To Touch a Sheikh by Olivia Gates

rest, yelping as it scalded her, then did the same thing again and again.
    After a moment of watching her ravenous demonstration, he said, “It’s nutmeg, chives, garlic, lime shavings and sumac. But you’ll understand if I don’t reveal the exact ratio.”
    â€œWhat good would that be, if I don’t know the counter-concoction?”
    He gave her a mock-conceding nod, began to eat.
    She’d attended banquets he’d organized in the past, forgetting to eat as she lost herself in the pleasure of watching his feline focus and fastidiousness. She suspected he used the absorption in his meal to discourage interaction.
    She couldn’t let it discourage her now.
    â€œThank you.”
    She felt her whisper hit him like a jolt of electricity.
    He hid his start in a rising movement, took his bowl to the sink, throwing over his shoulder, “Nothing to thank me for.”
    â€œJust the inconsequential matter of saving my life.”
    â€œIt was incidental to saving my own.”
    â€œSomeone else could have thought taking me along would lessen their chance of survival.”
    â€œI’m the Mad Prince, not the Craven one.”
    â€œWe both know you’d go to any lengths to save someone’s life, at the possible price of your own. You did that during that bomb scare. You’re the Hero Prince, too, even if you would rather be steamrolled than called that.”
    His eyes flared. He’d never given her a chance to bring up the bomb scare before.
    She knew why. Not because her side of the story would destroy the reputation he worked so hard to cultivate. The incident was widely known, yet people dismissed the evidence of his heroism and chose to believe what he wanted them tobelieve—that he wouldn’t lift a finger to save someone drowning at his feet.
    It was because he wouldn’t acknowledge what had happened between them during and after the incident. He wanted to forget the turning point they’d almost reached. Good luck with that. She’d never forget.
    He finally smirked. “Watch where you wave those euphemisms. You’ll hurt yourself.”
    â€œOh, just accept my thanks, Amjad. I promise, you won’t hurt yourself if you do.”
    â€œIf it’ll make you drop those fanciful interpretations of my actions and character, by all means.” He bowed in mock chivalry. “You honor me with your gratitude and good opinion, Princess Aal Wicked. I’ll do whatever it takes to prove I’m not worthy.”
    As she chuckled, he turned, started brewing coffee, tossed back at her, “Now that the interesting part of this escapade is over, we begin the dull part of being safe and bored out of our minds.”
    â€œTrust me when I say this,” she said. “With both of us here, boredom is a literal impossibility.”
    â€œBoor-dom isn’t, so that leaves me hope.”
    She laughed again. He wasn’t giving an inch. Which would make it more worthwhile when he gave all seventy-seven of his inches.
    A minute later, his back still to her, he said, “I called your father.”
    Maram started. She’d forgotten about her father, let alone about reassuring him. “Oh, thanks. He must have been worried sick.”
    â€œNo.” He walked back, put the mug in front of her without looking at her. “He hadn’t had news of the sandstorm yet.”
    He took his mug to the laptop. Before he sat on the floor, booted it up and ignored her presence, he added, “I told him we’re safe here until the storm subsides.”
    And now that they were, Maram was in no hurry for that to happen.
    She’d wished for a couple of hours with him over two days. Now she would be secluded from the world with him, all day long, for as long as the sandstorm raged, long may it do so.
    She would use every minute to chip away at his condescending resistance and maddening distance. And she would do it.

Four
    H ow would he do