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

CHAPTER SEVEN

ZAHID slept restlessly for much of the night. He was troubled by the stubbornness of his brother and the life he seemed to be leading. But he was troubled by something else, too—and that something was desire.

He opened his eyes. Nothing new there. Desire was as much a part of his life as eating. He had the healthy appetite of a man in his glorious prime and enjoyed sex as much as he enjoyed hunting, or riding—or seeing his beloved falcon soar up into the azure splendour of the Khayarzah skies.

But he had never made the connection between sex and emotion before—mainly because the latter did not figure greatly in his life. Early on, he had recognised that it was useful for a king to be emotionally detached. Maybe it was useful for all men to be so.

Emotion was messy—and so was depending on only one person—everyone knew that. Wasn’t he grateful that his position as King meant that he would never be required to walk such a potentially explosive path?

Pushing back the sweat-damp sheets, he got out of bed and walked naked into the bathroom, where he stood beneath a cold shower. The icy jets of water lashed down onto his tense and overheated body to briefly offer some relief. But not for very long.

His erotic dreams of last night had disturbed him—and they disturbed him still—because this time they were not easily fixed. For once, the dreams had not been of some beauty he’d met at some function, whom he could summon at will and have writhing beneath him before the day was out. Someone with whom he could enjoy a sweet, no strings affair—before kissing them goodbye with a significant piece of jewellery to remember him by.

Because the face which had haunted him all night long had been that of Francesca.

Francesca O’Hara.

He groaned as he lathered soap over his hips, feeling the heavy throb of desire at his groin and praying that the ice-water would quickly dispel these useless fantasies. Because they were fantasy. She was completely forbidden to him—and he had to force himself to remember why.

He had known her all her life.

Her father had trusted him.

Most important of all, there was no future for her with him—because she was English and he was Khayarzahian. The destinies ordained for each of them were radically different—and she meant too much to him to ever want to hurt her. Because although Francesca O’Hara was an experienced woman of the world with one fiancé already behind her, he respected her too much to offer her nothing but a quick fling.

The thought of Simon robbing Francesca of her precious innocence was enough to kill Zahid’s desire stonedead and abruptly he turned off the shower, towelled himself dry and dressed.

His breakfast laid up on the table beside him, he’d just hit the ‘send’ button on an email when there was a rap at the door—quickly followed by a soft English voice.

‘Zahid?’

‘Come in.’

He looked up as the door opened slowly and Francesca stood there, her expression more than a little anxious, wearing some sort of muted grey dress which seemed to have leached all the colour from her face.

‘Zahid—’

‘You’d better come in and shut the door behind you,’ he commanded softly.

She did as he asked, drawing in a deep breath. ‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Talk away. But at least let’s do it in some degree of comfort.’ He gestured towards the table which was laid with breakfast, in an alcoved window overlooking the city. ‘Have you had breakfast?’

‘No. I’m not … very hungry.’

‘Francesca.’ He gave a slightly impatient sigh as he rose to his feet and walked over to her, taking her firmly by the elbow and steering her towards the table. But he felt the unmistakable tension in her body when he touched her and the answering clamour of his own senses in response. ‘On a current showing, you aren’t impressing me with your daily diet. All this skipping meals simply will not do. Coffee?’

She wanted to tell him that she was leaving but now he was propelling her into a chair and pouring her a cup of inky-dark coffee and somehow had persuaded her to take a warm croissant from the linen cradle of the bread basket.

Under his fierce gaze, she tore a buttery strip from the pastry and held it in her fingers. ‘Zahid, about last night—’

‘Yes, I’ve been meaning to speak to you about last night.’

‘You have?’’

‘Mmm.’ He sipped at his coffee and looked at her over the rim of the cup. ‘But I’ll hear what you have to say first.’

She thought that was a little unfair, but she was hardly in a position to say so. And it was hard to put anything into words when he was sitting right opposite her like that—managing to appear both relaxed and yet supremely powerful. With his fine silk shirt unbuttoned at the neck and his black hair still glittering from the shower, Frankie could have sat looking at him all day. But wasn’t that precisely why she needed to do the decent thing and hand her notice in, before her stupid desire for him got out of hand?

