The Desert King Meets His Match
Autore
Annie West
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PROLOGUE
‘SOMEONE SHOULD OUTLAW the playing of bagpipes indoors.’
The woman on the terrace swung around at his words, the dark waves of her hair swirling invitingly about her shoulders.
Their eyes met and Salim’s pulse gave a thud of satisfaction as he felt again that spark of heat.
Indoors the sensation had been muted, for he’d seen her only at a distance. Yet whenever their gazes collided, or he felt her watching him, awareness had prickled between his shoulder blades.
Her lips curved into a wry half-smile that appealed far more than the beaming grins of the socialites he’d fended off inside. ‘You’re not a fan?’
Salim moved nearer to where she stood, illuminated by flambeaux set on the edge of the lawn. Behind her stretched a silvery loch and beyond that a dark mountain then the vastness of a Scottish summer evening.
Unlike the other female guests, she didn’t wear an evening dress but a tuxedo, tailored to fit her curves and long legs. Enticingly long legs. Yet even in basic black she stood out. And not just because of the glittering silver top visible between her satin lapels.
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ he murmured. ‘Bagpipes can be quite stirring in the right circumstances.’
He was fascinated to discover a stirring of his own. A physical response to her closeness, low in his body.
It intrigued him. This woman wasn’t precisely beautiful, yet she was...alluring.
More, something about her made his inner self whisper a word that sounded remarkably like Mine.
That was unusual enough to secure his attention.
Salim was a modern man who dealt in concrete reality, proven facts and double-checked figures. Yet he had a healthy respect for his instincts. They’d saved him more than once in the past. He listened to them now.
Her smile widened and Salim felt it like the slow spread of dawn heat warming the earth after a chill desert night. ‘Perhaps you can put in a request for the piper to wake you at dawn. But I doubt it will make you popular with the other guests at the castle.’
The sound of her throaty chuckle sent a ripple of arousal skidding down his spine and straight to his groin.
Salim’s brows twitched together. It was one thing to recognise his body’s reaction to an attractive woman. It was another to feel arousal like an unbroken horse, stampeding straight through him, galloping out of control.
Perhaps on reflection this wasn’t such a good idea.
As he thought it, she half turned away, as if to admire the glen in the fading light. Giving him a reason to end the conversation and return to the party.
As if she weren’t interested in him, despite the looks she’d sent his way.
Suddenly, retreating wasn’t an option.
Because what else could it be, other than retreat?
As if on cue, Salim heard the French doors open behind him, and the measured steps of the waiter to whom he’d given his order.
‘Madam? Sir?’ He proffered a silver tray with two champagne flutes.
Salim lifted both glasses and nodded his thanks. As the waiter disappeared he offered one to his companion.
She’d turned towards him again, frowning up under dark eyebrows. Now he was near enough he discovered her eyes were a clear, dark grey. Like the pewter of the loch behind her, or the silvery curve of his ceremonial scimitar.
‘You ordered these?’
Her words were sharp like a blade too. Yet Salim read not temper in her eyes but a shadow of something unexpected in this elegant, self-contained woman. Nerves.
Was she, too, wary of this attraction?
‘I did. I saw you leave and the idea of quiet conversation seemed infinitely more appealing than the crush inside.’ He paused. ‘But if you’d prefer solitude...’
‘No!’ The swift denial reassured. As did the self-aware twitch of her mobile mouth, as if she couldn’t find it in herself to pretend. ‘Thank you. A drink would be lovely.’
Rosanna didn’t do casual flings.
She didn’t kiss total strangers.
So how did she come to be plastered against this handsome stranger, her heart thundering in her chest, trying to get still closer to all that luxurious masculine heat?
Even with one strong arm lashed around her waist, his other hand supporting the back of her head as he delved deep into her mouth, she didn’t feel close enough.
Even with their tongues tangling, their breathing laboured, heat searing everywhere they touched, she wanted more. So much more.
Rosanna clutched his shoulders with needy hands. She arched, pressing her breasts up against that hard chest, and heard a soft sound, like a growl of approval in the back of his throat, that sent excitement skating through her.
She’d never, in all her twenty-six years, been kissed like this. Or responded so. Such desperate hunger was new and exhilarating.
Fleetingly Phil came to mind. But her brain instantly shied away.
Instead came flashes from tonight.
This man’s casual good humour.
The teasing dark gleam of his eyes as they chatted about everything and nothing while inside the other guests partied. The sound of his cut-glass consonants melded with a lilting undercurrent that turned his voice into flagrant temptation.
The way he listened to her, even as his eyes dared her to live in the moment.
When had a man ever seduced her with his humour and insight? With wit and charm and that dark, sizzling something that reached out and curled around her insides, tugging, tugging, tugging at her until she’d given in and moved closer.
