Free Never Resist a Sheikh (International Bad Boys) by Jackie Ashenden Page B

her into doing something she didn’t want again. Yet here she was, letting the sheikh do exactly that.
    Damn the sheikh. Damn Zakir.
    And yes, she’d call him by his name and not sire or your majesty or any other title a king might be used to. She wanted to reduce him in her mind, not build him up.
    Her palm stung, reminding her of another reason why she might want to reduce him, and not just because he was obviously a power hungry dictator intent on forcing his will on her. A reason that didn’t have much to do with the fact that he was a king, but everything to do with the fact that he wasa man.
    She shivered, remembering the feel of his hand enclosing hers. His skin had felt hotter than the stone of the courtyard, burning her all the way through. And the power in that one clasp, the subtle strength in his long fingers… He could have crushed her hand without any effort. Yet he hadn’t. His grip had been firm, but strangely gentle. And that weird electricity that had gone straightup her arm…
    Instinctively she’d met his gaze, shocked by the dark glitter of hunger in his eyes. As if she were food. No one had ever looked at her like that, not one single man. At college, she’d been far too young, the schoolgirl genius playing with the grown-ups. And afterwards, after she’d gotten her company up and running, there had been the odd guy who’d expressed an interest. Yet it hadbeen obvious even then that it wasn’t her they wanted, only a ticket into the industry…
    You liked it. You liked the way Zakir looked at you.
    No. Stupid. She didn’t like it. And her body was an idiot.
    Her palm stung, but this time it wasn’t because of the remembered heat of the sheikh’s hand in hers, it was her own nails digging in. Trying to drown out that heat and the memory. An impossibletask.
    He kidnapped you. Remember that instead.
    Felicity bit her lip. Hard.
    The woman behind her tutted, pulling out the lipstick and touching it up before Felicity could protest. Then she was gently urged to her feet and ushered to the door, the gilded flat slippers she wore scuffing on the stone floor, the white silk of the robes billowing out behind her.
    She felt like a walking sail or somekind of ambulatory cloud.
    Outside the door, there were the usual guards, plus the bearded, hard-faced man who had introduced himself as Jamal, one of the sheikh’s head guards and advisor, or something.
    He never looked very pleased to see her, which was fair enough since she wasn’t very pleased to see him either.
    His hard, dark eyes swept over her and he said something to the women, who noddedtheir heads and glided away down the corridor without a backward glance. Oddly bereft, Felicity only just stopped herself from nibbling on her perfectly painted mouth again. “So it’s party time, I guess?” she said inanely.
    Jamal said nothing, but then he didn’t need to. His scornful gaze was enough.
    Wonderful. This was like her disastrous debutant ball all over again, where she’d been presentedto New York society with all the other girls her age. Another pointless social engagement, another occasion where everything she did would be picked at and pulled apart by her mother. Where her father wouldn’t even notice she was there.
    It’s not the same.
    No, of course it wasn’t. Anyway, she was over that. She didn’t bow to anyone else’s expectations these days. She’d embraced who she was. Hell,she was proud of it.
    Tonight would be an exception. She’d be who the sheikh wanted her to be for the sake of a phone call. And with any luck her company wouldn’t have collapsed while she’d been away. Hell, maybe he even had some cell phone reception in that office of his. All she needed was a whiff of a signal for her phone to connect and then someone would be able to trace her.
    Who? Your parents?You haven’t spoken to them for years.
    Felicity clasped her hands together as she followed Jamal down the dim, narrow corridors of the palace.
    Not them.