The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) Read online

  "How the hell do you women manage these things?" he muttered.

  Jillian gave a sharp, nervous laugh. "They have men do it?"

  A warm chuckle teased her suddenly exposed back. She shivered again as he slid the gown free.

  Her stays came next. She loosened the front laces with practiced ease and then shimmied awkwardly out of her chemise and underdrawers... and stood before him, naked and unsure.

  She was very cold inside.

  The woman's body gleamed like alabaster in the dull lamplight. Graham felt his breath hitch.

  So beautiful. The face of an angel, with high curved cheekbones and a red, inviting, kiss-swollen mouth. Blond hair hung down to her shoulders—those lackluster curls the only tarnish on her beauty. Huge luminous eyes met his. Blue? In this light, hard to tell. He guessed their color to be a deep sapphire. Her breasts were full, tipped by rosy nipples. Pale, creamy skin begged for his touch.

  Her hips were rounded, and there was a slight curve to her belly. Her woman's mound, he noted with surprise, was shaved, showing an inviting glimpse of the treasure between her thighs. That damp hollow he'd dreamed about, dreamed of sinking into wet warmth and feeling a pleasure he'd never experienced...

  Blood rushed to his groin, causing his slight erection to grow. He hardened to stone. He dimly felt grateful for the reaction. The first hurdle was cleared.

  Just kissing her had aroused him. And he'd been pleased at her look of dazed wonder. Although he was a virgin, Graham had some experience with kissing. The widow he'd visited once back in Egypt had been an expert, and had taught him a few very pleasurable things—but when he'd started to undress to complete the act, he'd frozen.

  That was years ago, he reminded himself, silently watching Christine blush to the roots of her blond hair. You can do this now. Indeed, his eager body assured him he could.

  Graham sat on the bed and unlaced his shoes, then began to shed his clothing. When he stood nude, a shiver wracked his body. He hoped she wouldn't notice.

  The last time he had stripped before another person... Memories asserted themselves. The dirty sheepskins, the stench of old smoke in his flared nostrils. The wrenching pain from behind...

  His harsh breaths filled the silent room. I can't do this, he thought frantically. She'll know. She'll know!

  Then a sudden, small noise jerked his attention away from his inner torment. Graham realized it had come from her. A tiny, squeaking sob.

  He studied her, realizing she shivered more than he did. As if a severe chill or fright had seized her. His nervousness fled. God, she was more scared than he was.

  Stepping forward, he took her into his arms and kissed her.

  Graham's powerful body frightened Jillian, with its strapping muscles and thrusting phallus. Never before had she faced such intimidating maleness. He seemed carved from hard marble, a wealth of dark hair covering his muscled chest.

  She had been unable to prevent a sob of fright from escaping her lips. This was a dreadful mistake. How could she do this? She held no love for this man. No emotions. She'd thought a lack of emotion would make it easier.

  Instead, it made it more difficult. She should be doing this with a man she loved. Her lover would take her into his strong arms and kiss her, arousing her passion and easing her fears, and they would unite their bodies and hearts.

  No, not this impersonal stiffness, this chilled room with a total stranger. Flesh to flesh. No feelings. No affection. Nothing but an exchange of cash.

  But then he took her in his arms and kissed her again. Her fears melted a little from his warm, authoritative lips. She closed her eyes and let that tiny bud of sensual pleasure blossom.

  Graham lifted her into his arms as if she weighed no more than a feather. With gentle reverence, he laid her on the bed.

  She was more beautiful to him than a full moon shining upon Egypt's sands, this woman. Graham marveled at her lush body, the soft places and sweet curves. So soft, compared to the hard muscles of his own body.

  He touched her slowly, carefully, mapping her with warm hands, tracing each square inch of her skin. His fingertips trailed over her round, slender shoulders, caressed the knobby points of her collarbone. He sucked in a trembling breath, filled with fresh wonder. A woman's body was so different from a man's, so soft and round and supple, as giving and pliant as the rose petals he'd brushed against her cheek. Bending his head, he kissed the juncture of shoulder and neck, tasting her. He gave a delicate lick. Salty-sweet. A shudder coursed through her and she shifted beneath him. Ah, she was not indifferent to his caresses either.

