The Desert King's Virgin Bride. Sharon KendrickЧитать онлайн книгу.
was something in his tone which was making her feel quite peculiar but it was also a tone which broached no argument—and at that precise moment Sorrel felt about sixteen again.
Until she looked into the dark mastery of his eyes and realised that he had never looked at her like that when she was sixteen—with a combination of simmering fury and something else which she didn’t dare start to analyse, because it was only threatening to make her light-headedness worse.
So she closed the door and then stood looking up at him, a hopeful expression on her face. Maybe he had finished venting his wrath, and now that he had would quietly forgive her.
But there was no forgiveness on the dark, rugged face with its alluring shadows cast by his amazing bone structure—nor in the almost fevered glitter of his ebony eyes. His features were set in a stony mask, and then Sorrel realised what it was about him which had made him look so different when she’d first opened the door.
He was wearing a suit!
Sorrel swallowed. She had never seen him wearing anything other than his traditional robes—which seemed less like clothes and more like an extension of him—and this new and different Malik took a little getting used to. Somehow it made her feel uncomfortable to look at him in such traditionally Western clothing, and at first she couldn’t quite work out why.
The pale grey trousers did not exactly cling to the hard sinew of his legs, but they certainly emphasised the muscular length of his thighs—just as the jacket highlighted the broad shoulders and torso, tapering to a narrow waist and hips.
An open-necked shirt gave her the faintest glimpse of a whorl of crisp black hair at his chest, and Sorrel felt faint as she realised just what it was that was making her feel so uncomfortable—the Western clothes accentuated his masculinity in a way which his Kharastani robes never had. Those merely hinted at the body which lay beneath—but now, for the first time ever, she could actually see it.
‘Look at you,’ he said softly, and Sorrel’s eyes widened—for it seemed that he was as taken aback by her appearance as she was by his. Was he actually going to compliment her? she wondered, as she heard that husky note in his voice. But from the oblique look in his black eyes it was impossible to tell.
He let his gaze rake over her—slowly—in a way he had never done before. But then she had never provided him with the inclination to. Yet the outfit she wore tonight virtually screamed Look at me!—so who could blame him if he did?
It was not a Sorrel he recognised—in a dress that skimmed her tanned thighs, which gleamed faintly like oiled silk, and beneath the filmy fabric he could see the lush movement of her breasts. The shimmer of her hair—like pale, spun gold—cascaded in a gleaming waterfall down her back. But it was not simply the blatant display of her body which had made him stare at her in disbelief—but the make-up which so marred her beauty.
Yes, the sweep of black mascara curving her long lashes made her blue eyes look enormous in her heart-shaped face, and the gleam of lipstick made the petal-softness of her lips even more provocative. But where was her innocent beauty gone?
Had it gone?
Malik felt his heart slam against his ribcage, and a feeling halfway between rage and despair as he moved his face closer to hers.
‘So, did you achieve your aim, Sorrel?’ he questioned unsteadily.
What riddle was this he was testing her with? Sorrel wondered. But she wanted to do something—anything—to remove that obdurate look of anger from his face, and so she played along.
‘What aim?’ she questioned back.
The slam of his heart increased. ‘Did you dress like a…tramp in order to lose your virginity to the first man who would take you?’
Lose her virginity? Sorrel swayed. Only this time it had nothing to do with the wine but with sheer, disbelieving anguish that Malik could utter such damning words of criticism against her and look at her with such contempt.
Fiercely, she bit her lip, and the self-inflicted pain brought her up sharply—what right did he have to chastise her in such a way? He had been her guardian, yes, and a remarkably good one for many years. But the years had now passed and his little bird had flown the nest—and she would not be insulted like that for behaving just as any other young woman of the same age would do.
‘I am not dressed like a tramp!’ she defended.
‘Really? That is a matter of opinion.’ He saw the way her breasts jiggled when she moved—like some damned belly dancer! Controlling his angry breathing only with a monumental effort, he flicked her a disdainful look. ‘And you haven’t answered my question!’
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