Читать книгу The Sheikh's Virgin - Jane Porter - Страница 9

THE jet took off an hour before midnight. It was Kalen Nuri’s private jet, a brand-new aircraft waiting at the executive terminal on the outskirts of Fort Worth.

Sheikh Nuri had her shown to the private bedroom in the back even though the last thing Keira wanted to do was sleep. But later, after reaching cruising altitude, Keira did manage to stretch out on the bed and close her eyes.

And then she was being woken, informed by the flight attendant on board that they were making the final approach into the business airport adjacent to Heathrow.

On the ground, the jet taxied to the terminal. Disembarking took minutes and as the morning sun shone warmly overhead, they slipped into a private car, traveling in silence to Sheikh Nuri’s home in Kensington Gardens.

“You’ve been exceptionally quiet,” Kalen said, as the car wound through the old elegant neighborhood, a neighborhood of grand Victorian mansions, all gleaming creamy-white in the pure morning light.

“What’s there for me to say?” She couldn’t even bring herself to look at him. He’d forced her here, forced her to come to London as surely as her father’s men would have forced her to return to Baraka.

“You’ll grow to enjoy the lifestyle.”

Her head snapped around, eyebrows lowering. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“No.” The car stopped before a tall house with a glossy black door, iron railings at tall paned windows, the symmetry of the house more striking for the perfect boxwood topiaries framing the entrance.

He stepped out. The front door of the house opened, a butler appeared on the front step even as the uniformed chauffeur moved around to the side of the car to assist them.

“Welcome to your future,” Kalen said, upper lip curling with dark humor. Sheikh Nuri’s face was just as she’d always remembered—hard, perfectly symmetrical, classically beautiful—like a marble statue. His beauty was that precise. His control was that absolute.

“My future?” she repeated.

His lip curled further, emphasizing his harsh beauty. “Your life with me.”

For a moment Keira could only stare at him, finding it all too incredible, too implausible for her to believe.

She, who’d been infatuated with Sheikh Nuri for so long, was in his protection.

She, Keira Gordon, was to live with the one man she’d most admired. The man she, as a schoolgirl, had secretly, passionately adored.

Inside the house, Keira paced her bedroom suite like a caged tiger.

Kalen’s house. Kalen’s guest bedroom. Kalen’s proximity would kill her.

She still felt so hopelessly attracted to him, and she shouldn’t. He might be physically beautiful but he was hard, arrogant, insensitive.

He was using her, too, using her to get to her father and yet instead of feeling contempt for him, she felt…curiosity. Desire.

She wanted contact.

Wanted warmth and nearness, wanted skin.

She stopped pacing long enough to open a closet and look inside. Empty.

Bureau drawers, empty.

Good.

Although the room was masculine, she was afraid she might be sharing another woman’s bedroom, and she couldn’t do that. She’d never be able to share Kalen Nuri with anyone. Funny how some things were so damn clear.

Keira sat down on the arm of an upholstered chair. So this was her room. A high white ceiling. Mushroom painted walls. The velvet headboard a dark fern-green. Two small dressers flanked the bed—both dressers mirrored—and the large pillows butting against the headboard were various shades of moss, fern and forest velvet.

Kalen’s house, she silently repeated. Kalen’s guest room.

Kalen.

Seven years ago she’d gone to the party to see him. Malik Nuri might be the older brother and heir to the throne, but Kalen was the Nuri all the girls were crazy about.

Kalen was the one to get.

Kalen wasn’t narrow, political, boring. Kalen lived in London, traveled extensively, spent money freely, spoiling friends…including his women.

All the good girls among the Atiq upper class fantasized about being Kalen’s woman. What it would mean. What life would be like.

And it wasn’t even his money the girls liked. It was his attitude.

His arrogance. His cynicism. His physical beauty. For he was beautiful. Beautiful but forbidden. In Baraka it was a woman’s duty to remain pure, untouched, until her marriage. Women tended to marry young to protect their name and the family reputation. But when Kalen Nuri walked into a room, and when Kalen Nuri looked at a girl—woman—even if she was wearing a jellaba, even if only her eyes were showing—he looked at her as though he owned her. Owned her heart, mind, body and soul.

He was a magician. A sorcerer.

He was mystery and danger, sensuality and power. The ultimate fantasy.

He’d been her fantasy, too.

Which is why she’d snuck out, gone with a couple of the other girls, wilder girls, girls with parents less restrictive, less conservative than her father to the party hosted in Kalen Nuri’s honor.

The party was supposedly segregated, as well as chaperoned. Turned out it was neither.

Neither, Keira repeated silently, wearily, unable to escape the shadows and shame of the poor decision she had made.

She’d never talked about it. Who would she tell? Her liberal intellectual mother? Her orthodox political father?

There had been no one to talk to, no one to turn to for comfort or advice. And she’d done the only thing she could—she’d moved forward, moved on, moved emotionally and physically, leaving Baraka never to return, eventually leaving England to begin university studies in the States.