  Soft—so textured and giving. He continued kissing her warm flesh, tensing his own body for better control to keep from ruthlessly plunging into her like a callow youth. His body screamed for release, but his mind wanted to savor the slowness, the newness of his first woman. His mouth trailed a line to the top of one firm breast, and when he encased her hardened nipple with his mouth, she gave a startled cry and arched. Slightly alarmed, he drew back, then realized her cry had been one of pleasure. Instinct urged him on.

  He licked and suckled, rasping his tongue over the pearling peak. Wedged partly beneath him, Christine wriggled and moaned. Her hands fisted in his hair, holding him against her.

  Graham let his hands roam her body, feeling each curve, the small ridges and indentations of her ribs, the roundness of her hips. Then his fingers delved into the cleft between her legs. He heard her gasp. Hiding a smile, he found the little jewel mentioned in the books he'd eagerly devoured. His thumb stroked once, twice.

  Rewarded by a sharp whimper of pleasure, he continued. He summoned the famous control he'd learned as a warrior in Egypt and tightened his muscles, seeking to give her pleasure first. His tongue flicked hers in rhythm to the small strokes his fingers made. Dewy moisture soon coated them.

  He slipped one finger inside her, pleased at her response. Her feminine passage was tight, oh, so very tight. The thought of his member inside her damp, slick sheath nearly drove him crazy. His finger found a barrier—her maidenhead. He drew in a deep breath and thought of something innocuous, as Kenneth had instructed.

  Finances. Stock futures they had in the American railroads. He thought of steam locomotives chugging merrily along as she writhed and sobbed and wriggled beneath him as his finger thrust in and out of her, accompanied by wild strokes of his thumb.

  He increased the tempo, encouraged by her tiny, excited cries. Then suddenly she tensed and arched. Her flesh convulsed about his finger. Clutching his head to her, she sobbed out.

  Jillian gulped down deep breaths, feeling so worn and dazed that she couldn't move. She felt Graham shift, part her thighs with his hands.

  He mounted her swiftly, covering her naked body with his. The roughness of his thick chest hair rasped her tender breasts. Dawning fear mingled with wondrous pleasure as he raised himself above her, his intent gaze locked to hers.

  Then he lowered his head, planted a singularly sweet kiss on her brow. She felt an enormous hardness probing the sensitive hollow between her legs and gulped down a steadying breath.

  "I'm sorry," he said quietly. Then he pushed into her. The pressure between her legs increased. It felt like a thick iron bar invading her body.

  Breath fled her in a startled sob. She tried relaxing, but the sudden pain caught her unexpectedly.

  "Hold on to me," he whispered, touching his forehead to hers.

  She did, gripping his back, digging her nails into the hard muscles as he pressed deeper. He pushed and pushed and then gave a mighty thrust, sundering her maidenhead.

  Jillian gave a small cry. Madame had urged her to, warning gentlemen who liked virgins expected it—but this had not been pretend. Her nails burrowed into Graham's back. A tear slipped from her eye.

  Warm lips descended to her cheek, chasing the droplet, kissing it away. The tenderness of the gesture touched her.

  Graham remained utterly still. Waiting. Deep, ragged breaths and coiled tension in his muscles warned
her how far he'd been pushed. How much control he exerted.

  Experimentally, she rotated her hips and felt herself relax around him. Graham let out a rough growl and began moving.

  His heart wanted to explode as he sank into her. Ah, God! Never had he felt such raging bliss. Never would he forget it, either.

  She was hot wet satin encasing him, so tight and warm he wanted to die with shuddering pleasure, as if the sun had wrapped around him, coating him with molten heat. Graham groaned with the effort to remain still. Male instinct nudged him to move, to push and thrust. But concern for her stilled him.

  And then he felt the tiny muscles gripping him so tightly relax the slightest bit, and he could wait no longer.

  With a strangled groan, he thrust forward once and the floodgates burst. He hoarsely cried out, pumping his seed deep inside her.

  The man lay upon her, his muscled weight pressing her into the bed. Deep breaths filled the pillow where he rested his head beside hers. Jillian shifted slightly, marveling at the newness of the experience. Her limbs felt languid and heavy. A burning soreness throbbed between her thighs.

