She wanted to see him, but not in too much detail, for she was terrified that she would disappoint him and prove as hopeless a lover as she had done before. He stood in front of her, surveying her with an unmoving face, the ebony glitter of his eyes and the rapid beat of the pulse at his temple the only outward sign of life. Her lips parted. ‘Rashid,’ she breathed threadily, hoping that he would not want more than this to signal her assent. He had told her that he would not beg—well, neither would she! He saw her raise her chin in defiance and he almost smiled at her gesture of pride. But the moment was far too intense for humour or for battles of will. Because the look in her eyes and the way she had whispered his name told him everything he needed to know. ‘Come to me, sweet Jenna,’ he commanded softly. ‘Come to your Sheikh.’ It was only a few steps, but her legs felt so weak that she feared they would not carry her that short distance. And only the fact that he was standing there, his eyes inviting her into his embrace, ensured that she found herself where she most wanted to be.
