Pippa Roscoe - Reclaimed By The Powerful Sheikh

She cursed herself for the foolish thought, but couldn’t pull her gaze away. He seemed to be listening to a group of men, but something told her that he wasn’t really paying attention. It was his eyes. They weren’t focused on the man speaking, but somewhere over the man’s shoulder. Then he turned his head slowly, not scanning the room, not aimlessly wandering, but, deliberate, clear, and directed straight at her. His eyes caught hold of her gaze, and refused to let it go.

The burn of a blush against her cheeks was instantaneous. She dropped her eyes, shocked by the spark of electricity that had hissed and snapped its way up her spine, across her skin and into her chest. She chanced a glance back towards the man who had incited such an extreme reaction, only to feel it all over again as her eyes joined his once more.

A gasp?

Had she really gasped?

She turned to Harry in an attempt to sever the connection, but Harry was gone and she was standing alone. Now the blush was one of pure embarrassment. She must look to him exactly what she was—a country bumpkin, or ‘hick’, as Francesca had remarked earlier.

That was when she heard a uniquely feminine laugh from somewhere near to the man who had run a lightning streak through her. Of course. When she looked back, she saw that Francesca had joined the circle of awe around the figure whose eyes were no longer on Mason, but on her beautiful, laughing friend.

‘Hey.’ A familiar voice called for Mason’s attention.

Scott was making his way towards her on slightly unsteady feet. How had he managed to drink so much already? ‘I hate these things,’ he complained.

Mason let out a huff of air, thankful for the distraction offered by the trainee jockey from whatever had just happened. No, she wasn’t naïve enough not to know what it was, but it was certainly the first time she’d felt anything like what she’d read in the romance books that were the only thing her mother had left behind.

‘Not really my thing either,’ she said, turning the half-drunk glass of champagne around in her hands. She made a face at the thought of the alcohol, probably warm now, and put it on the table next to Francesca’s discarded, empty, glass.

‘Wanna get out of here?’

‘The bus isn’t coming for at least another three and a half hours, Scott.’

‘Fresh air. There’s a balcony that wraps around the back of the building.’

Resisting the pull of one last glance at the man, reluctant to feel that punishing spark once more, she took the arm that Scott had offered and let him lead her from the room.

* * *

The American girl’s laugh was grating on what little nerves Danyl had left. The whole evening had been a bust. He was beginning to think that perhaps he should have returned to Ter’harn, to his parents... Until he’d caught sight of the little brunette over in the corner. He’d felt her gaze on him across the room. It was as if a flame had licked across his cheek. In the three and a half years he’d been in New York for his degree and masters in business and international relations, he’d not felt anything like it. But he knew what it meant. And it usually came with a giant neon sign saying STAY AWAY in capital letters.

But, despite the warning, he hadn’t been able to break the connection. She was petite, tiny even, in comparison to his near six feet and four inches, but every single inch of her spoke of strength. Her skin, sun-kissed and lightly tanned, even in the depths of this New York winter had warmed him all over. And his fingers itched to run and play in the sweeping curls of her long hair the colour of burnt sugar. Sweet, the taste on his tongue imaginary and expectant, but as sure as if he’d just eaten a single caramel.

Within one distracted moment, she’d disappeared and he wondered if it was for the best. Danyl looked at his watch. Perhaps he should head back to the embassy. Surely there would be more life in their end-of-year party than this. A morgue would beat this. At first, the thought of having all of America’s best racing syndicates in one room sounded fantastic. A chance to research what had only been a briefly mentioned idea by Antonio a couple of months ago but, taken up by Danyl and Dimitri, was fast becoming a deeply tempting business prospect—to create a world-renowned horse-racing syndicate of their own. They’d toyed with the name for a while, but they kept coming back around to the Winners’ Circle. Only they couldn’t decide where to put the apostrophe.

They should have been here with him. The two students he’d met nearly four years ago at the beginning of their studies had soon become the brothers he’d never had. Having been thrust into the American lifestyle of university, they had been drawn together by the determination to succeed not only in their studies, but also in their pleasures. And the bond of friendship born from similar interests had become something more...vital. Never before had Danyl had such close friendships, the palace being a lonely place for an only child. An only royal child.

This evening was supposed to have been it ! Been amazing . It was the last New Year’s Eve he would spend in New York before he went back to Ter’harn and the life of duty that awaited him. And he’d wanted to make it count, wanted it to be the last, greatest chance to let loose, to be...free. But Antonio had been forced to visit his parents and sister, and Dimitri was rescuing his half-brother from some scandal back in Greece.

So here he was, alone at the Langsford, where it seemed he couldn’t escape his royal reputation and the conversation had turned to him instead of horses and racing. For a moment, he thought he might have found something else in the eyes of a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty, but she had disappeared and instead some brash American was making a pass at him. In front of everyone.

She laughed again and that was it.

Forgoing the usual diplomatic politeness that felt as if it had been forced, rather than bred, into him, he walked out of the human circle, leaving one of the men mid-sentence. They’d forgive him. He was royalty after all.

Heading for the exit, he spied the evening’s patrons and knew that he would be waylaid if they saw him. He veered off to a glass doorway leading to the balcony, where, if he was lucky, there might just be a door back in at the other end of it. He ducked out onto the large wrap-around balcony and the sting of the frigid wintry air bit at him, but even that was nothing compared to the shock he’d felt when he’d locked eyes with that girl. It was a shame to leave without seeing what that could have led to, but safer. Yes, definitely safer.

The sounds of hushed angry voices were thrown against him by the whipping wind. He frowned, looking out into the shadows to see two figures just before the bend in the building. A man and... that woman. Before his body could react, he saw her pull her hand away from the man’s clutches, only to be pinned against the brick wall behind her.

‘Get off me, Scott.’

‘Don’t give me that, Mase...’ The man’s slurred voice was muffled by the way his head was buried in her neck.

‘You’re making a fool of yourself. Just stop it.’ The woman’s words were firm rather than angry as she tried to push him away.

‘Oh, come on, Mason, you’ve been making eyes at me for nearly three months now.’

‘I’ve done nothing of the sort, Scott. I’m going back inside.’

‘No, you’re not.’ The man reached out to grab her arm again in the time that it took Danyl to cover the distance between them.

‘Get off me!’

‘The lady told you to stop.’ Danyl’s loud voice was toned with barely leashed control. He hated men like that. Hated when a man couldn’t take the word no.