The Chatsfield Collection Books 1-8
Sheikh’s Scandal

Lucy Monroe

Playboy’s Lesson

Melanie Milburne

Socialite’s Gamble

Michelle Conder

Billionaire’s Secret

Chantelle Shaw

Tycoon’s Temptation

Trish Morey

Rival’s Challenge

Abby Green

Rebel’s Bargain

Annie West

Heiress’s Defiance

Lynn Raye Harris

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Sheikh’s Scandal

‘I need to return to Zeena Sahra. The cancellation of my engagement will have long-reaching consequences for our country.’

Feeling unaccountably bereft at the thought of his abandonment, Liyah nevertheless nodded. ‘I under-stand.’

‘Good. It is unfortunate you will not be able to work out your notice, but it is fortuitous that you already made your plans to leave.’

‘What? Why won’t I work out my notice?’

‘I’ve told you, we must leave for Zeena Sahra immediately.’

‘You said you had to leave.’

He gave her a look that said she wasn’t following him. ‘Naturally you must come with me.’

‘Why?’

‘You may carry my child.’

‘But we don’t know that.’

‘And until we do, you stay with me.’

Step into the opulent glory of the world’s most elite hotel, where clients are the impossibly rich and exceptionally famous.

Whether you’re in America, Australia, Europe or Dubai, our doors will always be open …

Welcome to

Synonymous with style, sensation … and scandal!

For years, the children of Gene Chatsfield—global hotel entrepreneur—have shocked the world’s media with their exploits. But no longer! When Gene appoints a new CEO, Christos Giatrakos, to bring his children into line, little did he know what he was starting.

Christos’ first command scatters the Chatsfields to the furthest reaches of their international holdings—from Las Vegas to Monte Carlo, Sydney to San Francisco … but will they rise to the challenge set by a man who hides dark secrets in his past?

Let the games begin!

Your room has been reserved, so check in to enjoy all the passion and scandal we have to offer.

Ref: 00106875

www.thechatsfield.com

Award-winning and bestselling author LUCY MONROE sold her first book in September 2002 to Mills & Boon. That book represented a dream that had been burning in her heart for years—the dream to share her stories with readers who love romance as much as she does. Since then she has sold more than thirty books to three publishers and hit national bestseller lists in the US and England, but what has touched her most deeply since selling that first book are the reader letters she receives. Her most important goal with every book is to touch a reader's heart and, when she hears she's done that, it makes every night spent writing into the wee hours of the morning worth it.

She started reading Mills & Boon® books when she was very young and discovered a heroic type of man between the covers of those books … an honourable man, capable of faithfulness and sacrifice for the people he loves. Now married to what she terms her ‘alpha male at the end of a book,’ Lucy believes there is a lot more reality to the fantasy stories she writes than most people give credit for. She believes in happy endings that are really marvellous beginnings and that's why she writes them. She hopes her books help readers to believe a little, too … just as romance did for her so many years ago.

She really does love to hear from readers and responds to every e-mail. You can reach her by e-mailing lucymonroe@lucymonroe.com.

For my editor, Suzanne Clarke. It's always a little bit terrifying, changing editors, but you've made it a really lovely experience and I'm thrilled how well our creative visions mesh. I'm also delighted to find we are kindred spirits in other areas. I feel as if we're a destined team. Thank you!

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Extract

Readers’ Extras

Discover The Chatsfield

CHAPTER ONE

NOT EASILY IMPRESSED, Liyah Amari very nearly stopped to gawp upon entering the Chatsfield London for the first time.

Flagship of the Chatsfield family’s hotel empire, the lodging preferred by Europe’s elite was magnificent.

San Francisco’s property where her mother had worked since before Liyah’s birth was beautiful, but nothing compared to the opulence of this hotel. From the liveried doormen to the grandeur of the ballroom-size lobby, she felt as if she’d stepped into a bygone era of luxury.

A decidedly frenetic air of anticipation and preparation was at odds with the elegant surroundings, though. One maid rushed through the lobby—which Liyah was certain was anything but a normal occurrence—while another polished the walnut banisters of the grand staircase.

It looked like an impromptu but serious meeting was happening near the concierge desk. The desk reception staff were busy with the phone and computer, respectively, checking in an attractive elderly couple.

“Welcome to the Chatsfield London, Mr. and Mrs. Michaels. Here is your room key,” the young man said, “and here is your complimentary hospitality pack. We very much hope that you enjoy your stay.”

Both staff were too busy to pay attention to who might be entering the hotel. Behind reception, Liyah saw a row of photographs depicting the Chatsfield London’s staff. Something in her chest tightened as she caught the image of Lucilla Chatsfield staring back at her from within a frame.

