Desert Prince, Defiant Virgin. Kim Lawrence

didn’t hear his approach and as she continued to remain unaware of his presence Tair had the opportunity to study her unobserved.

      Her body was hidden once more behind another unattractive outfit—an oversized shirt and shapeless skirt that reached mid-calf. But his attention remained on her face. Like last night, she was not wearing the librarian glasses, but unlike last night he was close enough to appreciate the delicacy of her bone structure and the smooth creaminess of her skin. Still oblivious to his presence, she turned her head as she laid down the pencil in her hand to pick up another from the tin that lay open beside her and he was able to see that her face was a perfect oval.

      Her delicate winged brows drew together in a frown of concentration as she turned her attention back to the drawing, her slim fingers flying over the paper.

      When she finished the frown deepened into a grimace of dissatisfaction as she compared what was on the paper to the waxy petalled bloom she was studying.

      ‘Hopeless!’ she muttered in apparent disgust at her inability to do her subject justice.

      ‘A lack of talent can be frustrating.’

      She started as though shot and turned her head jerkily, causing several strands of hair to break loose from the knot tied at the base of her slender neck. Their eyes connected and Tair was struck by two thoughts simultaneously. Her eyes were pure gold and she was looking at him as though he were, if not the devil himself, then certainly a very close relation. She appeared not to notice as the pencil slipped from her nerveless fingers and slid into the decorative grating of an air vent.

      He raised one brow and she astonished him by blushing to the roots of her hair. Hair that turned out not to be boring mousy brown, but a subtle combination of shades ranging from soft gold to warm conker.

      The knot on the nape of her neck appeared to be secured by a single barrette; presumably if it was removed her hair would spill like silk down her back.

      Had Tariq done this?

      He pushed the thought away, baring his teeth in a smile. Tariq wouldn’t be doing that or anything else that involved Miss Mouse any more.

      Even before she turned Molly had known who was standing there. Tair Al Sharif’s voice had to be just about the most distinctive on the planet! He could have made the ingredients on a cereal packet sound like an indecent proposition. The velvet smoothness had an almost tactile quality that sent tiny secret shivers up and down her spine.

      Even when he stopped speaking she could hear it in her head.

      Molly kept her head down and got to her feet slowly to allow the heat in her cheeks time to dissipate.

      Even when she was standing straight he remained a full foot, probably more, taller than her. Molly would have liked to believe it was simply the extra inches alone that made her feel at such a disadvantage. But even without looking directly at him she could feel the effect of the leashed power and blatantly sexual aura he radiated lying like a stone fist in her chest. It made her conscious of each breath she took.

      He was dressed smart-casual, or in his case sexy-casual, in jeans, secured across his lean snaky hips with a leather belt, and a blue open-necked shirt.

      Molly had never thought before that the words denim and disturbing could be in the same sentence as she glanced at the way the material clung to his long muscular thighs.

      Last night Molly had tossed and turned in bed unable to get this man’s voice or face from her mind although she had tried to blame her inability to sleep on the second cup of coffee she’d had at dinner.

      At about two a.m. she had decided that she had imagined the hypnotic quality of his searing blue eyes and the inexplicable hostility she saw in them when they were turned in her direction.

      Now a caffeine-free zone, she had to admit she had been fooling herself.

      Even after having adjusted her stare to a point over his shoulder she could feel his eyes on her. The sort of eyes that layers of skin and bone seemed a poor defence against—it felt as if he could see inside her skull.

      When she was this close to him she felt as though every protective layer she had built up over the years had been peeled away. Chastising herself crossly at the whimsical illusion, she kept staring into the safety zone over his shoulder, deciding it was preferable to have him assume she was cross-eyed than maintain direct eye contact and do something stupid like trip over her own feet, drool or forget her name.

      This is stupid—you look ridiculous, Molly thought. Look at the man—you can’t talk to the wall! Surely nothing should scare a person who had stood in at the last minute for an absent colleague and delivered a sex-education lecture to a hall of sixteen-year-old girls?

      It had turned out the girls knew a lot more than she did!

      ‘You startled me,’ she said, brushing the dust off the seat of her skirt before tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I didn’t hear you.’ And if I had I would have run in the opposite direction.

      It was still an option, she thought, staring at his shiny boots.

      ‘Sorry,’ he said, not looking it, but not actually sounding as openly antagonistic as he had the previous evening.

      It was possible she’d been wrong about the hostility, not that he had the sort of face that was easy to read if he didn’t want you to. And right now it would seem he didn’t want her to.

      Her gaze flickered across the hard contours and angles of his lean face and a sigh snagged in her throat. He might not be easy to read, but he was damned easy to look at! A lot more than easy!

      Her glance dropped to his feet shod in leather boots and then, as though drawn by an invisible magnet, worked its way upwards, lingering over some areas more than others, until she reached his face. Everything about him was worth looking at.

      She applied the tip of her tongue to the moisture that broke out along her upper lip and struggled to disguise the fact that her feet were nailed to the ground with lust.

      No man had ever elicited this type of raw response from Molly in her life and she found it both utterly mortifying and deeply scary.

      As he reached across to take the sketch-book from her she opened her mouth to protest but nothing came out. With fingers clenched almost as tight as her teeth, she injected amusement into her voice as she held out her hand.

      ‘I doubt my scribbling will interest you, Mr al… Prince…’

      His eyes lifted, meeting hers momentarily. He ignored the hand. ‘Or my opinion interest you?’

      ‘I’m holding my breath.’ Actually the entire breathing thing was currently something of a chore. She was twenty-four and had never been in a situation where sexual awareness caused her brain to malfunction before.

      The acid sweetness of her retort caused his eyes to narrow before they dropped. Biting her lip, Molly watched in dismay as Tair Al Sharif, his dark head tilted a little to one side, continued to study the sketch.

      So far he hadn’t been overly impressed by anything about her, so why, she asked herself dourly, should now be any different?

      She stopped and blinked… Will you just listen to yourself, Molly? Have you any idea how pathetic and needy you sound?

      She took a deep breath, lifted her chin and advised herself sternly to grow up. For goodness’ sake, he was not an art critic. Why should she give a damn what he thought?

      She didn’t!

      So why was she standing here shuffling her feet like a kid called to the headmaster’s study?

      This was ridiculous. She was acting like some needy loser who wanted everyone to love her… Someone might be nice, but that someone was not going to bear any resemblance to Tair Al Sharif.

      The internal dialogue came to an abrupt end as he lifted his raven head.

      He was surprised that she actually did have the talent he accused her of