Sarah Morgan
THE SULTAN’S VIRGIN BRIDE

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

For Nicola Cornick, whose books

I love and whose friendship I value.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

EVERYTHING was in place.

Like a predator he lay in wait, his powerful body still and his eyes alert and watchful.

Remote and unapproachable, Sultan Tariq bin Omar al-Sharma lounged silently in his chair and surveyed the ballroom from the best table in the room. The arrogant tilt of his proud head and the cynical glint in his cold dark eyes were sufficient to keep people at a respectful distance. As an additional precaution, bodyguards hovered in the background, ready to apprehend anyone brave or foolish enough to approach.

Tariq ignored them in the same way that he ignored the stares of everyone in the room, accepting the attention with the bored indifference of someone who had been the object of interest and speculation since birth.

He was the most eligible bachelor in the world, relentlessly pursued by scores of hopeful women. A man of strength and power, hard and tough and almost indecently handsome.

In a room filled with powerful, successful men, Tariq was the ultimate catch and the buzz of interest built to fever pitch. Women cast covetous glances in his direction, each one indulging in her own personal fantasy about being the one to draw his eye because to do so would be the romantic equivalent of winning the lottery.

Ordinarily he might have exploited that appeal to ruthless advantage, but tonight he was interested in only one woman.

And so far she hadn’t arrived.

Nothing about his powerful, athletic frame suggested that his presence in the room stemmed from anything other than a desire to patronize a high profile charity ball. His handsome, aristocratic face was devoid of expression, giving no hint that this evening was the culmination of months of meticulous planning.

For him, tonight was all about business.

He needed control of the Tyndall Pipeline Corporation. The construction of the pipeline was essential to the successful future of Tazkash—crucial for the security and prosperity of his people. He needed to pump oil across the desert. The project was economically, environmentally and financially viable. Everything was in place.

But Harrison Tyndall, Chief Executive Officer, wasn’t playing ball. He wasn’t even willing to negotiate. And Tariq knew the reason why.

The girl.

Farrah Tyndall.

Daddy’s baby. Spoiled little rich girl. Party girl. ‘It’ girl. The girl who’d always had everything she wanted.

Except him.

Tariq’s hard mouth curved into a smile. She could have had him, he recalled. But she hadn’t liked his terms.

And Harrison Tyndall hadn’t liked them either. Weeks of delicate negotiation between the state of Tazkash and the Tyndall Pipeline Corporation had broken down and there had been no further communication on the subject for five long years.

It was a sorry state of affairs, Tariq mused silently, when the wishes of a woman dictated the flow of business.

Seated at his elbow, Hasim Akbar, his Minister for Oil Exports, cleared his throat respectfully. ‘Perhaps I should walk around the room, Your Excellency. See if the Tyndall girl has arrived yet.’

‘She hasn’t arrived.’ Tariq spoke in a lazy drawl, his fluent, perfectly accented English the product of the most expensive education money could buy. ‘If she were here, I would know.’

Hasim tapped his fingers on the table, unable to conceal his mounting anxiety. ‘Then she is extremely late.’

Tariq gave a faint smile. ‘Of course she is extremely late. To be on time or even slightly late would be a wasted opportunity.’

He had no doubt that Farrah Tyndall was currently loitering in the wings somewhere, poised to make her entrance as dramatic as possible. After all, wasn’t socializing the entire focus of her shallow, pampered existence? Having spent all day with her hairdresser and her stylist, she would be more than ready to display the fruits of their labour. Living up to her mother’s reputation. Farrah Tyndall was just like every other woman he’d ever had dealings with. She cared about nothing more important than shoes, hair and the state of her nails.

‘It is getting late. Maybe she’s here somewhere,’ Hasim suggested nervously, ‘but we just haven’t noticed her.’

‘Clearly you’ve never seen a picture of Farrah Tyndall.’ Tariq turned his head, a slightly cynical inflection to his tone as he surveyed the man next to him. ‘If you had, then you would know that being noticed is the one thing she does really, really well.’

‘She is beautiful?’

‘Sublime.’ Tariq’s gaze slid back to the head of the staircase. ‘Farrah Tyndall can light up a room with one smile from her perfectly painted mouth. If she were already here then the men in the room would be glued to the spot and staring.’

As he had stared on that first day, standing on the beach at the desert camp of Nazaar.

Her beauty was enough to blind a man. Enough to blind him to her truly shallow nature.

But it wasn’t her beauty or her personality that interested him now. For the past few months his staff had been dis-creetly buying every available share in the Tyndall Pipeline Corporation. Control was finally within his reach. All he needed to take over the company and guarantee the pipeline project was a further twenty per cent.

And Farrah Tyndall owned twenty per cent.

Hasim was breathing rapidly. ‘I still think this plan is impossible.’

Tariq gave a slow smile, totally unperturbed. ‘The challenge and stimulation of business comes from making the impossible possible,’ he observed, his long fingers toying idly with the stem of his glass, ‘and to find a solution where there appears to be none.’

‘But if you carry out your plan then you will have to marry her—’

Confronted by that unpalatable truth, Tariq’s fingers tightened on the glass. Despite his outward display of indifference, his internal reaction to the prospect of marriage bordered on the allergic. ‘Only in the short term,’ he drawled and Hasim’s expression transformed from mild concern to one of extreme anxiety.

‘You are seriously considering invoking the ancient law that allows you to divorce after forty days and forty nights?’

‘Everything my wife owns, and I do mean everything,’ Tariq inserted with silken emphasis, ‘becomes mine on marriage. I want those shares but I have no wish to stay married.’

The plan was perfect. Masterly.

Hasim fiddled nervously with the cloth of his suit. ‘To the best of my knowledge, that particular divorce law has not been applied for centuries.’

‘And most people have forgotten its existence, which is clearly to our advantage.’

‘It is an insult to a bride and her family, Your Excellency.’ Hasim’s voice was hoarse and Tariq lifted an ebony brow.

‘How is it possible to insult a woman who thinks only of partying and possessions?’ His tone was sardonic. ‘If you’re expecting me to feel sorry for Farrah Tyndall then you’re wasting your time.’

‘But what if she doesn’t come tonight? Everything depends on the girl.’ The Minister shifted on his chair, beads of sweat standing out on his brow as the prolonged wait started to affect his nerves.

By contrast Tariq, who had nerves of steel and had never doubted his own abilities, sat relaxed and confident, his gaze still focused on the sweep of stairs that led down into the ballroom. ‘She will come. Her father is patron of this charity and she’s never been one to miss a good party. You can safely leave the girl to me, Hasim.’

And even as he said the words she appeared at the top of the staircase.

Poised like a princess, her golden hair piled high on her head in a style no doubt selected in order to display her long slender neck to greatest advantage, the dress a sheath of glittering gold falling from neck to ankles and hugging a body that was nothing short of female perfection.

Clearly he’d been right in his assumption that she’d spent the entire afternoon at the hairdresser and with her stylist, Tariq thought with cold objectivity, his expert gaze sliding slowly down her body.

Which meant that her priorities hadn’t changed at all in the five years since they’d last met.

But there were changes, he noticed, as he watched the way she drifted down the stairs with the effortless grace of a dancer. She carried herself differently. No longer the leggy teenager who had appeared slightly awkward and self-conscious, she’d developed poise and sophistication. She’d grown into her stunning looks.

The girl he’d once known had become a woman.

Although he was careful to betray nothing, he felt everything inside him tighten in a vicious attack of lust. Desire, hot and fierce, gripped his lean, athletic frame and, for a moment, he was sorely tempted to drag her from the ballroom and make use of the nearest available flat surface.

