Desert Sheikhs: Monarch of the Sands / To Tame a Sheikh / Sheikh Protector

Eventually, after she had spoken to a series of suspicious-sounding people who presumably okayed it with Zahid himself, an appointment had been made for her to see him. But instead of it being at the company headquarters, they’d given her the name of the hotel where he was staying. The famous Granchester hotel—the kind of place you only read about in the gossip columns of newspapers, or when a Hollywood superstar happened to be visiting town.

The elevator was so speedy that it made her feel a bit sick and Frankie couldn’t help but notice that her legs were splashed with icy water from the grim November day. She dabbed at them with a tissue pulled from her bag, but by the time the elevator slid to a halt and she rapped on the door of Zahid’s suite she felt even more chewed up with nerves. A feeling which was only increased when she heard his distinctive voice call: “Come!”

Her heart was pounding as she pushed open the door and for a moment she noticed nothing other than the fabulous works of art which lined the walls and the enormous windows overlooking some of the most expensive real estate in the world. The polished floor was as big as a football pitch and strewn with exquisite silken rugs. It was, she realised, the first time that she had ever been in his environment, and it was even more polished and intimidating than she’d thought it would be.

And now, walking in from a room which led off the main living area, came Zahid himself—his face unsmiling and not particularly welcoming as he looked at her. Was he angry that she had flung his job offer back in his face the other day? she wondered.

‘Hello, Francesca,’ he said. His narrowed black eyes were shuttered as he looked at her—taking in the raindrops which glittered like diamonds among the tousled strands of her dark hair. ‘You’d better take off your raincoat.’

Frankie saw that she was dripping rain onto the polished wood floor and so she struggled out of her coat, wondering if he might help her. But he simply watched as she removed it and then pointed to a coat-stand which stood next to the door. She cleared her throat as she looped the damp garment over the peg then turned round to face him. ‘It was good of you to see me, Zahid.’

There was the faintest elevation of his jet-dark brows. ‘I was surprised you wanted to—in view of our last meeting.’

She supposed she deserved that, just as she supposed he deserved an apology for the way she’d reacted to what he told her. Was that why he was being so cool towards her? So distant? ‘I was very … rude to you.’

He shrugged as if it didn’t matter, but, of course, it did—just not in the way she thought. In a funny sort of way he had been glad about her rudeness—because hadn’t it stopped him from ringing her to find out what had happened after she’d gone to confront Simon? He’d convinced himself that it would have been all about self-interest if he’d done so. And told himself that he should stay away from her—for both their sakes. Yes, he had opened her eyes to the fact that she had been involved with some pathetic fortune-hunter—but now that she was presumably free of him, it should have no impact on his life.

Because hadn’t he been disturbed by the rush of lust he’d felt while carrying her into the house? And hadn’t the thoughts he’d had about her subsequently made him realise that she had grown up into a subtle kind of beauty—and that it would be better for both of them if he kept his distance from her? Wasn’t that the reason why he hadn’t helped her with her coat, because he was reluctant to be tempted by her soft scent and even softer skin?

‘Don’t worry about your rudeness, Francesca—it’s forgotten,’ he said coolly. ‘I probably would have felt exactly the same if the situation had been reversed.’

She watched as he walked across the room. She wanted to protest that such a scenario would never have happened—that Zahid was far too clever to be manipulated as she had been. But somehow the words dried in her throat and it was nothing to do with their relevance. No, it was the sight of him looking like some lithe jungle cat who seemed a little too elemental to be at home in these luxurious surroundings.

A silk shirt of palest ivory briefly brushed against the hard contours of his torso and clung like cream to the powerful line of his shoulders. Black trousers hugged at the narrow line of his hips and skated over the cradle of his masculinity. He had loosened his tie and a couple of buttons of his shirt and, catching a glimpse of the dark hair which was arrowing downwards, she felt her mouth dry.

He looked as if he had been engrossed in work and was now relaxing a little. It was a snapshot image of his own, private world—and even more daunting than his physical appearance was the realisation that Zahid had a complete and busy life of which she knew nothing. What was it like being a king? she wondered. Particularly if such a daunting office had been thrust on you out of the blue, as had happened to him. Had it changed him? It must have changed him.

