Page 22 of The Innocent Carrying His Legacy

Nazir found himself staring, transfixed for some inexplicable reason. That little bump was his child.His...

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, frowning slightly. Candlelight flickered over her hair, which was thick with a slight curl and was the deep, rich brown of chestnuts. ‘As to what I’m doing, I’m dusting the skirting. It often gets missed and the dust situation near these shelves was atrocious.’

‘Dusting the skirting?’ he repeated blankly, the words not making any sense to him, not when that raw, possessive feeling was surging back inside him, threatening the cold emptiness that had become part of him.

‘This is a lovely room.’ Ivy looked around approvingly. ‘But there are a few things that could do with a polish. The tiles nearer the floor need to be cleaned and a few of the rugs could do with a beating.’

Nazir blinked, trying to find his usual authority, but it seemed to have vanished. He found himself wanting very much to go over to where she stood, take away her ridiculous dustpan and brush, and run his hands possessively over her rounded stomach and other parts of her, tracing her lovely shape, testing to see whether that delicate pale skin was as silky and soft as it looked. Then perhaps he would taste it, because he was sure it would taste sweet and even though he didn’t much like sweet things, he was sure he’d like the taste of her.

And suddenly he was moving, his body responding to the order even as his mind tried to stop him, striding over to where she stood staring at him wide-eyed. And he’d taken first the brush then the dustpan from her hands before she’d had a chance to avoid him.

‘What are you doing?’ Her voice sounded shocked.

‘This,’ he said and, dropping the cleaning implements with a clatter, he reached for her.

The Sheikh’s large, warm hands settled on Ivy’s hips and before she could move she found herself being drawn relentlessly to him. Shock echoed throughout her entire body.

Now he was out of that black robe, in a close-fitting black T-shirt and black combat trousers, the true power of him was fully revealed and he’d stolen her breath the second she’d turned from her dusting to find him standing behind her.

He was so tall and built like a warrior, all rock-hard muscle and masculine power. The black cotton of his T-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders and chest, making it clear just how physically strong he was, and providing a perfect contrast to the deep bronze of his skin.

He was an intensely dangerous man and she knew it. Felt it deep in her bones. Yet it wasn’t a physical danger, she knew that too. No, this man wouldn’t hurt her. The danger came from something else. Something she didn’t recognise.

Her heartbeat was loud in her head, her mouth dry. His hands on her hips were very warm and he held her quite firmly, the icy blue-green of his eyes glittering as he drew her towards him. There was something...raw in the way he looked at her, something possessive that made her heart beat even faster. And not with fear. She’d never had anyone look at her the way he was looking at her right now. No one ever. As if she belonged to him. As if she were his.

‘Mr Al Rasul,’ she said thickly, but whether it was a protest or an encouragement she wasn’t sure.

He took no notice, his gaze dropping to her stomach. Keeping one hand on her hip to hold her in place, he placed the other palm down on her bump and stroked over the curve of it in an outrageously possessive movement.

Ivy froze. His touch was incredibly gentle and yet the stroke of his hand sent shock waves through her, the heat of his skin burning through the thin material of her T-shirt and into her. She couldn’t move. Could hardly breathe.

The last time she had been touched like this had been the light, insubstantial hug that Connie had given her before she’d died. In fact, Connie was the only person who had ever touched her with affection. No one else ever had. No one at the home, no one at school. No one now she was an adult.

The sensation was shocking, setting off a disturbing ache inside her. A hunger that had nothing to do with food.

Her mouth had gone utterly dry. What was she doing just standing there? Letting him touch her as if he had every right to? Because he didn’t. He had no right at all. She was a stranger to him and...and...

‘Stop,’ she said huskily, disturbed to find she was trembling all over.

His gaze caught hers and held it, and in the clear, icy depths of it something hot began to burn. He spread his fingers out possessively on her stomach. ‘This is mine.’ The deep, harsh timbre of his voice had somehow become even deeper, a raw thread running through it. ‘And so are you.’

She stiffened, even as something inside her jolted, a short, sharp electric shock. ‘What are you talking about? I’m not yours.’

‘Yes, you are.’ The light in his eyes glowed hotter, like a glimpse of lava beneath a cold crust of rock. ‘You came to me with my child. And that makes you mine.’

Another electric shock zigzagged though her like lightning, a bolt of white heat that felt as if it were shattering her into pieces. It didn’t make any sense. She barely knew this man and he certainly didn’t know her. Not enough to put a hand on her stomach and tell her that she was his. No one else had ever wanted her, not one single person. She’d been the only child in the home who’d remained unadopted. She’d never had a family. Never had parents who’d loved her and cared for her. Never had siblings to argue with and share with. She’d grown up unwanted, yet she’d made what family she could at the home. Connie, who like her had grown up in the home, though she’d eventually been adopted, had been like a sister to her. Ivy hadn’t missed out entirely.

So there was no reason for her to ache like this. To feel so hungry. To want more than just his hand resting there...

Dangerous to want that.

Ivy jerked herself from his grip and took a couple of steps back, putting some space between them. He let her go, making no move towards her, but that possessive light in his eyes didn’t fade.

‘It seems we have much to discuss.’ There was an edge of a growl in his voice. ‘Come and eat.’

She didn’t want to. That ache, that hunger, was making her wary. It was putting her into a danger that she couldn’t see and that wasn’t obvious, but that she could feel very strongly. A danger she couldn’t put into words. It was similar to the feeling she’d always got as a child whenever she’d had a meeting with potential adoptive parents. When she’d sit there with them, hoping and hoping, desperation radiating from every pore. It was that desperation that put them off, she knew. It repelled people. No one liked a desperate, needy kid. It had been a hard and bitter lesson, but she’d learned it. She’d forced that neediness down, chased it away, and these days she made sure that the last thing she ever did was to need something or someone. She’d found her purpose in helping foster kids instead, in giving them the home she’d never had herself.

But you never quite got rid of the desperation, did you?

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