 
# Never Resist a Sheikh

An International Bad Boys Romance

Jackie Ashenden

Never Resist a Sheikh

Copyright © 2015 Jackie Ashenden

Smashwords Edition

The Tule Publishing Group, LLC

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-943963-09-6

## Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

_Chapter One_

_Chapter Two_

_Chapter Three_

_Chapter Four_

_Chapter Five_

_Chapter Six_

_Chapter Seven_

_Chapter Eight_

_Chapter Nine_

_Chapter Ten_

_Chapter Eleven_

Excerpt from Never Seduce a Sheikh

More by Jackie Ashenden

About the Author

## Chapter One

Felicity Cartwright didn't take her eyes from her phone screen as the large, black SUV ferrying her through the narrow, twisting back alleys of Shara began to slow yet again. They'd had to go slow so many times already on the trip from Al-Harah's international airport to the palace that she just didn't bother looking to see what the problem was this time.

First, there had been road repairs. Second, a major traffic jam on the freeway into the city. Third, they'd had to pull over for an ambulance. Fourth? Well, she didn't much care right now. The trip from New York to Al-Harah had been long and she hated flying, and, now that she was on the ground, she felt nothing but exhausted. She wanted familiarity, a bed, and some sleep. Not particularly in that order, but definitely not until she'd finished answering her emails.

And speaking of... She frowned at the screen as her email app timed out for the umpteenth time. Damn patchy 3G coverage. Good thing she was here. Looked like Al-Harah needed her and Red Star, the tech company that was her pride and joy. The country's telecommunications industry was still fledgling, the government particularly interested in a piece of software she'd created that helped developing nations get cheap and easy Internet access.

The Al-Harahan government was a little suspicious of her—Red Star was new and she was young. But on the upside, she was a certified genius. Twenty-four, with a PhD from MIT, and a brand new tech start-up. She was also ambitious, fierce, a woman with something to prove in the male-dominated tech industry. And she wanted to put Red Star on the map.

Once she had decent Wi-Fi, at least.

She scowled as her signal disappeared completely. Great, just great. How was she was supposed to be ambitious and fierce when she couldn't even get her damn emails?

Lowering her phone, she looked up, belatedly realizing the car had come to a stop in a very narrow street. There were blank stone walls of buildings on either side of her, very old buildings from the looks of things, while the street itself was laid with dusty cobblestones. Clearly they were in the old part of the city.

She leaned forward, trying to peer through the front windshield to see what was holding them up. In front of them was an ancient and very dirty-looking truck that seemed to be parked right in the middle of the street, completely blocking the way.

Her driver muttered something in Arabic that didn't sound very polite, then slammed his hand down on the car's horn.

Felicity pulled a face at the noise, sitting back in her seat again and looking down once more at her phone. Looked like they were going to be here a while so she might as well do something productive, such as going over her presentation once again.

She'd been led to believe that Sheikh Altair himself might attend the presentation, a fact she thought unlikely since the sheikh was due to be getting married in the next few days.

A pity. There were few things she'd learned from her distant lawyer father, but if she wanted something, going to straight to the top to get it had been one of them.

The driver sounded the horn again, and Felicity lifted her head to suggest that perhaps he might want to not honk the horn so loudly when there were jet-lagged geniuses in the back of the car. But the words died in her throat.

Because the street ahead of them was no longer empty of anyone but the truck. It now appeared to be full of a veritable crowd of very tall men, all of them in dusty desert robes and carrying...holy crap. Were those...guns?

Felicity blinked. Because no, surely there were no guns anywhere near here. Or men who looked like they'd escaped from a _Lawrence of Arabia_ movie shoot. And they definitely weren't coming over toward the car. No, most _definitely_ not.

The driver said something sharply and put his foot down on the accelerator. At least she thought that's what he was trying to do because just then one of those very tall men reached for the door and jerked it open. He grabbed her driver and pulled him out.

Shock held Felicity rigid. The driver was babbling something incoherently, his voice abruptly cut off as the man who'd pulled him out of the car suddenly hit him over the head with the butt of his gun. The driver collapsed onto the stones of the street, unconscious.

A deep shiver of fear went through her.

Oh, God. What was happening? There had apparently been some unrest in Al-Harah, but since the sheikh had gotten engaged things had settled down. At least, that's what she'd been told. But maybe it hadn't settled down. Maybe these men were sent to...do something awful to her.

She looked down at her phone, suddenly frantic to find a signal, alert the authorities, whichever authorities there were. Her fingers had gone cold and she fumbled on the buttons.

But before she could even punch in a number, a very large, very warm, blunt-fingered hand closed completely over hers. She let out a squeak of panic and jerked her head up.

And went still as a prey animal before a tiger.

A massively built man had leaned over the front seat to grab her phone, seemingly filling the entire front of the SUV. He had a dusty, white head covering pulled over his hair and partially obscuring his nose and mouth, leaving only his eyes uncovered, black as a midnight sky and sharp as shattered obsidian.

Her mouth dropped open, a scream of pure terror building in her throat. Because there was death in those eyes, violence and raging fires, a howling storm. The end of the world.

He leaned forward, a surprisingly fluid movement given the awkwardness of him having to reach into the back seat, and one of those large, warm hands was over her mouth, stopping her scream dead, while he pulled her phone away with the other.

He said something in Arabic, his voice deep and harsh, rumbling like an avalanche, words she didn't understand. But it definitely sounded like an order.

She was trembling all over, shaking with fear and also, strangely, anger. Because she was exhausted, she had no damn signal for her phone, she was in a strange country, and this was supposed to be the start of something big for her and her company.

It was not supposed to be the day she was attacked by strange men in robes.

She had no idea what came over her, where she'd gotten her courage from, since by rights she should have been catatonic with fear. But she'd always had a temper when she was really pushed and all she knew was that she was royally _pissed_ and she did not like having this guy's hand over her mouth.

So she bit him hard in the fleshy part of his palm.

It was a stupid idea, she knew that as soon as her teeth closed down on him, as soon as those terrifying dark eyes widened in surprise. Only for the surprise to be swiftly replaced by something else. Anger.

_That's right, bite the hand of the scary, veiled man who's just knocked your driver unconscious. That's a really good move._

The man took his hand away so suddenly she almost gasped. Then he lunged forward, his fingers closing around her throat instead.

Felicity's mouth opened again, but this time absolutely nothing came out.

There was no pressure behind the grip, but his fingers were firm, his palm heavy. And she didn't need to meet that frightening black gaze to know what he was trying to tell her, but she looked anyway. He was giving her a warning. All he needed to do was close his hand and she would literally be gasping for air.

Dimly, in the far recesses of her mind, something was screaming that she should be panicking, collapsing on the seat in floods of frightened tears or fainting, or something along those lines.

But like a threatened animal, she found herself sitting very, very still instead. Not wanting to draw the attention of the man-eating tiger that was looking at her as if he was deciding whether she was worth the bother of killing or not.

She stared back, her ragged, frantic breathing loud in the interior of the car. And she realized, with an almost detached kind of surprise, that the veil around his face had fallen away. It must have done so when he'd reached forward to grab her.

He was younger than she'd initially thought, his features unexpectedly and brutally handsome, compelling as those dense black eyes. A strong, hard jaw shadowed with the dark stubble of a beard. High, aristocratic cheekbones. A crooked nose that looked as if it had been broken at some point, with thick, slightly winged, black brows on either side of it. The face of some primitive, warrior god of old.

It made something deep inside her shudder inexplicably.

His gaze narrowed and she found herself looking down in instinctive acquiescence. Perhaps if she just sat here and didn't say a word, stayed quiet as a mouse and didn't cause a fuss, they'd go away.

Her heartbeat was loud in her head, panicked and fast, all her awareness concentrated on the strong hand around her throat. Weirdly, the only thing she could seem to think about was how warm his skin was.

_You're crazy. Jet-lagged and insane._

Yeah, clearly. Here she was, being ambushed, with a scary man's hand around her throat, and all she could think about was the warmth of his skin.

After a moment, he released her and she could tell by the sudden change in the atmosphere inside the car that he'd gotten out.

She looked up slowly and, indeed, he was now striding toward the group of men standing in the street in front of the car, her cell phone in his hand.

Shivers of reaction had begun to set in and for some reason that, too, fueled her weird anger. She didn't like feeling helpless and she didn't like feeling afraid, and she felt enough of both those emotions to last her for life.

Swallowing, she fumbled for her seatbelt and pressed the button, keeping an eye on the men in front of the car. Perhaps if she was quick enough and quiet enough, she could get out of the car and get away without them even noticing.

The seatbelt clicked and she pushed it aside, reaching for the car door handle and pulling slowly, hoping like hell the door wouldn't make a noise as it opened.

She was already halfway out when abruptly the door was pulled wide and one of the men placed himself in front of her.

Crap. Not fast enough.

Felicity's heart sank all the way down to into her Converses. "Hey, look," she began, "I'm not—"

But the man only reached out and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her out of the car, shutting the door then dragging her stumbling around to the front of the SUV where the rest of the men were, including that black-eyed mountain who'd had his hand around her throat.

The man pulling her stopped, his grip hard on her arm, and he said something in Arabic to the black-eyed, bearded man who was staring at Felicity with such intensity she wanted to curl up and die on the spot.

Weird that him putting a hand over her mouth hadn't put the fear of God into her, but him staring at her? Her palms were getting sweaty and she wanted to be sick.

She looked away, unable to meet his gaze, glancing furtively to see if the driver was okay instead. They'd dragged him over to the side of the street, sitting him up against the wall. He was still unconscious but seemed to breathing.

At least that was something. They hadn't killed him so maybe they wouldn't kill her. Pity her Arabic was limited to "hello" and "thank you". She hadn't thought "Please don't kill me" might be useful.

The black-eyed man was speaking in that rough avalanche of a voice, full of stones and ice and a dark, dangerous rumble. He hadn't taken his gaze off her, making her mouth go dry with fear and yet, at the same time, sending another hot spear of anger through her.

Men. They thought they could rule the world. Well, she wasn't going to cower. No freaking way. She wasn't going to be bullied either, not when she'd had enough of that to last a lifetime.

_This isn't the Upper East Side, idiot. This is life or death._

No, it wasn't New York City. But who was it who'd said it was better to die on your feet than to live on your knees? Whoever it was, they were right.

Felicity lifted her chin, meeting the man's gaze, preparing to stare him down if necessary.

There was a whole world of secrets in those dense, black eyes. Deep shadows and mysteries and a darkness that for some reason was as mesmerizing as it was terrifying.

A man totally outside of her experience. Which made him suddenly and completely fascinating.

She opened her mouth to say something, but for the second time that day, someone put a hand over her mouth and nose. There was a cloth and it smelled...weird.

Her vision blurred. Oh, hell. What was happening now? She struggled feebly against the hands holding her, but it was no use.

The black-eyed man kept watching her.

And he was the last thing she saw as the darkness reached up and grabbed her, pulling her under.

 *     *     *

Zakir ibn Rashiq Al-Nazari, ruling sheikh of Al-Shakhra, looked down at the small, crumpled form of the woman lying not far away on the ancient cobblestones of Shara and cursed. Viciously.

This raid was not supposed to go this way. His intelligence had led him to believe the black SUV had been carrying Princess Safira, fiancée of the sheikh Al-Harah, not some ill-mannered, little American woman.

"I am sorry, sire," Jamal, his head of security, said as he put the cloth soaked in a powerful sedative back in his robes. "I was sure that—"

"I do not care what you were sure of," Zakir snapped. "You were wrong and so was the intelligence we were given, and now we are left with...this..." He made a gesture to the pathetic creature curled up unconscious on the street.

Holy God, she was definitely not what he'd crossed the border into Al-Harah for. He'd come for the sleek, beautiful lioness that was Princess Safira, hoping to take her back to Al-Shakhra and make her his sheikha. And, instead, in place of a lioness, he'd gotten a...chihuahua.

He glared at the unconscious girl. Not only had she _not_ been Safira, she'd then had the gall to bite him like a little animal. With surprising force. Then, as if the situation hadn't been bad enough, in his efforts to quell her, his keffiyeh had dropped to reveal his face. Definitely a problem.

No one could know he was here, not until the princess had been secured and they were both safely back in Al-Shakra where Altair couldn't get her.

Except now, not only had they not secured the princess, they also had a witness.

Jamal was stony-faced. "This car was supposed to be carrying Princess Safira, sire."

"And yet do you see the princess, Safira, anywhere?" Zakir demanded. "No, you do not. And now I am left with this girl, whoever she is, who has seen my face."

The rest of his men were silent. Just as well. He was in the kind of mood that could involve sending certain people on long runs in the deep desert with rucksacks full of rocks on their backs.

Jamal, clearly thinking along those lines too, said quickly, "Leave her to me, sire. I can—"

"There will be no killing." He interrupted before the other man could utter another word. "That is not what we came here to do."

Jamal always did what needed to be done, but Zakir would not be responsible for killing or hurting any woman, neither would he tolerate it from any of his subjects. Yes, he was sheikh of a country recovering from the depredations of his dictator of a father, a country who still held to the old ways, medieval in many respects, including its treatment of women. But he would set a new example; even if he didn't quite know what that example would be other than he had to be better somehow. He'd been brought up a warrior, not a sheikh.

"Then what do you wish us to do?" Jamal asked, clearly wanting to make up for his error.

Zakir narrowed his gaze at the woman. He couldn't think of any other way around it. If he left her here she would alert the authorities, and even if she didn't know who he was, she'd gotten a good enough look at him that those authorities would soon find out who had attacked her. And Sheikh Altair would not hesitate to retaliate.

_And taking the princess would not have made him retaliate?_

Well, that had always been a risk. But bride games were still played here in Al-Harah and definitely in Zakir's country. And that was how Altair had claimed his princess for himself, was it not? Still, the woman was only a bride if she consented after a day of feasting with the family of the man who'd taken her. And if the rumors were true, Princess Safira had refused Altair. Which meant she was fair game for a claiming.

The aristocratic families had long since fled Al-Shakhra, taking their daughters with them, which had left him no option but to seek a bride farther afield. And Safira had been the perfect choice. A warrior queen, because strength was what his people respected, with an old and noble lineage. A woman who knew the old ways.

He'd wanted to claim her, take her back to his country, and if she chose him as her husband, then Altair would have no argument with that, surely? He was a man who respected the ancient customs.

Unfortunately, though, Zakir's luck was not with him today and it was not Safira in that car.

Surely God was playing games with him.

Not answering Jamal immediately, Zakir walked over to where the woman lay and he frowned. Jamal hadn't had a care about her, letting her fall where she may, and her long, thick braid was dragging in the dust of the street, her cheek pillowed against a rock.

His frown deepened and he sank down on his haunches next to her.

She was very young and her skin was very pale, like fresh milk. Her hair was the most astonishing color, a deep, rich copper, threaded through with gold, and little curls of it were escaping that severe braid. She was delicate-looking, not at all the supple, lithe warrior woman he'd hoped to capture.

A strange feeling lodged in his chest, one he couldn't immediately identify.

He was hard man. A warrior born. He didn't have soft emotions and had made sure to excise them from his heart a long time ago. As a soldier, he couldn't afford them.

Yet for some reason, he didn't like the way Jamal had left her on the cobbles. He didn't like that her cheek was scraped by the rock and there was street dust in her magnificent hair. That was not the way a woman should be treated, a little chihuahua like this one or not.

"Sire?" Jamal asked, keeping his voice low as if afraid to disturb him. "How do you wish to proceed?"

Zakir kept his gaze on the woman. He couldn't leave her here, that was for certain, not when she could identify him. They also had to get out fast, before the driver regained consciousness or someone saw the SUV apparently parked in the middle of a street. Which left him little option. He'd have to take her back to Al-Shakhra. It wasn't ideal, but some good might come of this disaster yet. She might even prove useful; anything was possible.

His decision made, Zakir wasted no more time, leaning forward and scooping her up into his arms without hesitation.

"Sire?" Jamal sounded puzzled. "What are you going to do with her?"

"She will have to come back with us," he said curtly.

"But sire—"

"We have no other choice." He started heading toward the truck, the rest of his guards staying silent.

"We do not know who she is, though."

He stopped and gave Jamal one hard glance. "Then you will find out, won't you? Search the car and take whatever is in there."

Jamal's expression had become impassive; he knew better than to push his king. "Yes, sire."

Zakir turned back to the truck, nodding to one of his other men who pulled open the dusty door at the back. Then he got inside with the woman and arranged himself on the hard seat facing the door with her in his lap.

She was such a slight weight, but very warm. Jamal must have overdone the sedative since she was completely out of it, making no movement or sound as he arranged her more comfortably. He could have left her on the floor but the truck's suspension was hard and they'd be driving fast over rough terrain in order to get to the old, army chopper his men had secreted in the desert. She'd probably roll all over the place and get in the way, which meant he had to hold her.

At least unconscious she wouldn't be biting him.

Zakir looked down at her. Reddish-gold lashes lay on her pale cheeks, the rough scrape from the rock marring her skin. Her mouth was full and soft, and very red.

Back in the car, she'd stared at him in shock and fear, eyes the color of smoke gone wide. He hadn't expected her shock to turn to fury when he'd put his hand over her mouth to stop her from screaming. Nor had he expected her to bite him.

It was death to harm the king of Al-Shakhra. Jamal was completely within his rights to carry out that sentence.

But Zakir had stopped him. And now he was holding this ridiculously fragile woman in his arms like a child, when by rights he should be punishing her for harming his royal personage.

He frowned, studying her more closely.

Her features were small and precise, and she had a delicate, pointed chin. Not beautiful but...arresting. He didn't know quite why that was, only that she was different from the beautiful women he remembered from his father's carefully curated harem. The harem Zakir had disbanded after his brother Farid's death.

He hadn't had a woman since.

Almost as soon as the thought had occurred to him, he felt something stir down low in the darkness where he kept it. The briefest flickering of desire.

He crushed it reflexively. It had been two years since his brother's death. Two years since he'd assumed the throne, and he hadn't had a woman in all that time. A very, very purposeful decision, because nothing good came of passion, he knew that for a fact.

Luckily, he found it easy to ignore. Having trained as a soldier, he had excellent control over his physical appetites and didn't feel the absence of this particular one.

The door at the back of the truck banged open and the rest of his men got in, Jamal bringing up the rear. He was carrying a suitcase and a black laptop bag, which he placed at Zakir's feet.

"This was in the back seat, sire." Jamal sat, banging on the side of the truck as he did so. The engine started with a roar, the driver maneuvering the heavy vehicle laboriously around in the narrow street.

"Good." Zakir firmed his grip on the woman. "Did you find any identification for her?"

"Only this." Jamal handed over a black leather wallet.

Adjusting his hold, Zakir took it and flicked it open. There were numerous cards and other forms of ID, all bearing the name Felicity Cartwright, with her picture and birthdate on the front. The name meant nothing to him.

Zakir looked down at her again. She was a child, really, only twenty-four.

What a disaster this raid had been. He had no princess to take back home, no warrior queen with the ancient name and lineage he needed to calm the people as he dragged his country into the modern age. All he had was an unknown, red-haired westerner who looked like she'd blow away in the first puff of a desert wind.

It was unacceptable. Especially when there was no time to undertake another raid. Not when Altair would no doubt be working hard to overcome his princess's doubts and marry her at the first opportunity.

Anger turned over inside Zakir, thick and hot. He needed a wife and he'd been a fool for resisting so long. His government was getting restless. They wanted heirs. They wanted a future. They wanted hope after the horrific deaths of Farid and Maysan, his sheikha.

_You are not exactly going away empty handed, though._

Zakir stared down at the unconscious figure of Miss Felicity Cartwright.

And thought.

## Chapter Two

Felicity woke up feeling disgusting. She had a dry mouth, her stomach was unsettled, and what was even worse than all of those things put together, was the fact that she had no memory of falling asleep in the first place.

Opening her eyes seemed like a good idea—at least until she opened them to find she wasn't in the plane that had brought her to Al-Harah, nor was she in the SUV on her way to her hotel. She definitely wasn't in her New York apartment either.

She appeared to be in a small room with a stone-flagged floor and dressed stone walls, with a tiny, narrow window letting in a surprising amount of light. There wasn't any other furniture apart from the single bed she was lying on and a narrow wooden bench that had her suitcase and laptop bag resting on it.

The room was as bare and clean as a monk's cell.

Where on earth was she?

Slowly, she sat up, pulling a face as her stomach twisted uncomfortably. Yeah, feeling sick was so not helping right now. She slipped off the bed and went to the window, peering out through the narrow casement.

And blinked.

She was up high, on the side of what looked like a mountain with a valley spread out below her. A small city glittered in the fierce sun, a few office towers reaching to the sky and a dry, rocky, golden landscape beyond it.

Yeah, definitely not New York. Not Al-Harah either.

Fear gathered—a small hard stone in her already unsettled gut.

Okay, so she'd been in the SUV and on her way to the hotel. She'd been annoyed about not getting any cell phone signal and then...

Frightening black eyes. A hand on her throat. Her phone taken away. The robed, bearded man. She'd been pulled out of the car, a nasty rag had been clamped over her mouth and then...nothing.

She swallowed, turning from the window and its disturbing view, crossing the little room to the heavy wooden door and pulling on the handle.

It was locked.

Felicity stared at it, the fear growing bigger and bigger by the second.

_Calm down. Okay, so looks like you're a prisoner, but you're alive, aren't you?_

Well, sure, being alive _was_ a good thing, but for how long? Where was she? And why had she been taken from the streets of Al-Harah and transported...here. Wherever "here" was. And by whom?

Her heart was beginning to race now, panic just around the corner.

Oh God. She'd been unconscious. Anything could have happened to her. She swallowed, looking down and giving her clothing a quick check. But apart from being a bit wrinkled, everything was all in place. Didn't seem like she'd been touched, or at least, she didn't feel like she had been. That was something at least.

Turning from the door, she went over to the wooden bench where her laptop bag was and pulled it open. Her laptop was gone. So was her phone.

"Oh no." The words came out as a pathetic whisper.

Slowly, she backed away from the bench and sat down on the bed, the sick feeling getting worse. Not good. So not good. Here she was, locked up in a room in God knew where, with no way of contacting anyone.

_Come on. Panicking is not going to help._

Felicity took a deep breath, then another, consciously trying to make herself relax. Her fingers curled on the side of the mattress, digging in.

Okay, so she was a damn genius. She should be able to think her way out of this one, right?

At that moment, there came the sound of a lock being turned and the door of her prison cell swung open.

A man stood in the doorway, robed and bearded, a heavy sword belt around his waist and a rifle slung over his back. He was not the black-eyed man she remembered from before, but he looked dangerous all the same. His dark eyes swept over her and though he betrayed nothing of his thoughts, she got the distinct impression he did not think much of her.

"You are awake," he said in heavily accented English.

Perhaps it was the relaxation technique kicking in. Perhaps she found a well of courage inside her she never knew she had.

More likely she was just stupid, because when she opened her mouth, it wasn't meek, appropriately prisoner-like words that spilled out.

"Given that I'm sitting up and staring at you, of course I'm awake," she snapped.

The man's eyes narrowed. "Get up," he ordered. "You must come with me."

"Come with you where? Why? Who are you? Where am I? What have you done with my—"

"Do not argue." He was looking distinctly annoyed with her now. "If you want the answers to your questions, you will come with me."

Ah, okay then. Pity about the arguing since she really felt like arguing with him. But then again, that was stupid since she was apparently someone's prisoner.

Fear kicked inside her again, the panic rising, but she swallowed it determinedly back down. If they'd wanted to hurt her they would have done so by now, and also, there was the fact that she was still alive. So that was good.

Besides, a mean-looking, bearded man with a sword and a rifle could _not_ be any scarier than her perfectly put together Upper East Side mother in full-on matchmaker mode. Right?

Gathering her courage, Felicity slowly rose to her feet and walked to the door. The man said nothing, gave her one last dismissive glance, then turned around and began to stride off down the corridor outside, robes fluttering out behind him as he moved. Felicity had to trot to keep up with him, fear giving her a short stab in the heart as two more robed men who had apparently come from nowhere fell in step behind her.

Right. So she was being treated like a prisoner here, too. Good to know.

She kept her attention resolutely forward as they walked, but at the same time she took in her surroundings.

They were moving down a series of long, narrow hallways with heavy stone walls, the floors flagged with stone. The place had a feel of a great, medieval fortress; she almost expected to see the light of flickering sconces and hear the rattle of armor.

Every so often the hallways would open out into vaulted chambers with staircases leading up or down. Some of the chambers were beautifully tiled, some of them were bare, clean, soft gray stone. She saw no one else, heard no one else. The only sound was the scuffing of the guards' boots.

Eventually, after going down at least two sets of stairs and feeling like she was plunging deep underground, Felicity followed the bearded man along yet another medieval corridor which ended in a massive set of double wooden doors.

Another guard was stationed outside, though he moved quickly to one side as Felicity's guard party approached.

The bearded man pushed open the doors and went in, Felicity following him, trying to shake off the feelings of panic from the silence. Not to mention claustrophobia from the narrow hallways and the brooding sense of massive amounts of stone pushing down on her.

That feeling eased as she came into a huge room, with stone pillars here and there. The room was divided into half with, incongruously in this very ancient-feeling space, a punching bag hanging from a frame, a rowing machine, and a stationary bike on one side. On the other was a massive, deep blue pool, beautifully lit with underground lights.

But it wasn't really the modern exercise equipment or the pool that held her attention.

In the center of the room was a man stripped to the waist. He was tall, broad, and heavily muscled, wearing only a pair of close-fitting combat pants and desert boots. And he was fighting another man. With a sword.

Felicity stumbled to a halt, staring.

Sweat gleamed on the man's bronze skin, the light following the graceful flex and release of powerful muscles. He turned, sweeping the long blade he held in an arc, only barely missing his opponent who danced back at the last minute. He moved again, fluid and light on his feet for such a big man, the sword a savage flash of light in his hands.

Felicity's heart leapt in her throat. Surely his opponent was going to end up a bloody mess on the ground, because there was no way to avoid that thrust.

Yet the man's opponent managed to dance back again. Only to find himself being tripped by a lightning fast foot. The opponent fell onto his back, his sword clattering on the stone floor, while the tall man pressed his booted foot into the center of the fallen man's chest, his sword raised high.

"No!" Someone said in hoarse voice.

And Felicity was appalled to realize she was the one who'd spoken and her pathetic, little voice was echoing around the huge room like a rude word spoken in a holy place.

The tall man stilled, his sword raised for a killing blow. Then he turned and his gaze, sharp as the sword he held, slammed into hers.

All the breath left her body in a sharp rush.

It was the black-eyed man. The man who'd put his hand around her throat.

He wasn't in dusty robes now and the dark stubble that defined his strong jaw had been trimmed, but there could be no mistaking those inky eyes. Cold and yet fierce at the same time. Intense. Calling a response she didn't understand from somewhere deep inside her.

It made her bristle for reasons she couldn't explain and she lifted her chin, staring right back. She had no idea who he was, but clearly he seemed to be the leader of...whoever this group of men were. Wherever this was. And obviously the man who could answer all her questions.

The guard who'd led her here said something in Arabic and the black-eyed man answered curtly, his deep, gravelly voice setting off echoes inside that made her bristle even more. He took his foot off his opponent on the ground and wordlessly held out the sword. One of the guards behind Felicity instantly moved to take it. The black-eyed man then bent and held out a hand to his opponent, pulling him to his feet in one effortless display of male strength.

Okay, so he wasn't about to kill someone right in front of her. And she'd made an idiot of herself by calling out over what must have been a training exercise. A sword training exercise.

Excellent. This day was getting better and better.

The man grabbed a towel from a nearby bench, passing it over his face and shoulders before leaving it hanging around his neck, large capable hands gripping both ends. There was some kind of tattoo right across his chest, a flowing pattern of black ink, with fluid, cursive lines and dots like stars.

He said something terse to the man who'd brought her here, not taking his eyes from her. The response obviously satisfied him because he gave a short nod.

Then a silence descended, the room nearly vibrating with the dense, atmospheric pressure of it.

He stared at her like a hunter with an animal in his sights.

And for some reason it reminded her horribly of the way her father used to stare at her sometimes. As if he could turn her into the son he so desperately wanted by the force of his gaze alone.

It made her feel like she was ten inches tall and being slowly and inexorably crushed in a large fist.

Irritated with herself and the feeling she'd thought she'd long since outgrown, she forced out the words. "Wh-Who are you?" Great. She sounded thin and reedy and pathetic. And she stuttered. "W-Where am I?" She tried again. Which wasn't any better.

There was another of those deafening, pressured silences.

Oh. Perhaps he didn't speak English.

She opened her mouth again, to say God knew what, but then he spoke, forestalling her.

"My name is Zakir ibn Rashiq Al-Nazari," he said in perfect, albeit heavily accented, English. "And I am the sheikh of Al-Shakhra."

Al-Shakhra. That was familiar. She seemed to recall it was the name for the little country next to Al-Harah. And he was apparently the sheikh of it.

The sheikh. The king.

A wave of something she refused to identify as fear swept through her. "So I'm...where?"

"You are in my country." The sheikh gave her a slow, sweeping glance, which made her feel even smaller than ten inches. "You are in Al-Shakhra. In my palace, Al-Shakr."

Right. So she'd been kidnapped off the streets of Al-Harah and taken to a whole other country, and now she was in his damn palace. Wonderful. What was going to happen to her presentation to the Al-Harahan government? Because if she was here, then obviously she wouldn't be able to give it. And then what would happen to Red Star and the new software they'd spent so long developing? They needed this deal badly, needed the money, needed the success. Everything depended on it, and if it fell through... God, she'd have to fold the company. And it wouldn't only be herself out of a job, but all the people she employed, too.

Another wave of emotion went through her, and this time it wasn't fear for a change. It was anger. Red Star was her pride, her joy. Her success. It was all hers and she'd worked hard to get it on its feet, to find the best people to work for her, too. This deal with Al-Harah was essential to its survival and she didn't want being in the wrong place at the wrong time to jeopardize that.

The anger came like a red mist, obscuring her vision, clouding her thinking processes.

This man. He was to blame. He'd kidnapped her, drugged her, taken her out of the country, and now he was getting in the way of her company's last hope.

It was unacceptable.

Completely forgetting herself, Felicity walked straight up to the wall of solid-packed muscle that was the sheikh of Al-Shakhra, and before any of his guards could even move, she poked him right in the center of his very hot, hard chest.

"I don't care who you are or where I am. I demand you take me back to Al-Harah." She didn't notice the astonishment and shock that burst in the air around her. She only poked him again. "Right. Freaking. Now."

 *     *     *

For a moment nobody moved. Because nobody was expecting this little westerner to actually approach the sheikh of Al-Shakhra, still less poke him in the chest with her finger.

It even took Zakir by surprise. And as the shock reverberated through the room, he found himself standing there staring at her delicate features and the angry red flush on her cheekbones, while one small finger pressed hard against his bare skin.

_This is the first time a woman has touched you in two years._

That should not have surprised him since he knew exactly how long it had been. And he'd thought he'd long since mastered his sexual hungers. Yet he wasn't prepared for his physical reaction, every sense he had suddenly zeroing in to the point of contact. He felt the touch acutely. As if it wasn't a finger she had pressed against him but the point of a blade. And it was drawing blood.

He became aware of the sound of boots on stone, his guards moving as one, heading straight toward the insolent American who'd dared to lay her hands on their king, drawing their weapons as they went.

It was death to touch him as they well knew. But she didn't.

Zakir raised a hand in command and they stopped dead in their tracks.

The woman, belatedly realizing something was up, looked around her, paling as she took note of his guards, all with swords drawn.

He wanted to let the moment sit there. Wanted her to see how close her death was, that the only thing standing between her and it was his upraised hand and his absolute command of his men. But her touch was burning a hole right through him and that had to stop.

Zakir closed his fingers around her wrist.

As he did so, her gaze came sharply back to his, her lush little mouth falling open, the blush on her cheekbones deepening. She'd been very angry with him just before, but now that anger had faded, leaving only what looked like confusion.

He didn't know why she was confused. Because there was nothing confusing about the spark of heat that leapt from her skin to his as soon as his fingers wrapped around the slender bones of her wrist. Nothing puzzling about the sudden flick of desire that shot down his spine.

What _was_ puzzling was that he should feel it now. For a woman who was not what he usually liked physically at all. In fact, that was the whole reason he'd made the decision he had in the first place. Because he did _not_ want her.

Unfortunately his body had other ideas.

It was not a good omen. Desire, like so many other emotions, was not something he could afford.

"It is death to touch the sheikh," he said flatly, pulling her hand away from him and releasing it as quickly as he could. Warmth lingered on his skin.

She went pale, though an intriguing anger burned in eyes the color of dark woodsmoke.