  Finally, he lifted his head. His heavy-lidded eyes, gleaming from spent passion, regarded her with pleasure, then widened. "I'm afraid I'm crushing you," he murmured.

  "It's quite... all right."

  Rolling off, he lay beside her. Jillian felt a sticky dampness between her legs. Her blood and his seed. She felt naked and exposed and suddenly chilled, stricken by a wild longing for him to take her back into his arms. But this was a business arrangement and not love, she firmly reminded herself.

  To her shock and pleasure, Graham turned toward her and gently drew her into an embrace. Jillian found herself instinctively curling her body against his, burying her face into his broad shoulder.

  So he, too, craved warmth and closeness afterward. How simply marvelous that he wasn't cold and indifferent. Regret pierced her. How tragic that they would never see each other again.

  Graham shifted and touched her cheek. "Are you in much pain?" he murmured.

  Embarrassed by such an intimate question, Jillian made a noncommittal answer. Graham shifted and left the bed. She heard water splashing in the adjacent water closet. When he emerged, he held a clean, wet towel and a fresh dry one.

  Before she could utter a protest, he gently parted her legs and pressed the towel there. Her cheeks burned, but the cool dampness soothed the sting.

  His thoughtfulness threatened her with fresh tears. Jillian murmured her thanks and lay still. She felt him remove the towel and gently dry her off.

  "Are you all right?" he asked, his dark eyes filled with concern.

  She offered a contented smile. "The last part was not quite so nice, but the first part... I felt like I waltzed in heaven."

  He gave her a thoughtful look. "Yes, I suppose dancing in paradise is an apt comparison."

  It was over now. He'd leave and she'd follow soon after, perhaps giving herself a few minutes to collect her bittersweet thoughts. But instead of pausing to pull on his clothing, Graham lifted the sheet and slid back into bed.

  He gathered her in his arms again and lay there, staring at the ceiling, silent.

  Her natural shyness had faded during the act with this stranger, but this seemed even more intimate than sharing their bodies. But as his big, powerful body radiated warmth, she naturally drew closer, curling herself about him like a sleepy kitten.

  Her eyes closed and she struggled against sleep... and lost, drifting away in a hazy cloud. A thought nudged her, that she must do something before she slept, but it was gone as she found slumbering contentment.

  Graham woke up to the light of a grayish dawn peeking through a slit in the brocade drapes. Startled, he blinked and tried to assess his surroundings. Something soft and warm lay beside him. A woman. Now he remembered.

  Far more shocking than spending the night in a whorehouse was a delightful realization. He'd slept the entire night deeply. No dreams!

  Wild joy surged through him. Not one single nightmare. He'd slept at last!

  Filled with happiness, he gave a small shout then quieted, realizing she still slept. Graham grinned and turned toward the woman who'd made this wondrous possibility come to life. It was her, he knew it. Making love with her had banished his nightmare of the emerald-eyed redhead that haunted him these few months past. Hungrily he caressed her face with his gaze. Relaxed in sleep, she appeared more youthful and childlike than the previous night.

  Lush pink lips parted slightly as she breathed. Long, sooty lashes feathered her pale cheeks. He gently touched one winged, dark brow.

  When he pulled away, black dusted his thumb. Graham frowned and rubbed a little harder. He stared at the red-gold brow. His gaze drifted to her hair. Sudden dread pooled in his gut. One shy strand of golden fire peeped out among the coarse blond strands—a wig.

  Small wonder her hair had felt stiff and coarse compared to the rest of her! With a growl, he ran a finger up her brow and encountered a rough-edged surface. Graham pulled out the stray lock of golden flame.

  The woman woke, blinking sleepily at his look of dazed horror. Eyes wide, she grasped her blond locks in a futile attempt to keep them planted.

  In a moment he'd rolled atop her. Sex was not his intention as his frantic fingers grasped her head covering. He sought the pins holding it in place and yanked them free. A strangled breath caught in the woman's throat as he yanked the wig away.

  Flame-colored tresses tumbled down, free at last. Graham stared wildly at the woman's face then rolled off, running for the window. With a hasty yank of the drape cord, sunlight flooded the room. He ran back, scanning her face.

