried not to imagine how the white lacy bra and panties looked beneath her clothes. Tried not to think how easy it would be to push her back against his bed, to stretch back her arms, still bound at the wrists, against the headboard. To press apart her knees, still bound at the ankles. He tried not to think how it would feel to lick and caress up her legs, to the inside of her thighs, until he felt her tremble and shake.
No. He wouldn’t think about it. At all.
A bead of sweat broke out on Kasimir’s forehead. His word of honor. That meant his lips and tongue couldn’t possibly yearn to suckle her full, ripe breasts. His hands could not ache to part her virgin thighs. He couldn’t hunger to stroke and kiss her until he lost himself deep, deep, deep inside her hot wet core.
The bindings on her wrists abruptly burst loose and, as the rope dropped to the floor, Kasimir took a single staggering step back from her. He ran his hand over his forehead, feeling dizzy.
She rubbed her free wrists, looking up at him dubiously. “Are you all right?”
Blinking, he focused on her beautiful brown eyes, expressive and still slightly resentful, in the fading afternoon light. Her voice was like the cool water of an oasis to a man half-dead with thirst. Did she feel the same electricity? He’d been so sure of it in Honolulu. In Marrakech, he’d been absolutely confident of the answering desire in her eyes. But now, he wondered if that had just been a mirage in the desert, an illusion created by his own aching, inexplicable need.
Josie took a deep breath. “Please,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said hoarsely. He wanted to please her. He wanted to push her back against the pillows and rip the clothes from her body. He wanted to thrust himself inside her until he felt her scream and explode with joy.
“Please—” she held out her ankles “—finish untying me.”
Kasimir exhaled. “Right,” he said unsteadily.
Holding himself in check, he knelt at her feet. From where she sat on the bed, her long legs were stretched towards him, her heels on the Turkish carpet. Even in the baggy jeans he’d loaned her, she had legs like a houri—the pinnacle of feminine beauty. As he undid the ropes, his fingertips unwillingly brushed against her calves, against the tender instep of her sole. He felt her shiver, and he stopped, his heart pounding. He looked up her legs, straight past her knees to her thighs, and the heaven that waited there, then to her breasts, then to her face. His body broke out into a hot sweat.