The Sheikh's Convenient Virgin

‘And you think I lied? Shame on you for your lack of trust.’

‘Then who was he?’

‘What possible business can it be of yours?’

‘Tell me!’

Her chest heaving, she glared up at him, not missing the way fury had tightened the skin covering his features and turned the tendons in his throat to steel pillars. ‘It was my brother-in-law! My very happily married brother-in-law, I might add. There,’ she said, as her news sank in, sweet satisfaction dripping from her voice, ‘are you satisfied now?’

The ragged sound of his breathing was his only response—that and the turmoil in his golden eyes, filling the silence with an atmosphere more threatening than any words.

She gasped and tried to pull away, but his grip was made of iron, his hold relentless.

‘Why did you not tell me you were going out?’

She twisted her arm, still fruitlessly trying to free herself. ‘Your mother knew. Why didn’t you ask her?’

‘Nobilah is in bed.’

‘Which is exactly where I intend to be, once you deign to let me go!’

Silence followed her outburst. Silence heavy with a new kind of tension. Heavy with desire. She could sense it thickening the air between them. She could see it in the set of his jaw and the glimmer of his eyes. Once more she cursed herself for her ill-chosen words.

‘Now, there’s an idea,’ he said, in little more than a growl, sending tremors skittering up her spine anew.

In the instant before it happened she saw it coming. Which meant she had less than an instant to act to prevent it.

And yet she did nothing, mesmerised by the alluring touch of his fingers angling her chin higher, by the deeply seductive lure of his mouth as it dipped to meet hers.

And then his lips touched hers and she knew she’d waited too long to stop him. She tried to tell herself she cared. And she would care later, she knew. But for now she was content to drink in the power in the coaxing caress of his lips, to feel his desire like the gentle hiss of the ocean pulling back before the next inevitable wave crashed in.

His mouth moved over hers. Intoxicating. Seductive. And if he picked up on her inexperience, he didn’t let on. But then, he made it easy to follow his lead—just as he made it impossible not to want to. Not when he tasted of power and strength and all things exotic, an intoxicating mix that had her melting against him.

There was a sound—her bag hitting the tiled floor—before she felt herself enclosed in his embrace, his strong arms moulding her to him length to length, his hands holding her tight, and suddenly it wasn’t just her mouth and lips involved in this kiss, it was every part of her. She could barely think. She could hardly breathe. And what oxygen there was seemed only to fuel the blast furnace of their kiss.

And then, before she could assimilate all the sensations, before she could make sense of what was happening, it was over.

His head pulled back, his arms slid away, leaving her trembling like an adolescent who’d just had her first kiss.

And realisation dawned on her like a cloud-filled morning. If Tajik had been looking for an excuse to leave her behind, a reason to doubt her lack of sexual experience, she’d just handed it to him on a platter.

Desperately she searched for some of her earlier bravado. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, wishing she could wipe the entire experience away as easily. ‘What the hell was that for?’ she said, trying to quell the shaking in her voice.

He looked down at her, all golden power and dark desire, his breathing heavy. ‘I told you that you were beautiful when you were angry,’ he said, his voice little more than a coarse rumble that tugged at her raw nerve-endings and refused to let them settle. ‘But it is nothing to how beautiful you are when you are aroused.’

‘Oh, n…no,’ she stammered, shaking her head as she took a wobbly step back. ‘I was hardly—’ But she couldn’t bring herself to say the word. By saying it she would be admitting it, and by admitting it when she was about to board a plane with him for Jamalbad, for goodness knew how long, she would be in real trouble.

‘So you always kiss men like that when you are not aroused?’

‘I don’t kiss men like that—period! You just took me by surprise.’

His eyes proclaimed a victory that made no sense to her. How could it be victory when he hadn’t won that kiss? She’d damn near volunteered it. And why that didn’t have him terminating her contract on the spot, when he’d been so insistent on her virtue before, made even less sense.

‘By surprise, you say? And I say you are proving to be a more delightful surprise by the minute.’

‘And you are proving to be more irritating by the minute!’

For a moment he looked too shocked to respond. She was wondering if she’d well and truly overstepped the mark—here was a man used to people kow-towing to him, a man who could put paid to any idea of her entering his country—when he suddenly threw back his head and laughed.

It was too much. Indignation lent strength to her backbone. She reached down and grabbed her bag. She needed to be in her room.

No, it was much simpler than that. She needed to be anywhere he wasn’t. She reached for the door handle and turned it.

The laughter stopped behind her just as suddenly as it had started. ‘Miss Fielding.’

His voice rang out like an order. Her hand paused and reluctantly she looked over her shoulder, half wishing she was more like her sister. Giving anyone lip had never been Morgan’s forte. Why had she ever expected to go head to head with a man like this and get away with it?

She took one look into his eyes, shocked at what she saw. Under the night sky he could have been some kind of jungle cat, golden eyes glistening with hunger and the guarantee of a certain kill. She shivered, her heart thumping afresh, certain that he was about to terminate her services, if not her.

‘What is it?’ she whispered, her voice little more than a shudder.

‘We leave at six,’ he said. ‘Be ready.’

The sleek jet crouched low on the tarmac, its El Jamal insignia curling artistically up the tail, whilst heated air from the warming engines turned the landscape behind into a shimmer. Inside the limousine speeding out over the tarmac towards it, Morgan knew her thoughts had just as little clarity.

Her fuzzy head was only partly to blame—it had taken her hours to get to sleep, and when she had her tortured dreams of a dark and dangerous pursuer had left her tangled in the sheets. She should never have let Tajik kiss her. She should have pushed him away.

And then the car slowed, and the real reason for both her sleepless night and her muddled thoughts caught her eye and held on tight. Oh, no, she thought, as she felt herself drowning in those liquid eyes. It wasn’t just the kiss and what she should have done. The real reason for her addled brain was the man who sprawled so nonchalantly opposite her, his long legs eating up the space between them, his hands steepled over his stomach as his eyes lazily contemplated her.

And as he watched her lips tingled with the memories of that kiss, with the warm press of his lips and the welcoming sensuality of his mouth. She bit down on her own betraying lips and turned away as the car came to a halt.

Beside her Nobilah squeezed her hand, misinterpreting Morgan’s lack of enthusiasm. ‘Don’t be nervous. Our pilots are the best in the world,’ she said with a smile in her son’s direction. ‘And by tonight we’ll be there. You’re going to love Jamalbad.’

Morgan didn’t doubt it. But she knew she’d like it one heck of a lot better if Tajik wasn’t part of the deal. She smiled back, fully aware of the Sheikh’s continued scrutiny. ‘I know I will.’

Then the door was pulled open, and it was time to alight and board the streamlined jet.

‘Goodbye, Gold Coast,’ Morgan muttered as she followed Nobilah up the stairs into the plane, taking her last look back at the familiar shape of Tamborine Mountain and the range that bordered the Gold Coast strip and marked the start of the hinterland.

Her words were whipped away by the wind that tugged at her fitted skirt and tightly knotted hair, but still she paused at the top of the stairs, hesitant to take that final step into the plane.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked the Sheikh, bounding up the stairs two at a time behind her. ‘Fear of flying?’

She looked back at him, his linen pants and white shirt emphasising his dark hair and framing his golden good looks, and she felt her world of security and planning start to crumble.

How could a man look both cool and hot at the same time? How could he have eyes that looked coldly assessing one minute, yet rich with molten desire the next?

And how could she feel both fear and yet such a bewildering attraction? What was it about this man that unsettled her on so many levels?