Sheikh's Baby Of Revenge. Tara Pammi

a defined jawline that invited her fingers’ touch. Breathing shallowly, she fisted her hands in the folds of her gown.

      His lashes flicked down to where she hid her hands and then up, that glimmer of humor deepening in his eyes.

      “Tilt your head forward so that I may better look at you,” he said in a low voice, no less commanding for its softness.

      Years of obedience browbeaten into her, Amira dutifully did. Only when his gaze moved over every inch of her face with a penetrating intensity did she realize what she had done.

      Color filled her cheeks. Instead of moving back, instead of lowering her eyes as she had been taught again and again by her father, she used the moment to study him some more.

      A sharp hiss from his mouth jerked her gaze to his. In the flash of a breath, the humor disappeared, replaced by a dark vein of anger. His amber eyes glowed.

      He lifted his hand to her face and Amira instantly cringed back. The softening of his expression told her what she had done. Shame filling her, she looked down at her palms. Hard concrete at her knees pulled her back to reality.

      It was high time she was on her way. He was tying her insides into strange knots.

      “May I touch you?”

      His husky question jerked her gaze to his face again.

      She thought she saw him swallow and that was strange.

      “I promise I mean you no harm.”

      His eyes were deep pools, devoid of the barest expression, and yet there was an intrinsic trust deep in her belly that he would keep his word. That this was a man who didn’t raise his hands against the weaker sex or people dependent on his mercies, for any reason. Not the least of which would be to establish his own superiority or to enforce his will.

      Yet power seemed to emanate from his very pores. He would command any room he entered. And as to his will—she would bet any man or woman would surrender to it easily. With pleasure, in the latter case.

      Slowly, she nodded. Something in her leaped quietly—anticipation, she realized. With every cell in her being, she wanted to feel this man’s touch, however fleetingly.

      She thought he would pull her to her feet. Instead, his fingers landed on her jaw with such gentleness that hot tears prickled behind her eyelids.

      “These are fingerprints marring your lovely cheek.” The words were devoid of emotion, feeling. Contained violence shimmered in his stillness. He was furious at the sight of the bruise on her jaw.

      That simple concern on her behalf sent sorrow spiraling through her.

      She closed her eyes, loathe to betray her weakness in front of him. She had never shed a single tear, even when her father’s palm once landed on her jaw with such force that her head had jerked back, leaving her with neck pain for weeks. But now...she felt like stretched glass.

      As she stoppered the emotion flowing through her, she felt other things. It was as if her senses were slowly opening up. His huge body gave out warmth on the chilly night, enveloping her like her childhood blanket—a reminder of her mother.

      The scent of him—the more she breathed it, the more she wanted to—a tantalizing mixture of sandalwood and horse and pure man.

      His fingers turned her jaw to the moonlight so that the bruise, which she hadn’t covered after washing off her makeup, was visible. The pad of his thumb traced it and she flinched. More from the heat his touch generated than from pain.

      A sharp curse flew from his mouth. “Forgive me, I promised not to cause you harm.”

      “You didn’t,” she said automatically.

      He raised a brow. “No?”

      “Our skin has thousands and thousands of nerve centers that react to external stimuli, did you know? Your palm is rough against my skin and also, I’m barely ever touched by anyone other than my father—and not in such a leisurely, soft way, either—so I feel a flash burn where your skin touches mine—” when his brows rose, she hurried to explain “—not like fire burns us, more pleasurable than that, and I believe that’s why I flinched. Because even pleasure, especially when it’s unexpected and unfamiliar to the recipient, causes flinching.”

      The utter silence that ensued sent blood pooling up her neck and into her cheekbones. She clamped her palms over her mouth. No wonder her father got aggravated whenever she opened her mouth.

      A slow smile dawned in his eyes, causing lines at the ends of his eyes and adorable creases in his cheeks. His teeth flashed at her again and that smile made him a thousand times more gorgeous.

      “I state facts and run my mouth endlessly when I’m anxious or agitated or upset or sad or angry. My father thinks I do it to ignore his dictates and to insult him.”

      “And when you’re happy?”

      She smiled. “You’re very smart, aren’t you? You know, people think intelligence is...” She cleared her throat and she blushed fiercely again. “I do it when I’m happy, too, yes. Pretty much all the time, now that you make me think about it.”

      His smile turned into laughter. It boomed out of him. Low, gravelly, utterly sensuous, but also a little rough and strange. As if he didn’t do it much.

      Amira wanted to roll around in that smile. She wanted to be the one who caused his serious face to smile and laugh again and again. She wanted to spend an eternity with this exciting stranger who made her feel safe. She wanted to...

      “I have to leave.”

      He sobered up. And frowned. “So I can take your word that you’re not hurt?” He flicked another glance at her jaw. “Other than your jaw?”

      “I misjudged the distance between the last ledge and the stairs, but I’m not hurt.”

      He nodded. “And what is so irresistible that you took such a dangerous route...? What is your name?”

       Zara, Humeira, Alisha, Farhat...

      “You’re thinking up fake names.”

      She blinked. Like a hawk, he watched with predatory intensity. And something else... Possessiveness, perhaps.

      She swallowed. “I would get into trouble if word gets out that I escaped my room or that I was wandering the palace without guard or that I spent all this time in the dark with a stranger...a lot of trouble.”

      “No one will know,” he said. “I will get you back to your room unharmed and undiscovered.”

      And all the while he tempted her, he watched her. As if he found her endlessly fascinating. “I don’t know if I can trust you,” she said.

      His fingers pushed back a strand of hair that brushed her jaw. Featherlight and tender, his touch knocked down the little sense remaining in her skull. “I think you do trust me. Which is why you have lingered here so long already. All you need to do is take the final step, ya habibiti. We’re strangers passing a few moments together in a long life.”

      Another rough-padded finger lifted her chin until she was gazing into his eyes. His nostrils flared, the set of his jaw resolute. “I would have your real name.”

      If he had commanded her, Amira would have prevailed. But beneath that request was a thread of longing that resonated in her soul. What could such a commanding man want that he was ever denied?

      He was harshly beautiful, like the rugged landscape of the desert, and yet he looked at her with such pure need.

      The last of her good sense and diffidence melted. Innocent she might be when it came to men but she already felt like she knew him.

      He wouldn’t hurt her.

      “Amira...my name is Amira.”

      Fire awakened in his eyes. They both knew she had given him more than just her name in that