At The Sheikh's Command. Kate Walker

mind, leaving instead room for her to grasp at a realisation that was far more stunning, more shocking.

      Her father was outside in the hall.

      And he was coming back.

      Her father was crossing the hall, coming back, heading for the library, coming back to his guest…

      He would open the door, would look across the room and he would find…

      He would find her here, like…

      With the instinct of panic her hand went to the gaping front of her blouse, fingers spread wide to cover the exposed white skin, the delicate flesh still slightly reddened by the touch of Malik’s hard fingers.

      ‘Here…’

      Already Malik was moving, acting—taking charge. Already his behaviour was totally back under control—the control she had completely, abjectly lost without a hope of finding again.

      He was tugging down her skirt, smoothing it over her hips, along her thighs, his movements brusque and—that damn word again!—controlled. He didn’t seem aware of the way that his touch, so cool and calm, distant as a doctor’s, made her want to cry out in shock and loss as it came so close to the spot where the throbbing tension of need even now held her in its grip. The sting of arousal still pricked at her breasts, demanding appeasement. The whole of her body felt like a long moan of protest at the way that the pleasure it had been seeking had been so brutally snatched away, leaving her lost and desolate.

      ‘Fasten yourself up.’

      Malik’s tone was brusque, his curt words a cold command. His eyes were hard as jet without any trace of the burn of warmth that had been in them before. The man who had called himself ‘just Malik’ was gone and the person that Abbie thought of as The Sheikh was back and wholly in control.

      He was busy tidying himself as he spoke, quickly and efficiently fastening the buttons her fingers had tugged open, tucking his shirt back into his trousers, smoothing his hand over his tousled hair.

      ‘I said, fasten yourself up!’

      It was an order and a sound of reproof all in one and the cold disapproval in the black gaze that swept over her cut straight to her heart.

      She had been lost, adrift on a sea of passion so intense that it had taken over her mind and driven all rational thought from it. The sensation had been so devastating that she was having trouble focusing on anything else. But Malik was icily, unemotionally back in control in the space of a heartbeat, and it was obvious that nothing at all had touched him in the way that it had affected her.

      ‘Do you want Cavanaugh to find you here like this?’

      ‘N-no…’

      She could only manage a whisper, her voice refusing to obey her. So were her fingers as she fumbled with her disordered clothing, the sense of panic at the thought of her father finding her like this making matters worse.

      ‘Abbie!’

      Her name hissed through Malik’s teeth in a sound of total exasperation and he reached for her again. Perhaps his intention was only to help; perhaps he meant to do what she couldn’t manage and pull things back together again, but that wasn’t the thought that crossed Abbie’s mind.

      ‘No!’

      Remembering only the burning pleasure that those hands had brought her just seconds before and not knowing whether she most longed for a repetition of it or feared it utterly, she reacted on total instinct. An instinct that was even closer to the panic she had barely been able to control.

      ‘No—I—I have to go!’

      There was one way she could avoid any confrontation with her father, ensure that he didn’t know what had been happening in his absence. There was a side door on the far wall of the library, one that led out of the room in the opposite direction to that in which her father was approaching.

      True, it also led to the conservatory from which the only way back into the house, without retracing her steps, was to go out into the garden and come in again by the kitchen door. But at least she would have a few moments in which to draw breath. Everyone was inside so she would have time in which to pull herself together, both mentally and physically.

      How could she have let this happen? How could she have lost all control, all sense of self-preservation so completely as to forget just who this man was and why he was here?

      She couldn’t even look him in the face, couldn’t meet his eyes. And yet just seconds ago…

      ‘Your boss,’ Malik had said. He had thought that she was employed by her father—by the Cavanaugh family. She could only suppose that the appalling apron and her scruffy clothes had given him that impression.

      He thought that she was only a servant and so fair game for him to waste time with, to flirt with heartlessly. To use for his pleasure and then discard when he felt like it.

      ‘I have to go,’ she muttered again, hoping it sounded more convincing this time. With her head down, her eyes burning with bitter humiliation, she turned for the door, moving as quickly as she could, just wanting to get away—get out of there.

      She made it to the door, had turned the handle—opened it—when, to her shock and horror, he came after her. One strong bronze-skinned hand closed over her arm, imprisoning her wrist, holding her.

      ‘Wait!’ he said, his voice low and thick. ‘Wait!’

      ‘Wait for what?’

      For further humiliation? For him to tell her that she wasn’t worth his time? That she had simply been an amusement with which to fill the minutes while he had been waiting for her father to return? Wasn’t that what men like him—sheikhs like him—had harems for? So that they could pick any woman they chose. Any woman who happened to catch his eye. Any woman he fancied mauling.

      ‘So that you can maul me again?’

      ‘Maul?’

      He actually looked shocked. His proud dark head went back, brilliant eyes narrowing sharply.

      ‘Maul!’ he repeated on a deeper note. ‘You dare to call that mauling! Let me remind you, sukkar, that you wanted it every bit as much as I did—you still do.’

      His cruel gaze dropped to where her breasts were still exposed. To where the tight, hungry points of her nipples betrayed the need she might try to deny with words—an unconvincing denial when her body spoke so eloquently against her.

      ‘And I still do.’

      Malik’s voice was rough and thick. So he wasn’t quite as much in control as he pretended, Abbie realised. There was still a lingering rawness in his eyes and the hand that imprisoned hers was not quite as steady as she had first thought.

      The realisation made her hesitate. She couldn’t move, either in or out of the open door. She could only stare up into the glittering darkness of his eyes and wait…

      But then the footsteps—her father’s footsteps paused outside the door. She saw the handle turn…

      And suddenly Malik’s hand came up to touch her face. He cupped her cheek in one hard palm, looked deep into her eyes as if determined to hypnotise her into total obedience.

      ‘Come to me tonight,’ he whispered softly, huskily. ‘Come to me at my hotel and we can finish what we started.’

      She didn’t answer. She couldn’t answer. But she knew from his faint smile how he saw the change in her face, the one she couldn’t disguise. The one that meant acquiescence, whether it was wise or not.

      He saw her face change and knew he didn’t have to say anything more.

      ‘The Europa,’ he said, the total confidence in his tone that of a man who knew he had won and there was nothing more to say. ‘The Europa at eight. I’ll be waiting.’

      His mouth took hers for a hot, brief moment and