Frankie licked the parchment-dry surface of her lips, trying to concentrate on reality, rather than hopeless fantasy. That was yet another great difference between them, she thought. He had a life, and she didn’t. Well, not any more—no job, a broken engagement and some broken dreams as well.

He slanted her a questioning look. ‘Why don’t you sit down, Francesca? Would you like some coffee? Or tea, perhaps?’

‘No. No, thanks.’ Sitting down felt too relaxed, too informal for what she was about to say—and so Frankie walked over to the massive windows on the pretext of enjoying the view. And for a moment, she didn’t have to pretend. There was the London Eye—its massive circle framing the Houses of Parliament and iconic clock-face of Big Ben. ‘Oh, wow,’ she said.

‘Picture-postcard stuff, isn’t it?’ he offered drily, looking at the stiff set of her shoulders and the hair which today was hanging neatly down her back. Her hand was bare of an engagement ring and she was wearing a navy dress which, despite its plainness, still managed to emphasise every amazing curve of her healthy young body. His eyes focused on the luscious swell of her bottom and her long, shapely legs and he found himself thinking some dark and very erotic thoughts until he reminded himself that this was Francesca. Francesca O’Hara, his childhood friend.

‘So is this a social call?’ he questioned thickly.

She turned around. Was that his way of saying that he was busy? That he might have sat and drunk tea on her territory many times, but on his she was only permitted a very small window in his own busy schedule.

‘No. It’s not.’ He was staring at her, not saying anything, and once again she felt frozen out. Gone was the ease which had always existed between them, even during that last, emotionally charged meeting.

She had thought that he’d be eager to hear about her confrontation with Simon. But she had been wrong. There had been no phone call to ask what had happened and even now, face to face, there was only a polite indifference as to why she had come today. Here in the luxury hotel suite, she was simply someone from his past. The daughter of an old friend—in the presence of a very powerful, royal personage. And she was probably wasting his time.

‘So if it isn’t social, then why exactly are you here?’ he queried coolly.

For a moment she felt tempted to make some lame excuse and to walk away, leaving her with her dignity intact and not running the risk of him saying no to what she was going to ask him. Wouldn’t that be easier?

But wasn’t it exactly that kind of grabbing at the easy option which had made it laughingly simple for Simon to make a fool of her?

‘I was wondering if I could take you up on that offer you made?’ She noticed that his body had tensed and her words stumbled over themselves to give him a reasonable get-out clause. ‘You … you mentioned something about giving me a role within your organisation. But if you’ve changed your mind, then I quite understand.’

‘It’s you who seems to have changed your mind, Francesca—since you were adamant that you didn’t want any kind of role in my organisation,’ he returned silkily. ‘Would you care to tell me why?’

She swallowed. It was hateful having to relive scenes she’d sooner forget—and more than a little disappointing that Zahid should have asked her for some sort of explanation. Had she thought that instantly he would become malleable and go along with her wishes as he had done when she’d been growing up? But she was no longer asking him to carry her around on his shoulders or rescue her shuttlecock from the branches of a tree. She needed a far more grown-up favour from him than that.

‘I went to see Simon—and he …’ Briefly, Frankie closed her eyes as she remembered the ugly showdown. Simon’s initial blustering denial and then his sneer when he realised he was cornered. He’d said a few things she would never forget—about the fact that she was about as alluring as a plate of cold porridge and it had been no hardship not to bed her. He told her she was a fool if she thought that Zahid having him followed meant anything other than that the sheikh was an interfering control freak. And that she certainly shouldn’t start reading anything into it. That a man like that might play with her for a while and then discard her like last year’s calendar.

And she wasn’t reading anything into Zahid’s interference, she told herself fiercely. She hadn’t even considered that a man like him might be interested in ‘playing’ with someone like her. He was simply looking out for her, that was all—the way he always had done in the past.

‘He what, Francesca?’ prompted Zahid.

‘He made me realise that I needed to take a good look at my life,’ she said.

