Surrender To The Sheikh

‘Is it a man?’ he shot out, and before she had time to think about the implications she shook her head.

‘What an extraordinary conclusion to jump to!’ she protested, but the admonishment made no difference.

‘What, then?’ he persisted.

‘Work, actually,’ she said.

‘Work?’ he demanded, as though she had just said a foreign word.

But then maybe to him it was a foreign word. A man like Prince Khalim had probably never had to lift his hand in work. ‘Just a busy week.’ She shrugged. ‘A busy month—a busy year!’ She sipped the last of her champagne and gave him a look of question. ‘I’m getting myself another one of these—how about you?’

Khalim sucked in a breath of disapproval. How he hated the liberated way of women sometimes! It was not a woman’s place to offer a man drinks, and he very nearly told her so, but the fire in her eyes told him that she would simply stalk off if he dared to. And he wanted her far too much to risk that…

‘I rarely drink,’ he said coolly.

‘Good heavens!’ said Rose flippantly. ‘How does your body get hydrated, then? By intravenous infusion?’

The black eyes narrowed. People didn’t make fun of him. Women never teased him unless invited to, by him. And never outside the setting of the bedroom. For a moment, he considered stalking away from her. But only for a moment. The bright lure of her flaxen hair made him waver as he imagined unpicking it, having it tumble down over his chest—its contrast as marked as when he had pressed his fingers against her soft white skin, just minutes ago.

‘Alcohol,’ he elaborated tersely.

‘Well, I’m sure they run to a few soft drinks,’ said Rose. ‘But it doesn’t matter. I’m going to, anyway. It was nice talking to you, Pr—’

‘No!’ He caught hold of her wrist, enjoying the purely instinctive dilating of her blue eyes in response to his action, the way her lips fell open into an inviting little ‘O’. He imagined the sweet pleasures a mouth like that could work on a man, and had to suppress a shudder of desire. ‘Not Prince anything,’ he corrected softly. ‘I am Khalim. To you.’

She opened her mouth to say something sarcastic, like, Am I supposed to be flattered?—but the ridiculous thing was that she was flattered. Absurdly flattered to be told to use his first name. She told herself not to be so stupid, but it didn’t seem to work.

‘Let me go,’ she said breathlessly, but she thrilled at the touch of his skin once more.

‘Very well.’ He smiled, but this time it was the smile of a man who knew that he had the ability to enslave a woman. ‘But only if you agree to come and find me once the music starts, and then we shall dance.’

‘Sorry. I never run after a man.’

He could feel the rapid thundering of her pulse beneath his fingertips. ‘So you won’t?’

The silky voice was nearly as mesmeric as the silky question. ‘You’ll have to come and find me!’ she told him recklessly.

He let her go, taking care to conceal his giddy sense of elation. ‘Oh, I will,’ he said quietly. ‘Be very sure of that.’ And he watched her go, an idea forming in his mind.

He would make her wait. Make her think that he had changed his mind about dancing. For he knew enough of women to know that his supposed indifference would fan the desire she undoubtedly felt for him. He would tease her with it. Play with her. He knew only too well that anticipation increased the appetite, and thus satisfied the hunger all the more. And Rose Thomas would sigh with thankful pleasure in his arms afterwards.

On still-shaking legs, Rose headed for the bar, hoping that the bewilderment she felt did not show on her face. She did not fall for men like Khalim. She liked subtle, sophisticated and complex men. And while she recognised that he had a keen intelligence—there was also something fundamentally dangerous about this black-eyed stranger in his exotic robes.

Inside, she was jelly. Jelly. Her hands were trembling by the time she reached the corner of the ballroom where a white-jacketed man tended an assortment of cocktails and champagne.

She could see Sabrina at the far end of the room, a vision in white as she giggled with one of her bridesmaids—Guy’s youngest niece.

‘Champagne, madam?’ smiled the bartender. ‘Or a Sea Breeze, perhaps?’

Rose opened her mouth to agree to the former, but changed her mind at the last minute. Because something told her she would need her all her wits about her. And alcohol might just weaken an already weakened guard.

‘Just a fizzy water, please,’ she said softly.

‘Too much of a good thing?’ came a voice of dry amusement, and she looked up to find Guy Masters smiling down at her.

