The Sheikh's Virgin. Jane Porter
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knew just as he did that the tension between them wasn’t the usual garden variety of interest. What simmered between them was deep, intense, a heat and interest dating back years…back to when she was just a schoolgirl.
“And you don’t have to worry about me,” she added, her voice strained, rough. She reached up to push away an inky tendril that had slipped free. “I’m fine.”
“Hamdullah,” he answered. Thanks be to God.
Tears scratched at Keira’s throat, the back of her eyes. Until yesterday she hadn’t thought she’d ever see him again and yet here she was, a day later, in his home, in his care. It was incredible, impossible, unfathomable. Just looking at him made everything collide and explode inside her, emotions hot and sharp like New Year’s fireworks.
Hamdullah. The word echoed in her head and she hurt. No one else made her feel so tense, so nervous, so desperate for more. No one else made her want to throw herself into a river of ice water. No one else…
Hamdullah.
“And you?” she asked formally, continuing the ritual greetings. “How are you?”
“Very well, Miss al-Issidri. Thank you.”
“But it’s Gordon, Sheikh Nuri, not al-Issidri. I’ve never used my father’s name.”
“You did until you were seven.”
“How did you know that?”
“I know things that would surprise even you.”
She regarded him warily. His eyes were gold, so gold, warmer than she remembered. There was so much about him familiar and even more that wasn’t. Was it age? Time? Experience?
Again she glanced at him, a surreptitious glance beneath heavy lashes, seeing again the broad forehead, his long, strong nose, the very square chin which had fascinated her endlessly as a teenager.
Was it possible she’d fallen in love with an image—a face—and not the man?
“Breathe,” he said, his gaze never leaving her face.
“I am.” But her voice came out too high and thin and she couldn’t look at him anymore.
He leaned across the table, an arm extending toward her, his right hand up, palm open. “Give me your hand.”
She looked at his hand, the broad palm, the skin lighter than the back of his hand, deep lines etched into the skin and she flashed back to last night, the way he’d touched her on her front porch. Kalen’s touch had been like an electrical storm. So hot and bright and fierce. He’d made her feel. And she’d felt absolutely everything.
“Your hand,” he repeated softly, commandingly.
She gave her head a half-shake. “Never.”
Her gaze slowly traveled up, from the crisp white collar of his shirt, over his bronze columned throat, past his full firm lips to his eyes which looked at her with mockery, challenge, even disdain. Pointedly she held his gaze. “You’re not safe.”
For a split second he remained expressionless and then his lips curved. His eyes creased. “That just might be the most intelligent thing I’ve heard you say.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“SO WHAT did you think of my gifts?” Kalen asked, lazily switching topics as he leaned forward to top off their wine goblets.
He moved so easily, gracefully, all fluid motion and for a moment she lost concentration, thinking he’d be equally at home on a pony playing polo, astride a camel, pouring mint tea in his desert kasbah.
“Did you like the jewelry?” He added, “I’d hoped you might wear one of the diamond bangles tonight.”
Diamond bangles. Weren’t the two words incongruous? “I actually didn’t open any of the shopping bags.”
“No?”
“I don’t need, or wear, expensive jewelry.”
His lashes dropped over his eyes. “You like cheap jewelry?”
“If I want jewelry, I buy my own.”
“You’re rejecting my gifts?”
She heard his tone harden, his voice suddenly reminding her of crushed velvet over steel. “I am not a woman that accepts gifts from strangers—”
“Be careful, laeela, before you insult me.”
His tone had dropped even lower, husky like whiskey, and she felt a light finger trail her spine, sweeping nerves awake. “I’ve no desire to insult you, Sheikh Nuri—”
“Kalen. It’s Kalen. After all, you want something, remember?”
Heat surged to her cheeks and she sat tall, hands clasped tightly in her lap. “The sooner I return to Texas, the better.”
“Return?”
His soft inflection conveyed more than words could. She could see them, two warring parties, and she’d just put his back in the corner. “We’ve made a point. Shown my father that he can’t control me—”
“Your father remains a threat.”
“To whom? You? Or me? Because I think you’re not worried about me.”
“Sidi Abizhaid would never tolerate this kind of frank talk, laeela. You would never be permitted to be so confrontational. You would never be permitted to speak publicly, either.”
A lump swelled in her throat, large, restrictive. “What do you want from me, Kalen? Tell me so I understand.”
“You know what I want. I want you here, with me.”
“No. There’s more to it than that. This has to do with my father, not me, and I need to understand what he has done. Tell me how a man who has spent his life serving the Nuri family can be considered a threat.”
“It’s not a topic for discussion.”
“Why not? Because I’m a woman?”
Kalen didn’t contradict her. Instead he gazed at her from across the gleaming walnut table set with the finest of china and crystal, white taper candles flickering in tall silver candelabras. A profusion of white orchids and lilies spilled from a low round centerpiece.
His silence was a torture and she leaned forward, trying to make him understand. “This is my father, my family, you call a threat. I have every right to know.”
“You should spend more time eating and less time arguing.”
She shook her head, livid. “You are as bad as them, Kalen. No, make that worse. You don’t live in Baraka, you live in England, and you do not dress in robes and head cloths but in Italian suits, but beneath the suit and fine shirts you are just as restrictive, just as rigid and condescending.”
He said nothing, his expression blank and she drew a quick, short breath. “I want to go home, Kalen.” She hated feeling so vulnerable, had worked hard to protect herself from feeling this way. Vulnerable was the one thing she couldn’t be. Years ago she’d sworn she’d never let anyone hurt her again.
And still he studied her, coolly, dispassionately. He wasn’t moved, she thought. He felt nothing. And daggers of pain cut into her heart. “Kalen, hear me. I need to go home. I need my life back.” She’d worked so hard to protect herself from this lost feeling, the sense of confusion that came from being torn between parents, homes, cultures, identities. “My life was good for me.”
He shifted in his chair, leaning forward, arms folding on the table edge. “Your new life here will be good, too.”
“No.”
“It is a change, yes, but it will also be good.”
“But this isn’t my life! This is yours—”