Page 3 of The Lady and the Desert Scoundrel

Mrs Croft and Adriana, who’d continued the stroll a few paces ahead, looked about for her. They turned their

heads back. “Lucinda,” Adriana called, “What’s wrong?”

At this precise second the mild wind decided to blow stronger. It caught her untied bonnet and carried it ahead. This unfroze Lucinda and propelled her to run after it. She brushed past her friend and followed the unfortunate piece of her clothing which had just disappeared around a corner and landed in mid-block. She neared it as a man bent and took it. Him. A lock of blacker than obsidian hair tumbled on his forehead as he straightened.

In between gasps, her breath fast from the run and strands of silky chocolate hair loose from her chignon floating in the wind. Her pace slowed and halted midway of that deserted alley. Their eyes locked at one another.

Tariq Al-Fadih wouldn’t fathom what had gotten into him to run and pick this lacy delicacy on the ground. What he did know was the woman in front of him was causing spooky strange things to his guts. Her deep, deep pepper-mint gleam wide on him and the rise and fall of her bosom made his fantasies run wild. Of all women, why should a franj contort his insides with this wrenching intensity?

In a sea-green day frock which hugged her with tempting precision, he could delineate all it tried and failed to hide. If she was his, he’d never allow her to expose her beauty for other men to covet. His cognac-against-fire eyes wandered from her dried-dates-coloured hair, her upturned nose, fixing for a split second on her full rose lips. To continue its perusal down her pale modest neckline, the full imprint of her breasts, her narrow waist and back, in hardly disguised appreciation.

He did not miss his scrutiny had agitated her, and she moistened her lips restless. The movement tore at him. A thousand ideas crossed his mind of what he might do with those cushioned lips, with her. As did his flesh, which responded uncomfortably. So, his muscled legs parted, one hand on the waistline of his breeches, the other on his side, holding the bonnet.

“You should be wearing a veil.” His dark-olive sensuous lips uttered in Italian before he could censor them.

A lightning of irritation crossed her wide-open eyes. No meek dame there, no. “Hiding is not my ideal way of life, sir.” She responded in the same language, raising her chin and ignoring the effects his deep velvety voice unearthed from her. Her hands flew to her hips in defiant posture.

Her heart pounded riotous with his proximity. This close she spotted a gold rim circling his irises, which made his eyes even more remarkable. His abundant midnight eye-lashes lent an air of mysteriousness to his gaze. His obsidian hair shone bluish streaks in the sun and a sleek lock fell on his forehead. She wished she could touch it and feel if it was as silky as it looked.

“You’re too beautiful for any man’s peace of mind.” Or peace of body, he should have said, because beauty was an understatement when it referred to her. Impossibly, witchingly alluring would be a fair better description.

Her cheeks flushed at the crooked compliment and she opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted.

“Lucinda?” Adriana called inquiringly.

Tariq looked in her direction and recognised Pietro’s daughter. So this woman was a friend of hers. Lucinda her name. It suited her with perfection. The name evoked light and all things warm.

“I’m coming.” The Lucinda girl answered in cut-glass English without taking her disturbing eyes from him. So she came from far North. He would have his men get more information of this visitor to the Grazianis.

She extended her arm for the bonnet and their eyes met again. Sparks flew in the air. He handed her the bonnet, advancing deliberate more than he should, so his fingers overlapped hers. A gasp escaped her cushioned lips and her eyes darkened. She wanted him, in the same fervour he wanted her, he concluded smug.

“Thank you.” A shameful weak whisper in her hazy opinion. Her eye-lashes became lazy, and they lowered with the weight of her sensations. Her gaze descended to his strong olive throat and clashing with the vee of his shirt, displaying a solid chest dusted with black hair. This senseless impulse to touch the patch of tantalizing skin tempted her. A prickling surged all over her breasts, culminating with the hardening of her nipples. Fortunately, her layers of clothes made it impossible for him to see it.

“A pleasure,” the word took on a molten meaning made worse by his brief pause. “Lucinda.” And perfect English at that.

The open vowels in the caress-like way he pronounced daring her Christian name almost made her legs falter. He still held her fingers arrested which burned with his touch.

Perfectly aware he wasn’t supposed to call her by her given name as they should have gained a proper introduction. And then his overlapped fingers slid ever so slow from hers, leaving a tingling sensation in their wake, their eyes merged in each other’s. He bowed gentlemanly with a fiery sparkle in his eyes, turned and left in smooth panther strides before her two companions approached.

Lucinda stood there staring as a silly ninny at his broad white-shirted back rubbing her tingling fingers. Someone touched her arm. With a start, she turned to see Mrs Croft at her side. Lucinda tried to straighten her baffled expression before anyone noticed.

“Oh, I know that man!” Adriana strolled towards them.

Lucinda looked at her questioning.

“Tariq Al-Fadih.” The Italian girl answered the unuttered query. “He and my father had dealings several years ago.” She shrugged.

“Not anymore?” Lucinda ventured.

“It seems they had a of fall-out and never spoke again. I did not find out the details.” She trailed off casually.

“A small world, to be sure.” Mrs Croft interjected.

“No doubt.” Adriana again. Lucinda listened in stunned silence as any rational attitude was still clogged in her. “He is a very rich merchant from Tunis, I hear. As his father before him.” Adriana wasn’t mean when it came to delivering information.

“Speaks English, no less.” Lucinda blurted.

“Yes. His father thought it good for a merchant to speak other languages. And provided him with a Scottish and a French tutors, by the way.”

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