And hadn’t she decided that her doomed affair with Simon ought to have some lasting effect other than making her feel like a fool and a failure? That it was time to stop letting things happen to her and to have the courage to reach out to try to grasp them for herself. Wasn’t that the reason why she’d plucked up the courage to come here today—even though her heart had been skittering with nerves from the moment she’d left home?

‘I realised that I’d worked myself into a bit of a deadend,’ she continued slowly. ‘That my life was going nowhere.’

Curiously, Zahid looked at her, remembering the little girl in her father’s laboratory who had been given her own space on the bench, with her own test tubes and an oversized white coat to wear. ‘I thought you wanted to be a scientist, like your father,’ he said slowly.

Frankie shook her head. ‘I was never as talented as he was. But I loved it—that’s why I used to hang around the lab so much when I was young. And when he got ill my school work suffered—not that I’d ever particularly been happy at school.’ She’d been too easy a target for the cruel-tongued girls who loved to mock the odd-looking child whose flighty mother had brought such shame on the family.

‘And then there was the house and the garden to look after,’ she added. Life had caught hold of her like a piece of flotsam and she’d allowed herself to drift around until her father had died and she’d found the job with Simon.

She knew that now she had some experience she might be able to get a job in one of the rival estate agencies—but she didn’t want one. Not any more. She didn’t want to stay in the same small town, but she didn’t want to move just for the sake of it. She didn’t really know what she wanted—just that she wanted something different. Something exciting. Something to make her forget the humiliation of her broken engagement. She looked up into Zahid’s narrowed and watchful black eyes.

‘I can type and I can file,’ she finished. ‘I can deal with people and I can problem solve. And I can cook, of course.’

It was an unusual combination, he mused as he studied her. A woman with a neglected scientific talent who was also a great cook. Though when he stopped to think about it—wasn’t cooking all about chemistry?

And speaking of chemistry … what about the other kind? The kind which was making him notice the pinpointing of her nipples which were thrusting against the navy dress and turning an otherwise commonplace outfit into something which was demanding to be peeled off. He looked into her wide-spaced blue eyes and felt the sizzle of danger in the air.

‘I already have people to cook and to file for me,’ he said evenly.

‘I realise that.’

‘Then what exactly are you asking me for, Fran cesca?’

She bit her lip, some of her nerve deserting her—until she remembered that if she wanted to take control of her own life, then wasn’t this the first step? She had to reach out and ask—not be deterred by the first obstacle which was put in her way. ‘I have no idea, Zahid. You were the one who made the offer that you could find me a job, remember? Although perhaps you didn’t mean it at the time.’

There was a moment’s silence before Zahid walked over to a book which lay open on the walnut writing desk, giving himself time to think. Was she trying to insult him by implying that he had made an empty offer—or was she simply calling his bluff?

He closed the book and looked up, still not saying anything. He could see anxiety vying with bravado on her face. Such a pale face, he thought and in amid his own warring feelings he felt a twist of concern; of the old, familiar protectiveness. Didn’t she deserve a break? A chance to get away from the scurrilous Simon and the bad memories he’d helped create?

But it wasn’t that easy.

He’d recognised that offering Francesca such an opportunity had been a mistake, for many reasons. It was unheard of in his country for a woman to work closely for a member of the ruling family. Perhaps he could have swung it if he’d been remaining in England for a while, but he wasn’t. He was due to go home to Khayarzah within the next few days, and how could he possibly take her with him—a single Englishwoman living within the strict confines of palace life?

But Zahid also recognised that these reservations were all easily overcome and that the main stumbling block was the fact that he had begun to desire her with a hunger which at times had overwhelmed him. And he couldn’t afford to do that.

Since that last meeting, hadn’t he been thinking about her in a way which was most uncharacteristic? He enjoyed women and they enjoyed him—but he didn’t get hung up about them. Not ever. Sometimes not even when he was thrusting into them and watching dispassionately as they orgasmed around him and squealed their joy. One of his own perceived strengths was emotional detachment and it had always served him well.

