Шэрон Кендрик - Surrender To The Sheikh

‘Anyone at home?’ she called.

‘I’m in the kitchen!’ came the muffled reply, and Rose walked into the kitchen to find Lara busy crunching a chocolate biscuit and pouring coffee into a mug. Her staple diet and my coffee, thought Rose ruefully as Lara looked up with a smile and held a second mug up. ‘Coffee?’

Rose shook her head. ‘No, thanks. I think I need a drink.’

Lara raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘But you’ve just been to a wedding!’

‘And I barely touched a drop all day,’ said Rose grimly. She had deliberately avoided liquor so that she would have all her wits about her, and then just look at the way she had behaved on the dance-floor! She sighed as she poured herself a glass of wine from the cask in the fridge.

‘Are you okay?’ asked Lara curiously.

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘You just seem a little…I don’t know…tense.’

Tense? Rose sipped at her wine without enjoyment. She could see her reflection in the pig-shaped mirror which hung on the kitchen wall. Her face was unbelievably pale. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost. Or a vision maybe…‘I guess I am,’ she said slowly.

‘So why? What was the wedding like? Awful?’

‘No, beautiful,’ said Rose reflectively. ‘The most beautiful wedding I’ve ever been to.’

‘Then why the long face?’

Rose sat down at the kitchen table and put her wineglass down heavily. ‘It’s stupid, really—’ She looked up into Lara’s frankly interested brown eyes. ‘Did I ever tell you that Sabrina’s new husband is best friends with a prince?’

Lara’s eyes grew larger. ‘You’re winding me up, right?’

Rose shook her head and bit back a half-smile. It did sound a bit far-fetched. ‘No, I’m not. It’s the truth. He’s prince of a country—more a principality, really—called Maraban—it’s in the Middle East.’

‘And next, I suppose you’ll be telling me that he’s outrageously good-looking and rich, to boot!’

Rose sighed. ‘Yes! He’s exactly that. Just about the most perfect man you’ve ever seen. Tall, and dark and handsome—’

‘Oh, ha, ha, ha!’

‘No, he is! Honestly. He’s divine. I danced with him…’ Her voice tailed off as she remembered how it felt to have his body so tantalisingly close to hers. ‘Danced with him, and—’

‘And what?’

‘And—’ No need to point out that she had got a little carried away on the dance-floor. She squirmed with remembered pleasure and glanced up to see Lara’s open-mouthed expression.

‘Oh, Rose, you didn’t?’

Rose blinked as the implication behind Lara’s question squeaked its way home. ‘No, of course I didn’t! You surely don’t imagine that I’d meet a man at a wedding and hours later leap into bed with him, do you?’ she questioned indignantly.

But you did it in thought if not in deed, didn’t you? mocked the guilty voice of her conscience.

Lara was looking at her patiently. ‘So what happened?’

‘He, well, he asked me to go for a drink with him once the bride and groom had left,’ explained Rose.

‘What’s the problem with that? You said yes, of course?’

‘Actually,’ said Rose, in a high, forced voice, not quite believing that she had had the strength of will to go through with it, ‘I said no.’

Lara was blinking at her in bemusement. ‘You’ve lost me! He’s gorgeous, he’s royal and you turned him down! Why, for heaven’s sake?’

‘I don’t know.’ Rose sighed again. ‘Well, maybe that’s not true, I suppose I do, really. He’s so utterly irresistible—’

‘That’s usually considered a plus where men are concerned, isn’t it?’

‘But he would never commit, I know he wouldn’t—it’s written all over his face!’

Lara stared at her incredulously. ‘Never commit?’ she echoed. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this! Rose, you’ve danced with the guy once and already you’re talking commitment? And this from the woman who has always vowed never to get married—’

‘Until I’m at least thirty-five,’ said Rose with a look of fierce determination. ‘I’ll have achieved something by then, so I’ll be ready! And people live longer these days—it makes sense to put off getting married for as long as possible.’

‘Very romantic,’ said Lara.

‘Very realistic,’ commented Rose drily.

‘So why the talk of commitment—or, rather, the lack of it?’

Rose took a thoughtful sip of wine. She wasn’t really sure herself. Maybe because she didn’t want to be just another woman in a long line of discarded women.

But wouldn’t it just sound fanciful if she told Lara that Khalim had a dangerous power about him which both attracted and yet repelled her? And wouldn’t it sound weak if she expressed the very real fear that he could break her heart into smithereens? Lara would quite rightly say that she didn’t know him—but Rose was intuitive, more so than usual where Khalim was concerned. She knew that with a bone-deep certainty—she just didn’t know why.

She had been ‘in love’ just twice in her life. A university affair which had occupied her middle year there and then, in her early days in advertising recruitment—she’d dated an account executive for nine fairly blissful months. Until she had discovered one evening that he wasn’t really into monogamy.

She wasn’t sure whether it was her pride which had been hurt more than anything else, but from that day on she had been sensible and circumspect where men were concerned. She could take them or leave them. And mostly she could leave them…

‘Do you fancy going to see a film?’ asked Lara, with a glance at the kitchen clock. ‘There’s still time.’

Rose shook her head. What would be the point of going to a film if you knew for a fact that you wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything other than the most enigmatic face you had ever set eyes on? ‘No, thanks. I think I’ll take a shower,’ she said with a yawn.

Aware that he was being closely watched by his emissary, Khalim paced up and down the penthouse suite with all the stealth and power of a sleek jungle cat. Outside the lights of the city glittered like some fabulous galaxy, but Khalim was impervious to its beauty.

Whenever he was in London on business, which he usually arranged to coincide with Maraban’s most inhospitable weather—Khalim always stayed at the Granchester Hotel. He kept the luxurious rooms permanently booked in his name, though for much of the year they lay empty. They had been decorated according to his taste in a way which was as unlike his home in Maraban as it was possible to imagine. Lots of pale, wooden furniture and abstract modern paintings. But that was how he liked to live his life—the contrast between the East and the West each feeding two very different sides of his nature.

Once again, black eyes stared unseeingly out at the blaze of lights which pierced the night sky of London.

Eventually, he turned to Philip Caprice and held the palms of his hands out in a gesture which was a mixture of frustration and disbelief. He’d been bewitched by a pair of dazzling eyes so blue and hair so pale and blonde that he couldn’t shake her image from his mind. He had wanted her here with him tonight—on his bed and beneath his body. And he would fill her. Fill her and fill her and…he gave a groan and Philip Caprice looked at him in concern.

‘Sir?’ he murmured. ‘Is something the matter?’

‘I cannot believe it!’ Khalim stated bluntly and gave a low laugh. ‘I must be losing my touch!’

Philip smiled, but said nothing. It was not his place to offer an opinion. His role was to act as a sounding-board for the prince—unless specifically invited to do otherwise.

Khalim turned hectic black eyes towards his emissary, trying to forget her pale enchantment. He could feel the fever of desire heating his blood, making it sing like a siren as it coursed its way around his veins. ‘You are not saying anything, Philip!’