One of the Chatsfield siblings Liyah admired and wished she could get to know, Lucilla was too far up the hotel’s ranks for that to ever be likely.

A noise from behind her dragged her attention to where maintenance was replacing a bulb in the giant chandelier that cast the saffron walls with an elegant glow. Ecru moldings and columns added a tasteful but subtly lavish touch and the faint but lingering smell of fresh paint indicated they’d had a recent tidying up.

Liyah’s sensible shoes made no noise as she crossed the black-and-white marble-tiled floor, heading directly for the elevator as she’d been instructed to do.

A man stepped in front of her. “May I help you find someone?”

His tone and expression were polite, but it had to be obvious to him that Liyah in her well-fitting but conservative black gabardine suit was not a guest at the Chatsfield.

“I have an appointment with Mrs. Miller.” As was her usual habit, Liyah was fifteen minutes early for her meeting with the senior housekeeper.

The man’s eyes lit up. “Oh, you must be the maid from Zeena Sahra.”

No. That had been her mother. “I am familiar with Zeena Sahran culture, but I was born in America.”

Liyah had been hired as a floor supervising chambermaid on the presidential level with special concierge services, just below the hotel’s penthouse suites. With hospitality as well as housekeeping duties, she would be working in tandem with the concierge team in a new initiative designed to increase customer satisfaction.

It would be a much more satisfying job for Liyah than the one her mother had held for almost three decades and Hena would have approved wholeheartedly.

“Yes, of course. The elevator is right this way.” The man started walking. “I will have to key your access to the basement level.”

“Thank you.”

Liyah was still a few minutes early when she knocked on the senior housekeeper’s office door.

“Enter,” came from within.

Mrs. Miller was a tall, thin woman who wore a more severe version of Liyah’s suit with a starched white blouse buttoned all the way up.

“I’m pleased you are here, Miss Amari, but I hope you’ve come prepared to begin work immediately,” she said after the pleasantries were out of the way.

“Yes, of course.”

“Good. Your concierge floor has been booked for the sheikh’s harem.” Mrs. Miller gave a disdainful sniff with the word harem.

“Excuse me? A sheikh from Zeena Sahra is coming to stay?” And he needed an entire floor for his harem?

No wonder they’d wanted to transfer her mother from the Chatsfield San Francisco.

“Yes, Sheikh bin Falah will be staying with us for two weeks. His fiancée will be joining him for the second one.”

Liyah schooled the shock from her features. “Sheikh al Zeena, or Sheikh bin Falah al Zeena, but he would not be referred to as Sheikh bin Falah. To do so would cause offence.”

Liyah wasn’t sure about correcting her boss, but she assumed this sort of knowledge was why she’d been hired.

At least now she understood the need for her expertise. Not just a tribal sheikh but the crown prince of Zeena Sahra was coming to stay at the Chatsfield London.

Probably the single most gorgeous man alive, he could easily be an international playboy with a string of supermodels hanging on his arm. However, he had a reputation for being buttoned-down and focused entirely on his duties as emir of Zeena Sahra.

“I see. I’ll make a note of it. I presume addressing him as Your Highness is acceptable.”

“It is, though from what I have read, since Zeena Sahra is an emirate, he prefers the title of emir.”

Mrs. Miller’s mouth pursed. “Why didn’t we know this?”

“It’s a small thing, really.”

“No,” Mrs. Miller said sharply. “There’s nothing small about this visit from the sheikh. Every detail must be seen to with absolute attention. If not, mistakes happen. Only last week someone wanted to send silk napkins to the Chatsfield Preitalle with the inscription ‘Princess Maddie.’ Can you believe it? For a royal wedding? This is why each detail must be perfect.”

“I will do my best.”

“Yes. In addition to your usual duties, for the duration of the sheikh’s visit, you will also personally oversee the housekeeping staff for his suite and the adjoining rooms for his security people.”

Nothing like being thrown in at the deep end, but Liyah didn’t mind. She thrived on a challenge.

Nevertheless, it was a good thing Liyah had gotten her degree in hospitality management. It didn’t hurt either that she’d cleaned rooms at the Chatsfield San Francisco every summer break through high school and college, not that her mother had encouraged Liyah to make her career there.

Quite the opposite, Hena had been adamant that her daughter not work for the Chatsfield. And now that she knew what she did, maybe Liyah understood that better.

After a somewhat harried orientation, during which staff members she met asked as many questions of Liyah about Zeena Sahra as she asked them about the Chatsfield London, she returned to her newly rented bedsit.

