The Sheikh's Virgin. Jane Porter

everything bad happened, everything had come unglued. “I never want a man.”

      “You will when you meet the right man.”

      “There is no right man.”

      He gave her a long, level look. “There used to be,” he said, tone pitched low, hinting at intimacy and she stiffened.

      “Never.”

      “There was. Once.” His eyes narrowed, black lashes concealing his expression. “Many, many years ago.”

      She closed her eyes, hiding her alarm. He was bluffing. He knew nothing.

      Kalen’s thumb caressed her skin, lightly, teasingly stroking from chin to the small hollow beneath her earlobe. “There is always a right man. There is always the one man that can turn a girl into a woman—”

      Panting, Keira pulled away, tearing herself from his touch, his words, tearing away the web he was weaving.

      This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. She headed into the house, trying to put fresh distance between them and yet Sheikh Nuri followed immediately. She heard the front door shut, the lock turn. They were alone in her house.

      Odd.

      Heartbreaking.

      And for a moment Keira held her breath, nerves taut, senses too alive. “Pack a suitcase,” Kalen said, meeting her in the hall, just outside her bedroom door. He looked so incongruous in her small, snug house with the bright yellow painted walls and the rich oak trim. It was a sunny house. A happy house. “We need to leave soon.”

      Pack. Leave. He was frightening her and nervously she reached up, smoothed tendrils of hair back, combing her long dark ponytail, the ebony strands falling over her shoulder. “I can’t just leave. I have a job, responsibilities—”

      “You chose me, remember?”

      His soft question silenced her. She didn’t know what to say. Nothing came to mind. Nothing about this was logical and logic was her cornerstone, her foundation. Logic was how she functioned. Logic. Order. Structure.

      In her bedroom she grabbed at clothes, pulling shirts and blouses, skirts and slacks from hangers. Everything went into her suitcase, shoes and belts and underwear, too.

      She emerged ten minutes later, silent. He nodded at her suitcase, the purse in her hand, the coat over her arm. “Good. Let’s go.”

      In the back of his car she sat as far from him as possible. She stared at a point beyond the car window. Minutes passed. Nothing was said but clearly the driver was heading somewhere. There was a definite destination in mind.

      “Where are we going?” she asked, forcing herself to speak.

      “London.”

      “London?”

      “That big city in England.”

      Years ago she’d had a crush on Kalen Nuri, had even imagined herself in love with him. Kalen Nuri had dominated every waking thought—never mind her dreams. Now she was horrified she’d wasted one thought on him, much less a single breath. “You do not amuse me.”

      “Does any man amuse you?”

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

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

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

      “I’ve changed my mind.”

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

      “Stop the car.”

      “And soon you will travel in my airplane.”

      “I won’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

      Kalen Nuri said nothing.

      The car continued sailing along the freeway.

      Keira felt her freedom ebb.

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

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

      “I made no promise!”

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

      “I’m an adult, Kalen—”

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

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

      “Good. It’s not.”

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

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

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

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

      “Interesting.”

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

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

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

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

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

      His lashes lifted, his golden gaze met hers, holding her captive. He was looking at her as though she were naked, his eyes baring her, not sexually, but emotionally. He was seeing what she didn’t want seen. He was