Rachael Thomas - Claimed by the Sheikh

She was trapped, utterly transfixed by the sheer masculinity of him. That raw vigour, which had snared her heart when they’d first met, left her unable to break eye contact. She couldn’t even step back away from the fire which had somehow ignited between them, threatening to burn her if she dared to go nearer. But, like a moth to the flame of a candle, she felt compelled to, even knowing it would destroy her.

She blinked rapidly and took a deep breath. She couldn’t allow herself to weaken, couldn’t allow the attraction she’d always had for him to rule her.

He looked at her through narrowed eyes. ‘You can’t have forgotten the last time I saw you. You were busy taking your clothes off then too.’ The words snapped like bullets from his lips, hard and accurate. ‘So the fact that you work here, in this low-life hole, comes as no surprise to me.’

She wanted to close her eyes in shame at the memory. In her innocence, she’d thought she was doing the right thing on their wedding night, being something she wasn’t—daring and seductive. His playboy reputation was well known and she hadn’t wanted him to think her uselessly inexperienced.

‘I haven’t got time to argue with you and your ego.’ More furious than ever, she resisted the temptation to throw the wig at him. ‘Just tell me what you want, Kazim, and then leave—for good.’ Those last two words rushed from her and settled around them with finality.

‘What I want?’ His eyes hardened so much they resembled obsidian, blackness obliterating all the gold sparks. Without mercy, they bored into her.

‘Just say it,’ she taunted and turned to walk away. She needed to get some clothes on, cover her body with something that would protect her from his scrutiny. ‘You want a divorce.’

She threw the words over her shoulder as she pushed open the dressing room door, secure in the knowledge he wouldn’t follow her, and tossed the wig onto the cluttered table, knocking over a lipstick. She let out a breath she had no idea she’d been holding, desperate to get a grip on her emotions.

The lock clicked as the key turned and she whirled round to see Kazim standing there, in the dressing room, his back to the closed door, arms folded across his chest and that ever-present air of superiority coming off him like a tsunami.

‘Divorce is not an option.’ His abrasive words robbed her of the ability to think, let alone speak. If he didn’t want a divorce then what did he want from her? What was so important he’d not only tracked her down, but had come personally to this—what was it he’d called it— low-life hole ?

Kazim watched the colour leach from Amber’s face. Even her scantily clad body paled as the implication of his words sank in. As the only son and heir to the Sheikh of Barazbin, taking as his wife the woman selected by his father had been his duty. Just as it was now his father who had forced him to seek Amber out. But he’d never expected to find her in a place like this.

His wife, Princess Amber of Barazbin, was working as a waitress in an establishment that was little better than a strip club. He put aside the shock of just how low she’d sunk and forced his attention back to what he’d come here for.

His wife.

She turned from him and he looked more closely at her profile as she dragged her hair, shorter than it had once been, quickly into a ponytail. Her gaze was rigidly focused on her image in the mirror, as if she couldn’t bear to look at him, but he was drawn to her full and very kissable lips.

She glared defiantly at him, stirring something deep within him, but giving into those carnal thoughts would not help his current situation. He needed her back in Barazbin, living as his wife, and he had every intention of achieving that.

‘Divorce is the only option as far as I’m concerned. Your rejection as good as told me that, Kazim. You left me in no doubt that our marriage had ended before it had begun.’ Her stern voice, laced with a husky note, rattled his senses.

She cleaned her face of make-up, carrying on as if he wasn’t even there, and when she looked at him again she appeared younger than her twenty-three years, but very much a woman. A beautiful woman who almost distracted him from his purpose. And he couldn’t allow that.

‘You must have heard of my father’s failing health.’ He unfolded his arms and clenched his hands at his sides, the anger when mentioning his father as fierce as ever. Regret tore through him like a sandstorm.

‘I’ve made it my business not to keep up with happenings in Barazbin.’ Her words were short and sharp, increasing his anger. ‘There’s no need. I’m never going back there.’

He had not expected this—a challenging woman, one who ignited his anger and stirred his blood in equal measures. She was no longer the amenable bride he’d turned his back on. She was a woman who possessed every charm necessary to weave a spell on a man. But she was his wife nonetheless. A wife he had every intention of returning to Barazbin with.

‘If you don’t mind, Kazim, I’d like to change.’ She shot him a haughty look, her delicate brows rising in challenge.

‘I have no objection to you putting on some clothes, no.’ If she covered herself he might be able to think more clearly. It might stop the wild heat that raced in his blood—something which was becoming harder to ignore by the second.

Her hands rested on her hips and, just as he had been moments before, he was mesmerised by her long legs, showcased spectacularly by the corset-style costume. Her narrow waist, highlighted by those ridiculous pink feathers.

‘What I meant was that you should leave.’ Irritation rang in her voice as she glared across the small room at him.

And give her a chance to run out on him, just as she’d done the morning after their wedding? He hadn’t even decided what would happen next, how they’d go about living their lives separately. She’d just left and he couldn’t risk her doing that again. His father had made that plain.

‘When I leave, it will be with you or not at all and, as I have no wish to be seen on the streets of Paris with a stripper, I suggest you get dressed.’ He stepped into the room, drawn to her, until her sharp words halted him, making him stand firm once more.

‘I am not a stripper.’ Shock resonated in her voice and she stepped back from him, as if burnt by his words.

‘From what I recall, you are very, how shall I say, rehearsed at taking your clothes off.’ He remembered again their wedding night, the teasing way she’d removed the silk that had covered her body, tossing it carelessly around the suite. ‘Isn’t that what you did on our wedding night?’

Her lips pursed and she took in a deep breath. The shock and anger of finding out she worked in such a place still roared in his blood. Her claim that nobody knew her real identity was certainly true. It had taken several months to track her down.

‘I am a waitress .’ She emphasised the last word vehemently.

‘That may be so, but I saw what was going on out there when I came in.’

‘What you saw, Kazim, was dancing.’ Her hands pressed heavily against her hips, anger rolling off her in furious waves.

He frowned and stifled a smile of triumph as he saw a flush of irritation cross her face. He didn’t say anything more, just raised his brows in question.

‘Have it your way.’ She shrugged her shoulders and turned her back to him. ‘But if you want me to change so that I look less like a stripper, at least make yourself useful and undo me.’

At first he could only look at her bare shoulders, her dusky skin so tantalising that he wanted to trail his fingertips across her back. He looked at the seemingly endless hooks which fastened the corset tightly around her body and scrunched his fingers hard into the palms of his hands. What was she trying to do to him?