Pleasure. Sandra Marton
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ask Jameel, he pointed out the stranger in a fit of ecstatic excitement. After gushing about how he couldn’t believe he was here, Jameel told her who he was. Numair Al Aswad.
And how fitting that name was. He was indeed as majestic and sleek and powerful as his namesake. He was actually known by the English version of his name: the Black Panther of Black Castle Enterprises.
Now that she knew his name, she knew far more about him than Jameel possibly could. Since she’d become deeply involved in the world of business, anywhere she’d turned there it had been, the global corporation he’d founded that was shaping the market in every major field that made the world go round.
As the senior partner, Numair was a leader among the gods of science, finance and technology responsible for Black Castle Enterprises’ staggering success, and one of the most individually rich and powerful men on the planet. And now she’d found out that he was also the sexiest thing to ever walk the earth.
But not much was known about his personal life. Only that he came from Damhoor, a kingdom in her region, but had immigrated to the United States in his childhood, and his parents were long dead. As far as she knew, he’d never been married.
Then at one point, as Jameel joined her in openly drooling over the man, Numair turned and looked straight at them.
At her.
His gaze slammed into her own with the force of a lightning bolt. Feeling as if it had fried her brain, nothing was left in her mind but alarm.
Had he felt her staring at him?
Before her stalled breathing could restart, people moved in front of her, severing the electrified visual contact.
Shaky with relief and disappointment at once, she murmured something to Jameel and hurried away, unable to risk being in Numair’s crosshairs again.
Secure that Hassan hadn’t bothered to look for her, she maneuvered around the few people who recognized her to rush back to her retreat. She wanted to continue watching Numair from its safety. The memory of savoring his magnificence would be what she’d remember from this wretched night.
As she reached her previous vantage point, another jolt hit her again. It was fiercer this time, making her stumble and drop her purse. Cursing when it opened on impact, spilling its contents, she crouched to retrieve them...and felt as if the place was plunged into darkness. The next second, she knew why. It was the massive figure towering over her, seeming to block out the whole world. She didn’t need to look up to see who it was. The current that now mercilessly arced through her told her who it was.
Numair.
As her chest filled to bursting with erratic heartbeats, he dropped to his haunches before her. Before she could raise her eyes to his, his hands, cool and calloused, brushed hers and zapped her with another thousand volts as he took the purse from her limp grasp and put everything back in it, his every move the essence of control and elegance.
As he handed it back to her, she mustered enough volition and looked up...and lost what remained of her compromised balance. Only the hand that shot out to support her stopped her from flopping back on her ass.
Finding herself inches from him was as heart-stopping, literally, as finding herself face-to-face with his predator namesake. All that lethal power coiled and simmering under the polished, perfect veneer of savage beauty.
She now realized she’d gotten it wrong before. He was no demigod. This was a full-fledged god, one who ruled over a whole pantheon of deities. A desert god in specific, forged from its heat and harshness, from its mystery and moodiness and magnificence. He might not have lived long in her region, but his heritage was carved in his every line.
And carved was an accurate word. Every inch of him seemed to have been hewn by some divine force. His all-black formal silk suit and shirt clung to a body she had no doubt was solid, chiseled muscle. The clothes offered not an inch of padding to the breadth of his shoulders and chest, no accentuation to the hardness of his abdomen and thighs or the sparseness of his waist and hips. This was the full potential of the species realized, a powerhouse of virility and manliness.
And that was before she took in the details of his face. From a luxurious mane of raven silk that would reach almost to his shoulders when freed, to stunning emerald eyes that seemed to radiate a hypnosis, to sensual lips and polished teak–colored skin spread taut against a bone structure to tear heartstrings over, he was breathtaking.
Then he was pulling her up to her feet as he uncoiled to his full height, and for the first time ever she felt dwarfed. She stood six feet in three-inch heels, and he still towered over her by what appeared to be half a foot.
Then he did something that once again made her heart hammer as if it was trying to ram out of her chest. He raised a hand and swept back the swath of hair that had cascaded over her face, ensnaring one strand, rubbing it between his fingers.
“You hate being here.”
No preliminaries. Just...bam. Of course he would follow no rules. It made it even worse that his voice was like darkest velvet gliding over her every nerve. Did he have to sound mouthwatering, too?
Without meaning to, she found herself responding, as if under the effect of a truth serum. “I do.”
He nodded, as if he’d already been certain, but approved her corroboration. “This—” he swept the whole scene in a disdainful flick “—is unworthy of your tolerance or your presence.”
She had to force the mouth that kept dropping open closed. “Sometimes we’re forced to put up with much, for the sake of what’s more important than our own preferences or what we think we’re worthy of.”
His lips and eyes hardened, clearly disapproving. “Nothing is more important than your preferences. And your worth is not a matter of opinion. Only the best is good enough for you. The only thing you must always expect and get.”
The heart that seemed to have taken permanent residence in her throat expanded at his praise. Even if it was empty hyperbole, it sounded fantastic coming from him.
“Uh, thanks...but you don’t really know anything about me. And it’s clear you have no idea who I am.”
That dismissing wave again. “The moment I laid eyes on you, I knew everything I need to know about you. As for your identity, that makes no difference to who you really are, what you truly deserve.”
“Oh, believe me, it does.”
“Because you’re Jenan Aal Ghamdi, and this is supposed to be your engagement party?”
He knew who she was. And it didn’t seem to make a difference to him.
His next words made that clear beyond a doubt. “It’s all quite irrelevant to me. And should be to you, too. You don’t want to be here. But you want to be with me.”
“I—I do?”
“Yes. As much as I want to be with you.” His words were dripping in arrogant certainty. From another man, it would have been offensive. She’d handed other men their asses over way less. From him, though, it was just right. He had a right to such supreme self-assurance.
His eyes flared in the dimness as they caressed her half-open lips before settling back on her no doubt shell-shocked eyes. “Let me take you away from this farce. I’m the only one who can give you everything you need.”
She gaped up at him. Was she so traumatized by the idea of marrying Hassan that she was having a wish-fulfillment hallucination? Creating this god of a man and making it so she’d had the same instant, inexorable effect on him that he’d had on her?
But nothing she could conjure could be as outlandishly incredible as him. No, he was real. He had really followed her here, and he really was offering...offering...
She didn’t know exactly what he was offering. But anything coming from him sounded better than any fantasy she’d ever had. And more impossible.
Her