Which just went to prove, he thought grimly, that the male libido was no judge of character and completely disconnected from the brain.

Irritated by the violence of his own response to her, he watched in brooding silence as she weaved between tables, pausing occasionally to meet and greet. Her smile was an intriguing mix of allure and innocence and she used it well, captivating her male audience with the gentle curve of her lips and the teasing flash of her eyes.

She was an accomplished flirt. A woman of exceptional beauty who knew exactly how to use the gifts that nature had bestowed upon her to best advantage. And she used each gift to its full as she worked the room, shining brighter than any star as she moved towards her table with a group of friends.

Her table was next to his. He knew that because his instructions to his staff had been quite specific and, like a jungle cat lying in wait for its prey, Tariq remained still, poised for her to notice him.

The tension inside him rose and anticipation thrummed in his veins.

Any moment now…

She exchanged a few words with a passing male, who laughed and kissed her hand. Then she dropped her tiny bag on the table and turned, the smile still on her lips.

And saw him.

The colour drained from her beautiful face and the bright smile died instantly like a vibrant flame doused by cold water.

Something vulnerable flared in the depths of her amazing green eyes and, for a brief moment, the woman vanished and he saw the girl again.

She looked like someone who had sustained a severe shock and then she dragged her gaze away from his, closed her fingers over the back of the chair to steady herself and took several deep breaths.

Observing the effect his presence had on her with arrogant masculine satisfaction, Tariq reflected on the fact that his task was going to be every bit as easy as he’d imagined it would be.

Simple.

He watched as she straightened her narrow shoulders and let her hands fall from the chair that she’d used for support. Her eyes blank of expression, she looked at him, inclined her head gracefully in his direction and then turned back to her friends, nothing in her demeanour suggesting that he was anything other than the most casual of acquaintances.

Playing it cool.

His gaze lingered on the soft swell of her breasts and he reflected that, although he had a personal rule of never mixing business with pleasure, he had no objection to indulging in pleasure once the business was over. And, although his marriage to the Tyndall heiress was business, the wedding night would most definitely be his pleasure.

Forty days and forty nights of pleasure, to be exact. With a clear mental vision of how he intended to pass his limited time as a married man, Tariq gave a slow smile of anticipation.

It appeared as though this business deal would not be anything like the arduous task that he’d initially imagined.

Marriage had suddenly taken on an appeal that had previously escaped him.

She had to get away.

Farrah stood in a dark corner of the terrace overlooking the manicured grounds. The rain had long since stopped and the August night was warm and muggy, but she was shivering like a whippet. She ran her hands up and down her arms in an attempt to warm herself but it made no difference. The chill was deep inside her. If there had been any way of leaving without her absence being noted she would have done so because to stay in the same room as Tariq bin Omar al-Sharma was nothing short of agony.

She hadn’t even known he was in the country.

Had she known, she would have stayed at home, she would have gone abroad, she would have dug a hole and hidden—anything other than risk finding herself face to face with him. Especially with no warning. No chance to prepare herself mentally for the anguish of seeing him again.

One glance from those exotic dark eyes and she’d turned into a schoolgirl again. An awkward, wide-eyed, besotted teenager, weighed down by more insecurities than she could count.

She hadn’t been good enough for him.

He’d taken her fragile, fledgling self-confidence and ground it into the dust. Misery and humiliation mingled inside her and she wanted to curl up in a dark corner and hide herself away until she was sure he’d flown back to Tazkash.

People always said that you could leave your past behind, but what were you supposed to do when your past had his own fleet of private planes and could follow you anywhere?

Dinner had proved a long drawn out ordeal, an exercise in restraint and endurance, as she’d talked and laughed in a determined attempt not to reveal her distress to her companions. And all the time she’d been aware of him.

Fate had seated her with her back to him and yet it had made no difference. She’d been able to feel the power of his presence. Feel his dark gaze burning into her back. And in the end, unable to sit a moment longer, she’d made her excuses and slipped outside.

It was odd, she thought dully, that however much you changed yourself on the outside, the inside stayed the same. No matter how glossy the outside, inside lay all the old insecurities. Inside she was still the same gawky, awkward, overweight girl who didn’t look right, wasn’t interested in the right things and was a massive disappointment to her glamorous mother.

Memories of her mother intensified her misery and she lifted a shaking hand to her throbbing head. It had been six years since her mother’s death, but the desperate desire to please, to make her mother proud, still lingered. She felt herself unravelling and suddenly she knew how Cinderella must have felt as the clock struck midnight. If she didn’t escape then all would be revealed. People might catch a glimpse of the real Farrah Tyndall and she owed it to her mother’s memory not to let that happen. She needed to go home, where she could be herself, without witnesses.

She heard laughter from the ballroom and then footsteps, a purposeful masculine tread, and she stiffened her shoulders, trying to make clear from her body language that she sought neither company nor conversation.

‘It’s unlike you to miss a party, Farrah.’

His voice came from behind her, deep, silky and unmistakably male, and everything in her tensed in response.

Once she’d loved his voice. She’d found his smooth, mellifluous tones both exotic and seductive.

She’d found everything about him exotic and seductive.

They called him the Desert Prince and the name had stuck, despite the fact that he’d been the ruler of Tazkash for the past four years and was now Sultan. And, Prince or Sultan, Tariq bin Omar al-Sharma was a brilliant businessman. Fearless and aggressive, as Crown Prince he’d transformed the fortunes of a small, insignificant state and turned Tazkash into a major player in the world markets. As Sultan he’d earned the respect of politicians and business institutions.

He spoke and people listened.

Now the sound of his voice transported her to the very edge of a panic attack.

Part of her wanted to ignore him, wanted to deny him the satisfaction of knowing that she even remembered him, and part of her wanted to turn and hurt him. Hurt him as much as he had hurt her with his cruel rejection.

Fortunately she’d been taught that it was best never to reveal one’s true feelings and her tutor in that lesson had been Tariq himself. He was a man who revealed nothing. She was ruled by her emotions and he was ruled by his mind.

She’d shown. He’d mocked. She’d learned.

Remembering the harsh lesson, she turned slowly, determined to behave as if his presence meant nothing more than an unwarranted disturbance. They were as different as it was possible for two people to be. And he’d made it painfully clear that she didn’t belong in his world.

‘Your Highness.’ Her voice was stiff and ferociously polite and she was careful not to look directly at him. To look into those eyes was to risk falling and she had no intention of falling. A glance behind him told her that they were alone on the terrace although she saw a bulky shadow in the doorway, which she took to be that of a bodyguard. They were never far from him, a constant reminder of his wealth and importance. ‘I find it warm in the ballroom.’

‘And yet you are shivering.’ With an economy of movement that was so much a part of the man, he stepped closer and panic shot through her.

Her throat dried and her fingers tightened around her jewelled evening bag, although why, she had no idea. The richest, most eligible man in the world was hardly likely to be planning to steal her possessions. And anyway, she thought dully, he’d already stolen the only part of herself she’d ever valued. Her heart.

Determined to send him on his way, she glanced up and immediately regretted the impulse.

His shockingly handsome face was both familiar and alien. When she’d known him, at the beginning at least, she’d always seen humour and warmth behind the cool exterior that he chose to present to the world. It hadn’t taken her long to realise that she’d seen what she wanted to see. Looking at him now, she saw nothing that wasn’t tough and hard.