A knock sounded at the locked bedroom door. Keira opened the door. A housemaid stood in the hall, holding a garment bag and assorted shopping bags from several of London’s most exclusive jewelry boutiques.

“From His Excellency,” the maid said, dropping a small curtsey.

A curtsey. For her. Keira would have laughed if she weren’t so tired.

“Would you like me to unpack for you, miss?” The house maid offered, carrying the shopping bags into the room.

“No, thank you. I can manage,” Keira answered with an uneasy glance at the collection of expensive shopping bags weighting down the maid’s arms. It looked as if a fortune had been spent in less than an hour…

“What are those for?” she asked as the maid hung the garment bag in the closet and then placed the remaining bags on the bed.

“You, miss. His Excellency made calls and then sent the driver around to the shops to collect the items.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They’re gifts, miss. Presents. His Excellency does this for all his women.” The maid smiled cheerfully. “You’re very lucky, aren’t you?”

Keira’s mouth opened and closed without making a sound. Lucky? Is that what she was?

She half turned, gazed at the handsome bedroom before looking at the maid. “Does he have many women?”

The maid suddenly flushed bright red. “Forgive me, miss. I meant nothing—”

“It’s fine.” Keira gestured reassurance. “Thank you.”

The housemaid moved to the door. “If you need anything, just ring. You’ve only to ask.”

“And Sheikh Nuri? Is he still here…?”

“No, miss, he’s gone for the day. But he will be back for dinner.”

“I see.”

“Dinner will be served at seven. His Excellency dresses for dinner.”

“How nice,” Keira drawled, more than a little irritated. Kalen had uprooted her, dumped her at his London house, headed off for work or wherever it is he’d gone and was already leaving messages with the maid.

The girl bobbed her head and slipped out the door, closing it quietly behind her.

Keira went to the closet, looked at the garment bag hanging on the rod and then carefully closed the closet door. Just as carefully she moved the shopping bags from her bed.

She wasn’t his woman. She didn’t want his gifts.

At six-thirty Keira bathed and dressed for dinner. Wrapped in a lettuce-green bath towel, Keira thumbed through her own clothes she’d unpacked earlier and hung in the closet. She’d brought a mishmash of colors and styles and certainly nothing that could be viewed as elegant.

Good.

She’d dress for dinner. She’d just dress like an American woman. Independent. Successful. And free.

Sliding into a pair of old Levi’s jeans, Keira drew on a gray pin-striped blouse, the starchy blouse normally worn to work with a conservative suit, but now she let the tail of the shirt hang out, left the collar unbuttoned and twisted her long hair into a half-hazard knot at the back of her head.

No jewelry.

A bit of makeup.

Flat leather loafers.

And she was good to go.

Keira appeared in the dining room at seven on the dot. Kalen was already there, and the maid was right. He had dressed for dinner. Kalen wore black trousers, a black dinner jacket and a white dress shirt which highlighted his golden complexion, his thick black hair, and the amber of his eyes.

Handsome, she thought, drinking him in. He was by far the most handsome man she’d ever met and living in Texas, working for an international company, she’d met a lot of good-looking men.

“You look…” and Sheikh Nuri’s voice drifted off as his gaze swept her “…lovely.”

She flushed, assailed by guilt. He’d made an effort where clearly she’d made none.

But had she asked to come to London? Had she asked for any of this?

“Thank you,” she answered, smiling serenely, successfully hiding her self-doubts. Over the years she’d become very, very good at hiding everything real and true. Self-preservation, she thought, allowing Kalen to seat her at the table.

“Blue’s a good color for you,” he commented, taking a seat opposite her.

“I’m not wearing blue,” she said, glancing down at the thin gray stripes of her blouse. And then she saw her jeans and she understood. “Ah, the Levi’s.”

“Very chic.”

“You did tell the maid to have me dress casually, didn’t you?”

His dark eyebrows arched, a challenging light lit his amber eyes. “Is that what she told you?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t understand anything after the His-Excellency-Has-Gone-Out-You-Must-Wait-Here bit.”

Kalen’s forehead furrowed. “I have a job, laeela. Things to do.”

“And I have a job, too. I should be in Dallas working, doing what I need to do, not sitting in a bedroom of your house waiting for you to come home!”

“Things have changed. You must adjust.”

She had to adjust? Why was she the one who always had to compromise? Sacrifice? Why was she the one who had to give, adjust, change? “I don’t want to adjust. I liked my life. I liked my work—”

“Being a cheerleader?”

“You know I worked for Sanford Gas. You know I had a responsible position and I was good.” She sat stiffly at the table, temper so hot she thought she might explode. “Too good to just give it all up because you said so.”

“So what did you do this afternoon?” he asked, leaning forward to fill their wineglasses.

“Nothing.”

