Hidden in the Sheikh's Harem: Christmas at the Castello

She raised her pointy little chin at him. ‘What of it?’

He leant in so close her scent filled him. ‘You take one step in the wrong direction tonight and I’ll wrap it around your elegant throat and use it as a leash.’

* * *

Oh! Farah felt like screaming. One minute she was enjoying his company and the next she hated him again. But his comment had been a good reminder that she was not, in fact, his guest at this wedding, but his prisoner, and she had her own agenda: escape!

Smiling dutifully at the little group they had joined, she watched the covetous glances the women—the very married women—gave the prince. Instinct no doubt told them that the reason he was so completely at ease in his own skin was because he was a man who had known pleasure—and had given it.

A hot flush swept up her neck and she raised her hand to mask it. What she wouldn’t give to be back in her little hut and arguing with her father about why she didn’t want to get married. It seemed so much more simple than parading around with a man who disturbed her on so many levels.

‘I said stop fidgeting.’ He cupped her elbow as he directed her away from the avid faces of their small group. ‘How are your feet?’

‘Hobbled. Yours?’

He chuckled. ‘You’re delightful.’

She scowled. ‘I’m not trying to be.’

‘I know. Dance with me.’

Not expecting that request, she wasn’t ready when he slid a hand to her lower back, his gaze hot on hers when she glanced up at him. ‘I don’t dance.’

He considered her for a long moment. ‘Don’t or can’t?’ he asked shrewdly.

Farah felt another flush heat her cheeks. ‘I...’ she began, only to stop as he cast her a crooked grin.

‘Can’t, then,’ he concluded, turning her towards him. ‘Don’t look so outraged, habiba, I will teach you.’

A shiver went through Farah as he moved in closer, his warmth hitting her like a wall. Then his spicy scent made her head foggy. This was so not a good idea. Especially when he was right: she couldn’t dance. She’d never thought about learning before, preferring to watch from the sidelines. She hadn’t thought about sex much, either, but since meeting the prince it was the single most dominating thought that occupied her time. If he’d been an ordinary man in her village or a neighbouring one, who was considerate of her needs, she might have thought about exploring the chemistry that made her stomach flutter and her insides feel liquid, but he was Zachim, Prince of Bakaan, and he was cut from the same controlling cloth as their fathers.

‘Not interested,’ she said, trying to ignore the little voice in her head that said dancing with him would be fun. Riding Moonbeam full pelt through the desert was fun. Sitting by the fireside dreaming up impossible adventures with her friends was fun. Dancing with Prince Zachim would not be fun. It would be out-and-out dangerous.

As if reading her mind, he gave her a devastating half smile. ‘Come on. You know you want to.’

And there was that innate arrogance of his popping up at the right moment to remind her why she disliked him so much. ‘No.’

‘Just follow my lead.’

His grin widened as she flashed him a look. ‘Do you even understand the word no?’

‘You never know, Farah, you might enjoy it.’

And wasn’t that half the problem? She knew that maybe she would enjoy it. Too much.

Before she could rally her defences against him, he raised his left hand. ‘Right hand in mine.’

Farah froze so he reached down and clasped her hand in his. ‘Now, left hand on my shoulder.’

Again she froze and again he took control and did it for her.

‘Now what?’ she asked, her whole body taut as she tried to remain impervious to this nearness.

‘Now I put my hand here.’ He placed his left hand lightly against her hip and Farah’s spine lengthened as she registered the heat of his touch.

Her lips felt dry and she mashed them together. He watched her like a hawk zeroing in on its prey. ‘And now?’

‘Now we move together.’ He smiled, clearly amused by her stoicism. ‘It’s called a waltz. When I lead with my right leg, you move your left leg back. No, not like that—smaller steps, remember, and slower. My leg is supposed to slide against yours so that it looks like we’re moving as one.’

A lone sitar player filled the dance floor with a gentle, teasing ballad and Farah desperately focused on the music as the prince’s muscular body lightly brushed her own.