Surrender to the Sheikh

And so was she, he thought. So was she. Quite the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, with her pale blonde hair and milky-white skin, and a pert little nose offset by the most sinful pair of lips imaginable. Again, he felt the irresistible pull of desire, but he quashed it ruthlessly.

At his English boarding-school, he had sometimes liked to fish—the calm and the quiet and the splendid isolation had soothed his homesick soul during the times he had been missing his homeland quite desperately. And early on he had learnt that the most prized fish were those which proved the most difficult to catch.

And so it was with Rose. He acknowledged that she wanted him, too, and he suspected that she was perceptive enough to have recognised it herself. But she was not like other women, he knew that with a blinding certainty. She would not fall easily into his arms, no matter how much she wanted him.

He smiled, not oblivious to the impact of that smile. ‘Please sit down, Rose. Shall we have coffee?’

His tone was so courteous and his manner so charming that Rose was momentarily captivated. She completely forgot about giving him a piece of her mind. Why, for a moment, she felt almost flustered.

‘Er, thank you,’ she said, and slid down onto one of the blood-red sofas, astonished when a middle-aged woman, who was obviously a Marabanesh herself, carried in a tray of fragrant-smelling coffee.

Had someone been listening for his command? she wondered rather helplessly, before realising that yes, they probably had! He was a prince, after all, with people hanging onto his every word.

And then she remembered. He might be a prince, but he was also a devious manipulator who had used his money and position and power to get her here today!

With a smile, she took one of the tiny cups from the woman, and put it down on the floor so that she could delve into her briefcase.

She extracted a sheaf of papers and fixed him with a bright, professional smile. ‘Right, then. Let’s get started!’

‘Drink your coffee first.’ He frowned.

She gave another brisk smile. ‘You’re not paying me to drink coffee, Khalim!’

His frown deepened. ‘What do you want to know?’ he asked sulkily.

Rose almost smiled again. Why, right then, she got a fleeting glimpse of the little boy he must once have been! And a very handsome little boy, too! ‘You went to school with Guy, didn’t you?’ she asked suddenly.

Satisfied that she had fallen in with his wishes, and was postponing the start of the meeting in deference to him, Khalim nodded. ‘A very English boarding-school,’ he said and sipped his own coffee.

‘How old were you?’

His face suddenly tensed. ‘Seven.’

The way he shot that single word out told her it had hurt. And why brush those feelings under the carpet? Wouldn’t a prince be ‘protected’ from so-called prying questions such as those. And if you bottled things up, didn’t that mean you would never be able to let them go? ‘That must have been very difficult for you,’ she ventured cautiously.

Khalim regarded her thoughtfully. Brave, he reasoned. Few would dare to ask him such a personal question, and there were few to whom he would give an answer. But on her angelic face was an expression of genuine concern, not just mere inquisitiveness.

‘It wasn’t…’ He

hesitated. A Marabanesh man of his stature would never admit to human frailty. ‘Easy,’ was all he would allow.

Understatement of the year, thought Rose wryly.

He saw her take her pen out of her briefcase, and suddenly found that he didn’t want to talk business. ‘It was the tradition,’ he said abruptly.

She glanced up. ‘The tradition?’

‘For princes of Maraban to be educated in England.’

‘Why?’

He gave a rather speculative smile and Rose was suddenly alerted to the fact that this man could be ruthless indeed. Remember that, she told herself fiercely.

‘So that it is possible to blend into both Eastern and Western cultures,’ he replied.

And sitting there, with his immaculately cut suit and his handmade Italian shoes, he did indeed look the personification of Western elegance. But the deep olive skin and the glittering black eyes and the decidedly regal bearing bore testament to the fact that his roots were in a hot, scented land which was worlds away from this.

And remember that, too, thought Rose.