Heather Graham by Arabian Nights Page B

and tangled hair from her neck. “Dr. Alex Randall,” he murmured. “No. Here you are not Dr. Alex Randall. Here you are nothing more than a woman with a very pretty shade of hair and light eyes—a valuable combination.”
    Alex wished dearly that she could slap his hand. She felt his touch with her entire body. That electricity was within him; it was within his fingertips. It shot through her nerves from head to toe, searing a heated path to her very center.
    She clenched her folded palms, digging her own nails into her flesh. Don’t! she warned herself. Don’t strike out, don’t react at all.
    “I am a scholar of some repute,” she said softly, trying to block out that feel of lightly callused fingertips upon her nape. “There are people …” She caught her breath for a moment as his fingertips stroked her shoulders, trailed slowly—excruciatingly slowly—down her spine, vertebra by vertebra. “There are people who know where I was—ah—” She gasped as those roving fingers splayed caressingly over the small of her back, almost absently and innocently massaging her hips and buttocks. His eyes had remained upon hers as she spoke and as he moved. The light in them was still one of amusement. His countenance was a rigid deadpan, but his eyes—they did register his amusement and challenge. He was taunting her, she knew, discovering how far he could push, how she was going to handle the situation.
    “What was that?” he asked politely.
    “What?” Alex demanded in confusion.
    “There are people who know where I was, uh …” he mimicked.
    “Oh, ah.” Alex swallowed. She closed her eyes briefly and cleared her throat, then smiled sweetly at him while she reached behind her to capture his hand and set it upon his own lap gently but firmly.
    “There are people who know exactly where I was heading today. You see, you must release me immediately—” She broke off again as she watched his long fingers begin a new trek from her kneecap upward along her thigh. The touch was so like a lap of fire that she longed to shriek again and bolt in pure panic. But she did nothing for a moment, mesmerized as she watched those trailing fingers.
    “You were saying?”
    Polite inquiry again; as if nothing at all were happening.
    Alex caught his fingers again as they began an intimate climb upward along her inner thigh. It was either that or scream.
    Flattery, she thought desperately. He was not fighting her attempts to fend him off; he was taking her actions with surprisingly good grace. She held his hand, which seemed to burn with a coal fire as great as that within his eyes, and smiled sweetly. “You are Islam, sir—a man who submits to God. Surely your Allah cannot condone your taking prisoner—”
    “An unbeliever in the true faith,” he finished for her solemnly. “No, my God will not mind. The Koran even allows us to make war in the cause of the one true faith.”
    She was getting nowhere, and panic was rising within her again. His gaze and his touch were like the hypnotic power of a cobra. She was desperate to get away, and yet she was not repulsed. She felt as if she were being drowned in quicksand, and if she didn’t get out while her head was still above the surface, she would be forever enmeshed.
    And he was a kidnapping, cocky, insolent, superior bastard!
    The outrage of the situation once again rose to outweigh careful diplomacy. Still fighting for control, Alex dropped the hand she held and sprang to her feet, moving across the tent.
    “Who are you and just what do you intend to do with me?” she demanded with a show of bravado. Unfortunately, her last words quivered.
    He was behind her quickly—too quickly—his hands once more caressing her shoulders, his fingers slipping beneath the silk to touch her bare flesh.
    “You still have not told me who you really are, or why you are here in the desert,” he reminded her smoothly.
    Behind her, he was able to smile freely. He could feel her shivering