Cinderella had felt when her prince slipped on the glass slipper.
Of course a gorgeous, sparkling glass slipper was a far cry from a stained secondhand Stetson. Reluctantly she opened her eyes, forcing herself to give up the brief daydream.
His smile stole her breath again. Her chest tightened until it hurt. And then she saw her hand, as though it were no longer a part of her body, lying against his bare skin, his hardening nipple pressing into the center of her palm.
She gasped, snatched her hand back and squeezed her eyes shut tight. Humiliation burned in her cheeks. How had this happened? How had she gotten so carried away? How could she ever look at him again?
She couldn’t. That’s all there was to it. Taking a blind step back, she felt around for her hat, ready to yank it out of his hand and run. She found a belt buckle instead. And it wasn’t hers.
“Oh, my God.” Her eyes flew open and she pulled back her hand as if she’d just touched a red-hot burner. “I didn’t mean to do that. I—I—” The heck with the hat. She started to turn to sprint for the door.
He stopped her with a firm hand. “Stay.”
“Not a chance.”
He hooked a finger under her chin and, when she tried to jerk away, he forced her head up. She closed her eyes and refused to meet the dark, steely blue of his gaze. If he laughed at her, sheikh or no sheikh, she’d slug him. She swore she would.
Warm breath tickled her cheek and her lids involuntarily lifted. “What are you doing?”
He lowered his mouth to hers and pressed a gentle kiss against her lips. When he pulled back, her throat closed at the look she saw in his eyes. She’d never seen a man look like that before, his pupils dilated so much that his eyes looked more black than blue. Maybe in the movies she’d seen it, but not in person, and certainly not directed at her. It made her feel all funny and squishy inside.
When his hold on her arm tightened she should have been frightened, but she was too fascinated by the way his jaw clenched, like Mickey’s did when he was really angry or excited and was trying to hold back from popping someone or doing something crazy. But this man wasn’t angry. He was…
She wasn’t quite sure what, but just watching him look at her made her embarrassingly damp in a place she didn’t expect.
“I didn’t say you could kiss me,” she said without the slightest hint of conviction, and wondered what it would take for him to do it again. She’d only kissed three boys before today, and none of those times seemed to count anymore.
His mouth lifted in a slight curve. “Had I asked, what would you have said?”
“No way.”
“May I kiss you again?”
“Okay.”
His smile broadened a little and Livy swallowed, not sure what she should do. Was she supposed to pucker up, or wait until he lowered his head again? Was it all right to lay her hand on his chest? She liked the feel of his smooth taut skin, and figured if she was going to let him kiss her again, what difference did it make where her hand landed.
He relieved her of the decision by placing her arms around his neck. Her breasts flattened against him and her head got a little fuzzy. The sudden shocking wish that they were bare skin to bare skin sobered her a little and she stiffened.
Stroking her back, he whispered something in a strange language. When she tilted her head back to look at him, he said, “You have the most magnificent eyes.”
And then his gaze fell to her lips and she didn’t think she’d ever wanted anyone to kiss her more than she did at this very moment. A few feet away Khalid whinnied, and she vaguely recalled where she was, that she was supposed to be working, that Mickey or any of the others could walk in at any time. But she just couldn’t pull herself away.
This was her dream come to life—a handsome Prince Charming, words and looks that made her feel wanted and beautiful, and her need was so great, she brazenly stretched up to meet her fantasy.
His lips weren’t so gentle this time. Her breath caught at the almost savage way he crushed her to him, as though he were being driven by some unknown force. The intensity both frightened and thrilled her. It was like something out of the movies, or in those romance books she sometimes read.
When his tongue slid along the seam of her lips, slowly applying pressure, looking for entry, she tensed again. Long enough for sanity to surface, and she pulled her arms from around his neck and shoved him back.
He looked dazed for a moment, and then he frowned. “You did not want my kiss?”
She rubbed her arms. “I’m not sure.” She did, and she didn’t. Mostly it was her own reaction that upset her. But the look of shock on his face eased her tension and she chuckled.
“Don’t take it personally. It’s just that I’m not very—” She clamped her mouth shut. The truth about her lack of experience was far more than he needed to know.
“I think I’d better go get that stain out of your shirt.” She turned to leave, but stopped when he touched her hair.
Her hair!
Flattening her palms against her scalp, she groaned. She knew darn well how her hair looked after removing her hat. What in the world was she thinking?
She wasn’t thinking. That was the problem. This man had her all tied up in knots. She liked living and working at the Desert Rose. Finally she’d found a place where she felt she belonged, where she was truly one of the team. But if anyone walked in and found them, in a second it could all be over.
Before she knew what was happening, he pulled her hands away from her head. “Why do you hide?” he asked, rubbing some strands of hair between his fingers. “Your hair is the color of honey. It could be very beautiful.”
She didn’t miss the “could be.” In a last-ditch effort not to look like a total hag, she fluffed out her bangs, ran her fingers through the crown as she took a couple of steps back.
“I still don’t know what to call you,” she mumbled.
He stared at her in that intense way she found so fascinating. As if no one else existed in the entire state of Texas. “Sharif.”
“Is that your first name?”
He nodded and reached for her hair again.
She ducked and patted it down. What in the heck did he find so interesting about a ratty clump of squashed hair? Given the chance, she’d trade her new pocketknife for a mirror about now. “Does everyone call you Sharif? Or do you have a nickname?”
He frowned and absently scratched his chest, a movement she found so ridiculously exciting that she had to take a deep breath. “Why do you Americans have this obsession with nicknames? Is it not enough to be called the name given you by your mother?”
She made a face. “Sometimes a shorter name sounds more friendly, I suppose.”
“Your mother, did she call you Livy?”
“I don’t