So not only did she have a certain amount of courage, she also did not let her fear rule her, neither dropping to the floor cowering nor backing away as some of his enemies had done. Courage and control over one's emotions were excellent qualities in a prospective wife. Though there was still the question of her being small and delicate and breakable, which were not.

"This is the third time you have touched my person without permission," he added, so she was very clear where she stood. "You now live only at my discretion."

"The third...." She stopped, obviously remembering.

Her bite on his palm.

_Your hand on her throat._

A sliver of something cold slid through him. And now he'd laid hands on her a second time. But no, those had been reflexive responses. No one ever touched him without permission, let alone bit him. His had been a warrior's reaction, nothing more.

"You are lucky my guards do not speak English," he advised. "If they heard you they would not be as understanding as I am."

Her mouth firmed. "If you're expecting an apology you're out of luck."

Not many people were brave enough to talk back to him in such a way. She was either courageous or she didn't possess much in the way of common sense.

He folded his arms and looked down at her. "You are insolent." He pointed out. "I would not be so rude to the person who held my life in their hands."

The color drained from her cheeks, but again, it was anger that sparked in her eyes rather than fear. "Look, I didn't mean to touch you. No one told me the rules around here. But the thing is, I really need to get back to Al-Harah. I have a presentation I have to give to their telecommunications agency and I—"

"You will not be going back to Al-Harah." He said it like the order it was, leaving her in no doubt. "You will be staying here."

Her dark red brows shot up, gray eyes widening. "What? I'm sorry, your worship, but—"

"Sire."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

Clearly the woman had never been in the company of any kind of royalty. Still that was to be expected. There were few nations these days that had the kind of absolute rule that was particular to Al-Shakhra.

"You may call me 'sire'. Though I will accept 'your majesty'."

Jamal snorted, but Zakir quelled him with a look. This woman would be thrown into many new experiences over the course of the week he had planned for her, and she would no doubt find them difficult. They had to be patient with her.

She'd gone pink, though whether from embarrassment or anger he couldn't tell. "Uh, okay, _sire._ The thing is, I have to get back to—"

"So you said," he interrupted again, since clearly she hadn't heard him the first time. "But as I have already explained, you will not be going back to Al-Harah."

Something in her eyes flashed. Definitely anger. "Why not?"

His guards tensed at her tone, their hands at their sword hilts. Zakir shook his head, giving them all a warning glance.

Plainly, given this little chihuhua's temperament, it would be easier to conduct the rest of the conversation in private.

"I will talk to Miss Cartwright alone," he said shortly in Arabic. "You are dismissed."

"Sire," Jamal began, looking annoyed. "I must insist that—"

"What?" Zakir eyed him. "You are afraid for my life? You think I cannot defend myself from this small creature?"

Jamal scowled. "She looks harmless enough, but you can never tell. The late sheikh—"

"You forget yourself, Jamal," Zakir interrupted coldly, a very real anger stirring inside him. "My brother's name will not be mentioned in my hearing, this you know."

The other man lowered his eyes, flushing red. He knew he was being insubordinate. "I apologize, sire."

"I do not want your apology. I want you to never speak of him again. And as for Miss Cartwright, I know your opinion of my plans for her. You made it plain all the way back here. You need not mention it again. Understood?"

Zakir liked for his advisors to give him their opinions and indeed, he valued them highly. But he was the one who made the final decision and he didn't much care for protests after the fact. Jamal was a fiercely loyal and trusted man, but sometimes he forgot his place. Such as now.

"Understood, sire," Jamal muttered.

"Then leave Miss Cartwright and myself alone. You may guard the door if you feel it necessary."

Jamal would, no doubt, feel it was necessary, and at least the task would appease him slightly.

Zakir waited until his royal guard had exited the training room, studying Miss Cartwright as he did so. A thread of amusement wound through him to see that she too had folded her arms and was studying him in a similar manner.

She really was very small, the top of her head only coming up to his shoulders. Her copper-colored braid had frayed, the thick rope of it fuzzy with escaping curls. Her clothing too—jeans and a black T-shirt with some kind of logo on the front—looked rumpled. No wonder his men hadn't thought much of the plan he'd formulated on the way back home. She really wasn't the kind of queen they'd hoped to bring back from Al-Harah.

But what she did have in her favor was beautiful, milky pale skin, and a very determined jaw. And the way she was looking at him now, with her chin lifted and her shoulders back, was very imperious. There was potential there, certainly.

"So? Are you going to kill me now?" She phrased the question almost like a dare.

Zakir pulled the towel off from around his neck and tossed it negligently back on the bench. "No, I am not going to kill you, Miss Cartwright."

"How do you know my name?"

"We found your wallet and your I.D."

"Then you must know that my government won't very happy when they find that I'm missing."

"You will not be missing long." He'd had Jamal thoroughly investigate her as they'd travelled back from Al-Harah, and there were quite a few things he'd found out about Miss Cartwright. Such as her being some kind of tech magnate, the CEO of an up-and-coming software company. She was also the only child of a very wealthy American lawyer.

She might not have been a princess with an ancient name, but she was surely the Western equivalent. Which made her perfect for his purposes.

Jamal had planted a few things around the SUV in Al-Harah to indicate that Miss Cartwright had taken it into her head to do a bit of desert sightseeing without telling anyone. By the time anyone found out that wasn't the case, the issue would be decided.

She would be his sheikha.

"What do you mean I won't be missing long?" Her arms were folded tight around her middle, as if she was cold. "Is that some kind of execution euphemism?"

He frowned. "I have already told you I did not bring you here to kill you."

"Yes, well, it would be nice if you actually _did_ tell me what you'd brought me here for." Her gray eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Is it some kind of government thing? Your government against mine? Or do you want money? If it's money, you've got the wrong girl. My father and I don't get on, and all my cash goes straight into my company."

If he'd been the kind of man his brother had been, then her implication would have angered him since kings did not stoop to banditry or blackmail. But he was not the kind of man his brother had been. And anger was just one of many emotions he'd excised from his heart.

So all he said was, "I do not want money."

"Then what?" She probably hadn't meant it to sound like a demand, but it came out as one. "Why me?"

"You are not afraid to give orders to a king, Miss Cartwright?" He said it softly, but injected the words with an edge. Enough to give her pause.

A whisper of fear moved through her smoky eyes. But she didn't look away. "I just w-want to know why you took me?"

Her voice was softer this time, the stutter he'd heard before creeping back into it. Something about that tugged at him in a way he wasn't used to, a way he found vaguely unsettling. If she was afraid, that was good, wasn't it? It would make her more biddable.

Ignoring the feeling, he gazed at her instead.

He was a soldier, words and speeches were not his forte. So how to explain to a woman who did not know the old ways? An American who would no doubt view his country's customs as barbaric?

There really was only one way to tell her.

"I took you because I need a wife," he said without inflection.

She'd gone very still. "A what?"

"I think you heard me." He held her silvery gaze. "You, Miss Cartwright, are my bride prize."

## Chapter Three

She didn't understand. _Really_ didn't understand. What was a bride prize? And why on earth did he think she was going to be his wife? Was he completely insane? Was she now the prisoner of a mad king?

The fear that had been coiling icily in her gut now froze solid.

By now, everyone would know she was missing, but they wouldn't have any idea where she was. Hopefully Red Star would be raising hell trying to find her, yet until they did, she'd be totally at the mercy of this...man.

Though really, he wasn't like any man she'd ever come into contact with. He was almost the polar opposite of the computer guys in her company with their T-shirts and button-downs and jeans. And completely unlike the powerful men in their bespoke suits and their Manhattan offices, too, men such as her father and his social circle.

This sheikh was as much like them as a tiger was like a house cat.

Not only was he built on a massive scale, he also radiated a sense of tightly leashed violence, danger almost vibrating in the air around him, a pressure like an approaching storm. It was unsettling and yet at the same time absolutely mesmerizing.

She had no idea why.

He stood in front of her, his arms crossed, all that bare, bronze skin gleaming, and even though he was only wearing black pants and boots, he looked every inch the king he'd told her he was.

Not that she knew what a king was supposed to look like, but there was no denying his aura of power. This was a man who knew what he wanted and would take it without a second thought.

And apparently what he wanted was her.

Felicity tried to ignore her fear, but it remained a cold hard lump in her gut. God, where was the anger that had overwhelmed her earlier? She could really use some of that now. Though in retrospect, poking him hadn't been the best idea she'd ever had.

Especially not when touching him apparently meant death.

A weird flush of heat seemed to radiate through her at the thought, starting from the tip of the finger she'd jabbed against his chest, sweeping through her hand, over the wrist that his long, impossibly strong fingers had wrapped around, and up her arm.

Men didn't usually have such an effect on her, not that she'd ever poked one in the chest like that.

_Or been kidnapped by one._

Good freaking point. Which made being affected by him not only wrong, but completely insane.

Deciding to ignore the weird heat, she stuck her hands beneath her armpits to hide any rogue shakes. "Okay, so...I think you're going to have to go over the wife and bride prize bit again, because I really don't have any idea what you're talking about."

His dark gaze settled steadily on her, his brutally handsome, rough features giving absolutely no hint whatsoever at what he was thinking. "It is an ancient custom in this part of the world. When the time comes for a man to marry, he decides on a woman from a neighboring tribe and he steals her, taking her back to his tribe for a night of feasting. She is his bride prize."

Felicity swallowed. "That sounds...interesting. An ancient custom you said?"

"A custom that extends to the present." The sheikh's black eyes glittered. "Al-Shakhra is a very old country and we practice the old ways."

He wasn't kidding. This place was more a medieval fortress than a palace, and she'd just watched the man himself fight with a sword. It didn't get much older than that.

"So what about the women being stolen? What if they don't want to be married?"

There was a very heavy pause.

"These days," the sheikh said after moment, "the woman cannot be stolen if she doesn't consent."

Something tight inside her eased a little. "Ah, okay then. Well, in that case—"

"Except in Al-Shakhra."

"What?" she asked bluntly, suddenly feeling a little panicky.

He remained expressionless, like he'd been carved from some kind of ancient stone. "My country cannot afford such modern scruples. It needs me to marry. And so I must find a wife."

Felicity blinked. "So you went out and stole one?"

For the first time something rippled across the sheikh's face, gone so fast she couldn't tell what it was. "I meant to steal a princess worthy of my country. But she was not in the car as our intelligence had told us." He paused. "You were."

Her mouth opened. Then shut. "She wasn't there so you took me instead?" she asked eventually. "Is that what you're saying?"

"I was not intending to, believe me."

There was something in his voice. Not regret, but something that sounded...almost disdainful. As if taking her was the last thing he'd wanted to do. It should have made her feel relieved, and yet it didn't. In fact, it made a horribly familiar feeling of hurt twist in her gut. Which was just ridiculous. Why should she be hurt? She didn't actually _want_ to be kidnapped.

"Then why did you?" she said, unable to keep the edge of demand from her voice. "Because I certainly didn't want to be taken."

"You saw my face. I could not leave you there where you could identify me."

"But I had no idea who you were!"

"That did not matter. The risk was still too great."

"So you kidnapped me?"

He shifted on his feet, a cold expression coming over his face. "Have a care, Miss Cartwright."

"Oh, yes, that's right. You're the king and I should be bowing and scraping."

Another heavy silence fell.

The sheikh stared at her, the aura of danger around him getting thicker and thicker.

_You're an idiot. He really could kill you if he wanted._

Yes, he could. But somehow that made no difference to the anger inside her. She wanted to walk right up to him and poke him again. Hard. Just to let him know how furious she was. Furious and afraid.

She didn't want to be kidnapped by this beast of a man. She didn't want to wake up in some strange country after having been drugged. She didn't want to have her life in the balance just because she'd touched him. She _really_ didn't want to be his bride prize.

And most of all, she didn't want to feel inexplicably hurt because she hadn't been the one he'd wanted in the first place.

Swallowing, she tried to moderate her tone. "So? Why don't you just take me back and get her instead? Like I was trying to tell you earlier, I was on my way to a really important meeting I can't miss. One that's vital to my company and when I say vital, I mean _vital._ "

"I cannot. It is too dangerous to undertake another raid. And the princess I wanted will be marrying within days."

Felicity stared at him in shock as it belatedly came to her who he was actually talking about. "You wanted Princess Safira?"

He didn't look in the least bit ashamed of the fact he'd been about to kidnap an already engaged woman. "I was hoping to."

"But...she's already taken."

"She refused the sheikh of Al-Harah," he said as if explaining to a child. "If a woman refuses, then she is eligible to be a bride prize for another man."

Okay, so when he said his was an old country with old ways, he really hadn't been kidding.

"So she can refuse then? Or do you force her?" Her voice had risen. "Drug her and kidnap her like you did with me?"

Again that ripple of expression passing over his features. "No," he said flatly. "In Al-Harah, a woman can refuse. That is her right."

"Except if she's me, of course." She was being snarky and that was probably stupid given her situation, but she couldn't help it. For years she'd kept quiet, tiptoeing around in the brittle atmosphere of her childhood home, not wanting to say a word in case she brought it crashing down, keeping all her emotions to herself. As an adult, she'd always sworn she wouldn't do that again, so she didn't now. "Except if she's some poor tourist who just happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and caught a glimpse of the wrong man."

The sheikh said nothing, eyeing her.

"So what about my rights?" She went on, increasingly furious, suddenly needing to get it all out, otherwise she was going to explode, death threats or not. "What about my right to refuse? I wasn't asked if I wanted to be drugged. I wasn't asked if I wanted to come here to your country. And I definitely wasn't asked if I wanted to be your s-stupid bride prize!" She'd taken a few unconscious steps toward him, anger propelling her. "And, for the record, I don't. I refuse! Red Star—that's my company in case you didn't know—depends on me being in Al-Harah at a meeting right now. And because you decided to kidnap me, I'm not at that meeting. And because I am not at that meeting, my company will in all likelihood fail to get the Al-Harahan money we need. And if we don't get that money, my company is screwed." The words tumbled over each other and stupidly, she could feel the backs of her eyes stinging. _Oh God, please don't let me cry, that would be truly pathetic._

Still, the sheikh said nothing, his black eyes studying her with a strange intensity.

Her throat felt thick, the nausea left over from the drug they'd fed her unsettling her stomach, and the unfairness of it all welled up inside her, choking her.

She'd worked so hard to get Red Star where it was, all the hours and the money she'd put into it, and to have it all fall apart just because this...man had decided to kidnap her to fulfill some ancient custom was beyond upsetting.

She blinked fiercely to stop the sting of stupid tears. "I don't want to be your bride prize, and if you think I'm going to marry you, you're insane."

If he found that insulting he didn't show it, standing there immovable as a stone door, and she had the impression she could shout at him all day and he wouldn't move. She could push him, hit him, take out all her rage on him and he would still be there, unchanged. Unaffected.

_Remind you of anyone?_

The thought of her father was enough to send another little pulse of fury through her. "Well?" she demanded suddenly. "You're not going to say anything?" She took another few steps toward him, shaking. "Take me back. Take me back to Al-Harah right now!"

He hadn't responded to her before, and she wasn't expecting a response now.

But as the last echoes of her shout died away, he moved. Toward her. Closing the distance so fast she had no time to get away. And then his hand came out and her chin was taken between his thumb and forefinger in a grip so strong she couldn't break it.

She went absolutely still like she had in the SUV, her heart was thudding in her ears, some primitive part of her telling her not to move so the tiger wouldn't eat her.

There was a dark, fierce gleam in his eyes, and she became aware, overwhelmingly, of his physical presence. Of how warm his fingers were on her skin and though his grip was firm, it wasn't so hard as to cause her pain.

His body was very hot, burning like the radiators back in her New York apartment in midwinter when she was cold and wanted to press herself against them. And he smelled like clean sweat and sandalwood and some other spice she couldn't quite pinpoint. It made something inside her flip over.

She'd never had a man touch her like this before.

"No," the sheikh said in that rough, gravelly voice of his, the word heavy as a slab of stone falling onto the ground. "You are staying here."

 *     *     *

She was upset, but he'd expected that. The moment he'd revealed what she was here for, he'd thought she wouldn't be happy and indeed, she hadn't been.

But he'd also expected tears and pleas, and although he could see a faint reddening of her eyes, neither the tears nor the pleas had appeared.

Instead there had been a very real anger, and for some reason that had moved him more than tears ever would.

She stared up at him now, her pointed jaw held fast between his fingers, and he could see that anger sparking in her eyes. He could feel it in the quiver of her chin and the tremble of her body.

Up close, the grain of her milky skin was fine and the scatter of freckles across her nose was like gold dust. Her lashes were as red as her hair, a kind of dark copper with a sheen of gold to it, the perfect frame for her silvery, smoky eyes. A faint scent of sweet flowers came from her, a simple, uncomplicated yet feminine scent that sent the blood rushing to his head.

Her skin was very soft and very smooth, reminding him of the silk pillows that had once graced the harem. And also the skin of the women he'd had there, soft, fragrant, and yielding...

Desire shifted in the dark, right down deep inside him. An unwanted sensation. He should probably let her go, but he wasn't going to. He was stronger than the desire. Strength was one of his gifts and he chose to exercise it whenever possible.

So he kept tight his hold on her, watching the ebb and flow of color under her skin. Ignoring the pull of his baser instincts.

She was very angry, he could see that. And no wonder, if what she said about her company was true. Pity that was irrelevant at this particular point in time.

"You can't stop me if I want to leave," she said hoarsely. "You can't keep me here."

"Yes, I can." He made his voice harsh so she could be in no doubt. "My palace is full of guards and you have no money or passport. Even if you were to somehow manage to avoid my soldiers, you would not get far."

Her throat moved and he had the most peculiar desire to stroke his hand down the graceful white column of it. He remembered the feeling of her pulse beneath his palm back in the SUV, fluttering hard and fast, like a bird.

"You said I could refuse." Her voice had gotten thicker. "You said a woman has to give her consent."

Prompted by some urge he couldn't name, he stroked his thumb experimentally on her chin. "That is true in most places, Al-Harah for example. But here, in Al-Shakhra, our customs are much older. Here the right of refusal happens only when a woman is claimed by more than one man." She gave a little shiver as his thumb moved, her eyes going wide with surprise. Very interesting. Had she not been touched like this before? "So you may refuse, Miss Cartwright. But only if you already have a husband or a man who will come for you."

Something flashed across her face then, a raw kind of emotion he didn't recognize. Then her expression closed up, those pretty red-gold lashes veiling her gaze. "I have a government," she said stonily. "Once they've found out what's happened to me, they'll come for me."

Well, she might very well have a government who would help, but she had no man to come for her, to claim her, of that he was sure.

If he'd had a heart he might have felt sorry for her. But he'd cut the remains of it out when Farid had killed himself. He had no pity left.

"Your government would have to know where you are in order to come for you and I have made sure they will not find you for some time." He should release her now, yet he didn't. As if he wanted to test himself against her sweet scent and the feel of her skin beneath his fingers. It had been too long. It had been far too long...

She tensed and he could feel the subtle pull of her chin against his hand. She wanted to get away, escape him, but he continued to keep a tight hold on her, studying her delicate features.

Back in Al-Harah, lying unconscious on that street, he'd thought she was a rather insignificant consolation prize when compared to Princess Safira. Not for her looks because beauty wasn't a quality that drew him—as a soldier he had no use for beauty. But because she looked weak. And he respected strength.

Yet this small creature had proved to have a certain strength after all. She hadn't cowered before him or begged for mercy. Instead she'd raged and shouted. Had jabbed him in the chest with her finger. And even now, though she was held fast in his grip, she was trying to get away.

Perhaps she would make a good sheikha after all.

Her lashes rested on her cheeks, her gaze firmly on his chest. "Please," she said unexpectedly, her voice husky. "Please, s-sire. Take me back to Al-Harah. Let me go."

That stutter again. It made something unfamiliar tighten in his chest. Something unwelcome. No, it could not be regret. Or sympathy, or any one of those weak emotions. The ones that had ultimately led to Farid and Maysan's death. He would not let them in, not ever.

Zakir released her, stepping away and trying to ignore the warmth from her skin that lingered on his fingertips. "I cannot do that, Miss Cartwright." He kept his tone cold. "Your place is now here. With me."

Slowly she raised her chin, looking at him, and this time he couldn't read the look in her eyes. But there was no mistaking the determined line of her jaw. "And my company? My whole life? What about that?"

Yes, this would be hard for her. But then what was life if not hard? Everyone who lived in the Al-Shakhra, the Stone Kingdom, knew that.

"You will not need a company," he said steadily. "You will have a new life. As queen of this country. As my sheikha."

Her jaw became even more determined, hard and set, a furious silver flame burning in her eyes. "Over my dead body."

Well, he hoped it would not come to that.

Zakir turned, going over to the one of the benches and sitting down, reaching to undo his desert boots. After he'd trained, he liked to swim in the pool, and especially now, with the strange, tight feeling remaining in his chest and the heat in his blood, he could do with immersing himself in some cold water.

Putting the boots beside the bench, he then reached for the buttons on the black combat pants he wore, pulling them open.

"What are you doing?"

He looked up to see Felicity staring at him, her eyes wide.

"I am going swimming. I prefer to do so after a training session." He paused. "You wish to join me?"

"God, no."

Perhaps she didn't like to swim. "You are quite welcome to use the pool at any time."

"But...but..."

She looked flustered, though he couldn't imagine why. "But what?"

"What about me?"

"What about you?" He began to push down his pants and the briefs he wore under them.

"Oh." The word came out on a funny squeak, color rushing into her already pink face. Her mouth opened, her gaze dropping down his body as he stepped out of his pants completely.

This was his palace and he was king of it. And shame was another emotion he no longer felt. So it didn't bother him that she went redder than her hair at his nudity. In fact, it was almost...intriguing to see her look at him with such wide eyes. As if she'd never seen an unclothed man in her life.

It made him want to play with her a little.

"Do you see something...unusual?" he asked bluntly.

Her gaze jerked up to his face and he didn't think it was possible, but she went an even deeper shade of red. "What? Uh, no, of course not." She blinked. "Can I go now? I mean, am I dismissed?"

"No." He found he wasn't in any hurry to let her leave. "You will stay."

That small, delicate jaw of hers firmed. "Well, you could have given me a little warning that you were just going to...you know...strip."

"I always swim naked. Besides, you will have to get used to seeing me like this." He turned toward the pool, a peculiar sense of satisfaction at her reaction resting inside him, which was strange because he really didn't care what she thought of him.

"Why will I have to get used to seeing you like that?" Her voice sounded shaky.

He walked to the edge, looking down at the blue water. "Because one day I will need an heir."

Without waiting for her response, which would no doubt be an unhappy one, he dove cleanly into the cool water. It was the very height of luxury to have so much water purely for swimming in, but unlike the harem, it was the one pleasure from Farid's reign he'd allowed himself to keep.

Coming up for air, he lifted his hands and wiped the water from his eyes.

Felicity stood at the side of the pool with her arms folded, a mutinous expression on her face, silver sparks flashing in her eyes. "Just so you know, if I'm refusing to be your wife, I'm also refusing...a-anything else."

Playing with her was unfair, especially when he had all the power and she had none. But again, it was better she got used to it because that was life in the Stone Palace, where he was the king and his word was law. Al-Shakhra wasn't an absolute monarchy for nothing.

Zakir slicked his hair back with one hand. "I am prepared to wait until you are ready."

Truth be told, he was in no hurry to consummate the marriage himself. Part of the reason she would make him a good sheikha was the fact that he wasn't attracted to her. Sex would only happen in the creation of heirs, he'd already vowed that to himself, and if they had no physical chemistry then he wouldn't be tempted to break that vow. He would never give into passion the way his brother had.

Yet he hadn't counted on the strange stirrings of desire he'd experienced these past ten minutes, where he'd found his control with her a little less complete than he liked it to be.

So, no. He would wait. He was very good at waiting.

"You don't understand. I will _never_ be ready." She'd started pacing beside the pool, her arms folded tightly. "I'm only twenty-four. I don't want marriage. I don't want kids. I graduated MIT with a PhD when I was twenty-one and I own one of the fastest growing software companies in the States. A company that needs this deal with Al-Harah. That's where my life is. That's what I want." She stopped all of a sudden, a fierce look on her face. "How can I make you see that?"

If she was trying to make herself less of an asset as a sheikha, she wasn't succeeding. So it seemed she was not only an accomplished businesswoman—which he already knew from the research Jamal had done—but she was also highly intelligent as well. That only reinforced his decision to keep her.

"What I can see," he said, "is that I made the right choice in taking you, after all. Intelligence is valuable in a sheikha."

A look of what he thought was surprise flickered over her face, before it gave way to frustration. "That's great. Apart from the small fact that I do not want to be a sheikha."

Zakir eyed her. As intriguing as she was, the conversation now started to wear thin. He had other things to do today and had no time to have the same argument over and over again with this little redhead. He'd made his decision. It was final.

Moving purposefully over to the edge of the pool, he put his hands on the edge and pushed himself out of it.

She didn't move, that fierce, obstinate look on her face, keeping her gaze firmly above his waistline this time.

"You have told me your objections," he said, his voice flat with command. "And I have listened. My decision stands, however."

She scowled. "But look, it doesn't make any sense. I'm not nobility. I'm not beautiful. I don't know anything about your customs. I'm from New York, for God's sake. Marrying me isn't exactly a smart move."

Now she was questioning his intelligence? Definitely, this conversation was over.

Ignoring her, he strode over to the discreet control panel on the wall near where he'd left his towel and pressed a button that would call back in his guards.

"Also, you're still failing to take into account the fact that the American government is not going to be happy when they hear—"

"The American government will not hear anything," he interrupted. "Because I had Jamal cover our tracks. As far as they or anyone else is concerned, you are taking an unexpected sightseeing trip into the Al-Harahan desert that is likely to last more than two weeks. Now stop talking. My word is law here, little one. And the sooner you understand that the better."

As soon as he spoke the doors opened and a pair of his royal guards swept in.

"Little one?" She didn't seem to notice the guards, obviously too busy being incensed. "I'm not little."

Zakir gestured. "Take her to the sheikha's quarters," he ordered the guards in Arabic. "See to her every comfort."

The lines of her face tightened as she finally noticed the guards heading in her direction, her mouth firming.

Smoky gray eyes met his. "Am I heading to the dungeons now?" she asked, the question laced with heavy sarcasm.

"No, you are to be taken to the queen's quarters, your every need seen to."

Defiance glittered in her eyes. "I will _never_ be your queen _."_

Zakir bared his teeth at her, his patience at an end. "Yes, Miss Cartwright. You most certainly will."

## Chapter Four

Felicity paced back and forward over the polished stone floor, so furious she had to move, otherwise she'd spontaneously combust with rage.

She wanted to smack the sheikh of Al-Shakhra full in his harsh, handsome face.

She'd tried pleading with him and that hadn't worked. Then she'd tried a bit of logic, but that hadn't worked either. All she was left with now was sheer, bloody-minded determination.

It felt like she'd just gone back in time four years, back to when her mother had invited the scion of a particularly wealthy and influential New York family to the Cartwright's family Christmas party, telling Felicity she had to do her best to get to know him, because he would make her father an excellent son-in-law and that's what her father really wanted.

That had been the night Felicity had finally realized that making her father happy was all that mattered to her mother. That her mother didn't care about Felicity's PhD. Or the fact that she was many, many years ahead of her peers. Or that she'd won academic awards right, left and center, and had a brilliant future ahead of her.

No, all that had mattered was using Felicity for her own ends, to stave off her parents' divorce that had come anyway.

And now this sheikh was wanting to use her, too, whether she liked it or not, putting everything she'd worked so hard for at risk.

Over her dead, freaking body.

_It might come to that if you actually end up smacking him in the face._

A little wave of cold swept through her.

She couldn't think why she wasn't more afraid. Any sane woman would be, after what had happened to her. But although fear was certainly there, it was anger that had her in its grip.

She wasn't going to be used again. She simply _refused._

_So what are you going to do? You're his prisoner._

Felicity stopped pacing, glaring around the room.

The guards had marched her along a series of narrow corridors and magnificent staircases to a much bigger room. Actually, it was more like room _s_ since there was a series of them, all interconnecting.

They were much bigger than the tiny, bare cell she'd woken up in and certainly much nicer. The floors were of polished stone scattered with thick, deep Persian-style rugs in blues and reds and golds. The windows were narrow, but there were a lot of them lining the walls, the casements so deep she could have lain down along them quite comfortably. Arched doorways connected the rooms, heavy curtains in place of doors leading into a surprisingly modern bathroom that had a heavily latticed wooden door.

One of the rooms was full of low couches and floor cushions upholstered in rich silks. Another had bookshelves stacked high with books and other interesting object d'art. The bedroom had a massive, low bed with yet more cushions on it, and a glass door that led out onto a terrace.

It was very luxurious all things considered.

She hated it.

Most especially because when the guards had first delivered her here, she'd seen that her laptop and her phone had been returned. And she'd leapt happily on the phone, instantly turning it on, only to find that there was no signal, none whatsoever.

She'd spent a good hour trying to find one, but hadn't got anything. Not even a flicker. It wasn't surprising, of course, given the thick walls of the palace, yet even on the terrace outside the bedroom, where she'd almost been flattened by the heat of the sun and the yawning gulf of the valley beneath it, she hadn't managed to find one.

It was like there wasn't a mobile network at all, which she simply couldn't get her head around.

That had given her a true taste of fear. Computers had been her escape since she'd gotten old enough to sense the tension that seeped into the very walls of her parents' Manhattan townhouse, where speaking a word out of turn could signal the start of World War Three. Tech, code, the internet had all given her a way out, an outlet for her restless brain, and without them... Well, she felt even more of a prisoner than she actually was.

Shoving the thought away, she turned as the sound of a heavy knock came from the door—a door with a guard outside it, which she knew because opening that door to see whether it was locked or not had been the first thing she'd done.

She'd only just opened her mouth to respond when the door opened and a couple of heavily veiled women came in bearing trays of food. The women said nothing to her, only bowing before setting the food down on the low table beside the sofa.

Clearly dinner was served and a pretty solid looking dinner it was, too. Rice and some kind of fragrant stew. Fresh, flat bread and a few dishes of vegetables. White and red wine in separate cut crystal decanters. A jug of iced water.

Indeed, every need seen to, as Zakir had promised.

A thought struck her suddenly. Not quite _every_ need had been seen to, had it?

"Excuse me," she said as the women, relieved of their trays, began to head back toward the door. "I need to see the sheikh."

The women stopped and flicked a glance at her. Their faces were veiled so she couldn't see their expressions, but their eyes were guarded, wary.

"I need to see the king," she said again, when they didn't say anything.

Another silence.

Oh damn, they probably didn't speak English.

Another second of silence passed as Felicity tried frantically to think of some way of communicating with them, when suddenly they turned and went out the door.

Great. So much for that idea.

She'd taken a step toward the door, thinking of going out and demanding to be brought to the sheikh anyway, when it opened again, a huge figure filling the doorway.

Speak of the devil.

The sheikh stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. He was in the black combat pants and desert boots he'd been wearing earlier, but this time he also wore robes of a dark, deep blue swathed around him. A heavy black belt sat low on his waist and there was an honest to God sword hanging on his hip.

He didn't look much like a king. He looked more like some kind of desert warrior.

His dark eyes gleamed beneath the blue cotton of his head-covering, the harsh lines of his face expressionless.

For some reason she couldn't possibly fathom, the room that had once seemed so large, now felt as small as a closet. As if by the very action of stepping through that doorway, he'd somehow changed the fabric of the space-time continuum. He'd even managed to do something to the oxygen in the room because it now felt as if she couldn't get enough air into her lungs. Like he was taking all of it just by being there.

She couldn't stop herself from looking down his massively built frame, remembering how he'd looked by the pool, when he hadn't been wearing anything at all. Bare bronze skin. Heavily muscled as a gladiator. Power in every line of him. Quite awe-inspiring and... _beautiful..._

"I was told you wanted to speak to me?"

Felicity jerked her head up to meet his gaze, feeling the inevitable blush sting her cheeks. Which was weird. Why did she keep blushing around him?

She'd never met a man she'd been all that attracted to. Her school had been a prestigious all girls school and even back then she'd found her friends' obsession with boys annoying and inexplicable. Especially when there were so many more interesting things in the world to think about.

In fact, she found most men dull. Many of them found her way too intimidating intellectually and she had no interest in dumbing herself down to make them happy. She wasn't in the business of adjusting herself to meet other people's expectations and she'd never regretted that decision, not once.

Except maybe now. Because maybe then she'd understand why she couldn't take her eyes off this particular man.

_Really? You're attracted to him, idiot._

But no, that couldn't be. He'd kidnapped her. You weren't supposed to be attracted to your kidnappers.

She swallowed, suddenly dry-mouthed for reasons she couldn't explain. "Yes. I...did. That was quick."

