Jane Porter - The Sheikh's Virgin

“Does any man amuse you?”

When she didn’t answer he laughed softly, and there was nothing remotely kind in his laughter. “You’re one of those man-haters, aren’t you?”

“I didn’t realize we’d become a species, Sheikh Nuri.”

He laughed again, even more unkindly than before. “It will be interesting having you in my protection.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Too late. You’re in my car. In my care.”

“Stop the car.”

“And soon you will travel in my airplane.”

“I won’t—”

“You will, because you, Keira al-Issidri, cannot stop what you have started. It has begun. This. Us—”

“No.” Hysteria bubbled up, bubbling close to the surface. “I didn’t know what I was doing, I wasn’t thinking—”

“You knew at the time. You knew it was me, or them. You chose me.”

She could hardly breathe. Her chest constricted. Her lungs felt as though they were collapsing. Try another tactic, a little voice urged her, there must be another way to reach him.

She tried again. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your concern, Sheikh Nuri, but I’m twenty-three, nearing twenty-four. I live in Dallas, am employed here in Dallas, and going to London isn’t possible.”

Kalen Nuri said nothing.

The car continued sailing along the freeway.

Keira felt her freedom ebb.

“You’re nearly as Western as I, Sheikh Nuri.” She attempted to reason with him, remind him of all that which they shared. “You’ve lived in London for at least fifteen years. You wouldn’t treat an English woman this way, would you?”

“I would. If she’d made a promise to me.”

“I made no promise!”

“But you did. You said my name, you asked for my help, and I heard you. I extended my protection to you.”

“I’m an adult, Kalen—”

“There you go. Kalen. You called to me in front of your house. You used my given name then just as you did now. Kalen, you said. Help me, Kalen.” Sheikh Nuri’s golden gaze narrowed, fixed on her, a curious mixture of sympathy and contempt. “If you’re an adult, Keira al-Issidri, you wouldn’t play games like a child.”

She exhaled in a slow stream, head spinning. “I don’t see this as a game.”

“Good. It’s not.”

He settled back on his seat as though he were finished. That the discussion was now closed, as if there was nothing left to be said. But there was plenty, Keira thought, plenty to still say, plenty to be decided. Like where he’d drop her off. And how he intended to get her car back to her.

“An adult,” she repeated more fiercely, staring at him pointedly. “And I don’t need looking after. Especially not by a man.”

That caught his attention. He turned his attention back to her. “By a man,” he repeated softly, the words echoing between them. “Just what did happen to turn you off men so completely, Miss al-Issidri?”

She forced herself to meet his gaze and his expression was thoughtful, thick black lashes fringing intelligent golden eyes. Keira felt the oddest curl in her belly, a flutter of feeling that made everything inside her tense. “Nothing happened.”

“Interesting.”

She saw the tug of a smile at his firm lips. He had a mouth that was sensual, the lower lip fuller than the upper, and when he smiled mockingly as he did now, he looked as if he knew things that could bring a woman to her knees.

“You might be surprised to discover that there are good men out there,” he added, still smiling.

His smile inspired fear. He’d taken her father on, and now he was challenging her.

He enjoyed power. Relished control. Keira blinked a little, overwhelmed by the differences between them.

Kalen might live in London, might have left Baraka well over a decade ago, and perhaps his clothes were gorgeous Italian designs, and his accent British old school, but he was still a sheikh, and not just any sheikh, but one of the richest, most influential men in the world.

His lashes lifted, his golden gaze met hers, holding her captive. He was looking at her as though she were naked, his eyes baring her, not sexually, but emotionally. He was seeing what she didn’t want seen. He was seeing the shadows in her, the places of anger and defiance, and heat seeped through her. A scorching heat that started in her belly and moved to her breasts, her neck, every inch of skin.

She felt as if she were fighting for her life now. “I’m trying to be practical, Sheikh Nuri.”

“Practical, how?”

“It’s necessary I establish my independence from my father, that I demonstrate in his eyes, that I am not going to marry whomever he wants, just because he wants.”

“Your father doesn’t care.”

“Nor do you.”

Her flash of resentment resulted in a low rough laugh that rumbled from his chest. “So much fire, laeela, so much defiance. But unlike your father, I could grow to want someone like you.”

THE jet took off an hour before midnight. It was Kalen Nuri’s private jet, a brand-new aircraft waiting at the executive terminal on the outskirts of Fort Worth.

Sheikh Nuri had her shown to the private bedroom in the back even though the last thing Keira wanted to do was sleep. But later, after reaching cruising altitude, Keira did manage to stretch out on the bed and close her eyes.

And then she was being woken, informed by the flight attendant on board that they were making the final approach into the business airport adjacent to Heathrow.

On the ground, the jet taxied to the terminal. Disembarking took minutes and as the morning sun shone warmly overhead, they slipped into a private car, traveling in silence to Sheikh Nuri’s home in Kensington Gardens.

“You’ve been exceptionally quiet,” Kalen said, as the car wound through the old elegant neighborhood, a neighborhood of grand Victorian mansions, all gleaming creamy-white in the pure morning light.

“What’s there for me to say?” She couldn’t even bring herself to look at him. He’d forced her here, forced her to come to London as surely as her father’s men would have forced her to return to Baraka.

“You’ll grow to enjoy the lifestyle.”

Her head snapped around, eyebrows lowering. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“No.” The car stopped before a tall house with a glossy black door, iron railings at tall paned windows, the symmetry of the house more striking for the perfect boxwood topiaries framing the entrance.

He stepped out. The front door of the house opened, a butler appeared on the front step even as the uniformed chauffeur moved around to the side of the car to assist them.

“Welcome to your future,” Kalen said, upper lip curling with dark humor. Sheikh Nuri’s face was just as she’d always remembered—hard, perfectly symmetrical, classically beautiful—like a marble statue. His beauty was that precise. His control was that absolute.

“My future?” she repeated.

His lip curled further, emphasizing his harsh beauty. “Your life with me.”

For a moment Keira could only stare at him, finding it all too incredible, too implausible for her to believe.

She, who’d been infatuated with Sheikh Nuri for so long, was in his protection.

She, Keira Gordon, was to live with the one man she’d most admired. The man she, as a schoolgirl, had secretly, passionately adored.

Inside the house, Keira paced her bedroom suite like a caged tiger.

Kalen’s house. Kalen’s guest bedroom. Kalen’s proximity would kill her.

She still felt so hopelessly attracted to him, and she shouldn’t. He might be physically beautiful but he was hard, arrogant, insensitive.

He was using her, too, using her to get to her father and yet instead of feeling contempt for him, she felt…curiosity. Desire.