Hidden In the Sheikh's Harem by Michelle Conder

She was the daughter of his enemy and wanting it to be otherwise was just a fool’s errand.
    â€˜Why are you looking at me like that?’
    The words could have come from a petulant teenager to a parent and he shook his head. ‘Because I didn’t expect to find you so beautiful.’
    A pink flush rose along her cheekbones and she dampened her lips. By Allah...
    â€˜You’re just saying that to try and lull me so that I won’t try to escape again,’ she said.
    No, he hadn’t been, he thought grimly, but now he knew that she intended to do so—even though he had trusted her when she’d agreed to cooperate with him earlier—and he felt like an idiot. ‘You know that gold sash draped so artfully around your waist?’ he asked.
    She raised her pointy little chin at him. ‘What of it?’
    He leant in so close her scent filled him. ‘You take one step in the wrong direction tonight and I’ll wrap it around your elegant throat and use it as a leash.’
    * * *
    Oh! Farah felt like screaming. One minute she was enjoying his company and the next she hated him again. But his comment had been a good reminder that she was not, in fact, his guest at this wedding, but his prisoner, and she had her own agenda: escape!
    Smiling dutifully at the little group they had joined, she watched the covetous glances the women—the very
married
women—gave the prince. Instinct no doubt told them that the reason he was so completely at ease in his own skin was because he was a man who had known pleasure—and had given it.
    A hot flush swept up her neck and she raised her hand to mask it. What she wouldn’t give to be back in her little hut and arguing with her father about why she didn’t want to get married. It seemed so much more simple than parading around with a man who disturbed her on so many levels.
    â€˜I said stop fidgeting.’ He cupped her elbow as he directed her away from the avid faces of their small group. ‘How are your feet?’
    â€˜Hobbled. Yours?’
    He chuckled. ‘You’re delightful.’
    She scowled. ‘I’m not trying to be.’
    â€˜I know. Dance with me.’
    Not expecting that request, she wasn’t ready when he slid a hand to her lower back, his gaze hot on hers when she glanced up at him. ‘I don’t dance.’
    He considered her for a long moment. ‘Don’t or can’t?’ he asked shrewdly.
    Farah felt another flush heat her cheeks. ‘I...’ she began, only to stop as he cast her a crooked grin.
    â€˜Can’t, then,’ he concluded, turning her towards him. ‘Don’t look so outraged,
habiba
, I will teach you.’
    A shiver went through Farah as he moved in closer, his warmth hitting her like a wall. Then his spicy scent made her head foggy. This was so not a good idea. Especially when he was right: she couldn’t dance. She’d never thought about learning before, preferring to watch from the sidelines. She hadn’t thought about sex much, either, but since meeting the prince it was the single most dominating thought that occupied her time. If he’d been an ordinary man in her village or a neighbouring one, who was considerate of her needs, she might have thought about exploring the chemistry that made her stomach flutter and her insides feel liquid, but he was Zachim, Prince of Bakaan, and he was cut from the same controlling cloth as their fathers.
    â€˜Not interested,’ she said, trying to ignore the little voice in her head that said dancing with him would be fun. Riding Moonbeam full pelt through the desert was fun. Sitting by the fireside dreaming up impossible adventures with her friends was fun. Dancing with Prince Zachim would not be fun. It would be out-and-out dangerous.
    As if reading her mind, he gave her a devastating half smile. ‘Come on. You know you want to.’
    And there was that innate arrogance of his