  Red-gold hair. Green eyes—not the blue eyes he'd imagined last night.

  "Oh, God! It's you!" he rasped, his heart thundering in his chest.

  The nightmare hadn't ceased, after all. It had only just begun.

  Chapter Two

  Caught. Fully awake, Jillian touched her hair in panic. He knew. He knew who she was! She stared at him with a plea in her eyes, and he backed away as if she were Medusa with snakes wriggling in her head.

  "Please," she said, hating the tremulousness of her voice. "I can explain."

  He jerked away from her, snatching his rumpled clothing from the floor. He shoved his legs into his trousers and fastened them, then donned socks and shoes.

  She couldn't bear him running off like this—as if she were his worst nightmare and the sweetness and passion of last night did not exist. If he did, she'd truly feel what the experience of selling her virginity made her: a whore.

  "Graham," she said in a stronger tone. "Look at me!"

  He turned, thrusting his arms into his shirt. Anger shone in his dark eyes, turning them to chips of onyx. She shrank back. His voice was ominously quiet, controlled and more threatening than if he'd shouted.

  "I explicitly requested not to be with a redhead. Any woman but a redhead with green eyes."

  Bewilderment mingled with relief. He did not know her identity.

  "I know," she admitted quietly.

  His icy gaze riveted to hers, he went still. This eerie motionlessness scared her more than his previous anger. She clutched the sheet to her breasts.

  "You tricked me," he said.

  "I had no choice. All arrangements were made previously with Madame. I was desperate."

  He moved with ruthless power onto the bed and seized her chin in one strong hand. The tender lover had vanished, replaced by a dangerous stranger whose iron grip held her captive. Her insides quivered in remembrance of those strong hands touching her with slow gentleness, rousing sweet fire. His fury frightened her, but she did not drop her gaze.

  "Why were you desperate? Who are you?" he demanded.

  "I needed money. I must remain anonymous. I dare not reveal my real identity."

  He studied her. "You cannot hide being a well-bred lady. Do I know you?"

  Jillian hoped he didn't hear the wild thudding of her heart. "Perhaps
, my lord. We move in the same circles. So let us remain as we are now—two strangers sharing one night, faces in the dark. A memory best forgotten."

  "Forgotten," he echoed. His gaze narrowed. "Damn it, I want to forget you. But bloody hell, I know I will not."

  Then he drew her face to his and kissed her ruthlessly. His lips moved over hers, coaxing a response. Jillian released a frustrated sob and flung her arms around his neck, dragging him closer, needing his heat, his passion.

  When Graham tore himself away, Jillian put a hand to her kiss-swollen mouth, longing tearing through her. How could one man make her feel this way? He aimed a look at her so piercing, it arrowed into her like a knife.

  Gulping in a harsh breath, he said, "We must never see each other again." And grabbing his jacket, he whirled and left, slamming the door with such violence the hinges rattled.

  Jillian was left alone, naked on the bed. A chill seized her. She was a whore.

  In the Egyptian desert, he had been known as Panther, the silent cat that hunted prey alone. Never socializing with other warriors, never joining them around the crackling bonfires at night to laugh and exchange boasting tales of virility and fearlessness in battle. He'd stalked, keeping to the periphery of the fire's reddish glow, just outside the circle of men and light and warmth. Always hiding in the shadows, a nocturnal creature who hated and feared the night but ultimately could not resist it.

  Like the panther, Graham was smaller than other predators but had powerful muscles that could strike an enemy with quick, killing blows. He had adapted out of a pure instinct for survival. This ability had served him well when he finally accepted his heritage and came home to England, leaving the desert, its draining heat and bitter memories, to shapeshift into the role of duke.

  He'd forced himself to transform from a simple desert warrior into a sophisticated duke. Yet inside, he had not changed. He prowled the margins of a different campfire now—the glittering balls and London fetes, with their sparkling crystal and equally sparkling conversation. Smiling and nodding, he maintained an aloof yet polite presence. It had created an aura of mystery that ladies found irresistible, and it hid his inner torment, camouflaging his pain much as a thorn tree's leaves disguised a panther.