Jane Porter - The Desert Sheikh's Defiant Queen - The Sheikh's Chosen Queen / The Desert King's Pregnant Bride

“Lift your hair,” he said.

“This is absurd, Sharif.”

“Your hair.”

A shiver raced down her back as she hesitantly reached up to take off her wood bead necklace and to pull her heavy hair off her neck, revealing her bare nape and nearly naked back.

She closed her eyes as she felt him settle the heavy necklace around her neck, his fingers brushing her skin as he deftly fastened the small hook. The necklace was cold against her chest, hitting four inches below her throat.

“Turn. Let me see,” he said.

Slowly she turned to face him and he took a step back to give her a critical once-over. “Pretty,” he said, but he didn’t sound very convincing, and yet with so many huge diamonds she knew the necklace had to be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. If not more.

“Please take it off,” she urged, looking down and catching sight of the diamonds’ white fire.

Instead he turned to another jewelry box, the one with the decadently long strand of flawless South Sea and Tahitian pearls, each pewter and cream-colored pearl the size of her knuckle. Unhooking the clasp, he lifted the pearls from its box and, again moving behind her, he draped these around her neck. The pearls fell between her breasts, hung so low that the luxurious strand brushed the full swell of her breast before settling low against her breastbone.

“Turn,” Sharif commanded.

She gave him a fierce look over her shoulder. “Remember our conversation from last night? I am your employee, not your servant.”

He met her angry gaze and he smiled slowly, a provocative gleam that quickened her pulse and turned her belly inside out. He was playing a game, a game she didn’t understand, a game where he made the rules and she was to follow.

“What do you want?” she whispered, her voice failing her.

“I want to see you covered in jewels, the way you could have been.” His lashes dropped, concealing the pearl gray of his eyes. “The way you would have been.”

Goose bumps covered her arms. The fine hair at her neck stood on end.

“You could have been my queen,” he repeated.

She looked at him, seeing him as the world must see him, that noble face both beautiful and severe, and then there were those eyes of his, those silver eyes that had haunted her in her sleep for years.

She’d told herself after leaving him that she’d never regretted ending their relationship, told herself she was better off without his controlling mother and foreign culture and far-off palace, but at night her dreams told her differently.

At night, even years later, she still dreamed of him, and in her dreams she tried to cling to him, tried to make the differences go away. Tried to redeem herself.

Now she reached up to try to remove one of the necklaces, but before she could unfasten a clasp Sharif gently batted her fingers away and, taking the diamond, sapphire and pearl strand from his butler, he told her to lift her hair.

She shook her head. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“But you still have one more.”

“No. I don’t want it, I don’t want any of these.”

“But you like jewelry. You love fine jewelry. And best of all, you look stunning in exquisite jewels like these. Now lift your hair because dinner is being served and we don’t want it cold.”

She looked up at him, bemused. She’d never owned fine jewelry, only trinkets and hand-me-down bracelets and necklaces and rings from her mother. An antique cameo. A silver Art Deco brooch. Wooden bangles. A jade pendant.

“I don’t feel comfortable, Sharif.”

“But you look beautiful. You’re absolutely gorgeous. Like a living treasure.”

He was paying her compliments and yet there was an edge to his voice, an unspoken anger.

“Maybe we should just eat,” she whispered.

“One last gift,” he said. “Please move your hair.”

Eyes burning, she gathered her heavy hair into her hands and lifted it high to give him access to the back of her neck. His fingers brushed her skin, his fingertips so light, so teasing she arched helplessly at his touch.

She didn’t want him.

But she did want him.

She didn’t love him anymore.

But she loved the way his skin felt on hers, loved the heat and how he made her feel so hot, so electric.

She wanted more heat, more hot, more electric. Closing her eyes she could imagine his hands on her hips, his hard body against the back of her thighs, his palms sliding up her ribs to cup her breasts.

Then suddenly his lips were there at the back of her neck, planting a fleeting kiss where his fingers had been.

“There,” he said, his voice deep, warm reminding her of honey and sun. “Perfection.”

Turning her around, he extended her a hand. “Dinner, laeela .”

They were eating outside at the opposite end of the courtyard, dinner served in a beautiful pale-ivory tent lit by a delicate crystal chandelier hanging above the linen-covered table. Three more white candles flickered on the table, making the porcelain china shimmer. Tuberoses and white lilies floated in water, their fragrance so sweet it nearly made her dizzy.

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