Turning, she stared at Tariq once again, her gaze straying to his smooth, bare shoulders. He was dressed only in the ankle-length loose trousers that he and Abram wore beneath their thobes.
Once the two men entered the rooms, the first thing they did was strip off the thobes. She’d seen Abram pull on well-worn, lovingly faded denim the night before like a man pulling on a favorite lover. She swore his lashes almost fluttered in pleasure for a second.
Tariq’s bare shoulders were the only part of his back that was smooth though. Unlike her mother’s description of Azir with his heavy pelt of body hair, Tariq actually sported very little, as did Abram.
But his back was crisscrossed with what had to be hundreds of very fine, thin scars that went from his shoulder blades to beneath the drawstring waist of the trousers.
“What are you doing?” She cleared her throat uneasily as she moved toward him.
He’d been working on that piece of equipment for two days now.
“Someone found one of the GPS trackers I’ve been using on the Land Rovers and managed to scramble the signal,” he murmured as he continued to peer into the electronic control board. “I’m trying to alter the device rather than attempting to steal the tracker itself back. If I can get it to remotely change the signal, then I’ll have them again.”
“Who are you trying to track?” She stared down at the intricate array of tiny wires, nodules, and electronic relays with a frown.
He looked over his shoulder at her, his milk chocolate–brown eyes faintly amused as he gave her a glance of male appreciation. “The new soaps Abram brought in for you smell nice.”
She was that close to him. Not touching, but close enough that he had no problem smelling the very faint scent of rose and sandalwood.
She moved back, a sense of nervousness invading her as he continued to watch her for several seconds before turning back to the electronic device.
It was merely another variation of the same theme that had played out in the past two days that Abram hadn’t been present. The looks of interest, the silent reminder that Abram had already asked him to be his third and that he shared that huge bed with them every night.
For the past two nights she had gone to sleep with Abram’s arms around her, only to awaken with Tariq’s holding her. It was creating an intimacy she couldn’t seem to escape.
Restraining a frustrated sigh she turned back to him, her lips parting to comment on Abram’s absence when a hard, imperative knock sounded on the heavy, thick wood of the door.
Paige flinched with near violence, her heart jumping into her throat as her gaze flew to where Tariq was quickly folding a square of cloth over the device he had been working on and rising from the chair.
He pointed to the connecting door that led to his suite as he moved to it quickly.
He was leaving?
“Where are you going?” she hissed.
“I’ll be listening,” he promised quickly, his voice so low as to be nearly silent. “See who it is, and don’t let them know I’m here.”
He handed her the scarf that Abram had given her in case Azir showed up to use over her head and around her neck as a hijab.
The knock sounded again, harder, and this time, more impatient.
“Who is it?” she called out as she quickly secured the scarf around her head as Abram had taught her.
“It is Jafar, Paige. I have someone here who wishes to see you.” His voice came through the door quietly.
font color="#000000">Dammit, where the hell was Abram?
“Abram isn’t here, Jafar,” she stated from the seam of the door and frame. “He told me not to open the door to anyone.”
She heard Jafar’s laughter through the heavy wood. “Put your scarf on and simply open the door. I do not intend to enter the room.”
She looked to where Tariq watched from the doorway of his suite. He nodded at her as she gave him a look of desperation and silently mouthed, “What do I do?”
He grimaced tightly before nodding again at her and disappearing into the other room.
Releasing the locks she opened the door several inches and stared at Jafar and the figure clothed in black from head to foot in the face and body covering usually only worn in the strictest of areas.
Behind the mesh screen of the burqa, feminine eyes stared back at her, though the shape and color were impossible to distinguish.