The Sheikh's Pregnancy Proposal. Fiona BrandЧитать онлайн книгу.
slammed once, hard, as her dream world and the present fused.
The warrior.
That seemed the only adequate description. The man was tall enough that her gaze was firmly centered on his jaw. Heart pounding, she tilted her head and stared directly into the amber gleam of eyes that, for a split second, she fully expected to be as passionately focused on her as those of the warrior who had haunted her dream.
Her breath caught in the back of her throat as she recognized the man she had run into the previous day. The curious tension that had invested the dream drew every muscle taut as she took in black hair cut crisp and short, the blade-straight nose and the intriguing scar on his cheekbone. The planes and angles of his face were mouthwateringly clean-cut, although any sense of perfection was lost in the grim line of his jaw and the lash of the scar.
His brows drew together as if he recognized her and was trying to remember from exactly where. A split second later his gaze shuttered and she had to wonder if she’d imagined that moment of intense interest.
Or, on a more practical note, if he was married. As a single woman with years of dating experience, it would not be the first time she had been checked out by a man who then suddenly recalled that he was committed elsewhere.
His gaze dropped to her hands. “Are you all right? For a moment, I thought you might have cut yourself.”
The low, rough timbre of his voice, the cosmopolitan accent, was definitely European, but with a slow cadence that indicated he had spent time in the States. The accent, along with the short cut of his hair and the suit, added to the impression that had been forming, the only one that made sense—he was either an aide to the sheikh or a bodyguard. Given his muscular build, and the fact that he had arrived within seconds of her touching the sword, she would go with the security option.
She dredged up a smile and displayed her palms to show she wasn’t injured. “I’m fine, just a little startled the sword wasn’t secured. Especially since it belonged to Sheikh Kadin.”
For another heart-pounding moment his gaze seemed riveted on her mouth. “You’re right, the Wolf of Zahir would not have been so careless. I’ll have a word with the staff who set up the display.”
She dragged her gaze from the line of his jaw. “Oh no, really...it was completely my fault. I shouldn’t have touched the sword.” Shouldn’t have allowed herself to be distracted by her ancestor’s passionate love story when she needed to apply herself to establishing her own.
With an easy movement, he propped the weapon against the display board. As he did so an angled spotlight above gleamed over his damaged cheekbone, and cast a shadow over the inky curve of his lashes. Suddenly the dream warrior, as riveting as he had been, seemed too cosmetically perfect and lacking in personality. From memory, he had also been oddly compliant. In the way of dreams, he had done exactly what she had wanted, in contrast to this man who looked as seasoned and uncompromising as the Templar Knight who had originally wielded the sword.
To her surprise, instead of moving on, he held out his hand and introduced himself as Gabriel, Gabe for short.
Surprised at the informality and that he seemed to want to keep the conversation going, Sarah briefly gripped his hand as she supplied her name. Tingling warmth shot through her at the rough heat of his palm. “I’m a history teacher.”
She caught the flash of surprise in his expression and her mood dropped like a stone. He was tall, gorgeous, hot—as different from Graham as a dark lion from a tabby cat. Incredibly, he also seemed to be interested in her, and she had just ruined the outward impression of sexy sophistication she’d spent hours creating. If she’d had her wits about her she would have relegated her teaching occupation to some dusty dark hole and claimed an interest in travelling to exotic places.
“I’m guessing since you’re at the exhibition that it’s Templar history?”
Her mood dropped even further when she realized she now had to tell him how boring and prosaic her subjects were. “I specialize in the industrial revolution and the First and Second World Wars.” She let out a resigned breath, convinced they had nothing in common. “What about you?”
“Five years at Harvard. It was useful.”
Hope flared anew. “Harvard. That sounds like law, or business.”
“Business, I’m afraid.”
He sounded almost as apologetic as she had been. Her heart beat faster. Not a bodyguard then, despite the muscle. Perhaps he was one of the sheikh’s financial advisors. She was riveted by the thought that maybe all wasn’t lost.
Just as she was searching for some small talk, two Arabic men in suits joined them. The taller one, carrying a screwdriver, immediately set about refixing the bracket that had held the sword. The other suit, a plump man with a tag that proclaimed he was Tarik ben Abdel, the consulate administration manager, sent her a disapproving glance. He then button-holed Gabe and launched into a tirade in a liquid tongue she recognized as Zahiri.
Gabe cut him off with a flat, soft phrase, although Sarah was distracted from the exchange. Graham had appeared just yards away, head swiveling as if he had finally remembered to search for her. His gaze passed over her then shot back to linger on the hint of cleavage at the V of her dress. When he fished in his pocket for his cell phone and turned away, an irritated look on his face, she realized that, aside from checking out her chest, he had failed to recognize her.
Tarik, with a last disapproving glance at her, marched away, the second suit trailing behind. She noticed that the sword was once again affixed to the display.
Sarah was suddenly blazingly aware that the tall dark man hadn’t left as she had expected him to and that he was studying her with an enigmatic expression, as if he’d logged the exchange with Graham.
Still mortified at the fuss she’d created, she rushed to apologize. “I read the sign. I know I shouldn’t have touched the sword, that artifacts can be vulnerable to skin oils and salts—”
“Tarik wasn’t worried that the sword might be damaged. It survived the Third Crusade, so a fall onto soft carpet is hardly likely to cause harm. He was more concerned about the tradition that goes with the sword.”
Understanding dawned. If there had been a pre-eminent symbol of manhood in the Middle Ages, it had been the sword, and this had been a Templar sword. “Of course, the Templar vow of chastity.”
Amusement gleamed in his gaze. “And a superstition that a woman’s touch would somehow disable a warrior’s potency in battle.”
A curious warmth hummed through her as she realized that, as nerve-racking as the exchange had started out, she was actually enjoying talking to the most dangerously attractive man she had ever met. “Sounds more like a convenient way of shifting blame for a lackluster performance on the battlefield.”
“Possibly.” Gabe’s mouth kicked up at one corner, softening the line of his jaw and revealing the slightest hint of an indentation. “But, back then, on Zahir, if a woman handled a man’s sword, it was also viewed as a declaration of intent.”
Breath held, Sarah found herself waiting for the dimple to be more fully realized. “What if she was simply curious?”
His gaze locked with hers and a tension far more acute than any she had experienced in her dream flared to life. “Then the warrior might demand a forfeit. Although most of the Templars that landed on Zahir eventually gave up their vows.”
“Including the sheikh, who married.”
The cooling of his expression as she mentioned marriage was like a dash of cold water. For the second time she wondered if he was married. Disappointment cascaded through her at the thought. A glance at his left hand confirmed there was no ring, although that meant nothing. He could be married, with children, and never wear a ring.
A faint buzz emanated from his jacket pocket. With a frown that sent a dart of pleasure through her, because it conveyed that he didn’t want to be interrupted,