Yet for days now he’d been remembering Francesca’s firm body and her soft, unpainted lips. The way she made him smile when he least expected it. Those deep blue eyes, which had stared at him from the confusion of his unusually restless and troubled dreams. Even when his sometime Russian lover Katya had arrived the other night—wearing nothing but a fur coat and a pair of tiny, crotchless panties—he had sent her away without making love to her.

Why the hell had he done that?

Wouldn’t the best thing of all be for him to send Francesca away, too?

Because Zahid recognised that something had changed between them—and changed for ever. He no longer saw her as simply Francesca, his innocent childhood friend. He saw her now as a woman—a sexy and experienced woman who had just emerged from a bruising experience. And wasn’t that dangerous?

Wouldn’t she be feeling very natural frustration now that her relationship with Simon had ended? Wasn’t there a danger that close confinement might prove too much of a temptation for them both?

He saw her reach out to touch the petals of a spray of orchids with light, tentative fingers and he was just imagining how delicate her touch might be on his aching skin when the telephone rang.

The sound ruptured his reverie. ‘Answer it,’ he said abruptly.

‘But—’

‘I said, answer it.’

Frankie’s heart was thudding as she walked over towards the bureau and picked up the phone. Should she announce that it was the sheikh’s phone? Probably not. It could so easily be the press. ‘Hello?’

A woman’s sultry and faintly disgruntled voice came down the line. ‘Who the hell are you?’

Frankie’s fingers tightened around the receiver; she felt fired up by some unknown instinct which had the little hairs on the back of her neck prickling. She wanted to say, “Who the hell are you?”, but something stopped her and that something was Zahid watching her very closely. ‘May I help you?’ she questioned politely.

‘Sure you can. I want to speak to Zahid.’

There was the briefest of pauses before Frankie spoke. ‘I’m afraid that the sheikh is unavailable at the moment.’ From the other side of the room, she saw Zahid raise his eyebrows in silent question. ‘But if you’d like to give me your name and number, I’ll make sure he gets it.’

‘My name is Katya,’ snapped the voice. ‘And he already has my number—tell him to damned well use it!’

The connection was broken abruptly and Frankie replaced the phone, looking up to find Zahid’s now inscrutable expression fixed on her. Her heart was thudding fiercely and she wondered who the woman with the sultry voice was.

‘Who was it?’ he demanded.

‘Katya.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘You didn’t bother checking whether I wanted to speak to her?’

Awkwardly, Frankie wriggled her shoulders. Had she overstepped the mark and allowed her feelings of undeniable jealousy to influence her reaction?

‘She sounded slightly … angry,’ she explained, in a sudden rush. ‘And I thought that the call might be of a personal nature, which you probably wouldn’t care to take in front of me. Alternatively, if I’d asked you whether you wished to take the call and you’d declined—then that would have been embarrassing for all three of us. I made a judgement, Zahid—which is presumably the reason you asked me to answer your phone.’ Tentatively, she chewed on her lip as he continued to stare at her in that expressionless way. ‘Was it the wrong one?’

There was a pause while he regarded her thoughtfully. A bold judgement, he thought as he met the question in her deep blue eyes. And a brave one, too. He saw the sudden flush of colour which had flared into her pale cheeks. Had she guessed that Katya was a lover? An ex-lover, he reminded himself as he shook his head.

‘No, it was not the wrong one—it was exactly right. I wanted to see whether you could think on your feet and it seems that you can,’ he said softly. ‘It’s a pity you couldn’t have been that insightful when you fell into bed with that creep Simon.’

For a moment, Frankie felt close to giving him a confessional, wondering if she should enlighten him about the laughably true nature of her relationship with Simon. But prospective employees didn’t suddenly start talking about their sex lives, did they? ‘It’s easy to be insightful when you’re acting for somebody else.’

‘Well, you’ve got yourself a job.’

‘I have?’

‘Don’t look so shocked.’ He gave a short laugh because it seemed that she hadn’t lost her ability to twist him around her little finger, after all. ‘It was pretty much on the cards all along.’

‘And what sort … what sort of job will it be?’

