Surrender to the Sheikh

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

Frustration and recognition of that stubborn streak of hers very nearly made him lose his temper. ‘Oh, yes, you are,’ he contradicted softly. ‘I happen to be paying you to—’

‘You’re paying me to do a job!’ she snapped. ‘And I cannot do it properly if you happen to be sitting in the room like some great big spectre!’

‘Spectre?’ he repeated faintly. So she was openly insulting him now, was she?

‘You’re not just the boss—so to speak—you’re their ruler, for goodness’ sake! How can I expect them to answer me honestly, when all they’ll be concerned about is saying what they think you want to hear?’

He glowered at her, because he knew she was right—and the only conclusion he could draw from that was that he was wrong. And he was never wrong! ‘Are you getting out?’ he asked dangerously.

‘Not unless you agree to my terms,’ she answered sweetly.

There was a short, tense silence. He wondered what would happen if he exercised his royal prerogative and picked her up and carried her to the director’s private dining room and ravished her there and then? And then shook his head in disbelief at the answering throb of need his thoughts had produced.

Was she going to drive him insane, this Rose Thomas?

‘Very well,’ he agreed tightly. ‘It shall be as you wish.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, but as she slid from the car he caught her wrist, bringing her up close so that black eyes dominated her vision, burning like coals brought up from the depths of hell. And she shivered in response to his touch, even though the temperature was soaring.

‘You may find me a far more daunting adversary than you imagine, Rose,’ he warned her softly.

Something in his face told her they weren’t talking oil refineries now and excitement and fear fused in the pit of her stomach. ‘But we aren’t fighting any more,’ she protested.

‘Now you’ve got your own way, you mean?’ he mocked. ‘Oh, yes, we are. We’ve been figh

ting one way or another since the moment we first met.’ And maybe there was only one way to get this confounded conflict out of his system once and for all. He felt another heated tug of desire, provoked by the irresistible darkening of her eyes.

She stared at him. And the stupid thing was that all she wanted right then was for him to kiss her. To kiss her and never stop kissing her. ‘K-Khalim?’ she said falteringly, shaken by the depths of his anger—an anger which was surely disproportionate to the crime of having the courage to stand up to him? Especially when her professionalism was at stake.

‘Come inside,’ he said with silky menace as he steeled his heart to the appeal in her eyes, ‘and I’ll introduce you.’

He showed her into the director’s office, which looked like any other high-ranking executive’s hidey-hole, with the exception of the pictures on the wall which were both exotic and vaguely erotic. And the desk looked like something out of a museum, with its dark, old wood inlaid with gold.

‘Murad Ovezov, the present incumbent, has agreed to speak to you first. He should be able to give you a good idea of what the job entails.’

She hated this new coldness in his eyes, the new distance in his attitude towards her. Well, tough! He had hired her to do a job, and do it she would—to the very best of her ability. And that definitely did not include having his powerful and disapproving person present at the interviews!

She gave him a cool smile. ‘Thank you, Khalim—you can send him in now.’

It was unbelievable, he fumed as he went off to find Murad. She was dismissing him like a servant! She answered him back! Well, she would not be answering him back for much longer. Soon she would be agreeing to everything he said! He would satisfy her as no other man had, and she would be enchained to him for ever!

Murad Ovezov was a man of sixty years, and, although age had painted its inevitable lines around his black eyes, he still exuded a certain power. He had worked at the Areeku refinery since it had opened, gradually working his way up until he held the highest position within the factory.

‘It’s very good of you to see me,’ said Rose politely.

He gave a wary bow. ‘I was not expecting intervention,’ he said, in faultless English.

‘I think that you and Khalim have probably decided for yourselves who you wish to replace you.’ She smiled, noticing him start when she used the prince’s first name. ‘I’m here as the fail-safe mechanism—a third party often sees different qualities. Or failures.’

He nodded in comprehension. ‘Where would you like to begin?’

She spent half an hour with Murad and then Serdar Kulnuradov was brought in. He was aged forty, confident and knew the refinery inside out. He quoted figures and projections with such fluidity that Rose was left reeling with the breadth of his knowledge.

‘Thank you for your time,’ she said as he stood up to leave.

Serdar gave a short bow. ‘It is my pleasure.’ He paused. ‘Though it is not usual in Maraban to be interviewed by a woman.’