The Sheikh's Virgin Bride

‘You mustn’t worry about me, Aunt,’ Petra interrupted her. ‘I am perfectly capable of entertaining myself. As a matter of fact…’ Petra paused, wondering how much she ought to say.

But her aunt obviously wasn’t listening properly because she cut across what Petra was saying, telling her, ‘There are several escorted trips from the resort that you might enjoy taking, Petra, whilst you wait for Rashid to return. The gold souq, for one. Oh, I must go. I can hear your grandfather calling for me.’

There was barely time for Petra to wish her goodbye before her aunt had rung off.

As she turned towards the mirror to apply her lipstick Petra discovered that her hand was shaking slightly.

Because she was angry, she told herself—not because she was nervous at all at the thought of spending the evening with Blaize. She was angry because she knew instinctively that her aunt was not being entirely honest with her.

Mentally she tried to picture her grandfather, using the vivid verbal images her mother had drawn for her, and those she had gained herself from studying the robed men she had seen moving with imperious arrogance through the hotel. He would be bearded, of course, his profile hawk-like and his expression harsh, perhaps even vengeful as he confronted her, the child of the marriage he had fought against so bitterly and so unsuccessfully.

It was impossible for Petra to get her head round the mindset of a father who had turned from being protective and loving to one who refused so much as to hear his once beloved daughter’s name spoken, simply because she had chosen to marry the man she loved.

In the mirror her own reflection confronted her. At home in England she was often conscious of looking out of place, her colouring and the delicacy of her fine-boned body giving her an almost exotic beauty, but here in her mother’s country, conversely, she felt very Celtic.

Her mother! What would she think of the course of action Petra was taking? What would she think of Blaize?

Snatching up her purse, Petra refused to allow herself to pursue such potentially unsettling thoughts.

The lobby of the hotel was the busiest Petra had seen it since her arrival. A large group of designer-clad women and their male escorts were standing by the entrance to the piano lounge and Petra’s eyes widened as she saw the jew-ellery the women were wearing.

Her own outfit was provoking a few assessing and appreciative female glances, as well as some much more openly male admiring ones, but Petra was unaware of them as she looked round anxiously for Blaize.

‘There you are. I was just about to come up and collect you.’

Whirling round, Petra rounded her eyes as she stared at Blaize. He was dressed formally in clothes she immediately recognised as being the very best in Italian tailoring, and which she knew must have cost a small fortune. No wonder more than one of the diamond-decked women were studying him with such open sexual interest!

On the wages he must earn there was no way he could possibly afford such clothes, Petra decided, which must mean…

She didn’t like the unpleasant cold feeling invading her stomach, or the lowering realisation that she was probably far from being the first woman to pay Blaize for his ‘services’—although of course the services she was paying him for were no doubt very different from those normally expected by his benefactresses.

‘What’s wrong? You look as though you’ve just swallowed something extremely unpleasant.’

His intuitiveness triggered a sharp spiral of warning.

‘I was just wondering what’s going to be on the menu tonight,’ she replied smoothly.