The Sheikh's Virgin Bride. PENNY JORDAN

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      Down on the beach it was almost dusk, the cool chill in the air reminding Petra that, despite the fact that the daytime temperature was in the high twenties, in this part of the world it was still winter.

      For a second she thought she was too late, that the beach bum had gone, and her heart plummeted sharply with disappointment—her gaze searching the darkening beach.

      As she stood looking out across the pretty marina Petra was so lost in her own thoughts that the sudden darkness of a shadow thrown across the fading light shocked her.

      Spinning round, she sucked in her stomach on a shocked breath as she realised that the object of her thoughts was standing in front of her, and so close to her that a single step forward would bring them body to body.

      Instinctively Petra wanted to step back, but the stubborn pride that her father had once insisted she had inherited directly from her grandfather refused to let her move.

      Lifting her head, she took a deep breath, then exhaled it unsteadily as she realised that she had not lifted her head enough, and that right now instead of making contact with his eyes her gaze was resting helplessly on the curve of his mouth.

      What was it they said about men with a full bottom lip? That they were very sensual, very tactile…men who knew all the secret nuances of pleasures the touch of those male lips could have on a woman?

      Petra felt faintly dizzy. She hadn’t realised he was so tall. What nationality was he? Italian? Greek? His hair was very dark and very thick, and his skin—as she had had every opportunity to observe earlier in the day—was a deep, warm golden brown. He was fully dressed now, in a white tee shirt, jeans and trainers, and somehow—despite his casual clothes—he was disconcertingly much more formidable and authoritative-looking than she had expected.

      It was almost fully dark; tiny decorative lights were springing up all around them, illuminating the marina and its environs. Petra could see the searing flash of his eyes as his glance encompassed her. First almost dismissively, and then appraisingly, his body stiffening as though suddenly alerted to something about her that had caught his interest, awakened his hunting instinct, changing the uninterest she could have sworn she had initially seen in his eyes to a narrowed intense concentration that pinned her into wary immobility.

      If she turned and ran now he would enjoy it—enjoy pursuing her, tormenting her, she decided nervily. He was that kind of man!

      Despite the fact that she was wearing a perfectly respectable pair of jeans and a shirt, she suddenly felt as though he could see right through them to the flesh beneath her clothes, that already he knew every curve of her, every hidden secret and vulnerability. She was not used to experiencing such feelings and they threw her a little off guard.

      ‘If you’ve come looking for one-to-one lessons, I’m afraid you’ve left it too late.’

      The open cynicism in his voice was something she had not been prepared for, and both it and the look he was giving her burned her skin. Petra suspected she could hear a hundred generations of male contempt for a certain type of female wantonness.

      ‘Actually, I don’t need lessons,’ she told him, immediately rallying her pride. She had learned to windsurf as a young teenager, and although he wasn’t to know it she’d reached competition standard.

      ‘No? Then what do you need?’ his soft insultingly knowing response shocked through her.

      Petra could understand how those women had been so excited by him! He possessed a sexual aura, a sexual magnetism that dizzied her senses. His air of control and self-assurance hinted tauntingly at the fact that he considered he had the power to overwhelm and dominate her if he chose to do so, that he knew precisely the effect he had on her sex! This was a man whose very existence spelled a very distinct kind of predatory male dangerousness in any language. Which was exactly why he was so perfect for what she wanted, she reminded herself as she tussled with an unfamiliar and ignominious urge to turn and run whilst she still had the option to do so.

      Irritated by her own weakness, she refused to give in to it. In her time she had faced down a wide array of men for a wide variety of reasons, and there was no way she was going to be out-faced by this one! Even if it was the first time she had ever been made so overwhelmingly aware of a man’s sexuality that she could barely breathe the air that surrounded them because it was so charged with raw rogue testosterone.

      Ignoring what she was feeling, Petra took a deep breath and told him firmly, ‘I have a proposition to put to you.’

      In the silence that followed her statement he must have moved slightly, she recognised, because suddenly she could see his full face—and what she could see made the breath seize in her lungs. She had known this afternoon that he had the kind of powerful male allure that could neither be imitated nor acquired, but now she realised that he also had the kind of facial features that would have made a Greek god weep with envy.

      The only thing she couldn’t see was the colour of his eyes. But surely with such colouring they had to be brown. Brown! Inwardly Petra allowed herself to relax a little. Brown-eyed men had never appealed to her. Secretly she had always hankered for a man with the cool magnetism of pure silver-grey-coloured eyes, having fallen in love with the hero of a book she had read as a young teenager whose eyes had been that colour.

      ‘A proposition?’ The cynical uninterest in his voice made her face burn a little. ‘I’m a man,’ he told her bluntly. ‘And I don’t go to bed with women who proposition me. I like to hunt my own prey, not be hunted by it. Of course if you’re really desperate I could give you directions to a place where you might have more luck.’

      As she felt her fingers curling into small, СКАЧАТЬ