‘Not from people I barely know!’ Rose heard herself saying, with uncharacteristic abruptness.

Only the merest elevation of a jet eyebrow which matched the thick abundance of his black hair gave any indication that he considered her reply offhand. It was clear that people did not speak to him in this way, as a rule.

He gave an almost regretful smile. ‘Then you should not dress so fetchingly, should you? You should have covered yourself in something which concealed you from head to foot,’ he told her softly, jet eyes moving slowly from the top of her head to the tip of her pink-painted toenails. ‘It is all your own fault.’

Even more uncharacteristically, Rose felt colour begin to seep heatedly into her cheeks. She rarely blushed! In her job she dealt with high-powered strangers every single day of her working life, and none of them had had the power to have her standing like this. Like some starstruck adolescent.

‘Isn’t it?’ he prompted, on a sultry murmur.

Rose blinked. She had dressed up, yes—but it was a wedding, wasn’t it? And every single other woman in the room had gone to town today, just as she had.

A floaty little slip-dress made of sapphire silk-chiffon. The same colour as her eyes, or so the cooing sales assistant had told her. And flirty little sandals with tiny kitten heels. She’d bought those in a stinging pink colour, deliberately not matching her dress. But then matching accessories were so pass'e—even the saleswoman had agreed with that. No hat. She hated confining her thick blonde hair beneath a hat—particularly on a day as hot as this one. Instead, she had ordered a dewy and flamboyant orchid from the nearby florists, in a paler-colour version of the shoes she wore. She’d pinned it into her hair, but she suspected that very soon it would start wilting.

Just as she would, if this exotic man continued to subject her to such a calculating, yet lazy look of appraisal.

She decided to put a stop to it right then and there, extending her hand and giving him a friendly-but-slightly-distant smile. ‘Rose Thomas,’ she said.

He took the hand in his and then looked down at it, and Rose found her eyes hypnotically drawn in the same direction, shocked by her reaction to what she saw. Her skin looked so very white against the dark olive of his and there seemed to be something compellingly erotic about such a distinctive contrast of flesh.

She tried to pull her hand away, but he held tight onto it, and as she drew her indignant gaze upwards it was to find the black eyes fixed on her mockingly.

‘And do you know who I am, Rose Thomas?’ he questioned silkily.

It was a moment of truth. She could feign ignorance, it was true. But wouldn’t a man like this have been up against pretence and insincerity for most of his life?

‘Of course I know who you are!’ she told him crisply. ‘This is the only wedding I’ve ever been to where a real-life prince has been acting as best man—and I imagine it’s the same for most of the other people here, too!’

He smiled, and as she saw the slight relaxation of his body Rose took the opportunity to remove her hand from his.

Khalim felt the stealthy beat of desire as she resisted him. ‘What’s the matter?’ He gave her an expression of mock-reproach. ‘Don’t you like me touching you, Rose Thomas?’

‘Do you normally go around touching women you’ve only just met?’ she demanded incredulously. ‘Is that a favour which your title confers on you?’

The beat increased as he acknowledged her fire. Resistance was so rarely put in the way of his wishes that it had the effect of increasing them tenfold. He saw the clear blue brilliance of her eyes. No, a hundredfold, he thought and felt his throat thicken.

He gave a shrug. A little-boy look—the black eyes briefly appealing. It was a look that had always worked very well at his English boarding-school, especially with women. ‘You took my hand,’ he protested. ‘You know you did!’

Rose forced a laugh. This was ridiculous! They were sparring over nothing more than a handshake! And Khalim was Guy’s friend. Sabrina’s friend. She owed it to them to show him a little more courtesy than this. ‘Sorry.’ She smiled. ‘I’m a little overwrought.’

‘Is it a man?’ he shot out, and before she had time to think about the implications she shook her head.

‘What an extraordinary conclusion to jump to!’ she protested, but the admonishment made no difference.

‘What, then?’ he persisted.

‘Work, actually,’ she said.

‘Work?’ he demanded, as though she had just said a foreign word.

But then maybe to him it was a foreign word. A man like Prince Khalim had probably never had to lift his hand in work. ‘Just a busy week.’ She shrugged. ‘A busy month—a busy year!’ She sipped the last of her champagne and gave him a look of question. ‘I’m getting myself another one of these—how about you?’