“His name was Todd. Todd Whitman.”
“An American?”
“Yes.”
Jebal regarded her. Her story made sense. His anger had faded. “Are you telling me the truth?”
She nodded, her green eyes huge and luminous. “I knew Todd since we were very small children. I loved him from the time I was four or five years old. We were inseparable in grammar school. We were sweethearts by the time we were fourteen and fifteen. Even our families knew we would one day wed.”
Jebal believed her. He saw the emotions there in her eyes—not so much the love, but the sadness, the regret, and the last remnants of rejection and an old hurt. “And he took your virginity and abandoned you.”
“He met another woman,” she said softly, staring down at her knees.
“I am sorry,” he said, abashed.
Not looking up, she whispered, “May I put on my clothing now?”
He felt terrible, uncomfortable with his own lapse into cruelty. Jebal picked up her tunic and held it out to her. She stood swiftly, flushing again. She almost tore the long garment from his hands, pulling it swiftly over her head.
But he had seen all that there was to see. She was the most magnificent women he had ever beheld. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”
She met his gaze, quickly looked away. “Because I gave myself out of marriage to a man, and in my country, that is an unforgivable sin.”
“Here, too, but I understand,” Jebal said, laying his hand on her shoulder. He felt her trembling. He also noticed how her silk tunic had become damp, clinging to her generous breasts, her flat belly, and even the mound of her femininity. “I have one more question.”
She nodded, her gaze remaining downcast.
“Why were you on your way to Gibraltar?”
“I was running away. Todd made a fool of me. I didn’t care where I went, didn’t care if I lived or died. I took the first ship I came across. Had I wandered to a different part of the city, I would have gotten on the first train.” Her gaze crept upward. “Fate brought me here.”
It crossed Jebal’s mind that Zoe would be the one punished for trying to destroy his relationship with Zohara. Zoe was pushing too hard, too often. He was growing very tired of her demanding, deceitful ways.
“Now I truly understand,” he said gently, pulling her against his side. He turned slightly, the movement placing her in his arms. Her gaze flew to his, wide with comprehension.
“Do not be afraid,” he whispered, sliding his hands down her back. “You are not a virgin, after all, and we have waited long enough.” His palms moved lower. He cupped her high, hard buttocks, and could not stop himself from pressing her fully up against him. She gasped as she came into contact with his very long arousal.
“Here? Now?”
“Why not? I am ready. I have been ready for a very long time, dear Zohara.”
Her eyes fluttered closed. Jebal took it as a sign of acquiescence. He kissed each lash, then found her mouth. He meant to be gentle, but he had the terrible feeling that he would make love like a virgin himself.
She made a noise. It might have been a moan. Jebal chose to think so. Panting, he tore his mouth from hers. “I love you. I want you. I am maddened with lust. Zohara.”
Her eyes opened, filled with fear. “Not here. Please, not here.”
The anger flared. “I will not wait another minute, Zohara.” He bent and sucked her nipple into his mouth, through the wet silk tunic. Then he took her hand and placed it on his erection. When she did not grip him, he forced her to do so. A haze of lust consumed Jebal.
But Zohara said, her tone strangled, “Jebal, you would consummate our relationship like this? Publicly? For anyone to see? Here in the gardens—on the ground—in the dirt?”
Jebal lifted his head. Their gazes locked. He wanted her desperately, but just past her shoulder he saw a pair of slaves crossing the galleria. Frustration filled him. “Come with me, now, to my rooms.”
Zohara stiffened. She was unnaturally white. “Can you not give me just a little more time?” she finally whispered.
Jebal grimaced, but before he could answer he saw one of his own slaves hurrying toward them. The African’s strides were purposeful, and Jebal had not a doubt that he was bearing him a message or a summons. He sighed. Unsure of what to do. Lust warred with his generous nature. “I will think about it,” he said. “Fila, what is it?”
“The bashaw summons you, my lord, to his hall.”
