‘Then you should not dress so fetchingly, should you? You should have covered yourself in something which concealed you from head to foot,’ he told her softly, jet eyes moving slowly from the top of her head to the tip of her pink-painted toenails. ‘It is all your own fault.’
Even more uncharacteristically, Rose felt colour begin to seep heatedly into her cheeks. She rarely blushed! In her job she dealt with high-powered strangers every single day of her working life, and none of them had had the power to have her standing like this. Like some starstruck adolescent.
‘Isn’t it?’ he prompted, on a sultry murmur.
Rose blinked. She had dressed up, yes—but it was a wedding, wasn’t it? And every single other woman in the room had gone to town today, just as she had.
A floaty little slip-dress made of sapphire silk-chiffon. The same colour as her eyes, or so the cooing sales assistant had told her. And flirty little sandals with tiny kitten heels. She’d bought those in a stinging pink colour, deliberately not matching her dress. But then matching accessories were so passé—even the saleswoman had agreed with that. No hat. She hated confining her thick blonde hair beneath a hat—particularly on a day as hot as this one. Instead, she had ordered a dewy and flamboyant orchid from the nearby florists, in a paler-colour version of the shoes she wore. She’d pinned it into her hair, but she suspected that very soon it would start wilting.
Just as she would, if this exotic man continued to subject her to such a calculating, yet lazy look of appraisal.
She decided to put a stop to it right then and there, extending her hand and giving him a friendly-but-slightly-distant smile. ‘Rose Thomas,’ she said.
He took the hand in his and then looked down at it, and Rose found her eyes hypnotically drawn in the same direction, shocked by her reaction to what she saw. Her skin looked so very white against the dark olive of his and there seemed to be something compellingly erotic about such a distinctive contrast of flesh.
She tried to pull her hand away, but he held tight onto it, and as she drew her indignant gaze upwards it was to find the black eyes fixed on her mockingly.
‘And do you know who I am, Rose Thomas?’ he questioned silkily.
It was a moment of truth. She could feign ignorance, it was true. But wouldn’t a man like this have been up against pretence and insincerity for most of his life?
‘Of course I know who you are!’ she told him crisply. ‘This is the only wedding I’ve ever been to where a real-life prince has been acting as best man—and I imagine it’s the same for most of the other people here, too!’
He smiled, and as she saw the slight relaxation of his body Rose took the opportunity to remove her hand from his.
Khalim felt the stealthy beat of desire as she resisted him. ‘What’s the matter?’ He gave her an expression of mock-reproach. ‘Don’t you like me touching you, Rose Thomas?’
‘Do you normally go around touching women you’ve only just met?’ she demanded incredulously. ‘Is that a favour which your title confers on you?’
The beat increased as he acknowledged her fire. Resistance was so rarely put in the way of his wishes that it had the effect of increasing them tenfold. He saw the clear blue brilliance of her eyes. No, a hundredfold, he thought and felt his throat thicken.
He gave a shrug. A little-boy look—the black eyes briefly appealing. It was a look that had always worked very well at his English boarding-school, especially with women. ‘You took my hand,’ he protested. ‘You know you did!’
Rose forced a laugh. This was ridiculous! They were sparring over nothing more than a handshake! And Khalim was Guy’s friend. Sabrina’s friend. She owed it to them to show him a little more courtesy than this. ‘Sorry.’ She smiled. ‘I’m a little overwrought.’
‘Is it a man?’ he shot out, and before she had time to think about the implications she shook her head.
‘What an extraordinary conclusion to jump to!’ she protested, but the admonishment made no difference.
‘What, then?’ he persisted.
‘Work, actually,’ she said.
‘Work?’ he demanded, as though she had just said a foreign word.
But then maybe to him it was a foreign word. A man like Prince Khalim had probably never had to lift his hand in work. ‘Just a busy week.’ She shrugged. ‘A busy month—a busy year!’ She sipped the last of her champagne and gave him a look of question. ‘I’m getting myself another one of these—how about you?’
Khalim sucked in a breath of disapproval. How he hated the liberated way of women sometimes! It was not a woman’s place to offer a man drinks, and he very nearly told her so, but the fire in her eyes told him that she would simply stalk off if he dared to. And he wanted her far too much to risk that…
‘I rarely drink,’ he said coolly.
‘Good heavens!’ said Rose flippantly. ‘How does your body get hydrated, then? By intravenous infusion?’
The black eyes narrowed. People didn’t make fun of him. Women never teased him unless invited to, by him. And never outside the setting of the bedroom. For a moment, he considered stalking away from her. But only for a moment. The bright lure of her flaxen hair made him waver as he imagined unpicking it, having it tumble down over his chest—its contrast as marked as when he had pressed his fingers against her soft white skin, just minutes ago.
‘Alcohol,’ he elaborated tersely.
‘Well, I’m sure they run to a few soft drinks,’ said Rose. ‘But it doesn’t matter. I’m going to, anyway. It was nice talking to you, Pr—’
‘No!’ He caught hold of her wrist, enjoying the purely instinctive dilating of her blue eyes in response to his action, the way her lips fell open into an inviting little ‘O’. He imagined the sweet pleasures a mouth like that could work on a man, and had to suppress a shudder of desire. ‘Not Prince anything,’ he corrected softly. ‘I am Khalim. To you.’
She opened her mouth to say something sarcastic, like, Am I supposed to be flattered?—but the ridiculous thing was that she was flattered. Absurdly flattered to be told to use his first name. She told herself not to be so stupid, but it didn’t seem to work.
‘Let me go,’ she said breathlessly, but she thrilled at the touch of his skin once more.
‘Very well.’ He smiled, but this time it was the smile of a man who knew that he had the ability to enslave a woman. ‘But only if you agree to come and find me once the music starts, and then we shall dance.’
‘Sorry. I never run after a man.’
He could feel the rapid thundering of her pulse beneath his fingertips. ‘So you won’t?’
The silky voice was nearly as mesmeric as the silky question. ‘You’ll have to come and find me!’ she told him recklessly.
He let her go, taking care to conceal his giddy sense of elation. ‘Oh, I will,’ he said quietly. ‘Be very sure of that.’ And he watched her go, an idea forming in his mind.
He would make her wait. Make her think that he had changed his mind about dancing. For he knew enough of women to know that his supposed indifference would fan the desire she undoubtedly felt for him. He would tease her with it. Play with her. He knew only too well that anticipation increased the appetite, and thus satisfied the hunger all the more. And Rose Thomas would sigh with thankful pleasure in his arms afterwards.
On still-shaking legs, Rose headed for the bar, hoping that the bewilderment she felt did not show on her face. She did not fall for men like Khalim. She liked subtle, sophisticated and complex men. And while she recognised that he had a keen intelligence—there was also something fundamentally dangerous about this black-eyed stranger in his exotic robes.
Inside, she was jelly. Jelly. Her