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Anger flowed through her, to cover the cruel cut of inadequacy.
The urge to slap his face was swift and undeniable.
She’d be damned if she’d let Patrick Quinn make her feel like dirt again, when he was the one who had cheated on her. But as she jerked her hand loose from his embrace, a roar from behind had them both turning.
‘Get your hands off my fiancée.’
Karim cut through the swathe of dancers like Moses parting the Red Sea. The fury on his face sent a shot of adrenaline through her system so swift it made her light-headed.
The too tight band of Patrick’s arms released her so suddenly she stumbled.
Karim grabbed her elbow, his hand firm and dry as he drew her close and prevented her from falling on her face.
The giddy rush that had been messing with her equilibrium all evening surged up her torso, but as his gaze roamed over her—assessing her well-being as if he actually cared for her—it became even harder to deny, or control.
‘Are you okay?’ he demanded, his voice low with barely leashed fury. ‘Did he hurt you? I saw him grab you, but I couldn’t get to you fast enough.’
‘No… I’m fine,’ she said.
Patrick—who had always been a coward—had already fled.
Was this all part of their act tonight? The possessive Crown Prince, defending the honour of his new fiancée? She tried to convince herself, as she became aware of all the guests staring at them, but her pulse refused to cooperate, the giddy tattoo hammering against her ribcage as his gaze remained focussed solely on her. Almost as if he couldn’t see anyone else. Which was madness, clearly, but no less intoxicating all the same.
How long had it been since anyone had looked out for her? Had taken account of her welfare? Had cared enough about her to ride to her rescue as Karim Khan just had?
‘Wait here,’ he said, the terrifying moment of connection lost as he let her arm go. ‘I’m going to teach that bastard a lesson he won’t soon forget.’
‘No, don’t, Karim,’ she said, grasping hold of his forearm, shocked when the muscle tensed beneath the sleeve of his jacket, sending a heady dart of delirious pleasure into her sex.
How could she be turned on? When this was a complete and utter disaster? Not only were they making a massive scene, but she was starting to lose her grip on reality. Not good.
‘Pat’s not worth it,’ she added.
The frown became catastrophic again. ‘Do you know that bastard?’
For a moment she debated lying to him. The last thing she wanted to do right now was talk about the man who had discarded her so callously all those years ago, when this man was making her feel even more needy. But she forced herself to tell him the truth.
‘Yes. He’s Patrick Quinn, the man I was engaged to,’ she murmured, averting her face.
The light-headedness dropped into her stomach and turned her knees to wet noodles. A cold wave of shock mixed with the nerves to make the nausea rise up her throat as the reaction to Pat’s assault set in.
‘You’re shaking.’ Karim’s deep voice seemed to come from miles away. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ she blurted out.
‘To hell with this,’ he murmured, and she was scooped off the floor and into his arms.
‘What are you doing?’ she managed, as the scary feeling of being protected, cocooned, cherished wrapped around her torso.
It’s not real, don’t romanticise it.
But even as she tried to convince herself, she turned her face into his chest, to escape from the curious glances, the intrusive stares, that reminded her so much of that miserable April day when she’d had to announce to the engagement party her engagement was over.
‘Getting us the hell out of here,’ he growled as he marched through the crowd.
She pressed her nose into his collarbone, clung to his neck, and inhaled to give herself the moment she needed.
She breathed in his tantalising scent. The seductive aroma of soap and man cleared away the rancid smell of sweat and whisky.