About the size of a college dorm room with an efficiency kitchen and miniscule bath tacked on, it was a far cry from the two-bedroom apartment with a balcony she’d shared with her mother in San Francisco. An apartment she’d been only too happy to move out of when she got the floor supervisory position with the Chatsfield London.

The job offer was a brilliant coincidence that Liyah’s mother would have called destiny. But then Hena Amari had had a romantic streak her daughter did not share.

Although her outlook on life was decidedly more pragmatic, once Liyah had seen the contents of her mother’s safety-deposit box and read Hena’s final letter, she’d known she had to come to England.

The new job had allowed her to do so without dipping too deeply into what was left from the proceeds of her mother’s life insurance policy. The money had been welcome if entirely unexpected. The policy had been one of the many profound shocks Liyah had found in that safety-deposit box.

Shocks that had ultimately ended with her working for the Chatsfield London.

The hotel had been looking specifically for someone with knowledge of Zeena Sahran culture and hospitality norms. Ironically, they had contacted the San Francisco property’s senior housekeeper, Stephanie Carter, in hopes of transferring Hena Amari.

With Hena’s sudden death, Stephanie, knowing about Liyah, had suggested her instead. Even though Liyah had not worked for the Chatsfield San Francisco since the summer before her last year of university, her education and experience had made her uniquely eligible for a newly created position.

The irony that a job with the hotel would make it possible for her daughter to fulfill Hena’s final wish was not lost on Liyah.

Liyah did not resent her mother’s silence on any front, but only superb emotional control had allowed her to take one stunning revelation after another without cracking.

On the outside.

The most stunning revelation of all had been that the extremely wealthy English hotelier Gene Chatsfield was Liyah’s biological father.

After years of seeing the exploits of his legitimate children in the tabloid press, Liyah found it nearly impossible to believe his blood ran through her veins. What did she, a woman who had worked hard for everything she had, have in common with this notorious, spoiled family?

She had an almost morbid curiosity to discover what kind of man raised his children to be so profligate while sending the most meager of stipends to Hena on Liyah’s behalf.

The answer might lie in the very fact of Liyah’s existence, the result of Gene’s indulgence in numerous affairs with his hotel maids. Affairs that did not make it into the press.

Hena hadn’t known about the hotelier’s wife, much less his propensity for seducing the chambermaids, until after he left San Francisco and a pregnant Hena behind. It had all been in the final letter Hena had left Liyah.

She’d never told another soul the identity of Liyah’s father. Hena’s shame in the fact he’d been a married man colored the rest of her life and yet she’d written in her letter that Liyah needed to forgive him.

Hena had claimed that Gene Chatsfield was not a villain, not a demon, not even a very bad man. But he had been a man going through a very bad time. Her final request had been for Liyah to come to London and make herself known to her father.

Liyah would respect her mother’s last wishes, but she was happy to have the opportunity to observe the man incognito—as an employee, not the daughter he’d never acknowledged.

* * *

Her uniform crisp, her long black hair caught in an impeccable bun, Liyah stood tucked away in a nook near the grand staircase. She’d been in London two weeks and working at the Chatsfield ten hectic days, but had yet to catch a glimpse of her father.

Word had come down that the Honorable Sheikh Sayed bin Falah al Zeena was arriving today, though. Liyah had no doubts her father would be on hand to greet the sheikh personally.

One thing that had become patently obvious in the past ten days: the sheikh’s stay was incredibly important to the hotel, and even more significant to the Chatsfield’s proprietor.

Apparently, in another ironic twist of fate, Gene Chatsfield currently resided in the Chatsfield New York, leaving his new and highly acclaimed CEO, Christos Giatrakos, alone to handle operations from London. However, Gene Chatsfield’s arrival in London to personally oversee the emir’s visit said it all.

Knowing how key this high-profile guest’s stay was to her father, Liyah was determined to do her job well. When she made herself known to Gene, there would be nothing to disappoint him in her work ethic.

Her floor was in impeccable order, each of the rooms to be occupied garnished with a crystal bowl of fruit and a vase of fragrant jasmine. She’d arranged for a screen to be placed at the elevator bank on her floor, as well, effectively blocking the harem quarters from curious looks.

She’d made sure the sheikh’s suite was similarly taken care of. There was nothing to offend and a great deal to appreciate in her setup of his rooms and the floor below.

Thoughts of her work faded as an older man walked with supreme confidence across the lobby. His air that of a man who owned all he surveyed, he acknowledged the numerous greetings by his employees with a regal tip of his head. Her father.

Stopping in front of the reception desk, he was clearly prepared to welcome the sheikh upon arrival.