‘Let’s not play games, Your Excellency.’ She was proud of herself for keeping her voice steady. For behaving with restraint. ‘We find ourselves at the same event and that is an unhappy coincidence for both of us, but that certainly doesn’t mean we have to spend time together. We have no need to pretend a friendship that we both know does not exist.’

He looked spectacular in a formal dinner jacket, she thought absently. As spectacular as he did dressed in more traditional robes. And she knew him to be equally comfortable in either. Tariq moved between cultures with the ease and confidence that others less skilled and adaptable could only envy.

He was totally out of her league and the fact that she’d once believed that they could have a future together was a humiliating reminder of just how naïve and foolish she’d been.

An expensive dress and a slick hairstyle didn’t make her wife material as he’d once cruelly pointed out.

Tariq had never met her mother, which was a shame, she thought miserably, because they would have had plenty in common, most notably the belief that she didn’t fit into the glittering society they both frequented.

It didn’t matter, she told herself firmly as she felt a sudden rush of insecurity. She had her own life now and it was a life that she loved. A life that suited her. She’d learned to do the glossy stuff because it was expected of her, but that was only a small part of her existence.

And it wasn’t the part she cared about. Wasn’t the part that she considered important.

But that was something she had no intention of sharing with Tariq. Her brief relationship with him had taught her that being open and honest just led to pain and anguish. And she’d learned to protect herself.

Music poured through the open doors, indicating that the dancing had begun. Farrah knew that in half an hour the fashion show would be starting. The fashion show in which she’d been persuaded to take part. But how could she? How could she walk down that catwalk, knowing that he was in the audience?

She’d call Henry, the family chauffeur. Ask him to come and get her.

The best way to protect herself right now was to leave.

Having planned her escape, she made to step past him but he caught her arm, long strong fingers closing over her bare flesh in a silent command.

‘This conversation is not finished. I have not given you permission to leave.’

She almost laughed. For Tariq, the use of power was second nature. He’d been born to command and did so readily. At the tender age of eighteen she’d been dazzled by that power. Hypnotized by his particular brand of potent sexuality. Mesmerized by the man.

Even now, with his hard masculine body blocking her escape, she felt the hot, hot sizzle of excitement flare inside her. And ignored it.

‘I don’t need your permission, Tariq.’ Her eyes flashed a challenge and anger rose inside her. Anger at herself for responding to a man who had hurt her. ‘I live my life the way I choose to live it and fortunately it no longer includes you. This was a chance meeting which we’d both do well to forget.’

And she was going to forget it, she vowed dizzily, as she struggled to control the throb of her heart and the slow, delicious curl of awareness in her stomach.

These feelings weren’t real. They weren’t what mattered.

‘Do you really think that our meeting tonight has anything to do with chance?’ He was standing so close to her that she could feel the heat of his body burning through the shimmering fabric of her gold dress and, even as she fought against it, she felt her limbs weaken in an instinctive feminine response to his blatant masculinity. Even though she was wearing impossibly high heels, his height and the width of his shoulders ensured that he dominated her physically. Being this close was both torment and temptation and she felt a helpless rush of wild excitement that she was powerless to quash. And she knew, from the sudden harshness of his breathing, that he was feeling it too.

It had always been that way between them.

From that first day at the beach.

From their first kiss at the Caves of Zatua, deep in the desert.

It was the reason why she’d made such a total fool of herself. She’d been blinded by a physical attraction so powerful and shattering that it transcended common sense and cultural differences.

For a moment she stood, frozen into stillness by the strength of his presence. There was something intensely sexual about him. Something raw and untamed. Something primitively male. She’d sensed it from the first moment of meeting him and she felt it again now as she stood, trapped by her own uncontrollable response to him. Her nipples hardened and thrust against the fabric of her dress and something dark and dangerous uncurled low in her stomach and spread through her body.

And then sounds of laughter from the ballroom broke the sensual spell that had stifled her ability to think and move.

With a flash of mortification, she stepped away from him and reminded herself of the lessons she’d learned in the wild desert land of Tazkash. She’d learned that a deep enduring love combined with wild, ferocious, untamed passion wasn’t always enough.

She’d learned that he was ruthless and cynical and that their personalities and expectations just didn’t match.

‘You expect me to believe that you engineered this?’ She threw her head back and laughed. ‘Tariq, you were at such pains to be rid of me five years ago that I know that cannot possibly be true. I was unsuitable, remember? You were ashamed of me.’

Just as her mother had been ashamed of her.

‘You were young.’ His tone was cool. ‘I’ve watched you with interest over the years.’

Her eyes widened in shock. ‘Watched me?’

‘Of course.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘You’re rarely out of the press. Designers fight to have you wear their clothes on the red carpet. If you wear a dress, then it sells.’

And how sad was that? Farrah mused, producing a false smile designed to indicate that such an ‘accolade’ mattered to her. In truth, the thought that people regarded her—her—as a fashion icon was as ridiculous as it was laughable. Almost as laughable as the idea that Tariq had noticed and cared.

He was a man who negotiated peace settlements and billion dollar oil deals. It was hard to believe that he could be genuinely interested in something as superficial as the contents of her wardrobe, but she’d long since resigned herself to the fact that her priorities seemed to be different from those of almost everyone else on the planet. She cared about different things.

But, thanks to her mother, she’d learned to stay quiet about her real interests. Had learned to play the game she was expected to play and she played it now, lifting her chin, hiding behind the image she’d created for herself. She watched his eyes narrow as he studied her expression.

‘You’ve developed poise, Farrah. And elegance.’

And duplicity. She was the master of pretence. Concealing her frustration behind another smile, she wondered why it was that everyone was so obsessed with how she looked on the outside. Didn’t anyone care about the person behind the glitter? Wasn’t anyone interested in who she really was?

Memories, painful and hurtful, twisted inside her.

For a short blissful time she’d thought Tariq was interested. She’d thought he cared. But she’d been wrong.

And his rejection had been the final spur for her to reinvent herself. To finally become the woman her mother had always wanted her to be. At least for part of the time. For the rest of the time she led an entirely different life. The life she wanted to lead. A life that few knew about.

A life she had absolutely no intention of sharing with Tariq.

‘I’m glad you approve,’ she said smoothly, stepping aside so that she could walk past him. ‘And now I need to go and—’

‘You’re not going anywhere.’ Without hesitation, he caught her round the waist and jerked her towards him. She lifted a hand in an instinctive gesture of defense, but it was too late. Her body had felt the hard brush of his thighs and responded instantly.

She shook her head to clear the clouds of dizziness and sucked in a lungful of air but even that was a mistake because the air contained the delicious, erotic scent of him and the clouds around her brain just grew denser.

Struggling to find the control that she was so proud of, she held herself rigid in his arms. ‘Why would you suddenly seek me out? I can hardly believe you find yourself short of female company.’

‘I’m not short of female company.’

His cool statement shouldn’t have caused pain but it did and she dragged her eyes away from her involuntary study of his dark jaw.

‘Then go and concentrate your attentions on someone who’s interested,’ she suggested, squashing down memories of past humiliation. ‘I’m not. And I want you to let me go.’

The tension between them was overwhelming. ‘If you’re not interested,’ he said silkily, ‘why is your heart pounding against mine?’

Farrah decided that if there was anything worse than feeling this way, it was knowing that he was aware of her reaction. ‘I don’t like being held against my will,’ she said frostily, a flash of anger in her eyes as she looked at him. ‘And I don’t like the way you use power and control to get your own way. I don’t respond to bullying.’

