The Sheikh's Destiny (Harlequin Romance) by Melissa James Page B

without a life preserver, and he hadn’t even touched her. But, oh, she’d touched him and she knew… Did he have any idea how it had felt for her, having her hands on his body? Had she given away the aching throb low in her belly, singing in her blood?
    Sahar Thurayya . How many women had he named so exquisitely in the past?
    â€˜I think a more appropriate name for me at present would be Dawn Stink,’ she said lightly, turning to her backpack. ‘OrEvening Stinker, since it’s after sunset. Are you hungry, Pigpen, or do you need ibuprofen? We have to eat quickly and go. Sh’ellah’s men will be looking for us. I just hope they haven’t worked out that you were the truck driver, since we ran.’
    â€˜I’d like both food and painkillers, please,’ he said, warm laughter still in his voice. ‘So you can call me Pigpen, but never use my name. It’s a telling omission,’ he added softly—and she knew he’d seen her reaction to his body yesterday, was testing her…
    She handed him an energy bar, ibuprofen tablets and a canteen without looking at him. ‘I told you before. I’m waiting to see if you live up to it.’
    â€˜Well, I certainly live up to Pigpen.’ He took the medicine before eating, and she sensed a question coming before he spoke. ‘Do you keep all men at a distance, or is it only me?’
    The light tone in no way hid the serious intent of the question, but it wasn’t aimed at her. The look in his eyes—haunted by bleak self-disgust—told its tale to a trained nurse. She’d seen it many times with burns patients—the horror-filled self-loathing inspired by seeing how they’d look for the rest of their lives. The soul-deep belief that nobody would ever look at them without revulsion, or, worse, they’d always have to endure the awkward, averted eyes and half mumbles of people who didn’t know what to say to the poor freak…
    What could she say? Nothing, except the truth—that when she’d touched his body, she’d felt he was anything but a freak. That something had awakened in her, beautiful as sunlight on water or the first shooting of a new flower, and now merely looking at him made that budding desire blossom through her veins as fast as grapes on a vine.
    She felt herself flushing deeper than the heat of early night allowed. ‘Only the ones who put my village at risk and force me to run from my home,’ she replied, the quipping note in ita thin sheet covering her pain: both for him and herself. For the first time since leaving Perth, she’d finally felt safe in Shellah-Akbar, as if she belonged somewhere.
    Was that why she felt such a kinship to him…because he was a lost soul, just as she was?
    A long silence followed; it pulsed with questions he didn’t ask. ‘I’m sorry, Hana. I came to help but did more damage than good. How unusual for me.’
    She turned her face at the self-mocking bitterness, but he’d stood, looking around. For a second time, she opened her mouth and closed it. Despite seeing his near-naked body, sharing a bed with him, faking sex and massaging his body, saving his life and waking in his arms, she didn’t know him well enough to attempt comfort.
    And yet every time she looked in his eyes, she saw the mirror held up to her face…
    When will you learn to love yourself, my Hana? Her mother had first asked that when she was about eleven, and its echoes still rang unanswered in her heart. Always trying to prove something—that you’re the fastest, the smartest, the strongest, most independent, that you don’t need anyone—and you never see how vulnerable it makes you.
    Looking at Alim now, she felt the echo of her mother’s sadness in the heart of a man she’d only known a short time, a man born to wealth and privilege, raised to rule a nation as the spare, thrust into the position