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Mmm-mmm-mmm. He looked spectacular. You had to give him that. The tabloids were right. The man was gorgeous. They had his eye-color wrong, though. It wasn’t gray. The color reminded her of charcoal. Or slate.
Or storm clouds. That’s how cold those eyes were as they fixed on her.
There was no mistaking that expression. He didn’t like her. Not in the slightest. Jerry must have told him she’d been a problem.
So be it.
I don’t like you, either, she thought coolly, and couldn’t resist raising her glass in mocking salute before she turned away.
Why care what the sheikh thought? Why care what Jerry thought? Why care what anybody thought? She had her own life to live, her own independence to enjoy—
“Miss O’Connell,” a deep voice said.
Megan swung around. The sheikh was coming toward her, his walk slow, deliberate and masculine enough to make her heart bump up into her throat, which was silly. There was nothing to be afraid of, except losing her job, and that wouldn’t happen if she used her head.
He reached her side. Oh, yes. He was definitely easy on the eyes. Tall, lean, the hint of a well-muscled body under that expensive suit.
D and D, she thought, and her heart gave another little bump. What she and Bree always joked about.
Dark and Dangerous.
He gave her what the people at the other end of the room would surely think was a smile. It wasn’t. That look in his eyes was colder than ever, cold enough to make the hair rise on the nape of her neck. How could such a gorgeous man be such a mean son of a bitch?
Megan drew herself up. “Your Mightiness.”
His eyes bored into hers again. Then he lifted his hand. That was all. No wave, no turning around, nothing but that upraised hand. It was enough. Someone said something—her boss, maybe
, or one of the sheikh’s henchmen—and people headed for the door.
Scant seconds later, the room was empty.
Megan smiled sweetly. “Must be nice, being emperor of the universe.”
“It must be equally nice, not caring what people think of you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
His gaze moved over her, from her hair to her toes and then back up again. “You’re drunk.”
“I am not.”
“Put down that glass.”
Megan’s eyebrows. “What?”
“I said, put the glass down.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Someone should have told you what to do a long time ago,” he said grimly. “Then you’d know better than to try to threaten me.”
“Threaten you? Are you insane? I most assuredly did not—”
“For the last time, Miss O’Connell, put the glass down.”
Megan’s jaw shot forward. “For the last time, oh mighty king, stop trying to order me ar—”
Her words ended in a startled yelp as Sheikh Qasim al Daud al Rashid, King of Suliyam and Absolute Ruler of his People, picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder and marched from the room.
