Emilie Rose - The Desert Lord's Bride / Wed by Deception - The Desert Lord's Bride

Based on all he knew of her, he assumed that one factor in her adamant refusal to change her current situation was that she had no desire to lose the freedom of being in control of an older man without giving anything back, giving nothing up. Entering a marriage of state, where she’d be forever monitored and unable to mess around as she no doubt did now, must be unthinkable to her. A man in his prime, who’d keep her toeing the line and in his bed, was certainly to be avoided at all costs.

No. Disclosing his true identity to someone who was as ruthless a businesswoman as he was a businessman would only backfire.

His original plan was the only way to go.

His eyes had remained glued to hers all through his inner deliberations. Voluntarily, he insisted on telling himself, to ascertain her reaction to him.

And he was certain now. He’d never seen such a blatant confession of instant hunger in a woman’s eyes. He struggled not to acknowledge the flare of equal hunger in his gut, to keep all turmoil from his eyes. Smugness, hot and triumphant, surged as she faltered to a standstill under the brunt of his approach.

Then his two accomplices collided into them.

Farah Beaumont had been roasting with mortification.

Every eye in the packed, suffocatingly opulent ballroom had turned at her entrance, the whispers rising over the orchestral music like the hissing of a thousand cobras.

Which wasn’t an exaggeration, really. She felt as if she’d just stepped into a pit of snakes. But then, she’d invited their poison when she’d agreed to pose as Bill’s lover. Sometimes their purposes in setting up this charade didn’t seem worth the malice she met everywhere. Only sometimes, though. She’d found peace since Bill had become her shield and she’d become his payback to his cheating wife. Her predators were now the gossiping, backstabbing kind. The seducing, exploiting kind usually kept their distance, where she wanted them to remain. Where she hoped they’d remain tonight, now that she was here alone.

Damn Bill for insisting she arrive at this balle- masqué- cum-fund-raiser farce ahead of him. As if he could resolve the out-of-the-blue catastrophe that had sent their current multi-billion-dollar deal back to square one in time to catch up with her.

But he’d thought it imperative she make an appearance as his representative. God forbid their host—a Middle Eastern magnate who’d sprung out of the shrouds of mystery just a month ago, exploding onto the world-finance scene a fully fledged global player—would feel slighted that a fellow tycoon hadn’t graced his self-congratulatory function. Or sent a proxy. It just wasn’t done, one world-mover to another. And then, Bill was dying to meet the guy. He was convinced the mystery mogul would make an appearance this time.

She thought he wouldn’t. He’d been manipulating the media and the highest circles of finance like a master puppeteer. He was still brewing maneuvers that would change the course of whole regions’ economies. She figured he’d reveal himself only when he’d achieved his full plan. Maybe not even then.

Wise man. Got his head screwed on right. Who in their right mind with that kind of power would squander the blessing of anonymity? What kind of sick psyche wanted the exposure?

She winced. She had to ask that, here, in the presence of about two thousand such psyches?

It could still have been endurable—come here, meet the guy, convey Bill’s excuses— if Bill hadn’t insisted she dress up in this stupid costume.

The image reflected at her after she’d wrestled it on had made her burst out laughing. For someone who felt clumsy in anything but casual pants and flats, a Scheherazade costume was a woefully hilarious misrepresentation. But Bill had really wanted to make an entrance with her, flaunt her to maximum effect.

Then, as she’d taken the first steps into that sea of malicious speculation, wishing the floor would snap open and snatch her into its maw, a pair of lasers had slammed into her.

OK. Exaggeration alert. The so-called lasers were just eyes. A man’s obsidian eyes.

But, no. Lasers weren’t an exaggeration. Rather an understatement. She did feel as if they were burning her from the eyes inward… Whoa. Look away, moron .

She couldn’t. Couldn’t break away from the thrall of those eyes to look at their owner. All she registered beyond the black-on-white gaze were impressions of toughness, power, size…and sheer unadulterated maleness.

Her body heat rose, fueled by the frantic engine that had replaced her heart behind her ribs.

For God’s sake! She didn’t do burning up and instant paralysis. And never, ever , instant X-rated thoughts.

Tell that to her malfunctioning volition and heat-regulating centers. Not to mention her short-circuiting imagination. That became crowded with images of hard virility pressing down on her, of hot breath singeing her lips, her neck, lower…

Her muscles twitched, sweat broke out on her palms and feet, trickling between her breasts…

Suddenly something slammed into her right shoulder. Then far more than a trickle of liquid was gushing, everywhere.

Chilled shock doused her, freeing her from the man’s eyes. Her own flew wide to watch the chain-reaction she’d triggered.

Her sudden halt right in his path had brought him to an abrupt stop, too. And two waiters with trayfuls of champagne had crashed right into them.

She watched in petrified horror as dozens of flutes spilled all over him, felt the echoing scenario all over her, each hit of cold liquid knocking the breath out of her. Then the flutes succumbed to the pull of gravity and hurtling to the floor.

The music swelled, obscuring the medley of smashing crystal as a lull gripped their immediate crowd, that sick fascination with others’ humiliation that never ceased to baffle her. The last flute shattered melodically on the glossy parquet floor among the last chords of the concerto.

In the post-finale hush, there was an outburst of apologies from the waiters, of inquiries from bystanders as a dozen hands dabbed at her clothes.

Disoriented at having so many people encroaching on her, her voice rose. “It’s OK…thanks…just… thank you.”

Her words had no effect as six men, the waiters among them, crowded her, insisting on imposing their help on her. She felt her anti-crowd discomfort rising, taking on a phobic edge. She turned to the one presence that wasn’t invading her personal space. The man. This time the burning of his gaze was welcome, a refuge.

Understanding her unspoken appeal, he put himself between her and her harassing helpers, cut them off from her with the impressive barrier of his sand-gold-clad body, an imperial flick of his hand sending them scattering from her field of vision. Then he turned to her.

She averted her eyes this time, feeling the heat that had been doused by shock and champagne surging up to her face again.

She’d better not be blushing. She couldn’t be blushing. She hadn’t blushed since she was sixteen.

But the sizzling was unmistakable. She was blushing.

Just great. This man was resurrecting every clumsy foolishness she’d thought buried along with her father…who’d turned out to be not her real father. Not that biology mattered to her. Francois Beaumont would always remain her father in every way that mattered. And his death over a decade ago had forced her to mature overnight….

Oh, whom was she kidding? She’d matured in certain areas only, had become an expert in erecting barriers and bulldozing her way through the confrontations that made up social life, using her blunted social skills as a weapon.