The Sultan's Virgin Bride. Sarah Morgan
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Tyndall and she owed it to her mother’s memory not to let that happen. She needed to go home, where she could be herself, without witnesses.
She heard laughter from the ballroom and then footsteps, a purposeful masculine tread, and she stiffened her shoulders, trying to make clear from her body language that she sought neither company nor conversation.
‘It’s unlike you to miss a party, Farrah.’
His voice came from behind her, deep, silky and unmistakably male, and everything in her tensed in response.
Once she’d loved his voice. She’d found his smooth, mellifluous tones both exotic and seductive.
She’d found everything about him exotic and seductive.
They called him the Desert Prince and the name had stuck, despite the fact that he’d been the ruler of Tazkash for the past four years and was now Sultan. And, Prince or Sultan, Tariq bin Omar al-Sharma was a brilliant businessman. Fearless and aggressive, as Crown Prince he’d transformed the fortunes of a small, insignificant state and turned Tazkash into a major player in the world markets. As Sultan he’d earned the respect of politicians and business institutions.
He spoke and people listened.
Now the sound of his voice transported her to the very edge of a panic attack.
Part of her wanted to ignore him, wanted to deny him the satisfaction of knowing that she even remembered him, and part of her wanted to turn and hurt him. Hurt him as much as he had hurt her with his cruel rejection.
Fortunately she’d been taught that it was best never to reveal one’s true feelings and her tutor in that lesson had been Tariq himself. He was a man who revealed nothing. She was ruled by her emotions and he was ruled by his mind.
She’d shown. He’d mocked. She’d learned.
Remembering the harsh lesson, she turned slowly, determined to behave as if his presence meant nothing more than an unwarranted disturbance. They were as different as it was possible for two people to be. And he’d made it painfully clear that she didn’t belong in his world.
‘Your Highness.’ Her voice was stiff and ferociously polite and she was careful not to look directly at him. To look into those eyes was to risk falling and she had no intention of falling. A glance behind him told her that they were alone on the terrace although she saw a bulky shadow in the doorway, which she took to be that of a bodyguard. They were never far from him, a constant reminder of his wealth and importance. ‘I find it warm in the ballroom.’
‘And yet you are shivering.’ With an economy of movement that was so much a part of the man, he stepped closer and panic shot through her.
Her throat dried and her fingers tightened around her jewelled evening bag, although why, she had no idea. The richest, most eligible man in the world was hardly likely to be planning to steal her possessions. And anyway, she thought dully, he’d already stolen the only part of herself she’d ever valued. Her heart.
Determined to send him on his way, she glanced up and immediately regretted the impulse.
His shockingly handsome face was both familiar and alien. When she’d known him, at the beginning at least, she’d always seen humour and warmth behind the cool exterior that he chose to present to the world. It hadn’t taken her long to realise that she’d seen what she wanted to see. Looking at him now, she saw nothing that wasn’t tough and hard.
‘Let’s not play games, Your Excellency.’ She was proud of herself for keeping her voice steady. For behaving with restraint. ‘We find ourselves at the same event and that is an unhappy coincidence for both of us, but that certainly doesn’t mean we have to spend time together. We have no need to pretend a friendship that we both know does not exist.’
He looked spectacular in a formal dinner jacket, she thought absently. As spectacular as he did dressed in more traditional robes. And she knew him to be equally comfortable in either. Tariq moved between cultures with the ease and confidence that others less skilled and adaptable could only envy.
He was totally out of her league and the fact that she’d once believed that they could have a future together was a humiliating reminder of just how naïve and foolish she’d been.
An expensive dress and a slick hairstyle didn’t make her wife material as he’d once cruelly pointed out.
Tariq had never met her mother, which was a shame, she thought miserably, because they would have had plenty in common, most notably the belief that she didn’t fit into the glittering society they both frequented.
It didn’t matter, she told herself firmly as she felt a sudden rush of insecurity. She had her own life now and it was a life that she loved. A life that suited her. She’d learned to do the glossy stuff because it was expected of her, but that was only a small part of her existence.
And it wasn’t the part she cared about. Wasn’t the part that she considered important.
But that was something she had no intention of sharing with Tariq. Her brief relationship with him had taught her that being open and honest just led to pain and anguish. And she’d learned to protect herself.
Music poured through the open doors, indicating that the dancing had begun. Farrah knew that in half an hour the fashion show would be starting. The fashion show in which she’d been persuaded to take part. But how could she? How could she walk down that catwalk, knowing that he was in the audience?
She’d call Henry, the family chauffeur. Ask him to come and get her.
The best way to protect herself right now was to leave.
Having planned her escape, she made to step past him but he caught her arm, long strong fingers closing over her bare flesh in a silent command.
‘This conversation is not finished. I have not given you permission to leave.’
She almost laughed. For Tariq, the use of power was second nature. He’d been born to command and did so readily. At the tender age of eighteen she’d been dazzled by that power. Hypnotized by his particular brand of potent sexuality. Mesmerized by the man.
Even now, with his hard masculine body blocking her escape, she felt the hot, hot sizzle of excitement flare inside her. And ignored it.
‘I don’t need your permission, Tariq.’ Her eyes flashed a challenge and anger rose inside her. Anger at herself for responding to a man who had hurt her. ‘I live my life the way I choose to live it and fortunately it no longer includes you. This was a chance meeting which we’d both do well to forget.’
And she was going to forget it, she vowed dizzily, as she struggled to control the throb of her heart and the slow, delicious curl of awareness in her stomach.
These feelings weren’t real. They weren’t what mattered.
‘Do you really think that our meeting tonight has anything to do with chance?’ He was standing so close to her that she could feel the heat of his body burning through the shimmering fabric of her gold dress and, even as she fought against it, she felt her limbs weaken in an instinctive feminine response to his blatant masculinity. Even though she was wearing impossibly high heels, his height and the width of his shoulders ensured that he dominated her physically. Being this close was both torment and temptation and she felt a helpless rush of wild excitement that she was powerless to quash. And she knew, from the sudden harshness of his breathing, that he was feeling it too.
It had always been that way between them.
From that first day at the beach.
From their first kiss at the Caves of Zatua, deep in the desert.
It was the reason why she’d made such a total fool of herself. She’d been blinded by a physical attraction so powerful and shattering that it transcended common sense and cultural differences.
For a moment she stood, frozen into stillness by the strength of his presence. There was something intensely sexual about him. Something raw and