‘It seemed a good idea at the time to accept your offer,’ she began. ‘But clearly this isn’t going to work. Or rather, I’m not going to work—at least, not for you. I can’t come to Khayarzah, Zahid. I thought I could, but I can’t. I’m sorry.’

‘What a jumble of words!’ He reached for a glass of juice. ‘Why not?’

‘Because you don’t treat me fairly!’ she objected.

‘I don’t?’ he questioned coolly. ‘I fail to see how when I have just bought you an entire new wardrobe and will be paying you a very handsome salary to type up my father’s diary.’

‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it.’

‘Really?’ He registered her spiky challenge with surprise. ‘Then just what do you mean?’

She let the untouched piece of croissant flutter onto the plate. ‘All that stuff last night about what I was wearing and the way I was sitting—and how I’d had too much to drink, when we both know I hadn’t. That was all because you’ve known me all my life and still treat me like a child!’

‘On the contrary,’ Zahid said, sitting back in his chair and regarding her with unsettling scrutiny. ‘On reflection, the reason I said all those things was because you aren’t a child any more.’

Now it was her turn to look to him for clarification. Her brow creased in a puzzled frown. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I think you probably do—if you stop for a minute to think about it. You see, I’m used to thinking of you as a friend—my only real female friend, as it happens.’

The simple accolade affected her deeply and for a moment Frankie was filled with a fear that he was about to snatch it away from her. And suddenly she realised that no job in the world was worth that. ‘Please don’t make it sound as if it’s all in the past!’ she cried, before she had time to think about the wisdom of her words or that they had poured out so emotionally.

‘I have no intention of making it something in the past,’ he said, his voice gentling by a fraction. ‘It’s just that you have grown up into a beautiful and very desirable young woman—and I’m finding it difficult to know how to react to you.’

It was such a stark and honest admission that it took Frankie completely by surprise. She looked at him in disbelief until she found herself blushing and then glanced down at her plate, terrified about what he might read into her embarrassment. Did he have any idea that she had entertained stupid fantasies about him since the year dot?

For a full minute there was silence and when the tension in the air had grown to such a point that she couldn’t take it any more, Frankie risked glancing up into his eyes once more.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ she whispered.

And for once in his life, neither did Zahid.

Looking at the morning light as it fell on the dark gleam of her hair, he knew what he should say. He should tell her he agreed with her—that it was an impossible situation which he hadn’t really thought through. That he hadn’t expected desire to rear its powerful head—and maybe it was best if she did go. Yet to Zahid that smacked of failure, and he didn’t do failure—not in any sphere of his life.

Now his gaze skated over the swell of her breasts, which seemed to transform the demure grey dress into a garment of shocking provocation. Wouldn’t it be a formidable and life-affirming challenge to resist the temptation she represented? Like the times when he and his brother had travelled into the arid centre of the desert and denied themselves the soft comforts of palace life. Such deprivation had been imposed on them by their elders as a deliberate means of making them strong and tough. Wouldn’t this simply be a variation on the same kind of denial?

‘I am loath to let you go,’ he admitted slowly. ‘And the reasons for giving you the job haven’t changed.’

‘No.’

‘But …’ He hesitated. Didn’t they know each other well enough to dispense with coy hints and get straight to the truth? He gave a rueful shrug of his shoulders. ‘We’re worried because something has changed and we’ve discovered that we are sexually attracted to each other.’

At this, she blushed. How anatomical he made it sound. ‘Zahid!’

‘Oh, come on, Francesca—don’t play the outraged innocent.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘It’s what we’ve both been thinking—or are you going to deny this rather inconvenient desire which has flared up between us?’

His black eyes were lasering into her and beneath their intensity she felt positively weak. Inconvenient? Was that how he saw it? She shook her head, because surely she could be honest, too. ‘No, I’m not going to deny it.’

