Surrender to the Sheikh

‘Rose—’

‘And don’t you dare make a value judgement about me, when you barely know me, Khalim!’

Barely know her? Why, his conversations with Rose Thomas had been more intimate than those he’d had with any other woman before! He felt he knew her very well, and he had certainly told her more about himself than was probably wise. His voice gentled as he slid onto a cushion opposite her. ‘Do you want me to know you better, Rose?’

Shockingly, she did—she wanted him to know her as intimately as any man could. She wanted to see the contrast of his long-limbed dark body entwined with the milky curves of her own. She wanted to feel the primitive thrust of his passion, the honeyed wonder of his kiss. She stared down at the clear chartreuse colour of her mint tea, afraid that he would see the hunger in her eyes.

‘Rose?’

His voice was beguiling, but she resisted it. ‘What?’

‘Look at me.’

Compelled to obey by the command in his voice, she slowly lifted her head to find herself dazzled by a gaze of deepest ebony.

The pink flush which had gilded her pale skin pleased him, as did the darkened widening of those beautiful blue eyes. ‘Do you want me to know you better?’ he repeated on a sultry whisper.

The question was laced with erotic expectation, and a passive side she never knew existed wanted to gasp out, Oh, yes. Yes, please! But such capitulation must be par for the course for a man like Khalim. She would never win his respect if she fell like a ripe plum into those tempting arms. And his respect, she realised with a start, was what she wanted more than anything.

His body he would give her freely; his deference would be a far more elusive prize.

‘Obviously—’ she forced a breezy smile ‘—we will get to know each other better during my stay here. I have no objection to that, Khalim.’

It was such a deliberate misunderstanding that, instead of feeling indignant, he began to laugh softly. ‘You wilfully misunderstand me, Rose,’ he murmured. ‘You are quite outrageous.’

How rare the sound of his laughter, thought Rose with a sudden pang of compassion. How often could a man like this really let himself go?

She smiled and lifted up one of the china cups. ‘Tea, Khalim?’ she enquired.

He was still laughing when they went down to dinner.

As he guided her through the maze of marble corridors towards the dining hall, Rose wondered how he had spent his afternoon. Would it seem prying if she asked? ‘Have you seen your father yet?’ she asked softly.

His face tightened with pain and if she could have wished the words unsaid, she would have done so.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’

‘No.’ He shook his dark head. ‘We cannot ignore reality, however painful it is. Yes, I saw him.’ He paused. He could not talk freely to his mother or his sisters about his father’s failing health, for they would begin to weep inconsolably. Nor Philip either. Philip was a man, and men discussed feelings only with discomfort. But Khalim had a sudden need to express himself—to articulate his fears. This was death which he was soon to encounter and he had known no close deaths other than his grandparents’ when he had been away at school in England.

‘He is fading.’ He forced himself to say the brutal words, as if saying them would give life to them. Or death to them, he thought bleakly.

‘I’m so sorry.’ For one brief moment he looked so vulnerable that she longed to take him in her arms and lay his proud, beautiful face down on her shoulder and to hug him and comfort him. But surely such a gesture would be misinterpreted—even if it was her place to offer him solace, which it certainly wasn’t.

But then the moment was gone anyway, for the face had resumed its proud and haughty demeanour as he inclined his head in wordless thanks for her commiseration.

‘Let us go and eat,’ he said.

Dinner was a curious affair, made even more so by the fact that Rose felt as though she was on show—which she guessed she was. But even more curious was Khalim’s mother’s initial reaction to her.

Khalim ushered Rose into the room where a very elegant woman aged about sixty sat with her two daughters at the long, rectangular table.

The three women wore lavishly embroidered robes, and Rose noticed that Khalim’s mother’s sloe-shaped black eyes narrowed and her shoulders stiffened with a kind of disbelief as Rose walked rather nervously into the ornate salon. She said something very quickly to her son in Marabanese, and Khalim nodded, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

But once Khalim had introduced them, she relaxed with a graciousness which disarmed her and shook Rose’s hand and bid her welcome.

‘What should I call you?’ asked Rose nervously.

‘You should call me Princess Arksoltan.’ His mother gave her a surprisingly warm smile. ‘My son must respect your work very much if he has accompanied you to Maraban.’