The Sheikh's Virgin

CHAPTER FOUR

“SO WHAT did you think of my gifts?” Kalen asked, lazily switching topics as he leaned forward to top off their wine goblets.

He moved so easily, gracefully, all fluid motion and for a moment she lost concentration, thinking he’d be equally at home on a pony playing polo, astride a camel, pouring mint tea in his desert kasbah.

“Did you like the jewelry?” He added, “I’d hoped you might wear one of the diamond bangles tonight.”

Diamond bangles. Weren’t the two words incongruous? “I actually didn’t open any of the shopping bags.”

“No?”

“I don’t need, or wear, expensive jewelry.”

His lashes dropped over his eyes. “You like cheap jewelry?”

“If I want jewelry, I buy my own.”

“You’re rejecting my gifts?”

She heard his tone harden, his voice suddenly reminding her of crushed velvet over steel. “I am not a woman that accepts gifts from strangers—”

“Be careful, laeela, before you insult me.”

His tone had dropped even lower, husky like whiskey, and she felt a light finger trail her spine, sweeping nerves awake. “I’ve no desire to insult you, Sheikh Nuri—”

“Kalen. It’s Kalen. After all, you want something, remember?”

Heat surged to her cheeks and she sat tall, hands clasped tightly in her lap. “The sooner I return to Texas, the better.”

“Return?”

His soft inflection conveyed more than words could. She could see them, two warring parties, and she’d just put his back in the corner. “We’ve made a point. Shown my father that he can’t control me—”

“Your father remains a threat.”

“To whom? You? Or me? Because I think you’re not worried about me.”

“Sidi Abizhaid would never tolerate this kind of frank talk, laeela. You would never be permitted to be so confrontational. You would never be permitted to speak publicly, either.”

A lump swelled in her throat, large, restrictive. “What do you want from me, Kalen? Tell me so I understand.”

“You know what I want. I want you here, with me.”

“No. There’s more to it than that. This has to do with my father, not me, and I need to understand what he has done. Tell me how a man who has spent his life serving the Nuri family can be considered a threat.”

“It’s not a topic for discussion.”

“Why not? Because I’m a woman?”

Kalen didn’t contradict her. Instead he gazed at her from across the gleaming walnut table set with the finest of china and crystal, white taper candles flickering in tall silver candelabras. A profusion of white orchids and lilies spilled from a low round centerpiece.

His silence was a torture and she leaned forward, trying to make him understand. “This is my father, my family, you call a threat. I have every right to know.”

“You should spend more time eating and less time arguing.”

She shook her head, livid. “You are as bad as them, Kalen. No, make that worse. You don’t live in Baraka, you live in England, and you do not dress in robes and head cloths but in Italian suits, but beneath the suit and fine shirts you are just as restrictive, just as rigid and condescending.”

He said nothing, his expression blank and she drew a quick, short breath. “I want to go home, Kalen.” She hated feeling so vulnerable, had worked hard to protect herself from feeling this way. Vulnerable was the one thing she couldn’t be. Years ago she’d sworn she’d never let anyone hurt her again.

And still he studied her, coolly, dispassionately. He wasn’t moved, she thought. He felt nothing. And daggers of pain cut into her heart. “Kalen, hear me. I need to go home. I need my life back.” She’d worked so hard to protect herself from this lost feeling, the sense of confusion that came from being torn between parents, homes, cultures, identities. “My life was good for me.”

He shifted in his chair, leaning forward, arms folding on the table edge. “Your new life here will be good, too.”

“No.”

“It is a change, yes, but it will also be good.”

“But this isn’t my life! This is yours—”

“And yours. Now.” He studied her a long moment and when he spoke next, his tone was gentle. “You need to accept that your life has changed. Everything has changed. Permanently.”

Accept that overnight she’d been forced from her home, into this odd world where she belonged to a man she knew only from her childhood? It was ridiculous. Preposterous. She wasn’t a medieval bride.

“No.” Hands shaking, legs feeling like brittle strands of ice, Keira pushed away from the table. “No. You’re wrong.” Her body was cold and yet her eyes burned hot, gritty, and she blinked, refusing to let one tear form or fall. “You’re wrong, Kalen Nuri, about everything.”

In her bedroom Keira curled up in one of the overstuffed armchairs and buried her face in the crook of her arm. She wasn’t staying here. She couldn’t stay here. What was she supposed to do here?

The panic rose, filling her, and her eyes felt as if they were dusted with sand but she couldn’t cry.

What had happened in Baraka to create such friction between Kalen and her father? And what made Ahmed Abizhaid so dangerous that Kalen refused to see her family and Ahmed’s join in marriage?

And was her father really the problem or could the problem be Kalen himself?

She knew her father had never liked the youngest Nuri prince. And yet because of his loyalty to the Sultan, her father had never, could never, voice his suspicion aloud, but from the reports she’d once found on her father’s desk she knew her father kept Kalen Nuri under surveillance.

This was more than personal, she thought. This was bigger than that. So what was it really about?