"I was passing by." One black brow lifted imperiously. "This had better not be about returning you to Al-Harah. I have already had that discussion with you."

Pulling herself together, Felicity lifted her chin. "No, it isn't. You told me that all my needs would be met. But they haven't been."

That brow rose higher. "You have had food and drink delivered to you. There are items of clothing in the closets should you need them. Books on the shelves. What more could you possibly want?"

Clothes, books, and food. Did he really think she was that simple? Felicity bit back the sarcastic comment that nearly came out, deciding on something a bit more conciliatory instead. "Well, as it happens, I would like an internet connection. You must have Wi-Fi, at least, in this place?"

There was a silence.

His gaze narrowed. "Wi-Fi?" He said the word like it was a foreign term he wasn't familiar with.

Felicity folded her arms. "You know what it is, don't you? It's a facility that lets—"

"I know what it is." His voice was flat, the edge of it sharp as a blade. "Why do you want it?"

"I don't just want it. I need it. Remember that company I told you about? I wasn't kidding when I said I needed this deal. If I don't show at this meeting, my employees' jobs will be at risk. They depend on me. I have to make contact with them at least and I can't do that without an internet connection." She couldn't get help without an internet connection either.

There was another silence.

The sheikh stared at her, his gaze utterly opaque, and she had the feeling he was trying to see right inside her, like an X-ray. It was vaguely uncomfortable and she wanted to look away, but she forced herself to hold it.

"Do you think me stupid, Miss Cartwright?" The words were soft, but there was a certain menace to them that made her heartbeat start to accelerate, reminding her that this wasn't one of her soft-bodied, male colleagues. This was a king. This was a warrior. A man infinitely more dangerous than any other man she'd ever met and underestimating him was a supremely stupid thing to do.

Helplessly, a strange fascination shifted inside her chest. She did love investigating a mystery or working out a complicated puzzle. And she'd bet everything that this man would be one hell of a puzzle. A potentially deadly one.

"N-no. Of course not."

"Then why are you asking for something that will enable you to call for help?"

Okay, so yes, she'd been stupid to think he wouldn't make that connection. Which annoyed her since she wasn't accustomed to feeling stupid.

_Be careful, Felicity. Be very careful how you answer._

She blinked. "How about...if I promise not to call for help?"

His features hardened. "This conversation is at an end." And he turned in swirl of blue robes for the door.

_You idiot. That's really all you could think of?_

"Wait." The word burst from her, before she could stop it. "You can't just leave me here."

He paused and gave her a single, searing glance. "I do not appreciate being treated like a fool. My kingdom is ancient and my people hold to the old ways, but that does not mean we are idiots, Miss Cartwright."

A wave of heat went through her, but this time it wasn't embarrassment, it was shame. Because he wasn't wrong. And she'd underestimated him.

"I'm sorry," she said thickly. "I didn't mean to."

He said nothing, those black eyes of his settling on her, and she had no idea what he was thinking.

And somehow the words kept on coming. "It's just...I've been kidnapped and drugged. I'm in a strange country and I'm worried about my company. And I just need to make sure it's all okay because we had this meeting and it's important and I have people who depend on me..." She stopped, hating how pathetic she sounded.

There was a silence.

Then he said, "Tomorrow will we have breakfast together. You will tell me your needs and I will tell you mine. Perhaps we will come to some arrangement where we both get what we want."

Okay, so that was something, wasn't it? "And what is it that you want?"

His black eyes gave her a slow, intense look, from the top of her head all the way down to the boots on her feet, sending a shiver right down her spine.

"I want your surrender, Miss Cartwright," he said in that rough, harsh voice of his. "Nothing more. Nothing less."

 *     *     *

Zakir didn't normally bother with a formal breakfast, preferring to eat something in his office directly after his morning training since he always had too much to do. But he was willing to alter his schedule for the day to fit in with Felicity's, to give them a chance to talk in a more peaceful atmosphere.

He'd arranged for breakfast to be served in one of the Stone Palace's open courtyards, one that overhung the valley and gave a magnificent view from the cliffside down to Harjah, the capital city of Al-Shakhra. A fountain played and potted olive trees provided some greenery. It was a pleasant place, yet for him it wasn't nature that gave him peace, but the cool space of the training room and the ritual of the blade. Or the martial arts forms he practiced, or the punching bag he rained blows upon.

Physical exercise was a meditation and one he needed if he wanted to keep his baser desires in check. Which wasn't usually a problem.

And yet as he watched Felicity Cartwright move from the darkness of the corridor into the brilliant sunshine of the courtyard, guards flanking her, he was aware again of that stirring of desire inside him, heavy and slow as a hibernating creature waking from sleep.

There wasn't any reason for it. She was dressed once more in jeans and a T-shirt, and sneakers, the clothes unfeminine and ridiculous for a hot desert country. But as she walked over to where the table had been set, he found his gaze drawn to the swell of her small, round breasts then down farther to the graceful indentation of her waist. Her legs seemed slender and in perfect proportion to her figure, not that he really could tell since the denim obscured their shape. Then there was the bright blaze of her hair in a glossy braid down her back, and he found his mind wondering if the curls between her thighs would be the same color...

The desire tightened and he shifted in his chair, the combat pants he favored for everyday wear suddenly more constricting than they had been.

It irritated him. He was stronger than this, much stronger. Yes, the mornings were his weakest time as they were for any man, but after he'd dealt with any inconvenient erections in the privacy of his shower, he thought no more about it. And he certainly didn't find himself getting hard for a woman he barely knew, let alone one small, pale, and very sarcastic redhead.

She seemed a little subdued as she came across the courtyard to the table he'd had set up under the shade of white canvas awning. Her skin was pink, a few beads of sweat on her brow. Already the heat was punishing and it was only nine a.m.

"Good morning, Miss Cartwright," he said cordially, as she approached. "I trust you slept well?"

One of her guards reached out to pull her chair out, but she'd already taken it herself and was sitting down, pushing herself in. "Fine," she muttered, giving her guards a resentful look. "If you don't count waking up to find I was still a prisoner, that is."

Zakir dismissed the guards with a gesture. "You might have felt better if you'd put on one of the robes in the closet. They're much cooler than what you have on."

She sat back in her chair, her arms folded and her shoulders hunched, a defensive posture. "How does wearing a robe change the fact that I'm still a prisoner? Because, FYI, that's the thing that's really making me feel crappy, not to mention the fact that my company is probably going down the tubes as we speak."

Zakir considered her for a long moment. Despite the flush of heat in her cheeks, he could see her underlying pallor and the faint, purple bruises under eyes.

No, she had not slept well.

_You caused that. You are to blame._

A flicker of something he refused to call regret flicked through him. Because he could not regret taking her. His country was too important to ignore for the sake of regret, as was wiping away the stain of Farid's actions.

No, she was not the wife he was hoping for, and being a westerner would not win her any hearts with his suspicious, conservative countrymen. But he would convince them. She was the future incarnate and that was what Al-Shakhra needed.

They would love her as they loved Maysan, he'd make sure of that.

Wordlessly, he lifted the silver pot that contained the coffee and poured it into a thick, white china mug. Then he pushed it over the table to her. "Coffee. That should make you feel less...'crappy'."

She gave him a suspicious glance, but after a moment she pulled the cup closer, adding a bit of milk from a jug next to the coffee and a couple of lumps of sugar. "Thanks," she muttered. "And for the record, kidnapping me and intimidating me won't get you what you want. But a good coffee might."

He sat back in his chair, picking up his own cup and cradling it in his hands. "You are very forthright in your views, Miss Cartwright."

She colored a little. "Having an opinion isn't a crime."

"Of course it is not. But do you speak to clients of your company the way you speak to me?"

There was a pause.

She glanced up at him, quicksilver beneath bright copper lashes. "No. I just...my emotions get the better of me sometimes. And you have to admit, I had reason to get angry yesterday."

She, unfortunately, did have a point.

Absently, he swirled his coffee in his cup. "You must understand that my intention was never to harm you, Miss Cartwright."

"Your hand around my throat would beg to differ." She gave her coffee a vigorous stir.

Ah, yes. That. "To be fair, you bit me."

"To be fair, that was because you held up my car and kidnapped me."

Despite himself, a thread of amusement wound through him. She was quick, he'd give her that. "I was a soldier before I was ever a king. My first reflex is to defend myself from attack."

_You liked having your hand around her throat. You have always liked that._

Zakir pushed the thought back down into the darkness where it should have stayed.

"Why were you a soldier?" Felicity sat back in her chair, sipping her coffee, her gray gaze wary. "Did you go into the army before you got to be a sheikh?"

"I did."

"And what happened then? I guess your father was the king and then you got to be?"

The conversation had taken an unexpected turn toward a subject he didn't wish to go into. No need to talk about Farid just yet.

He lifted his cup and drained the coffee in it before putting it back down on the table "There will be time for that later. Right now, we need to have a discussion about our mutual needs."

Her forehead creased as if she didn't much care for the change of subject. "Okay then." And her expression changed again, turning calculating and more than a little fierce, which he found fascinating. She was such an expressive little thing.

"So obviously my freedom is out of the question."

"You may have freedom. As long as you stay in Al-Shakhra."

"I knew it. Still, worth a try." She took a sip of her coffee, never taking her gaze off him. "So exactly how long are you expecting to keep me here?"

He didn't look away. "Indefinitely."

Her mouth tightened and he waited for some kind of furious protest to escape it. But instead all she said was, "In that case, I want internet connectivity. I _have_ to be able to be able to communicate with my company."

Rashiq, Zakir's father, had had very strong views on the internet, viewing it and indeed, anything modern, as anathema and a threat to the very fabric of Al-Shakhran society. He'd closed the borders of the country, enforcing a kind of dark age, only allowing certain government departments access to any kind of modern technology. When Farid had succeeded him, inroads had been made into modernizing the country's infrastructure, but it had been a difficult process, made even more difficult by Farid himself and his mood swings.

Now Farid was gone, modernization had fallen to Zakir and the job hadn't gotten any easier. Al-Shakhra had barely gotten electricity and running water out to its most remote villages, let alone putting in the fiber cable needed to ensure internet access. The central business district of Harja had it, but that was pretty much it. The palace itself with its thick walls had been a nightmare to get a signal in, but his office had a direct, broadband connection.

Zakir stared at her, assessing. Remembering her arrogance of the day before. "Ah, yes. You were hoping to use it to communicate with others to arrange help, thinking I would not notice."

Another wash of color swept over her already pink cheeks. "I told you I was sorry about that. Anyway, can you blame me?"

"No, but the problem still stands. I cannot let you use something that will help you escape."

Her forehead creased. "I'd advise blocking my access, but then I'm not sure you'd be able to do that. I can pretty much get around any kind of firewall."

Once again he found himself amused by her candor. "Any other suggestions in that case?"

"What if I promised I wouldn't?"

"That would mean trusting you. And I don't."

She didn't say anything for a moment, biting her lip. "What do you want then? Apart from my surrender, of course."

_A woman. Warm and soft and willing. Strong enough to take him. Who wouldn't break._

The thought crept through him, sliding under his defenses, curling out of the darkness. He shoved it away. That was _not_ what he wanted. Not anymore.

"A wife," he said aloud. "To help me modernize my nation, to give my people hope for the future." _Wipe the stain from the Al-Nazari name._ "To give me heirs."

The creases in her brow deepened. Almost absently she reached out to the basket of fresh, white crusty bread on the table and took a piece of it, buttering it and slathering it with the fresh honey that had come from the palace beehive.

"Modernize your nation," she murmured, taking a bite out of her bread and chewing thoughtfully. "What if I told you I could help you with that without the need for a wedding?"

Something clenched inside him, but he couldn't quite decide what it was. Disappointment? Excitement? Curiosity?

He studied her.

The sun had crept higher, shining down on the awning, the heat deepening. The ancient stone of the walls around them absorbed that heat, radiating it outwards. A cool breeze blew but it was still very, very hot.

Beyond the stone parapet, the few skyscrapers of his city towered, some of them partially built. There were more on the way, signs of new business confidence, but it was slow. The country needed more investors, more everything. It needed more of the vigor that neighboring Al-Harah had, the life that had been injected since the lost princess had returned to the throne.

But his country had no lost princesses. It only had him and a legacy of blood and madness.

"Tell me more," he ordered, watching her. He had no intention of changing his mind, but it would be useful to hear what she had to say all the same.

Felicity brushed the bread crumbs from her fingers and leaned forward, her smoke-gray eyes glinting. "Well, that's why I was in Al-Harah. To present this new software that Red Star has developed. It basically utilizes the existing mobile communication network to deliver internet to anyone who can get a signal. And it does it much faster and enables more data than any other existing software." The sparks in her eyes got brighter, her expression becoming excited. Proud. "Pretty great, huh? We can also use existing electricity infrastructure too, so you don't need to build a whole lot of new cell phone towers. It's aimed at helping developing nations get easy, simple internet access." She grinned at him, inviting him to share her pride in her creation. "It took me months. I knew there were another couple of companies also working on this thing because the tech is based on some shareware code. But I just pushed myself, made a few leaps that I don't think anyone else would have, and bam!" Her hand came down unexpectedly on the table, making the cups and plates jump. "I basically turned it out way before anyone else." Her face shone, her eyes bright as summer lightning. "You might even want a piece of that yourself, right?"

_You do want a piece of that. Except it's her you want a piece of._

His heart was beating faster than it should have, and he couldn't seem to drag his gaze from the brightness of her face. It had been a long time since he'd seen pride and genuine pleasure light up a person in quite that way. A long time since anyone had shared it with him.

Sometimes it felt like he lived in darkness, surrounded by violence and death. With hard men who found pleasure in nothing but killing. Who lived for nothing but war. He was one of those men himself.

Yet Felicity wasn't. Right in this moment she was a flash of sunlight in a shadowed room and he wanted more. He wanted that sunlight shining directly on him. Preferably while she was naked.

"Yes," he said slowly, "I might indeed want a piece of that."

Her smiled widened. "Well...maybe you can have it as well as Al-Harah. I'll give you the software and you give me my freedom. Easy."

"Alas, it is not so easy. Your software would be very useful, no question, but it will not take the place of a wife."

The brightness in her face dimmed and for some reason the loss felt acute. As if he had taken a small, priceless jewel and cast it under his boot heels, crushing it into dust.

"But you said you wanted to modernize—"

"I also said I wanted heirs. So unless this software of yours can create children as well as provide cheap Internet, you will stay."

She sat back abruptly in her seat. All the brightness had gone now, the glow in her eyes dissipating. The light through the canvas awning glinted on her red-gold lashes as she lowered them, veiling her gaze. "So you'll give me nothing."

He should not care about the look on her face or whether he'd disappointed her. And yet an inexplicable anger at the look on her face licked up inside him all the same. "Why should I give you anything? You are mine to do with as I see fit."

Her chin firmed and those pretty lashes of hers swept up all of a sudden, her gaze calculating. "Okay, baby steps then. What would you need from me in order to give me internet access?"

A burgeoning respect began to thread through his anger. She really didn't give up, did she? That kind of spirit was certainly to be commended. "What would I need?"

"Yeah. I'll do whatever you want if you give me access to my email and the net." She blinked. "I mean, within reason. I'm not going to...." She paused, another violent blush rising to her cheeks. "You know..."

He did know. "Sleep with me?"

Her throat moved and she hurriedly reached for a glass of water, taking a quick sip. "Yes. That."

Under the coiling anger, desire stirred yet again and along with it a curiosity that really shouldn't be there. She had no problem with sharing her anger with him and yet at the mention of sex, she suddenly became reticent. Why was that?

Ah, but no. He couldn't think such things. "Do not worry." He kept his voice hard, certain, addressing both her and the desire that seemed to be leaking through him like blood in pool of water. "Sleeping with you at this point is the last thing I want to do, Miss Cartwright."

She blinked, something flashing through her eyes he didn't quite catch. Then her lashes swept down again, the blush on her cheeks now crimson. "W-well, that's good. Because sleeping with you is the last thing I want to do, too." She cleared her throat. "So, for the record, I'll do anything other than that."

A tense silence fell and he let it hang there a moment.

He didn't need to give her anything at all. He could make her do whatever he wanted. And yet...

_You want to be different to your father? From Farid? Might is not the only way._

He did want to be different. He _had_ to be different. Otherwise what kind of legacy would his family leave on this country? He would not let it end in blood.

"Tonight is the feast where I present my bride prize to my court," he said after a moment. "If you acquit yourself well, I will grant you access to my office. You may use the phone there to call your business and your family to let them know you are well. I cannot let you do anything more than that."

Copper red brows drew down, annoyance flickering in her eyes, though really, what did she expect? "Generous of you. And acquitting myself well being...?"

"You will wear the clothes I give you and act as though you are perfectly willing to be there. You will not protest or insult our customs. You will comport yourself with grace and dignity." His ministers were suspicious of his choice—he'd already had a number of them air their opinions the previous day—and it would not do to have her insult the entire court so early on. Not that he needed their agreement or permission, but if he didn't want to be the dictator his father was he'd need to at least show he was sensitive to their wishes.

Oddly, something that looked like doubt passed over her face, another quicksilver flash before it was gone. "Okay," she said firmly. "I guess you have a deal." Then she held out her hand over the table. "Shake on it."

_Don't. Touching her would be a mistake._

But no, that was ridiculous. He was stronger than this desire. He had long since mastered it.

Without hesitation, Zakir reached for her small hand, enclosing it in his own. And he was looking straight at her when he felt it go through him, the spark of electricity when his skin touched hers. Saw the flash of response in her eyes, saw them widen, her mouth opening in surprise and shock.

Felt himself respond, too. The hunter now fully aware of his prey.

He tightened his fingers instinctively, the warmth of her skin somehow even hotter than the sun bearing down on them through the awning, because he had to test himself against this. Prove himself master of it.

Then she jerked her hand from his and he knew, with an instinct that was old as time, he wasn't alone.

She'd felt it, too.

## Chapter Five

Felicity sat on a low chair in front of the mirror, her palms sweaty and heartbeat somewhere in the vicinity of her mouth. Behind her stood one of the veiled women who didn't speak any English and who was now pinning a length of snowy white silk in her hair.

She stared at the stranger in the glass. Her face was pale, her eyes huge. They'd been carefully lined with black kohl, her mouth painted a pale pink, the freckles across her nose vanished with some powder. Simple makeup and yet not at all what she usually wore. In fact, she usually wore no makeup because she hated the stuff. Hated how it made her feel like she was once again the quiet teenager berated by her mother for not making more of herself. For paying more attention to her schoolwork than to the very important social engagements her mother insisted she attend.

Which made it weird that she was now sitting here, docilely letting someone else put paint on her face and do her hair. Folding her into the strange and diaphanous robes of white silk that wrapped around her and fluttered when she moved.

And all because she wanted a damn phone call. It made her feel even more like a prisoner than she did already.

She took a breath, resisting the urge to wipe her sweaty palms down the white silk of her robes.

Okay, so demanding an internet connection had been pretty direct of her and it was annoying that he wasn't going to go for it.

_Did you really expect him to?_

If she was honest with herself, not really. He wasn't stupid, as he'd already proved. Nevertheless, she'd hoped he might be in a generous mood. Or even a pitying one. But apparently he wasn't in either. And a phone call wasn't going to be nearly enough. Still, she didn't have much else in the way of options. She had to call Red Star, salvage what she could of the Al-Harahan deal, fix this somehow. Because the alternative...well, it just wasn't happening. She'd spent too much time, too much blood, sweat, and tears building Red Star to see it fail because some stupid sheikh had had the gall to kidnap her. Not to mention the fact that she had a whole lot of people whose jobs depended on her.

No, she needed that phone call. Needed to see if she could renegotiate with the Al-Harahan government, reschedule the meeting...

_For when? He isn't going to let you go anytime soon._

She ground her teeth. Well, maybe she'd be able to get some secret message out or something. Whatever happened though, she'd have to act the good little prisoner now. Annoying, when she'd sworn to herself she'd never let anyone use her, never let anyone force her into doing something she didn't want again. Yet here she was, letting the sheikh do exactly that.

Damn the sheikh. Damn Zakir.

And yes, she'd call him by his name and not _sire_ or _your majesty_ or any other title a king might be used to. She wanted to reduce him in her mind, not build him up.

Her palm stung, reminding her of another reason why she might want to reduce him, and not just because he was obviously a power hungry dictator intent on forcing his will on her. A reason that didn't have much to do with the fact that he was a king, but everything to do with the fact that he was a man.

She shivered, remembering the feel of his hand enclosing hers. His skin had felt hotter than the stone of the courtyard, burning her all the way through. And the power in that one clasp, the subtle strength in his long fingers... He could have crushed her hand without any effort. Yet he hadn't. His grip had been firm, but strangely gentle. And that weird electricity that had gone straight up her arm...

Instinctively she'd met his gaze, shocked by the dark glitter of hunger in his eyes. As if she were food. No one had ever looked at her like that, not one single man. At college, she'd been far too young, the schoolgirl genius playing with the grown-ups. And afterwards, after she'd gotten her company up and running, there had been the odd guy who'd expressed an interest. Yet it had been obvious even then that it wasn't her they wanted, only a ticket into the industry...

_You liked it. You liked the way Zakir looked at you._

No. Stupid. She didn't like it. And her body was an idiot.

Her palm stung, but this time it wasn't because of the remembered heat of the sheikh's hand in hers, it was her own nails digging in. Trying to drown out that heat and the memory. An impossible task.

_He kidnapped you. Remember that instead._

Felicity bit her lip. Hard.

The woman behind her tutted, pulling out the lipstick and touching it up before Felicity could protest. Then she was gently urged to her feet and ushered to the door, the gilded flat slippers she wore scuffing on the stone floor, the white silk of the robes billowing out behind her.

She felt like a walking sail or some kind of ambulatory cloud.

Outside the door, there were the usual guards, plus the bearded, hard-faced man who had introduced himself as Jamal, one of the sheikh's head guards and advisor, or something.

He never looked very pleased to see her, which was fair enough since she wasn't very pleased to see him either.

His hard, dark eyes swept over her and he said something to the women, who nodded their heads and glided away down the corridor without a backward glance. Oddly bereft, Felicity only just stopped herself from nibbling on her perfectly painted mouth again. "So it's party time, I guess?" she said inanely.

Jamal said nothing, but then he didn't need to. His scornful gaze was enough.

Wonderful. This was like her disastrous debutant ball all over again, where she'd been presented to New York society with all the other girls her age. Another pointless social engagement, another occasion where everything she did would be picked at and pulled apart by her mother. Where her father wouldn't even notice she was there.

_It's not the same._

No, of course it wasn't. Anyway, she was over that. She didn't bow to anyone else's expectations these days. She'd embraced who she was. Hell, she was proud of it.

Tonight would be an exception. She'd be who the sheikh wanted her to be for the sake of a phone call. And with any luck her company wouldn't have collapsed while she'd been away. Hell, maybe he even had some cell phone reception in that office of his. All she needed was a whiff of a signal for her phone to connect and then someone would be able to trace her.

_Who? Your parents? You haven't spoken to them for years._

Felicity clasped her hands together as she followed Jamal down the dim, narrow corridors of the palace.

Not them. She had friends and she had her company. They would be frantic if they knew she was missing. Which they didn't because according to his majesty everyone thought she was having a lovely sightseeing jaunt out into the desert. Though maybe they'd find that odd? Especially considering they'd know she wouldn't pass up an important meeting for a bit of sightseeing.

Whatever. Damn him.

Perhaps waiting it out was the best thing. Wait for a signal or wait for enough time to pass before someone realized she hadn't gone sightseeing at all.

_Someone? Your employees, maybe? Because even your friends aren't that close._

Something painful twisted inside her, but she didn't want to examine it too deeply so she forced it away. Better to think about this upcoming feast or party or whatever it was that Zakir was presenting her at.

_"You will not protest or insult our customs. You will comport yourself with grace and dignity."_

Well, she was wearing the clothes he'd had sent to her rooms that afternoon. And there was no way she was going to insult his customs or his people. She wasn't stupid, after all.

Yet as Jamal led her down a massive flight of stone stairs to a pair of huge wooden double doors, she couldn't stop the fear that clenched tightly around her heart. God, she hated social stuff like this. She never knew what to say to people.

But perhaps she'd be lucky. Perhaps there'd be hardly anyone there.

A figure waited beside the doors, tall and broad-shouldered, swathed in black robes and a head covering of midnight blue. The circlet holding the head covering in place looked like it had been made out of twisted gold thread and it glittered in the light.

A crown for a desert king.

And this time the twist inside her had nothing to do with fear.

The sheikh was unsmiling as his black eyes swept over her and she could feel the heat begin to rise to her cheeks. Because for some reason she couldn't seem to look away from him. There was something savage about him, something dark and wild and ancient as time itself. As if he'd been carved from the same stone as the palace around him and had reigned here for a thousand years. Dark and silent and indestructible. Strong.

It made her shiver in her white silk robes. Sent a pulse of heat ricocheting around in her bloodstream.

_You're mad. He's a violent stranger who kidnapped you and who is currently holding you prisoner._

Yes, quite clearly she was mad. And she must have Stockholm syndrome or something if she was starting to think he was... No, attractive was too mundane a word for what he was. Attractive was for the rich, Ivy League young men her mother had once shoved in front of her and told her to make nice to.

The sheikh of Al-Shakhra was not one of those young men. At all.

And, God help her, she found him fascinating. The danger of him. The challenge of him. The sheer intricate mystery of him. He hadn't seemed to want to talk about himself that morning at breakfast when she'd asked him about being a soldier, but she suddenly wanted to know all about him.

He said something to Jamal in that deep, rough voice of his, but his black gaze never left her.

And in English he said, "You will do."

And though the words sounded halfhearted, she knew they weren't. Because in his eyes was the dark thing she'd seen that morning at breakfast, the starved thing that glittered like shattered obsidian. The hunger that made her heart race and shortened her breath. There was nothing halfhearted about that.

Suddenly out of her depth, Felicity looked away.

He scared her, no question, and for some reason she didn't understand, she liked that.

"Jamal," he ordered. "It is time."

His guard went to the double doors and pushed them open.

Felicity tried to slow her breathing, tried to relax. Tried not to be aware of how every muscle was tensing up. She didn't know where this pressure was coming from, especially since she'd long since stopped feeling like she had to prove herself to anyone, yet there it was. It annoyed her.

Pasting a grin on her face, her heartbeat like thunder, she noticed Zakir extending a hand to her. Oh hell, she was supposed to take it, wasn't she?

She didn't want to, not after what had happened last time. But she couldn't refuse. She'd promised she'd give him this in order to get that phone call. So she reached out and took his hand, feeling the intense jolt of electricity as he closed his fingers around hers.

It shook her, set her off balance, made her unsure. And if there was anything she hated, it was feeling unsure. She was used to being smart, to knowing things, so this was weird. Especially when intellectually she knew about sex and all it involved.

_But you've never felt it before._

Felicity gritted her teeth and forced the thoughts away. No, she felt nothing. Nothing.

And then there was no more time to think because he was drawing her through the doors, a massive, vaulted room ahead of her. After the narrow, medieval corridors of the rest of the palace, it was almost a shock.

The ceiling was so high it was almost dizzying and inlaid with all kinds of beautiful mosaics. Even the walls glittered, bright with colored tiles and shards of mirrored glass. It was like being in a room covered in jewels.

She stared at the walls because it was easier to look at them than it was to look at the rest of the room. Especially when it was absolutely jam packed full of people.

And they were all staring directly at her.

Her heartbeat thudded in her head, the warmth of Zakir's skin on hers making her dizzy. There were calluses on his fingers; she could feel the slight roughness of them against her. Was that from sword fighting? Or something else?

More puzzles. More mysteries.

Jamal was talking, his voice carrying over the crowd gathered to watch them, but she didn't understand what he was saying. It was easier to concentrate on the feel of Zakir's hand or the mosaics on the walls. Anything so she didn't have to look at all the faces turned toward her.

The crowd began to part, opening up a clear path through to a massive, gilded throne. In front of the throne was a large cushion covered in white silk.

Zakir strode forward and she had no choice but to go with him. People murmured as they went past, whispers like wind in the trees. She didn't understand what was being said, but she'd seen the expression on the faces of the people watching her before.

Her father had looked at her the same way when she'd tried to tell him why she wanted to study computer science at college instead of law. Her mother fluttered around, placating. But nothing had been able to mask his scorn or disapproval.

And nothing had kept her mother from complaining to her in private, guilting her, and making her feel as if she was being heartless for making her own choices and not doing what her father wanted her to.

Anger roiled inside her, an instinctive response. But she kept her eyes on the floor. These people weren't her parents and this had nothing to do with her past. And anyway, she couldn't afford an emotional outburst, not now.

As they approached the throne, Zakir guided her to the cushion at the foot of it. Then he leaned in, his mouth near her ear. "This is your place," he murmured. "You are my bride prize and as such will be on display to my court. People will come to pay their respects and leave you gifts as is the custom, but you will not be required to speak. You only need to nod your head."

His breath was warm against her neck, she could feel it even through the silk of her robes. She shivered helplessly and that really didn't help. "O-Okay. What about you?"

"I will need to mingle with my court."

She blinked. "You mean, all I do is sit here?"

His fingers firmed around hers, directing her to the cushion. "Yes. Remember what you promised me, Felicity."

The use of her first name jolted her enough that she forgot to protest as she sank down onto the white silk cushion, folding her legs beneath her.

Felicity. Why had he called her that?

_He also called you "little one"._

So he had. But she'd kind of blanked that one out because it had felt...intimate in some way that she wasn't ready to acknowledge. It was also bossy and possessive and all sorts of wrong.

_You liked that, too._

No way. Of course she hadn't.

She scowled after him as he strode into the crowds of people. He was nearly half a head taller than most of them, standing out in his black and midnight blue robes, with his circlet of gold. Most of the rest of the people of his court wore robes of white, like her own. But there were numerous different colors of head covering, though none of them wore the deep, intense blue of the sheikh. Was that a royal color here?

And then, as she watched his dark, massive figure surrounded by crowds, she realized something.

There were hardly any women present.

She frowned, scanning around the rest of the huge room. There were long tables set up at either end, all heaped with food. And in one corner a group of people played instruments, though the music was pretty much drowned out by the roar of conversation that had started up.

But she only spotted around twenty women in the room, out of a crowd of a couple of hundred at least.

How weird was that?

She could understand the sexes being segregated at an occasion like this, since that's what she'd heard happened in the stricter countries of the Middle East. But that obviously wasn't the case here since there were some women present.

They wore brightly colored robes and they were, without exception, mostly in their fifties or sixties. The fact that they were dripping with heavy, gold jewelry, not to mention numerous gems, seemed to indicate that they were aristocracy of some kind.

Too busy staring and puzzling out the reasons for the lack of women, she didn't notice a group of men approach her cushion until they were almost standing over her.

Startled, she looked up at them, trying a nervous smile.

But they didn't smile back. In fact, there was no expression at all on their faces. One of them, an older man with a graying beard, bent and put something down on the silk carpet that her cushion sat on. A coin. The rest of them followed suit until she had a little pile of copper-colored coins in front of her. Then, without a word, they turned their backs and disappeared back into the crowd.

Felicity frowned after them then glanced down at the coins. These were gifts? They were rather pretty. She wondered if she should touch them, then thought better of it, folding her hands in her robes.

It wasn't the most interesting evening she'd ever had, but sitting on a cushion and not interacting with anyone was a lot better than many other parties she'd been forced to attend, so she didn't mind too much.

Another group of men stopped in front of her and this time the looks on their faces were easy enough to read. Disapproval. Contempt.

One of them put something down in front of her, but it wasn't a coin this time. It was a stone, rough cut and gray and clearly just picked up from the roadside.

Felicity swallowed, a wave of hot anger washing over her skin as she began to realize what was happening. More stones joined the coins in front of her, and she knew they weren't gifts. They were insults.

She bit her lip and looked away as another stone hit the ground in front of her, fighting to keep still and not leap to her feet and demand to know why she was being insulted.

Okay, so they didn't like her. What did she care? She wasn't going to marry Zakir anyway; in fact, she'd been forced into it. She should be _pleased_ they weren't happy with their sheikh's choice. She should be ecstatic. Because if they didn't like her, then perhaps he'd set her free.

Yet she found herself burning with humiliation all the same.

She tried to ignore it, tried to see where Zakir was, but for some reason she couldn't find him anywhere in the room. It was like he'd gone, leaving her here, sitting like an idiot on her cushion while the people of his court showered her with rocks.

More people approached her, some of them saying things to her that she didn't understand and didn't want to, because whatever it was they were saying would be insulting.

The pile in front of her began to grow, full of rocks and copper coins, and lumps of dirt.

People were staring now.

