The Sheikh's Collection. Оливия Гейтс

sorry,’ Khalil continued. ‘I know what it is to lose your parents when you are young.’

      ‘Yes, I suppose you do.’

      ‘You must miss them.’

      ‘I do...’

      Khalil cocked his head. ‘You sound uncertain.’

      ‘No, of course not.’ Elena bit her lip. ‘It’s only that I didn’t actually know them all that well. They were away so much... I miss the idea of them, if that makes sense. Of what—what I wish we could have been like as a family. That probably sounds strange.’

      Khalil shook his head. ‘Not strange at all,’ he answered quietly, and Elena wondered if he missed the family he could have had too: loving parents, supporting him even now.

      Khalil leaned forward, his fingers whispering against her cheek as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘You look so sad,’ he said softly. ‘I’m sorry to bring up bad memories.’

      ‘It’s okay,’ she whispered. Khalil’s fingers lingered on her cheek and she wished, suddenly and fiercely, that he wouldn’t pull away.

      That he would kiss her.

      Her lips parted instinctively and her gaze rested on his mouth, making her realise yet again how sculpted and really perfect his lips were. She wondered how they would feel. How they would taste. She’d never actually been kissed before, which suddenly seemed ridiculous at the age of twenty-three. But a convent-school education and becoming Queen at just nineteen had kept her from ever pursuing a romantic relationship. First there hadn’t been any opportunity, and then she’d been so focused on protecting her crown and serving her country there hadn’t been any time. Besides, suitable partners for a reigning queen were not exactly plentiful.

      Elena knew she shouldn’t be thinking of kissing Khalil now. With effort she dragged her gaze up towards his eyes, saw they were molten gold. His fingers tightened on her cheek, his thumb grazing her jawbone, drawing her inexorably forward. And Elena went, her heart starting to hammer as she braced herself for that wonderful onslaught.

      Then Khalil released her, his hand falling away from her face as he sat back in his chair.

      Her mind whirled with confusion and disappointment, and her body ached with unfulfilled desire. She scrambled for a way to cover her own obvious longing. ‘This is very good,’ she said stiltedly, gesturing to her half-eaten meal.

      Khalil acknowledged her compliment with a nod. ‘Thank you.’

      ‘You have quite an elaborate set-up for a desert camp,’ she continued, determined to keep the conversation off dangerous subjects—although every subject felt dangerous now. Everything about Khalil felt dangerous.

      Desirable.

      ‘Comfort need not be sacrificed,’ he remarked, taking a sip of wine.

      ‘I suppose you feel very secure?’ she asked. ‘To have such a...permanent arrangement?’

      ‘These are tents, Elena, as luxurious as they may be. My men and I could disassemble this camp in twenty minutes, if need be.’

      ‘How do you know how to do all this if you grew up in America?’

      ‘All this?’ Khalil repeated, raising his eyebrows.

      ‘Tents. Horses. Fighting. All this—this rebel stuff.’ She realised she sounded rather ridiculous and she shrugged, half in apology, half in defiance. Heaven help her, she’d had two glasses of wine and she was nearly drunk.

      ‘I served in the French Foreign Legion for seven years,’ Khalil told her. ‘I’m used to this kind of living.’

      ‘You did?’

      ‘It was good preparation.’

      Everything in his life, Elena supposed, had been to prepare for being Sheikh, for taking the throne from the half-brother who didn’t deserve it.

      Aziz... Why could she barely remember his face now? She’d been going to marry him, yet she’d forgotten what he looked like, or how his voice sounded. And with that thought came another fast on its heels.

      She wasn’t going to marry him any more. Even if he rescued her, or Khalil released her, she wasn’t going to marry Aziz.

      It was both a revelation and completely unsurprising. Elena sat back, her mind spinning both from her thoughts and the wine she’d drunk. For the first time, she accepted her fate...even if she had no idea what it would actually mean for her title, her crown, her country.

      ‘I’m not going to marry him,’ she blurted. ‘Aziz. Not even...not even if he found me in time.’

      Something flashed in Khalil’s eyes and he sat back. ‘What made you change your mind?’

      ‘You did,’ she said simply, and she knew she meant it in more ways than one. Not just because he was the rightful Sheikh, but because he’d opened up feelings inside her she hadn’t known she’d possessed. She couldn’t marry Aziz now, couldn’t settle for the kind of cold, mercenary arrangement she’d once wanted.

      ‘I’m glad,’ Khalil said quietly. They gazed at each other for a long moment, and everything in Elena tensed, yearned...

      Then Khalil rose from the table. ‘It is late. You should return to your tent.’

      He reached for her hand, and Elena let him pull her up. She felt fluid, boneless; the wine must have really gone to her head.

      He kept hold of her hand as they stepped outside the tent, the night dark and endless around them. The air was surprisingly cold and crisp, which had a sobering effect on Elena.

      By the time they’d crossed the camp to her tent, Khalil’s hand still loosely linked with hers, she wasn’t feeling tipsy at all, just embarrassed. The evening’s emotional intimacies and revelations were enough now to make her cringe.

      ‘Goodnight, Elena.’ Khalil stopped in front of her tent, sliding his hand from hers. He touched her chin with his fingers, tipped her head up so she was blinking at him, the night sky spangled with stars high above him.

      For a moment as she looked up at him, just as when they’d been in his tent, she thought he might kiss her. Her lips parted and her head spun and her heart started thudding in a mix of alarm, anticipation and a suspended sense of wonder.

      Khalil lowered his head, his mouth a whisper away from hers. ‘Elena,’ he murmured; it sounded like a question. Everything in Elena answered, yes.

      She reached up to put her hands on his shoulders; her body pressed against his, the feel of his hard chest sending little shocks of sensation through her.

      His hands slid up to frame her face, his fingers so gentle on her skin. She felt his desire as well as her own, felt his yearning and surprise, and thought, We are alike in this too. We both want this, but we’re also afraid to want it.

      Although perhaps Khalil didn’t want it, after all, for he suddenly dropped his hands from her and stepped back. ‘Goodnight,’ he said again, and then he started walking back to his tent and was soon swallowed up by the darkness.

       CHAPTER SIX

      ELENA DIDN’T SEE Khalil at all the next day. She spent hours lying on her bed or sitting outside her tent, watching the men go about the camp and looking for Khalil.

      She missed him. She told herself that was absurd, because she barely knew him. She’d only met him two days ago, and hardly in the best of circumstances.

      Yet she still found herself reliving the times he’d touched her: the slide of his fingers on her jaw; the press of his chest against her cheek. She replayed their dinner conversation in her mind, thought about his lonely childhood, his determination to be Sheikh. And realised in just three days he would let her go and she would