There was a brief silence as he allowed the long-standing glimmerings of an idea to float to the surface of his mind. ‘My father once kept a diary,’ he said slowly. ‘Did I ever tell you that?’

She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Writing it became a kind of refuge for him,’ he continued. ‘Particularly in the troubled years during the wars and then when my mother became ill. And it suddenly occurred to me that you might be just the person to type them up for me.’

‘But I can’t speak your language,’ she objected.

‘He wrote them in English.’ He met her uncomprehending expression and shrugged. ‘It ensured their privacy—since most of my people don’t speak the language. I’ve been meaning to make them into a formal record for some time—the difficulty was in finding someone I could trust to do it.’ His black eyes gleamed. ‘And you, my dear Francesca, will be absolutely perfect for the task.’

Frankie blushed with pleasure—because praise from Zahid felt like the very best sort of praise.

‘Does that sort of role appeal to you?’ he questioned.

She nodded, trying not to be affected by the silken texture of his voice, but it wasn’t easy. ‘I’d like that very much.’ She hesitated. ‘You know, you haven’t even mentioned why you’re here—in England.’

He thought back to the working breakfast he’d had that morning with England’s leading horse-racing experts—and the similar meetings which had taken place in every major city in Europe. With an effort, he switched his attention away from the soft rose-pink of her cheeks and the sapphire gleam of her eyes.

‘I’ve been promoting the new horse-racing track and stadium we’ve almost completed in Khayarzah,’ he said. ‘One which will put us firmly on the international equestrian circuit. But this particular trip has also been personal.’ He walked over to the window and stared at a rusty barge which was chugging its way down the heavy grey waters of the Thames. He wouldn’t have discussed such a matter with anyone else, but his inherent trust in Francesca made him more candid than was usual. And didn’t it come as a kind of liberation—to be able to speak his mind for once? ‘I needed to meet with my brother,’ he said as he turned back to face her. ‘To see if he’s really been behaving as badly as the media suggest.’

Frankie saw the sudden tension which had tightened his face and she wrinkled her nose in question.

She’d only met his brother Tariq on a few occasions—and one of those had been at her father’s funeral, when she’d been too fogged down in grief to be able to think straight.

Like Zahid, Tariq had enjoyed a mixed and fairly liberal upbringing—some of it spent far away from his homeland. But the destinies of two princes could be so radically different …

When Zahid had become King, his life had changed immeasurably—while Tariq was still able to behave pretty much as he always had done. Frankie knew that the younger prince was known for being outrageously gorgeous and had been dubbed ‘The Playboy Sheikh’ by the more extravagant sections of the western press.

‘Why, what has he done?’ she questioned.

‘That’s just the point. He hasn’t done nearly enough.’ Zahid gave a little click of irritation. ‘Well, that’s not entirely true, since Tariq possesses the uncanny ability to produce excellent results with the minimum amount of work. He just needs a little reminding from time to time that he is a royal prince with an obligation to his country—and not simply an habitué of the gambling tables and an object of slavish female desire. But let us not talk about that now. You will fly with me to Khayarzah at the end of the week—do you have a passport?’

She nodded, aware how parochial his question made her sound. ‘Of course.’

‘And we need to get you settled. In fact, we’d better find you a room here.’

Taken aback, Frankie blinked at him. ‘You mean I’m going to be staying here, at the Granchester?’

Something in the innocent way she framed the question sparked an unwanted hunger deep inside him—so that for a moment Zahid forgot that she was almost like one of the family. Forgot that his groin was not supposed to tighten and throb as he looked at her. Because when her pink and unpainted lips opened like that, he suddenly found he could think of a much better use for them than talking …

Unwanted lust made him tease her—trying to make his arousal go away but wondering idly whether she would respond. And how would you react if she did? Would you take her in your arms and taste her? Treat you both to a sweet interlude of mutually satisfying sex?

‘Of course you’re going to be staying here,’ he murmured, shifting his position slightly, which did precisely nothing to relieve the deep ache at his groin. ‘You’ll need to make a few preparations before we fly to Khayarzah. You’ll need a visa. Security clearance—that kind of thing—and it will all have to be done in London. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?’