Marguerite Kaye - How To Seduce A Sheikh

‘Your husband was a fool.’ He reached out to touch her, smoothing his hand over the fall of her hair. The flicker of excitement tightened into a knot. ‘What is your name?’ he asked.

‘Beaumarchais. Colette Beaumarchais.’

‘Madame Beaumarchais, you should not be so quick to leap to conclusions.’

Cat’s eyes, like a tiger, she thought, mesmerised, trying to ignore the way her skin was heating as he brushed her hair away from her face, his fingers feathering over her cheek, down the column of her neck.

‘I don’t understand. If you do not want me for a slave or a concubine, then why did you buy me?’ Colette demanded, shrugging away his hand, which was resting on her shoulder.

He moved swiftly as she made to walk away, pulling her hard up against him, breast to chest, thigh to thigh. Heat flooded her at the shocking nearness, at the overwhelming maleness of him, his solid muscle and sinewy strength. A warrior. And a very potent man. ‘Laissez-moi!’

He laughed. ‘Release you? Into the desert and no doubt into the hands of another set of slave traders? You do not wish that.’

‘No. I mean yes. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.’

‘As you have shown by your appearance today.’

Silenced, she ceased struggling. ‘Who are you? Why won’t you let me go if you don’t want me?’

‘I am Prince Zafar al-Zuhr of the Kharidja.’

Her heart began to hammer in her breast. He held her so closely that she could feel the slow, steady beat of his. One hand slid down her spine to her waist. The other slid up her arm. There could be no doubting the heat in his gaze. There could be no doubting his intent as he bent his head towards her. He was going to kiss her. She braced herself and at the same time she tilted her face, parting her lips invitingly, only to find herself released as suddenly as she had been caught up against him. Mortified by her contrary behaviour, Colette staggered. ‘You have not answered my question, Prince Zafar,’ she said.

His eyes flashed. Drawing himself up to his full height, he eyed her disdainfully. ‘I am Prince Zafar al-Zuhr of Kharidja. I answer to no one. You would do well to remember that.’

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