“You pretend my touch does not affect you.”
“It’s not pretense. It doesn’t affect me.”
“If it didn’t affect you, then why did you shrug my hand off your shoulder just now?”
Color burned in a stripe across her cheekbones and yet her expression remained utterly neutral. “Did I? I didn’t even notice your hand.”
Oh, no. He wasn’t having that.
Isma’il stepped forward, getting right up close to her. Close enough to see the subtle gold flecks in the darkness of her eyes. Feel the heat from her body in its beautiful golden dress. Smell the fresh, cut-grass scent of her perfume.
She didn’t back away. Didn’t hesitate to meet his gaze. Strong and determined to deny him.
The dark hunger began to rise, the need to test her strength and match it. Push it as far as it would go. He had to fight the urge to crowd her against the wall. Overwhelm her. Force the truth from her.
“You are afraid of me,” he said, unable to keep the harsh edge from his voice.
A flash of hot temper glowed in her eyes as if the accusation had insulted her. “Afraid of you? Why the hell would I be afraid of you?”
“My father’s reputation was well known and thoroughly deserved. You would not be the first person to assume I am cut from the same cloth.”
“You give yourself far too much importance, Sheikh. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind.”
But she was lying, he knew it. Sensed it.
Isma’il stepped even closer, watching her as she took an unconscious step back, coming up against the wall. “If you are not afraid, then why did you back away from me just now?”
Her cheeks colored. Then, unexpectedly, she pushed herself away from the wall so they stood toe to toe, the warm length of her perfect body nearly against his. “I. Am not. Afraid. Of you,” she said, enunciating each word slowly and clearly.
He knew then that fear wasn’t something she would ever acknowledge. For some reason, she was hell bent on denying it, too determined and too strong to give in. Too bad. Because he had to know. He had to have the truth from her.
Isma’il looked down into her eyes. “Then perhaps you will be afraid of this.” Lifting a finger, he touched her mouth, running his fingertip along her lower lip, tracing the gentle curve. It felt so soft. He wanted to push down on it, open her mouth up to him so he could kiss her. Taste her.
Lily took a ragged breath, the sound sharp. Her eyes had gone black in the light of the hallway, her expression like a mask. Then, her cool self-possession cracked, a glimpse of heat like a solar flare lighting her face. A glimpse of the passion burning beneath the surface of the poised CEO.
He nearly bent his head then. Nearly took her mouth, the darkness inside him roaring for it. Wanting more than a touch. More than a kiss. Wanting her naked, on her knees in front of him.
Behind him someone laughed, the murmurs of conversation near the hallway where he and Lily stood. The sound made him aware of where he was. Of what he was doing.
Shock slid icy fingers along his skin. How had a simple question become a sensual test of wills? He was supposed to be making a decision about Harkness Oil’s suitability for the oil rights, not touching its beautiful CEO in a public hallway.
This woman pushed him. Called the animal too close to the surface. Called to the darkness that tainted him. A darkness he’d let loose once. It could never happen again.
Isma’il dropped his hand, stepped away. This was an easy decision to make after all.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Harkness,” he said. “I’m afraid that your company is no longer in the running for Dahar’s oil rights.”
* * *
Lily’s mouth burned. Everything burned. She felt hot and restless and furiously angry. With him for assuming she was afraid of him. With herself for betraying the truth.
Because he was right, she was afraid. But not of him. Perhaps she should have been given the rumors about his father, yet she’d discovered as he’d stepped close to her, that it was herself she was more afraid of. Of her response to him. Of the way her whole body had gathered tight with a need she’d never felt in her entire life.
And now, that fear fed her anger at him for changing his mind.
“What do you mean, no longer in the running?” She tried to find her cool from somewhere and failed.
Isma’il had moved farther away from her, his hands in his pockets. The lazy charm had gone, his features granite hard and very, very cold.
“I believe I was clear.”
“We’re not going to the desert?”
“You are not going to the desert.”
She didn’t miss the emphasis. “You can’t do that,” she said forcefully. “I did exactly what you wanted me to do. I turned on the charm. I made the small talk. I smiled and put up with the intrusive questions about my private life. And I got them on-side. You can’t change your mind. You can’t.”