The Sultan's Virgin Bride. Sarah Morgan

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      He knew her well enough to realize that his request that she abandon the fashion show would be met by defiance but, even so, her entrance, made even more dramatic by the use of spotlights and pumping rock music, took him by surprise.

      Her golden hair flowed long and loose over her shoulders and was the only thing that kept the dramatic swimming costume even vaguely decent.

      There was a collective murmur of appreciation from the men in the room and by his side Hasim Akbar made a strangled sound. In contrast, Tariq sat still, the flicker of a muscle in his cheek the only indication of his soaring stress levels.

      The music pounded in a hypnotic rhythm that was unashamedly sexual and she started to walk in time to the beat, her movements graceful and seductive. It shouldn’t have been possible to walk on the heels she was wearing but she made it look natural, as if she’d been born with high, slender spikes attached to her feet.

      The swimsuit was cleverly cut to expose her long, long legs, her narrow waist and the tempting thrust of her breasts. A diaphanous wrap floated around her body, giving the illusion that she was walking through mist.

      She was a vision of feminine perfection, every man’s fantasy, and Tariq felt sharp claws of lust drag through his loins.

      A temporary marriage came with definite benefits, he conceded. Not only would he gain ownership of the shares that were crucial for the future of his country, but he would have Farrah Tyndall naked and at his disposal for forty days and forty nights. As newly-weds he could justifiably keep her trapped in his bed and then he would divorce her before she had the opportunity to embarrass him the way she was embarrassing him now.

      On the opposite side of the catwalk a man half rose to his feet, a look of naked longing in his eyes.

      Devoured by ever increasing tension, Tariq discovered a hitherto untapped possessive streak deep within himself.

      She was inviting male attention, he thought grimly, and she was doing it to taunt him. It was clear to him that she was still sulking over his rejection five years previously.

      He lounged in his chair, simmering with ever increasing anger as he watched what he perceived to be a deliberate attempt to provoke him.

      But, instead of making him stride from the room, her intentionally provocative display merely served to reconcile him finally to the concept of marriage.

      He was determined to make her his.

      He should have done it five years ago, he mused in brooding silence, but instead he’d respected her innocence. He’d valued her purity. Had taken his time, the better to savour the moment when he would finally make her his.

      Clearly his restraint had been wasted since she appeared to place no such value on herself.

      She reached the end of the catwalk, dropped a hip in a pose deliberately designed to inflame and finally she directed her gaze in his direction. Green eyes locked on his in blatant challenge.

      Try and stop me, her gaze said, and Tariq rose to his feet in a fluid movement, determined to do exactly that.

      Anger roared inside him like a wild, untamed beast and he stepped onto the catwalk, ignoring the astonished scramble of his security team as they attempted to intercept him.

      Without uttering a word, he swung her into his arms and strode out of the ballroom without glancing left or right. He was boiling and angry and he realized that he hadn’t known the true meaning of the word possessive until that moment.

      ‘Tariq—’ Her voice was a shocked breathless pant as she pushed at his shoulders. ‘What are you doing?’

      Her words irritated him because they drew attention to the fact that for the first time in his life he’d acted without thought. He didn’t know what he was doing. His actions had nothing to do with reason and everything to do with some dark, primitive need to remove her from the line of sight of every man in the room. If it had been within his power, he would have removed her from their minds and fantasies too, but the man in him knew that it was already too late for that. She’d ensured herself a place in every erotic dream.

      The thought made him tighten his grip in raw, naked jealousy and she wriggled.

      ‘Put me down!’

      He was sorely tempted to do just that. Every part of him that mattered was in contact with smooth, warm female flesh—female flesh that squirmed in protest against certain vital parts of his body. Something dark and primitive broke loose and anger flared inside him.

      Anger at her for deliberately provoking him.

      Anger at himself for responding in such a predictable fashion.

      Always, in her company, he found himself facing parts of himself that he didn’t want to acknowledge, Tariq thought with grim honesty.

      ‘You chose to invite attention, laeela—’ he tried to ignore the low, throbbing ache that threatened to test his legendary self-control ‘—and now you have it.’ He strode through the opulent foyer, through revolving doors and out to the street where his car awaited his return.

      She weighed virtually nothing, he thought, as he all but thrust her into the car and delivered instructions to his driver in a clipped, angry tone.

      ‘Tariq, I’m not going with you—’

      ‘Be silent!’ Still seething, he shrugged out of his jacket for the second time that evening and dropped it into her lap. ‘Put this on.’

      ‘I don’t—’

      ‘Cover yourself!’ The ferocity of his tone shocked even him so he could hardly blame her for shrinking back in her seat. Her reaction shamed him because whatever his faults, he had never struck a woman and never would. He was a man who prided himself on his self-control and yet at that precise moment he wanted to kill someone. ‘You are barely dressed,’ he said flatly, turning his head so that he didn’t have to look at the confusion in her eyes. He didn’t want to feel sympathy. Didn’t want to feel anything. ‘When we reach my home, my staff will find you something more suitable to wear.’

      Preferably something that covered every inch of her.

      She glared at him. ‘You’re behaving like a caveman.’

      ‘If I were a caveman then I would have followed my baser instincts and stripped you naked in the ballroom when you all but begged me to do so,’ he said silkily, ‘and you would now be lying naked on one of those tables and your pleasure would be so great that you would be sobbing and begging for mercy.’

      Her soft gasp of shock was at odds with her provocative appearance. ‘I would never beg you for anything,’ she said hoarsely, but her gaze held his for a fraction longer than necessary and his gaze hardened.

      Experience told him that she was clearly not indifferent to him, no matter how much she would have liked that to be the case.

      The attraction between them was as strong as ever and he was willing to overlook her less appealing traits in order to have her naked in his bed.

      The marriage might be short lived, Tariq mused silently, but sexually it promised to be full-on and immensely satisfying.

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