That first touch, hand to hand, that had sent electricity arcing to her breasts and lower, to the place between her legs that pulsed with blatant hunger.
She would have drawn back then, scared by the sudden conflagration inside her. Except she’d seen him frown as if he hadn’t expected this full-on slam of need either.
Her hand had somehow drifted to his chest and he’d lifted it from there to his mouth. Her knees had loosened at the sight and feel of his lips on her skin and he’d gathered her close.
Rosanna tilted her head, eagerly shifting against him until he slid his hand down through her hair, past her shoulder and under the lapel of her jacket. Long fingers brushed the spangled fabric of her top, so incredibly slowly she couldn’t tell if he gave her time to object or wanted to torture her with longing.
Finally, in desperation, she covered his hand with hers and slid it down to cover her breast.
Lights spun behind her closed eyelids as he cupped her there. His thumb brushed her peaking nipple and she shuddered, clutching at him. Then he squeezed gently and everything inside melted as darts of fire rayed out from his touch. Her desperate gasp tasted of him, champagne, exotic spice and sensuality.
Rosanna gave thanks to the overzealous maid who had offered to launder her blouse and accidentally scooped up her bra while Rosanna showered. The feel of his hard, gentle, capable hand massaging her braless breast through a thin layer of fabric was bliss.
He gathered her closer. She felt the rigidity in his tall frame and the hard shaft of arousal now pressed against her belly.
Heat poured through her. Her flesh prickled. She wanted to be skin to skin against him. A tiny part of her brain registered surprise but she didn’t care.
Rosanna’s hand went to the soft silk of his formal bow tie and—
‘Excuse me, sir.’
They froze. She felt her companion’s fingers tighten reflexively and even that felt good. So good her inner muscles clenched needily.
For one heartbeat, two, neither moved. Then he raised his head. For a moment she felt his breath as a caress across her face. Dark eyes glittered down at her with a promise that weakened something fundamental inside her.
How eagerly Rosanna wanted to accept that promise.
Then he straightened and tucked her in against his shoulder, as if to protect her from the view of the man behind him.
‘Yes? What is it?’
‘I’m sorry, but there’s a call. It’s important or I wouldn’t have—’
Her companion breathed out, a long exhale that pushed his wide chest against her.
‘It’s okay, Taqi. I understand.’ Another slow breath. ‘I’ll be there in a moment.’
Rosanna didn’t hear the man’s footsteps as he left because her pulse was thrumming in her ears.
But he must have gone because suddenly cool air wafted around her. Her companion’s hand slid from her breast and she had to stifle a cry of protest as he stepped back, holding her upper arms as if he realised how weak-kneed she felt.
‘My apologies,’ he murmured and this time that indefinable accent was much stronger.
Rosanna looked into ebony eyes and silently nodded. Was he apologising for the interruption or for getting so carried away in such a public place? They were lucky it was someone he knew, someone apparently discreet, who’d found them.
Yet as she stood there, trying to catch her breath, it wasn’t regret she felt, except at the interruption. She’d fallen headlong into a tsunami of desire and it had been the single most exciting event of her life.
Which said an awful lot about her life up until now!
She watched his Adam’s apple move jerkily in his throat and felt a burst of relief seeing proof that he too struggled to come back to reality.
‘I have to go. It must be important for Taqi to search me out.’
She nodded. ‘I understand.’
Still he didn’t move, just stood, looking down at her from dark, unreadable eyes. Then he inclined his head. ‘Thank you.’
A second later she stood alone as he strode with loose-limbed grace back towards the party.
Rosanna watched him go, hand to her throat as if to keep in her fast-beating heart that had risen there.
She moved away to the dark corner at the end of the terrace, waiting till her breathing returned to normal and the fireworks he’d set off in her body stopped detonating.
Rosanna couldn’t quite believe what had happened. She’d never felt such a visceral response to any man, even Phil, whom she’d once planned to marry! Such combustible passion was outside her experience. The realisation should shock her. Yet all Rosanna felt was a sense of inevitability, as if it were utterly natural for a woman who never did one-night stands and had learned to think twice about trusting men to respond this way to a stranger.
And to feel bereft at his departure.
She smoothed down her hair and straightened her jacket, doing up the buttons that had come undone during their embrace. Then she settled on a nearby stone seat, waiting for his return.
He didn’t come.
Not long afterwards the doors opened and guests spilled out. For half an hour everyone stood on the terrace, watching an impressive firework display in honour of the laird and his new bride. Tonight was part of a series of celebrations to mark their recent marriage.
But to Rosanna the pyrotechnics were a distraction. In their lurid light she moved through the crowd looking for a particular dark head and broad shoulders. Her fingertips tingled at the memory of his sculpted head and soft, short hair beneath her touch.
But he’d gone.
And she didn’t even know his name.
