Surrender to the Sheikh

CHAPTER ONE

THERE was something about a wedding. Something magical which made everyday cynicism evaporate into thin air. Rose twisted the stem of her champagne glass thoughtfully as they waited for the best man to begin speaking.

She’d noticed it in the church, where even the most hardened pessimists in the congregation had been busy dabbing away at the corners of their eyes—well, the women, certainly. Women who would normally congregate in wine bars, denouncing the entire male sex as unthinking and uncaring, had been sitting through the entire service with wistful smiles softening their faces beneath the wide-brimmed hats.

Why Rose had even shed a tear herself, and she was not a woman given to a public display of emotion!

‘In my country,’ announced the best man, and his jet-black eyes glittered like ebony as they fixed themselves on the bride and groom, ‘we always begin the wedding feast with a toast. That their mutual joy shall never be diminished. And so I ask you to raise your glasses and drink to Sabrina and Guy.’

‘Sabrina and Guy,’ echoed the glittering crowd, and obediently raised their glasses.

Not for the first time, Rose found herself surveying the best man over the top of her glass, along with just about every other female in the room, but then it was hard not to.

He was certainly spectacular—and spectacular in the true sense of the word. But, there again, not many men were fortunate enough to have a real live prince acting as their steward!

His name was Prince Khalim, as Sabrina had informed her excitedly when she’d begun to plan the wedding. A real-life prince with a real-life country of his own—the beautiful Maraban—over which he would one day rule, as his forebears had ruled for centuries. He was an old schoolfriend of Guy’s, Sabrina had shyly confided to Rose—the two men being as close as two men who’d known each other since childhood could be.

Rose had been expecting the prince to be short and squat and rather ugly—but, for once, her expectations had been way off mark. Because Prince Khalim was quite the most perfect man she had ever set eyes on.

He was tall—though perhaps not quite as tall as the groom—and he wore the most amazing clothes that Rose had ever seen. Exotic clothes in sensual fabrics. An exquisite silken tunic coloured in a soft and creamy gold, with loose trousers worn beneath.

Such an outfit could, Rose reasoned, have made some men look as though they were on their way to a fancy-dress party—maybe even a little bit feminine. But the silk whispered tantalisingly against his flesh, and there was no disguising the lean, hard contours of the body which lay beneath. A body which seemed to exude a raw and vibrant masculinity from every pore.

Rose swallowed, the champagne tasting suddenly bitter in her throat. And then swallowed again as those onyx eyes were levelled in her direction and then narrowed, so that only a night-dark gleam could be seen through the thick, black lashes.

And with a slow and predatory smile, he began to move.

He’s coming over, Rose thought, her hands beginning to shake with unfamiliar nerves. He’s coming over here!

The gloriously dressed women and the morning-suited men parted like waves before him as he made an unhurried approach across the ballroom of the Granchester Hotel, his regal bearing evident with every fluid step that he took. There was a dangerous imperiousness about him which made him the focal point of every eye in the ballroom.

Rose felt her throat constrict with a sudden sense of fear coupled with an even more debilitating desire, and for one mad moment she was tempted to turn around and run from the room. An escape to the powder room! But her legs didn’t feel strong enough to carry her, and what would she be running from? she wondered ruefully. Or whom?

And then there was time to think of nothing more, because he had come to a halt in front of her and stood looking down at her, his proud, dark face concealing every emotion other than the one he made no attempt whatsoever to conceal.

Attraction.

Sexual attraction, Rose reminded herself, with a fast-beating heart.

It seemed to emanate from him in almost tangible waves of dark, erotic heat. He wanted to take her to his bed, she recognised faintly, the cruel curve of his mouth and the glint in his black eyes telling her so in no uncertain terms.

‘So,’ he said softly, in a rich, deep voice. ‘Are you aware that you are quite the most beautiful woman at the wedding?’

He sounded so English and it made such an unexpected contrast to those dark, exotic looks, thought Rose. She forced herself to remain steady beneath the dark fire of his stare and shook her head. ‘I disagree,’ she answered coolly—unbelievably coolly, considering that her heart was racing like a speed-train. ‘Don’t you know that the bride is always the most beautiful woman at any wedding?’