‘You think I’m bullying you?’ His tone was lethally soft, his mouth only a breath away from hers. ‘That’s strange, because I let go of you the moment you requested that I do so, but you haven’t moved an inch, Farrah. Your body is still against mine. Why is that? I wonder.’

She gave a soft gasp and stepped back, realising that he was telling the truth. He was no longer holding her.

‘I think what holds us together is sexual chemistry,’ he murmured, a self-satisfied look in his eyes as he lifted a hand to her flushed cheek, ‘the way it always did. Which proves I was right to seek you out.’

From somewhere, she found her voice. ‘Why would you do that? What possible reason could you have for seeking me out?’

A man like Tariq did nothing on impulse. His schedule was punishing. Every moment of his day was planned in minute detail. Even when they’d been together, she’d had problems getting to see him. It was extremely unlikely that he would have been at an event like this without a purpose.

Was she that purpose? And if so, why? What did she have that he could possibly want?

There was a brief silence while he studied her beneath distractingly thick dark lashes. ‘Five years is a long time. You were young and impulsive. You had no knowledge of my country or culture. It was, perhaps, inevitable that there would be problems between us. Misunderstandings.’

The injustice of his remarks stung her and her spine stiffened.

She’d been young, yes. A few weeks past her eighteenth birthday. Impulsive? Probably. But she’d also been ruthlessly manipulated by those around him, those who professed to be close to him. She’d been well and truly flattened by palace politics.

‘I don’t want to talk about the past and I’m not interested in your opinion, Tariq.’ Her voice was flat. ‘It was a long time ago and we’ve both moved on.’

‘I don’t think so.’ His eyes, dark as night, slid down her slender frame and he reached out and lifted her right hand. ‘You still wear my ring.’

The ring.

With something approaching horror her gaze slid to the sparkling dramatic stone. The ring had been the embodiment of all her girlish dreams and even when their relationship had fallen apart she hadn’t been able to bring herself to take it off.

Cursing herself for being so sentimental, she snatched her hand away from his. The ring was exquisitely beautiful. A diamond so rare and perfect that she’d fallen in love with it on sight. As she had with the man who had given it to her. ‘Actually, Tariq, I wear it to remind me that men bearing extravagant gifts are not to be trusted.’

An indulgent smile spread across his bronzed features. ‘Fool yourself if you wish, laeela, but not me. Strong feelings are not so easily extinguished. There are some things that remain unaffected by the passage of time.’

Like pain, she thought dully.

‘Just go, Tariq.’ Her heart was beating frantically and the shivering started up again. ‘If you want closure for what happened between us, then you have it. But go, and leave me alone to live my life.’ She was fine, she told herself firmly. Really, she was absolutely fine.

‘Closure. Such an American word.’ He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You should not walk around in the night air, half undressed. You will catch a chill.’

Before she could anticipate his intention, he shrugged his shoulders out of his jacket and draped it around her bare shoulders.

Once again she was enveloped by the familiar masculine scent and her senses swam.

He leaned closer to her, his breath warm on her cheek. ‘I did not come here to seek closure, Farrah. That is not the reason that I’m here tonight.’ His voice was a soft, seductive purr and she flattened herself against the cold, hard stone of the balcony that skirted the terrace.

‘Then why are you here? Can we get to the point so that I can go back into the ballroom?’ He was standing too close to her. She felt stifled. Suffocated. And she didn’t want to wear the jacket. It was too intimate. Too much a part of him.

But, before she could remove it, he closed in on her, the width of his shoulders ensuring that he was the focus of her gaze. She could no longer see the ballroom or the bodyguard. She could no longer see the terrace. All she could see was glittering dark eyes and a hard, sensual mouth that knew how to drive a woman to distraction. And she’d forgotten about the jacket.

‘Tariq—’His name was a plea on her lips and his own mouth curved slightly in acknowledgment of that plea. He could see everything, she thought desperately. He knew everything. Her thoughts. Her feelings. The strange buzz in her body. He had access to all of it.

‘As I said, there are some things that the passage of time doesn’t change. It is still there between us,’ he said softly, lifting a hand and brushing her cheek gently with his fingers. ‘That is good.’

His touch made her nerve endings tingle and her mind flickered to the rumours that abounded. It was said that there was nothing that Tariq al-Sharma didn’t know about women. That he was a skilful lover. The best.

She’d never been given the opportunity to find out.

‘There is nothing between us.’ From somewhere deep inside her, she found her voice. ‘You killed it, Tariq.’

His smile hovered somewhere between self satisfied and amused. ‘Denial is useless when the body speaks so clearly.’

‘You want my body to speak clearly? Fine.’ Goaded by the expression on his face, she lifted a hand and slapped him hard across the cheek. From the darkness of the terrace bodyguards surged forward but Tariq halted their progress with a smooth lift of his hand, his eyes locked on hers in incredulous disbelief.

‘You believe in living dangerously, laeela. But I forgive your reaction because I understand the depth of feeling that inspired such a move on your part.’ The brief flare of anger in his dark eyes subsided, to be replaced by something slumbrous and infinitely more dangerous. ‘There was always heat between us. And, despite what you may think, I don’t want a meek, submissive wife.’

Coming to terms with the realization that not only had she just hit someone for the first time her life but she’d chosen to be violent with someone who could probably have her arrested, Farrah looked at him blankly, mortified that she’d lost control and shocked by her own uncharacteristic behaviour. ‘Wife? You have a wife now?’

The possibility that he’d married someone in the five years since they’d met hadn’t entered her head, but of course he would have married. Even a man as commitment phobic as Tariq couldn’t avoid it for ever. It was his duty. Had she not recognized the pressures on him right from the start? Someone suitable and approved of by his wretched, interfering family. Why should she care? Why would it matter to her? She should pity the girl in question.

‘I don’t have a wife yet.’ His tone was silky smooth. ‘But you have led the conversation round to the reason for me being here this evening.’

‘You’re looking for a wife?’ Her tone was faintly sarcastic. ‘Then step back into the ballroom, Tariq. I’m sure they’ll be queuing up.’

‘They probably would be—’ he gave a dismissive shrug ‘—but there’s no need for me to look because the woman I intend to marry is standing in front of me.’ He inclined his dark head and his mouth hovered close to hers. ‘I’ve decided that I want you as my wife, Farrah. I have decided to marry you.’

CHAPTER TWO

FARRAH stood in shocked silence.

I want you as my wife…I have decided to marry you.

His words spun round and round in her head and when she finally spoke her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘Is this some sort of sick joke?’

Once, to marry him had been her dream. And he knew it. Was he taunting her with her naïvety?

‘As you well know, I have never found the prospect of marriage even remotely amusing.’ Ebony brows locked in a frown. ‘Why would you accuse me of joking?’

‘Because you can’t possibly be serious? We’ve had no contact for five years! And on the last occasion we were together—which, by the way, was when you told me that you could never marry a woman like me—’ she supplied helpfully, ‘you informed me that I was perfect mistress material but nothing else!’

Just saying the words aloud started her shivering again. You thought you’d recovered from something, she thought to herself as she tried to control her reaction, and then you realized that it had been there all along. Buried. Waiting to be uncovered.

People who said that time healed were lying. You made adjustments. You learned to live with things that you couldn’t change. But that didn’t mean that healing had taken place.

‘Actually, I was wrong. Five years ago you were too young and innocent to be perfect mistress material.’ Tariq studied her thoughtfully and he lifted a hand to touch her flushed cheek. ‘The perfect mistress should be sexually experienced and emotionally detached. You were neither.’

