The Sheikh's Virgin

The party was supposedly segregated, as well as chaperoned. Turned out it was neither.

Neither, Keira repeated silently, wearily, unable to escape the shadows and shame of the poor decision she had made.

She’d never talked about it. Who would she tell? Her liberal intellectual mother? Her orthodox political father?

There had been no one to talk to, no one to turn to for comfort or advice. And she’d done the only thing she could—she’d moved forward, moved on, moved emotionally and physically, leaving Baraka never to return, eventually leaving England to begin university studies in the States.

A knock sounded at the locked bedroom door. Keira opened the door. A housemaid stood in the hall, holding a garment bag and assorted shopping bags from several of London’s most exclusive jewelry boutiques.

“From His Excellency,” the maid said, dropping a small curtsey.

A curtsey. For her. Keira would have laughed if she weren’t so tired.

“Would you like me to unpack for you, miss?” The house maid offered, carrying the shopping bags into the room.

“No, thank you. I can manage,” Keira answered with an uneasy glance at the collection of expensive shopping bags weighting down the maid’s arms. It looked as if a fortune had been spent in less than an hour…

“What are those for?” she asked as the maid hung the garment bag in the closet and then placed the remaining bags on the bed.

“You, miss. His Excellency made calls and then sent the driver around to the shops to collect the items.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They’re gifts, miss. Presents. His Excellency does this for all his women.” The maid smiled cheerfully. “You’re very lucky, aren’t you?”

Keira’s mouth opened and closed without making a sound. Lucky? Is that what she was?

She half turned, gazed at the handsome bedroom before looking at the maid. “Does he have many women?”

The maid suddenly flushed bright red. “Forgive me, miss. I meant nothing—”

“It’s fine.” Keira gestured reassurance. “Thank you.”

The housemaid moved to the door. “If you need anything, just ring. You’ve only to ask.”

“And Sheikh Nuri? Is he still here…?”

“No, miss, he’s gone for the day. But he will be back for dinner.”

“I see.”

“Dinner will be served at seven. His Excellency dresses for dinner.”

“How nice,” Keira drawled, more than a little irritated. Kalen had uprooted her, dumped her at his London house, headed off for work or wherever it is he’d gone and was already leaving messages with the maid.

The girl bobbed her head and slipped out the door, closing it quietly behind her.

Keira went to the closet, looked at the garment bag hanging on the rod and then carefully closed the closet door. Just as carefully she moved the shopping bags from her bed.

She wasn’t his woman. She didn’t want his gifts.

At six-thirty Keira bathed and dressed for dinner. Wrapped in a lettuce-green bath towel, Keira thumbed through her own clothes she’d unpacked earlier and hung in the closet. She’d brought a mishmash of colors and styles and certainly nothing that could be viewed as elegant.

Good.

She’d dress for dinner. She’d just dress like an American woman. Independent. Successful. And free.

Sliding into a pair of old Levi’s jeans, Keira drew on a gray pin-striped blouse, the starchy blouse normally worn to work with a conservative suit, but now she let the tail of the shirt hang out, left the collar unbuttoned and twisted her long hair into a half-hazard knot at the back of her head.

No jewelry.

A bit of makeup.

Flat leather loafers.

And she was good to go.

Keira appeared in the dining room at seven on the dot. Kalen was already there, and the maid was right. He had dressed for dinner. Kalen wore black trousers, a black dinner jacket and a white dress shirt which highlighted his golden complexion, his thick black hair, and the amber of his eyes.

Handsome, she thought, drinking him in. He was by far the most handsome man she’d ever met and living in Texas, working for an international company, she’d met a lot of good-looking men.

“You look…” and Sheikh Nuri’s voice drifted off as his gaze swept her “…lovely.”

She flushed, assailed by guilt. He’d made an effort where clearly she’d made none.

But had she asked to come to London? Had she asked for any of this?

“Thank you,” she answered, smiling serenely, successfully hiding her self-doubts. Over the years she’d become very, very good at hiding everything real and true. Self-preservation, she thought, allowing Kalen to seat her at the table.

“Blue’s a good color for you,” he commented, taking a seat opposite her.

“I’m not wearing blue,” she said, glancing down at the thin gray stripes of her blouse. And then she saw her jeans and she understood. “Ah, the Levi’s.”

“Very chic.”

“You did tell the maid to have me dress casually, didn’t you?”

His dark eyebrows arched, a challenging light lit his amber eyes. “Is that what she told you?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t understand anything after the His-Excellency-Has-Gone-Out-You-Must-Wait-Here bit.”

Kalen’s forehead furrowed. “I have a job, laeela. Things to do.”

“And I have a job, too. I should be in Dallas working, doing what I need to do, not sitting in a bedroom of your house waiting for you to come home!”

“Things have changed. You must adjust.”

She had to adjust? Why was she the one who always had to compromise? Sacrifice? Why was she the one who had to give, adjust, change? “I don’t want to adjust. I liked my life. I liked my work—”