He turned his head slightly to look at Sabrina in all her wedding finery, so that Rose was given an unrestricted view of the magnificent jut of his jaw and the aquiline curve of his nose.

The voice softened unexpectedly. ‘Sabrina?’ he murmured. ‘Yes, she is very beautiful.’

And Rose was unprepared for the sudden vicious wave of

jealousy which washed over her. Jealous of Sabrina? One of her very best friends? She sucked in a shocked breath.

He turned his head again and once again Rose was caught full-on in the ebony blaze from his eyes. ‘But then so are you—very, very beautiful.’ The mouth quirked very slightly as he registered her unsmiling reaction. ‘What is the matter? Do you not like compliments?’

‘Not from people I barely know!’ Rose heard herself saying, with uncharacteristic abruptness.

Only the merest elevation of a jet eyebrow which matched the thick abundance of his black hair gave any indication that he considered her reply offhand. It was clear that people did not speak to him in this way, as a rule.

He gave an almost regretful smile. ‘Then you should not dress so fetchingly, should you? You should have covered yourself in something which concealed you from head to foot,’ he told her softly, jet eyes moving slowly from the top of her head to the tip of her pink-painted toenails. ‘It is all your own fault.’

Even more uncharacteristically, Rose felt colour begin to seep heatedly into her cheeks. She rarely blushed! In her job she dealt with high-powered strangers every single day of her working life, and none of them had had the power to have her standing like this. Like some starstruck adolescent.

‘Isn’t it?’ he prompted, on a sultry murmur.

Rose blinked. She had dressed up, yes—but it was a wedding, wasn’t it? And every single other woman in the room had gone to town today, just as she had.

A floaty little slip-dress made of sapphire silk-chiffon. The same colour as her eyes, or so the cooing sales assistant had told her. And flirty little sandals with tiny kitten heels. She’d bought those in a stinging pink colour, deliberately not matching her dress. But then matching accessories were so passé—even the saleswoman had agreed with that. No hat. She hated confining her thick blonde hair beneath a hat—particularly on a day as hot as this one. Instead, she had ordered a dewy and flamboyant orchid from the nearby florists, in a paler-colour version of the shoes she wore. She’d pinned it into her hair, but she suspected that very soon it would start wilting.

Just as she would, if this exotic man continued to subject her to such a calculating, yet lazy look of appraisal.

She decided to put a stop to it right then and there, extending her hand and giving him a friendly-but-slightly-distant smile. ‘Rose Thomas,’ she said.

He took the hand in his and then looked down at it, and Rose found her eyes hypnotically drawn in the same direction, shocked by her reaction to what she saw. Her skin looked so very white against the dark olive of his and there seemed to be something compellingly erotic about such a distinctive contrast of flesh.

She tried to pull her hand away, but he held tight onto it, and as she drew her indignant gaze upwards it was to find the black eyes fixed on her mockingly.

‘And do you know who I am, Rose Thomas?’ he questioned silkily.

It was a moment of truth. She could feign ignorance, it was true. But wouldn’t a man like this have been up against pretence and insincerity for most of his life?

‘Of course I know who you are!’ she told him crisply. ‘This is the only wedding I’ve ever been to where a real-life prince has been acting as best man—and I imagine it’s the same for most of the other people here, too!’

He smiled, and as she saw the slight relaxation of his body Rose took the opportunity to remove her hand from his.

Khalim felt the stealthy beat of desire as she resisted him. ‘What’s the matter?’ He gave her an expression of mock-reproach. ‘Don’t you like me touching you, Rose Thomas?’

‘Do you normally go around touching women you’ve only just met?’ she demanded incredulously. ‘Is that a favour which your title confers on you?’

The beat increased as he acknowledged her fire. Resistance was so rarely put in the way of his wishes that it had the effect of increasing them tenfold. He saw the clear blue brilliance of her eyes. No, a hundredfold, he thought and felt his throat thicken.

He gave a shrug. A little-boy look—the black eyes briefly appealing. It was a look that had always worked very well at his English boarding-school, especially with women. ‘You took my hand,’ he protested. ‘You know you did!’