The colour in her cheeks deepened and she pulled away from him. ‘I’m not interested in your definition of the perfect mistress. It was a role I rejected, if you remember.’

He gave a slow smile. ‘Oh, I remember. You were holding out for a much larger prize.’

‘I made the mistake of thinking that our relationship meant something.’

‘It did. We were good together,’ he said smoothly. ‘And, had you come to my bed, you would have experienced the true meaning of the word “pleasure.”’

Her body heated with an explosive flash and she dragged her eyes away from the knowing gleam in his. ‘Had I come to your bed, I would have been a total idiot and would have discovered the true meaning of the word “regret.”’

He inhaled sharply. ‘I made you an extremely generous offer.’

‘Generous offer? Sorry, but I don’t see what’s generous about inviting someone to have sex with you.’ She’d loved him, for goodness’ sake. Passionately. Deeply. To the exclusion of all others. She’d believed he’d loved her. ‘You’re supposed to have a brilliant brain and a razor-sharp intellect but you know absolutely nothing about relationships or human emotions!’

‘Being my “mistress” as you so quaintly call it, would have come with significant perks.’

‘So basically you were offering me money in exchange for sex.’ Her voice was filled with derision. ‘There’s a word for that, Tariq, and it isn’t nice.’

His proud head lifted and the flash of his eyes was a reminder that he wasn’t accustomed to being challenged. ‘A marriage was not possible between us at that time.’

‘But now it is?’ She couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice but he didn’t react.

‘Five years is a long time. You were very young. Much can be forgiven.’

‘Maybe. But I’m not the one that needs forgiving here.’ She was guilty of nothing more than being gullible and the injustice of the situation stung her deeply. She forgot he was the ruling Sultan of an oil rich state and one of the most eligible and influential men in the world. To Farrah, Tariq al-Sharma was just the man who had hurt her. She saw no further than that. Cared nothing for appearances or protocol. ‘You were utterly ruthless, Tariq. When I refused your “generous offer”, my father and I were forced to leave the country.’

His expression revealed nothing. ‘In the circumstances, it was not appropriate for you to stay.’

She thought of the desert and the beaches. She thought of the golden temples and the dusty streets. She thought of the mysteries of the souk and she thought of those precious early morning walks on the beach, warmed by the hot, hot sun. She thought of the Caves of Zatua and the legend of Nadia and her Sultan. ‘For a short time it was my home. I loved it. Leaving was hard.’

But not as hard as it had been to leave Tariq.

She’d felt as though a huge part of her had been left behind in the desert. The only part of her that mattered. She’d believed that he loved her and the discovery that his feelings had been no more than sexual had shattered her fragile self-confidence.

‘If you truly loved my country then you will be only too happy to return.’

‘I will never return.’ For her, Tazkash was a place that would always be linked with him. A place where there were too many painful memories. ‘You’re being ridiculous and I refuse even to have this conversation with you. I’m not one of your subjects or even one of your adoring women.’ And there were plenty of those, she thought grimly. Women prepared to do just about anything to gain his attention.

‘Once, Farrah Tyndall,’ he said softly, the pad of his thumb brushing over the fullness of her lower lip, ‘once, you begged me to marry you. You couldn’t wait to climb into my bed. It was I who slowed the pace because you were so young. Once, you adored me.’

Her heart was thumping with rhythmic force against her chest. She didn’t want to be reminded of just how open and honest she’d been with him about her feelings. Most women played it cool. At the age of eighteen, in love with a staggeringly sexy man, she hadn’t understood the meaning of the word. How he must have laughed at her. ‘That was before I discovered that princes work better in fairy tales. Before I discovered what a cold, unfeeling bastard you are.’

His head jerked back and his dark eyes narrowed in a warning. ‘Be careful. I have always allowed you more leeway than most but no one speaks to me in such a way—’

‘Which just goes to show what an unsuitable wife I would make. I thought you’d already made that discovery for yourself but it’s good to remind you of that fact.’ She shrugged her bare shoulders out of his jacket and handed it back to him. ‘Thanks, but I don’t need this. I prefer to go inside to warm up.’

He couldn’t be serious about marrying her. Why would he be? She didn’t understand what game he was playing, but she knew she didn’t want to be a part of it.

Something flickered in his eyes. Something dangerous. ‘You will come with me. Now.’ It was an unmistakable command and she gave a slight shiver of reaction.

No one argued with Tariq—she should have remembered that. His authority was absolute. Once, his status alone had been sufficient to render her tongue-tied, but not any more. She’d had plenty of time to reflect on what had happened between them. And she’d grown up.

‘Why would I want to go anywhere with you?’ She forced herself to speak lightly. Forced herself not to betray the effect he had on her. ‘So that you can show me the way to paradise? I’ve been there once before, Tariq, and I think I must have taken a wrong turning because, frankly, it wasn’t up to much. Excuse me, I’m going back inside.’

Long bronzed fingers caught her wrist in a steely grip. ‘I wish to talk to you properly. In private.’

‘But I don’t wish to talk to you in private, or in public, come to that. Five minutes in your company has been enough to convince me that you haven’t changed one bit so take my advice and quit while you’re only slightly behind.’

His glance reflected barely contained frustration. ‘You will come with me.’

‘Why? Because you order it? I don’t wish to go anywhere with you so what are you going to do? Kidnap me?’

His dark eyes were suddenly veiled. ‘I hardly think such extreme measures will be required.’

She risked a glance at him and realized with a jolt that he was deadly serious. He wanted her. Why? She wondered desperately. Because she’d finally managed to reinvent herself? Because, on the surface at least, she’d turned into the woman her mother had always wanted her to be? ‘Do you really think I’m going to walk back into your arms?’

‘If you’re honest about your feelings, then yes. It’s still there. Farrah—’ he used his superior strength to hold her fast when she would have run ‘—you can feel it and so can I. And I’m offering you what you’ve always wanted. Don’t let a childish tantrum deprive you of your dream.’

Her heart thundered against her chest. ‘Even for a sultan, you are insufferably arrogant,’ she gasped, trying to ignore the tiny shockwaves that gripped her body. ‘And any dreams I might have had about you ended five years ago. You had your chance with me, Tariq, and you blew it. End of story.’

Far from being disconcerted, his eyes gleamed and she remembered too late that Tariq thrived on challenge. He was a man who hunted for obstacles just so that he could smash them down and prove his superiority.

‘I am willing to play this your way for a while, Farrah, while you get used to the idea that we are going to be together again. But as my future wife you must abide by a certain code of behaviour. I understand you are to take part in the charity fashion show imminently.’

Farrah stared at him blankly. The fashion show? She’d forgotten all about the fashion show. The only thing on her mind since he’d walked on to the terrace had been escape. From him and from her jumbled feelings. His reminder of her commitment to the charity made her heart drop. She wasn’t at all sure she could make it through another couple of hours, especially not in such a public way. Everyone would be looking at her. Including Tariq.

She opened her mouth to tell him that she was going to make her excuses but his eyes flashed dark and menacing, his ebony brows drawn together in a disapproving frown.

‘I forbid you to take part.’

‘You forbid—?’ The word made her temper simmer and suddenly she struck on a foolproof way of removing him from her life again. After all, wasn’t her ‘inappropriate behaviour’ one of the main reasons he’d cited for being unable to marry her? ‘You don’t want me to be in the fashion show, Tariq?’ Suddenly she realized that appearing in the fashion show would be the perfect way of guaranteeing his rapid exit from her life.

‘As my future wife, it would not be appropriate.’

