Шэрон Кендрик - Surrender To The Sheikh

He raised a mocking brow and thought how bright her hair, and how white her soft skin, against which the soft curves of her lips were a deep, rich pink. Like the roses which bloomed in the gardens of his father’s palace and scented the night air with their perfume. His pulse quickened. ‘Do you always jump to conclusions, I wonder?’

‘But you meant me to,’ she parried. ‘It was a remark designed to inflame, wasn’t it?’

He shook his head, his desire increased by her feisty opposition. ‘It was simply an observation,’ he demurred. ‘Nota…how-do-you-say?’ He frowned, as if in deep concentration. ‘Ah, yes—a sexist comment!’

Rose leaned away from him a little, and felt the almost imperceptible tightening of his hands on her hips, as though he couldn’t bear to let her go. ‘You can’t pretend to be stumbling over the language with me, Khalim!’ she said crisply, trying to ignore the thundering of her heart beneath her breast, ‘when I happen to know that you went to school in England and are as fluent as I am!’

She was very fiery, he thought with a sudden longing. ‘And what else do you know about me, Rose Thomas?’ he mused.

Briefly she considered affecting total ignorance. This was a man with an ego, that was for sure! Yet how often did people speak their minds to a man with his power and his presence?

‘I know that you are the heir to a mountain kingdom—’

‘Maraban,’ he elaborated softly, and his voice deepened with affectionate pride.

Something imprecise shimmered over her skin at the way he said that single word and a sense of hazy recognition made her shiver. ‘Maraban,’ she repeated wonderingly, until she realised that she was in danger of sounding starstruck again.

‘What else?’ he prompted, intrigued by that dreamy look which had softened her features when she had said the name of the land of his birth. And then his mouth hardened. Maraban was an oil-rich country—and didn’t fabulous wealth always produce enthusiasm in the greedy hearts of most Westerners?

She wondered what had caused the fleetingly judgemental look which had hardened his face into a stern mask. She snapped out of her reverie to deliver a few home truths.

‘I’ve heard that you have something of a reputation where women are concerned,’ she told him crisply.

‘A reputation?’ It sounded too close to unaccustomed criticism for Khalim not to experience a sudden flicker of irritation. ‘Do elaborate, Rose.’

‘Do I need to? You like women, don’t you?’

His smile grew cynical. ‘And is it wrong to enjoy the many pleasures which the opposite sex can offer?’

His words were accompanied by the splaying of his fingers over her back, and Rose found herself wondering what it would be like if her skin were bare. And his…She swallowed. ‘You make women sound like an amusement arcade!’

He smiled. ‘It is an interesting analogy,’ he remarked, and resisted the urge to move his fingertips to lie just below the jut of her breasts. He wanted her, and he never had to try very hard, not where women were concerned. There had only ever been one woman who had turned him down, and that had been Sabrina.

He moved his head slightly as the bride and groom passed by, and saw Sabrina gazing up into the face of her new husband. Khalim had instantly forgiven and understood her rejection, because she had been in love with his best friend.

Resisting the urge to explore Rose’s breasts, he kept his hands right where they were. For while his seduction of Rose Thomas was a certainty, he suspected that he would have to take things slowly…

‘So,’ he said huskily. ‘You are at an advantage, are you not? Since you know something of me, while I know nothing of you, Rose—other than the fact that you are the most beautiful woman in the room.’

‘So you said earlier,’ answered Rose sweetly, pleased to see the fleeting look of irritation which hardened the dark face. She teased him a little more—just for the hell of it. ‘I can’t see why women fall for your charms if you keep coming out with the same old compliment!’

‘Oh, can’t you?’ he questioned silkily, and with a fluid movement of grace caught her closer still, so that their bodies melded together with shocking intimacy. He noted with satisfaction the instant darkening of her eyes, the two high spots of colour to her cheeks. Through the thin layers of silk which covered him, and her, he could feel the tiny tight buds of her breasts as they flowered against his chest and he felt another sharp pull of desire.

‘D-don’t,’ protested Rose weakly, shaken by a sweet flood of need, stronger and more powerful than anything she had ever experienced before.

Triumphantly, Khalim felt her tremble against him and pressed his lips close to where the bright, flaxen hair gleamed against her ear. ‘Don’t what?’ he whispered.

‘Don’t.’ But her voice shook so that the word was unrecognisable and she had to try again. ‘Don’t stand so close to me.’

With the instinctive mastery of the conqueror, he did exactly as she asked, moving a little away from her, and he heard her unmistakable little of gasp of protest. ‘Is that better?’ he questioned silkily.

Better? Rose felt as bereft as if someone had just shorn off her long hair and left her neck bare and cold. She found herself wanting to beg him to pull her back into that warm, enticing circle, until common sense began to reassert itself. She was not the kind of woman to beg a man to do anything. ‘Much better,’ she agreed levelly.

He didn’t believe her for a moment. Khalim smiled, acknowledging what he knew to be a universal truth—that the chase was often the most exciting part of the conquest. ‘So why don’t you tell me something about yourself?’ he murmured.

She turned her face upwards, her eyes sparking a challenge. ‘What would you like to know?’

‘Everything. Absolutely everything.’

Rose’s mouth curved into a smile. ‘You’ll have to be a little more specific than that, I’m afraid!’

He wondered what she would say if he told her the only thing he really wanted to know was what her naked body would look like. Stretched out in rapturous abandon on the slippery-soft sheets of his enormous bed. ‘So tell me what you do,’ he murmured.

‘You mean, work-wise?’

He nodded, thinking that she had no need at all to work. She could easily be a rich man’s mistress, he thought. His. Why had he never met her before? ‘Or shall I guess what kind of work you do, Rose?’

‘You can try!’

‘Simple. A model?’ he mused.

‘I’m not tall enough,’ she objected, hating herself for the warm glow which his compliment produced. ‘Or thin enough.’

Irresistibly, his eyes were drawn to the luscious swell of breast and hip. ‘You are perfect,’ he said huskily. ‘Quite perfect.’

Within the circle of his arms, Rose shivered. She wasn’t used to men saying things like that, and certainly not within minutes of meeting her! Mostly, she mixed with lofty intellectuals who might occasionally pay her a clever-clever compliment. Not men who made no attempt to hide a primitive and compelling kind of desire. ‘That’s outrageous flattery!’ she protested.

‘Flattery, yes. Outrageous, no!’ He turned her round in time with the music, admiring her natural and subtle grace.

He really was the most wonderful dancer, thought Rose. She rarely danced properly like this—and never with a prince! It was heavenly to glide around the dance-floor in the arms of a man. Instead of everyone jigging about doing their own thing and usually managing to connect with her on the way!

He was staring down at her in a thoughtful way, and she immediately wiped the look of dreamy bliss off her face. ‘So you’ve given up, have you? You’re not very good at guessing, are you?’ she challenged.