The Sheikh's Virgin. Jane Porter

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      “To a man like your father you are merely an object, a possession to be used, bartered, traded.”

      Each word was worse. Each word bit and stung. “But you’re the same, aren’t you, Sheikh Nuri?” Keira’s throat was swelling closed and she had to force each syllable and sound out. “You’re using me, too. You’re using me to get back at my father. At least be man enough to admit it.”

      She heard his soft hiss at her insult. His touch changed, shifted, fingers extending from her chin to her jaw, his fingers briefly caressing the width of her jawbone.

      “You lack a Barakan woman’s good sense and quiet tongue. Yet I’m beginning to think you deserve a Barakan husband. One who would teach you humility and a modicum of self-control.”

      She ground her teeth, temper flashing in her eyes. “Hate to disappoint you, Sheikh Nuri, but some things can’t be taught.”

      “That’s where you’re wrong, laeela. Anything can be taught. It just takes the right teacher.” A flicker of dark emotion shone in his eyes. “And you would need not just a good teacher, but a patient teacher.”

      The Sheikh’s Virgin

      Jane Porter

      

www.millsandboon.co.uk

      For my posse, the great girls who got me through it all—Kelly, Lori, Lisa, Kristiina, Cheryl, Sinclair, Joan, Janie & Jamette. I love you.

      CONTENTS

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      PROLOGUE

      FORCE a girl to marry?

      Take her from her home? Carry her hostage across the Atlantic Ocean? Isolate her from family and friends until she finally caved, acquiescing to her father’s desire that she marry…even if the man were twenty years older?

      Sheikh Kalen Tarq Nuri had heard worse.

      Draining his martini, he pushed the empty glass away, black eyebrows flattening over narrowed eyes.

      He was in New York having closed a big deal and was now out to dinner celebrating the acquisition with his top brass, those who’d executed the nasty buyout. The other company hadn’t wanted to be bought. Sheikh Nuri had wanted the purchase.

      Sheikh Nuri got what he wanted. Always.

      Tapping the rim of his empty martini glass, Kalen Nuri felt a surge of desire, the desire of a hunter, the desire of a predator. Like the hawks he used to own in Baraka, the beautiful fierce falcons, Kalen was ready to hunt.

      To give chase.

      To pounce.

      There were worse things than forcing a young woman to marry against her will.

      There was betrayal. Attempted murder. And the revelation of a plot to assassinate not just the Sultan of Baraka, but the Sultan’s young sons. Kalen’s nephews.

      Sheikh Kalen Nuri’s jaw hardened, eyes narrowing to slits of masked rage. No one touched his family. No one would be allowed to hurt Malik or the children. No one. Not even Omar al-Issidri, his brother’s chief cabinet member. Secret agitator.

      Kalen had learned that Omar had plans, big plans, plans to consolidate his power in Baraka by marrying his daughter to Ahmed Abizhaid, a radical fundamentalist. A man that also happened to be the Sultan’s harshest critic.

      Omar was dangerous because he was weak. Ahmed was dangerous because he was violent. The two together could destroy the Nuris. But Malik, honest, honorable, noble Malik, refused to believe that Omar was anything less than a dedicated public servant.

      Kalen’s fingers tightened around the stem of the martini glass. The marriage between twenty-three-year-old Keira al-Issidri and Ahmed Abizhaid couldn’t take place. It was a dangerous relationship, an alliance that would give Ahmed respectability and access to the palace. As well as proximity to the Sultan and his children.

      Which is why Kalen hadn’t wanted the marriage to take place.

      And then someone made a mistake. Botched the job. Someone had let him down.

      It infuriated Kalen. If the situation had been handled correctly, everything would have been sorted, settled, the problem contained.

      Instead Keira al-Issidri would be flying back to Baraka tomorrow night and into her new bridegroom’s bed.

      Unless Kalen did something about it immediately. Which was why Kalen had to make arrangements to ensure the marriage didn’t take place. Personally. And given the circumstances, it was exactly what Kalen intended to do.

      CHAPTER ONE

      SHE’D like to start it all over if she could.

      She’d like to rewind the tape to the place where it all went wrong. That night. The party. The week she’d turned sixteen.

      If she’d never disobeyed her father…

      If she’d never snuck out to attend something forbidden…

      If she’d never gone where good Barakan girls shouldn’t go…

      But that was all years ago and this was now and Keira Gordon’s fingers felt nerveless as they wrapped tightly around the telephone. “I’m not marrying him. I can’t marry him, Father. It’s impossible.”

      Omar al-Issidri drew a short, impatient breath. “The only thing impossible is that you’re twenty-three and still single! You’re shaming our family, you’re shaming our name.”

      Keira knew in Baraka young women married early to protect their reputations, but Keira wasn’t Barakan. She’d never been Barakan. But she wasn’t English, either, despite having spent the majority of her life in Manchester with her liberal, intellectual mother.

      “He’s a prominent man, Keira. Connected, powerful, influential—”

      “I don’t care.”

      Silence stretched across the phone line. “You must understand, Keira, that this is important. It’s important for all of us. You need to marry. Sidi Abizhaid has chosen you. You should be flattered by his interest.”

      Her father wasn’t listening to a thing she said. But according to her mother, her father never did listen to anyone, at least not to any woman, which was only one of the reasons her mother had left him all those years ago.

      Keira rubbed her forehead. She cared about her father, she did, but her father had no idea how Western she was, how removed she’d become from the veiled life of Baraka, a North African kingdom filled with rose tinted mountains, golden sand dunes and beautiful port cities more European than Middle Eastern. “I live in Dallas, Father. I have a job here. I have wonderful friends here, people who really care about me—”

      “But no husband.”

      “I don’t want a husband.” Exasperation sharpened her voice.