over each other as soon as possible.
Nadir’s eyes tracked down over Imogen as she stepped into the room, the evening gown flowing around her svelte frame and clinging to her hips. Images of her in his king-sized bed fogged his brain. Her long, toned, flexible legs wrapped around his hips, her supple back arched in passion as she rode him, her small, high breasts jutting forward, begging for his mouth. If they were just like any other couple he’d have her in that position pronto.
And why not? She had agreed to marry him. Or, rather, she had acquiesced—because that was what her strained little For Nadeena had sounded like to his ears. Even so, he should be feeling relieved right now to have that sorted. Triumphant, even. But he didn’t. If anything, he felt as if it was a Pyrrhic victory because, while he might have gained her agreement, he could see by the wall she had erected between them that he had gained very little else.
And right now he wanted to tear that wall down. Right now he wanted more from her than shy, covert glances that only served to heighten his awareness of her as a woman. His awareness of her as his woman.
All night she’d been giving them to him as she worked the room like a pro. At first he’d thought her nervousness stemmed from some sort of insecurity but he’d soon discounted that. She’d handled herself beautifully. Talking to the Sultan of Astiv about his love of antique glassware while those around him nearly fainted with boredom and then recounting war stories about the trials and tribulations of competitive waterskiing with the Prince of Mana.
He’d hated the prince knowing something about her that he hadn’t had a clue about and he’d liked even less the way the Prince had looked at her. But then he pretty much didn’t like the way any man looked at her and that possessive feeling wasn’t something he’d ever had to deal with before.
She gripped her hands together as if she didn’t know what to do with them. ‘Nadeena is asleep.’
‘Good. Maab said she had most of the milk you expressed at eleven o clock.’
‘Oh, okay. In that case I’m glad I didn’t wake her to change her nappy because she should sleep for a few more hours now.’
‘Good.’ Nadir wondered how it was he could stand in the middle of the room having a stilted conversation about Nadeena when all he wanted to do was strip Imogen naked and bury himself deep inside her lush body. ‘How long do you think we’ve got before she wakes up?’
He watched her eyes widen as comprehension dawned and thought, Oh, yes, my sweet, I have exactly that in mind.
If he was going to be breaking down walls tonight he didn’t plan on doing it with a sledgehammer.
‘Not long.’
He smiled. Her ‘no’ couldn’t have been more transparent.
Realising that he still wore his keffiyeh, he reached up and yanked it from his head, ruffling his hair. He felt her eyes on him but when he glanced over her gaze flitted away and she shifted like a mare scenting the approach of an overly randy stallion.
She cleared her throat and lifted her chin and he knew she was about to try and call an end to the evening. ‘Well, I hope the night was okay from your point of view but—’
‘The night was excellent. You were brilliant.’
‘Oh. Well, thank you.’
He studied her. ‘Why were you nervous tonight?’
‘Who said I was nervous?’
He felt a small smile touch his lips. ‘I could tell. But I don’t know why.’
‘Because I knew everyone would be looking at me.’
‘But you’re a dancer—you must be used to being on show in front of people.’
‘Being in a performance is totally different from being myself.’
So he’d been right about the insecurity. He frowned, wanting to reassure her. ‘People like you. You’re a natural. And a waterskier, I understand. How was it that the Prince of Mana knew that you had once won the Australian championships and I had no idea?’
‘Maybe because he asked and you didn’t.’
Nadir scowled. ‘I’m asking now.’
She shrugged. ‘It wasn’t that big a deal. My mother was into waterskiing, which is how I came to do it, but when I was sixteen my ballet teacher told me that I needed to give up all dangerous sports if I was to take the dance seriously and I stopped.’
‘But you loved it,’ he guessed.
Her eyes glowed with an inner light that made them sparkle. ‘The speed was pretty exhilarating.’
He grinned. ‘Something we have in common.’
In Paris he’d been too obsessed with touching her to get to know her properly. Now he realised he wanted both. ‘Have a nightcap with me.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
Nadir walked over to the wet bar and smiled. ‘Have one anyway.’
* * *
Imogen knew that smile. He’d used it often when they’d been out and he’d come up and wrap his arms around her and tell her something, like how tired his feet were from walking or how cold he was and how he really thought they should head indoors. What he’d meant was that they should be in bed. Usually she’d melt against him at that point and he’d hail a cab, her need for him just as overpowering as his was for her.
Even that first night her need for him had eradicated her natural cautiousness around men and overshadowed her commonsense. She closed her eyes in the vain hope that the memories would go away but instead she felt as if she was back in Paris inside his elegant apartment.
The only reason they’d even shut the main door that first night was so he could crush her up against it. After her show he had prowled into the backstage area, his eyes hot with intent. Imogen had quivered with raw excitement, a deep feminine instinct having already warned her that he would come for her. And he had. He’d told her his name and asked her how long it would take her to change. When she’d told him ten minutes to scrub off the stage make-up he’d said, ‘I’ll wait.’
He’d made it sound as if he’d wait for ever. One of the other girls had rushed to lend her a short black dress since she’d only brought her jeans and a T-shirt to change back into and had sighed as if she wished she’d been the chosen one. Heels had materialised and the girls had tittered around her and told her who he was. Imogen hadn’t really taken any notice, her mind buzzing with a sexual excitement she’d never felt before. He had taken her to one of Paris’s exclusive supper clubs in his black Ferrari and been the perfect gentleman while they ate.
Not that she remembered much of the food. Or the conversation, for that matter, but she remembered how his hands had cradled his glass of Scotch as he’d watched her then he’d led her back to his car, his hand hot on the small of her back. He’d asked if she would like to go to his place for coffee. She’d said yes even though she hated coffee; a fact they had laughed at the following morning.
Imogen remembered
