Sheridan found herself slumping against the counter, her eyes glued to this man’s face while the rest of the room began to darken and fade. “D-did you say king? They gave me a king’s sperm?”
She pressed a shaky hand to her forehead. Her throat was dry, so dry. And her belly wanted to heave. She’d thought this couldn’t possibly get worse. She’d been wrong. She swallowed the acidic bitterness and focused on the man before her.
“They did, Miss Sloane.”
Oh, my God. Her brain stopped working. She’d thought he was the one whose sperm she’d gotten—he’d said she had something of his, right?—but a king would not come to her shop and tell her these things. A king would also not look so dark and dangerous.
This was someone else. An official. Perhaps even an ambassador. Or an enforcer.
It was easy to believe this man could be hired muscle. He was tall and broad, and his eyes were chips of dark ice. His voice was frosty and utterly compelling. He had come to tell her about this king and to—to...?
She couldn’t imagine what he’d come here for. What he expected of her.
Sheridan worked hard to force out the words before the nausea overwhelmed her. “Please tell the king that I’m sorry. I understand how difficult this must be, but he’s not the only one affected. My sister—”
She pressed her hand to her mouth as bile rose in her throat. What would she say to Annie? Her fragile sister would implode, she just knew it.
“Sorry is not enough, Miss Sloane. It is not nearly enough.”
She swallowed the nausea. Her voice was thready when she spoke. “Then I don’t—”
“Are you quite all right?” He was beginning to look alarmed. A much more intriguing look than the angry one he’d been giving her a moment ago.
“I’m fine.” Except she didn’t feel fine. She felt hot and sweaty and sick to her stomach.
“You look green.”
“It’s the heat. And the hormones,” she added. She pushed away from the counter, her limbs shaking with the effort of holding herself upright. “I should sit down, I think.”
She started to take a step, but her knees didn’t want to function quite right. Mr. Rashid—or whatever his name was—lashed out and wrapped an arm around her. She found herself wedged tightly against a firm, hard, warm body. Her nerve endings started to crackle and snap with fresh heat.
It was too much, too much, and yet she couldn’t get away. Briefly, a small corner of her brain admitted that she didn’t want to get away.
He spoke, his voice seeming farther away than before. The words were beautiful, musical, but he did not seem to be speaking them to her. And then he swept her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing and strode across her store on long legs. Her office door opened and he went and sat her down on the small couch she kept for meeting with clients.
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. Be
cause there was something familiar about that face, she realized. She’d seen it on the news a few weeks ago.