‘The trouble is that you’re no longer the innocent little girl I remember,’ he observed. ‘You’re a beautiful and experienced young woman who’s just come out of a bruising bust-up.’

Experienced? He thought she was experienced? Frankie gave a weak smile in response. Well, of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? Most modern engaged women were having fantastic sex with the man they were going to marry. The fact that she and Simon hadn’t progressed much beyond ‘first base’ she’d put down to some pathetic idea that he was a gentleman—never realising that it was because he was enjoying an illicit passion with somebody else. Should she tell Zahid that? Should she come right out and say it?

Zahid, I’m still a virgin.

Wouldn’t that make her look like a complete loser?

Of course it would.

He leaned back in his chair, watching the play of emotions which shadowed her face. ‘In fact, if it were anyone other than you, I’d be pulling you into my arms and kissing you right now and then dragging you off to the nearest bed before making love to you. But for all kinds of reasons, we both know that isn’t going to happen,’ he added, with a careless air which his protesting body didn’t quite endorse. ‘So you see, I completely understand why you don’t want to come to Khayarzah. The question is whether or not you would be a fool not to do so?’

His words fell between them like a challenge—and Frankie suddenly felt as if he’d tied her up in verbal knots. Hadn’t she been the one who had told him that she didn’t think the job was such a good idea, after all? And wasn’t he the one who had somehow managed to turn it around to make her want to reconsider her opinion?

Yet there was enough substance behind his question to make her reconsider. Because the truth of it was that it had been a long-time dream of hers to see the land which her father had helped mould with his discovery of its oil. A land which he had visited on many occasions and had enthused about with most uncharacteristic passion.

Frankie had always longed to see for herself the fabulous palace at Mangalsutra, the country’s capital—with its beautiful, scented gardens which he had talked about so often. And hadn’t she longed to eat some more of those crystallised walnuts she’d once tasted—bought from the colourful and bustling market which was held in the main square of the city?

‘I’ve always wanted to go there,’ she said truthfully, her eyes shining as she remembered the stories she’d grown up with. ‘My father used to tell me all about the place. He said that in springtime, fields of poppies sprang up overnight—turning the landscape into a scarlet haze. That at night-time the moon was so big that you felt you could almost reach out and lasso it from the sky. And that leopards lived in the high mountains in the east—and sometimes a very lucky traveller might be able to spot one.’

‘Well, then.’ Zahid listened to the faraway note in her voice—and found himself ridiculously touched by her knowledge and obvious love of his country. So many people dismissed the east as just a prolific provider of oil—as if Khayarzah consisted of nothing but refineries and gilded palaces! The only thing she had got wrong was the leopard—for he’d never known anyone who had seen the elusive creatures which were reputed to live on the eastern heights. But he had no intention of telling her that. Why destroy someone’s dreams unless you had to?

He glittered her a cool smile. ‘In that case, it seems to be that your destiny intends you to come to my country and see it for yourself.’

It was what she’d always wanted—but the tug in her heart alerted her to an unfamiliar kind of danger. And something in Zahid’s now shuttered expression made a feeling of apprehension whisper over Frankie’s skin.

CHAPTER EIGHT

HE DIDN’T look so urbane now.

‘What’s the matter, Francesca?’ questioned Zahid softly.

The matter? Frankie stared at him. Did he mean apart from the fact that her heart was racing so fast that she felt dizzy? Or that her knees felt so weak, she was glad she was sitting down? With an effort she quashed the pervasive sense of desire which had hit her the moment he’d emerged from the concealed section situated at the back of his private jet. Because Frankie had never seen Zahid looking like this before.

Just before the Gulfstream jet had landed—descending like a silver bird from the darkening blue of the desert sky—he had disappeared to change. The very act of dressing and undressing on the aircraft had seemed an unbearably intimate act and Frankie was ill prepared for the sight which greeted her on his return. Because the sleek and sophisticated royal with whom she’d breakfasted in his penthouse suite seemed to be nothing but a distant memory.

