Breaking the Sheikh's Rules

He finally handed her the reins and said curtly, ‘Devil’s Kiss travels tomorrow. See to it that he’s ready.’

CHAPTER TWO

A SHORT while later, her belly still roiling with tangled emotions, Iseult went through the back door into the house, toeing off her boots and muttering under her breath as she walked into the warm and welcoming kitchen, where their housekeeper, Mrs O’Brien, was looking flushed and harried. Their infamous family dog, Murphy, was not doing much to help by getting in her way.

Iseult shooed him out through the door and turned back. ‘What’s wrong?’

The older woman blew some hair out of her red face. ‘Your father informed me barely an hour ago that the Sheikh will have lunch here, along with himself and their solicitors. That’s lunch for five people—more than I’ve had to cook for since the kids went back to college.’

Everyone in the family affectionately referred to Iseult’s younger siblings—Paddy Junior, and the twins Nessa and Eoin—as the kids. But now anger bubbled up again to think that the Sheikh, with a mere click of his fingers, was putting them under added pressure. They barely had the money to stock the fridge and cupboards for themselves. Iseult longed to tell Mrs O’Brien to ignore the decree, but she knew her father would die of embarrassment. The fact was, they had no choice but to accept their predicament.

It was the Sheikh or the bank—neither one a palatable option, but at least, Iseult had to concede grudgingly, the Sheikh was keeping her father on as a manager and had offered a decent wage. She didn’t like how that concession made her feel guilty now. She knew she’d behaved badly. But right now she didn’t want to look at the cause of the irrationality of her response.

Defeatedly she reached for the spare apron and started to help Mrs O’Brien, who sent her a grateful smile as they worked together to bring lunch up to some kind of acceptable standard for a Sheikh.

Carrying a tray of soup starters a short while later, Iseult hesitated at the dining room door for a moment, and had to ignore the shiver of sensation that shot through her body when she heard the low rumble of the Sheikh’s sexy voice. Sexy? Since when had she been aware of sexy? Gritting her teeth and jaw so hard that it hurt, she pasted a bland smile on her face and went in.

Silence greeted her, and she deliberately avoided any eye contact. Her heart ached to see that her father had allowed the Sheikh to sit at the head of the table. Once, in her grandfather’s heyday, they had run a hugely successful and thriving business. Renowned horse-breeders from all over the world had come and paid exorbitant sums of money just to have their mares stand at O’Sullivan’s stud to be covered by their pure-blooded stallions.

This moment, right now, couldn’t make it any clearer how far their fortunes had fallen.

With a shaking hand Iseult served the solicitors their bowls of soup, then her father, and lastly the Sheikh, though she knew she ought to have served him first. Barely holding it together, she somehow managed to grab the tray and go to leave again. But then she heard her father clear his throat.

‘Iseult, love, aren’t you going to join us?’

She heard the plea in his voice. He depended on her for so much—she was the one who knew the farm inside and out—but in all honesty she hadn’t expected to be included in this. Her father remained the public figurehead of the stud despite everything, and Iseult had every hope that one day he’d assume his role fully again. The look in his eyes spoke volumes, though. He was terrified these men would see how little control he had over the place. And he was terrified that they’d renege on the agreement to keep him on as manager.

Iseult hesitated for a second, but then that deep drawling voice came. ‘Since when does a stablehand who doubles as a server sit at the table with the new owner? I think not, Mr O’Sullivan. Your daughter can hardly be expected to be party to our private discussions.’

Iseult turned to the Sheikh, the tray still held by her side, and had to restrain the urge not to smash it on his arrogant head. She smiled sweetly, while mentally apologising to her father. She deliberately made her Irish brogue even stronger. ‘I couldn’t agree more, Sheikh. I know my place. And I’ve a horse to get ready for the travelling tomorrow—straight after I’ve finished serving the lunch, of course.’

With that she bobbed a curtsey, and as she left she could have sworn she heard a muffled snigger coming from where their own solicitor had been sitting.

Iseult thought it best to let Mrs O’Brien retrieve the soup bowls and serve the main course. But when she got busy making Irish coffees and asked Iseult to get the plates she couldn’t avoid going back.

The silence was thick with tension when she walked into the room, and Iseult’s skin prickled under the weight of one particularly heavy gaze. Somehow she managed to take the plates while avoiding all eye contact. She could see that her father’s face was slightly flushed, and her belly clenched in an automatic reaction of anxiety. But to her relief she saw that he was still drinking water. He’d been dry for years now, but she knew something like this had the potential to send him back to a dark place. Her conscience struck her hard. She wasn’t exactly helping matters.

With all the plates balanced precariously in her arms, Iseult got to the door—only to find that it had closed on her. She had a split second of wondering what to do, and then she felt a large dark presence loom behind her. A tantalising scent of something sensuously foreign tickled her nostrils, making her belly clench again—but this time for a very different reason. In utter surprise, she watched as a tautly muscled brown arm reached around her to open the door.

She had to step back closer to the Sheikh in order for him to open it, and for a very disturbing moment the entire length of her back was pressed against his hard chest and belly. It was like a wall of steel. She nearly dropped every plate, but in a smooth move he ushered her out and pulled the door after them, coming round to stand in front of her. Iseult wanted to avoid his eyes, but drummed up all her courage to meet them.

His voice was low, and tore strips off her. ‘I didn’t appreciate the ham acting, Miss O’Sullivan. Try a cute move like that again and neither you nor your father will have anything further to do with this place. Your name will be history overnight. I’m beginning to feel that I’ve been entirely too generous wher

e your father is concerned, and I have serious doubts about his capability to run this place.’

He continued with a blistering tone. ‘I have no idea where your misplaced animosity has sprung from; your farm’s demise was not by my hand and we’ve never met before. I suggest you have a think about that before we meet to talk after lunch.’

The plates trembled ominously in Iseult’s hands. She found it hard to think straight. ‘What do you mean, talk?’

‘After just ten minutes of conversation with your father it’s become clear that he’s no more in control of things around here than that homely housekeeper. It would appear that I have underestimated you, Miss O’Sullivan. You will meet with me in your father’s study in one hour and you will explain everything to me.’

With that he brushed past her and went back into the room, shutting the door again with a firm click. She stood motionless for a long moment, her heart hammering, until she heard Mrs O’Brien huffing up the stairs with a tray full of desserts and Irish coffees. In a state of shock, Iseult put down the plates on a nearby table and opened the door for Mrs O’Brien before escaping back to the kitchen. She couldn’t have helped give out the desserts even if she’d wanted to. She knew that something hot or cold would have ended up in someone’s lap because she was shaking so hard with reaction.

She dumped the plates in a dishwasher that had seen better days, and fled outside after stuffing her feet back into her mucky boots.

Once in the yard, sucking in deep breaths of fresh air, Iseult put her hands to her hot cheeks. What was wrong with her? The Sheikh was absolutely right. It wasn’t his fault they were in this position; this had been coming for a long, long time. He’d just taken advantage of their weakness in a challenging market. And, as she’d conceded earlier, being bought out by him was infinitely preferable to being bought out and sold off in pieces by the bank.

So, apart from the heartache of losing their family business, what was wrong with her? She knew more than most people how things changed, and plenty of their neighbours had undergone similar buyouts to survive. In a way, they’d been lucky; thanks to Devil’s Kiss they’d survived far longer than anyone had thought they would—long enough to see the kids settled at college in Dublin.