Defying her Desert Duty. Annie West

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      He’d like to get his hands on that buffoon and give him a short, sharp lesson in the real meaning of power.

      The intensity of his bloodlust brought him up short.

      Premonition skittered like icy fingers down his spine.

      This mission was a mistake. He felt it in his bones.

      Soraya moved back as far as Raoul’s encircling arms allowed.

      It was ridiculously late and she’d rather be home in bed. Except her flatmate Lisle had finally made peace with her boyfriend and Soraya knew they needed privacy, even if it meant staying out till dawn. Lisle had been a good friend and friendship was something precious to her.

      But she’d made a mistake, finally agreeing to dance with Raoul. She frowned and shifted his straying hand.

      Usually Soraya didn’t make such mistakes. Keeping her distance from men came naturally. She’d acted out of character, spooked by the need to escape the stranger’s unnerving stare. It had made her feel … heated. Aware.

      Yet even now she felt his gaze like a brand on her back, her bare arms, her cheeks.

      What did he want? She wasn’t eye-catching. Her dress was modest—positively maidenly, Lisle would say.

      Soraya wanted to march across the room and demand he stop it. But this was Paris. Men stared at women all the time. It was a national pastime.

      Raoul’s marauding hand cut her line of thought and she stiffened. Enough was enough. ‘Stop it! Move your hand or—’

      ‘The lady is ready for a change, I believe.’ The voice, a deep burr, curled around her like a caress, but there was no mistaking its steely undertone.

      Raoul stumbled to a halt then stepped back abruptly as a large hand removed his arm from Soraya’s waist. His eyes flared as he drew himself up. Yet, tall as he was, the stranger topped him easily.

      Raoul spluttered as he was shouldered aside. Soraya felt the tensile strength in the intruder’s big body as he clasped her in a waltz hold and swung her away.

      Torn between relief at being rid of Raoul’s octopus hands and stomach-dipping shock at the newcomer’s actions, protest froze in Soraya’s throat.

      It was him, the man who’d watched her all evening.

      Suddenly he was so near, his breath feathered her forehead, the heat of his body warmed hers and his big hands grasped her so easily it was obvious he was used to being close to a woman.

      Soraya shivered as an unfamiliar sensation swirled deep. Not trepidation. Not indignation. But something that tied her thoughts in knots and prompted her to fall in step unthinkingly as he moved to the slow tune.

      ‘Now just you wait—’ Over the stranger’s shoulder she saw Raoul’s face, red with indignation, his fist raised. Soraya’s eyes widened. Could he be violent?

      ‘Raoul! No! That’s enough.’

      ‘Excuse me a moment.’ The stranger released her, swung round to confront Raoul and said something under his breath that made the graduate student pale and falter back a pace.

      Then, before she had time to question, he turned back, gathered her to him and swung her across the dance floor.

      It was an impressive example of a male staking his territory. But Soraya didn’t appreciate being swept away without so much as a by-your-leave.

      Even if he had rescued her from Raoul’s pawing.

      ‘There’s no need for this.’ She’d rather just get off the dance floor. But he gave no indication he’d heard.

      It chagrined her that her feet automatically followed his lead. She’d never followed any man, except her beloved father!

      She could wrench herself from his arms and off the dance floor, but she shied from making more of a scene unless absolutely necessary.

       Besides, she was curious.

      ‘What makes you think I want to dance with you?’ She jutted her chin defiantly to counteract the strange, breathy quality of her voice.

      The movement was a mistake. With her face tilted, her gaze collided with sizzling dark-emerald fire. Shock jolted her and only quick reflexes kept her from stumbling.

      His eyes were heavy-lidded, almost lazy. Yet there was nothing lazy about his rapier-sharp scrutiny. She sucked in a breath as it roved her face.

      His features were compelling. Strong, with an earthy stamp of male sexuality that melded with sharp cheekbones, a determined jaw and a long blade of a nose to create a breathtaking whole. His skin was dark gold, eyes rayed with the tiny lines that spoke of hours spent outdoors. She couldn’t believe they were smile lines. Not on this man who surveyed her so grimly.

      Soraya blinked and tore her gaze away, disturbed to find her pulse skittering faster.

      ‘You weren’t enjoying your dance with him?’ He shrugged and she knew in that moment that, despite his perfect French, he wasn’t local. There was none of the Gallic insouciance in that movement. Instead she read the fluid yet deliberate action of a man who had more on his mind than a little light flirtation.

      He moved with a lithe grace yet every action, from the way he held her hand to the light clasp of his other palm at her waist, was carefully controlled.

      For all his agility he was a big man, all hard-packed muscle, iron-hard sinew and bone. Formidable.

      Suddenly she felt … trapped, at risk. Ridiculous, since she was in full public view with her friends close by.

      Desperately she sucked in a deep breath and sought out her companions. They watched, rapt, elbows on the table and mouths moving as if they’d never seen anything more fascinating than Soraya dancing, and with a stranger. As her eyes met Raoul’s, he flushed and moved closer to Marie.

      ‘That’s not the point.’

      ‘So you don’t disagree. He was annoying you.’ His voice was low yet she had an inkling he worked to keep his tone easy.

      ‘I don’t need a protector!’ Soraya prided herself on her independence.

      ‘Then why didn’t you stop him grabbing at you?’ There was no mistaking the thread of anger in that deep voice, or the quiver of repressed power that rippled through him in a rolling tide.

      It was her turn to shrug.

      What was there to say? That despite the freedom of studying abroad she wasn’t used to dealing with groping hands? She usually kept a discreet distance from male colleagues. Soraya had perfected the art of blending into a crowd and avoiding individual male attention. Tonight was the first time she’d ever danced with a man.

      No way was she confessing that! It was the norm for a well-brought-up girl in Bakhara. Here it would make her seem like a freak.

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