‘Good, that settles it, then,’ she said sweetly as she twisted her arm free of his grip, ‘because I intend to do the fashion show. So perhaps you’d better look elsewhere for the wife you so desperately need, Your Excellency.’

He inhaled sharply, disbelief flickering in his dark eyes. ‘You persist in this ridiculous pretence that you’re not interested. Do you understand what it is that I am proposing?’

‘Proposing?’ She tilted her head and her eyes sparkled with anger. ‘Sorry, I didn’t actually hear a proposal. I heard you ordering and forbidding and doing all the things that you’re really, really good at. You’re going to have to go and find someone else to command, Tariq, because I’m not interested.’

Without giving him a chance to respond, she walked past his bodyguards, back through the ballroom and into the room where they were frantically preparing for the fashion show. Her heart was thumping, her hands felt clammy and she felt physically sick as she joined the other girls who were modelling that evening.

His wife?

Why would he say such a thing?

Why on earth would he suddenly be talking about marrying her after five years of silence? What was going on? And why did her body still respond even though she knew what sort of man he was?

Like all addictive habits, she thought gloomily, you always wanted what was bad for you. And Tariq was extremely bad.

‘Farrah, thank goodness!’ Enzo Franconi, the famous Italian designer, embraced her with relief. ‘We thought you’d gone home and I have the most spectacular dress for you to wear tonight. I predict that you will shine, you will positively dazzle, you will—’

‘No dress.’ Farrah’s tone was grim as she slipped off her shoes and yanked the pins out of her hair. ‘Are you showing any swimwear, Enzo?’ Her hair fell smooth and sleek down her back while Enzo gaped in astonishment.

‘Of course. But you never model swimwear. Always you refuse to dress in anything so revealing.’

Farrah’s mind was on Tariq. On his proposal of marriage. He couldn’t have been serious. It didn’t make sense. ‘Well, tonight I’m not refusing. I’ll wear whatever you’ve got—but preferably the most shocking, daring thing in your collection.’

She didn’t understand what the Desert Prince was doing here tonight. But there was one thing that she did know for sure. If she wore something revealing on the catwalk he wouldn’t be bothering her again. A man as traditional and conservative as Tariq appreciated subtlety and dignity and she was determined to offer neither. She was going to drive him away by being as unsuitable as it was possible to be.

‘I do have something—’ Enzo waved a hand in a gesture as nervous as it was excited ‘—but you would never agree to wear it.’

‘I’m sure it will be absolutely perfect.’ Perfect to send Tariq as far away from her as possible. Once he had seen her making a display of herself in public he would march out of the room and she could get on with her life.

Enzo prowled around her, unable to believe his luck. ‘On you—’ he clapped his hands and an assistant came running to his side ‘—it will look sensational. I predict that men will faint.’

‘Well, let’s hope so,’ Farrah said flatly, allowing Enzo’s assistant to unzip her dress, ‘and let’s hope that one man in particular bangs his head hard when he hits the floor.’

‘Who?’ Enzo lifted a wisp of material in bright peacock blue from the rail next to him and then did a double take. ‘Is that mud on your leg?’

‘What?’ She glanced down and blushed. ‘Oh—sorry—’ she scrubbed it clean with her finger and Enzo gave a soft smile.

‘You have been helping those children in the riding school again—’

Farrah glanced around her nervously to see who might be listening. ‘We had a little girl with cerebral palsy today,’ she whispered. ‘You should have seen her face when we put her on the horse, Enzo.’ This man was her friend, she reminded herself, one of the few people who she could trust with the secret of her real life.

‘Marvellous, cara.’ Enzo sighed and shook his head as he watched her remove the final traces of mud. ‘But did you have to bring the stables into the ballroom?’

‘I was held up so I changed in the car.’ Farrah gave a dismissive shrug and Enzo looked at her through narrowed eyes.

‘So now tell me why you are suddenly wearing a swimming costume. It is about a man, obviously. You wish to make him jealous, no?’

‘Jealous?’ Staring at the costume on the hanger, she shook her head in disbelief, wondering how so little material actually attached itself to the body. ‘No, I don’t want to make him jealous. I want to make him run.’

She didn’t want him in her life a second time.

Enzo frowned. ‘Then take my advice and do not wear this costume. There is not a man alive who will run having seen you dressed in this. You will find yourself with the opposite problem.’

‘You don’t know this man. Give it to me.’ Farrah held out a hand. ‘I’ll get changed behind the curtain.’

‘Farrah, tesoro—’ Enzo’s tone was dry as he relinquished the garment ‘—if you need to get dressed behind a curtain, then that is not the costume for you.’

‘If it serves its purpose then it will be fine.’ Dressed only in her underwear, she walked in bare feet into the makeshift cubicle. ‘Oh, and Enzo, ask someone to find me spectacular shoes. High heels. Really high heels.’

Enzo’s eyes gleamed and he kissed the ends of his fingers in a gesture of approval. ‘Almost, I feel sorry for this man.’

‘I don’t need you to feel sorry for him. I just need you to make me look shocking. I need to be unsuitable wife material.’ She jerked the curtain across and her courage faltered. What the hell was she doing? Adrenaline surged through her body, fuelling her determination to go through with her plan. Before reason could take over and she could change her mind, she removed her underwear and wriggled into the costume. ‘Enzo? Are you out there? This thing doesn’t fit—’

The designer pulled back the curtain and sighed. ‘Not like that—’ He stepped forward and made several adjustments that had Farrah blushing. ‘Better. Much better. And now this—’He flung a transparent filmy wrap over her shoulders and she looked at it with a frown.

‘I don’t want to cover up.’

‘This covers nothing,’ Enzo said dryly, his hands tweaking and coaxing the fabric until he was satisfied. ‘It is designed to draw the eye. To tempt and tease.’ He narrowed his gaze, nodded with approval and then snapped his fingers towards his assistant who was hovering at a discreet distance. ‘Shoes?’

Farrah gave a wry smile as she slipped her feet into a pair of designer shoes with delicate straps and vertiginous heels. ‘This is all going to be wasted if I fall off the shoes, break my neck and give myself two black eyes in the process.’

‘Never.’ Enzo frowned and stood back as the hairdresser took over. ‘Leave it loose. Yes. Like that. She looks sensational. I predict that the costume will be this season’s big seller.’ He glanced at Farrah with a smile. ‘You wear heels that high all the time. You will not fall.’

Farrah thought of the muddy riding boots in the back of the family limousine. ‘Not all the time.’

Finally Enzo was satisfied and he stood back with a nod. ‘It is perfect. You are perfect, and totally wasted in this life of yours.’

They shared a secret smile and impulsively Farrah leaned forward to give her friend a hug. ‘You’ve helped me so much,’ she whispered. ‘You taught me how to dress, how to walk, how to—’

‘Enough—’ Enzo waved a hand to stop her but there was pleasure in his smile. ‘I had good material to work with. You could be a model, cara.’

‘No, thanks.’ Farrah walked towards the entrance where the other girls were lining up and Enzo caught her arm.

‘Not like that! You are walking as if you are angry and out for revenge and I taught you better than that! Your eyes spark and your mouth pouts. You look as though you’re going to kill someone, not seduce them.’

Farrah wondered what he’d say if he knew how close to the truth he was. She was angry. Angry and hurt.

‘This costume is about being a woman.’ Enzo gave her a slow smile. ‘Your eyes should say “look at me”, your mouth should say “kiss me” and your walk should say—’

‘Yes, all right,’ Farrah interrupted him quickly. ‘I think I get the message.’ She sucked in a deep breath and tried to calm herself.

