The Sheikh's Reluctant Queen. Оливия Гейтс

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       Three

      She’d pushed her luck too far.

      From the way Rashid was looking at her, as if she were an alien life form, she feared she’d done worse. Instead of persuading him to get into the car, she might have convinced him to walk home on foot.

      What the hell. Might as well go all the way.

      She leaned farther so she could look up at him. “If you’re thinking of calling a cab, I’ll follow it. If you decide to walk, I’ll cruise along beside you. Or I’ll get out and walk with you and you’ll have my hypothermia on your hands and your conscience.”

      He clearly couldn’t believe his ears.

      She grinned up at him. Stick around and, according to my family, you’ll hear plenty of pretty unbelievable stuff.

      Before she could utter another word he was in the car, and she sat back quickly into her seat, stunned by how fast he had moved.

      She blinked at him. How could someone of his height and bulk flow so effortlessly? It was as if he had a stealth mode and tricked her senses into not registering his movement.

      Had they taught him that in black ops training? Or were those powers of undetectability why he’d been sought for the position in the first place?

      After closing the window, he presented her with his profile. Not even his horrific scar detracted from its hewn perfection.

      Ya Ullah, but he was utter beauty.

      Her one complaint was that he’d almost shaved off his hair. She’d once made a profound study of how its lush silkiness framed his masterpiece of a face, how its virile hairline outlined his lion’s forehead, how it captured light only to emit it in glimmers of raven gloss. She’d been grateful when he’d kept growing it so there’d been more of it for her to delight in. When she’d been twelve or thirteen, he’d worn it in a ponytail midway down his back. She’d lived for the times when he’d unbound it.

      Even when he’d joined the army, he hadn’t gotten a military cut. But now he had barely half an inch to adorn his warrior’s head. That was an injustice of massive proportions.

      Burning to ask why he kept it so ruthlessly cropped, she waited for him to say something. Like where to drive.

      His continued silence told her she should figure out what to do with the rest of her one-sided plan. He’d contribute nothing more.

      She started the ignition, cranked up the heater, turned back to him. “I’ll need directions.”

      Without a word, he set the GPS then resumed his position.

      So. The silent treatment. Two could play at this game.

      Twenty minutes later, cruising the powerful car down almost-empty streets on the outskirts of the city, she’d long realized that that was easier bragged about than achieved.

      She’d spent a lifetime yearning to talk to him and failing. Now she wanted to make up for all of those frustrating times. She wanted to deluge him with a thousand questions, yammer on about all the things she’d longed to say to him all her life.

      But his silence was like a barrier. It made her awareness of him highly distressing. She felt as if his every breath expanded in her own chest, as if every impulse powering his magnificent body quivered through her nerves.

      Then she felt him slide a discreet glance her way.

      She tore her gaze from the road to his face. For a fraction of a second she saw something… unguarded.

      It was gone before she could latch on to it, but she felt he was wrestling with something. Irritation? Humor? What?

      “You understand that was blackmail.”

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