Gone was the urbane image of the man he had been in London—the exquisitely cut Italian suit now replaced by robes of flowing white. She’d seen pictures of him in traditional dress before—but nothing on earth could have prepared her for the impact of seeing the real-life version.

The delicate fabric hinted at the hard body beneath and the blanched colour threw his burnished skin into stark relief. Jet-dark hair was covered by a white headdress held in place by a dark and intricately knotted circlet of scarlet.

Frankie couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. Yes, he was a king—but somehow that seemed irrelevant in the light of his blatant masculinity. He looked almost … primitive, she thought as she swallowed down the sudden dryness in her mouth. Elemental. As if he had appeared from some bygone age where men were unashamedly men, and women were …

‘Nervous?’ he questioned drily.

‘Not at all,’ she lied.

‘Then why are you wringing your hands so tightly together? Relax.’

Frankie looked down to see that her knuckles were as white as if she’d been on a roller-coaster ride. Because hadn’t concerns plagued her during the flight from London? Perfectly legitimate concerns which made her question the wisdom of agreeing to accompany Zahid to Khayarzah.

She would be on his territory—and subject to his whim. In close contact with a man she desired. He had assured her that he wasn’t going to seduce an old family friend—and had said it with a steely resolve that she didn’t doubt for one minute. Yet the irony was that his words had left her with a dull and aching feeling of disappointment—even though she knew they made perfect sense.

As the plane came to a halt Frankie unclipped her seat belt. ‘I wonder how my appearance is going to go down?’ she questioned tentatively. ‘Whether your people will approve?’

‘I have given up trying to please everyone,’ Zahid said in a suddenly harsh tone as he remembered his early days on the throne, and how he had not known whom he could trust. The previous sheikh had been very traditional and Zahid found that most of those old advisors were just as resistant to modernising the country as his uncle had been. ‘I must just be true to myself and let myself be judged by my actions.’ He stood up and gestured for her to follow him. ‘But I am not anticipating many problems when it comes to your appearance—for let’s not forget that you have a famous surname.’

‘I’m not famous, Zahid,’ she protested.

‘No. But your father is. His name is taught in our schools as the man who discovered our rich resources. He’s a little bit of a national hero—surely you realised that?’ He saw the pleasure in her eyes, and a brief smile touched the edges of his lips. ‘There will be a delegation waiting to meet me, but you’ll soon get used to that. So do as I told you on the plane. Just keep your eyes averted—and walk a few paces behind me.’

She smoothed down the silk tunic top, with its matching narrow trousers. ‘And my outfit … is it okay?’ she questioned.

Reluctantly, Zahid studied her, allowing his eyes to linger on her youthful form. Cool, practical and decent, her clothes met all the necessary criteria which the country’s strict dress-code required. Yet in spite of that they managed to make her look incredibly sexy—something he hadn’t really been expecting. Was that because it hinted at the firm flesh which lay beneath—or because he knew he could never have her in the way he wanted?

Feeling the unwilling heat of desire begin to build, he turned away. ‘It’s fine,’ he said abruptly as the aircraft steps were lowered. ‘Now let’s go.’

She followed him out into the cooling air of the Khayarzah evening, to see a row of officials waiting to greet their king. And it seemed that their initial looks of wariness were softened when she was introduced to them and the ‘O’Hara’ connection was made. Through the butterfly build-up of nerves, Frankie suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of pride in her father and what he had done for this country.

They journeyed to the palace in a sleek limousine and through the smoked glass of their car window she could see tall palms, their fronds dramatically etched against the perfect blue of the sky. The road was long and straight and smoother than any English road she’d encountered. Behind them she could hear the muffled roar of the outriders—and beside her sat Zahid, his powerful body swathed in white silk, incongruously speaking into a mobile phone in his native tongue.

