Heidi Rice - Carrying The Sheikh's Baby

He didn’t only look magnificent, he looked indomitable—a man entirely at one with his heritage and his own masculinity. Those pure blue eyes seemed to bore into her through the silk of her own robe—right through the fabric of her dress and the sturdy cotton of her underwear to her palpitating heart. She thanked God she had decided to wear the extra layers, because even with them on she felt naked—every inch of her skin tingling with awareness.

‘Dr Smith,’ he said in that rough, commanding baritone. He held out a hand and hooked a finger, directing her to come to him. ‘I see you found the clothing,’ he said.

All her senses screamed in unison—although she wasn’t sure what they were screaming for her to do, fall into his arms, or run like hell in the opposite direction, because both options seemed viable.

You’re a cat, not a mouse. Move.

Breathing deeply, she stepped forward and laid trembling fingers in his wide palm. He folded her arm into the crook of his elbow and she found herself drawn forward and tucked against his side.

‘Let’s get to the car before the plane becomes an oven,’ he said, the conversational tone doing nothing to calm her rampant heartbeat.

She bobbed her head, feeling like a compliant puppet.

They descended the plane steps together. The desert heat was immense, even so early in the morning, the sun creating mirages on the tarmac and a heat haze on the horizon. But she burned hottest where their bodies touched, the gossamer silk of her robe and the thick cotton of her dress feeling heavier than armour and yet offering her no protection whatsoever from the subtle shift of muscle and sinew where his forearm tensed against her side.

Sweat pooled in her collarbone and trickled down her temple, her heart beating so fast and so loudly she wondered if he could hear it, because it sounded like a machine gun to her.

They walked through a phalanx of servants and bodyguards, all of whom dropped to one knee as Zane passed, the look of awe on their faces something she was very much afraid had been reflected on her face when she’d first walked out of her cabin.

She tried to school her features. Just because Zane Khan was treated like a living god in Narabia, he was still only a man.

As if in acknowledgement of this fact, Zane stopped to speak to several of his subjects as he passed, introducing her to two men in particular as the heads of his ruling council. Four SUVs were parked in a line at the end of the welcoming committee, their paintwork gleaming in the sunshine and looking strangely incongruous given the ancient power being honoured by all present. A guard rushed forward to whisk open the back door of the car in the middle, which looked as if it was half limousine, half all-terrain vehicle. The flags, bearing the insignia of the ruling house of Nawari, marked it out as the Sheikh’s vehicle. Stepping to one side and finally letting go of her, Zane swept his arm forward, directing her into the interior.

She bent to climb inside, but was only halfway into the car when she came to an abrupt halt. Her knees slammed onto the seat tangled in the robe, her palms slapping on the cool leather, her bottom jutting up in the air as she struggled to free herself. She flapped her feet furiously, as embarrassment scorched her insides, but all she managed to do was lose her sandals. She was stuck fast, hideously mindful of Zane standing behind her, being presented with her upraised bottom.

A husky chuckle made her humiliation complete before strong fingers snagged her ankle, sending sensation skimming up her leg and weakening her already straining knees.

‘Hold still,’ said the deep voice, now rough with amusement. ‘The hem is caught.’

Seconds later, the forward momentum had her landing on the seat with a loud ‘oomph’ in a sprawl of silk, cotton, bare legs and bruised pride.

She scrambled to right herself, her cheeks now hotter than the Narabian sun despite the cool interior of the air-conditioned car. Deep chuckles reverberated off the leather interior as Zane folded himself into the seat beside her and the door slammed behind them. The car drove off.

‘Neatly done, Dr Smith,’ he said, obviously enjoying himself immensely at her expense.

But then she looked into his face. He seemed so much younger, almost boyish, his usually severe expression softened by laughter, his shoulders vibrating so hard, the sabres were jingling like bells.

A bubble of laughter burst out. She covered her mouth, but as he continued to chuckle, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from joining him. Suddenly they were laughing together, his husky guffaws matched by her higher-pitched giggles. For a few precious moments, the nerves and anxiety in her stomach dissolved and she felt like a child, free and unencumbered by the sizzling sexual tension that had characterised all her interactions with Zane Khan so far.

‘I can’t believe I made such a monumental tit of myself,’ she finally managed as the laughter slowed to a few intermittent chuckles.

‘Neither can I,’ he said, huffing out one more laugh.

He wiped his eyes with the corner of his robe. And a burst of euphoria rose up her torso. She had no idea why, but she had the strangest feeling Zane Khan didn’t laugh nearly often enough. Dignity and pride seemed a small price to pay for managing to demolish the austere facade—even if only for a few moments.

‘Here.’ He leaned towards her and she saw her sandals resting in his large palm. ‘You dropped these.’

‘Oh, thank you.’ They shared a few more errant chuckles as she plucked them out of his hand.

But as she absorbed the warmth of his touch that lingered on the soft leather, the last of her laughter trailed away, and a heavy sense of intimacy descended.

She could feel his gaze as she fumbled with the hem of her robe and her dress before slipping the footwear back on. She rearranged her skirts to cover her legs, unbearably aware of him once more.

‘I think I see what the problem is,’ he murmured.

‘The problem?’ she asked, making the mistake of glancing at him.

All traces of the boyish amusement were gone as his gaze roamed over her clothing.

‘The robes are designed to be worn with as little beneath them as possible.’ Was it her imagination or had his voice dropped several octaves? ‘Adding extra layers makes them more cumbersome and tends to inhibit the cooling effect.’

‘O-oh, I see,’ she stuttered.

The hot brick in her stomach plunged between her thighs and her nipples tightened as they made the rest of the drive through the desert in silence.

Ruining the cooling effect completely.

What the hell? I have an undiscovered toe fetish.

Zane absorbed the rocky, forbidding landscape as the car crested the rise and headed into the desert valley towards the Sheikh’s palace, far too aware of the woman sitting stiffly in the seat beside him—and the burn on his fingertips where his hand had connected with her ankle. The sight of her unpainted toes and bare feet as she’d slipped on her sandals hadn’t helped contain the surge of lust that had been tormenting him ever since she’d stepped out of her cabin.

His imagination had gone into overdrive as soon as she’d appeared, everything the ankle-length robe with its intricate beading disguised somehow even more erotic than her tomboy jeans and shapeless sweater of the day before.

He shifted in his seat as the palace came into view. He heard her sharp intake of breath. The enormous five-hundred-year-old structure with its domed turrets, lavish mosaic tiling, walled gardens and courtyards and intricately carved arched walkways was a truly magnificent example of Moorish architecture that would awe any new visitor. He had been awestruck himself sixteen years ago when he’d seen it for the first time as a confused teenager, using belligerence to hide his fear—only to discover that misery, not magic, lurked behind the golden walls.