Gray hair shot with silver, his blue eyes were still clear, his six-foot-one frame just slightly stooped. Garbed in a perfectly tailored Pierre Cardin suit, his shoes no doubt handmade, he looked like a man who would fit right in with the fabulously wealthy people his hotel catered to.

Gene smiled and said something to the head of desk reception. And all the air expelled from Liyah’s lungs in a single whoosh.

She’d seen that smile in the mirror her whole life. His lips were thinner, but the wide smile above a slightly pointed chin? That was so familiar it made her heart ache.

His eyes were blue, hers were green—but their shape was the same. That hadn’t been obvious in the publicity shots she’d seen of him.

She’d gotten her mother’s honey-colored skin, oval face, small nose and arched brows, not to mention Hena’s black hair and five-foot-five stature. Their mother-daughter connection had been obvious to anyone who saw them together.

Liyah had never considered she might also share physical traits with her father.

The resemblance wasn’t overly noticeable by any means, but that smile? Undeniably like hers.

This man was her father.

Hit with the profundity of the moment, Liyah’s knees went to jelly and she had to put her hand against the wall for stability.

Unaware of her father’s moderate financial support and way too aware of the Amari rejection of any connection, Liyah had spent her life knowing of only one person in her family.

Hena Amari.

Her mom was the only Amari who had ever recognized Liyah as a member of that family. A family who had cast her out for her disgrace.

And since her mom’s death, Liyah had been alone. In that moment, she realized that if this man accepted her—even into the periphery of his life—she wouldn’t be alone any longer.

Her father’s face changed, the smile shifting to something a lot tenser than the expression he’d worn only seconds before. He stood a little straighter, his entire demeanor more alert.

Liyah’s gaze followed his, and for the second time in as many minutes she went weak in the knees.

Surrounded by an impressive entourage and dressed in the traditional garb of a Zeena Sahran sheikh stood the most beautiful man Liyah had ever seen. Known for his macho pursuits and outlook, despite his supreme political diplomacy, the emir wouldn’t appreciate the description, she was sure.

But regardless of...or maybe because of his over-six-foot height, square jaw and neatly trimmed, close-cropped facial hair, the sheikh’s masculine looks carried a beauty she’d never before encountered.

No picture she’d ever seen did him justice. Two-dimensional imagery could never catch the reality of Sheikh Sayed bin Falah al Zeena’s presence. Not his gorgeous looks or the leashed power that crackled in the air around him like electricity.

Nothing about the unadorned black abaya worn over Armani, burgundy keffiyeh on his head and black triple-stranded egal holding it in place expressed anything but conservative control. The Zeena Sahran color of royalty of the keffiyeh and three strands of the egal, rather than the usual two, subtly indicated his status as emir.

Wearing the traditional robe over a tailored designer suit with the head scarf implied supreme civilization. And yet, to her at least, it was obvious the blood of desert warriors ran in his veins.

The first melech of Zeena Sahra had won independence for his tribe—which later became the founding people of the emirate of Zeena Sahra—through bloody battles western history books often glossed over.

Inexplicably and undeniably drawn to the powerful man, Liyah’s feet carried her forward without her conscious thought or volition. It was only when she stood mere feet from the royal sheikh that Liyah came to an abrupt, embarrassed stop.

It was too late, though.

Sheikh Sayed’s espresso-brown gaze fell on her and remained, inquiry evident in the slight quirking of his brows.

Considered unflappable by all who knew her, Liyah couldn’t think of a single coherent thing to say, not even a simple welcome before moving on.

No, she stood there, her body reacting to his presence in a way her mother had always warned Liyah about but she had never actually experienced.

Part of her knew that he was surrounded by the people traveling with him, the Chatsfield Hotel staff and even her father, but Liyah could only see the emir. Discussion around them was nothing more than mumbling to her ears.

The signature scent of the Chatsfield—a mix of cedarwood, leather, white rose and a hint of lavender—faded and all she could smell was the emir’s spicy cologne blending with his undeniable masculine scent.

Her nipples drew tight for no discernible reason, her heart rate increasing like it only did after a particularly challenging workout and her breath came in small gasps she did her best to mask with shallow inhales.

His expression did not detectably change, but something in the depths of his dark gaze told her she was not the only one affected.

“Sheikh al Zeena, this is Amari, our chambermaid floor supervisor in charge of the harem floor and your suite,” the head of desk reception stepped in smoothly to say.

Being referred to by her last name was something Liyah was used to; meeting a crown prince was not.

However, her brain finally came back online and she managed to curl her right hand over her left fist and press them over her left breast. Bowing her head, she leaned slightly forward in a modified bow. “Emir. It is my pleasure to serve you and your companions.”