They skirted the main city of Mangalsutra—with its winding streets and jumble of rooftops—until they reached the gates of the palace itself. The immense white marble building rose up before her, fronted by a long, rectangular space of water fringed by palm trees. Turrets and domes and shadowed arches were contrasted against the darkening sky in which she could already see the faint twinkle of stars. Slowly Frankie expelled the breath she had been holding and Zahid must have heard her because he shot her a glance.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

‘It’s exquisite,’ she answered simply.

And so was she, he thought achingly. Against all the odds—so was she. With those blue eyes widening in wonder and the pert thrust of her breasts filling him with dark and erotic impulses. Would it be so bad if, after a cursory but necessary introduction to key members of his staff, he took her off to his private quarters, stripped the concealing silk garments from her body and laid her bare? If he opened thighs which would inevitably be milky-pale as he thrust hungrily between them?

Angrily, he crossed one leg over another. Had he forgotten where he was? Who he was? More importantly, who she was?

‘Come and meet my staff,’ he said unsteadily.

Frankie was taken to meet another line of robed servants, but her senses were too full of all these new experiences to be able to remember many of their exotic-sounding names. And she was preoccupied with watching Zahid—for he was no longer just the long-standing family friend who had always been kind to her, but the leader of a desert kingdom. He was in charge, she realised—and he radiated an impressive kind of power.

Swallowed up by advisors and aides, she watched as solemn-looking men bowed and began briefing him in his native tongue. Someone handed him a sheaf of papers and then a phone began to ring and was passed to him. He seemed to have forgotten that she was there— for he barely raised his dark head as she left the gilded chamber.

A young girl of about seventeen called Fayruz had been assigned to look after her, and as Frankie was led along a marbled corridor lined with blue and gold mosaic she wondered how on earth she was going to be able to communicate with her. But to her surprise, it transpired that Fayruz spoke good—if slightly tentative—English.

‘I learn it at school,’ she said shyly, in response to Frankie’s question. ‘It is my best subject—which is why I have been brought in to assist you while you are here.’

‘You’re at school still?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Fayruz offered shyly.

‘And then what—university, I suppose?’

There was a pause. ‘In my country, women are not encouraged to go to university.’

Frankie frowned. ‘You’re kidding?’

Fayruz shook her head. ‘It’s thought women make better mothers than scholars.’ She gave a small sigh and then shrugged her shoulders. ‘I will unpack for you now.’

‘No, honestly—I can do that for myself,’ said Frankie, shaking her head in slight disbelief. Women not encouraged to go to university? This was much worse than she had imagined.

‘Then let me draw a bath for you,’ said Fayruz eagerly. ‘Please. You must be hot after your long journey and the Sheikh will be displeased if I do not show you Khayarzahian hospitality.’

Frankie nodded, recognising that she must learn to adapt to a different way of living, to graciously accept a slower pace and help when it was offered. And wouldn’t it be good to freshen up and relax before dinner? ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘That would be lovely.’

Lovely turned out to be something of an understatement—because when Fayruz called to say that the bath was ready, Frankie could hardly believe her eyes. A wide, square bath—big as a child’s swimming pool—was filled with warm, rose-scented water on which floated fresh petals.

After the servant had gone, Frankie stripped off her clothes and slowly submerged herself in its scented depths, the silky water lapping over her. This was heaven. Bliss. She closed her eyes. The closest she’d ever come to pure indulgence. Lulled by the warm water and the total silence, she relaxed for a while before reluctantly climbing out of the cooling water to get ready for dinner.

Skimming her fingers over the row of silk outfits which now hung in the wardrobe, she picked a long dress of pure white. People often wore white in desert countries, didn’t they? And Zahid had been robed in white earlier …

She’d just finished dressing when Fayruz tapped at the door and led her through a maze of intricate corridors to what was described as the ‘small’ dining room—but this proved to be yet another understatement. It was bigger than any dining room she’d ever seen and decorated lavishly in gold and lapis lazuli. Intricately tooled hanging lamps filled the room with a soft radiance and the scent of cinnamon and sandalwood wafted through the air. The table itself was low and, instead of chairs, there were brocade cushions heaped around it.