The sheikh's chosen wife by Michelle Reid Page A

ruby-eyed, golden-skinned
Spaniard.' Reaching round with his hands, he slipped free the single button
holding her jacket shut, then began to remove the garment. 'She dances the
flamenco and famously turns up men's temperature gauges with her delectably seductive
style.' His lips brushed the slender curve of her newly exposed shoulder. 'But
Rafiq assures me that nothing compares to what she unleashes when she dances
only for him.'
    'You've seen her dance?'
Before she could stop herself, Leona had turned her head and given him just
what he had been aiming for. she realised, too late to hide the jealous green
glow in her eyes.
    A sleek dark brow arched,
dark eyes taunting her with his answer. 'You like to believe you can set me
free but you are really so possessive of me that I can feel the chains tightening,
not slackening.'
    'And you are so
conceited.' She tried to draw back the green eyed monster.
    'Because I like the
chains?' he quizzed, and further disarmed her.
    It wasn't fair, Leona
decided; he could seduce her into a mess of confusion in seconds: Ethan, the
launch, her sense of righteous indignation at the way she was being manipulated
at just about every turn; she was in real danger of becoming lost in the power
he had over her. She tried to break free from it. From her chains, she
recognised.
    'I prefer tea to coffee,'
she murmured, aiming her concentration at the only neutral thing she could
find, which was the table set for breakfast.
    The warm sound of his
laughter was in recognition of her diversion tactics. Then suddenly he wasn't
laughing, he was releasing a gasp of horror. 'You are bruised!' he claimed,
sending her gaze flittering to the slight discolouring to her right shoulder
that she had noticed herself in the shower earlier.
    'It's nothing.' She tried
to dismiss it.
    But Hassan was already
turning her round and his black eyes were hard as they began flashing over
every other exposed piece of flesh he could see. 'Me, or the fall?' he demanded
harshly.
    'The fall, of course.'
She frowned, because she couldn't remember a single time in all the years they
had been together that Hassan had ever marked her, either in passion or anger,
yet he had gone so pale she might have accused him of beating her.
    'Any more?' he asked
tensely.
    'Just my right hip, a
little,' she said, holding her tongue about the sore spot at the side of her
head, because she could see he wasn't up to dealing with that
information.'—Hassan, will you stop it?' she said gasping when he dropped down in
front of her and began to unfasten her white trousers. 'It isn't that bad!'
    He wasn't listening. The
trousers dropped, his fingers were already gently lifting the plain white
cotton of her panty line out of the way so he could inspect for himself. 'I am
at your feet,' he said in pained apology.
    'I can see that,' she
replied with a tremor in her voice that had more to do with shock than the
humour she'd tried to inject into it. His response was so unnecessary and so
very enthralling. 'Just get up now and let me dress,' she pleaded. 'Someone
might come, for goodness' sake!"
    'Not if they value their
necks,' he replied, but at least he began to slide her trousers back over her
slender hip-bones.
    It had to be the worst
bit of timing that Faysal should choose that moment to make one of his silent
appearances. Leona was covered—just—but it did not take much imagination for
her to know what Faysal must believe he was interrupting. The colour that
flooded her cheeks must have aided that impression. Hassan went one further and
rose up like a cobra.
    'This intrusion had
better be worth losing your head for!' he hissed.
    For a few awful seconds
Leona thought the poor man was going to prostrate himself in an agony of
anguish. He made do with a bow to beat all bows. 'My sincerest apologies,' he
begged. 'Your most honourable father. Sheikh Khalifa, desires immediate words
with you, sir.'
    Anyone else and Hassan
would have carried out his threat, Leona