Hidden In the Sheikh's Harem by Michelle Conder Page B

girl, with all the sophistication of a desert mouse. Why, he must have had the most sophisticated lovers in the world. Women like the ones that peppered the wedding and gazed at him with a deep longing. A deep longing Farah never wanted to feel for anyone.
    Suddenly feeling claustrophobic, she surprised them both by pulling out of his arms. Wanting Prince Zachim was a betrayal to her father and to everything she wanted for herself: self-sufficiency, independence.
Self-respect
. ‘I need to use the bathroom,’ she said, furious all over again.
    â€˜I’ll take you.’
    Of course he would, and it was a welcome reminder that she wasn’t really a wedding guest but a captive. And she no longer cared about his threats if she tried to escape.
    Inside the bathroom there were no windows or back doors so she finished up quickly and returned to the ballroom with him, alert now to where the guards were.
    A few men dressed in Western attire came over and talked to the prince and he turned to engage in conversation. Farah half listened and smiled politely, as if she were part of the group when she wasn’t. She noticed a small knot of women standing close by and realised they were the partners of the men talking and she was the only woman in this group—a lone gazelle in a pride of male lions.
    She didn’t bother getting the prince’s permission before making her way over to them. Let him stop her if he dared. It wasn’t for her to decide how long the leash was and, although earlier she had not doubted he’d tie her dress cord around her neck as punishment for defying him, she knew now that he wouldn’t jeopardise his brother’s wedding by causing a scene. He wasn’t
that
uncivilised.
    When one of the women she was only half listening to complained she was hot, Farah could have hugged her.
    Taking charge, she suggested they walk on the terrace. Lush gardenias and roses scented the warm evening air but Farah was only interested in where the exit points were.
    Cursing the torture devices on her feet, she realised she would have to leave them behind, Cinderella-like, if she got a chance to escape. Only she would be leaving both behind and she didn’t want the prince to come after her. Ever.
    Making her apologies to the women, she quickstepped down the stone steps as if she knew exactly where she was going and skirted the plethora of plants in the verdant garden. Clearly water restrictions did not apply inside the palace—another black mark against the Darkhan family.
    A large stone wall covered in a passion-fruit vine loomed in front of her and she paused to get her bearings.
    â€˜The gate is about fifty metres to your left,’ the prince drawled from behind her.
    Farah groaned softly and expelled all the air in her body. ‘I got hot.’
    â€˜Really?’ His eyebrow rose. ‘And I thought that was only while we were dancing.’
    Oh!
‘A simple enough mistake to make for a man with your sized ego.’ She smiled sweetly, giving up all pretence of cooperating with him. What did it matter? He wouldn’t let her get away from him now.
    His eyes gleamed, no doubt taking her response as some sort of challenge. ‘You had goose bumps.’
    She hated that ring of confidence in his voice. ‘Maybe I was cold,’ she retorted.
    He grinned. ‘Now, we both know that’s not true.’
    His suggestive tone grated along every one of her nerve endings. ‘Oh, to be so sure of yourself.’
    â€˜You know,’ he began conversationally. ‘I almost want you to make a run for it so that I can use that cord on you after all.’
    Farah’s hand strayed to her neck. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
    â€˜Oh, I’d dare, Miss Hajjar. Remember, I’m a barbarian prince.’
    â€˜Your brother—’
    â€˜Is about to leave with his new wife.’
    Farah swallowed. He moved in closer and the urge to take flight warred