She compressed her lips together, refusing to let them see her anger or show any hint of vulnerability. So this is what Zakir had brought her to. Drugged, kidnapped, and now ritually humiliated. And she couldn't even defend herself because she'd promised him she'd sit here and behave. Was a lousy phone call really worth this?

Yes, it was. Because then someway, somehow she'd alert every damn authority there was to get her out of here.

Her throat felt dry, a vague nausea sitting in her stomach. She wished she had something to drink, but she didn't dare move in case moving was somehow insulting.

And then she spotted a familiar figure moving toward her. Jamal. She forced herself to give him a tentative smile as he approached, his brows drawing down as he noticed the pile of rocks and dirt in front of her.

"I'm not sure those are gifts," she murmured, her voice thickened with anger. She had to get up, get out of here. At least for a moment. "Do you think I could stretch my legs? Get a drink of water? I think my feet have gone to sleep."

The look on Jamal's face was thunderous, his head turning as if scanning the immediate vicinity for enemies. There were none, except the last group of men who'd given her the so-called "gifts", another generous helping of rocks with an added lump of dirt. They were standing near the cushion, talking amongst themselves.

Jamal's dark eyes narrowed as he stared at them. Without taking his eyes off them, he reached a hand down to her and she gratefully took it, getting painfully up off the cushion.

But she'd been sitting too long and as she tried to stand on her numb feet, someone jogged her elbow, making her stumble. There was an exclamation and from out of nowhere a shower of something wet and cold splashed in her face and soaked the pristine white silk of her robes, the sound of smashing glass following it.

For a second she could only stand there blinking as the attention of over two hundred people descended on her.

And she realized what had happened. Someone had thrown red wine all over her and now it was all down the front of her robes, staining them and the cushion behind her red. Staining the carpet she stood on and the floor.

Felicity looked up at the man who'd done it. There was a scornful smile on his face, obviously pleased with his handiwork.

Humiliated, a red rage descended over her vision.

And she took a step toward him.

 *     *     *

Zakir was listening to the concerns of yet another of his ministers, another litany of complaints about salaries that he was tired of hearing. They wanted more money because he'd come down hard on the corruption, a leftover from his father's reign that Farid had been trying to stamp out. He'd made it plain on a number of occasions that they wouldn't be getting any and yet still they complained.

The sound of breaking glass stopped the man in mid-tirade.

Zakir turned toward the sound, his hand reaching instinctively for the sword at his hip. But a hush was rapidly spreading, which didn't indicate assassins or any other hostilities he might have to respond to.

A hush that had its origin in the space before his throne. Which could only mean one thing. Felicity.

He brushed aside his complaining minister, moving swiftly through the crowd, anger coiling in his gut. What had she done? Hadn't he told her what she was supposed to do? And hadn't she promised that yes, she would do it?

The crowds parted for him all of a sudden to reveal her advancing on Faisal, one of his most vociferous critics, a look of fury on her face, her robes stained and dripping red. The color of blood. The color of Maysan's blood on the white sheets of her wedding bed.

A rush of adrenaline filled him, his body already responding before his mind caught up and it wasn't until his sword was already naked in his hand that he realized it wasn't blood that was staining her robes but wine.

Old Faisal was with his cronies, shouting about how it wasn't his fault, she'd rudely knocked into him and spilled his wine. Faisal, who'd made it very clear he did not approve of Zakir's choice of bride, and who was only one of a large group of them who also didn't approve.

And Felicity was approaching him, shaking with fury, her mouth opening to say something that would absolutely not help the situation.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded before she could speak, his voice making everyone in the vicinity freeze.

"She rudely spilled my wine," Faisal said in heavily accented English, his mouth drawn up in a sneer.

Felicity's eyes widened. "I did not—"

"Silence," Zakir ordered harshly, noticing as he did so the dark pile in front of the cushion. Not gifts. They were rocks. And worthless copper coins. And...dirt.

And the red staining her robes. It was a reminder to everyone in the stone hall of what happened to the last sheikha to wed an Al-Nazari. A bad omen and one deliberately caused by Faisal, of that Zakir had no doubt. Just like the pile in front of her was deliberate.

It wasn't just a mark of their disapproval. It was an insult. To her.

It was also an insult to him.

Faisal fell silent as he realized his sheikh was staring at him, but he didn't look away, the arrogant dog. Nearby was Jamal, looking furious, but he was supposed to be watching out for and protecting Felicity. How had he not noticed the pile of insults in front of her? And why had Jamal not come to get him?

_He does not approve, you know this._

Anger, dark and intense, flared inside him.

Zakir tightened his grip on his sword and lifted a hand. Instantly the entire room fell deadly silent, broken only by the sound of the booted feet of his guards as they flowed like water amongst the crowd.

"My intended bride has been insulted," he said quietly and with menace, making sure his words carried. "Which is an insult to me. In my own house. At my own feast."

Faisal, showing himself to be a man of little brain, opened his mouth. "Sire, you cannot expect—"

"Silence!" Zakir repeated, louder this time. "Get out. You are no longer welcome here. And take your friends with you."

Shock began to spread outward amongst the guests but he ignored them. Because Felicity was standing there still in her stained robes, all that red dripping on his floor, fury in her eyes, and he had to get her out. Get rid of those robes and the reminder on them before more people realized and recognized the bad omen. Not to mention before Felicity herself exploded with rage.

Sliding his sword back into his scabbard, he strode forward before anyone else could move and grabbed Felicity by the arm, sweeping her toward the doors that led to the big stone terrace outside the hall.

She didn't say a word, her slippers making scuffing sounds on the polished stone as he pulled her through the doors and out into the cold of the night.

The stone terrace wasn't like the small, quiet courtyard where they'd had breakfast that morning, with its sheltering walls and heat. This was wide, with stone benches scattered here and there, bounded by a low parapet that was all that stood between any observer and a dizzying drop into the valley below. The stone beneath their feet was warm from the day but the air had already taken on the chill of a desert night.

"That wasn't my fault," she began hotly, almost as soon as they'd gotten outside. "I just went to stand up and my foot was a bit numb from sitting so long so I stumbled. But I was nowhere near him. He deliberately spilled—"

"Yes," he interrupted. "I know he did."

Her eyes widened, as if she hadn't expected him to believe her. "Oh. Well..." She stopped, then said, "I'm sorry. I did what you told me to, but I guess they didn't like me."

There was a note in her voice he didn't quite understand, so he didn't say anything immediately, merely tugging at the soaking white silk as a shiver shook her.

"Hey," she said as she realized what he was doing, her hands coming up to bat his away. "Stop that. I can do it."

He ignored her, deftly unwinding the silk from around her and discarding it onto the ground, leaving her in the white shift she wore underneath it. "Zakir, don't..." And then she stopped as he shrugged out of his black robe and put it around her narrow shoulders, wrapping her up tight in it so that all he could see of her was her pale, delicate face in amongst the swaths of black fabric.

She looked like she was wrapped in darkness.

_How appropriate._

"Um...thanks," she said, drawing the robe more firmly around her.

He stepped back to give her some space. "Tell me what happened." It came out as a demand, but he was so furious he couldn't quite temper his voice.

Wariness crept into her eyes. "You're angry with me. I'm sorry; I really didn't do anything, scout's honor."

"I am not angry with you. I am angry at him. Tell me what happened."

She let out a breath and abruptly turned from him, moving over to one of the stone benches and sitting down. And it caused him a peculiar kind of satisfaction to see her wrap his robe even tighter around herself, as if she was cold.

"Like I said, I got up off the cushion because I needed a drink of water. And I stumbled. Then all this wine came down on top of me." She looked at him. "You know he did it on purpose, right?"

"Yes." He leaned back against the parapet, ignoring the drop on the other side of it, and folded his arms. "Faisal did that deliberately."

A shadow flickered across her delicate face. "I knew it. They really didn't like me, did they? I didn't think those 'gifts' in front of me were supposed to be dirt."

Again that note of what sounded like old pain in her voice. It made him uneasy, unsettled. "It was not personal, Felicity. The insults were directed at me. You were just unfortunate to get caught in the crossfire, so to speak."

She glanced down at her feet, her shoulders hunched. Huddled beneath his black robe, she looked very small. "You were going to present them with Princess Safira. No wonder they were disappointed."

He frowned. "There are reasons for that. They have nothing to do with you."

Her head came up. "Don't they? I've seen her. I know what she looks like. I'm also an outsider and..." Abruptly she stopped. "God. I don't know why I'm arguing. I don't actually care about this."

A strange urge to explain himself came over him. "I have told you why the Princess Safira is valuable to us. She is a warrior, as well as of noble blood. They do not want an outsider, regardless of who she is."

Felicity gave a little shake of her head. "It's okay. It's no big deal. I don't care, I really don't. Anyway, it's just another reason why you shouldn't marry me."

His anger, still simmering away, flared up for some inexplicable reason, and he'd crossed the space between them before he quite knew what he was doing, standing in front of her, reaching down to take her pointed chin in his fingers and tilting her head back.

Her eyes went wide, silver in the light of the stars above his head, staring up at him. And he saw it, a spark of response in the gray depths, a stain of red rising in her cheeks.

Desire.

_That is very, very bad._

It was bad. He knew how to manage desire, but knowing she felt the same? Catastrophic.

But he didn't let her go. "You think I would let those dogs have power?" he said quietly, fiercely. "Let them insult me in my own palace? Let them insult you? They will not question me, Felicity. I will not permit it. And I will marry you regardless of what they think."

Her jaw had tensed beneath his fingers and he could feel the subtle strain of her trying to pull away. He liked it. Another very bad sign.

"So you're going to marry me just to prove them wrong?" Familiar sarcasm edged the words, despite the fact that he held her chin in his hand and he was in a towering rage. He couldn't decide whether that made her brave or stupid.

"I am going to marry you because you have assets they do not recognize. Assets that will help me bring this country into the twenty-first century. You have brains and an understanding of the modern world that Princess Safira cannot match. In fact, the more I think of it, the more worthy a bride prize you are."

Her mouth had gone tight, but she was blushing again, he could feel the heat of it beneath his fingers. Her skin was so soft. The smell of spilled wine was strong, but beneath he could almost catch the sweet, flower scent of her. Her throat moved and he couldn't help himself. Releasing her chin, he let his hand slide down her neck, his fingers trailing on either side over her skin, before dropping to press his palm to her pulse at the base of her throat.

She went very still, her eyes like great silver coins. "Zakir..."

There had been many women who'd whispered his name, moaned it, screamed it. But none of them had made it sound the way Felicity said it in that moment. Soft. Hoarse. A protest and yet...not quite.

It was the most erotic thing he'd ever heard.

The sound of it pulsed down his spine, roused the dark animal he kept locked away inside him. Made it wake, made it growl with hunger.

_Let her go. You are dangerous and she is breakable._

Yes, he knew all that. Yet perhaps this was the perfect opportunity to test himself. He was a soldier. He was strong. But he'd never met a woman who'd tested that strength in quite the way she had. Maybe now would be a good time to try it. Because, when it came to the getting of heirs, he needed to know he could hold himself back when required. Better to know now if he could do this, what his limits were than when it was too late to do anything about it.

He moved his hand from her throat to around behind her neck, spreading his fingers out, sliding up to cradle the back of her head.

Her breath caught, he could hear it in the quiet of the night, and her eyes became even wider, the silver slowly being consumed by the darkness of her dilated pupils.

"W-What are you doing?" All her earlier anger and sarcasm had dropped away, her voice sounded shocked and now more than a little hoarse.

Didn't she know how that sounded to him? How it whispered across his nerve endings like the brush of the softest fur? Sensual. Erotic. Soft. Everything a woman should be.

His heartbeat had accelerated and he could feel himself hardening, and somewhere inside him the animal was howling to be released. But he wouldn't let it out. He'd resisted for two years and he was still strong.

He didn't reply, curling his fingers into her hair instead. It was so soft, silky, and smooth against his skin. He'd forgotten how soft a woman's hair could be, how sensual it could feel. How he'd liked to take handfuls of it in his fists and hold on tight. Some women had moaned when he'd pulled their hair, had panted when he'd wound it around his wrists. Would Felicity like it?

Her mouth had opened, her lips full and pink. "I don't know w-what you're doing but m-maybe you should stop." Again, that throaty edge to the words.

"Why?" he murmured, and he tightened his fingers in her hair. "Are you afraid?"

A flicker in her eyes, a flash of the temper he knew was lurking just below the surface of her. "I... No."

"Then I don't think you want me to stop, little one." Applying pressure, he brought her slowly to her feet. "I think you want me to keep going."

He was standing close, which meant what little distance there was between them closed as she rose. And then he felt the heat of her as her body pressed to his, how it burned through the robes he'd wrapped around her, burned through the tunic and the loose cotton pants he wore. He could smell her even beneath the wine and sweet flowers—the stronger, muskier scent that was...arousal. Ah, yes, he remembered that, the smell of a woman full of desire for him.

She gave a small gasp, her hands coming up instinctively and finding nothing but his chest to steady them on. And as her palms came down on him, she made another sound and he felt her body tense in reaction, as if she'd accidentally touched a hot stove and was trying to jerk away to keep from burning herself.

His fingers curled deep in her hair, holding her still and a tremble went through her. "I thought you were not afraid?" he asked softly, a deliberate challenge.

At the base of her throat, her pulse beat hard, her breathing sharp and fast. But there it was, the answering spark in her eyes again. "I'm not."

"You are. I can see it in your face." He studied her. "Are you a virgin, Felicity?"

The sparks in her eyes glittered sharper, brighter, her body stiffening even more, her palms pressed hard against his chest. "That's none of your business."

"It does not matter to me either way." And it didn't. He didn't care if she'd had no lovers, one, or even a hundred. "But if you are inexperienced, it is better for both of us that I know."

"No, it isn't." Offense laced her tone, her little body almost vibrating with anger. "Mainly because I will not be sleeping with you. Not now. Not ever."

He ignored that because he really didn't need her answer to know the truth. Of course she was a virgin. "Why have you not been with anyone, little one? You are beautiful, intelligent. You surely would have had your pick. Or is it because you just have not found the right man?"

Her chest heaved, the softness of her breasts pressing against him. Even in the dark he could see the deepening blush in her cheeks. "It's because men are bastards. Especially men like you."

But he was starting to get her measure now. He knew where her anger was coming from. She was out of her depth and that made her afraid. And angry. Which was understandable, given what he'd done to her. Yet she wanted him too, that was obvious. She wanted him and didn't know how to deal with it.

Well, he would teach her. "Close your eyes," he ordered, putting all his authority into his voice.

"But I—"

"I know what I am doing, little one. And you do not. Let me show you something new."

She stared at him, thoughts flickering through her gaze like quicksilver. Then, slowly, she relaxed against him and her lashes fell.

He grinned in the dark, a feral sense of triumph twisting inside him. Then, gently, he applied more pressure to the hold he had on her hair, pulling her head back farther so her long, white throat was arched and exposed. She gasped.

_Stop. Let her go._

But he didn't. The animal inside him was hungry, but he was strong. He could withstand it. He just had to prove himself a little more. So he bent his head, pressed his mouth to the spot where her pulse fluttered, tasted her skin. Sweet, with the sharpness of salt. Like her. Would she taste like that everywhere? If he tasted the heat between her thighs, would she taste like that there, too?

Her whole body shuddered and when he bared his teeth and bit her lightly, where the tendons of her neck met her throat, he heard the sharp sound of her outrushing breath. Felt her fingers curl into the cotton of his tunic, gripping him. Holding on.

He waited a beat, but she didn't push him away and she didn't make any more sounds. Only trembled in his arms like a tree in a high wind.

So he licked up her throat, nuzzled beneath her ear. Then, with his fingers tight in her hair, he positioned her head where he wanted it, and took her mouth with his.

It should have been nothing, just another way to test himself. To prove himself like he did in his training room. In fact, this should have been just another training exercise.

But Felicity made a sound, a soft groan, and all the remaining stiffness holding her rigid against him, melted away. She became pliant and supple in his arms, her body pressing against his, her hands clenching tightly to his tunic.

And her mouth, holy God, her mouth. It opened beneath his, the heat and the taste of her hitting him like he'd been struck over the head with the hilt of his own sword.

The animal inside him rushed its cage, rattling it, bending the bars. Wanting to tear the robes from her body, bend her over the bench, push inside her, take her hard and fast with one hand buried in her hair till they were both screaming.

He couldn't. He just couldn't. That kind of loss of control led to madness. Led to a bridal bed covered in blood and a woman dead.

_She is not strong. You will break her._

Because that was the way with the Al-Nazari. They broke things they shouldn't.

But, oh, the taste of her, the heat of that lovely mouth. It had been so long since he'd kissed a woman and he'd forgotten that—the sweetness. It made him kiss her harder, deeper, ruthless and hungry with it, devouring her like a lion devours its prey.

Her hands were gripping him tighter, her whole body trembling. Then she touched her tongue to his, a tentative, cautious response, and something exploded through him, desire flaring like a bonfire.

And he knew in that moment he'd been a fool. He'd overestimated himself. Overestimated his ability to resist.

_You are weak. Like Farid was weak._

With a force of will that shouldn't have been as great as it was, Zakir released her, shoving himself away, his heartbeat like thunder in his head, the need to take her wildfire in his blood.

She stumbled as he stepped away, her mouth open in shock, her eyes wide. "Z-Zakir?" Her voice was ragged. A question he did not know the answer to.

The only thing he did know was being near her right now was impossible.

So he turned and without a word, he strode away.

## Chapter Six

Felicity woke to the sound of someone knocking hard on the door. She rolled over, pulled the blankets over her head and tried to snuggle back down. Perhaps if she just ignored them they'd go away.

But they didn't.

And as she let out an annoyed breath and opened her eyes, memory began to come back to her.

She wasn't at home in New York. She was in a room, in a medieval stone fortress of a palace. She was a prisoner of the sheikh of Al-Shakhra who considered her his bride prize.

And last night she'd been presented to his court only to be insulted by lumps of dirt given instead of gifts, and then had wine spilled all over her. And then Zakir had taken her out onto that terrace where he'd stripped of her wine-soaked robes, wrapped her in black cotton, and then...

Felicity flung back the quilt and sat bolt upright, her heart suddenly slamming hard against her breastbone. No, she didn't want to think about what had happened after that. Not at all.

_Yes, you do._

The first ever kiss she'd actually lost herself in and it had come from the man who'd kidnapped her. Who'd put his hands in her hair and pulled her head back, held her with such casual mastery and yet such gentleness.

She'd been so out of her depth, awash with anger from what had happened in the stone hall, an anger that had only seemed to intensify the strange fascination she had for Zakir. And not just the fascination but the attraction, too.

Such a complex mix of emotions, she'd had no idea how to deal with them.

Until he'd offered to show her.

He'd looked at her like he wanted to eat her alive and a small, secret part of her had loved it, absorbing his attention like a thirsty plant absorbs rain. And he seemed to know exactly what to say to her, the perfect lure to her hungry mind.

_Close your eyes. I will show you something new._

And she'd done...exactly what he said.

The knocking on her door became more forceful, jolting her. Pushing the thoughts of the night before out of her head, Felicity slid out of the low bed and scrabbled around for some clothes.

When Zakir had stalked off the night before, he hadn't left her totally alone. A couple of minutes after he'd gone, Jamal had found her and escorted her back to her rooms. She couldn't even remember returning, or stripping off the black cotton of the robe Zakir had wound around her. Or even falling into her bed.

The only thing clear to her was that her mouth burned. And someone had turned a blowtorch on her skin, taking off the entire outer layer, leaving her raw and sensitized, conscious of every movement her body made, every item of clothing she wore. She couldn't stop thinking about Zakir's hand around her throat, the heat of it. Or the feel of his mouth, the gentle pressure of his teeth. The possessive grip of his fingers in her hair.

That kiss...

The hammering on the door had stopped and she heard the sound of someone trying to open it.

No. No more thoughts about that damn kiss.

After scrambling into her clothes, she finally went to the door and pulled it open. Only to find Jamal standing there looking irritated.

"I am to escort you to his majesty's office," he said shortly.

Felicity pushed her hands into the pockets of her jeans, gazing warily at him. "Why?"

"His highness is fulfilling his promise to you," Jamal said, folding his arms.

"Promise? What—" And then she remembered. She'd told him she'd agree to be presented at his court, if he'd let her make the phone calls she needed. "Ah, okay then." She gave Jamal a narrow look. "How many calls can I have?"

"As many as you need to handle your business and inform your family and friends that you are well."

"And I guess they're not going to be private calls?"

"No." Without waiting for a response, he turned and went out the door in a swirl of robes. Clearly this was her cue to follow.

This time the walk down the medieval corridors wasn't as long as to the sheikh's training room. They passed by narrow windows that gave glimpses out over the dry valley and the glittering city at the bottom of it, and more sweeping stairs that led out onto wider galleries. There was more palace staff around, silent men and women in traditional robes, moving with purpose here and there. A few of them cast glances at Felicity, but unlike the night before, she didn't get the feeling they were hostile, merely curious.

She took a breath, trying to calm herself, trying to think about how she was going to handle these calls and what she would say. She wasn't going to be able to say much if Jamal was there watching her.

Eventually Jamal stopped in front of a heavy wooden door and pushed it open.

The room inside wasn't particularly large, but it was furnished with spartan simplicity. A heavy, antique-looking desk of some kind of dark wood stood over by one of the narrow windows, a surprisingly modern-looking computer monitor sitting on the top of it. There was a shelving unit along one wall made out of the same dark wood as the desk, with a few books neatly shelved on it and not much else. There were no pictures on the walls and no rugs on the floors. It was bare, utilitarian. The office of a general, rather than a king.

Jamal gestured to the sleek, modern-looking phone unit that also sat on that bare desk. "You may call whom you wish. But be aware that should you make any attempt at asking for help or sending coded messages, I will end all calls instantly."

Felicity moved over the desk, giving him a surreptitious glance. Perhaps she could get out some kind of message without him knowing? Even a quick scream down the phone, maybe?

His dark eyes stared back at her, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, and he moved his hand suggestively onto the hilt of his sword. Okay, then. Maybe screaming for help wouldn't be the best idea.

So what to do? She couldn't tell anyone where she was, that she hadn't been so irresponsible as to go on a sudden sightseeing tour of the desert instead of attending an important meeting. That she'd actually been captured by a sheikh and was now being held prisoner. She couldn't even see if she could get her Al-Harahan meeting rescheduled because she had no idea how long it would take her to get out of here.

The people at Red Star would probably be frantic with worry, especially if the Al-Harahan deal had fallen through. They'd know she wouldn't have gone sightseeing...

_Think, Felicity._

Okay, well, there was only one option. Her company needed a deal of some kind which meant that if she couldn't get it from Al-Harah, then she'd get it from this sheikh. From Al-Shakhra.

This was a business opportunity and she needed to treat it like one. After all, she had the ear of a king. A king who needed her software and her expertise. She might even be able to convince him to change his mind about the whole marriage thing, too. Oh, yes, and let her go when the time came.

Jamal picked up the phone. "The number," he said brusquely. "I will dial for you."

He really wasn't taking any chances, was he? She gave him the number of her PA and he punched it in before handing her the receiver. And pretty soon, Charley's voice came down the line, so familiar Felicity almost wanted to cry.

But she pulled herself together, dealing with Charley's shock and surprise at hearing from her. She kept it short and sweet, deflecting her PA's questions and asking him to forward her apologies Al-Harahan government. Then, keeping the specifics vague, she told Charley not to worry, that she was currently following up an interesting and potentially even more lucrative new opportunity for Red Star and the negotiations were at a 'delicate' stage, but she'd be in touch once things were finalized.

She ended the call quickly after that, before Charley could ask any more questions.

"Satisfied?" She glared at Jamal.

"You may call your family," he said, expressionless.

She hadn't spoken to her parents for years. They didn't even know she was in the Middle East, let alone that she'd suddenly gone off on a sightseeing trip. Not that they'd be interested anyway. "No, I'm good."

A faint frown creased his brow then was gone. "Very well. His majesty also suggested you may wish to visit the royal archives. There is much you need to learn about our country."

It was on the tip of her tongue to say she didn't need to learn anything since she wouldn't be here long enough, but she swallowed it back. If she was going to treat this as an unexpected business opportunity, then learning a bit more about Al-Shakhra wasn't a bad idea.

She went silently with Jamal as he led her down some more corridors, taking her this time into a much larger room packed with book-lined bookshelves and cabinets of lots of different sizes. There was a desk near one of the shelves, obviously there for reading or working at. It reminded her of a very old-fashioned, public library, perhaps one from fifty years ago.

"Most of the material here is in Arabic," Jamal said, then gestured to one of the cabinets. "But over there we have some records in English." He gave her a clearly disapproving glance. "Unless you wish to return to your rooms?"

Perhaps that's what he expected her to do. In which case, she wouldn't. She'd sit down here and she'd damn well familiarize herself. "Actually, no," she replied. "I think I might sit here and learn a bit more about your country."

If he was surprised he didn't show it, merely inclining his head.

"Excellent." Felicity gave him a sly smile. "In that case, you'd better show me how to find stuff here. I'm used to just entering a search into Google."

His lip curled fractionally. Without a word, he pointed to one of the cabinets then folded his arms, clearly intending to stay here for the duration and not happy about it.

"You could wait outside, you know," she said, uncomfortable with the idea of Jamal looming over her while she read. "It's not like I'm going to escape from here or anything."

He gave her an enigmatic look, grunted, then turned on his heel and went out, shutting the door firmly behind him.

After he'd gone, Felicity went over to the cabinet and pulled out one of the filing boxes. She couldn't read the Arabic label on the side so she opened it and glanced inside. The contents appeared to be a stack of newspapers.

Curious, she carried the box over to the desk and sat down to leaf through them. And blinked as she did so. They seemed to be all about one thing, lurid headlines detailing what looked like the murder/suicide of the previous sheikh and his sheikha two years earlier.

She frowned, leafing through more of the newspapers. This was all familiar, in fact, there had been a bit in the media about it, now that she remembered. The ruling sheikh was found dead the morning after his wedding, with his new bride dead beside him. It had been determined the sheikh had killed his new wife then had killed himself. A tragedy for everyone, including the country itself.

Fascinated, she kept reading. Only to come to a stop at the mention of a name in one of the newspapers. Zakir. Who had found them. Who, as the younger brother, had taken over the throne after Farid's death.

She remembered suddenly the breakfast they'd had a few days earlier, when she'd asked him about being a soldier before being a king and he'd changed the subject.

No wonder. It must have been horrific for him.

Her desire to know more suddenly intensified. Perhaps this was the key to mystery of him. The way to unlock him, know his secrets. And maybe if she was able to unravel the puzzle of him, she'd be able to change his mind about the marriage, not to mention get a deal for Red Star.

_You'd really use his personal tragedy like that?_

Something heavy shifted in her chest. Well, no, not quite like that. She didn't want to hurt him; she only wanted to know more. And after all, he'd kidnapped her and was holding her prisoner. She needed to reclaim her power in some way.

Felicity packed away the newspapers then went back to the cabinet, hauled out all the boxes she could find and carried them back to the desk. For the next couple of hours she went through various government documents, magazine articles, and personal records from different officials, all puzzle pieces that when put together gave her a better picture of Al-Shakhra.

No wonder the whole place felt like it had only just stepped out of the dark ages. It had been a closed country right up until five years ago, after the death of the ruling sheikh. Farid had opened up the borders, had started encouraging foreign business and investment, tourism and trade. There had even been steps to get rid of the absolute monarchy that had ruled the country for hundreds of years and a start to move to a democratic system of government.

Until Farid had apparently killed himself and his bride, setting back the progress the country had made in one fell swoop.

She stared at the words in the document she was currently reading, the heavy thing inside her shifting again, fascination winding tighter. Is that what Zakir was trying to do? Undo the bloody legacy left by his brother? And how had that affected him? What had really happened to Farid? He'd been seen as a good ruler up until that night, so something must have.

Felicity sat back, biting her lip.

These records could only give her so much and information was sparse even with those. If she wanted to know more, she was going to have to ask Zakir. But how to get him to talk about such a personal tragedy?

The memory of the night before rose. The hunger in his black eyes and the feel of his mouth on hers. He'd tasted like the fine whisky her father used to drink, dark and rich and intensely alcoholic. His hand on the back of her head, his hard, muscular body right up against hers. Hot. Demanding. And then, inexplicably, he'd shoved himself away from her as if she'd burned him.

Okay, so she may be inexperienced, but she was very far from an idiot. She'd known he wanted her. So what had made him pull away?

Another mystery. But maybe that desire was a key, too. And she could use it to find out what lay beneath it. Get to the heart of him, find a way to make him change his mind about her and this wife thing.

_Sure. But you have no idea what you're doing. And when he touches you—_

She cut the thought off before it could form. No, she had no idea what she was doing when it came to desire. But she could learn. She'd always been quick, after all.

All she had to do was keep her head.

Easy.

 *     *     *

Zakir had spent all morning dealing with the diplomatic aftermath of the night before. Faisal had sympathizers, and unfortunately he couldn't get rid of them all as easily as throwing them out of his palace.

He would have to do something else, take another approach. Probably one that involved diplomacy. The thought did not put him in a good mood. Diplomacy had never been one of his strong points—he was a soldier, not a diplomat. Farid had been the one whom the people loved, not him.

But he would have to make an effort if he didn't want to end up like his father, ruling with an iron fist, crushing dissent with his armies. That was not the legacy Farid had intended when he'd opened up the country's borders. That was not the legacy Zakir wanted either.

The advice of his minsters was to take Felicity into the desert and get the approval of the powerful Bedouin tribes. Their opinion was important in Al-Shakhra and a great many people still listened to them, especially those sympathetic to Faisal.

It was a good idea, so he'd assigned several people the task of organizing it. Jamal was silently disapproving, but Jamal would have to rethink his opinions. Especially since far from getting Zakir to change his mind, Faisal's tactics had only entrenched his decision.

He would marry Felicity Cartwright. She was perfect in every way, and she would be his sheikha no matter what they said.

_Perfect. Yes. Especially the taste of her._

Memories of the night before kept ambushing him, which was unacceptable. He should not be thinking so much about a mere kiss, two years of abstinence notwithstanding.

After he'd finished with his ministers, he made his way to the only place he found peace these days—his training room. A couple of hours of exercise should help with those kinds of thoughts, it always did.

He liked weapons training, the sword in particular. It was peaceful, allowed him to center his thoughts. It also concentrated his control beautifully and that, in particular, was especially important since it was clear he was going to need it with Felicity around.

He'd been at it an hour and a half, practicing forms, when Jamal entered. "Miss Cartwright wishes to you see you, sire."

Zakir didn't stop what he was doing, conscious of the heat inside him leaping at the mention of her name. A bad sign. But to refuse to see her would be a sign of weakness he couldn't allow. Last night had been an aberration, nothing more, and it was best not to build it up into something it wasn't.

"Show her in," he said curtly.

Perhaps this was about the archive access he'd allowed her that morning. It wouldn't be what she was used to, not when she had all the information she needed available at the touch of a button on the internet—but he'd hoped she'd find it useful nevertheless. His father had always limited access to information about Al-Shakhra, so much of it wouldn't be available anywhere else.

Jamal nodded then went to the door to usher Felicity into the room.

Zakir spun the sword in his hands, moving into another series of movements as Jamal brought her in, then left, closing the doors behind him.

Felicity stood with her arms folded, her chin jutting at its usual stubborn angle. A defensive posture, he was starting to recognize. She wore again the clothes he was beginning to associate with her, a T-shirt and jeans, basketball boots on her feet. Like a teenager.

_She is definitely not a teenager._

The night before she hadn't been any kind of child. Her mouth under his had been open, letting him in to taste her. So sweet and hot. She'd curled her fingers into his tunic, holding on, her body melting against his. Inexperienced yes, but all woman that was for certain.

The memory of the kiss hit him hard once again, the heat already simmering inside him built, and his hold on his sword wavered, his footwork faltering.

_You should not have seen her yet._

His jaw hardened. This was insanity. He wasn't a teenager either, getting hard at the memory of one kiss. No, he was thirty-five. He was a man, a king. He was in supreme control of himself both physically and mentally. And nothing would happen unless he willed it.

Turning, Zakir brought the sword around in an arc, the blade slicing through the air, stopping right in front of her.

She didn't flinch. "That's pretty cool," she said, looking down at the blade in front of her. "But you don't actually use swords nowadays, do you? I mean, they're just ceremonial, right?"

He lowered the weapon. Yes, he felt calm. He felt in control. She wouldn't get under his skin again; he wouldn't let her. "They can be useful in certain situations."

"Like when? In an actual war?"

"Whatever kills the opposition the quickest and with the least number of fatalities to your own side is usually the best weapon. Sometimes that is a blade. Sometimes it is not."

Curiosity gleamed in her eyes. "Oh. Well. I guess that makes sense. And you've been in a war too, haven't you? Five years ago, right?"

