Never Seduce a Sheikh(12)

Her fingers tightened on her purse as she fought the urge to correct the Miss. “If you were not already married, I might let you.”

More laughter.

One of the other ministers nodded his head at Isma’il. “Have you thought about this one for a sheikha, your Highness? A strong woman like this would be an asset.” He smiled. “And her company wouldn’t be a disadvantage either.”

Lily stiffened, as a weird shock went down her spine. Isma’il’s sheikha?

“I’m sure Ms. Harkness has far better things to do than be my sheikha, Jalil,” Isma’il said, nothing but cool amusement in his tone.

The man frowned. “Oil is not the only way to make Dahar strong, sire. We need—”

Isma’il said something in Arabic, something low and soft that cut the man off sharply. “Forgive me, my friends,” he went on in English. “But Ms. Harkness has many others she needs to meet this evening.”

Strong fingers curled around her upper arm. The touch so unexpected that all the air seemed to vanish from her lungs. For long seconds, she was conscious of nothing but his hand on her, so hot. Like a brand.

Beside her, Isma’il shifted and suddenly she felt overwhelmed by a dizzying rush of sensation. The warmth of his body. The seductive scent of him. The heated touch of his fingers . . .

Dan’s voice whispering in her ear. “C’mon, let’s celebrate, Lil. I got you that medal, remember. Don’t I deserve a little something?” Then the sour taste of champagne as his mouth crushed hers, knocking her teeth against her lip. The champagne taste turning metallic as blood filled her mouth. His hand reaching for her breast.

Lily jerked her arm out of Isma’il’s hold, taking a couple of stumbling steps away from him before she could stop herself. Her skin crawled, the taste of blood lingering in her mouth.

A little pool of silence surrounded her and she realized that the circle of men were staring at her in some surprise. Then, they all looked at their sheikh.

The tension drew almost unbearably tight.

Isma’il’s expression was opaque, but she knew her lapse had angered him. She didn’t know why, but could sense it burning in the depths of his turquoise eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said into the tense silence, her voice hoarse. “I’m a little tired. Must be jetlag.”

“Why don’t you go and sit down, Ms. Harkness.” Isma’il’s voice was smooth. “Recover yourself. I’ll join you in a moment.” An order delivered with a dangerous edge.

Too shaken to argue, she turned towards one of the couches covered in richly colored silk that stood in the ballroom’s many alcoves. Her legs felt shaky, her heart beating fast. As she walked, she cursed. Cursed herself. Cursed her memory. And most especially, her weakness. Her female weakness.

* * *

Isma’il did not look in Lily’s direction, but he could feel the weight of history pressing down on him. Could see it in the gazes of his ministers, in the fear and wariness in their eyes. The weight of his father’s reign, the legacy of the violence that had always lingered in his court.

Lily had pulled away so sharply they would think her afraid of him. The way everyone had been afraid of Khalid. It showed just how deep the legacy of his father’s cruelty went that their first reaction was one of fear.

But anything he said about now it would sound defensive, which would be a mistake. He still didn’t even know what he’d done to prompt such a reaction. A hand on her arm, that was it.

The warmth of her skin lingered on his fingertips. It made a nice change from the slick feeling of blood that had seemed to seep into them of late.

He spoke with his ministers a few minutes longer, presenting the charm, allaying their unvoiced fears with his calm manner.

Then, he turned to where Ms. Lily Harkness sat on the couch in one of the alcoves.

She could not react to him like that again. He didn’t want people to look at him the way they’d looked at Khalid. With fear in their eyes. He wanted to be different. He was different.

Her head lifted as he approached and their eyes met, tension pulling tight between them.

“What happened?” he asked bluntly.

“It’s nothing.” She glanced down to the little gold purse that sat in her lap, fussing with the contents. “Like I said. Jetlag.”

Isma’il had to quell the urge to reach down, take her chin in his hand and force her head back so he could see the look on her face. See what was going on in her eyes.

“Ms. Harkness—”

“Shall we continue?”

A dull anger began to throb inside him. He wanted to know why she’d pulled away. Why her face had gone so pale. Was it his touch? Or had it been something else? And why did she insist it was jetlag? Because whatever it was, it had nothing whatsoever to do with jetlag.