The Sheikh's Undoing

‘So you don’t ever want children of your own?’ she questioned boldly.

At this the shutters came down and his voice cooled. ‘Not ever,’ he affirmed, his gaze never leaving her face—because she had to understand that he meant this. ‘My brother has helpfully produced twin boys, and our country now has the required heir and a spare. So my assistance with dynasty-building is not required.’

A shiver ran down her spine as his unemotional words registered. Was that what he thought fatherhood and family life was all about … dynasties? Didn’t he long to hold his own little baby boy or girl in his arms? To cradle them and to rock them? To see the past and the future written in its tiny features?

She looked at his face in the candlelight. Such a strong and indomitable face, she thought, with its high slash of cheekbones, the hawk-like nose and wide, sensual mouth. But behind the impressive physical package he presented she had discovered a reason for the unmistakable sense of aloneness which always seemed to surround him.

Yet this notoriously private man had actually confided in her. Surely that had to mean something? That he trusted her, yes—but was there anything more than that. And was it enough for her to face risking her heart?

She drifted her eyes over his hands—powerful and hair roughened. On the white silk cuffs of his shirt gleamed two heavy golden cufflinks. She could see that they were Khayarzah cufflinks, with the distinctive silhouette of a brooding falcon poised for flight. And somehow the bird of prey reminded her of him. Restless and seeking … above the world, but never really part of it.

Had he seen her looking at them? Was that why his hand suddenly reached out and caught hold of hers, capturing her wrist in his warm grasp and making it seem tiny and frail in comparison? His thumb brushed over the delicate skin at her wrist and he gave a brief smile as he felt the frantic skitter of her pulse.

‘Stunned into uncharacteristic silence by my story, are you, Izzy?’

‘It’s some story,’ she admitted quietly.

‘Yes.’ He looked down at her untouched plate. ‘You’re not eating.’

‘Neither are you.’

‘Delicious as it looks, I’m not feeling particularly hungry.’

‘No.’

Across the candlelit table, their eyes met. ‘Perhaps some fresh air might give us a little appetite.’

Isobel blinked at him in bewilderment. ‘You want to go for a walk?’

His smile was wry. He’d forgotten that she had every right to be naïve, for she knew nothing of the games that lovers played … ‘Only as far as the car. I thought we could go to my apartment. There’s plenty of food there.’

Isobel’s heart began to pound as his lazy suggestion shimmered into the space between them. She hadn’t thought a lot beyond the meal itself. Somehow she had imagined that she might be going home alone to her little flat, as if the whole … sex … thing had been nothing but a distant dream. She’d told herself that would be the best for both of them, even if her commitment to the idea had been less than whole-hearted.

But then Tariq had opened up to her, taking her into his confidence. It had felt almost as intimate as when he’d been driving into her body. How could she possibly go home alone when she thought about the alternative he was offering her?

He was gesturing for the bill, seeming to take her silence for acquiescence, and the waiter was coming over to their table, his face creased in an anxious frown.

‘You no like the food?’ he questioned.

‘The food is delicious,’ Tariq replied, giving Isobel’s hand a quick squeeze. ‘I just find my partner’s beauty rather distracting. So we’ll just have the bill, please.’

Isobel saw the man-to-man look which passed between Tariq and the waiter, and for a moment she felt betrayed. Suddenly she had become someone else—not the woman who’d been frequenting this place for years, but someone dining with a man who was clearly way out of her league.

The waiter moved away, and Isobel tried to wriggle her fingers free. But Tariq wasn’t having any of it.

‘What’s the matter, Izzy?’

‘Just because you want to go to bed with me, it doesn’t mean you have to tell lies!’

‘Lies?’ he questioned, perplexed.

‘I am not beautiful,’ she insisted.

‘Oh, but you are,’ he said unexpectedly, and then he did let go of her hand. Instead, he moved to cup her chin, running the tip of his thumb over it. ‘Tonight you look very beautiful, sitting there, bathed in candlelight. I like your hair loose. I even like your eyes flashing with defiance. In fact, I can’t quite remember ever seeing a woman look quite as desirable as you do right now, and it’s making me ache for you. And you feel exactly the same, don’t you?’

‘Tariq!’

‘Don’t you?’