* * *

Sayed had a wholly unacceptable and unprecedented reaction to the lovely chambermaid’s words and actions.

His sex stirred, images of exactly how he would like her to serve him flashing through his mind in an erotic slide show of fantasies he was not aware of even having.

The rose wash over her cheeks and vulnerable, almost hungry expression in her green eyes told him those desires could be met, increasing his unexpected viscerally sexual reaction tenfold. Hidden by the fall of his abaya, his rapidly engorging flesh ached with unfamiliar need.

Sayed’s status as a soon-to-be-married man, not to mention melech of his country, dictated he push the images aside and ignore his body’s physical response, however. No matter how difficult he found doing so.

“Thank you, Miss Amari,” Sayed said, his tone imperious by necessity to hide his reaction to her. He indicated the woman assigned to tend his domestic needs. “This is Abdullah-Hasiba. She will let you know of any requirements we may have. Should you have any questions, they can be taken directly to her, as well.”

Miss Amari’s beautiful green gaze chilled and her full lips firmed slightly, but nothing else in her demeanor indicated a reaction to his clear dismissal.

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Dipping her head again in the tradition of his people, she then turned to his servant. “I look forward to working with you Miz Abdullah-Hasiba.”

With another barely-there dip of her head, the much-too-attractive hotel employee did that thing well-trained servants were so good at and seemed to just melt away.

Sayed had a baffling and near-unstoppable urge to call her back.

CHAPTER TWO

STILL GRAPPLING WITH the fact she’d forgotten her father in the presence of the emir, Liyah knocked on Miz Abdullah-Hasiba’s door.

She hadn’t even taken the chance to meet Gene Chatsfield’s eyes for the first time. How could she have missed such a prime opportunity?

She was here to observe her father and ultimately make herself known to him. Liyah had not come to the Chatsfield London to ogle a Zeena Sahran prince.

Aaliyah Amari did not ogle anyone.

The door in front of her swung open. The unexpectedness of it, even though she’d been the one to knock, further emphasized how disconnected from her normal self Liyah was.

Wearing a dark apricot kameez embroidered around the neck and wrists with pale yellow thread, the emir’s personal housekeeper clasped her hands in front of her and bent her head forward. “Miss Amari, how may I be of service?”

“I wanted to make sure you and the emir’s other female traveling companions have found your accommodations acceptable.”

“Very much so.” The older woman stepped back and indicated Liyah should enter her room. “Please, come in.”

“I do not want to take you from your duties.”

“Not at all. You must share a cup of tea with me.”

With no polite way to decline, and frankly not inclined to do so, Liyah followed the other woman to the small sofa on the other side of the deluxe room. As much as it might bother her, Liyah could not deny her fascination with the emir.

At least, not to herself.

The Middle Eastern tea service Liyah had purchased on behalf of the hotel—along with the ones for the sheikh and his fiancée’s suites—sat in the center of the oval coffee table.

Miz Abdullah-Hasiba poured the fragrant hot drink from the copper-and-glass pot into the short, narrow matching cups with no handles. “This is a treat.”

“Yes?”

The housekeeper nodded with a smile. “Oh, yes. We do not travel with glassware as it is too easily broken.”

“Naturally.” Liyah waited for the housekeeper to take a sip before following suit, enjoying the sweetened warm beverage and the bittersweet memories it evoked.

Her mom had insisted on beginning and ending each day with a cup of mint tea augmented by a touch of honey.

“Nevertheless, the Chatsfield is the first hotel on the emir’s current European travel itinerary to have thought to provide the traditional tea service.”

“They will only be found in your room, the emir’s suite and that of his fiancée, I’m afraid.”

The older woman smiled. “Your grasp of our culture is commendable. Most hotel staff would have put the tea set in the room for the emir’s secretary.”

Liyah did not shrug off the praise, but neither did she acknowledge it. She was more aware of the Zeena Sahran culture than the average Brit or American, but anyone observant would have taken note that the housekeeper had been booked in the most deluxe room beside the emir’s fiancée’s suite.

“His secretary is actually junior office staff, I believe,” Liyah observed.

“She is. The emir follows the old ways. By necessity, his personal administrative assistant is Duwad, a male.”

“Because your emir cannot work late hours in his suite with a woman, married or otherwise,” Liyah guessed.

“Precisely.”

“So, this is a business trip?” Very little had been said in the media about the nature of the emir’s current travel plans.

“For the most part. Melech Falah insisted Emir Sayed enjoy a final European tour as it were before taking on the mantle of full leadership of our country.”