How would she know that? Perhaps she had looked it up? "I see you have been making use of my private archive."

Her mouth turned up, excitement glittering in her eyes.

The animal inside him growled, low and deep. She would look like that in his bed, as he moved in her. If she was on her back. Or on her hands and knees. Perhaps he would take her in front of a mirror so he could look at her face. Watch her. See that excitement turn to ecstasy as he pushed hard and deep.

_Stop. You were supposed to be in control of yourself._

Ah, holy God. An hour and a half's practice should have dealt with any rogue thoughts, and yet she'd only been in the room a minute and already all he could think about was how her mouth had tasted. How her body had felt against his.

Where was his strength? Where was his control?

_You are more like Farid with each day..._

He turned sharply away, going over to the heavy metal cabinets that housed his training weapons. Wiping the sword down with a cloth, he then pulled open the cabinet and took down the scabbard that belonged with the blade, sheathing it soundlessly.

Behind him, he could almost feel her surprise. He ignored it.

"Uh," she said when he didn't speak. "Yes, I made my calls then spent this morning looking through your archives. That's why I came down here. To thank you. You did what you promised and I just wanted to say—"

"You did not pass on any messages to anyone?"

There was another small silence, the briefest hesitation.

"No." She said the words quietly and with some dignity. "I didn't tell anyone where I was or what had happened. It would have been a bit difficult with Jamal standing guard over me. Anyway, as far as my company is concerned, I'm pursuing a new business opportunity and I'll keep them updated as things develop."

A tightness he hadn't been previously aware of eased somewhere inside him and he wasn't quite sure why. Not because he'd been afraid she'd make things difficult for him diplomatically, but for some other reason. As if she'd made a choice. And that choice had been him.

Slowly, he closed the doors to the cabinet. "And why did you say that?"

"Because now that the deal with Al-Harah has fallen through, you're going to have to help me save my company."

He turned. She stood not far away, the blue of the pool at her back, her gray eyes very clear, very direct.

"Do I?"

"I told you I needed that deal. And since you're the one who effectively killed it, you're the one who's going to fix it. My company can help your country and we can do it without this marriage thing."

He straightened, watching her. She had no idea how very desirable she was to him right now, that direct, almost challenging expression in her eyes. Reminding him of how she'd looked in his arms as he'd kissed her. Of how she would look as he stripped her clothes away and took her.

In fact, he could do that right now. Right here. Peel her tight, little T-shirt off over her head, strip away her jeans. Leave her naked but for her ridiculous basketball boots. Those he would keep on, because he could. Then he'd lay her down on one of the long couches near the pool—

_Remember Farid. Remember what he did. Passion is the downfall of the Al-Nazari, this you know._

"You are aware of what I want." His voice sounded rough. Of course she would not know what he truly wanted. Not really. "This 'marriage thing' is nonnegotiable."

He expected an angry response, but all she did was narrow her gaze, staring at him silently. "Why?" she asked after a moment. "What's so important about marriage to you?"

"Marriage is always important to a king, especially when he needs an heir."

She tilted her head like a curious bird. "So it's just that? What about love? Companionship?"

A thread of irritation wound through him. Where was she going with this? "Those things are irrelevant when it comes to royal marriages."

Felicity stuck her hands in her pockets, scuffing the floor with one shoe. "Not for normal people, it isn't. Love is pretty important when it comes to getting married."

"You and I are not normal people."

"Speak for yourself." Her gaze dropped away from his, her foot moving restlessly on the floor. "Did...your brother love his wife?"

Shock arrowed down his spine, stealing his breath. Of course she would know about Farid and Maysan. He'd forgotten his archivists would have gathered all those lurid headlines. There were reasons he kept those archives closed.

_You should have told her._

Perhaps. But what would it have benefitted her to know the horrific crime his brother had committed? She needed to feel at home here, to settle in. Rather difficult to do that knowing what had happened to the last sheikha within these walls.

Except now she did know. And she had questions. Questions he did not want to answer.

"We will not discuss my brother," he said, making his voice hard and cold.

But perhaps she didn't hear the warning, because she asked instead, "Why not? Don't you think that's something I should know about?"

"All you need to know is that my brother was not a violent man. He was sick."

"But what happened? I mean—"

"I said we will not discuss it," he cut her off, his tone as sharp as the blade he'd been practicing with. "If you are afraid, know this. I am not my brother and I will not hurt you."

A frustrated look crossed her face. She glanced back down to the floor again for a moment, as if she was trying to decide something. Then she looked up at him, straightened her shoulders, and began to walk toward him.

Zakir stilled. There was a determined glint in her eyes as she closed the distance between them, and this time she didn't look away, holding his gaze as she got closer and closer.

A flush had risen in her cheeks and he couldn't stop staring at her. At the way the cotton of her T-shirt pulled tight over her breasts. How the denim of her jeans clung to her slender thighs. And all he could think about was what he wanted to do to her.

"Stop." The sharp edge to the order echoed around the cavernous room.

And she came to an uncertain halt, watching him, those glittering silver eyes of hers seeing far, far too much. "What? What's wrong?"

Abruptly he turned back to the cabinet so he didn't have to look at her, unwilling to let her see the hunger in his eyes. Unwilling to give her the truth.

Training hadn't helped. Even the mention of Farid hadn't been enough to hold this clawing desire at bay. His control was being slowly undermined by one small, redheaded westerner, and he had no idea why.

She couldn't be here. She wasn't safe around him.

The unsheathed blades in the cabinet gleamed, the light running across the sharp edges. Another subtle reminder, as if he needed one. Farid had used a ceremonial dagger to take Maysan's life. And all because she'd smiled at one of his guards. He was supposed to have gotten better, the imported drugs Zakir had gotten for him working so well that he'd almost been like his old self again.

Until love had changed him. Love had been the one factor Zakir hadn't taken into account. If his brother hadn't loved Maysan quite so much, she'd probably be alive and so would he.

Slowly, Zakir picked up a dagger, looking down onto the polished steel blade. He'd killed with this. He probably would kill again. He'd always been a soldier at heart. A killer before he'd been a king.

"Get out." His voice didn't sound like his, rough as the sands of the deep desert. "Leave me."

There was silence behind him.

"Why?" Felicity asked.

"I said, get out." The dagger glittered in the light. Tension crawled over his shoulders and down his spine, gathering tight inside him. The animal gathering itself to pounce.

"No. I'm not—"

"Get out!" It came out as a roar, the words echoing off the hard surfaces of the room and bouncing back. She needed to leave now before he did something both of them would regret.

Another silence behind him. And he caught the subtle scent of her, some kind of flower with a hint of feminine musk. A key. To unlock the doors of the cage that had his hunger bound.

He whirled around, the dagger still in his hand, to find her standing right behind him now, only inches away, her gaze so sharp it pierced him right through.

"What's wrong?" She demanded, completely disregarding the fact that he was several times bigger than her and infinitely more deadly, especially while he was holding a dagger. "Why are you shouting at me? What did I do?"

She was too close. Far, far too close. And that scent of hers was weaving spells around him. Spells he wasn't going to be able to resist.

Anger rose and he grasped it tight, using it to mask the desire that burned like acid inside him, eating away at him like the dry desert wind eats away at the rock.

"You are foolish," he said harshly and took a step toward her, closing the remaining distance between them. "You should listen when I speak. You are not safe around me. So when I tell you to go, you should go."

He wanted her to back away, turn tail and run. But she didn't. She held her ground instead, staring up at him, a fierce frown on her face. "Why?" she asked again. "Why aren't I safe? You just told me you wouldn't hurt me." Her gaze dropped to the dagger in his hand. "Are you going to stab me with that or something?"

She didn't sound even the remotest bit afraid. Only curious. Foolish woman.

"No." He threw the dagger away, the metal chiming on the stone as it slid across the floor. "I will do something much worse."

She blinked, as if she'd only now just realized how close they were standing. And her gaze widened, dropping slowly down the length of his body then back up again. A flush rose to her cheeks. "W-what's worse?"

He should stop this. Step back. Walk away. But he didn't. " _I_ am."

She was looking at his mouth, her eyes slowly darkening like they had on the terrace the night before. "Are you?" Her voice was husky too, taking on that soft, erotic quality that had gotten him so hard before. "How?"

"You should leave, Felicity." She had to, because God alone knew he could not.

Her throat moved and with obvious effort, she lifted her gaze to his. And for a second, he thought she'd seen sense and was going to do what he asked. Then she sealed her fate.

"No," she said. Very clearly.

So he moved, looping one arm around her waist, bringing her hard against him. Gripping her coppery red braid in one fist, he pulled her head back.

Then he kissed her. Hard.

## Chapter Seven

Felicity's mind blanked as his hand wrapped around her braid. As he pulled her head back and devoured her completely, his kiss full of dark heat and hunger. Taking her mouth like he owned her, as if she was a city he'd just conquered and was now intent on razing to the ground.

She'd wanted to get answers from him and maybe she'd been too blunt. But her curiosity had gotten the better of her and she hadn't been able to help herself. As soon as she'd mentioned his brother's name, she'd seen something flash in his dark eyes. Pain and anger and what she thought was fear. And it hooked her. Made her want to know everything.

Made her stay when perhaps she should have done what he'd roared at her and gotten out while she could.

But she hadn't. Because something had made her stay. Not just curiosity but something else. Something hot.

He'd been shirtless and she'd been painfully aware of that from the moment Jamal had shown her into the room. Stripped to the waist and wearing only the familiar black combat pants, that massive sword in his hands. A tall, powerfully muscled figure shifting fluidly through a series of movements so graceful it had almost looked like a dance. A lethal, deadly dance.

That had been the flashpoint, the ignition. The spark that had lit the hot, burning thing inside her. And she'd tried to push it to one side because it got in the way of her thinking and made her feel so horribly out of her depth.

But then he'd lost his temper, getting close to her and, by rights, she should have been afraid of him, so massively built and with a dagger in his hand. Except she hadn't been afraid. Only...fascinated by the sense of barely contained violence running through him like a subliminal hum. By the sharp obsidian of his eyes and the black flame burning in them.

He was beautiful, dangerous. And she hadn't wanted to leave.

So she hadn't and now she was trembling, that hot thing igniting into a conflagration that felt as if it was searing her from the inside out. And it wasn't enough. She wanted more.

Her mouth opened beneath his, letting his tongue push inside, exploring her, tasting her. And she was kissing him back, with no idea what she was doing; only that the flavor of him was so hot, spicy, and delicious, and she couldn't stop herself.

His arm around her waist was so strong, so heavy, a manacle binding her to him, while her fingers gripped tightly onto his powerful shoulders. Her heartbeat was louder than thunder in her head and so fast she thought she might pass out.

This was as deadly a dance as the moves he'd made with his sword. Because all there was under her hands was his skin. Smooth and slick with sweat, and so hot it felt like she'd put her hands on a heated element. It burned. He burned.

And so did she.

The hand holding her braid pulled tighter, enough to cause a few pinpricks of pain, and yet that only seem to add more fuel the fire.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her body arching against his, desperate for something she didn't quite have a name for. Desire had always seemed so abstract and faintly ridiculous before, but now... God, she couldn't get enough.

He kissed her harder. Taking and taking and taking. As hungry as he'd been last night. God, if he didn't stop... What would happen? She'd be burned to ash.

"Zakir," she gasped desperately, suddenly frightened. Not of him, but of what was taking place inside her, of the intensity of her own hunger. Of the ache down low between her thighs and the way her nipples seemed so exquisitely sensitive.

He didn't reply, his mouth trailing down her neck to her throat. Pressing there, tasting her skin, making her heart thump in a hard, fast beat, echoing in her ears.

Overwhelming her.

She was panting, her breathing loud and ragged in the silence of the room. Her breasts were pressed up hard against his chest, her fingers digging into his slick skin, and she was shaking so badly she thought she would shake herself apart.

Then he pushed one hand down beneath the waistband of her jeans, sliding his palm over one buttock at the same time as he gently bit down on one of the tendons of her neck. And all the remaining breath went out of her. She gasped aloud, the sound sliding into a moan as he exerted pressure, bringing her hips against, the long, hard length of his erection pressing against the seam of her jeans.

Pleasure shot like wildfire through her, so strong she felt dizzy with it.

"I told you I wasn't safe." His voice was a growl, his breath hot against her skin. "I told you that you should have gone. And now it's too late."

Too late? Too late for what?

But she couldn't seem to form the words or even bring herself to care. Because that amazing, powerful brain of hers could only seem to think of one thing. _More_.

Felicity closed her eyes, arching her back, blindly rolling her hips. Rocking against the tantalizing hard ridge pressing between her thighs.

He said something low and vicious in Arabic that she didn't understand and then she was being lifted into his arms and carried over to one of the low couches beside the pool. Being laid on the soft cushions with him crouching over her, his hands on either side of her head, black eyes staring down into hers.

The look on his face was pure predator, a lion finally having run down its prey and now ready to feast. "You will do as I say," he said in a voice so deep and dark it sounded as if it had been dragged from the bottom of the ocean. "You will follow my orders as if I were God himself. Do you understand?"

Excitement lodged in her chest, along with desire and a kind of trembling anticipation that made her breath get short and her heartbeat hammer in her head.

The lines of his dark, beautiful face were drawn tight with a hunger he made no attempt to hide and it fascinated her. Drew her. He was looking at her as if he wanted to eat her alive and that made her shake. Made her throat get tight with longing.

Was it her doing that? Did she affect him that powerfully?

_Why do you want to?_

She didn't know. But it was important. She wanted to be able to do to him what he was doing to her.

"What are you going to do?" She had to force out the words, her voice thick and hoarse.

"You know what I'm going to do." He put out a hand, cupped her jaw, his thumb tracing the line of her lower lip.

Another shiver went through her, the heat of his touch joining the wildfire already burning inside her. "You w-want me, Zakir?" Because she had to know, had to hear the words.

"You really have to ask me that? After last night?"

"But you could have any woman."

His hand moved, his fingers trailing down her neck, his thumb resting in the hollow her throat, just above the frantic beat of her pulse. "No, I could not. As you will have noticed, there are no other women. After Farid died and I became sheikh, the aristocratic families sent their daughters away. So they would not be forced to marry an Al-Nazari."

Something tightened in her chest and it felt like pain. She wanted to say something sarcastic to protect herself, but all that came out was, "So I'm only convenient? Is that what you're saying?"

His hand spread, his fingers curling around her throat in a possessive hold that made her tremble and burn. That made her go weak with longing.

"No," he said, slowly. "I do not think you are very convenient at all. I do not want to want you, Felicity Cartwright. In fact, it would be most convenient for me if I did not." His thumb stroked her neck, up and down, a hypnotic kind of touch. "My father had a harem I used to visit, with many beautiful women, always willing. But I disbanded it after my brother died. I have not had a woman since, nor have I felt the urge. Yet...you have only been a couple of days in my palace and already I have to have you."

Her throat was dry and she could barely breathe. And yet, weirdly, although she was lying beneath him and he had his hand around her throat, although she was his prisoner and she couldn't get away even if she wanted to, she felt a certain sense of unexpected power. Of triumph.

He wanted her. This hard mountain of a man, this king, wanted her. He'd had a harem of beautiful women that he'd been easily able to put aside, but he'd been unable to resist her.

"W-why?" she stammered out, suddenly wanting to know.

His thumb kept stroking her, making her shake even harder. "Because you are different. You have fire in you. Curiosity, intelligence. Bravery. And..." His hand drifted down over the swell of one breast and his fingers spread, cupping it through her T-shirt. "...passion."

If felt like he was conducting electricity straight through her, a current that ran from her breast straight down between her thighs. She gasped, arching helplessly into his hand, the sound echoing around them.

"Put your hands above your head," he ordered softly.

And she did, desperate to find out more about what he was going to do.

"Good. Keep them there."

The position made her feel exposed, as if she was offering herself up to him. A virgin sacrifice to a hungry dragon.

The blackness of his eyes had deepened even further, his strong jaw hard. The stubble along it made him look like a pirate or an outlaw, though his cheekbones were pure aristocrat. His hair was the same color as his eyes, soot-dark, with straight slashes of eyebrows and eyelashes like they'd been drawn with bold strokes of a black pen.

Yes, he was beautiful. And now all that hard, male beauty was above her, surrounding her. The dark bronze of his skin, the carved muscles of his chest and abs. The ink of that lovely, cursive tattoo across his pectorals.

Unlike any man she'd ever known.

"The tattoo," she said, "what does it mean?"

Zakir's hand dropped to the hem of her T-shirt. "You are full of questions, little one." He took the cotton in his fist, something fierce in his eyes. "Now is not the time."

"But, I—"

"Stay quiet." The words were gentle but held that note of absolute authority in them. "You will have your answers soon enough."

And he began to draw her T-shirt up, slowly, pulling it up over her head and off, discarding it onto the floor beside the chair. She shivered again as his gaze raked over her, hunger glittering like diamonds in a seam of coal, and instinctively she lowered her hands to cover herself. But he caught her wrists and slowly, inexorably pushed them back above her head. Then he kept them there as he slid his free hand beneath her, deftly undoing the catch of her plain, black cotton bra. The material loosened and she let out a soft, protesting sound she couldn't seem to stop herself from making. He ignored it, pulling away her bra, baring her completely.

Maybe she should have felt defenseless and exposed. Yet the fierce look in his eyes that intensified as he gazed down at her didn't make her feel either of those things.

Yes, there was a vulnerability to being nearly naked in front of him, but there was also a strength, too. A power she'd never imagined. The power of being female, of being wanted. It made her hungry to see what else he could show her.

"Keep still," he murmured as she strained against imprisoning fingers. His other hand at her waist, his palm hot against her bare skin.

Then he began to move it up, slowly, and it was as if he was stroking her with a naked flame, her skin igniting, burning, wherever he touched. Her breathing got ragged, out of control, and in the silence of the training room she could hear the harsh, hitched sound of it.

God, so good. She'd never experienced anything like this before. How on earth was she going to survive it?

His hand moved higher, until he was cupping the underside of her breast, and she was trembling so hard she thought she might break apart. She could feel the brush of the calluses on his hand on her bare skin and for some reason the roughness of them made the growing ache inside her even worse.

Then his hand was on her breast, his thumb circling her nipple, and she groaned, a sharp rush of pleasure flooding through her.

He made a deep, male sound of appreciation, the expression on his dark face full of heat and hunger, his attention on what his hand was doing to her. "Perfect," he said roughly. "You are perfect."

He pinched her nipple gently and she made another desperate sound, the dizzying rush of sensation arrowing down the length of her body.

And then he bent his head and she could feel his warm breath against her skin, the only warning she got before his tongue circled her nipple.

"Z-Zakir," she gasped, every nerve ending suddenly sensitized.

He didn't respond, instead drawing her nipple into his mouth and sucking hard.

Felicity shut her eyes, arching up off the couch, another moan tearing from her throat. She'd dismissed physical pleasure, had never thought it was particularly important in the greater scheme of things. But this... God, she'd never have anticipated this in a million years.

_Now can you see what all the fuss was about?_

Oh, yes, she could.

Zakir growled, his hand sweeping possessively down her body to the buttons on her jeans, flicking them open with an easy movement of his hand. And she couldn't seem to help herself, her hips rising off the couch, her legs parting, wanting him to touch her. Ease the growing tension inside her.

He pushed his hand down beneath the waistband of her jeans and panties, his fingers sliding through the curls between her thighs, finding the slick, wet heart of her. She gave a soft cry, beginning to lose herself, feeling herself slipping away as the intensity and need began to take hold.

He circled her clitoris, his touch gentle at first, then pressing a little more firmly, at the same time as he sucked on her breast. And all the pleasure began to gather into a tight, hard knot.

She panted, her body shifting restlessly under his, seeking more friction, a harder touch, something, she didn't know what. "Zakir," she whispered, pleading. "Z-Zakir, please..."

He said something soft in Arabic and then lifted his head, looking down at her, his cheekbones flushed, raw hunger in his eyes.

She met the look head on, any remaining self-consciousness gone, canceled out by desire.

"Wait there," he said, rough and deep.

Then, making one of those quick, fluid moves she found so mesmerizing, he got off the couch, striding across the room, and bending to pick something up. Seconds later, he was back, something gleaming in his hand.

The dagger.

The last of her air escaped her lungs in a sharp gasp, her body tensing.

But then he was over her, running one hand down her leg. "Stay still," he growled.

There was a split second's pause, then his hand pulled up hard. Denim parted in a soft ripping sound, material falling free, before he did the same to the her other leg.

Cutting her jeans off her.

Perhaps she should have protested at this treatment of her clothing. But she didn't. She wanted them gone as badly as he did.

But even as he pulled the ruined jeans from her body, he hadn't finished. He moved the dagger again at her hip, more fabric tearing. Her panties being cut away.

And then she was lying on the couch, naked but for her high tops.

She blinked, staring up at him.

He looked wild, savage, and it struck her with the force of a freight train yet again, how very different he was. And not just from the men she knew, but from everyone she knew. Bearded and black-eyed, heavily muscled and tattooed, he was a man straight out of the history books, a medieval warrior, uncivilized and rough, obeying only the laws he set himself.

He could do whatever he wanted with her and she wouldn't be able to stop him.

The thought exhilarated her in a way she didn't understand.

He threw the dagger to one side, then he leaned over her again, all hard muscle and bronze skin, that hot black gaze sweeping down her naked body and back up again. "You are mine now." His rough, dark voice was almost a touch in itself. "Do you understand, little one? Mine." He put his hand on her stomach, his fingers splaying out as if for emphasis, his eyes glittering with desire. "All of this"—his hand moved lower, between her thighs—"is mine."

There was a finality in his voice that brooked no argument, no denial. A claiming that dared the world to contradict him. That dared her to refuse.

But in that instant, she knew she wouldn't. She'd never been able to be what her parents wanted. But right now, right here, without even trying, she was everything Zakir wanted.

"Yes." She heard herself say. "Yes."

His beautifully cut mouth curved in a savage kind of smile. He didn't speak, merely leaning down and kissing her hard. Then he lifted his head again and shifted, moving down the couch, running his hands down her sides in a caressing movement, before he reached her thighs. Then he pressed them wide apart.

Felicity's breath caught.

He pushed his shoulders between her legs, sliding his hands beneath her thighs, lifting one leg, then the other over his shoulder. And everything pulled tight inside her as he looked down at her bared sex. Closer, he needed to be closer.

"Zakir," she whispered, her hands reaching to touch him, to pull him near.

"Hands above your head," he ordered. "Do not make me tell you again."

She swallowed and did as she was told, shaking. She could see the look on his face. He was gazing at her like she was the main course at a feast he'd been waiting his whole life for.

His hands slid beneath her buttocks, tilting her like a cup he wanted to drink from. Then he bent his head and buried his face between her thighs.

 *     *     *

He heard her cry, the satisfaction inside him deepening as he opened his mouth and licked her, tracing the folds of her sex with his tongue, circling the hard little bud of her clitoris. Her hips jerked and he squeezed the soft flesh of her buttocks, holding her down, keeping her still.

He was so hungry and he couldn't remember why he'd thought this was a bad idea. Not when he had the hot, spicy flavor of her in his mouth.

God had not played a joke on him after all.

God had given him a gift.

This woman, all soft, silky, pale skin and fragile limbs. Tiny and delicate, yet so strong. So passionate. She'd trembled beneath him yet when he'd touched her she'd moaned his name.

Brave. Beautiful. He was glad he hadn't taken Princess Safira after all, not when he had Felicity Cartwright.

He pushed his tongue deep inside her, hearing her cry out again. Yes, he wanted that. Needed to hear it, especially all desperate and husky, his name a soft stutter.

He gripped her tight, licked her, devoured her as he squeezed her soft flesh in his hands. The rubber heels of her boots pressed hard against his shoulders as she tried to lift her hips, her cries harsher.

A growl of approval tore from him. Having her exactly as he'd imagined her—naked but for her boots—was making this an exercise in extreme self-control. But he thought he could manage it.

Taking her now, while he still had the control to remain in full possession of himself, seemed the best way to deal with the desire. And perhaps if he indulged himself, then it would cease to bite with such sharp teeth.

But those teeth were biting into him hard now and he couldn't wait too much longer. He had to have her. It was a need he could not longer resist.

Shifting his hands, he put one on her stomach, his fingers sliding down, through the tangle of copper red curls to the folds of her sex. Circling and rubbing her clitoris as he licked right up the center of her, again and again, before pushing his tongue back inside.

She shook, her body tensing like a drawn bow. And then she gave a ragged cry, the tension releasing as her climax hit her, her thighs clamping around him with surprising strength.

He didn't want to stop touching her, tasting her, but he lifted his mouth from her, watching as the orgasm gripped her tight. Her eyes were closed and her face was deeply flushed, her lovely red mouth open. She looked wanton, so infinitely desirable. And he was full of a primitive, inappropriate satisfaction. That he was the first man who'd done this to her. That had seen her like this.

_The only man._

Yes, he would be. She would not have another. He would kill the man who dared take her from him.

He remained where he was, stroking her soft thighs, waiting until she'd quieted. Then he rose, pausing only to pull open his pants and shove them down his hips, freeing himself, before settling between her legs once more.

Her eyes were closed and he didn't want that, so he leaned over her, sliding one hand behind her head, cradling it in his palm. "Look at me, Felicity."

Her lashes fluttered, opened, the silver gray of her eyes dark as woodsmoke. She looked dazed.

The satisfaction spread inside him. He'd given her pleasure, brought her to climax, and he hadn't lost his control, not once. Perhaps it was possible for them to have this after all.

He held her gaze as he positioned himself at the entrance to her body, then he pushed inside in one strong, deep thrust.

Her eyes went wide, another soft cry escaping her.

And he stopped because the sheer heat of her blanked his mind. Two years since he'd been inside a woman's body, but even then, it hadn't been like this. Never like this. The tight clasp of her sex around his shaft was almost more than he could bear, but he forced himself to keep still, looking down into her face.

She was panting, her breathing harsh, her eyes dark, sparks of pain in them.

"Are you ready?" he murmured, because, holy God he couldn't keep still any longer.

Her throat moved as she swallowed. "Y-yes."

Slowly, he drew his hips back and flexed, thrusting deep, watching her, seeing those silver sparks of pain become something else. Her hands were lifting again, reaching for him, but he couldn't have that. She needed not to touch him because this would only work if he was the one in absolute control.

So he reached for her wrists again, gathered the delicate bone structure of each one in his hand, holding them above her head and keeping them there. Then he moved, feeling the intoxicating slide of her slick heat around him pleasure uncurling through his body, sweet and sharp as the bite of a steel blade.

"Zakir," she murmured thickly, pulling against his hold. "Oh, yes... Oh, please...this is...so good..."

He moved harder, deeper. Never taking his gaze from her face, watching the same dark pleasure that burned in him glitter in her eyes.

He'd thought her fragile, but she wasn't. There was a strength to her, he could see that now. It was there in the way she lifted her hips, meeting his thrusts. In the way her back arched. The way she lifted her legs and wrapped them around his waist. Giving herself utterly to the experience and to him.

"I w-want to touch you," she whispered, moving restlessly under him. "Please. Let me."

He shook his head, keeping his grip on her, feeling the fragility of those narrow wrists in his palm. For someone so small and fragile, she had the power to undo him completely. In fact, she was doing it now, with each soft cry she made, with each sensual, unpracticed move of her hips. With the heat of her body and the way her sex gripped him, held him.

With the way she looked into his eyes, with hunger and longing, letting him see all that he was doing to her. Opening herself up to him, unafraid.

Something in his chest twisted, a tightness he'd never felt before. It was disturbing so he pushed it aside, concentrating instead on the feel of her body beneath him. The shift of her hips and the movement of her small, high breasts. On the scent of flowers and musk and a warm, spicy note that was all Felicity.

He moved faster, using his free hand to grip her hips, holding her steady as he thrust deep, the friction becoming too much, the pleasure overwhelming.

She arched her back like a cat, her arms straining against his hold, crying his name. And then he felt her sex grip him tightly, convulsing around him.

Thank God.

Zakir released the leash he had on himself, driving hard inside her, letting the pleasure grip him by the throat and squeeze. Until his vision dimmed and there was nothing but the slick, wet heat of her. Nothing but the unendurable tension drawn so tight he couldn't bear it.

Then he leaned down and covered her mouth, kissing her hard and wet and deep as the orgasm came for him. Swift and annihilating as a bullet to the back of his head.

## Chapter Eight

Felicity couldn't seem to get a breath. She lay on the couch with her eyes closed, her body trembling from the force of a second climax so intense her eyes had just about rolled back in their sockets...

Wow.

_That's all you can say? Wow?_

Okay, so that was a stupid word and not nearly enough to encompass everything that had just happened with Zakir. But then, she had a feeling no word would _ever_ be enough to encompass it.

Zakir's grip on her wrists was punishing, the sound of his harsh cry echoing in her ears. She could feel the heavy weight of him crushing her against the cushions of the couch, the long, thick length of him still buried deep inside her.

She felt stretched and sore and...sated. And good. So, so good.

Slowly, she opened her eyes.

He was looking down at her, black gaze glinting with fierce possession. There was a flush to those aristocratic cheekbones, his mouth curving in a smile of deep satisfaction.

"Any more questions?" The heat in his voice made her skin prickle all over.

She grinned, feeling ridiculously pleased with herself for some reason she couldn't possibly fathom. "Actually, I do have a few."

He gave a low laugh, the soft, rough sound of it sending a little thrill right through her. "Of course you do. But not now. I think we both could use some recovery time." Gently he slid from her, moving off the couch, pulling up his black pants and tucking himself away.

She rolled over onto her side, watching him as he went over to the far side of the room where there was a set of cupboards. He opened them up, taking out a few things. He had his back to her, the muscles of his shoulders rippling with his movements.

And her mouth dried. Such wide shoulders. So strong. He could carry anything. Protect anyone. In fact, hadn't he done that the previous night? Taking her away from Faisal, believing her when she said it hadn't been her fault. Defending her. Taking her side.

A sudden longing tightened in her chest. She couldn't remember the last time anyone had taken her side. Her father never had because he'd never been interested. While her mother... Well, everything was Felicity's fault. Even the divorce.

_Especially the divorce._

She shut her eyes. No, that wasn't her fault. Her parents' marriage had been on the rocks even before she'd been born and having her hadn't changed that, no matter what her mother told her.

_"If you'd been a boy or even a different kind of girl, this would never have happened, Felicity."_

The sound of a footstep near her, a big, warm palm on her side, drowned out the sound of her mother's anger. Her mother's hopelessness.

Her eyes snapped open. Zakir was standing there, holding a white towel. "On your back."

"Why?"

He didn't reply, that warm hand pushing until he'd rolled her onto her back himself. Then, very matter of factly, he pushed his hand between her thighs, using the towel to clean her up.

She flushed and tried to bat his hands away. "Stop, I can—"

"No." Just a simple word, but it held the weight of mountains, leaving her with no option but to sit there while he moved the cool damp towel on her, making her shiver and blush. But it felt good, no denying that.

When he'd finished, he threw the towel into a nearby wicker basket. "If there is a child, we will deal with that when the time comes," he said.

"Child? What child?"

He stared at her, very direct. "I did not use protection, little one."

Felicity blinked, a cold sensation sliding down her spine. Oh, God. No, they hadn't. She hadn't even thought of it and he'd just...

"Why not?" Her voice sounded weak and shaky, the warm, relaxed feeling from the sex dissipating suddenly. "I mean, I don't have any. It wasn't like I packed my suitcase thinking I might get kidnapped by a medieval sheikh and taken to his castle, and I'd need to pack some condoms, just in case."

He reached out a hand, cupped her cheek with a gentleness that had her breath catching. "I am sorry. I did not have any on hand."

"But it's not just kids we have to worry about, Zakir." She was starting to feel panicky. "You know that, right?"

"Of course. But you were a virgin and I have been celibate for two years. Neither of us is in any danger of disease."

He sounded so calm. But then of course he would. Everything was going exactly as he wanted it.

She swallowed, pulling away from his hand and slipping off the couch. She felt cold and scared all of a sudden, like she was falling slowly but inexorably down a mountainside and there was nothing to hold onto, nothing to stop her fall.

She'd only come down here to try and get more pieces of the puzzle that would unlock him, that would hopefully give her some way of getting out of this ridiculous marriage situation. But all she'd done was manage to get herself in deeper.

If she wasn't careful she was going to trap herself and then there would be no way out.

"Felicity." His voice was so deep and rough, the sound of her name foreign and exotic on his tongue. "I will take care of you, you know that."

"I don't want you to take care of me. I never wanted this. I never wanted _any_ of this." She bent to grab a towel from the stack nearby since he'd neatly destroyed her jeans and panties, only to have his long fingers wrap around her wrist. She flinched as he brought her around to face him again.

