The Sheikh's Virgin. Jane Porter
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without making a sound. Lucky? Is that what she was?
She half turned, gazed at the handsome bedroom before looking at the maid. “Does he have many women?”
The maid suddenly flushed bright red. “Forgive me, miss. I meant nothing—”
“It’s fine.” Keira gestured reassurance. “Thank you.”
The housemaid moved to the door. “If you need anything, just ring. You’ve only to ask.”
“And Sheikh Nuri? Is he still here…?”
“No, miss, he’s gone for the day. But he will be back for dinner.”
“I see.”
“Dinner will be served at seven. His Excellency dresses for dinner.”
“How nice,” Keira drawled, more than a little irritated. Kalen had uprooted her, dumped her at his London house, headed off for work or wherever it is he’d gone and was already leaving messages with the maid.
The girl bobbed her head and slipped out the door, closing it quietly behind her.
Keira went to the closet, looked at the garment bag hanging on the rod and then carefully closed the closet door. Just as carefully she moved the shopping bags from her bed.
She wasn’t his woman. She didn’t want his gifts.
At six-thirty Keira bathed and dressed for dinner. Wrapped in a lettuce-green bath towel, Keira thumbed through her own clothes she’d unpacked earlier and hung in the closet. She’d brought a mishmash of colors and styles and certainly nothing that could be viewed as elegant.
Good.
She’d dress for dinner. She’d just dress like an American woman. Independent. Successful. And free.
Sliding into a pair of old Levi’s jeans, Keira drew on a gray pin-striped blouse, the starchy blouse normally worn to work with a conservative suit, but now she let the tail of the shirt hang out, left the collar unbuttoned and twisted her long hair into a half-hazard knot at the back of her head.
No jewelry.
A bit of makeup.
Flat leather loafers.
And she was good to go.
Keira appeared in the dining room at seven on the dot. Kalen was already there, and the maid was right. He had dressed for dinner. Kalen wore black trousers, a black dinner jacket and a white dress shirt which highlighted his golden complexion, his thick black hair, and the amber of his eyes.
Handsome, she thought, drinking him in. He was by far the most handsome man she’d ever met and living in Texas, working for an international company, she’d met a lot of good-looking men.
“You look…” and Sheikh Nuri’s voice drifted off as his gaze swept her “…lovely.”
She flushed, assailed by guilt. He’d made an effort where clearly she’d made none.
But had she asked to come to London? Had she asked for any of this?
“Thank you,” she answered, smiling serenely, successfully hiding her self-doubts. Over the years she’d become very, very good at hiding everything real and true. Self-preservation, she thought, allowing Kalen to seat her at the table.
“Blue’s a good color for you,” he commented, taking a seat opposite her.
“I’m not wearing blue,” she said, glancing down at the thin gray stripes of her blouse. And then she saw her jeans and she understood. “Ah, the Levi’s.”
“Very chic.”
“You did tell the maid to have me dress casually, didn’t you?”
His dark eyebrows arched, a challenging light lit his amber eyes. “Is that what she told you?”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t understand anything after the His-Excellency-Has-Gone-Out-You-Must-Wait-Here bit.”
Kalen’s forehead furrowed. “I have a job, laeela. Things to do.”
“And I have a job, too. I should be in Dallas working, doing what I need to do, not sitting in a bedroom of your house waiting for you to come home!”
“Things have changed. You must adjust.”
She had to adjust? Why was she the one who always had to compromise? Sacrifice? Why was she the one who had to give, adjust, change? “I don’t want to adjust. I liked my life. I liked my work—”
“Being a cheerleader?”
“You know I worked for Sanford Gas. You know I had a responsible position and I was good.” She sat stiffly at the table, temper so hot she thought she might explode. “Too good to just give it all up because you said so.”
“So what did you do this afternoon?” he asked, leaning forward to fill their wineglasses.
“Nothing.”
“It doesn’t have to be nothing. You can rent movies on satellite, watch TV, chat with friends—”
“That’s empty activity. I need more.”
“Then improve your brain. Read. I have an extensive library here, and you’re free to order books off the Internet.”
“Reading is what I do at night before bed. It’s not what I do all day.” Keira’s frustration grew. “Sheikh Nuri, I didn’t go to college to play a pampered princess.”
“You’re angry that I haven’t paid you more attention.”
She laughed out loud even as she blushed. “I don’t even know you! The idea that I could need you—depend on you—is amusing, but untrue.”
“You speak boldly for a twenty-three-year-old girl.”
“Woman.” Her body crackled with tension and it was all she could do to keep her seat. “I’m a woman, and I’ve grown up with men like you, Sheikh Nuri. Unlike the models and actresses you meet, I don’t need your wealth, your notoriety, or your connections.”
“My mistress has a sharp tongue tonight.”
Her face flamed hotter, her fingers curled around the edge of her chair seat. “I’m not really your mistress. We both know that.”
Kalen’s eyebrows furrowed. He shot a curious glance around the elegant dining room fragrant with the centerpiece of white orchids and lilies. “Am I missing something, laeela? Are you not here, in my home? Are you not taken care of—every need and wish accommodated? Have I not offered you my complete protection?”
She went hot and cold, his word, the endearment laeela, once again burning her from the inside out. Laeela was such an intimate endearment from a Barakan man and Kalen wasn’t the sort of man to flirt lightly. He was serious.
Sheikh Nuri lazily watched Keira who sat tall and rigid across the table from him. Her long dark hair had been pinned back and her cheeks, so ashen last night, glowed hot-pink now.
A high-strung filly, he thought, she was young, sensitive, nervous.
He took a sip from his wine goblet, the robust red filling his mouth, warming his taste buds.
Keira merely fidgeted with her wine. She’d barely touched it.
He should touch her.
He studied her flushed face. Last night she’d been pale like porcelain, a creamy alabaster, but tonight she burned. She glowed. Her dark blue eyes shone, her cheeks flushed a hot feverish pink.
She needed a firm hand. She could use a calming hand.
How convenient. He had two.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” he said, speaking almost gently, reassuringly. “I will always treat you well.”
“I’m