“The king intends to abdicate the throne to his son?” She’d read speculation to that effect, but nothing concrete.

“One might consider that a possible course of events after the royal wedding.”

Liyah approved the other woman’s carefully couched answer and did not press for anything more definite. “Our head of housekeeping was scandalized at the thought of booking a separate floor for a sheikh’s harem.”

“Ah. She assumed he would be bringing a bevy of belly dancers to see to his needs, no doubt.”

“That may have been her understanding, yes.” Liyah herself had assumed something similar, if not quite so fanciful when first told of the harem.

The Zeena Sahran housekeeper laughed softly. “Nothing so dramatic, I am afraid. The emir is ever mindful of his position as a betrothed man.”

Not sure she believed that, but having very little practical experience with men and none at all with their sex drives, Liyah didn’t argue. She did know the rooms she’d prepared had all been for different female staff members of the prince’s entourage.

Most of the rooms that would ultimately be occupied were slated to house the emir’s fiancée and her mostly female traveling companions. Her brother was supposed to be accompanying her, as well, and had booked a suite on the presidential level near the emir’s.

Not quite as grand, it was nevertheless impressive accommodation.

After a surprisingly enjoyable visit with Hasiba—as she insisted on being called—in which the housekeeper managed to convey unspoken but clear reservations toward the future emira of Zeena Sahra, Liyah left for a meeting with the concierge.

He and his staff expected her input on a finalization of entertainment offerings to make to the sheikh over the next two weeks.

* * *

Liyah came out of the royal suite, pleased with the care the chambermaid assigned to the emir’s rooms had taken.

The vases of purple iris―the official flower of Zeena Sahra―Liyah had ordered were fresh and perfectly arranged. The bowls with floating jasmine on either side of the candelabra on the formal dining table did not have a single brown spot on the creamy white blossoms.

The beds were all made without a single wrinkle and the prince’s tea service was prepped for his late-afternoon repast.

She headed for the main elevator. While staff were encouraged to use the service elevator, she was not required to do so. The busiest time of day for housekeeping and maintenance usually coincided with light use on the guest elevators.

So, as she’d done at her hotel in San Francisco, Liyah opted to use them when she wasn’t carrying towels or pushing a cleaning cart. Something she rarely had to do in her position as lead chambermaid, but not outside the realm of possibility.

The doors slid open with a quiet whoosh and Liyah’s gaze was snagged by espresso-brown eyes.

The emir stared back, his expression a strange mixture of surprise and something else she had very little experience interpreting. “Miss Amari?”

“Emir Sayed.” She dipped her head in acknowledgment of his status. “I was just checking on your suite.”

“The service has been impeccable.”

“I’m glad you think so. I’ll be sure and pass your kind words on to your suite’s housekeeping staff.”

He inclined his head in regal agreement she doubted he was even aware of.

She waited for him to step out of the elevator, but he did not move. His security detail had exited first with a smooth precision that came off as a deeply ingrained habit, followed by the emir’s administrative assistant and the junior secretary.

They all waited, as well, for their sheikh to move.

Only he didn’t.

He pressed a button and the doors started to close. “Are you coming?” His tone implied impatience.

Though she didn’t know why. Her brain couldn’t quite grasp what he was doing on the other side of the doorway. If he was going back down again, wouldn’t his security be on the elevator with him?

One thing she did know: she wasn’t about to commit the faux pas of joining the emir. “Oh, no. I’ll just go to the service elevator.”

“Do not be ridiculous.” He reached out and grabbed her wrist, drawing shocked gasps from his staff and an imprecation in the Zeena Sahran dialect of Arabic from his personal bodyguard.

Liyah had little opportunity to take that in as she was pulled inexorably into the elevator through the shrinking gap between the heavy doors.

They closed behind her on another Arabic curse, this one much louder and accompanied by a shocked and clearly disapproving, “Emir Sayed!”

“Your Highness?”

“There is no reason for you to take another elevator.”

“But your people...shouldn’t you have waited for them?”

His elegant but strong fingers were still curled around her wrist and he showed no intention of letting her go. “I am not accustomed to being questioned in my actions by a servant.”

The words were dismissive, his tone arrogant, even cold, but the look in his eyes wasn’t. She’d never heard of brown fire before, but it was there in his gaze right now.

Hot enough to burn the air right from her lungs.

Nevertheless, her professional demeanor leaned toward dignified, not subservient. By necessity, she pulled the cool facade she’d perfected early in life around her with comfortable familiarity.

“And I am not used to being manhandled by hotel guests.” She stared pointedly at his hold on her wrist, expecting him to release her immediately.