Anger glittered in his eyes. "But you wanted me. Do not pretend otherwise."

Of course she couldn't, not when she'd been very, very obvious about it. God, why hadn't she thought about protection?

_Because you lost your mind over him. Because you were desperate for him._

"I'm not." She tried to swallow past the lump of fear in her throat. "It's just...a kid shouldn't be used like that. A kid shouldn't be..." She stopped, realizing where the words were coming from.

"A kid should not be what?" Zakir demanded.

"Nothing." She jerked her hand out of his grip. She didn't want to talk about this, not now, not with him.

He stared at her a moment, his expression shuttered. Then abruptly he turned to the other thing he'd brought from the cupboards and laid on the couch, a length of deep blue silk. Picking it up, he held it out to her. "Here. You may dress in that."

She felt shaky and angry and vulnerable. Why had she said that? This was a different situation to what happened with her and her own parents. Totally different. "Why didn't you ask me, Zakir?" she said thickly. "Why didn't you warn me? Or does what I want not matter at all?"

His expression closed up completely. "Dress," he said, ignoring the question. "In a few days we will be leaving for the desert on a visit to the tribes."

She stared at him, the blue silk clutched in her hand. "The desert?"

"Yes." He turned, heading toward the doors. "You need pack nothing, all that will be taken care of. Until then, you may do as you wish."

Felicity let out a long breath, watching as his tall figure strode out of the training room, leaving her standing there naked and confused, and strangely, inexplicably hurt.

She swallowed, slowly opening out the silk in her hands. It was a beautiful robe, the material soft and warm on her skin.

Her hands shook as she put it on, but no matter how tightly she wrapped it around herself, she was still cold.

 *     *     *

A couple of days later, Zakir stood in the shade of his tent's awning, trying to have a discussion with the chief of Al-Shakhra's largest desert tribe, only to find his attention yet again distracted by Felicity.

Which was nothing new. She'd been doing that ever since they'd arrived at the desert camp the previous day. And not because she was constantly demanding his attention, but because she'd been doing the exact opposite.

Their encounter in the training room had not gone as he'd wanted. At least, the pleasurable part of it certainly had. How it ended, however, had not. And the truly annoying part of it was that he had no one but himself to blame.

He should never have gotten angry with her when she'd protested about the fact he hadn't used protection. But he had gotten angry. Mainly because he'd experienced a very unwelcome attack of regret.

_Did you really think it wouldn't be a problem?_

That anger stirred inside him again, his gaze resting on the small woman standing not far away, in the full glare of the midday desert heat, talking to another of the chieftains. Jamal was next to her, clearly translating, while the older man she was talking to gazed at her with an intrigued look on his face.

Of course it had been a problem. But he hadn't warned her because he simply hadn't thought of it at the time. He'd been too intoxicated by the smell of her, the feel of her. He'd wanted to bury himself inside her too much and so he had. Without thought.

It was a reminder of how thin his control had been and that was something he didn't want to acknowledge. Not to himself and definitely not to her. He should be stronger than that. He should be more in control.

The chieftain said something to Felicity and when Jamal translated, hers eyes lit up and she gave him a wide grin. Zakir couldn't hear quite what she was saying, but her voice sounded excited and so was the look on her face.

Desire gathered inside him, tight and hot. He remembered that look. He remembered the glitter in her eyes. She'd looked like that beneath him. Holy God, he wanted more of that, more of what they'd shared in his training room. A lot more. Two years he'd waited and he did not want to wait any longer. It wasn't, of course, appropriate for him to share a bed with his intended bride, at least not until they were married, but there were ways and means. And he didn't want to be denied.

_Perhaps you should wait. Denial is another way to test your strength._

The hungry thing inside him growled at the thought; his body didn't think much of that.

Felicity began to gesture, Jamal nodding emphatically along, which was strange because Zakir didn't think he was much enamored of Miss Felicity Cartwright. Then she turned her head and smiled at his head of security.

And Zakir's anger took a darker turn. She'd kept away from him since he'd left her in the training room, and he hadn't pushed because he'd been busy in the day or so before their departure. But she hadn't spoken to him on the way out here the day before, not once. And now she was giving Jamal those beautiful smiles. Jamal—and not him.

_Careful, be very careful. Jealousy was the first sign of Farid's madness._

Cold pierced the heat of desire and anger sitting in the pit of his stomach. Ah, what was he thinking? That was not a road he wanted to travel.

So perhaps it was better that she ignore him. Better that he keep his distance. It would be in the best interests of both of them in the end. Once they were married, his control would need to be absolute.

The chief talking to Felicity pointed to somewhere beyond the high cliffs that surrounded the oasis they were currently camped in, and Felicity nodded excitedly. She was talking fast now, her eyes glittering, making more wide gestures with her hands.

She was swathed in a blue robe with a white veil covering her hair and beneath the veil her face was beet red.

Zakir frowned. He'd thought she'd wilt once they reached the deep desert and yet she hadn't. Here she was, standing out in the punishing midday heat, talking excitedly and seemingly not aware of the fact that she looked like she was going to burst into flame at any moment.

Little fool. He'd warned her to rest in the tent during the day, but she'd ignored him. This had to stop.

"Sire?" The chief he was talking to looked at him strangely, and Zakir had the impression that this wasn't the first time the man had asked him something and hadn't gotten a response. Mainly because Zakir was too busy looking at Felicity.

Curse her. Getting her into a tent would at least mean she wasn't within in his sight and therefore wouldn't be so distracting.

Zakir finished up his conversation hurriedly, then strode out from under the awning, heading over to where Felicity and Jamal stood.

The little oasis was for the king only; the tribes themselves camped not five miles away at another, much larger oasis. The chiefs had come to formally welcome Zakir and invite him to the feast tonight at their camp, where he would be expected to bring his bride prize—Felicity. Except if he didn't get her out of that sun, she probably wouldn't be going anywhere at all.

She was still talking and as he got closer, he could hear the words "cell phone towers" and "wireless" and "mobile networks". Of course, there was only one thing that got her so excited. Technology and her company.

_The company that will fail if you keep her here._

Zakir pointedly ignored that particular thought.

She didn't even notice him approaching, her gaze intent on the chief who was staring at her as if transfixed. There was definite interest in his gaze and for one hot, blinding second, Zakir thought it was male interest. His hand was reaching for his sword before he could stop himself, only belatedly realizing he wasn't carrying one.

Luckily, no one had seen the gesture and it was only as the chief asked Felicity a question that Zakir realized he was wrong, it wasn't male interest; it was interest in what she was saying.

_It was only a smile she gave one of her guards. Only a smile. But Farid had complained to Zakir all through the wedding feast about it. He'd thought she perhaps she was having an affair with him. A secret affair. Zakir had told him to calm down and when Farid had, Zakir had forgotten about it. Until morning..._

The cold feeling got worse. He had control of this, he did.

"Yes, schools," Felicity was saying. "Even out here. And it would give you access to all kinds of specialist help, like health and business and—"

"Felicity," Zakir interrupted, trying not to sound harsh, and failing. "You should not be out here."

Her head snapped round, her eyes meeting his, the little sparks of excitement in the silver depths extinguishing. The expression on her face closed up and it felt like he'd just stepped on a beautiful flower and crushed it under his boot.

"Why not?" she demanded.

Zakir glanced meaningfully at Jamal, who inclined his head and murmured to the chief, leading him off back to the main tent where the others were.

Felicity scowled. "What was that for?"

Ignoring her tone, Zakir examined her critically. Her face was brick red and if the air hadn't been like an oven, her skin would probably have been shiny with sweat. But it wasn't, which was a bad sign.

"You have been standing in the full heat of the desert for nearly half an hour," he said. "It is time to find shade if you do not wish to make yourself ill."

She made a negligent gesture with her hand. "I'm fine."

"You are not fine. Have you had any water in the last hour?"

Her jaw jutted mutinously. "I was talking, Zakir. About stuff relevant to Red Star and since you—"

"This is not the time to be talking about your company, Felicity. You are not used to the desert and continuing to argue with me will not help."

"Hey, I've been to Las Vegas. I know about deserts."

He narrowed his gaze at her. Her lips were cracked and she definitely had a case of sunburn. "Into your tent," he ordered, "now. Or I will pick you up and carry you there myself."

She gave a shrug as if it didn't matter to her one way or another, then she turned, only to sway, her feet stumbling on the rocky ground.

Heat exhaustion, very likely, which meant she needed to get somewhere cool immediately. Cursing under his breath, he stalked over to her and before she could protest, swung her up into his arms and carried her toward the tent.

"You are very stubborn," he said. "And a fool."

Her eyes had fallen closed, her body light in his arms, all her prickly temper suddenly draining way. "I was just talking. Telling him about the mobile internet plan we could roll out. His tribe could benefit and so could Red Star. That's all."

Her company again. She was so very concerned about it, even to her own detriment. "What did I tell you about the desert? Did you listen to nothing I said?"

"Well, you don't listen to me, so why should I listen to you?"

His chest tightened. "I do listen to you. I just do not agree with you."

"You can't even compromise, though. So what's the point?"

_She's right. You can't._

Well, and so? He was the king. He had to do what was right for his country and that did not include compromises.

She wouldn't want to hear that, though, so he stayed silent as he carried her into the cool shade of the tent assigned to her. It was large and he'd had it appointed with every luxury. A big bed piled high with pillows, a bathroom with a shower, the water piped in from the oasis itself then recycled back into it.

Setting her on the bed, he began to tug off her robes to get her cool, starting with the veil on her hair. She pulled away from him as he eased it off, sparks of annoyance glittering in her gaze. "Stop it," she muttered. "I can do it myself."

He let her have her moment of irritation, moving over to the tent opening and called an aide, issuing a terse instruction before coming back to the bed where she sat grumpily removing the rest of her veil.

_You should leave now. Distance, remember?_

And yet for reasons he couldn't have explained, he remained where he was.

"Do not be angry with me," he said, then paused. "You were right. I should have warned you I did not have any protection. I...apologize." The apology wasn't easy for him, and he was even a little surprised at himself for uttering it.

She balled the white cotton up on the bed, the expression on her face furious. "You think this is just about the fact we had unprotected sex? What about the whole kidnapping, drugging, holding prisoner thing? The 'you're going to marry me or else' thing?" Her chest heaved as she took a breath, the pretty, fair skin of her cheeks still brick red. "The company I worked hard to build is now in danger of going down the tubes and all because you're forcing me into a life I didn't choose and didn't want. And now I could be pregnant. And we don't love each other and any child we have could be—" She stopped suddenly. As if she'd said something she didn't mean.

Like she had back at the training room. He hadn't asked her about her hesitation then because something had stopped him, a feeling he didn't want. Sympathy. And he couldn't afford to feel sympathetic toward her, not if he wanted this marriage to go forward.

Yet now...that feeling was tightening his chest, hooking into his anger. He wanted to know what was wrong, why she'd stopped speaking. Because there had been a note in her voice, a note that sounded like pain, and he found he hated the sound of it. He didn't want her to be hurt. And if she had been, he wanted to know who'd hurt her.

"Could be what?" he demanded before he could stop himself, more harshly than he'd meant to.

"Nothing," she replied, looking away. "Can you go away, please? I'm not feeling so great." She pushed herself up off the bed sharply, heading for God alone knew where.

No. She could not go. He would have answers. Because maybe he should know after all. And maybe, in knowing, he could make her change her mind about this marriage.

_Since when did you care how she feels about it?_

But he ignored that thought. Instead, he stood right in front of her, blocking her way.

Felicity looked up at him, temper flashing in her eyes. Then, beneath her flushed skin, she paled suddenly. "Oh. I _really_ don't feel great." And she swayed again.

Zakir moved without thought, catching her slight weight before she fell, her body so warm against him. Too warm. Her lashes lay still on her cheeks and under that red flush, she'd gone quite white. Definitely heat exhaustion.

_Your fault._

The uncomfortable feeling in his chest turned into an ache. He had brought her here to the desert. And not just to the desert, he had brought her to Al-Shakhra, whether she wanted it or not. He had ripped her away from her home and placed the company she valued in jeopardy. And not only that, he had refused to let her go back.

He had hurt her.

_You pretend to be better than Farid, but you are not._

No, he was better than Farid. He _had_ to be. How else was his country to recover? How else was he supposed to be the king he'd intended to be? To restore the Al-Nazari name? He'd meant to do that with this woman. She was the start of his new regime, and yet, how could he begin to wipe the taint from his family if he couldn't even look after one small American woman properly?

_He_ was the fool.

Angry with himself, Zakir rounded the bed and sat down with her in his arms.

A soft sound at the tent's entrance announced one of the palace staff carrying the drink he'd ordered a few minutes earlier. Getting them to put it down on the nightstand next to the bed, he waited until they'd gone. Then he laid Felicity down on the bed and gently peeled the robes from her.

She was wearing jeans underneath, the little idiot. Shaking his head, he leashed his hunger for her and took those off her as well, leaving her in her underwear. Then he took the white veil into the bathroom, unraveled it, and immersed it in cold water before wringing it out again. Taking it back into the main room of the tent, he came over to the bed and gently laid the cool, wet cotton over her. Then he sat down and, because he couldn't help himself, he gathered her into his arms again, wet cloth and all.

She made a protesting sound, her eyes opening and looking up at him. "What are you doing?"

"You probably have heat exhaustion. I am trying to cool you down." Reaching over to the nightstand, he took the glass off it and put it into her hand. "Here, drink this."

She squinted at it. "What is it?"

"A fruit and yogurt drink. The glucose in it will help."

She took a cautious, experimental sip. "Hmm. It's nice." Then took a larger sip. Her body had relaxed against him and he was suddenly, painfully aware that she was only in her underwear and covered by wet material that was almost completely transparent. She didn't seem to have noticed. "You can let me go now."

But he didn't want to. "No. You were going to tell me something just now and you stopped yourself. About children. I want to know what it was."

Her attention stayed on her drink. "I... It's nothing."

"It is not nothing. I can hear it in your voice. You are hurt."

Copper red lashes rose sharply, sparks of anger in her eyes. "I'm not hurt."

He ignored that. "Tell me."

"Why should I? You keep demanding things from me but you won't give me anything in return."

She was right and he didn't like that she was.

_If you want her to change her mind, you must give her something._

Yes, he had to. The only alternative was him continuing to hurt her and he couldn't keep doing that. He had to be better than Farid.

"Tell me," he said slowly. "And then I will tell you about my brother."

Felicity glanced up at him sharply, her gaze narrowing as if she didn't quite believe him. Then she leaned back against his arm. "You first."

In spite of himself, he almost smiled. She wasn't going to let him get away with anything, was she? "It is not a pleasant story."

"No, I don't suppose it is." She took another sip of her drink. "Tell me anyway."

He didn't want to. Speaking of it was painful and it made him angry. Yet there was something comforting about holding her, as if her warmth was enough to chase away the dark.

"I told you my brother was sick," he said after a moment. "Well, he was. My father's own mental health was not good, but Farid and I thought we had avoided the same fate. Yet, not long after he was made king, he started to display the same problems that plagued my father. Paranoia, depression. Hearing voices. I told him he had to seek medical assistance, but he refused." Zakir paused, trying not to let the anger creep into his voice. Or the helplessness. He didn't look at Felicity, keeping his gaze on the far wall of the tent. "So I sought advice secretly on his behalf, importing drugs that would keep the symptoms at bay. And soon enough he started to get better and I thought it was all over." Another pause. He could feel her looking at him.

"It wasn't?" she prompted softly.

"No." Zakir forced himself to continue. "He met Maysan and decided to marry. The day of the wedding, Farid was angry because she had smiled at one of the guards. He thought she was having an affair. I told him to calm himself; that all would be well, and he let it go. But...that night, the palace staff heard arguing in his wedding suite." He could feel all his muscles begin to tense. He didn't want to keep talking about this, but he'd promised her. "They were worried and came to fetch me, but by the time I got to the suite, all was quiet. I did not want to interrupt Farid's wedding night and so I left them. It was not until the next day, when the staff could not get an answer to their knocks, that I went in and found them."

There had been so much blood. So much blood everywhere. He couldn't seem to get it out of his head.

Something pressed against his chest and when he looked down, a small hand was spread there just above his heart, very pale against the darkness of his robes.

"I'm sorry, Zakir." Felicity's face was still very pale, her eyes dark and full of something that made it hard to breathe. "That must have been terrible."

He wanted to look away from her, but he didn't. Because he was not and never had been, a coward. "I looked in the drawer of Farid's nightstand and I saw the packet of pills he should have been taking. It was unopened. I do not know when, but he had stopped taking them."

"Oh," she said thickly. "Oh, Zakir."

"At the wedding feast all the signs were there, but I dismissed them. I thought he was better." He could not, even now, seem to remember why he'd thought nothing of the look in his brother's eyes. Why he'd pushed his own doubt to the back of his mind. But he had. And the consequences... "I should have realized that his fixation with the guard was his paranoia back again. I should have been suspicious of it. But I wasn't."

"No." That small hand pressed hard against him. "You thought he was taking his pills. You thought he was better. How could you have known he wasn't?"

He looked down at her, meeting the fierce look in her eyes. She wouldn't understand. She didn't know what lay inside him. "Perhaps I just did not want to see."

Her forehead creased. "See what?"

"That he was not getting better. That he would never would." She had to know his doubts, she had to be aware. "Perhaps I did not want to see, because the seeds of the same madness lie within myself. And if there was no hope for Farid, there was no hope for me."

Felicity stilled in his arms, staring up at him. "You're not mad, Zakir."

"How would you know?" His hold on her had tightened for some reason, so he tried to ease it. "I have kidnapped you, held you against your will. Some would say that is madness."

But she was shaking her head. "No, that's ridiculous. Okay, so I did wonder at first if you were a little insane. But you're not. You're old fashioned, a traditionalist from a very conservative country. That's not madness, that's your culture. Anyway, you don't seem paranoid and you don't hear voices—at least, you don't look like you do."

He looked down into her face, held her gaze, letting her see into the darkness that lay inside him. "I am possessive, little one. I am violent. As a soldier, I have killed and perhaps I will kill again. All the necessary seeds are there, and all it would take is a little water for them to grow."

She was frowning now, her gray gaze searching. "What water?"

But he did not want to talk about that anymore. Didn't want to reveal his doubt and the fear he told himself he didn't feel. He'd given her something; it was now time for her to hold up her end of the deal.

Ignoring her question, he said, "Enough about me. It is your turn."

## Chapter Nine

Felicity stared up into his dark eyes, her chest aching. He was afraid, she could see it in his face, and of course he wouldn't want to admit that to her. A man like him wouldn't want to admit that to anyone. But she could see his fear all the same.

And she could understand it. A father and a brother falling to madness, and of course he must feel that he was next.

He might even be right. But...she didn't think he was.

_I am possessive. I am violent. I...have killed._

Well, she was possessive of her company. And, okay, so she hadn't actually hit anyone, but she felt violently about some things all the same. No, she hadn't killed, but she thought she might if she had to protect someone she loved.

Yet just because she felt all those things didn't mean she was mad. It didn't mean he was either. Didn't mean he'd lose control of himself and go on a rampage like his brother. In fact, those feelings lay within everyone. Didn't he see that?

She wanted to tell him not to be afraid, but he was clearly not willing to talk about it anymore, and she sensed pushing him wasn't going to help. Which meant she was now going to have to talk about herself.

The nausea and faintness had faded a little, the cool, damp cotton of the veil against her skin helping ease the terrible heat. Being in his arms felt good, despite the fact that he was way too warm, and she would have preferred to rest there for a while without having to talk. Telling him about her family was going to sound so pathetic after what he'd confessed to her.

Maybe distance would help. Certainly his heat wasn't helping her feel cooler. Pulling the almost-dry cotton around her, she slipped out of his lap. He let her go, sitting on the bed wrapped in his dusty black robes and blue headscarf. Dark-eyed, bronze-skinned, black stubble lining his chin, he looked dangerous, enigmatic. A desert warrior ready to do battle.

Except he hadn't. He'd picked her up, covered her with wet fabric to cool her, and gotten her a drink. Then he'd told her about his brother, giving her a piece of himself.

Why? What had changed?

She pulled the cotton tighter. "You don't really want to know."

"You promised me, little one."

"It's going to sound stupid after what you told me."

"It will not."

_It's not a big deal so quit making it into one._

Of course she shouldn't. "It's...nothing, really. No one died. No one was murdered. My parents got divorced. That's it."

But his dark eyes were very sharp, very perceptive. And they didn't look away. "And what has that got to do with any child we have? Divorce does not happen much in this country, so it will not be an issue—"

"It's not divorce I'm afraid of." She took a breath. "My parents' marriage was pretty bad even before I was born, and it got worse as I grew up. My mom wanted a son because that's what Dad wanted, so she was pretty disappointed I was a girl, and she didn't bother to hide it." Felicity swallowed, trying not to sound bitter and failing. "She thought if she could make me into this society princess, she'd be able to get Dad a good son-in-law at least, but...I'm not that type of girl and I didn't want to be. I just wanted to be me." She couldn't look at him so she looked at her feet instead. "I tried really hard. I thought they'd like the fact that I did well in school; that I got into college really young. That I won lots of academic awards. That Red Star was a success. But they didn't. I don't even think my dad noticed, while all my mom seemed worried about was that I'd intimidate the men she'd picked out for me." She concentrated on the carpet beneath her feet, the blue and gold pile. It was very soft. "Anyway, I didn't manage to get Dad a son-in-law and pretty soon he told Mom he wanted a divorce. She was furious and blamed me. Told me the whole reason she had me in the first place was to make Dad happy and I'd failed. I'd poisoned their relationship instead and she wished she'd never had me."

Why did it hurt still? Why did it feel like a knife to her chest? Her parents had never loved her and she didn't care because she didn't love them either. It shouldn't hurt. It shouldn't.

She swallowed back the pain, pretended it wasn't there, and looked up, bracing herself to meet Zakir's black gaze. "Like I said, no big deal. No one died. I don't care what Mom said, it doesn't matter to me these days. But that's why I don't want to marry you. Because you're forcing me into a role I don't want, exactly like my mom. And it's why I don't want to bring a kid into this. I don't want my child to be part of a family where there's no love, where their parents don't even like each other. I don't want any kid of mine to be used as a tool to try and make someone else happy. They deserve better, Zakir. I know I did."

He said nothing for a long moment, but the look in his eyes glittered and she suddenly had the impression he was absolutely furious.

Slowly, he stood up, towering over her and she wondered if she should be scared. Because, yes, he was indeed, very, very angry.

Defiantly, she said, "I know that probably makes no difference to you, but—"

One long finger caught her beneath her chin, tipping her head back. His eyes were like a midnight sky, the glitter of his anger the stars. And the scent of him was all around her, sandalwood and spice. Mysterious and exotic. She could feel the heat of him too, and she was suddenly shivering, even though she wasn't cold.

"It makes a difference." His voice, rich and dark with that faint hint of roughness, wrapped around her like fur. "It makes a very big difference to me, little one."

The endearment infuriated at her, at the same time as it slid beneath her skin, making her whole heart ache. She'd never been called darling or sweetheart or love. She was only ever Felicity. "Why? What do you care?"

"Because you _did_ deserve better. You are beautiful, intelligent. You are brave. And you deserved parents who cherished those qualities in you. Who wanted the best for you. Who were proud of you. Who loved you." There was something burning in those midnight eyes that sharpened the ache in her heart, the longing that stole her breath. "And you deserve that in a husband, too. I cannot give you love, Felicity. That is not something I can give to anyone. But this I will give you. If at the end of our time in the desert you still want to leave me, I will let you go, this I swear to you."

She blinked up at him, for a moment unable to speak.

His grip on her chin firmed. "All I ask is that you grant me the opportunity to show you how much good you could do here. How much you could change as my sheikha. How much your gifts are needed by this country. By my people." He paused and all of a sudden she saw something else in his eyes, just a flicker. The man behind the king. "By me."

She felt like he'd shot her straight through the heart. "Z-Zakir...."

"Give me this, Felicity. Promise me."

She could barely speak. "Yes. Okay, I promise."

Something flared in his expression, satisfaction or triumph or determination, she couldn't tell which. Then he bent his head suddenly and his mouth was on hers, a hard kiss, dark and deep with hunger and desire.

But she'd barely had a chance to respond before he lifted his head, letting her go and stepping away.

"Rest now," he said, his voice gravelly. "Sleep if you can. I will come for you before the feast tonight."

Then before she could speak, he was gone.

She swallowed, her heart thundering in ears, her mouth burning, her body prickling with sharp heat. Yes, rest. That was probably a good thing, though it was going to be difficult after all that.

He was going to let her go if she wanted to.

She lay on the bed, curling her knees up to her chest, her brain circling around and around. But not about the fact that she could be leaving in just a few days.

_I cannot give you love._

She had no idea why that stuck in her head, because she didn't want love. At least not from him. And yet that was all she seemed able to think about. Why couldn't he give her love? Why couldn't he give that to anyone? Did it have anything to do with his brother? And if so, why?

Too many questions. Damn her stupid brain for being unable to leave anything alone.

She flung an arm over her face, deciding she probably wouldn't sleep. Only to find herself opening her eyes and realizing the diffused light filtering through the canvas of the tent was now pink and orange with the colors of sunset.

So she had slept for a couple of hours at least.

She turned on her side, gazing at the colors on the canvas walls.

They were beautiful.

In fact, there was a lot about this country that was beautiful in many ways. Harsh, brutal, and extremely medieval, yes, but beautiful, too.

The palace for example, with its stone hallways and courtyards full of potted olive trees. And the desert, with its blinding, harsh sun and the intense, beautiful colors.

And its sheikh. Dark, powerful, autocratic. Fiercely protective and absolutely determined. Honorable in his way. And as beautiful and as harsh as the country he came from.

_I cannot give you love._

A shiver stole over her skin and she made herself sit up, pushing away the sound of his voice. No more thinking. She had to get ready for this feast.

Sometime in the afternoon some robes had been delivered to her tent, a small stack of white silk sitting on the low table near the entrance.

Zakir had told her when they'd arrived at the camp that tonight, in honor of the desert ways and the old tradition of the bride games, he would come for her on horseback and take her to the camp where all the tribes were gathered. They would feast and there would be gifts again, though hopefully this time there wouldn't be any dirt.

Shaking out the robes, she dressed, enjoying the feeling of silk against her skin, then reached for the veil. She was pulling ineffectually at it when Zakir strode into the tent, black robes swirling out behind him as he came.

"How do you feel?" he asked, his black eyes sweeping over her as if checking to make sure she was all there. "Better now?"

"Oh, yes. Much." She held out her arms. "How's this?"

He came forward, tugging the white silk she wore, enveloping her in his scent, making everything inside her constrict. She seemed to be painfully aware of his touch as he tucked in some bits here while tightening other parts there. And it was disappointment she felt when, after a few brisk touches to her veil, he stood back, giving her another sweeping glance then nodding. "Perfect."

She swallowed, wishing he could have stayed close to her for a few moments longer. "Really?"

The fierce expression on his face faded a little and his mouth curved in a tantalizing smile that turned something over in her chest. "Yes. You are exactly what I wanted."

A blush heated her cheeks. "Thank you," she managed to force out, luckily without a stupid stutter.

The look in his eyes flared a moment. Then suddenly he turned on his heel. "Come." And strode out of the tent.

She blinked then scurried after him, trying to catch up with his long stride.

Outside was a massive black horse, its bridle held by one of Zakir's staff.

With one smooth, fluid movement, he mounted the horse then took the reins. The huge animal shifted on its hooves as Zakir brought it closer to where she stood. Then in another display of effortless mastery, he leaned down and slid an arm around her waist, scooping her up and settling her on the horse behind him.

"Hold on tight to me," he ordered. "We will be riding fast."

She did so, moving herself closer, pressing up against the heat of his broad back.

And she'd only just locked her hands against his hard, flat stomach when he gave the horse a brisk kick, the animal exploding into movement, its hooves making hollow sounds on the rocky ground of the oasis as it headed for the trail to the tribe's desert camp.

The sunset was brilliant, gold and orange and pink, making the sky seem full of flames and igniting the dry and dusty landscape around them. The rocks and distant dunes going a deep red-gold in the slowly deepening twilight.

The air had cooled by this stage and it felt good to be out here under a brushfire sky, with the wind pulling at her veil, making it stream out behind her like it did in the movies. With her arms locked around the hard, muscular heat of a dangerous man. A man who wanted her.

A fantasy almost.

She leaned into him, inhaling the dry, dusty scent of the desert, the animal smell of the horse beneath her, the sandalwood and spice scent of the man in front of her. Feeling the hard muscles of his abs flex and release with the movements of the horse.

This wasn't a fantasy. This was real.

And the feeling inside her was real. The empty, hollow ache.

He was still a puzzle and though she had some of the pieces, she sensed she didn't quite have all of them. And she knew she wouldn't want to leave until she did. So maybe these next few days with him she'd try and discover all she could. Once she'd worked him out, once she'd solved him, then she could go.

_I cannot give you love._

Her arms tightened and she turned her face against his robes.

She didn't want love. She just wanted him.

 *     *     *

The great tent where the tribes held their feast was full of people. The sides of the tent had been drawn up, leaving half of it open to the desert night, braziers burning to stave off the chill.

A long table ran down the center of the tent, the chiefs on low pillows sitting around it, with Zakir and his bride prize at the head. The rest of the tribe was eating at more low tables set up outside, the air full of conversation and laughter.

The taking of a bride was an important event, especially if the bride was that of the ruling sheikh, and the tribes had turned out their best effort in order to celebrate. There was food aplenty and wine for some. A very different event to the formal presentation he'd given back at the palace.

The chiefs were curious as to their new sheikha and Zakir had been conscious of the whispers around the table, of the interest the chiefs had been showing. They were suspicious of her as a westerner, but also intrigued to hear she had her own company. And that she could potentially help them. A very different approach to that of Faisal and his cronies.

As for Felicity herself, she'd been dealing very well with the sometimes impertinent questions asked of her—something of a tradition in the desert when it came to ascertaining the fitness of the bride to be a good wife.

Jamal had been translating again for her and had become, Zakir noted, somewhat protective of her. Which was a change from his previous suspicion. And earlier she had sat on her cushion in front of Zakir as he'd presented her to the many different tribes of the Al-Shakhran desert, and this time there had been no gifts of dirt or copper coins. The coins near her cushion had been gold, mixed with jewelry and carvings of horses, all signs of respect.

Slowly but surely, it seemed his little one was winning people over.

As the buzz of conversation rose around them, Felicity scooped up some hummus with a roll of the fresh flat bread the tribe's women had made for the feast, eating it with some relish. Several of the chiefs had been watching her with approval—it was rude to refuse a tribe's hospitality and food was part of that. Westerners were known to have delicate stomachs, but she hadn't refused anything she'd been served, another point in her favor.

He watched her, unable to tear his gaze from her.

That afternoon he'd promised her he'd let her go at the end of their time in the desert, and he wondered if perhaps he'd been a fool to do so. But after she'd told him about her parents, after he'd seen in her eyes the hurt they'd caused her no matter how she tried to pretend otherwise, he knew he couldn't hurt her as they had. Which meant he would have to compromise. It didn't come naturally to him and he'd never done it well, but he'd sworn to himself he'd look after her. That he wouldn't cause her hurt. And she deserved better than to have her feelings run roughshod over.

If she didn't want to stay, he wouldn't force her.

But he would try his hardest to make her want to.

Felicity laughed as Jamal translated something the chief next to her had said, her eyes brilliant and her cheeks flushed. Her gaze caught Zakir's then and her smile turned into something else, heat glittering in the gray depths.

And he felt the beast inside him rattle the bars of his cage again, his body tightening almost painfully.

He'd thought distance would be better for them both earlier, but not now. If he was going to convince her to stay, he needed to use every weapon in his arsenal, no matter the cost to his precious control. If he wanted to take the city, he had to plan for a siege.

He let the feast go on for another hour before he announced that his bride needed her rest and so he'd be taking her back to their camp.

Leaving so early was at the limits of politeness, but he'd made it known she was recovering from heat exhaustion so no one made a comment as he excused themselves, pulling her up behind him on his horse.

"I thought we'd be staying longer," she murmured, her arms sliding around his waist, her hands resting on his stomach, making every muscle he had tighten in response.

"We should," he said shortly. "But you need to be in bed."

"I'm not tired. I got some sleep this afternoon." She leaned against him, her heat pressing into his back. He found it maddening.

"I did not say you would be sleeping."

Zakir didn't wait for her response, urging the horse into a gallop, racing over the sands, back toward the camp.

It seemed to take far longer to get back than it had to leave, and the feel of her at his back made every minute stretch out torturously.

By the time he'd pulled up in front of his own tent and dismounted, he was hard enough not to care about whether or not it was appropriate to pull his intended inside. He was the king anyway; he could do what he liked.

