The Sheikh's Virgin. Jane Porter

took a panicked step toward her house, and then another, and another until she was running up the porch to the front door. Her front door swung open so abruptly that Keira barely had time to register the man standing in the doorway—her doorway—before he opened his arms and grabbed her, thick arms enfolding her.

      It happened so fast she didn’t even scream. One minute she was running for shelter and the next she was imprisoned and her mind went dark, blank, the blank from years past when terror was too great, when physical pain overrode mental pain and everything went quiet. Still.

      Helplessly she turned her head, looked toward the brick walkway and Sheikh Nuri was there. Watching.

      If only someone had been able to help her. If only someone had done something. If only someone…

      You’re not sixteen. You’re a woman. Fight, Keira, fight.

      And finally her vocal cords opened and she screamed. She wouldn’t die, wouldn’t fade to nothing this time. She wasn’t going to disappear, wouldn’t become air and light, wouldn’t lose herself again.

      Thrashing now, her fear turned her into a demon horse, all thunder and hooves. Then panic gave way to rage. She wasn’t going to be hurt again. She’d never let herself be hurt again and her body came to life, elbows jabbing at ribs, feet kicking, aiming for knees.

      “Put me down,” she demanded, “put me down now. I won’t go.”

      And still she kicked and jabbed and she knew she got her assailant at least once good and hard as she heard a soft oath from behind her, a hiss of air between clenched teeth. “I won’t go,” she repeated, swinging her legs wildly, trying to connect with his groin, or a knee.

      Desperation laced her brain. Sheikh Nuri could stop this. He could help her. He’d said he would.

      But he said nothing, he simply stood there and all she knew was that she wouldn’t go back to Baraka, she wouldn’t be returned to her father’s house against her will.

      Her desperate gaze found Sheikh Nuri’s and she hated him and yet needed him and she sobbed his name. “Kalen. Kalen, help me.”

      It was enough. It was all he needed.

      “Put her down.” Kalen Nuri’s coldly furious voice sliced through the air.

      The man holding Keira froze. “Your Excellency.”

      “Put her down,” Sheikh Nuri repeated, speaking Barakan, and it was a direct command from a member of the royal Nuri family. His authority was unmistakable.

      “But, Your Excellency, we have been sent to bring her home.”

      Kalen Nuri was walking now, climbing the front steps with a grace that masked his strength. “You dare to take my woman from me?”

      Deafening silence descended. All motion ceased, all talk stopped, even Keira went weak.

      “Your woman?” The man holding Keira repeated.

      “My woman.” Kalen’s voice thundered low and menacing like a roll of heavy thunder across the heavens.

      The arms holding Keira loosened. She felt herself lowered, placed back on her feet. The moment the arms eased from around her Keira moved to Sheikh Nuri’s side.

      Kalen extended an arm, but didn’t touch her. “Lalla al-Issidri is in my protection.”

      “But we have been sent for her.” A different man spoke, the second one to appear from the house. Somewhere was a third. “Sidi al-Issidri was very clear.”

      “Let me be just as clear,” the sheikh answered with mock civility. “She is mine.”

      Kalen glanced at Keira and Keira felt his gaze, felt a peculiar current curl in her, heat and fear, dread and anticipation. And looking at her, his amber gaze glowing hot, possessive, he added, “Keira al-Issidri is my woman. She belongs to me.”

      And then the three men were gone.

      Magic, Keira thought, as the men climbed into the car and drove away. Kalen might as well have been a magician like Merlin from the days of King Arthur’s court.

      But it wasn’t magic, it was power. And he had far too much of it.

      Keira faced Kalen on the front steps as the car disappeared down the street. For a moment neither spoke. Keira stared blindly past Kalen and he made no effort to start a conversation. And yet his silence wasn’t easy. She felt his anger.

      “So it’s begun,” Sheikh Nuri said, eventually breaking the silence.

      She wished she could say she didn’t know what he meant. She wished she were as naive as he’d accused her of being but Keira knew exactly what Kalen meant.

      What had just happened on the front porch of her house was huge.

      Sheikh Nuri had just publicly challenged her father. Sheikh Nuri had usurped her father’s authority. And Sheikh Nuri could, because he was third in line for the throne behind his brother and his two nephews.

      Her father would be livid. Livid and humiliated.

      Keira pressed a hand to her brow, pressing against the ache that had taken up residence there. She’d rejected her father. Accepted Kalen Nuri’s protection. In minutes she’d turned all their lives upside down.

      “I should call my father,” she said, voice husky, goose bumps covering her arms.

      “I’m certain he’s already heard.”

      She gave her head a faint shake. “I should at least try to talk to him.”

      Kalen Nuri took a step toward her, closing the distance between them. He stared at her so long and hard that she shivered and looked away.

      “He is my father, after all,” she added defensively.

      “And what will your call achieve?”

      Keira couldn’t answer and Kalen took her chin in his hand, tilted her face up to his. “What do you think you’ll do?” he repeated his question impatiently. “If your father intended to listen to you, to care about your opinion, to care about your needs, he would have listened to you already.”

      She hated what he was saying, hated that he was right and she tried to pull away but Kalen wasn’t about to let her go.

      “Your father was going to use you to further his own political ambitions,” he added roughly, his fingers too hard on her jaw, his tone too sharp. “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?” Her 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,” he said, his thumb slowly sweeping beneath the edge of her jaw, stirring the nerves in the most tender of skin.

      Her skin flamed, nerves tightening at the maddening touch. “I’m not Barakan.”

      “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.”

      A hot stinging fizz went through her veins, so hot, so intense that her lips parted on a silent gasp of tangled