Surrender To The Sheikh
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She fixed him with a reproving stare. ‘I’m used to men being courteous enough to collect their date, and not sending a servant to collect them!’
His eyes grew flinty. ‘Philip is no servant,’ he said coldly. ‘He is my emissary.’
‘Let’s not quibble about terminology!’ she returned. ‘Why didn’t you come yourself?’
Khalim sighed. What would her reaction be if he told her that he had never had to? That all his life he had only had to metaphorically click his fingers and whichever woman he’d wanted would come—if not running, then walking pretty quickly.
‘But I am here now,’ he said, in as humble an admission as he had ever made. Because he suspected that Rose Thomas was not playing games with him, and that if he pushed her too far then she would simply refuse to come. And he wanted her far too much to even countenance that.
He turned to where a tousled-headed brunette was gazing at him in wonder from the other side of the crimson-painted room, and gave her a slow smile.
‘Khalim,’ he said, with a slight nod of his head.
Rose was infuriated to see Lara virtually dissolve into a puddle on the carpet—but who could really blame her? It was something outside both their experiences, having a man of this calibre here, exuding vibrancy and sheer physical magnetism.
‘L-Lara Black,’ she stumbled. ‘And I’m very pleased to meet you…K-Khalim.’
Any minute now and her flatmate would start prostrating herself in front of him, thought Rose despairingly. She turned to find those impenetrable dark eyes now fixed on her.
‘Shall we go?’ he questioned quietly.
She knew that it would be impossible to backtrack, even if she had wanted to—and to her horror she discovered that there was no way she wanted to. She wanted one lunch with this magnificent man. One lunch to show him that she was his equal. That she wouldn’t crumble and capitulate in the face of all his undoubted charms.
One lunch, that was all.
‘Very well,’ she answered, in a quiet tone which matched his.
Khalim very nearly allowed a small smile of triumph to creep onto his lips, until he drew himself up short. There was no victory to be gained from that coolly dispassionate acceptance! he reminded himself. But instead of feeling irritation at her unwillingness to co-operate, he found that his senses were clamouring to life, making his blood sing out that heated, relentless rhythm once more.
‘Come, then, Rose,’ he said, and gestured for her to precede him.
In the hallway, however, he halted, and Rose’s mouth dried as she turned to see why. He was too close. The hall was too small. If she reached out her hand she could touch that proud, beautiful face. Could run her fingertips along his sculpted chin, and meet the faint rasp of shadowed growth there. She swallowed.
Khalim’s eyes gleamed. So. He had not been mistaken. It was for her just as it was for him. She wanted him. He noted the coiled-up tension of repressed desire in her rigid frame. He could read it in the dark helplessness of her eyes, and in the fulsome pout of her soft lips.
‘So,’ he said unsteadily. ‘Where would you like to go?’
‘Haven’t you booked anywhere?’ asked Rose in surprise. She had assumed that he would want the best table in one of the best restaurants—and Sunday was traditionally a very busy day for eating out.
‘No.’ He shook his head.
‘That will limit our choice somewhat.’
‘I don’t think so.’ He saw the frown which had creased the milky-white space of skin between two exceptionally fine eyebrows. ‘I never have to book,’ he explained, and for the first time in his life he realised that he sounded almost apologetic.
And then Rose began to get her first glimmer of the implications of dating this man. She tried to make light of it and smiled. ‘One of the perks of being a prince, I suppose?’
‘That’s right.’ He found himself smiling back, unable to resist that sunny and unsettling curve of her mouth. ‘Where would you like to go?’
Rose wasn’t a head-hunter for nothing. Her ‘people skills’ were what kept her going in a competitive industry. She guessed that luxury would be second nature to Khalim—so wouldn’t he be a little bored with luxury?
‘There’s a local Italian restaurant called Pronto! on Sutton Street,’ she said. ‘Simple food—but good. And you can usually get a table there!’
He was pleasantly surprised, expecting her to plump for somewhere much more up-market than her local restaurant. ‘Then let’s go and find it,’ he murmured.
On the way downstairs, Khalim was hypnotised by the proud set of her shoulders and the plaited hair of brightest gold which had captivated him from the moment he had first seen her.
Outside sat the most luxurious car Rose had ever seen—a great black gleaming monster of a car, with tinted windows and a liveried chauffeur who was standing beside it, and who immediately sprang to open the door.
‘Take us to Pronto!,’ said Khalim. ‘On Sutton Street.’ And the chauffeur inclined his head respectfully.
Rose climbed into the back seat, noting that Philip was seated at the front, next to the chauffeur. And next to him, a dark-suited and burly individual. A bodyguard? she wondered nervously. Probably.
The car cruised slowly through the traffic-snarled streets, until it drew up outside a restaurant whose exterior was adorned with a giant picture of the Italian flag.
‘Vibrant,’ observed Khalim softly as the chauffeur opened the door for them and they both climbed out onto the pavement.
‘Isn’t Philip joining us?’ asked Rose.
Khalim suppressed a feeling very close to frustration, but even closer to jealousy. Jealousy? So she wanted his cool and handsome emissary to join them, did she? Was she attracted to him, he wondered in disbelief, or did she simply want a chaperon?