After he'd thrown the reins to the groom who'd immediately appeared as they entered the camp, Zakir reached up to Felicity and lifted her off the horse, allowing her to slide a little against his body as he lowered her down to the sand.

A foolish move to tantalize himself when his control was so thin. If he was going to use this particular weapon, he needed to be more cautious.

Her eyes widened, her hands coming to rest on his chest to steady herself. She was all in white silk and suddenly he wanted to tear it off her, rip it to pieces, bind her to his bed so she could never leave.

_You cannot. You made her a promise._

"When you said not sleeping, you meant..." She trailed off, her voice husky.

He wanted to slide his hands over her buttocks, bring her hard against him right here and now, but there were guards around. It didn't worry him—they would be blind and deaf if he asked them—yet it would concern her, so all he did was release her and step back. "You may go to your own tent if you wish," he said, unable to keep the heat from his voice. "Or you may stay in mine."

She gave him a searching look and he had to resist the urge to grab her, throw her over his shoulder, and march into his tent with her anyway. But that was not the way to win her. That was not the way to mount this particular attack and strategy had always been his forte.

Perhaps she knew, because her gaze went to his hands that had somehow clenched themselves into fists at his sides and stayed there for a long moment.

"I think I'd like to see your tent," she said quietly.

And without another word, she turned and walked through the entrance.

The relief was a wave flooding through him. Yes, she'd chosen this. For tonight she'd chosen him and he'd make sure she didn't regret it.

He followed her, closing the tent flap securely behind him.

She'd stopped in the middle of the tent, staring around her, a look of surprise on her face.

No wonder. His tent was not like hers. It was smaller for a start and he had no carpets on the floors or low couches or pillows. The only luxury he allowed himself was the big bed for sleeping and the functional desk he worked at. He was a soldier after all; he didn't need anything more.

Felicity turned and met his gaze. "You don't allow yourself much, do you?"

"I do not need it." He reached up and pulled off his keffiyeh, discarding it onto the chair near the desk. Then he advanced on her. "There is only one thing here I need."

Her eyes glittered silver. "Stop, Zakir," she said.

The order was unexpected and much to his own surprise he obeyed it. Which irritated him. "Do not think you can play games with me. I am—"

"I'm not playing games with you." Slowly, she walked toward him.

And he found himself staying where he was, waiting for her to come, getting closer and closer until she was right in front of him, as close as she'd been outside the tent. The scent of flowers and musk wound around him, the warmth of her body making every part of him ache.

"I've never kissed you before," she said, tilting her head back and looking up at him. "I mean, I know you've kissed me, but I haven't kissed you."

He wanted to take her right now, right here, roughly, on the floor. And yet he wanted to give her this as well. "Then kiss me." His voice held a hoarse edge. "Do it fast, little one, before I take it myself."

She moved without hesitation, taking another step and closing the remaining distance between them. Rising up on her toes, one hand reaching up to slide around the back of his neck, bringing his head down to press her lips to his.

Ah, holy God, but she was sweet. So sweet. Her mouth opened, her tongue touching his, only a little hesitant. And he found himself clenching his hands in his fists again, fighting the urge to take. To devour and ravage.

_Do not break her. She is precious._

Her tongue swept deeper into his mouth, her body arching against his as she gained in confidence. She tasted of the wine they'd shared at dinner, a rich, deep red, both tart and sweet at the same time, making the beast inside him roar with hunger.

Then she lifted her other hand, pushed her fingers into his hair, kissing him harder, deeper. With more insistence.

He should be able to hold back. He should be able to control himself. And yet he found his arms around her, his palms sliding over her buttocks, crushing all that soft heat against him, desperate for it.

"You should not do this, little one," he murmured harshly against her mouth. "I am not a man you want to push."

"Why not?" She moved her head, kissing his jaw and down the side of his neck. "You push me all the time." Her breath was warm on his skin, her lips like fire. "Can't I push you for a change?" And she touched her tongue to the base of his throat, licking him as delicate as a cat.

He growled, the sound escaping from him before he could stop it, the feel of her little tongue on his skin like a match to dry tinder. "No more questions, Felicity. Have you taken what you need?"

"No." She rose higher on her toes and this time it was her teeth he felt against his skin, biting down on him. The nip sent a bolt of pure electricity down his spine, snapping the leash he had on himself.

Without thought, he moved, wrapping one arm around her waist and pulling off her white silk veil with the other. Her hair was loose so he plunged his fingers into it, twisting, gripping on tight to the soft, silky strands. Pulling her head away from him and back, covering that maddening little mouth with his.

And she met him, her response just as hot and hungry as his. Kissing him back as hard as he was kissing her. She angled her head, delivering a nip to his bottom lip, sending his blood pressure skyrocketing.

Ah, God, she had no idea what she was doing.

He jerked her head back, his breathing ragged, so hard he could barely think. "I told you not to push," he said roughly.

"And I asked why not?" There was a triumphant look in her quicksilver eyes, as if she was very pleased with his response. "What are you afraid of?"

He tried to ease his hold on her and failed. "I am not an easy lover, Felicity."

"Easy? What do you mean by easy?"

So many questions. She always had so many questions. Too many. Perhaps he would show her instead.

He kissed her again, harder, deeper. Ravaging. Devouring. Hot and wet and carnal. Stopping all those questions, stopping everything but this, the taste of her sweet mouth and the silky feel of her hair around his fist. The heat of her body up close to his.

He'd hoped to scare her, make her think about what she was doing, but instead she took everything he gave her then returned it, kissing him back, her fingers digging into his nape, her short nails delivering their own exquisite bite of sensation.

It was too much, too intense. She wanted to know why she shouldn't push him?

Then it was time she found out.

## Chapter Ten

Felicity held onto Zakir for dear life, her heartbeat going like one of those tribal drums, her blood like fire in her veins. She'd never felt so hungry for another person in all her life.

He growled again, deep in his throat, and she felt herself picked up in his arms and carried over to the big bed in the center of the tent. Then he dropped her down onto it and systematically began ripping the robes from her body.

The look on his face was fierce, dark, and predatory. And she loved it. He was exciting, thrilling. And so sexy she almost couldn't handle herself.

Silk tore and she trembled, loving the roughness of his desire. Loving how hungry he was for her that he was nearly out of control. Because this need didn't come from the deadly desert king who wanted a queen. This came from a passionate man desperate for a woman.

And not just any woman. Her.

As the last of the silk came off, she lay back on the bed, staring up at him. She was naked now and he was still fully clothed, towering over her in his black robes, looking at her like he wanted to eat her alive. Then he slammed his hands down on the mattress on either side of her head, leaning over her, surrounding her with that insanely addicting scent of sandalwood and spice, with the heat of his body, his intense, black gaze inches from hers.

"Why are you not afraid?" he demanded hoarsely. "You should be."

"What? Afraid of you?" She stared right back at him. "Why should I be? Because you're not an easy lover? Well, you're assuming I want easy. And I don't think I do."

"You are inexperienced. You have no idea what you want."

"I know what I want," she said. "I want you."

"I will break you, little one. I will hurt you." He was breathing very fast and she could see something like desperation in his eyes. Something like fear.

And she knew why. "No, you won't. You won't break me because I'm stronger than I look. And you won't hurt me because you're not your brother."

"Felicity, you do not understand—"

"No, you're the one who doesn't understand." She looked up into his black eyes, seeing the flame that burned there. "What I want is your passion, Zakir. And I don't care how that comes."

"Passion is dangerous."

"Show me then," she whispered. "Show me how dangerous it is. Show me how dangerous you are. I'm not afraid. I want it all."

The flame leapt in his gaze. He looked almost savage and that, too, she loved. And it made her even more determined to show him that he had nothing to be afraid of. That the man who'd lain her on the bed that afternoon with a cool cloth over her, who'd gotten her a drink to help her with the heat, wasn't a man who would needlessly hurt anyone.

She didn't know why it was so important that he believe her. She only knew that it was.

He said something harsh in Arabic. Then, with one powerful movement he flipped her over onto her stomach.

Her heartbeat accelerated and then again as he pulled her arms above her head. There was a pause and then all the air left her lungs as cool material was wound tight around her wrists, binding them together. She glanced up. White silk. He was tying her hands with her veil.

"This is so you don't touch," he said harshly in her ear. "Only I can do that."

Excitement caught in her throat and then his hands were on her body, sliding down her sides, over her hips, to her thighs. Stroking, shaping. He caressed the curve of her rear, making goose bumps rise everywhere over her body, and then his hand slipped between her legs.

Felicity gasped as his fingers began to explore her, sliding over her wet flesh, finding then circling her clitoris in a movement that made her shudder and gasp again.

"You want this?" His voice was a dark growl from behind her, his breath hot on the back of her neck. "You want me to take you like this?"

"Yes..." She pushed herself back against his hand, desperate for more.

He slid a finger inside her, pushing deep. "Beg me for it, little one. I want to hear you say it."

Pleasure was a white-hot burst of energy inside her, the edge of it getting sharper as he added a second finger, stretching her. "Please, Zakir," she murmured, her voice thick. "Please..."

His hand withdrew from her and as she trembled against the bed, she heard the rustle of fabric, the sounds of him undressing. They were measured, unhurried.

She blinked. He was still trying to stay in control, wasn't he? Well, that wasn't what she wanted. Wild and passionate, that's what she wanted. This was a point she was trying to prove and she couldn't prove it when he insisted on remaining in control.

Felicity rolled over, her arms twisting above her head.

And all the breath left her body.

Because Zakir had discarded his robe and was standing there naked. And he was beautiful. She couldn't stop staring. She'd seen naked men before, but not in the flesh. Not right in front of her. And definitely not a man like him.

All bronze skin and sharply cut muscle. Hard. Strong. Powerful. Her gaze travelled down over his chest where the graceful lines of the tattoo traced across his pectorals. Down farther to the defined ridges of his stomach. And then down even farther to where he was hard and ready for her.

"Who said you could move?" His voice was so deep and rough it sent another shiver through her.

"I wanted to look at you."

"Turn over."

"No."

"Do as I say." He moved, his hands reaching for her, no doubt to flip her over again, his warm fingers on her hips.

But she met those black eyes. Held them. "Don't be afraid, Zakir."

His mouth hardened and he bent over her. "I am not afraid."

"Prove it then." And she lifted her bound hands, slipping them over his head and tightening. Pulling his mouth down so he had no choice but to kiss her.

Heat and desire engulfed her, the desperation in his kiss reaching all the way down to her soul. So she held on, kissing him harder, deeper. Spreading her legs for him, inviting him to take whatever he wanted from her.

So he did.

He made a raw sound deep in his throat, unhooking her arms from around his neck and pushing her back down onto the mattress. Then he reached for the drawer on the nightstand beside the bed and pulled it open. He must have got his gotten his staff to get him a supply of condoms because there was suddenly one in his hand. He tore the packet open and protected himself, and then he hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, opening her wide. And pushed inside her, hard and deep.

She cried out because it felt so good. Because it was rough and intense and passionate. He held her hands above her head while he ravaged her mouth. While he drove into her, a hard, fast rhythm that had her meeting his thrusts with her own. Showing him she was strong and that she was as hungry for him as he was for her.

Then things became even more desperate.

He nipped at her bottom lip, licked down her throat while she arched beneath him, chasing the intensity of the pleasure. He bent farther, finding her breast, taking her nipple into his mouth and sucking hard.

She cried out as everything drew tight inside her, the driving movement of him inside her, stretching her, becoming too much. She called his name as the climax took her, twisting beneath him as the pleasure short-circuited every nerve ending she had.

Then he began to move even faster, even harder, finding his own pleasure, burying his head in her neck as it took him, too.

Afterwards she lay there in a kind of daze, content not to move as the aftershocks pulsed through her. Content not to move ever again.

He covered her, his body a heavy weight on hers, but that was okay. It felt good. Like he was the anchor that held her down and without which she'd just float away.

She didn't know how long they remained like that, but eventually he shifted. Withdrawing from her, he didn't say a word as he moved off the bed, disappearing through a tent flap to what was probably the bathroom area. Seconds later, he reappeared, coming back to the bed and she sat up as he reached for the white silk around her wrists, untying them. Then he took her hands in his, chafing lightly at her skin.

"Are you all right?" he asked, a hoarse edge to his voice.

"Yes." She pulled her hands away from his, placing her palms on his chest, feeling the smooth oiled silk of his skin and the heat that warmed her all the way through. Then she looked up at him. "I've never felt better in my entire life."

His gaze was searching, as if looking for signs she was lying. "I did not hurt you?"

"No." She smiled. "That was the most amazing experience of my life."

"Your wrists—"

"Zakir." She spread her fingers out on his chest. "I'm fine." Then she pushed him back onto the bed, straddling him.

He let her do it without protest, watching her and she could see the hunger kindling again in his eyes. It made her feel bold, powerful. Like she could do anything.

She looked down at the Arabic letters inked into his chest and did what she'd been dying to do from the moment she first saw it, traced them with her finger. "What does this mean?" His muscles tensed beneath her touch. "You didn't tell me before."

"It is a vow the kings of Al-Shakhra take when we become king. It says 'Before the people, only God'."

"A vow of protection," she murmured.

"Yes. That is what a king is for. To protect his people." There was so much certainty in his voice and a kind of reverence, too, as if the words were sacred to him.

But no, there was no _as if_ about it. They _were_ sacred to him. He was a man who believed in his purpose. Believed in it deeply enough that he'd do whatever he had to in order to help his country. Even kidnap a woman to be his queen.

She let her fingers rest against him, feeling the strength beneath the skin, the power. All that determination. He was enduring, solid.

_I am possessive. Violent. I have...killed._

Maybe he had. But he was not cruel or a capricious with it. He was a man of strong passions with a very strong will. A soldier. A king. He would fight for those he loved, for those he'd sworn to protect.

She pressed both palms him his chest, the strong, steady beat of his heart against her skin. "I want to touch you."

"Felicity, I don't—"

"Let me. Please, Zakir."

His dark eyes held hers for a long moment and she thought he might refuse her. Then he said quietly, "Very well. But understand, my control with you is very, very limited."

She smiled, feeling relief go through her, not knowing how much she'd wanted him to say yes until now, letting her hands drift down his chest and over the hard corrugations of his abs. Then she bent over him, putting her lips to his chest, flicking her tongue out to taste him. Salt and a musky, spicy flavor that was all Zakir.

One warm hand was at her hip, holding on tight. "Be careful, little one," he murmured, deep and rough.

"Why?" She went a lower, licking one flat, male nipple. "Are you afraid I'll hurt you?"

His intake of breath was a sharp hiss. "You know that is not what I'm afraid of."

"You should be. I'm very fierce." Feeling bold, she bit his nipple gently, and was rewarded when she felt all those beautiful muscles tense beneath her hands.

"You are. Too fierce. I am afraid I will have you on your back before you have had your chance to touch me as you want."

Felicity grinned and pushed her hand farther down to where he was already hard and ready, circling him with her fingers. "In that case, perhaps it's my turn to tie your hands."

Something dark leapt in Zakir's eyes and he smiled, the curve of his mouth promising all kinds of wickedness. "You are more than welcome to try."

So she did.

 *     *     *

He only had four days. Four days in which to convince one small, passionate American woman to stay with him. So he planned it as he would any military operation—precisely and with great attention to detail.

He took her to an oasis with a pool big enough for swimming the following day, letting her bask in the cool water for as long as she wanted. Afterwards, in the shade of the awning his staff had brought along, he fed her a lunch of fruit, flat bread, roast chicken, and tomatoes, while she talked to him about her company. It had been clear from the beginning that it was important to her, yet only now did he begin to appreciate why. Red Star was to her as Al-Shakhra was to him. It was her kingdom and she was its ruler, her employees her people. No wonder she was so upset with him when he'd taken her. No wonder she wanted to do all in her power to make sure of its success.

He would help her, he vowed to himself. He would make sure her company did not suffer from his actions.

Later, as night fell, he took her to the dunes to watch the sunset flame brilliant over the sands, enjoying the feel of her as she leaned against him, exclaiming in wonder at the colors of the sky.

But once the night crept up on them, he took her back to camp, back into his tent where he would launch the other aspect of his siege. Pleasure. After that first night, he knew he couldn't hold back when it came to her, and so he didn't. Indulging himself and his desires as often as possible. And it was so very, very good because what he wanted was also what she wanted.

What she'd told him was true. She was strong. She could take whatever he gave her and not only that, but she could give it back, too. It was intoxicating. It made him feel like perhaps she was right. That perhaps he didn't need to be so concerned about being like Farid. Besides, it felt wrong to hold himself so rigidly in control when she burned so fiercely, so passionately. He didn't want to hold back because she deserved better than that. She deserved all the fierce passion he could give her.

And the more he gave her, the brighter she burned.

The next day they visited the tribes again, where she talked about her company and about the software she'd written. About how it could give them access to information that could enrich their lives, from tracking their livestock to educating their children, to helping communications between the various tribes.

They were fascinated with her, Zakir observed. And no wonder. She spoke with such enthusiasm and passion and excitement. It was infectious. Afterwards, he found himself fielding many comments approving his choice of wife, which should have made him feel satisfied.

But they didn't. Because although he'd decided she would be his wife, she'd made no such decision. And he knew, deep down, that four days was not enough time to convince her to stay.

He didn't give up, though.

The third day he took her for a long ride on his horse, flying across the sands, listening to her laughter in his ear, before setting up a bath for her outside as night descended. In the brilliant light of the stars, he got in with her, washing her hair as she lay back in his arms, and it wasn't laughter he heard this time, but sighs of satisfaction as he massaged the shampoo in, his fingers stroking and kneading her scalp.

He'd dismissed his guards long before and just as well, because she turned in his arms and pressed her hungry mouth to his throat, sensual as cat. And he couldn't resist her. He never could. He lifted her above him, sliding deep inside her, letting her move on him, her hands on his chest, her eyes glittering brighter than the stars above his head.

One more day. That's all that was left.

And as she rose and fell on him, he didn't know how he was going to keep his promise to her. He didn't know how he was going to let her go.

The things she could do for his country, for his people.

_The things she could do for you..._

She shattered around him, crying out in his ear, and he pulled out of her before he came, pressing himself against her soft belly, holding her close.

No, he couldn't allow himself to think about what he wanted. This was about her, what she wanted. And he wasn't going to force her; he was going to let her make her own choice.

 *     *     *

The last day came and with it a farewell feast for the tribes.

Zakir sat at the head table, watching Felicity try out some of her fledgling Arabic on various different tribe members, much to their delight. They laughed at her mistakes and she laughed with them, charming them both with her good nature and her determination to learn.

It did not escape him that most of the people around her were men. And even though he knew no one would be stupid enough to offend the sheikh by flirting with his new bride, he couldn't stop the anger that rose in him as they laughed with her, teased her.

It was jealousy, pure and simple, and he knew it.

The feeling made something icy cold turn over inside him.

As another burst of laughter rose from Felicity's admirers, Zakir knew he had to get out. He excused himself, striding to the entrance of the feast tent and stepping through it, letting the chill of the desert night calm him.

He moved away from the tent a little way, over to a stand of palms. Music and laughter drifted on the air from the feast. Most of the tribes were there, paying their respects and he knew he should go back and join them.

But he didn't think he could.

No, this wasn't jealousy. His anger felt too wild, too raw for that. It was something more, a possessiveness, a want, that went farther and deeper than jealousy or envy ever could. He wanted to take Felicity and throw her over his shoulder, take her back to their camp and keep her there where no one could ever find her. Never let her go.

_You can't. You promised._

He had promised. He just hoped when the time came he'd be able to keep it.

"Zakir?"

He turned.

There were electric lanterns strung up on poles, lighting the way, and Felicity was coming toward him, her formal robes of blue silk fluttering out behind her. She'd taken to wearing her hair loose and he loved it that way, copper and gold curls cascading from underneath her blue veil, falling down over her shoulders.

"Why did you leave?" She stopped not far from him. "Is it time to go?"

"No, not yet. I had some business I needed to do."

She gave a quick look around. "By yourself?"

He didn't want her here all of a sudden. His hands itched to carry her off back to his tent and he knew that would be a bad idea. In fact, having her tonight at all would be a bad idea.

"Go back to the feast, little one," he said, gently as he could. "Enjoy yourself."

But there was a crease between her brows, the one that appeared whenever she was presented with a problem she wanted to solve. "Something's wrong. What is it?"

"There is nothing wrong."

"Yes, there is." She paused, searching his face. "Is it because of tomorrow? Our last day?"

His chest tightened at the words. There was no point denying it. "Perhaps. You will make your decision and I will abide by it."

In the flickering lantern light, her gray eyes looked very dark. "You're regretting it, aren't you? You're regretting giving me the choice."

He couldn't lie. "Yes, of course I am regretting it. But I promised you I would let you make it and so I will."

She'd gone quite still, that sharp, perceptive gaze of hers resting on him. "You...don't want me to go?"

"Of course I do not want you to go. You already know that."

"I do but..." A small hesitation. "Do _you_ want me to stay?"

At first he didn't quite understand her emphasis. "Yes, Felicity. I want you to stay. You saw the way the chiefs looked at you tonight. They approve of my choice of bride. And if they accept you, then my country will."

"Ah." Her voice was quiet. "Yes, I see." She looked away from him, her jaw tight.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. I'll go back to the feast then."

And as she turned back to the tent, he realized. That small emphasis. Do _you_ want me to stay? She wasn't asking the king, she was asking the man.

The words almost came out. _Yes,_ I _want you to stay._

But he closed his teeth on them. He couldn't say them, he couldn't let them out. Because they were an admission that he felt something for her, and he wasn't allowed to feel anything for her. He couldn't. He wouldn't let himself.

Anger. Jealousy. Possessiveness. Hunger. Already he'd felt too many of those things where she was concerned, already they were beginning to take root. And if he wasn't careful, soon too would come the violence.

_Then you know what you have to do, don't you?_

A kind of fatalistic calm settled down inside him. The calm that came with the acceptance of the inevitable.

Yes, he knew what he had to do. What he should have done the day he'd lifted her from the dusty cobbles of Al-Harah and felt the beast inside him stir.

She could not stay, she was not safe. He had taken her away from everything and everyone she knew, forced her to stay with him. Denied her an escape. Put at risk the company she valued. No, he may not have taken up a weapon to use against her, but he'd hurt her nonetheless.

And if he kept her, even if it was her choice, he would continue to hurt her.

Because she deserved more than a throne and country. She deserved to be loved. And that was the one thing he could never give her.

She. Was. Not. Safe.

So he would let her go.

## Chapter Eleven

Felicity stood in front of the small mirror in her tent, fiddling with the veil of deep blue silk she'd wound around her hair and sighing with frustration. She could never get it right, and today, she particularly wanted to.

They would be going back to the palace that morning, their desert trip over, and a part of her felt desolate about that.

She wanted to stay here, spending time with Zakir. Riding with him over the sands, swimming in the oasis. Learning dirty words in Arabic in his bed. Exploring their physical passion together. Talking with him about his country and his people. Listening to him talk about himself. Not that he did much of that, but she'd learned more about him at least, about his days in the army and the difficulties of becoming sheikh when he hadn't expected to.

More pieces of the puzzle. Yet it wasn't enough.

_Perhaps it never will be._

She stared at herself in the glass, no longer finding it so strange to have silk wrapped around her head.

No, perhaps it never would be enough. He was complicated. And maybe it would take a lifetime to uncover each and every facet of him.

Her chest constricted, a strange ache settling in her heart.

She hadn't made her mind about what to do, deciding to enjoy the time with him while she could and leave the decision till later. She hadn't even thought much about Red Star. And then last night, at the feast, she'd seen him leave abruptly. So she'd followed, knowing something was wrong and wanting to find out what it was.

She'd thought, for one intense, dizzying minute, that when he'd told her he was regretting his promise to her, that it was because he wanted her. _He_ wanted _her._ But it hadn't been that at all. He hadn't been thinking like the man, he'd been thinking like the king. Wanting her for his country, not for himself.

It had hurt. Far more than it had any right to and she couldn't understand why.

_Are you sure you don't know why?_

Her throat felt tight all of a sudden, because of course she knew why.

She was falling for him.

Stupid, of course, to fall for the king who'd taken her, to fall for her kidnapper. But then, it wasn't the king she was falling for. It was the man. The man who'd provided a phone for her to call her company and her family, who'd taken her side when she'd been insulted, who'd covered her with a cool cloth when the heat had gotten too much, and who'd shown her the colors of a desert sunset then washed her hair under the stars.

The man who'd shown her the passions that lay within herself in the dark of the night.

A hard man, but honorable and protective.

A man she wanted more from than just to be his queen.

Her father had wanted a son. Her mother had wanted a different kind of daughter. No one had ever just wanted her. No one except Zakir. Except, as it turned out, it seemed like she was more important to him as his queen than she was as Felicity.

She deserved more than that, didn't she?

No, it wasn't about what she deserved. It was about what she wanted. And she wanted him to care about her.

As if on cue, the tent flap opened and Zakir strode in, bringing the heat and swirling sands of the desert with him.

Her gaze caught his in the mirror as he came up behind her, but she couldn't tell what he was thinking, his black eyes guarded, the mask of the king back in place.

The night before he hadn't visited her in her tent or asked her to join him in his. It had been their last night and his lack of interest had hurt for reasons she hadn't wanted to look at too closely. So she hadn't pushed, telling herself it would be good to get some sleep at last. Except she hadn't slept, restless and aching for his hands on her skin. For his arms around her. For his scent and his heat.

They hit her now as she stood there while he automatically adjusted the veil on her head, the heat of him, the scent of sandalwood and spice. Making her body tighten and her heart ache.

"Thanks," she said, a husky edge in her voice. "I can never get that right."

This would be last time he did that. Perhaps it would even be the last time he was this close.

Longing rose up inside her, and she turned abruptly, staring up at him. "Zakir," she said thickly, not really knowing what she was going to say. "I—"

"It is time to go." He stepped back from her, the look in his black eyes expressionless. "Are you ready?"

Something in her chest folded in on itself. "Something's wrong, isn't it?"

One black brow rose. "What do you mean?"

Her throat was suddenly tight. "Last night at the feast you said nothing was the matter but we didn't... I slept alone." She swallowed. "So what it is? And don't tell me nothing because I don't believe you."

He stared at her a long moment, his eyes expressionless as black glass. Then he said, "I am going to take you home, Felicity."

The words felt like hard stones thrown into a pool, each one landing with a heavy splash, causing ripples to expand outwards. "H-Home?" she stammered. "What do you mean home?"

"I mean, I am going to put you on a jet back to America. I will also do what I can to help you renegotiate your company's deal with the Al-Harahan government."

She blinked, not quite understanding, and for a moment even ignoring what he'd said about Red Star. "But...you said I could choose. You said I could choose to go or to stay. What if I choose to stay?"

His face was as hard as he'd ever seen it. "That is not a choice I am giving you. You wanted to be free so I am setting you free."

The crumpled thing in her chest collapsed in a little more, a sharp, steady pain. "Why?" she demanded. "Why, Zakir? What changed?"

A ripple of regret, of pain, passed over his features. He lifted a hand, cupping her cheek, his palm warm against her skin and she couldn't help leaning into it. "I am sorry, little one. But I cannot hurt you anymore. And I will. If you stay, all you will get from me is hurt. I know what you deserve and I cannot give it to you. I will never be able to give it to you."

"What are you talking about? You haven't hurt me and you won't. Haven't you learned anything these past four days?"

His thumb stroked the side of her cheek and that hurt, too. How strange when freedom had been what she'd wanted all along.

"I took you, Felicity," he said softly. "I took you away from everything you knew and I kept you. And I was going to force you to marry me. Those things hurt you. Life with me will hurt you."

Her vision blurred. God, was she crying? She wanted to pull away from his hand but it felt so good, so gentle. This was stupid. He was right, he was hurting her and she couldn't seem to pull away.

"Well, this hurts, too." Her voice was thick with tears. "So how about you stop doing it."

Horribly, he was the one who pulled away, leaving only a lingering warmth against her cheek. "I will. Soon you will be on a flight home, your company will be taken care of, and you will put all this behind you."

She felt the tear roll down her cheek. How strange to finally get what she wanted—the deal with Al-Harah—and yet now...it just didn't seem all that important any longer. "What if I don't want to put it behind me? What if I want to stay with you?" She lifted a hand and brushed the tear away. "And what do you think I deserve anyway?"

Something flickered through Zakir's eyes, something dark and hungry. Then it was gone. "You deserve love, Felicity."

A part of her wanted to automatically deny it. But no. Not this time. Not after how he'd made her feel. Wanted. Special. Cherished. Maybe this time she could admit it to herself that not only did she deserve love, she needed it.

_You need it from him._

Her heart, her poor crumpled up heart, beat once in response, hard.

She blinked. "Can't you give it to me?"

Slowly, he shook his head and a deep pain lanced through her.

"Why not?" It seemed important to know. "It has to do with your brother, doesn't it?" Because somehow, it all did.

Zakir was silent a moment. Then he said, "He loved Maysan. And his jealousy was amplified by his madness. If he had not loved her, she would still be alive."

"So...this is all some kind of protective thing?" She couldn't hide the note of disbelief in her voice.

"I do what I must to protect those who need it."

Her throat felt clogged, swallowing impossible. "To protect you, you mean."

The lines of his face hardened. "This is not about me."

"Yes, it is. You know you're not like your brother, or at least, you should by now." She took a ragged breath, feeling suddenly so angry she could barely speak. "All this about not wanting to hurt me? That's just an excuse, Zakir, and you know it!"

His dark eyes glittered like jet, hard and sharp. "You do not know what you are talking about."

"Yes, I do." She took a step toward him, staring up at him, heedless of the tears running down her cheeks. "I'm the genius, remember? And you're hiding behind your brother. You're hiding behind his madness." She tried to swallow past the lump. Failed. "And you're hiding because you're afraid."

Anger flickered across his face. "Do not presume—"

"I will presume!" She took another step, getting right up close to him. "I will presume everything! I don't what you're afraid of, but I'm not." She took a heaving breath, the words flooding out of her before she could stop them. "I would have stayed, Zakir. I could even have brought Red Star here. I wanted to. Because I'm falling in love with you, and I'm not afraid to admit it."

He stared at her, and for a second a look of such fierce longing burned in his eyes that she thought he was going to sweep her into his arms, hold her close. Tell her that she mattered, that he'd been wrong, that he loved her.

But he didn't.

Instead the ferocity extinguished like a flame being snuffed, his face expressionless and cold once more.

"Be ready to go in five minutes," he said flatly.

Then he turned and stalked out, leaving her with nothing but the lingering warmth on her cheek and the smell of sandalwood and spice in the air.

Felicity stared at the tent's entrance, her vision blurry with tears, a part of her wanting to go after him and beg him for what she wanted. But no, she had her pride. She wouldn't go begging where she wasn't wanted. And she wasn't going to settle for any scraps he might throw her either.

If he was going to let her go, then she would go.

She had her company. She didn't need anything else anyway.

She never had.

 *     *     *

Four weeks later, an email arrived in Zakir's personal inbox. It only had three words. _I'm not pregnant._

It made him so angry he had to shove his chair back and get up from his desk, pace the narrow confines of his office, because he just couldn't sit there staring at it.

He couldn't work out why he was so angry.

For four weeks he'd excised Felicity Cartwright from his mind. He'd put her on a flight straight back to LA the moment they'd arrived back from the desert, and she'd gone without protest. Without even looking back. He'd been as good as his word afterwards, contacting Altair, the sheikh of Al-Harah, and asking him to reconsider working with Red Star as a personal favor. The sheikh had done so—not that he'd needed much convincing after Zakir had pointed out everything Red Star could do for his country.

Everything that Red Star could have done for Al-Shakhra, too, if he'd been a more selfish man.

But he'd learned. This was way it should be. What he should have done all along—released her. Kept her safe.

_You're afraid._

He paused by the window, her voice echoing in his head. Full of anger and hurt.

_I'm falling in love with you, and I'm not afraid to admit it._

The ache he'd been trying to ignore for four weeks deepened, making him even angrier.

No, this was ridiculous. Why was he thinking about her? He'd done the best thing for them both, and it had nothing to do with him being afraid or otherwise. He wanted to protect her and he knew that not being able to give her the kind of love she wanted, the kind she deserved, would only end up hurting her.

He'd done the right thing sending her away. The only thing.

_The right thing for you._

A growl escaped him. He didn't have time for this. The desert tribes had been unhappy he'd gotten rid of the prospective bride he'd brought to them for their approval, while Faisal and his cronies had been full of triumph that the outsider was now gone. Both sides were pushing him to find another bride and quickly.

But that was the problem. There were no other brides. And he was back in the same position he'd been when he'd gone on that first raid to Al-Harah.

