To Tame a Sheikh / His Thirty-Day Fiancée: To Tame a Sheikh. Catherine Mann

birthday, Shaheen had abruptly pulled away from both her brother and her. Aram had told her that Shaheen thought it time to stop fraternizing with the “help” to observe his role as a prince of Zohayd.

      Though she couldn’t believe it of Shaheen and thought Aram’s bitterness had other origins she couldn’t guess at, Shaheen’s sudden distance was still a wake-up call.

      For, really, what did she have to look forward to but to love him, unrequitedly, until he one day entered the marriage of state that was his destiny? He might even have turned away from her because he suspected her feelings for him and was being cruel to be kind. His withdrawal had influenced her decision to leave. A few weeks after her birthday, she’d left Zohayd to live in France with her mother. She’d never returned.

      Ever since that day, Johara had found comfort from the sense of loss only when she found news of Shaheen, saw that he was doing phenomenally well on every front. She’d felt she was entitled to hold on to that secret, onesided love.

      But now, the blade was about to fall and she’d never again have the right to indulge her emotions, even in the privacy of her heart and mind. And she had to see him. Really see him. One last time … before he committed himself to another.

      She’d slipped into the farewell party that one of his business partners, Aidan McCormick, was throwing for him in New York City. If anyone questioned her presence, she’d easily defend her right to be there. As a jewelry and fashion designer who’d been making a splash beyond France in the past couple of years, she was considered one of the glitterati who were expected to stud such a function.

      But validating her presence wasn’t the difficult part. That was still to come. Working up the nerve to approach Shaheen.

      She was praying one thing would happen when she did. That she’d find out that she’d blown him all out of proportion in her mind, and her feelings for him, as well.

      Suddenly, a wave of goose bumps swept her from toes to scalp.

      She turned around, the rustle of her taffeta dress magnified in her ears.

      Shaheen was here.

      For a long moment, she couldn’t see him. But the people-packed space receded into a void where his presence radiated like a beacon. Not from the entrance, where her gaze had been glued for the past two hours, but from the other side of the room. It made no sense, until she realized he must have used McCormick’s private elevator.

      His aura, his vibe, hit her like a gut punch.

      Then she saw him. Only him.

      Everything stilled inside her. In awe. In confusion.

      He’d towered over her before, though she’d been five foot seven at fourteen. Now she stood six feet wearing two-inch heels, and he still outstripped her by what appeared to be half a foot. Had she never realized how imposing he was?

      No. This wasn’t the Shaheen she remembered. This was new.

      He’d been twenty-two the last time she’d seen him up close. She’d seen him in the flesh half a dozen times since, most recently a year ago, across a ballroom in Cannes. But during those stolen sightings, she’d barely gotten more than an impression of vitality and virility, of class and power. She’d seen photographs and footage of him throughout the years, but it was clear that neither memory, nor sightings from afar nor photographic evidence had transmitted any measure of the truth.

      Sure, he’d been like a god to her anyway, but it seemed there were levels of godhood. And his present rank was at the top of the scale. A desert god, forged from its heat and hardness and harshness, from its mystery and moodiness and magnificence.

      His all-black formal silk suit and shirt clung to a breadth that was almost double his younger size. There wasn’t an inch of padding to his shoulders, no boosting of the power of his chest, no accentuation to the hardness of his abdomen and thighs or the slimness of his waist and hips. If he’d had the lithe power of a young hawk before, he now packed the powerhouse majesty of a full-grown, seasoned one.

      And that was before taking the changes to his face into account. He’d always been what the media had called spectacular, with that wavy mane of deepest tobacco hair, those unique fiery eyes a contrast to his natural tan. Now, with every trace of softness and youth chiseled away to leave a bone structure to tear heartstrings over, he was breathtaking.

      But it was his expression—and what it betrayed of his inner state—that sent tremors radiating through her.

      Shaheen wasn’t happy. He was deeply dissatisfied, disturbed. Distraught, even. It might not be apparent to anyone else, but she could sense it as deeply as she felt her own turmoil.

      All hope of reprieve, of closure, vanished.

      If she’d found him serene, content, she would have been able to move on. But now …

      At least there was one thing to be thankful for here. He hadn’t seen her. And he wouldn’t, if she didn’t go through with what she’d planned. And maybe she shouldn’t.

      No. No maybes about it. Approaching him now would have nothing but terrible consequences. If he had this devastating an effect on her while unaware of her presence and standing thirty feet away, what would he do to her face-to-face?

      Infatuated, immature moron that she was, she’d achieved only one thing by seeing him again. She’d compounded her problem and added more heartache to deal with. She could now only curtail further damages.

      Cursing herself for a fool, she stepped forward to leave. And felt as if she’d slammed into an impenetrable force field.

      Shaheen’s gaze.

      The impact almost demolished her precarious balance as his eyes bored through her.

      She’d always thought they resembled burning coals, even when he’d trained them on her with utmost kindness. But now, with the flare of recognition accompanied by a focus searing in intensity and devoid of gentleness, she felt their burn down to her bones. Her blood started to sizzle, her cheeks to steam.

      She’d gravely underestimated the size of the mistake she’d made coming here. She now had no doubt it was one she’d regret for the rest of her life.

      She stood, rooted, mesmerized as he approached her, watching him with the same fatalism one would an out-of-control car on a collision course.

      Regret had swamped Shaheen the moment he’d set foot in Aidan’s sprawling penthouse. It intensified with every step deeper into the cacophony of forced gaiety.

      He shouldn’t have agreed to come. He should have told Aidan this wasn’t a farewell party to him, but a funeral pyre.

      And here was his friend and partner, coming to add to his misery with a blithe smile splitting his face.

      “Hey, Sheen!” Aidan exclaimed over the skullsplitting techno music. “I thought you’d decided to let me look like a fool. Again.”

      Shaheen winced an attempt at a smile. He hated it when his friends abbreviated his name to Sheen. His western friends did so because it was a more familiar name to them, and those back home because that was the first letter of his name in Arabic. He didn’t know why he put up with it. But then again, what was a nickname he disliked compared to what he would be forced to endure from now on?

      Shaheen peered down into his friend’s grinning face, his lips twisting on his barely leashed irritation. “If I’d known what kind of event you were planning, Aidan, I would have.”

      “You know what they say about all work and no play.” Aidan hooked his arm high up around Shaheen’s shoulder.

      Shaheen almost flinched. He liked the man, and he did come from a culture where physical demonstrations of affection were the norm, contradictorily between members of the same gender. Apart from immediate family, he didn’t appreciate being touched. Even in sexual situations, he didn’t like women to paw him, as they seemed to unanimously wish to. His liaisons were about taking off an edge, not about intimacy.