Rose liked Sabrina’s new husband enormously. He was outrageously handsome, outrageously rich and he loved Sabrina with an intensity which made Rose wistful, and determined that she would never settle for second-best.

Rose had met Sabrina when she had gone in search of a rare book, and Sabrina had helpfully scoured all the index-files until Rose had found what she’d been looking for. It had been the day after Sabrina had become engaged to Guy, and she had excitedly shown off her ring to Rose—a plain and simple but utterly magnificent diamond.

Sabrina hadn’t really known anyone in London, other than Guy’s friends, and the two women had been of similar age and similar interests.

‘Or are you driving?’ questioned Guy, still looking at her glass of mineral water.

‘Er, no,’ she said, in a faint voice. ‘I just want to keep a clear head about me.’

‘Quite wise,’ remarked Guy, and he lowered his voice by a fraction. ‘Since my old friend Khalim seems to have set his sights on you.’

‘He…he does?’ And then thought how obscenely starstruck that sounded. She cleared her throat and fixed a smile onto her lips. ‘Not really. We just had a chat, that’s all.’

‘A chat?’ asked Guy, now sounding even more amused. ‘Khalim exchanging small talk? Now, that’ll be a first!’

‘Wonderful wedding!’ said Rose valiantly, with an urgent need to change the subject. ‘Sabrina looks absolutely stunning.

At the mention of his new wife’s name, Guy’s face softened into a look of tenderness, the intentions of his schoolfriend instantly forgotten. ‘Doesn’t she?’ he asked indulgently, and then a slight note of impatience entered his voice. ‘Between you and me, I just wish we could forget the damned dancing and just leave!’

Rose smiled. ‘And deny your wife her wedding day! I think you can wait a little longer, don’t you, Guy? After all, you’ve been living together for well over a year now!’

‘Yeah,’ sighed Guy. ‘But this is the first time it will have been, well, legal…’ He looked down into Rose’s face. ‘Why, you’re blushing!’ he observed incredulously. ‘I’m sorry, Rose—I certainly didn’t mean to embarrass you—’

‘No, you weren’t. Honestly,’ Rose assured him hastily. She wasn’t going to point out that it was a pair of glittering jet eyes being lanced provocatively in her direction which had the heat singing remorselessly in her veins. In a way, she wished that maybe Guy and Sabrina would leave. And then she could leave, too. And she wouldn’t have to dance with Khalim and put herself in what was clearly becoming apparent would be a very vulnerable position indeed.

You don’t have to dance with him, she reminded herself sternly. It wasn’t a royal command. Well, of course it was, she realised with a slight edge of disbelief. But even if it was, she was not one of Khalim’s subjects and London was not part of his kingdom! She could just give him a small, tight smile and tell him that she wasn’t really in the mood for dancing.

Couldn’t she?

But in the event she didn’t have to. Because Khalim came nowhere near her. She found herself observing him obsessively, while doing her level best not to appear to be doing so.

He stood out from the crowd of fabulously dressed guests, and not by virtue of his own glorious and unconventional attire. No, it went much deeper than that. Rose had never met anyone of royal blood before, and of course she had heard the expression of regal bearing—but up until now she realised that she hadn’t really known what it had meant.

There was some innate grace about the way he carried himself. Some fundamental and rare elegance in the way he moved. She had never seen anything like it. People noiselessly slipped from his path. Women stared at him with looks of undisguised and rapacious hunger on their faces.

Did he notice? Rose wondered. His proud, handsome face did not seem to register any emotion at all. But maybe he was used to it. Why, he had only had to lay his hand autocratically on her wrist to have her virtually melting at his feet.

The meal was served and Rose found herself seated with a banker on one side of her, and an oceanographer on the other. Both men seemed amusing and intelligent and the oceanographer was handsome in the rugged kind of way which denoted a healthy, outdoor lifestyle. He flirted outrageously with Rose, and even an hour ago she might have been receptive enough to respond.

But the only man who burnt a searing image on her subconscious sat at the top table, picking at his food with the kind of indifference which suggested that conventional hunger was not uppermost in his mind.

At that moment, Khalim looked up and glittered a black look in her direction—a look which sent a shiver tiptoeing down her spine. Quickly, she put her fork down and pushed the plate away.