Surrender To The Sheikh. Sharon Kendrick

looks of undisguised and rapacious hunger on their faces.

      Did he notice? Rose wondered. His proud, handsome face did not seem to register any emotion at all. But maybe he was used to it. Why, he had only had to lay his hand autocratically on her wrist to have her virtually melting at his feet.

      The meal was served and Rose found herself seated with a banker on one side of her, and an oceanographer on the other. Both men seemed amusing and intelligent and the oceanographer was handsome in the rugged kind of way which denoted a healthy, outdoor lifestyle. He flirted outrageously with Rose, and even an hour ago she might have been receptive enough to respond.

      But the only man who burnt a searing image on her subconscious sat at the top table, picking at his food with the kind of indifference which suggested that conventional hunger was not uppermost in his mind.

      At that moment, Khalim looked up and glittered a black look in her direction—a look which sent a shiver tiptoeing down her spine. Quickly, she put her fork down and pushed the plate away.

      ‘So what do you do, Rose?’ asked the oceanographer.

      She turned to look at him with a smile. ‘I’m a head-hunter.’

      ‘Really?’ He grinned. ‘I guess you earn lots of money, then!’

      Which was what people always said! ‘I wish I did!’

      The waitress leaned over, a look of concern on her face. ‘Is everything all right with the salmon, miss?’

      Rose nodded, looking guiltily at the untouched plate. ‘It’s fine! I’m just not very hungry, that’s all!’

      The waitress had the kind of build which suggested that no plate of hers was ever returned unless completely clean. ‘Someone in the kitchen just said that we shouldn’t bother offering the top table any pudding—so much food has come back from there as well! Maybe you should be sitting with them!’ she joked.

      ‘Maybe!’ laughed Rose politely, half of her thankful that she was nowhere near Khalim, while the other part of her wished desperately to be within his exciting and yet dangerous proximity. She risked another look, seeing how the diamond lights of the chandeliers emphasised the creamy-gold silk of the robes he wore and the raven gleam of his black hair.

      Valiantly she forced a few raspberries down her throat, but even the plump and succulent fruit failed to tempt her. And then at last it was time for the cutting of the cake, and the speeches.

      Rose could barely take in a word of the best man’s speech—she was so mesmerised by his dark, proud face. Her eyes feasted on his features—the hard, bright eyes and the stern expression which made her feel she’d won the lottery when it softened into affection. His mouth was a contrast of lush, sensual curves, but the upper lip had a hard, almost cruel streak. She shivered. Be warned, she thought.

      Guy’s speech had every woman in the room all misty-eyed with emotion as he gazed down in open adoration at Sabrina and spoke of his love for her.

      And then the band struck up and people drifted onto the dance-floor and Rose’s heart was in her mouth as she remembered Khalim’s intention to dance with her.

      But he did not come near her, just returned to his seat and sat there imperiously, his gaze drifting over her from time to time, the black eyes luminous with sensual promise.

      Rose allowed herself to dance with whoever asked her, but her heart wasn’t in it. She moved mechanically as the oceanographer took her in his arms, stiffening with rejection when he tried to pull her a little closer.

      She sat down and was just beginning to seriously hope that Guy and Sabrina would depart for their honeymoon, so that she could leave as well, when Khalim appeared in front of her, the black eyes narrowed in mocking question.

      ‘So,’ he said softly. ‘I have taken you at your word and come to find you.’ The black eyes glittered. ‘Though you made yourself very easy to find, Rose—you sweet, blushing flower. Now—’ his voice dipped in sultry question ‘—shall we dance?’

      Her cheeks were stinging at the implication that she had just been sitting there, waiting for him—but then, hadn’t she?

      ‘Is that supposed to be an invitation I can’t resist?’ she shot back at him.

      A smile hovered at the edges of his mouth. ‘No, Rose,’ he purred. ‘It is a royal command.’

      She opened her mouth to object, but by then it was too late, because he had taken her hand with arrogant assurance and was leading her onto the dance-floor.

      ‘Come,’ he said quietly.

      She moved into his arms as though her whole life had been a dress rehearsal for that moment. He placed his hands at the slim indentation of her waist, and Rose’s fingers drifted with a kind of irresistible inevitability to his shoulders. She breathed in the faint scent of sandalwood about him, its soft muskiness invading her senses with its sweet perfume.

      Rose considered herself a modern, independent woman, but a minute in Khalim’s embrace was enough to transform her into a woman who felt as helpless as a kitten.

      Khalim felt the slow unfurling of desire as he moved his hands down to rest on the slender swell of her hips. ‘You dance beautifully, Rose,’ he murmured.

      ‘S-so do you,’ she managed breathlessly, gloriously aware of the hard, lean body which moved with such innate grace beneath the silken robes. ‘L-lovely wedding, wasn’t it?’ she commented, and said a silent prayer that her sanity would return. And soon!

      He didn’t reply for a moment. ‘All women like weddings,’ he mused eventually.

      She thought she heard deliberate provocation and lifted her head to stare him straight in the eyes, the bright sapphire of her gaze clashing irrevocably with glittering jet. ‘Meaning that men don’t, I suppose?’

      He raised a mocking brow and thought how bright her hair, and how white her soft skin, against which the soft curves of her lips were a deep, rich pink. Like the roses which bloomed in the gardens of his father’s palace and scented the night air with their perfume. His pulse quickened. ‘Do you always jump to conclusions, I wonder?’

      ‘But you meant me to,’ she parried. ‘It was a remark designed to inflame, wasn’t it?’

      He shook his head, his desire increased by her feisty opposition. ‘It was simply an observation,’ he demurred. ‘Nota…how-do-you-say?’ He frowned, as if in deep concentration. ‘Ah, yes—a sexist comment!’

      Rose leaned away from him a little, and felt the almost imperceptible tightening of his hands on her hips, as though he couldn’t bear to let her go. ‘You can’t pretend to be stumbling over the language with me, Khalim!’ she said crisply, trying to ignore the thundering of her heart beneath her breast, ‘when I happen to know that you went to school in England and are as fluent as I am!’

      She was very fiery, he thought with a sudden longing. ‘And what else do you know about me, Rose Thomas?’ he mused.

      Briefly she considered affecting total ignorance. This was a man with an ego, that was for sure! Yet how often did people speak their minds to a man with his power and his presence?

      ‘I know that you are the heir to a mountain kingdom—’

      ‘Maraban,’ he elaborated softly, and his voice deepened with affectionate pride.

      Something imprecise shimmered over her skin at the way he said that single word and a sense of hazy recognition made her shiver. ‘Maraban,’ she repeated wonderingly, until she realised that she was in danger of sounding starstruck again.

      ‘What else?’ he prompted, intrigued by that dreamy look which had softened her features when she had said the name of the land of his birth. And then his mouth hardened. Maraban was an oil-rich country—and didn’t fabulous wealth always produce enthusiasm in the greedy hearts of most Westerners?

      She wondered what had caused