Page 45 of Warming the Sheikh's Bed & Love in the Fast Lane

“What do you want then?”

The question lurched between them, big and scary and confusing. She glared at him, no idea how to answer. No idea what the answer even was.

“What do you want?” She chickened out and turned it back on him.

“I want you to stay here with me while I am in this hotel. I want you where I can be sure you are safe. I want you in my bed, where I can reach for you at any time. I want you in my shower in the mornings. I am not an idiot, Cassie. Even for you I would not ruin the carefully laid marriage plans before me. This cannot be more than what it is. So let it be everything it can be for this short while.”

She let out a deep groan of annoyance. “Stop making stupid romantic speeches like that! You’re trying to turn this into some big deal. And it’s not.” She purposefully crossed to him and knelt before him. Her hands reached for the button on his pants but he wrapped his fingers around her wrist.

“Stop,” he cautioned, her intention obvious.

“Why? This is great. This is fun. This is what we both want.”

He stared down at her, his anger and annoyance cul-de-sacs of emotion: neither went anywhere. He spun away from her and stalked out of the wardrobe, leaving her crushed, kneeling on the ground.

She stayed there for a long time, staring unseeing at the white wall opposite. On the ground around her she imagined her pride, scattered and torn.

What was he doing to her?

One minute, he was commanding and sexy, a ruler born to control. The next he was sweet and courteous, considerate and thoughtful. She compressed her lips and finally pushed up to standing. She padded quietly across the room, and at the entrance, she shut the door. It had a lock; she clicked it into place, then moved to the ensuite.

What he wanted wasn’t so unreasonable. He had a week and a half left in London at the most. His hotel room was in a great location; it was even easier for her to get to her office from his place than it was from hers. Melinda wouldn’t like it, but she’d get over it. Cassie ran the water, and splashed it in her face. She lathered her hands with some of the lavender soap he used and then washed her make up off. She rinsed her face again, then padded her eyes dry with a towel.

She knew why she was in such a foul mood.

She hated the idea of him marrying another woman. She loathed the very thought that he was about to commit his life to a woman he didn’t love. That he was going to marry, and make love, and create life, with one of these three candidates.

And it was none of her business!

She certainly didn’t want to marry him. Nor to have his children. She was not suitable to be princess of a shoe, let alone a country. They both knew that. So what?

Was it just the fact that their relationship had an end date from the beginning that was upsetting to her? If they were seeing one another with a possibility of a future, would she have been happier?

She groaned into the empty bathroom and stamped her foot.

She couldn’t have said.

All she knew was that she’d picked the wrong fight. Again.

She walked out of the bedroom in a completely different mindset. He was standing in the lounge, hands planted on his hips, feet wide apart. And he was brooding. She moved to stand in front of him. Their height difference meant she had to crane to look up at him.

“I’m sorry.” The simplest way to express her feelings, she hoped he understood.

His black eyes dropped to her. “I don’t know what you want me to say to you.”

“I know.” She bit down on her lip. “I don’t either.”

He lifted his palm to her face and she pressed her cheek into it. “I like having you here. More than I thought I would. I do not mean to be forceful. I simply want you to stay as much as possible.”

“I know.” Her smile was bittersweet. “I told you I’d think about it.”

He nodded, allowing her to close the conversation. For the moment.

“I’m going to cook you dinner. Come and keep me company?”

He nodded, his mind not completely focussed on Cassie.

“How did your next interview go?”

---