Christakis's Rebellious Wife(66)

By: Lynne Graham

She didn’t want to let him go, but she did. Her gaze fluttered over to the entry, where saw a wide-eyed Tiffany standing there, and one of the suit-clad men, who reached in and closed the door, leaving Sheridan alone with Mr. Rashid.

He sank down on one knee beside the couch and pressed a hand to her head. She knew what he would find. She was clammy and hot and she uttered a feeble protest. The door opened again and Tiffany appeared with a glass of ice water and a folded cloth.

Sheridan took it and sipped gratefully, letting the coolness wash through her as she closed her eyes and breathed. Someone put the cool cloth on her forehead and she reached up to clutch it because it felt so nice.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, holding the cloth and sipping the water, but when she finally opened her eyes and looked up, Mr. Rashid was still there, sitting across from her in one of the pretty Queen Anne chairs she’d bought from a local antiques shop. He looked ridiculous in it, far too big and masculine, but he also looked as if he didn’t care.

“What happened?” His voice was not as hard as it had been. She didn’t think he was capable of gentleness, and this was as close to it as he got.

“Too much stress, too many hormones, too much summer heat.” She shrugged. “Take your pick, Mr. Rashid. It could be any of them.”

He muttered something in Arabic and then he was looking at her, his burning gaze penetrating deep. There was frost in his voice. “Miss Sloane, I think you misunderstand something about what’s going on here.”

Her heart skipped. Why was he so beautiful? And why was he such a contrast? He was fire and ice in one person. Hot eyes, cold heart. It almost made her sad. But why should it? She did not know him, and what she did know so far hadn’t endeared him to her. “Do I?”

“Indeed. I am not Mr. Rashid.”

“Then who are you?”

He looked haughty and her stomach threatened to heave again. Because there was something familiar about that face, she realized. She’d seen it on the news a few weeks ago.

He spoke, his voice clear and firm and lightly accented. “I am King Rashid bin Zaid al-Hassan, the Great Protector of my people, the Lion of Kyr and Defender of the Throne. And you, Miss Sloane, may be carrying my heir.”

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