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And oddly familiar.
It’s not Raif. Are you mad? You have to forget about him, at least for tonight.
Goosebumps ran riot over her skin. Which was strange. It was a warm late-summer evening and there was no breeze to speak of.
‘Mr Khan,’ the assistant called from behind her. ‘I have located Ms Salah for you.’
The music and laughter and the hum of polite conversation was drowned out by the thud of her own heartbeat and the low rumble of the traffic along the Embankment as she walked towards the donor with the assistant at her side.
Her heels echoed in the night, but her heartbeat became deafening. Even his stance reminded her of Raif. So proud, so arrogant. His close-cropped black hair shone blue in the lights from the reception.
He hadn’t turned, and she wondered if he was annoyed she had arrived a little late as his stance seemed tense. Not a great start to this schmoozing initiative.
She swallowed down the strange feeling of unreality as she approached him, but the goosebumps continued to run riot over the bare skin of her arms. And a heavy weight sank low into her abdomen. Hadn’t he heard the assistant?
‘Mr Khan, I’m so sorry I’m late,’ she said.
The man turned at last, bringing his face into the light. And dark chocolate eyes bored into her soul.
Recognition slammed into her and she staggered to a stop.
A giddy rush of desire followed as she devoured his rugged features, the thick brows drawn into a sharp line, the clean-shaven jaw revealing the tense muscle bunching in his cheek.
It can’t be him. I’m hallucinating.
Her hand covered her stomach as if she could shield the child already growing inside her from the shock.
His shuttered gaze roamed over her, entitled, assured, alight with barely suppressed fury… And undisguised desire.
Her breath cut off, the weight plunging down to throb and ache in the sweet spot between her thighs. Her already tender breasts squeezed into hard peaks, her nipples thrusting against the satin.
‘Raif?’ Her mouth formed the word, while everything inside her rebelled.
The assistant began to make the introductions but she couldn’t hear a word of what the eager young man was saying. And it seemed neither could Raif, his gaze fixed firmly on her burning face.
He’s not real. He can’t be. This isn’t happening.
How could the Desert Prince be standing in front of her, handsome and indomitable and completely at home at an elite high-society reception in the heart of London, his pristine white shirt making his skin look even darker?
His lips lifted on one side in a sarcastic half-smile, both sensual and brittle. And the memories she had been holding so carefully at bay for four weeks bombarded her all at once.
‘Hello, Kasia.’ His rough, accented voice scraped over every one of her nerve endings.
The assistant stopped talking abruptly, then cleared his throat. ‘Mr Khan, I had no idea you already knew Ms Salah.’
What are you doing here?
Her mind screamed. The painful breath left her lungs as she struggled to engage with the evidence of her eyes.
This was Raif, but not as she had known him. This man was still the Desert Prince, she could feel his strength, his authority, still pulsing under his skin, barely contained. But he looked as comfortable in the tailored suit as he had on an Arabian stallion.
‘We have met before,’ he said, stepping closer as he glanced at the assistant. ‘I wish to speak to Ms Salah in private, if that is all right with her,’ he said, his intense gaze challenging her to deny him this intimacy.
But how could she? He’d nearly died on her account. Racing across a desert to find her when he’d been gr
avely ill. And he was the father of her child.
‘Ms Salah?’ the assistant said, clearly confused now. ‘Is that all right with you?’