“It doesn’t have to be nothing. You can rent movies on satellite, watch TV, chat with friends—”

“That’s empty activity. I need more.”

“Then improve your brain. Read. I have an extensive library here, and you’re free to order books off the Internet.”

“Reading is what I do at night before bed. It’s not what I do all day.” Keira’s frustration grew. “Sheikh Nuri, I didn’t go to college to play a pampered princess.”

“You’re angry that I haven’t paid you more attention.”

She laughed out loud even as she blushed. “I don’t even know you! The idea that I could need you—depend on you—is amusing, but untrue.”

“You speak boldly for a twenty-three-year-old girl.”

“Woman.” Her body crackled with tension and it was all she could do to keep her seat. “I’m a woman, and I’ve grown up with men like you, Sheikh Nuri. Unlike the models and actresses you meet, I don’t need your wealth, your notoriety, or your connections.”

“My mistress has a sharp tongue tonight.”

Her face flamed hotter, her fingers curled around the edge of her chair seat. “I’m not really your mistress. We both know that.”

Kalen’s eyebrows furrowed. He shot a curious glance around the elegant dining room fragrant with the centerpiece of white orchids and lilies. “Am I missing something, laeela? Are you not here, in my home? Are you not taken care of—every need and wish accommodated? Have I not offered you my complete protection?”

She went hot and cold, his word, the endearment laeela, once again burning her from the inside out. Laeela was such an intimate endearment from a Barakan man and Kalen wasn’t the sort of man to flirt lightly. He was serious.

Sheikh Nuri lazily watched Keira who sat tall and rigid across the table from him. Her long dark hair had been pinned back and her cheeks, so ashen last night, glowed hot-pink now.

A high-strung filly, he thought, she was young, sensitive, nervous.

He took a sip from his wine goblet, the robust red filling his mouth, warming his taste buds.

Keira merely fidgeted with her wine. She’d barely touched it.

He should touch her.

He studied her flushed face. Last night she’d been pale like porcelain, a creamy alabaster, but tonight she burned. She glowed. Her dark blue eyes shone, her cheeks flushed a hot feverish pink.

She needed a firm hand. She could use a calming hand.

How convenient. He had two.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he said, speaking almost gently, reassuringly. “I will always treat you well.”

“I’m not afraid,” she answered tersely, and yet when she looked up at him she was all wide blue eyes and apprehension.

No, he thought, she wasn’t afraid. She was terrified.

She knew what could happen. She knew just as he did that the tension between them wasn’t the usual garden variety of interest. What simmered between them was deep, intense, a heat and interest dating back years…back to when she was just a schoolgirl.

“And you don’t have to worry about me,” she added, her voice strained, rough. She reached up to push away an inky tendril that had slipped free. “I’m fine.”

“Hamdullah,” he answered. Thanks be to God.

Tears scratched at Keira’s throat, the back of her eyes. Until yesterday she hadn’t thought she’d ever see him again and yet here she was, a day later, in his home, in his care. It was incredible, impossible, unfathomable. Just looking at him made everything collide and explode inside her, emotions hot and sharp like New Year’s fireworks.

Hamdullah. The word echoed in her head and she hurt. No one else made her feel so tense, so nervous, so desperate for more. No one else made her want to throw herself into a river of ice water. No one else…

Hamdullah.

“And you?” she asked formally, continuing the ritual greetings. “How are you?”

“Very well, Miss al-Issidri. Thank you.”

“But it’s Gordon, Sheikh Nuri, not al-Issidri. I’ve never used my father’s name.”

“You did until you were seven.”

“How did you know that?”

“I know things that would surprise even you.”

She regarded him warily. His eyes were gold, so gold, warmer than she remembered. There was so much about him familiar and even more that wasn’t. Was it age? Time? Experience?

Again she glanced at him, a surreptitious glance beneath heavy lashes, seeing again the broad forehead, his long, strong nose, the very square chin which had fascinated her endlessly as a teenager.

Was it possible she’d fallen in love with an image—a face—and not the man?

“Breathe,” he said, his gaze never leaving her face.

“I am.” But her voice came out too high and thin and she couldn’t look at him anymore.

He leaned across the table, an arm extending toward her, his right hand up, palm open. “Give me your hand.”

She looked at his hand, the broad palm, the skin lighter than the back of his hand, deep lines etched into the skin and she flashed back to last night, the way he’d touched her on her front porch. Kalen’s touch had been like an electrical storm. So hot and bright and fierce. He’d made her feel. And she’d felt absolutely everything.

“Your hand,” he repeated softly, commandingly.

She gave her head a half-shake. “Never.”

Her gaze slowly traveled up, from the crisp white collar of his shirt, over his bronze columned throat, past his full firm lips to his eyes which looked at her with mockery, challenge, even disdain. Pointedly she held his gaze. “You’re not safe.”

For a split second he remained expressionless and then his lips curved. His eyes creased. “That just might be the most intelligent thing I’ve heard you say.”