Page 2 of Desert King's Forbidden Temptation

It was not said in the way ‘please’ usually was. This was no plea, no query of hopefulness. There was no expectation of a refusal. Suddenly, she was conscious of everything: the swish of her long, linen skirt as she moved around the table; the knocking of her knees; the shimmer of light streaming through the window and bouncing off the mahogany tabletop; the size of the room and the echo of his voice; the time it took—seconds that felt like years—to reach the chair opposite him; the feeling of the timber beneath her fingertips, cool and smooth, worn and ancient; his eyes on her with the same unashamed curiosity she’d exhibited all morning. She drew back the chair and sat into it. As a child, Eloise had studied dance. In fact, she’d lived for it, and though her great aunt hadn’t approved of the lessons, the innate sense of grace and musicality hadn’t left Eloise; it was evident even in the small motion of sitting down.

Only once seated did she drag her eyes to his, and the moment they connected, her bloodstream seemed to come to life for the very first time. She couldfeelit in her veins, rushing like a river, gushing through her, her arteries paper thin, almost unable to cope with the frantic deluge.

He was the Sheikh; this was his palace, his meeting, his request that she stay, and so Eloise sat perfectly still and silent even when her unending curiosity, combined with suddenly jangling nerves, had her wanting to blurt out the question: What do you want?

But she stayed as she was, hands clasped in her lap to disguise the telltale trembling, knees pressed hard together, body strangely energised and tingling all over.

‘You were not introduced.’

Her lips pulled to the side in a wry acknowledgement of the fact. ‘No, Your Highness, I wasn’t.’ What more could she say? That the Ras Sarat advisors didn’t see the purpose for her being on this trip? That they’d fought her tooth and nail over every issue since her official appointment as one of Elana’s advisors? If only they knew how vital her assessment would be in shaping this marriage. If Eloise reported back to Elana anything negative, then there would be no marriage, no union, and none of these negotiations would matter at all.

‘Let’s rectify that now.’ Again, it was an order, rather than a suggestion, and this was no mere formality. There was a sharpness to his words, and she understood something else important about the man: he liked to be in possession of all the facts. He was wary and private. Negotiating this marriage was unpalatable to him, for some reason, but if he had to do it, it would be in front of trusted advisors only, not random women from foreign countries. ‘Your name?’

‘Eloise, Your Highness.’ His eyes widened and then darkened, and her blood heated at the speculation she saw in his gaze. Her heartbeat kicked up a gear.

‘Eloise?’ he prompted, his voice rough and incredibly appealing. It was a shame that Elana had sworn she’d never like, much less love, her future husband. Eloise understood how badly heartbroken her friend was, but Sheikh Tariq would be quite easy to fancy.

Easy to fancy?

Easy to fantasise about, more like.

‘Ashworth,’ she added.

‘English?’

She nodded.

‘And yet you work for the royal family of Ras Sarat?’

‘Yes, Your Highness.’ ‘Royal family’ though, was a misnomer. There was only Elana and an old uncle related by marriage, who had ostensibly served as a regent for Elana in the years between her father’s death and Elana’s coming of age.

Again, his eyes flexed in that fascinating way, and something low in her abdomen stirred. She shifted a little in her seat, then wished she hadn’t, because awareness was flooding her veins, and heating her most feminine parts, so she had to dig her fingernails into her palms to get a grip on the situation.

‘For how long?’

She tilted her head to the side, torn between her duty as a representative of Ras Sarat and her confidence as a woman of the twenty-first century. The former won out—just. ‘Three years.’

He frowned. ‘You don’t look old enough.’

Her smile was laced with a hint of amusement. ‘I’m twenty-five, Your Highness.’

He rubbed a hand over his chin. ‘The same age as the Princess.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know her well?’

‘Yes.’

He leaned forward a little, eyes scanning her face. ‘You’re friends?’

Surprise at his perceptiveness held her silent a moment, but after a beat, she said, ‘Yes.’

‘Close friends?’

‘You could say that.’

He lifted a brow and she had to remind herself that he was a powerful ruler of this wealthy country. For some reason, she found it easy to speak with him as an equal, but he wasn’t, and their difference in rank needed to be observed.

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