It wasn’t acceptable in the more conservative culture of Zeena Sahra for him to touch any single woman outside his immediate family—and that did not include cousins—much less one that was a complete stranger to him.

However, his hold remained. “This is hardly manhandling.”

His thumb rubbed over her pulse point and Liyah had no hope of suppressing her shiver of reaction.

His heated gaze reflected confusion, as well. “I don’t understand this.”

He’d spoken in the dialect of his homeland, no doubt believing she wouldn’t know what he was saying. She didn’t disabuse him of the belief.

She couldn’t. Words were totally beyond her.

For the first time in her life, she craved touch worse than dark chocolate during that most inconvenient time of the month.

“You are an addiction,” he accused, his tone easy to interpret even if she hadn’t spoken the Zeena Sahran dialect fluently.

Suddenly embarrassed, wondering if she’d done something to invite his interest and reveal her own, she pulled against his hold. He let go, but his body moved closer, not farther away, the rustle of his traditional robes the only sound besides their breathing in the quiet elevator.

With shock she realized there was no subtle sound of pulleys because he’d pushed the stop button.

She stared up at him, her heart in her throat. “Emir?”

“Sayed. My name is Sayed.”

And she wasn’t about to use it. Only she did, whispering, “Sayed,” in an involuntary expulsion of soft sound.

Satisfaction flared in his dark eyes, a line of color burnishing his cheekbones. For whatever reason, the emir liked hearing his name on her lips.

He touched the name badge attached to her black suit jacket. “Amari is not your name.”

“It is.” Her voice came out husky, her throat too tight for normal speech.

“Not your given name.”

“Aaliyah,” she offered before her self-protection kicked in.

“Lovely.” He brushed the name tag again and, though it was solid plastic, she felt the touch as if it had been over bare skin. “Your parents are traditionalists.”

“Not exactly.” Liyah didn’t consider Hena’s decision to make an independent life for herself and her illegitimate daughter traditional.

Hena had simply wanted to give Liyah as many connections to the country of her mother’s birth as she could. Hena had also said she’d wanted to speak hope for her daughter’s life every time she used her name, which meant high exalted one.

It was another example of the deceased woman’s more romantic nature than that of her pragmatic daughter.

Liyah doubted very much if Gene Chatsfield had anything to do with naming her at all.

“Your accent is American,” Sayed observed.

“So is yours.”

He shrugged. “I was educated in America from the age of thirteen. I did not return to Zeena Sahra to live until I finished graduate school.”

She knew that. His older brother’s tragic death in a bomb meant for the melech had changed the course of Sayed’s life and his country’s future.

Further political unrest in surrounding countries and concerns for their only remaining son’s safety had pushed the melech and his queen to send Sayed to boarding school. It wasn’t exactly a state secret.

Nor was the fact that Sayed had opted to continue his education through a bachelor’s in world politics and a master’s in management, but having him offer the information made something strange flutter in Liyah’s belly.

Or maybe that was just his nearness.

The guest elevators at the Chatsfield were spacious by any definition, but the confined area felt small to Liyah.

“You’re not very western in your outlook,” she said, trying to ignore the unfamiliar desires and emotions roiling through her.

“I am the heart of Zeena Sahra. Should my people and their ways not be the center of mine?”

She didn’t like how much his answer touched her. To cover her reaction she waved her hand between the two of them and said, “This isn’t the way of Zeena Sahra.”

“You are so sure?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“So you have studied my country.” He sounded way too happy about that possibility.

“Don’t take it personally.”

He laughed, the honest sound of genuine amusement more compelling than even the uninterrupted regard of the extremely handsome man. “You are not like other women.”

“You’re the emir.”

“You are saying other women are awed by me.”

She gave him a wry look and said dryly, “You’re not conceited at all, are you?”

“Is it conceit to recognize the truth?”

She shook her head. Even arrogant, she found this man irresistible and had the terrible suspicion he knew it, too.

Unsure how she got there, she felt the wall of the elevator at her back. Sayed’s body was so close his outer robes brushed her. Her breath came out on a shocked gasp.

He brushed her lower lip with his fingertip. “Your mouth is luscious.”

“This is a bad idea.”

“Is it?” he asked, his head dipping toward hers.

“Yes.” Was this how it had begun with her mother and father? “I’m not part of amenities.”

No wonder Hena had spent so much effort warning Liyah against the seductions of men.

“I know.” His tone rang with sincerity.

“I don’t do elevator sex romps,” she clarified, just in case he didn’t get it.

Something flared in his dark gaze and Sayed stepped back, shaking his head. “I apologize, Miss Amari. I do not know what came over me.”

“I’m sure you’re used to women falling all over you,” she offered by way of an explanation.