After all, wasn’t that an even better way of displaying her anger to Tariq? For a man like him, displaying herself in such a public place would be enough to make him stalk towards the exit without a backward glance in her direction.

The music pulsed and she took her position near the entrance to the catwalk.

Tariq was in for a shock.

Still coming to terms with the fact that his first ever proposal of marriage had met with a decidedly unenthusiastic response, Tariq lounged in his seat in brooding silence, waiting for the fashion show to begin.

It was typical, he mused with growing tension, that she should refuse to turn down an opportunity to flaunt herself in public. It was one of the reasons that their relationship had floundered in the first place. He’d been able to see too much of the mother in the girl. The exact details of Sylvia Tyndall’s early death had been kept out of the press, but her incessant wild partying had supported the rumours that her death had been linked with drugs or alcohol or possibly a mixture of the two.

If anything, Farrah appeared to have grown even more like her mother over the years.

His long fingers drummed a slow, steady rhythm on the table as he pondered their encounter on the terrace.

All traces of the innocent girl he’d met on the beach had gone. But why should that surprise him? The young girl who’d captivated him so completely had been nothing more than an illusion. At that particular point in his life he’d been jaded and unsettled and he’d been ensnared by her fresh, unspoiled enthusiasm for life. He’d enjoyed her sense of humour and unguarded response to him. She’d appeared to be refreshingly unaware of her own breathtaking beauty. He’d found her to be modest and even a little shy. Uninterested in material things or in glamorous social gatherings.

But events had proved him wrong on so many counts.

Everything had changed from the moment they’d moved from the desert to his palace.

Gone had been the respectable mode of dress and the caring attitude. In its place a woman who’d appeared to care for nothing except her appearance. A woman who’d gone to enormous efforts to shock those around her. A woman who’d wanted to do nothing but party.

In a sense that had made her easier to deal with because he’d been dealing with women like her for almost all of his life. Women who played games. Women who traded beauty for other, more tangible, benefits, from extravagant gifts to an excellent marriage.

He skimmed a glance over the women who were now strutting down the catwalk, but only to ensure that none of them was Farrah.

He knew her well enough to realize that his request that she abandon the fashion show would be met by defiance but, even so, her entrance, made even more dramatic by the use of spotlights and pumping rock music, took him by surprise.

Her golden hair flowed long and loose over her shoulders and was the only thing that kept the dramatic swimming costume even vaguely decent.

There was a collective murmur of appreciation from the men in the room and by his side Hasim Akbar made a strangled sound. In contrast, Tariq sat still, the flicker of a muscle in his cheek the only indication of his soaring stress levels.

The music pounded in a hypnotic rhythm that was unashamedly sexual and she started to walk in time to the beat, her movements graceful and seductive. It shouldn’t have been possible to walk on the heels she was wearing but she made it look natural, as if she’d been born with high, slender spikes attached to her feet.

The swimsuit was cleverly cut to expose her long, long legs, her narrow waist and the tempting thrust of her breasts. A diaphanous wrap floated around her body, giving the illusion that she was walking through mist.

She was a vision of feminine perfection, every man’s fantasy, and Tariq felt sharp claws of lust drag through his loins.

A temporary marriage came with definite benefits, he conceded. Not only would he gain ownership of the shares that were crucial for the future of his country, but he would have Farrah Tyndall naked and at his disposal for forty days and forty nights. As newly-weds he could justifiably keep her trapped in his bed and then he would divorce her before she had the opportunity to embarrass him the way she was embarrassing him now.

On the opposite side of the catwalk a man half rose to his feet, a look of naked longing in his eyes.

Devoured by ever increasing tension, Tariq discovered a hitherto untapped possessive streak deep within himself.

She was inviting male attention, he thought grimly, and she was doing it to taunt him. It was clear to him that she was still sulking over his rejection five years previously.

He lounged in his chair, simmering with ever increasing anger as he watched what he perceived to be a deliberate attempt to provoke him.

But, instead of making him stride from the room, her intentionally provocative display merely served to reconcile him finally to the concept of marriage.

He was determined to make her his.

He should have done it five years ago, he mused in brooding silence, but instead he’d respected her innocence. He’d valued her purity. Had taken his time, the better to savour the moment when he would finally make her his.

Clearly his restraint had been wasted since she appeared to place no such value on herself.

She reached the end of the catwalk, dropped a hip in a pose deliberately designed to inflame and finally she directed her gaze in his direction. Green eyes locked on his in blatant challenge.

Try and stop me, her gaze said, and Tariq rose to his feet in a fluid movement, determined to do exactly that.

Anger roared inside him like a wild, untamed beast and he stepped onto the catwalk, ignoring the astonished scramble of his security team as they attempted to intercept him.

Without uttering a word, he swung her into his arms and strode out of the ballroom without glancing left or right. He was boiling and angry and he realized that he hadn’t known the true meaning of the word possessive until that moment.

‘Tariq—’ Her voice was a shocked breathless pant as she pushed at his shoulders. ‘What are you doing?’

Her words irritated him because they drew attention to the fact that for the first time in his life he’d acted without thought. He didn’t know what he was doing. His actions had nothing to do with reason and everything to do with some dark, primitive need to remove her from the line of sight of every man in the room. If it had been within his power, he would have removed her from their minds and fantasies too, but the man in him knew that it was already too late for that. She’d ensured herself a place in every erotic dream.

The thought made him tighten his grip in raw, naked jealousy and she wriggled.

‘Put me down!’

He was sorely tempted to do just that. Every part of him that mattered was in contact with smooth, warm female flesh—female flesh that squirmed in protest against certain vital parts of his body. Something dark and primitive broke loose and anger flared inside him.

Anger at her for deliberately provoking him.

Anger at himself for responding in such a predictable fashion.

Always, in her company, he found himself facing parts of himself that he didn’t want to acknowledge, Tariq thought with grim honesty.

‘You chose to invite attention, laeela—’ he tried to ignore the low, throbbing ache that threatened to test his legendary self-control ‘—and now you have it.’ He strode through the opulent foyer, through revolving doors and out to the street where his car awaited his return.

She weighed virtually nothing, he thought, as he all but thrust her into the car and delivered instructions to his driver in a clipped, angry tone.

‘Tariq, I’m not going with you—’

‘Be silent!’ Still seething, he shrugged out of his jacket for the second time that evening and dropped it into her lap. ‘Put this on.’

‘I don’t—’

‘Cover yourself!’ The ferocity of his tone shocked even him so he could hardly blame her for shrinking back in her seat. Her reaction shamed him because whatever his faults, he had never struck a woman and never would. He was a man who prided himself on his self-control and yet at that precise moment he wanted to kill someone. ‘You are barely dressed,’ he said flatly, turning his head so that he didn’t have to look at the confusion in her eyes. He didn’t want to feel sympathy. Didn’t want to feel anything. ‘When we reach my home, my staff will find you something more suitable to wear.’

Preferably something that covered every inch of her.

She glared at him. ‘You’re behaving like a caveman.’

‘If I were a caveman then I would have followed my baser instincts and stripped you naked in the ballroom when you all but begged me to do so,’ he said silkily, ‘and you would now be lying naked on one of those tables and your pleasure would be so great that you would be sobbing and begging for mercy.’

Her soft gasp of shock was at odds with her provocative appearance. ‘I would never beg you for anything,’ she said hoarsely, but her gaze held his for a fraction longer than necessary and his gaze hardened.

Experience told him that she was clearly not indifferent to him, no matter how much she would have liked that to be the case.