_You don't want another bride anyway._

No, that was a lie. He could find another woman. He would have to.

His gaze fell to the screen of his computer and helplessly he read those words again, feeling the last link, the last secret hope he'd had, fall away.

There were no reasons now to go after her and there were no reasons for her to come back.

With a roar, he suddenly swept the offending piece of technology off his desk and onto the floor, the screen cracking and bits of the keyboard flying everywhere.

His office door opened instantly, Jamal there with his hand on the hilt of his sword, obviously thinking there was some emergency. "Sire?" His gaze dropped to the broken computer, then back up again. "Are you well?"

Zakir kicked aside the broken computer, striding toward the door. He had to get out, get rid of this rage, deal with it somehow because he was behaving in a ridiculous fashion.

"Get someone to clean this up," he said shortly as he brushed past him. "I will be in the training room."

Perhaps that was it. He was used to training every day and he hadn't been down there since he'd gotten back from the desert. He'd been busy, of course, and hadn't had the time, but he clearly had to make time.

_Being busy is just another excuse. You haven't been down there for a reason._

Zakir ignored the voice his head, striding down the corridors, scattering guards and palace staff as he went. They were avoiding him, he knew. Mostly because he'd been in a foul temper since the abortive desert trip.

It was the lack of training, definitely. Nothing at all to do with the lack of one small, redheaded, American woman.

The training room was as it always was, the blue of the pool reflecting calmly on the ceiling, the space silent. He headed straight to the weapons cabinet, divesting himself of the robes he'd been wearing as he went so that all he wore were his usual black, combat pants.

The blades gleamed, ready for use, as he opened the cabinet. The dagger he'd used to cut away Felicity's clothes was back in its place, its edge just as sharp as when he'd used it. For some reason, he found himself picking it up, watching the light play along it.

The day he'd taken her that first time, on the low couch by the pool. Pale skin and red silken hair. Basketball boots digging into his back as he'd—

A sharp pain shot through him and he cursed, blood from a cut finger bright against the metal.

He was a fool. What was he doing thinking about sex when holding a sharp blade?

Carefully he cleaned the dagger and placed it back in the cabinet, then he got down the sword he favored for his usual forms.

He moved into the middle of the room and began his routine, letting the familiarity of the movement calm him, focus him. Watching the light run down the metal, he listened to his breathing.

There, he'd had her. On that couch. She'd been so passionate and unafraid, willing to go with him wherever he'd led her. The taste of her had been so sweet, the feel of her so intense. She'd been so generous with him, considering how he'd treated her. Giving herself to him then and afterwards in the desert.

_I would have stayed, Zakir._

His steps faltered and he cursed again, shoving the echoes of her voice from his head. Wrenching his focus back, he began his routine again, faster this time. Harder. Letting the burn of his muscles drown out the memories of Felicity.

The way she'd talked to him in the little courtyard that day, so excited and proud of the software she'd developed. And he'd realized what a light she was, and how drawn he was to that part of her. The way she'd advanced on him and poked him in the chest, no matter that there were drawn blades all around her. So courageous even though he knew she'd been afraid.

And then in the desert, how she'd leaned back into his arms as they'd watched the sunset over the sands, and sighed, her body relaxed against his as she openly appreciated the beauty around her. And later, in that outdoor bath, as pleasure had made her eyes glitter even more brightly than the stars above her head.

He moved faster, the sword sweeping around him in great, shining arcs.

Felicity in the tent, tears rolling down her cheeks, anger bright in her eyes, telling him he was hiding behind his brother's madness. That she was falling in love with him.

_And you were falling in love with her._

His feet stumbled again and he stopped, his muscles screaming, his skin covered in sweat, the sword hilt slick in his hand. His arms shook. His chest hurt.

No, that was wrong. He didn't love her. He couldn't allow himself to and he'd been very careful about that. Love hurt. Love destroyed.

His brother had loved Maysan and that love, twisted by madness, had killed her.

He could not give that to Felicity. He would not put her in the same position. No, he wasn't his brother, but he couldn't love her. Wouldn't. Love was toxic, damaging, and he couldn't stand it if...

_But this isn't about you. This is about her._

He stopped, all the breath leaving his body, and he stared at the wall opposite him, the sword feeling heavy and unwieldy in his hand.

No. He _was_ thinking about her. Wasn't he?

_You made the decision for you and didn't even give her the choice. Doesn't she at least deserve that?_

It felt like someone had run him through with his own sword. Because of course she did. And he'd thought he'd made that decision for _her_. But he hadn't. His decision hadn't been about protecting her, but about protecting himself.

She'd been brave. She'd been courageous. She'd stood in front of him and told him what she wanted and he'd been the one to run. He'd been the coward, thinking only of himself. She'd put him to shame.

Zakir abruptly flung his sword to the side, heedless of the way the stone rasped against the metal.

He didn't know what she'd say, whether she'd send him away like the dog he was, or whether she'd accept the paltry things he could offer her. But he did know he had to try. He couldn't let her go another day thinking that he felt nothing for her. That she'd put her heart on the line for him only to have him throw it back in her face.

Because _that_ she didn't deserve.

Zakir didn't bother wasting time dealing with his weapons.

He had a plane to catch.

 *     *     *

Felicity finished reading her last email, wrinkling her nose at the screen. The final agreement with the government of Al-Harah for her software had come through that morning, their offer more than generous. Red Star was going to benefit mightily from the deal.

Yet for some reason, she didn't know whether to take it or not, and she couldn't really figure out what was holding her back.

_Really?_

Letting out a short breath, she shoved her chair back. Okay, so she knew.

Zakir had kept his promise to her, righting the wrong he'd done when he'd kidnapped her, ensuring she wouldn't lose the company she'd worked so hard to build. Except, she'd lost something else instead—her heart.

And even now, four weeks later, she was still subconsciously waiting to see if Zakir would contact her. A patently ridiculous thing to do when he hadn't even responded to her _no baby_ email.

Then again, maybe he didn't even read his email. Maybe he didn't get email at all. Maybe he only dealt with correspondence via carrier pigeon or something.

The joke was a feeble one and didn't make her feel any better. In fact, nothing made her feel better these days. Not even Red Star's deal. Not even finding out she wasn't pregnant after all.

That had actually made her feel worse, which was insane since she didn't want kids, at least not yet.

_You want Zakir's kids._

She scowled at her screen. No, she wasn't going to think of him. Not again. Not ever. He didn't want her and she sure as hell didn't want him.

She'd had a lucky escape, that's what happened. God, imagine if he'd changed his mind when she'd told him she wanted to stay? When she said she was falling in love with him? She'd be there right now, in that medieval hellhole, sitting in the sun of that courtyard while he held her in his arms and...

Her intercom went off.

Felicity swallowed past the lump in her throat and hit the button. "What is it?"

"You have a visitor," her PA said.

"What? Now? I'm just on my way out."

"I know, but...he's most insistent."

"Who is it?"

But there was no answer. And then she could hear her PA's voice from outside the office, calling, "Wait. I'm afraid you can't go in—"

And abruptly her office door opened and a man strode through it before kicking it shut behind him.

A very, very tall man, massively built. A familiar man. At least, he would have been familiar, if he hadn't been wearing a beautifully tailored, charcoal gray suit, with a black shirt beneath it and a black tie. If his strong jaw hadn't been shaved. If his black hair hadn't been brushed back from his high forehead, making those aristocratic cheekbones stand out and accentuating the straight slashes of his black brows.

And then her shocked gaze met his eyes.

Black. Sharp. Like shattered obsidian.

Zakir.

Her knees went out from under and she dropped back down into her chair, unable to say a word. Unable to tear her gaze from his. Unable to believe he was here, standing in her office. In a...suit of all things.

Once or twice, she'd imagined him in western dress, but she hadn't really understood until now the effect of it. She'd thought he'd look more civilized somehow, more modern even. But he didn't. He looked just as wild, just as barbaric. Even more so, the suit a foil that only emphasized the raw intensity of him, all that leashed violence that simmered beneath his skin.

"W-what are you doing here?" she stuttered like a fool, her brain falling over itself with all the questions it wanted answering.

Would he still smell the same? Would he still feel the same? Her heart felt like it was going to explode in her chest.

He walked straight over to her desk and stood there, looking down at her, his black eyes gleaming with determination, with will.

"I have come to tell you something, Felicity. Do you have time for me? If not, I will wait."

She blinked, struggling to process what exactly was happening. "What do you mean you have something to tell me? What something?"

The intensity in his eyes didn't fade. Instead he put his hands down on the edge of her desk and leaned forward on them, his gaze holding hers. "That I should never have taken your choice away from you."

She blinked again, feeling her eyes start to prickle. "It's a bit late for that now, isn't it?"

"Maybe it is. But I had to come, little one. I had to come and tell you that I am sorry for what I did. I am sorry for denying you what you wanted. I am sorry for thinking only of myself. Love has always meant death to me. It has been tainted by Farid's actions and I thought...I believed that sending you away was the right thing." He paused, the look in his eyes becoming even more intent. "But it was not. You were right when you accused me of being afraid. I was. I still am. I am a coward, Felicity. I am afraid I cannot give you the love you deserve. The love you need. But here is my promise you to. I will try every day of my life to make you happy. To make you feel wanted. To make you feel safe. I will give you my throne and my country. I will give you my palace and the desert. You may even wish to live here in America, where you can manage your company more easily and if so, I will buy you whatever house here you desire. These are paltry things. They do not encompass the whole of your worth, but they are all I have to give."

Abruptly, he pushed himself away from her desk, holding himself tall, those black eyes of his burning. "I broke my promise to you last time. I will not break it again. And I will abide by any decision you choose to make."

She went very still, her throat hurting, her heart full of longing. All those things. Paltry, he called them. But they weren't. Yet she only needed one of them.

Slowly she got up from the desk and came around the side of it. And he watched her come, his gaze never leaving hers, watching her as if he was a man on a desert island and she was his one chance of rescue.

She came close, standing right in front of him, looking up into his dark eyes, his beautiful, beloved face. "The love I need, Zakir, is exactly the love you can give me. No one else can, only you."

A shadow passed across his face, a darkness. "I do not know if I can, little one. I have never loved anyone before. After seeing what Farid did to Maysan, I could not even bear the thought of opening myself up to that kind of feeling."

"Farid was sick, though. And his illness twisted that love. You're not sick. And you can." She reached up and touched the warm skin of his cheek, the way he had with her before he'd walked out on her, watching as a familiar flame leapt in his gaze. "You protected me. You made sure I was safe, that I was cared for. And those four days in the desert were the happiest of my life." She dropped her hand to his chest, pressing her palm against the charcoal wool of his suit. "Remember your vow? Before the people, only God. When you told me what those words meant, I could see how much it meant to you. How much you believed it. And you believed it because you care, Zakir. You love your country. Your people. And you loved your brother, too." She blinked against the tears that threatened. "You can love, I know you can. You can love me, too."

He was silent a moment, staring at her, so many things burning in his eyes she couldn't untangle all of them. Then suddenly his arms were around her and she was swept up in them, close to his chest. And his mouth was on hers, kissing her like he was starving and she was his sustenance, like a man drowning and she was the oxygen he needed in order to breathe.

Then he tore his mouth from hers and stared down at her, color along his cheekbones, passion igniting in his eyes. "I would give you everything I have to make you stay, Felicity. Anything. Everything."

She smiled. "I only want one thing, sheikh."

"What? Name it. It is yours."

"I want your heart."

And slowly, his mouth turned up, a slow, sinful curl that had her heart racing and tripping over itself inside her chest. "It is already yours, little one. I think you wrote your name on it the moment you ignored all those drawn swords and poked me in the chest."

Was it okay to explode with happiness? Good thing he was holding her because she thought she might just float away. "Ah, I remember that. It's death to touch the sheikh, isn't it?"

His smile became tender. "Yes. You were very brave."

She spread her palms on his chest. "Will you kill me if I touch you now?"

"I think I will kill you if you do not."

So she slid her hands up to those glorious shoulders and around his neck, keeping him on tenterhooks a little while longer, just because she could. "I haven't made a decision yet. In fact, I'm still thinking about the Al-Harahan offer. Thank you for negotiating with them on Red Star's behalf, by the way. Their offer is extremely generous."

"Little one." His voice was a growl. "You need to make a decision. And I too can be very generous. Whatever they have offered you, I will double it."

She looked up at him, her throat tight. "I don't need money, Zakir. I want to stay with you. Not because I want to be your queen and give you heirs. Not because my company's survival depends on it. Not even to help your country. I want to stay with you because I love you. And that's all."

This time the look on his face was all triumph, all satisfaction. "And so I will keep my promise to you, Felicity Cartwright. Every day I will make you happy. Every day I will love you."

"Starting from when?"

His smile changed, became hotter, more sensual. "When do you think? Starting from now."

And he made good on his promise.

On her desk.
Enjoy an excerpt from

Never Seduce a Sheikh

Jackie Ashenden

Copyright © 2014

Outside the tinted windows of the limo, the sun had turned the tarmac of the private airstrip into a molten silver river, glinting off the sleek Lear jet that had only just touched down. Mid-morning in Dahar and already the heat was intense.

Sheikh Isma'il ibn Khalid al Zahar stared at the aircraft, trying to concentrate on the meeting ahead and not the thick musty scent that still seemed to fill his nostrils. Or the tainted feeling that had crept right into the very marrow of his bones.

Returning to Dahar and all the memories that lurked in the corridors of the palace had been bad enough, but spending all morning in his father's office, going through his papers, had been worse. Yet Isma'il couldn't put aside what needed to be done, purely because of some personal distaste. A month had passed already since the old man's death and Isma'il's investiture as sheikh, and the task of rebuilding Dahar couldn't wait.

A strange feeling lingered on his fingertips. Turning his hands palm up into the sun, for a second, he thought he saw something. A red stain. Blood maybe?

He frowned, but when he looked again, there was nothing there.

Still frowning, Isma'il brushed his hands off with a careful, fastidious movement, wiping the strange feeling away.

Out on the tarmac, his personal bodyguards had arranged themselves to form a corridor between the limo and the jet. One, held a brightly colored silk parasol in his hand. A courtesy for his guest.

Isma'il stared at the bright splash of color and in the dark glass of the limo window saw his reflection. Saw the smile on his face. It looked almost savage. Too savage.

Definitely, he'd been spending far too much time in his father's office. He was here to greet a potential buyer for Dahar's oil, not an enemy he intended fight.

With the ease of long practice, he adjusted his expression, making sure nothing remained but the cool, easy charm that was by now effortless to him. Then, he opened the limo door and stepped out into the blinding heat of the airstrip. His bodyguards snapped to attention, his chief advisor Umar coming immediately to his side.

The jet's doorway, however, remained empty.

"Where is she?" Isma'il was not accustomed to waiting for people and he found he didn't much like it.

"I'll check, your Highness," Umar assured him, starting towards the plane.

The man was halfway there, when abruptly a tall figure exited the aircraft. A woman. _The_ woman. Lily Harkness, CEO of Harkness Oil and Petroleum.

There had been many companies frantic for the rights to Dahar's lucrative oil reserves and Isma'il had gradually narrowed the field down to three possibilities. He'd already met with the CEOs of two of those possibilities. Harkness Oil was the third. It had been the lead contender, at least until Philip Harkness had retired as CEO and his daughter had taken over.

His young, unproven and no doubt inexperienced daughter. An appointment that had nepotism written all over it.

Isma'il leaned back against the hot metal of the car and folded his arms, taking her in.

He'd been expecting a Daddy's girl, a pretty little princess stepping into the shoes her father had lovingly prepared for her. But the woman currently descending the metal stairs from the jet's door to the tarmac below did not look like any princess he'd ever seen.

Oh, she was blonde, her features precise and lovely. But no princess was ever, surely, that tall. At least six foot. And certainly they didn't wear blue pant suits that appeared to be tailored to hide every feminine curve. Nor did they stride around on the tarmac in a masculine fashion with a phone glued to their ear, while various flunkeys fluttered around them like butterflies.

Oh no. Princes did that. Not princesses.

Isma'il found himself unwillingly intrigued. She was unexpected, he'd give her that. Especially when, she hadn't even looked his way. Not once. And when was the last time anyone had ignored him so completely? He couldn't remember. It was difficult, after all, to remain unnoticed when you were six foot five and a sheikh.

Pushing away from the limo, he straightened, standing at his full height. The bodyguards, several of whom were slightly less at attention than they should have been, instantly did the same.

Ms. Lily Harkness didn't seem to notice. She was still barking into her phone like a share trader on a Wall Street trading floor. The hot sun had turned her pale blonde hair, worn in a no-nonsense chignon, almost silver, while her light golden skin had begun to flush in the heat.

Isma'il gestured to the bodyguard with the parasol. She may not have been a princess, but it had been his experience that women did not like to sweat.

As the man stepped forward, Lily disconnected the call with a precise stab of her finger. She gestured to the flunkeys, who promptly went back up the stairs and into the jet. Then, and only then, did she finally deign to turn in his direction.

Eyes the color of dark, bittersweet chocolate looked into his and he experienced the oddest sensation. Like a whisper of static across his skin, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

Blonde brows—unusual combined with dark eyes—quirked a little in response, but she didn't look away.

Interesting. Most of the time, women blushed and either averted their gaze or regarded him with blatant sexual interest when he looked at them. Lily Harkness did none of the above. Instead, she looked at him up and down like a general surveying an approaching army for weaknesses.

An instinct within him, one that had been long buried, went quiet and still in response—the hunter spotting new and challenging prey.

She frowned, as if she too had felt something, but didn't quite know what to make of it. Then, with the merest shrug of her shoulders, she put the phone in her pocket, and strode towards him, leaving the bodyguard trailing in her wake still trying to get the parasol up.

"Your Highness," she said as she approached. "I'm Lily Harkness of Harkness Oil." She held out her hand. "A very great pleasure to meet you."

He did business with many westerners, but none of them strolled up to him and introduced themselves with a handshake. Still fewer, when it was a woman doing the handshaking. And that voice. Coolly confident with a sensual, husky edge. It made him think of things not entirely appropriate for business meetings.

He took her hand, opened his mouth to speak, but she kept right on going. "I must apologize for keeping you waiting. Some urgent business I had to deal with. I hope you didn't have to wait too long in this heat?"

She hoped _he_ didn't have to wait too long in this heat?

Isma'il smiled. "Your concern is touching, Ms. Harkness. But as you can see, not only do I have an air-conditioned limo for my comfort, I also have a parasol."

Blonde brows twitched. "A parasol?"

He raised a hand. The bodyguard with the parasol approached along the tarmac.

She examined the bodyguard. "That's not yours."

"What isn't? The bodyguard or the parasol?"

"The parasol."

"You're right. It is not for me. It is for you."

"For me?" She frowned in puzzlement, as if the idea that she might need shade was utterly alien to her.

"Yes. In my experience, many ladies find the heat here a little too much."

She lifted a brow. "I think you'll find I'm not most ladies, your Highness."

"I think I am beginning to understand that, Ms. Harkness."

At least, she wasn't like the ladies he knew. The demure, quiet ladies of his court, the soft, feminine curvaceous ones he liked in his bed. No, most definitely not.

Small beads of sweat had begun to appear on her forehead, though the cool, professional smile she gave him betrayed no discomfort whatsoever. "Excellent. Now, I've been looking at the schedule you sent through and, forgive me, but there are a number of issues I'd like to raise."

Ah, westerners. They were all the same. All impatient. All wanted to head into business immediately without giving proper respect to the hospitality of the host. Dahar was far more westernized than it used to be, but they did have their traditions.

He'd thought Lily Harkness would be more aware of this, especially considering one of Harkness Oil's major selling points was their sensitivity to local customs.

Perhaps this was an example of her inexperience? If that was the case, then she would need to learn how things were done here.

He smiled at her, allowing the mask of charm to thin a little. "Of course. But as much as the idea of conducting a business meeting on the airstrip fills me with joy, perhaps this would be better discussed at a later date. It is the custom in Dahar to leave business until the proper time."

She blinked. "The proper time?"

"Yes. There is a time and place for all such things, Ms. Harkness. And now, is neither the time nor the place."

Like a ripple on a still pond, the faintest trace of emotion disturbed her smooth expression. Then it was gone, professional smile firmly in place. "But of course, your Highness. I understand."

So cool. As if even the fierce sun's heat couldn't touch her. A heat she clearly must be feeling given the deep flush in her golden skin and the obvious sweat on her brow and upper lip.

The hunter's instinct stirred again, wanting to test her in some way.

"You look a little pink, Ms. Harkness," Isma'il observed lazily, deciding to keep her outside little longer. Heat was something she would have to bear if the desert trip he'd planned to meet with the tribes affected by the drilling was to go ahead. "Are you sure you don't want the parasol after all?"

Another ripple of emotion crossed her face. A trace of what could have been irritation. "That's very kind, but I assure you I don't need it."

"It is no weakness to want a little bit of shade."

Small tendrils of hair were now stuck to her forehead, a drop of sweat sliding down the elegant column of her neck. Yet she may as well have been standing in an air-conditioned office for all the notice she gave. "It's only a touch of sun. It doesn't bother me."

Isma'il found his gaze drawn to that small drop. To the way it sheened her golden skin. "Forgive me, but you look bothered, Ms. Harkness."

She frowned. Raising a hand, she absently undid the very top button on her shirt, the drop of sweat sliding further to pool in the hollow of her throat.

An unexpected and extremely unwelcome pulse of physical desire went through him. Hardly appropriate. This was business and important business at that. The issue of Dahar's oil rights would set the stage for his future rule and getting side tracked by animal lust was not the kind of stage he wanted to set.

Quelling the inconvenient desire, he gestured to the bodyguard standing behind her, who obediently raised the parasol over her head. He had to hold it up quite a way.

She betrayed no relief as her gaze flicked up at the bright pink and blue silk that shaded her, though surely she must have felt it. "That's very kind," she said. "But gallantry is wasted on me I'm afraid."

"It is not gallantry. It is practicality. Women of your delicate complexion are prone to sunstroke and that, I assure you, is not pleasant."

She eyed him. "I'm from Sydney, your Highness. I know about sunstroke."

So very cool. So very self-possessed. A natural kind of authority radiating from her that he found both confronting and oddly exciting.

It wasn't what he'd been expecting. _She_ wasn't what he'd been expecting. Maybe Harkness Oil wasn't to be dismissed from the running after all.

"I think you will find that sunstroke in the desert is not at all like sunstroke in Sydney." He gestured to another bodyguard who stepped up, hand outstretched to carry her briefcase for her.

Her gaze switched to the bodyguard, a faintly hostile look on her face, her hand staying very firmly on the handle. "Thank you, but I prefer to keep my briefcase with me if you don't mind." Her tone was cool, but he heard the edge of command in it.

Another challenge.

Isma'il studied her. "Is there a problem?"

"No. I just carry my own bags."

"Is that a fact? Or perhaps it is that you do not trust my guard?"

Dark lashes, shot with gold in the sunlight, flickered. "Not at all."

"Then what in particular do you find so offensive about having your bags attended to?"

Her mouth opened. Shut. A very clear flash of annoyance showing briefly in her brown eyes before her expression smoothed. "Nothing, of course."

"Of course," he echoed. "Then, if you will be so good as to grant my poor bodyguard the care of your briefcase, please do so. We place a lot of importance on paying the correct respect to guests here in Dahar." He paused. "But then you are probably already aware of that fact, are you not? I expect all the companies competing for the rights to Dahar's oil to have done their research, including research about our customs. I suspect Harkness Oil is no different." Isma'il raised a brow. "Or is it?"

Her jaw firmed at the subtle dig. "Naturally we have done our research, your Highness. Though I wasn't quite prepared to be tested on it so soon."

"One must be prepared for everything, Ms. Harkness. Anything—at any time."

Lily's mouth, soft and rather lush looking in comparison to the masculine cut of her suit and the guarded look in her eyes, thinned. She looked as if she was about take issue with him. But she didn't. Instead, she turned and handed her briefcase to the bodyguard hovering at her side. Then she turned back and looked him in the eye. "There. I would certainly not want to offend anyone. Are we happy now?"

A small shot of adrenalin went through him, the hunter's instinct rousing still further. He smiled. "Ecstatic."

Lily eyed him again, as if she was the one assessing him not the other way around. Then she gave a small, definite nod as if she'd decided something. "Good. Shall we proceed then?"

Such intriguing behaviour. He'd never encountered a woman who measured him up like an opponent. Like a man measures another man he's about to fight. It was exhilarating, a breath of fresh air after the suffocating hours spent in his father's study. In his father's head.

Maybe Lily Harkness had more potential than he'd first thought, despite her inexperience. It was certainly going to be interesting getting it out of her.

"By all means." Isma'il pulled the limo door open for her. "Your chariot. You'll find it far more comfortable than the air strip, I am sure."

Her brown eyes narrowed as if she found the gesture in some way suspicious.

"I am being gallant now, Ms. Harkness," Isma'il said pointedly. "You will indulge me."

She held his gaze for one long second and he did not miss the flare of unmistakable challenge lighting the darkness of her eyes.

And the hunter inside him woke up completely. Riveted.

"Well, in that case, of course I shall indulge you," said Lily Harkness. "This once."

 *     *     *

Lily slid into the blissful cool of the limousine trying to understand just why the sheikh of Dahar was putting her off her game so badly.

He'd proved to be difficult in a variety of unexpected ways. The parasol. The bag carrying. Opening the car door. All very old fashioned and courteous, and probably just the kind of thing some women loved. But she didn't. Such displays undermined her position, a position that had been weak to start out with. Would the sheikh have carried the bags, shaded with parasols and opened the doors for the male CEOs of the other oil companies? She was thinking no, he probably hadn't.

Annoyed by her own reactions, Lily began straightening her jacket and smoothing the fabric of her trousers, neatening herself up again. Making sure her armor was securely in place. Then, she realized she'd undone the top button of her shirt. A surge of irritation went through her as she remembered that little power play with the parasol. Because it had been a power play—of that she'd had no doubt. She hadn't spent ten years in the oil business without recognizing when someone was testing her. A test she couldn't help thinking she'd failed in some way.

Frowning, she made sure the button was firmly closed as Isma'il slid into the seat beside her, closing the door on the furnace of the airstrip outside.

Feeling more in control now she was neater—though nothing but a shower was going to get rid of the horrible sweaty feeling—she let her gaze run over him, trying to pinpoint the source of her discomfort.

Tall. Much taller than she was and she almost never encountered men who were taller than she was. So tall in fact, that his closely cropped black hair brushed the roof of the limo. And big. Powerful. One might expect a man of such height and power to be awkward or stiff and yet he sat beside her with all the loose-limbed grace of a hunting cat. In his dark suit, perfectly cut as befitting his station, there was something almost dangerous about him.

A strange thought. Men weren't dangerous. Because for them to be dangerous, she would have to be vulnerable. And she wasn't vulnerable. Not ever.

Lily glanced up at his face. Handsome seemed too bland a word. Strongly defined with high, sharp cheekbones, his features were fierce, arrogant. A harsh beauty to him that she found compelling.

She frowned. Since when had she noticed a man's looks? Normally masculine beauty had no impact on her at all, so why was she now noticing this sheikh's? There was just something about him. Something she couldn't quite determine . . .

One corner of his mouth turned up in that smile she refused to call charming. Then he took off the sunglasses he'd been wearing and Lily's train of thought came to a crashing halt.

His eyes were the color of a tropical sea. A perfect, clear, turquoise. With his bronze skin and thick, black lashes, they elevated him from compelling to unforgettable.

One perfect black brow lifted. "Something the matter?" His voice was deep, lazy and edged with an accent that made her feel . . . odd.

"No." Why did her voice sound hoarse? And why did she want to look away from him? Something wasn't right here and she didn't like it one bit. With an effort she tried not to show how discomforted she felt. "I didn't think blue eyes were usual in this part of the world."

"They're not." He leaned forward and rapped the glass partition between themselves and the driver, then sat back. "My mother had Bedouin ancestry. It is uncommon in their tribes, but the genes show up every now and then."

Ah yes, despite that erroneous accusation that she hadn't done her research, Lily knew quite a bit about his Highness Sheikh Isma'il ibn Khalid al Zahar, and his late mother's Bedouin ancestry was the least of it.

He'd invited Harkness to Dahar before her father had retired, but she'd read all the info. She knew about the turmoil following the old sheikh's death. Knew the rumors about Sheikh Khalid's tyranny. Knew his son had spent the last twenty years away from his country before returning to take up the mantle of power. Knew that the sale of the oil rights was a contentious issue and an important one for a new ruler to make. Especially a ruler who perhaps wanted to distance himself from his father's violent reign.

That knowledge was a chip to bargain with. Because he wasn't the only one who needed to prove himself in his role. She did too.

"Is this an appropriate time and place, your Highness?" she asked coolly, meeting those incredible eyes head on, trying to ignore the sense of discomfort that seemed to increase as he looked at her. He smiled at her again, his teeth white in his dark face and she found herself noticing the shape of his mouth. Long and . . . sensual.

"Where is the rush? Surely you can take some time out to admire the view?"

The limo had pulled away from the airstrip and onto the road, the heat of the sun turning the world outside hazy. Lily glanced out the window at said view. A dry, brown plain stretched out on either side of the road, rough stone housing at intervals. Goats nibbling at rare leaves of grass. Dirty children playing in the dust.

"It's very nice," she said. "Now perhaps if we could—"

"How was your flight?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your flight, Ms. Harkness. In that very impressive Lear jet. How was it?"

Small talk. She'd never been very good at small talk. It had always seemed like a waste of time, especially when there were deals to be made. But if he wanted small talk, she'd give it to him.

"It was fine. Thank you for asking."

"You sound a little impatient with my questions. Do I bore you?"

"Not at all. I just prefer to get to the business of my visit, rather than discuss the minutiae of my flight."

"You do not enjoy friendly conversation?"

She tugged at her jacket, trying to quell her inexplicable irritation with him. "It has its place of course. But, forgive me, your Highness, I'm not in the business of friendly conversation. I'm in the business of oil."

His blue gaze roamed over her. "You seem to assume my questions are trivial. They are not. What you call small talk, is part of business here in Dahar and it is considered extremely rude to dismiss it as you have just done."

A reprimand. Lily had to grit her teeth against the hot surge of anger that accompanied it. Anger at herself. She'd read the research, she knew that business in Dahar was conducted differently. But there was something about this man that put her off balance in a way she wasn't used to.

"Forgive me," she said tightly. "That wasn't my intention."

"Perhaps not. But rudeness from my guests reflects badly on me as the host and that is not something I can allow." He paused. "You are already at a disadvantage here, Ms. Harkness. Do not make it any worse."

Lily gritted her teeth again. Clasped her hands in her lap. "I know I don't have the track record my father has, but I can assure you, my appointment as CEO was totally on my own merits."

That blue gaze of his searched her face and she had to fight against the urge to glance away, feeling oddly exposed. "You are assuming the fact that you are new in your position is the only disadvantage."

She frowned. "I'm sorry? What other disadvantage could there be?"

"You are young. You are inexperienced." He paused. "And you are female."

The words didn't surprise her. She'd heard them all before in the course of her oil career and even before that, when she'd been a competitive swimmer. Once, she'd let words like that cow her. Never again.

Lily met his gaze head on. "If those were serious problems, your Highness, then presumably you wouldn't be sitting here talking to me now."

A flicker of a smile turned his long, sensual mouth. "That is true. But that does not mean you will not have to prove yourself."

Determination hardened inside her. "And who do I have to prove myself to?"

His smile widened, becoming a little darker. A little sharper. A little more dangerous. Reminding her that this man was the son of a brutal king.

"To me, Ms. Harkness," he said softly. "You must prove yourself to me."

Perhaps it was then that Lily began to realize she wasn't dealing with just another difficult man. Another arrogant CEO.

Oh no. She was dealing with a sheikh.

Find out what happens next in **Never Seduce a Sheikh...**

_Get now!_

### Don't miss more by Jackie Ashenden

**Never Seduce a Sheikh**

_Get now!_

**Never Refuse a Sheikh**

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**Never Resist a Sheikh**

## About the Author

**Jackie Ashenden** has been writing fiction since she was eleven years old. Mild mannered fantasy/SF/pseudo-literary writer by day, obsessive romance writer by night, she used to balance her writing with the more serious job of librarianship until a chance meeting with another romance writer prompted her to throw off the shackles of her day job and devote herself to the true love of her heart – writing romance. She particularly likes to write dark, emotional stories with alpha heroes who've just got the world to their liking only to have it blown wide apart by their kick-ass heroines. She lives in Auckland, New Zealand with her husband, the inimitable Dr Jax, two kids, two cats and two rats.

To keep up to date with Jackie's new releases and other news, you can sign up to her newsletter at www.jackieashenden.com.

Follow her on Facebook and Twitter@JackieAshenden.

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