Page 22 of Sheikh's Virgin Love-Slave

Chapter Nine

His breath caught in his throat.

Ravi had always found that to be a stupid, impossible expression. After all, there was no way just the sight of someone else could force the air from one’s lungs. Except that now, he realized he was wrong as he watched Bridget saunter into the gala with Kamala trailing behind her. The old servant had done well, and he was going to triple her pay for her skill in picking out Bridget’s outfit for the night. The sleek black silk sheath hugged her body in all the right places, but the best part was the full slit up the right side of her body that ended at her hip. It helped to highlight both the diamond-adorned broach gathering the fabric together on that side but, more than that, it helped to tease those sensual glimpses of her creamy, white thighs.

He was glad he chose the robes of his people for the traditional gala. It was easier to hide the erection he was cultivating, and he could feel as the blood rushed rapidly from his brain to his groin. He want her, badly, but that was nothing new. Since he met Bridget, she was like a fever working her way through his system; so contagious that he couldn’t escape her influence—and he didn’t want to.

She came to stand before him and looked nervously over her shoulder. “Is this okay?”

He took her in one more time from the pearl necklace around her throat, to the long, lean legs of hers to the way her hair was piled up in golden curls atop of her head and kept there by jeweled combs. How could she even ask him that? She was more than ‘okay;’ Bridget was a vision, and the stirring in his loins agreed.

He leaned forward and kissed both of her cheeks, mindful of the appropriate image for the crowd of dignitaries around them. Some of his colleagues and fellow Arabian leaders were more adherent, and there were strict rules about displays of affection, even if he was breaking one already by having an American in her own, preferred dress before them.

“You’re amazing, my swan,” he said, holding out his hand. “Do you want to have this dance?”

She grinned and took his offered palm. “I do.”

He swept her up into his embrace and they both swayed in time to the delicate music throughout the Burj’s main ballroom. He settled on a mix of acts for the venue, both Eastern and Western. Currently, the DJ was playing a collection of golden hits from the 1940s in America. Old Blue Eyes himself, Frank Sinatra, crooned over the sound system as they swirled around the dance floor.

They stayed like that, moving through floor as if they were the only two people in the room, as Sinatra transitioned Billie Holiday. He could have spent forever like this, hearing her light breath, smelling that seductive aroma of freesias and strawberries, and reveling in her warmth pressed up against him. Yet, Ravi had something he wanted her to see. Reluctantly, he pulled his head back to look at her.

“My swan, I have something else I’d love to show you.”

“I don’t need anything else, Ravi. Just you,” she said, the force of her tone surprising him.

He placed two fingers under her chin and forced her to look at him, for her emerald eyes to catch his own. “You don’t have to be so adamant about gifts, my princess. I know you’re not trying to get me to buy favors for you. I would never do that anyway, and you know it.”

“But I feel greedy. I’m serious. It’s enough just to be with you.”

He nodded as he led her to his favorite corner of the ballroom, to where the heart of the new art exhibit was being shown off for the night before rejoining its proper place. The security around it was tight—six armed men—and after the scare Ravi had with it, that might still have been not enough.

She gaped at the painting. “I’ve seen this. I had to take art history in college for some liberal arts credits. Is this a van Gogh?”

He nodded. “It’s Starry Night. It recently came up for sale.”

He didn’t mention that when he came up with the idea for this art exhibition, that he contacted the curating body for the painting and offered a sum so large they couldn’t refuse. It was necessary. While his personal collection had so many French impressionist masterpieces, there was no exhibit without this linchpin. Ravi knew, however, that Bridget felt skittish around his money and influence. The less he said, the better.

“It was my mother’s favorite. When she grew sick, we flew her to New York to see it as often as possible. It raised her spirits. Then, I bought a penthouse for her in Manhattan. The last few months, I spent the days with her and we’d get sun in Central Park and go to see this painting together. She never grew tired of it, and neither did I.”

Bridget hugged him tightly and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

“You’re a van Gogh fan as well?” he said, trying to keep his tone light, even though he felt as if he were standing before her stark naked. In point of fact, Ravi would have preferred that over putting one of the most painful periods of his life on display before her. “I didn’t know that, my swan.”

“He’s good. I like his sunflowers, but you know what I mean. You didn’t have to tell me this, to be that open. It means so much to me that you’ll tell me things that no one else has heard from you.”

Ravi nodded and pulled her close to him, kissing her temple. “Your father must have been incredibly desperate. This is what he tried to steal from me. I just needed you to understand why it was so special to me, why…”

She turned to him, her green eyes brimming with earnestness. “There had to be a price.”

“Yes. Even though I regret how we met,” he started, threading his fingers through hers, “I’m glad we did. I meant what I said. I’ve never felt this way about anyone, and I’m so honored to have you as my date tonight, to be able to show all of the Emirates the woman who has captured my heart.”

“Ravi!” she said, her eyes shiny.

He kissed her lips. “I mean it. In fact—” He groaned when his phone buzzed. “I apologize. I think this is a business contact, and I need to talk about some sensitive oil sales to Japan or else I’d have it off. Damn these time zones,” he broke away from her, watching as she rushed across the hall and rejoined Kamala.

Then his stomach churned. He recognized the number—Sabella.

Practically growling, he pressed his phone on. “What do you want? You were explicitly not invited.”

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