Шэрон Кендрик - Surrender To The Sheikh

‘You wish me to?’

Khalim drew a deep breath, swamping down the unfamiliar feeling of having been thwarted. ‘Of course,’ he said coolly, and then saw Philip’s look of indecision. ‘By the mane of Akhal-Teke, Philip!’ he swore softly. ‘Do you think my arrogance so great, my ego so mighty, that I cannot bear to hear the truth from you?’

Philip raised his dark eyebrows. ‘Or my interpretation of the truth, sir? Every man’s truth is different.’

Khalim smiled. ‘Indeed it is. You sound like a true Marabanesh, when you speak like that! Give me your interpretation, Philip. Why have I failed with this woman, where never I have failed before?’

Philip intertwined his long fingers and spoke thoughtfully. ‘All your life you have had your every wish pandered to, sir.’

‘Not all.’ Khalim’s eyes narrowed dangerously as he mouthed the soft denial. ‘I learnt the rigours of life through an English boarding-school!’

‘Yes,’ said Philip patiently. ‘But ever since you reached manhood, little has been denied to you, sir, you know that very well.’ He paused. ‘Particularly where women are concerned.’

Khalim expelled a long, slow breath. Was he simply tantalised because for once something had eluded him? Why, some of the most beautiful women in the world had offered themselves to him, but his appetite had always been jaded by what came too easily. ‘Only one other woman has ever turned me down before,’ he mused.

‘Sabrina?’ said Philip softly.

Khalim nodded, remembering his easy acceptance of that. He tried to work out what was different this time. ‘But that was understandable—because she was in love with Guy, and Guy is my friend whom I respect. But this woman…this woman…’

And the attraction had been mutual. She had been fighting her own needs and her own desires, he knew that without a doubt. When he’d taken her in his arms, she’d wanted him with a fire which had matched his own. He’d been certain that he would make love to her tonight, and the unfamiliar taste of disappointment made his mouth taste bitter.

‘What is her name?’ asked Philip.

‘Rose.’ The word came out as if it were an integral line of the poetry he had learnt as a child. It sounded as scented-sweet and as petal-soft as the flower itself. But the rose also had a thorn which could draw blood, Khalim reminded himself on a shudder.

‘Maybe she’s in love with someone else?’ suggested Philip.

‘No.’ Khalim shook his head. ‘There is no man in her life.’

‘She told you that?’

Khalim nodded.

‘Maybe she just didn’t…’ Philip hesitated before saying ‘…find you attractive?’

Khalim gave an arrogant smile. ‘Oh, she did.’ He placed his hand over his fast-beating heart. ‘She most certainly did,’ he murmured, remembering the way she had melted so responsively against his body. And her reaction had not just been about chemistry—undeniable though that had been. No, hers had been a hunger sharpened and defined by the exquisite torture of abstinence.

As his had been. How long since a woman had excited him in this way? Since his father’s illness when much of the burden of responsibility for running the country had fallen onto his shoulders, there had been little time to pursue pleasure. And no woman, he realised, had ever excited him in quite this way.

Khalim swallowed. Her scent was still clinging to the silk of his robes. Unendurable.

‘I must take a bath,’ he ground out.

He had a servant draw him up a bath scented with oil of bergamot, and, once alone, he slipped off the silken robes, totally at ease in his nakedness. His body was the colour of deeply polished wood—the muscles honed so that they rippled with true power and strength.

It was a taut and lean body, though he had never stepped inside a gym in his life—that would have been far too narcissistic an occupation for a man like Khalim. But the long, muscular shaft of his thighs bore testimony to hard physical exercise.

Horse-riding was his particular passion, and one of his greatest sources of relaxation. He felt at his most free when riding his beloved Akhal-Teke horse across the salt flats of Maraban with the warm air rushing through his dark hair and the powerful haunches of the stallion clasped tightly between his thighs.

He lay back among the bubbles and let some of the tension soak from his skin, but not all—not by a long way. Rose Thomas and her pale blonde beauty were uppermost in his mind, and thoughts of her brought their own, different kind of tension. He felt the hardening of his body in response to his thoughts, and only through sheer determination of will did he suppress his carnal longing. But then, he had never once lost control over his body…

Should he woo her? he thought carelessly. Besiege her with flowers? Or with jewels perhaps? He rubbed thoughtfully at the darkened shadow of his chin. There wasn’t a woman alive who could resist the glittering lure of gems.

He smiled as he stepped from the circular bath and tiny droplets of water gleamed like diamonds on the burnished perfection of his skin.

He had no appetite. Tonight he would work on some of the outstanding government papers he had brought back with him from Maraban.

He slipped on a silken robe in deepest, richest claret and walked barefoot back through the vast sitting room and into the adjoining study, where Philip was busy tapping away at the word processor.

He looked up as Khalim came in.

‘Sir?’

‘Leave that, now,’ ordered Khalim pleasantly. ‘I have something else for you.’

‘Sir?’

‘Find out where Rose Thomas lives. And where she works.’

EVEN after an hour-long bath and drinking chamomile tea, Rose slept surprisingly little that night. Especially considering that she had had a long and heavy week at work the previous week and then gone out with Sabrina on her ‘hen-night’ a couple of nights before the wedding.

She tossed and turned for most of the night as an aching sense of regret kept sleep at bay.

And a pair of black eyes kept swimming into her troubled thoughts. Eyes which glittered untold promise, and a body which promised untold pleasure.

She rose late, and was just getting dressed when she heard Lara’s voice calling her name excitedly.

‘Rose! Quickly!’

‘I’ll be there in a minute!’

She pulled on an old pair of jeans and a simple pale blue T-shirt and walked into the sitting room, where Lara was clutching excitedly at the most enormous bouquet of flowers she had ever seen.

There were massed blooms of yellow roses, studded with tiny blue cornflowers, and the heady fragrance hit her as soon as she entered the room.

‘Wow!’ said Rose admiringly. ‘Lucky girl! Who’s the secret admirer?’

‘They aren’t for me, silly!’ choked Lara jealously. ‘It’s your name on the card—see.’

Her fingers trembling, Rose took the proffered card with a dawning sense of inevitability. She stared down at the envelope, and the distinctive handwriting which spelt out her name.

‘Well, aren’t you going to open it?’ demanded Lara. ‘Don’t you want to know who they’re from?’

‘I know exactly who they’re from,’ said Rose slowly. ‘Khalim sent them.’

‘You can’t know that!’

‘Oh, yes, I can.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘I may have had a few sweet and charming boyfriends, but not one who would spend this much on a bunch of flowers.’ But curiosity got the better of her, and she ripped the envelope open to find her hopes and her fears confirmed.

The message was beautifully and arrogantly stark.

‘The yellow is for your hair; the blue for the sapphire of your eyes. I will collect you at noon. Khalim.’