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His eyes stilled on hers. With doubt? Disbelief?

Next second she saw nothing in them but indulgence. She must have imagined what she’d thought she’d seen. “The more experienced a player is, the fewer injuries he’ll have. Sometimes everyone gets away with nothing, sometimes with a few bruises, but there’s always the possibility of a more lasting souvenir. Injuries throughout polo history ranged from lacerations to fractures to brain injury to death. The worst injuries happen if a saddle breaks, or ponies collide at top speed, or someone gets thrown off.”

“Oh, God.” Her stomach squeezed into her throat as she imagined him sustaining an injury—or worse.

Her heart contracted violently with the need to beg him to never play again. But she couldn’t voice her plea. She didn’t feel like his wife for real yet. Not that she believed spouses could interfere in each other’s passions anyway. And then she was certain he was careful, in control of his game.

But what if…?

She couldn’t bear it. She had to articulate her dread, to make sense of it all. “But if there are such risks, why play?”

He shrugged. “Life is filled with risks. People who are totally safe are already dead.”

“But you’re super careful, right? No saddles of yours can break, and you always watch out for rabid antagonists?”

Again his eyes took on that enigmatic cast. “If you’re asking if I’m a risk taker, I’m anything but. I’m a planner. A strategist. I set a goal, put everything in motion and invariably see my plans through to fruition.” Suddenly an edge of harshness flashed in his gaze as he added, “But then, so do you.”

Three

Sabrina stared at Adham, a frisson of unease slithering in her gut. The way he’d said that…

She had a feeling he meant something beyond polo playing.

Which only figured. He was a businessman, who played the real estate and horse-breeding worlds like a virtuoso.

But what did he mean, so did she? Did he mean that she’d let nothing stop her from acquiring the degrees she needed to take her place beside her father in their family business? Yes, that must be it. And the hardness she’d imagined accompanied his words must have been a trick of her still-agitated mind. Now settled on this front, her mind swung back to her main concern. “So you’ve never been injured?”

“I didn’t say that. You remember that scar on my thigh?”

She’d never forget. She’d been horrified to see it. She’d touched it in trepidation, the pain he must have felt on sustaining it echoing inside her.

“That was my most severe injury. My pony fell on top of my leg. My femur fractured and ripped through my thigh.”

She felt darkness encroaching on her as she imagined his flesh being torn, his blood pouring out. Her fingers dug into his arm, as if she could pull him away from hurt and injury, give him her own vitality to heal any pain he’d ever suffered.

He pressed her tighter against him, accepting her concern, paying her back in sheer mind-numbing sensuality. “But you made me glad I have this scar.”

She felt blood rushing to her head, pooling in her loins as she remembered how she’d traced it. He’d sprawled back, letting her explore it, stroking her in turn. She couldn’t help it, had opened her mouth over it, sucked at its ridges as if she could smooth them out.

And she’d gotten her first look at what he was like aroused. She’d been too shy so far to do more than open herself to him, take him inside her body, not daring to look at the huge hardness that had invaded her, had her sobbing in an excruciating mixture of pain and pleasure. Her head had spun at the sight of him. Then she’d been compelled to explore his daunting beauty. She’d quaked with his feral rumbles at her ministrations. Then he’d taken her over, given her the hard ride she’d been disintegrating for.

She was suffering from the same need now. But first she had to suffer more deprivation, be his bride to the polo community, make him proud. They’d arrived at the VIP tent.

At their entry there was an uproar of welcomes and congratulations, with more camera flashes from sanctioned