The Sultan's Virgin Bride. Sarah Morgan

rush of wild excitement that she was powerless to quash. And she knew, from the sudden harshness of his breathing, that he was feeling it too.

      It had always been that way between them.

      From that first day at the beach.

      From their first kiss at the Caves of Zatua, deep in the desert.

      It was the reason why she’d made such a total fool of herself. She’d been blinded by a physical attraction so powerful and shattering that it transcended common sense and cultural differences.

      For a moment she stood, frozen into stillness by the strength of his presence. There was something intensely sexual about him. Something raw and untamed. Something primitively male. She’d sensed it from the first moment of meeting him and she felt it again now as she stood, trapped by her own uncontrollable response to him. Her nipples hardened and thrust against the fabric of her dress and something dark and dangerous uncurled low in her stomach and spread through her body.

      And then sounds of laughter from the ballroom broke the sensual spell that had stifled her ability to think and move.

      With a flash of mortification, she stepped away from him and reminded herself of the lessons she’d learned in the wild desert land of Tazkash. She’d learned that a deep enduring love combined with wild, ferocious, untamed passion wasn’t always enough.

      She’d learned that he was ruthless and cynical and that their personalities and expectations just didn’t match.

      ‘You expect me to believe that you engineered this?’ She threw her head back and laughed. ‘Tariq, you were at such pains to be rid of me five years ago that I know that cannot possibly be true. I was unsuitable, remember? You were ashamed of me.’

      Just as her mother had been ashamed of her.

      ‘You were young.’ His tone was cool. ‘I’ve watched you with interest over the years.’

      Her eyes widened in shock. ‘Watched me?’

      ‘Of course.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘You’re rarely out of the press. Designers fight to have you wear their clothes on the red carpet. If you wear a dress, then it sells.’

      And how sad was that? Farrah mused, producing a false smile designed to indicate that such an ‘accolade’ mattered to her. In truth, the thought that people regarded her—her—as a fashion icon was as ridiculous as it was laughable. Almost as laughable as the idea that Tariq had noticed and cared.

      He was a man who negotiated peace settlements and billion dollar oil deals. It was hard to believe that he could be genuinely interested in something as superficial as the contents of her wardrobe, but she’d long since resigned herself to the fact that her priorities seemed to be different from those of almost everyone else on the planet. She cared about different things.

      But, thanks to her mother, she’d learned to stay quiet about her real interests. Had learned to play the game she was expected to play and she played it now, lifting her chin, hiding behind the image she’d created for herself. She watched his eyes narrow as he studied her expression.

      ‘You’ve developed poise, Farrah. And elegance.’

      And duplicity. She was the master of pretence. Concealing her frustration behind another smile, she wondered why it was that everyone was so obsessed with how she looked on the outside. Didn’t anyone care about the person behind the glitter? Wasn’t anyone interested in who she really was?

      Memories, painful and hurtful, twisted inside her.

      For a short blissful time she’d thought Tariq was interested. She’d thought he cared. But she’d been wrong.

      And his rejection had been the final spur for her to reinvent herself. To finally become the woman her mother had always wanted her to be. At least for part of the time. For the rest of the time she led an entirely different life. The life she wanted to lead. A life that few knew about.

      A life she had absolutely no intention of sharing with Tariq.

      ‘I’m glad you approve,’ she said smoothly, stepping aside so that she could walk past him. ‘And now I need to go and—’

      ‘You’re not going anywhere.’ Without hesitation, he caught her round the waist and jerked her towards him. She lifted a hand in an instinctive gesture of defense, but it was too late. Her body had felt the hard brush of his thighs and responded instantly.

      She shook her head to clear the clouds of dizziness and sucked in a lungful of air but even that was a mistake because the air contained the delicious, erotic scent of him and the clouds around her brain just grew denser.

      Struggling to find the control that she was so proud of, she held herself rigid in his arms. ‘Why would you suddenly seek me out? I can hardly believe you find yourself short of female company.’

      ‘I’m not short of female company.’

      His cool statement shouldn’t have caused pain but it did and she dragged her eyes away from her involuntary study of his dark jaw.

      ‘Then go and concentrate your attentions on someone who’s interested,’ she suggested, squashing down memories of past humiliation. ‘I’m not. And I want you to let me go.’

      The tension between them was overwhelming. ‘If you’re not interested,’ he said silkily, ‘why is your heart pounding against mine?’

      Farrah decided that if there was anything worse than feeling this way, it was knowing that he was aware of her reaction. ‘I don’t like being held against my will,’ she said frostily, a flash of anger in her eyes as she looked at him. ‘And I don’t like the way you use power and control to get your own way. I don’t respond to bullying.’

      ‘You think I’m bullying you?’ His tone was lethally soft, his mouth only a breath away from hers. ‘That’s strange, because I let go of you the moment you requested that I do so, but you haven’t moved an inch, Farrah. Your body is still against mine. Why is that? I wonder.’

      She gave a soft gasp and stepped back, realising that he was telling the truth. He was no longer holding her.

      ‘I think what holds us together is sexual chemistry,’ he murmured, a self-satisfied look in his eyes as he lifted a hand to her flushed cheek, ‘the way it always did. Which proves I was right to seek you out.’

      From somewhere, she found her voice. ‘Why would you do that? What possible reason could you have for seeking me out?’

      A man like Tariq did nothing on impulse. His schedule was punishing. Every moment of his day was planned in minute detail. Even when they’d been together, she’d had problems getting to see him. It was extremely unlikely that he would have been at an event like this without a purpose.

      Was she that purpose? And if so, why? What did she have that he could possibly want?

      There was a brief silence while he studied her beneath distractingly thick dark lashes. ‘Five years is a long time. You were young and impulsive. You had no knowledge of my country or culture. It was, perhaps, inevitable that there would be problems between us. Misunderstandings.’

      The injustice of his remarks stung her and her spine stiffened.

      She’d been young, yes. A few weeks past her eighteenth birthday. Impulsive? Probably. But she’d also been ruthlessly manipulated by those around him, those who professed to be close to him. She’d been well and truly flattened by palace politics.

      ‘I don’t want to talk about the past and I’m not interested in your opinion, Tariq.’ Her voice was flat. ‘It was a long time ago and we’ve both moved on.’

      ‘I don’t think so.’ His eyes, dark as night, slid down her slender frame and he reached out and lifted her right hand. ‘You still wear my ring.’

      The ring.

      With something approaching horror her gaze slid to the sparkling dramatic stone. The ring had been the embodiment