He frowned. “Is that meant to be a sop to my ego or a slam against it?”

“Neither?”

He shook his head again, as if trying to clear it.

She wondered if it worked. She would be grateful for a technique that brought back her own usual way of thinking, unobscured by this unwelcome and unfamiliar desire.

She did not know what else he might have said or how she would have responded because the telephone inside the elevator car rang. She opened the panel the handset resided behind and answered it.

“Amari here.”

“Is the sheikh with you?” an unfamiliar voice demanded, and she wondered if Christos Giatrakos, the new CEO himself, had been called to deal with the highly unusual situation.

A shiver of apprehension skittered down her spine, until she realized that the tones had that quality that implied a certain age.

“Yes, the emir is here,” she forced out, realizing in kind of a shocked daze that she might well be speaking to her father for the first time.

“Put him on.”

“Yes, sir.”

She reached toward Sayed with the phone, the cord not quite long enough. “Mr. Chatsfield would like to speak with you.”

Sayed came closer and took the handset, careful not to touch her in the process.

She retreated to the other side of the elevator where she was forced to witness the one-sided conversation. Very little was actually said beyond the fact there was no problem and they would be arriving at the lobby level in a moment.

Even with her tendency to shut down, Liyah would have felt the need to explain herself, not so the emir of Zeena Sahra. If she had not witnessed his moment of shocked self-realization, she wouldn’t believe he was discomfited in the least by their situation.

True to his word, the elevator doors were opening on the lobby level seconds later. Both the emir’s personal bodyguard and Liyah’s father were waiting on their arrival.

The conspicuous absence of anyone else to witness their exit from the elevator said more than words would have what everyone thought had been happening in the stopped elevator.

Offended by assumptions about her character so far from reality, Liyah walked out with her head high, her expression giving nothing of her inner turmoil away.

Making no effort to set her boss’s mind at rest in regard to Liyah’s behavior, the emir barely acknowledged Gene Chatsfield before waving his bodyguard onto the elevator with an imperious “Come, Yusuf.”

“In my office,” her father said in frigid tones as the elevator doors swished to a close.

The following ten minutes were some of the most uncomfortable of Liyah’s life. Bad enough to be dressed down by the owner of the Chatsfield chain, but knowing the man was her father, as well, had intensified Liyah’s humiliation at the encounter.

The short duration of her time in the elevator with the sheikh and her obvious lack of being mussed had saved her from an even worse lecture. However, Liyah had been left in no doubt that she was never to ignore hotel policy of employees vacating the main elevators when guests entered again.

Definitely not the moment in which to make herself known to Gene Chatsfield as the daughter he’d never met.

* * *

Sayed woke from a very vivid dream, his sex engorged and his heart beating rapidly.

It was not surprising the dream had not been about his fiancée. He had known Tahira, the daughter of a neighboring sheikh, since their betrothal when she was a mere infant. He had been thirteen and on the brink of leaving for boarding school in the States.

His feelings toward her had not changed appreciably since then.

The uncomfortable but also unsurprising reality was that the dream had centered on the beautiful Aaliyah Amari he’d met his first day in London. And thought about incessantly since.

He’d seen her in passing twice, once before the elevator incident and once since then. Both times his attention had been inexorably drawn to Aaliyah, but she’d done her best to pretend ignorance of his presence on the most recent occasion.

Understandably.

Nevertheless, even after the briefest collision with her emerald-green gaze, electric shocks had gone straight to his instant erection. And he’d almost stumbled.

Him.

Accused of being made of ice more than once, his disturbing reaction to this woman who had no place in his life bothered Sayed more than he wanted to admit. The elevator incident was still firmly in the realm of the inexplicable, no matter how much he’d tried to understand his own actions in the matter.

Sheikhs did not pant after chambermaids, not even those with additional responsibility. Aaliyah was of the servant class. He was an emir. He could not even consider an affair with her if he were so inclined.

Regardless, while Sayed had not been celibate for his entire adult life, he had been for the past three years.

Once Tahira had reached the age of majority and their betrothal had been announced officially, his honor demanded he cease sexual intimacy with other women. No one else seemed to expect it of him, but Sayed didn’t live according to any viewpoint but his own.

However, his celibacy might well explain the intense and highly sexual dreams. Three years was a long time to go without for a thirty-six-year-old man who had been sexually active since his teens.

The knowledge that his sexual desert would end in a matter of weeks after he married Tahira gave him little comfort.

He could no more imagine taking the woman he still considered a girl, despite her twenty-four years, to bed than he could countenance giving in to his growing hunger for Aaliyah Amari.

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