The attraction between them was as strong as ever and he was willing to overlook her less appealing traits in order to have her naked in his bed.

The marriage might be short lived, Tariq mused silently, but sexually it promised to be full-on and immensely satisfying.

‘I don’t want to go anywhere with you. Just drop me home, please.’ Her tone was flat but she slipped her arms into the jacket and closed it around her. She was so slender that it would have been possible to fit two of her inside but she was also tall and the jacket did nothing to conceal the tempting length of her legs. Clearly aware of that fact, she pressed her knees together and slid her legs closer to the seat.

Tariq gave a predatory smile. ‘It’s a little late for modesty, don’t you think?’ For some reason the sight of her bare, beautiful legs served to reignite the anger that he’d only just managed to subdue. ‘Charity balls have certainly taken an interesting turn since I was last in England. Is it suddenly a necessary requirement for the guests to reveal all?’

She didn’t glance in his direction. ‘It was all in a good cause.’

‘If you’re trying to persuade me that you really care about the charity then you’re wasting your time. We both know that you just seize on any excuse to dress up and flaunt yourself in public.’

Like mother like daughter.

‘That’s right.’ She turned her head towards him, her amazing green eyes glittering in the semi-darkness, her blond hair falling sleek and smooth over his jacket. ‘I spend all day lying in bed resting so that I have enough energy to get myself through another night of drink-fuelled partying. Isn’t that right, Tariq? Isn’t that the person I am?’

She looked so innocent, he mused as his eyes rested on the tempting curve of her soft mouth. Nothing like a woman who’d turned flirting into an art form or a woman who was only interested in expanding the contents of her already bulging wardrobe.

‘Don’t try and provoke me,’ he warned softly. ‘Next time you wish to support a cause then let me know and I will write them a large cheque. It will save you the bother of stripping off.’

‘I’ll do as I please.’ She lifted her chin and glared at him. ‘Life is all about money to you, isn’t it? All about power and influence. Well, I don’t need your money and your power doesn’t interest me. I don’t need anything at all from you. The way I act, the way I behave, is nothing to do with you. You don’t know me and you never did.’ The words were thrown at him with careless indifference but he sensed the growing tension in her, saw her amazing green eyes darken as something live and dangerous snapped taut between them.

The car sped through the night, smooth and silent, the darkness of the interior ensuring their privacy and increasing the intimacy.

Suddenly stifled by it, Tariq lifted a hand and tugged at his tie, opening the top two buttons of his shirt with a deft movement of his lean, strong fingers. She followed the movement with her gaze, caught his eye for a single tense moment and then looked away. The silken fall of her hair concealed her face but only after he’d seen the colour pour into her cheeks.

The atmosphere was pulled tight with a sexual tension so powerful that the air throbbed and hummed.

And he knew she felt it too because he saw the rapid movement of her slender throat as she swallowed, saw her fingers clutch his jacket around her like a shield. In a self-conscious gesture she tried to tuck her legs away but there was nowhere to put them. Nowhere to hide.

‘Stop looking at me, Tariq.’ Her hoarse plea brought a faint smile to his lips and dampened some of the anger inside him.

Her almost childish plea confirmed his belief that she was suffering as much as he was. Evidently she wasn’t as indifferent as she chose to appear.

‘That outfit is an invitation to a man to look. It was designed entirely for that purpose,’ he said smoothly, allowing his eyes to roam freely over her bare legs. ‘Presumably you knew that when you chose to wear it.’

Her knuckles whitened as she clenched her hands in her lap. ‘I wore it to annoy you!’

He gave a slow smile. ‘Then you don’t know much about men, laeela. In public, such an outfit would indeed annoy me but now we are in private my feelings are entirely different.’

‘I’m not interested in your feelings.’

‘No? We never found out, did we, laeela?’ He leaned towards her and gently brushed her hair away from her face, revealing her exquisite profile. ‘We never found out how we would be together. We dreamed and we danced around the edges of passion—those stolen meetings on the beach, kissing in the Caves of Zatua—all that foreplay—’ His gaze dropped to her lips and lingered there. ‘Five years. I have waited for five years to have that question answered.’

She turned her head then, her breathing rapid. ‘Then I hope you’re a patient man because you’re going to be waiting for the rest of your life and still you won’t find out. I’m not one of your toys, Tariq. I’m not yours to command. I’m not a fancy car you can buy or a jet you can fly. You can’t just decide to have me.’

‘Yes, I can. I have only to touch you and you will be mine.’ He wound a strand of hair around his finger. ‘And you want that every bit as much as I do.’

Her eyes stared into his, hypnotized. ‘Not true,’ she croaked. ‘I don’t want that. And your ego is sickening.’

‘A ruler with no confidence in himself does not inspire the loyalty and devotion of his people,’ he said huskily, moving his body closer to hers, ‘and we both know that my ego is not the problem here. Your feelings are the problem. Or rather, your insistence on denying them. Despite what you say to the contrary, you’re mentally undressing me and you’re wondering how our bodies will move together when we’re finally in bed. You’re wondering how it will feel when I’m inside you.’

He watched the movement of her slender throat as she swallowed, saw the flash of shock in her eyes, the hint of excitement in those green depths. ‘Stop it.’ Her voice was a tortured whisper. ‘I want you to stop it, now.’

His eyes gleamed dark with amusement. ‘Do you think I was unaware of your feelings? At eighteen your sexual curiosity was hard to conceal. You hadn’t learned to play games, laeela. Your eyes followed me everywhere and when I came near you, you felt an excitement so intense that you ceased to breathe.’

She blushed again. ‘You are so arrogant.’

‘I am honest.’ He sat back in his seat, more than satisfied with her response. ‘Which is more than you are. Five years ago I met the girl. Now I am eager to discover the woman. And this time we will not be flirting on the edge of passion, laeela, but plunging hard into its fiery depths.’

She really was astonishingly beautiful, he mused as he watched confusion flicker over her heart-shaped face as she registered his sexually explicit analogy. The prospect of marriage was growing more appealing by the minute. He was even starting to wonder whether forty days and forty nights would be long enough.

‘I won’t go with you, Tariq.’

‘I hate to point out the obvious,’ he said with gentle emphasis, ‘but you are with me.’

‘A mistake that I intend to rectify immediately.’ She glanced out of the window and her eyes widened. She turned her head for an explanation, panic in her eyes. ‘The airport? What are we doing at the airport?’

‘As I said, I am taking you home. My home. We are going to Tazkash.’ He leaned forward to speak to his driver and then turned back towards the woman who was trying to open the car door. ‘Enough of playing games. I’m going to make you my wife, Farrah. And then I’m going to take you to my bed and keep you there for as long as it suits me.’

CHAPTER THREE

FARRAH sat in one of the soft leather seats inside his private jet, her slim body tense with panic as she struggled to find a way out of the current situation. She ignored the staff who discreetly provided for her every need and ignored Tariq who sprawled, relaxed and infuriatingly calm, in the seat next to her.

She was just so angry with him. He was high-handed, controlling, dictatorial—Her brain thumping with anger, she ran out of adjectives before she could compile a decent list.

But most of all she was furious with herself. How could she have got herself into this position?

How could she have forgotten what he was like?

He was arrogant and autocratic and used to dictating his desires to an audience of followers whose only purpose in life was to do his bidding.

It had been foolish of her to provoke him, she knew that now.

When he’d half flung her into the back of his limousine, she’d been so angry and churned up inside that all her emotions had been focused on him, rather than the situation. She’d given no thought whatsoever to where they were going.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.