The Unlikely Mistress

Cleo’s voice had been incredulous. ‘You?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You mean the hot Sheikh who’s always in the papers?’

‘Some people think he’s hot.’

‘Presumably you do, too—if you’re about to become his wife.’

But when Jane hadn’t answered, Cleo’s emerald eyes had widened—eyes so unlike Jane’s and not only in colour, shaded as they were with layers of smoky grey shadow, their spiky lashes lengthened and darkened by several coats of mascara.

‘You’re doing it for me, aren’t you? That’s where you got the money from—by marrying a known philanderer who can’t keep it in his trousers?’ Cleo had bit her lip. ‘Jane, I can’t let you.’

‘But you can’t stop me and I won’t even let you try. Because what else can I do?’ Jane had sounded fierce but then she had forced a crooked kind of smile. ‘Honestly. It isn’t such a hardship.’

Had she really said that? Said that and meant it? In which case, why hadn’t she been able to get a decent night’s sleep since Zayed had flown back to his country ahead of her, in order to prepare for their wedding? Why had she started waking up when the world was still dark, her nightdress damp with perspiration and an insistent aching between her legs?

‘We are just coming in to land, Miss Smith.’

Startled from her reverie, Jane looked up to see the stewardess smiling at her and she wondered how Zayed’s staff were going to react when they discovered he had chosen such a mouse as his bride.

‘Thank you,’ she replied in Kafalahian, unable to deny the pleasure she got from witnessing people’s surprise at her fluency in a language which few Westerners spoke.

The stewardess smiled and inclined her head before replying in the same language. ‘You are most welcome. The Sheikh’s assistant has just radioed ahead to say that His Royal Highness has arrived at the airport to greet you and the pilot estimates we will be landing in ten minutes, if you would like to freshen up.’

Jane nodded and, once the stewardess had gone, made her way to one of the two luxury bathrooms which were situated at the back of the aircraft, running her wrists under the cold tap and splashing her face with water. But her cheeks still felt hot and sticky when she emerged into the bright sunlight of the Kafalahian day to see a long black car waiting on the tarmac and beside it the unmistakable form of Zayed Al Zawba.

His robes were of purest white, which reflected the brilliant light, and for once his head was covered as he dominated the stark outline of the desert landscape behind him. Her own linen trousers and the matching top, which she’d chosen for practicality and coolness, were now slightly crumpled after the long flight and Jane knew she wasn’t imagining the contemptuous curve of his lips as she walked towards him. She told herself it didn’t matter what he thought of her appearance. Actually, maybe it was better this way. Better he looked at her with nothing more than disdain because surely that would stop her stupid body from reacting whenever he was near.

But her heart was doing that mad racing thing again and her breasts were pushing insistently against her top as his piercing black gaze raked over her. She could feel unfamiliar heat arrowing towards her groin as she struggled to sound completely calm, but her words still came out as a breathless little stutter.

‘Hello, Your R-royal Highness,’ she said.

For a moment Zayed didn’t trust himself to answer. He wanted to demand why she had dared to arrive at his desert home looking like something the goat had dragged down from the mountain. Thank the stars she would soon be dressed by the palace servants as Kafalahian tradition dictated, and hopefully they might be able to fashion some kind of miracle to convince his people that she was a suitable bride. But they were going to have their work cut out, he conceded. Did she deliberately dress in such a lacklustre style—even when flying to the country of her royal groom just before their wedding? He suspected that she had no interest in clothes, but now was not the time to take her to task on it, for wasn’t it in both their interests for her introduction to palace life to happen as smoothly as possible?

So he gave a curt nod as he opened the car door for her and slid on the seat next to her, noting automatically that she edged a little further away from him, pressing her knees primly together. If it hadn’t been so insulting, it might have been amusing. Did she really think she was in danger of him making a pass at her? Did she really imagine he’d want to run his fingertips over crumpled linen when he was used to women clothing themselves in satins and silks? Or that he was turned on by the way she’d scraped all her hair back into that tight and unforgiving bun? ‘You’re going to have to stop addressing me so formally,’ he said, as the car pulled away. ‘And get used to calling me Zayed.’

‘Yes. I suppose I am.’

‘So say it. Say my name to me.’

He could see her lips tighten as if she objected to being issued with such an order.

‘Zayed,’ she said.

He felt his pulse quicken, because wasn’t such veiled insurrection almost exciting? ‘Now say it again,’ he instructed. ‘Say it softly, in a way which could convince a visiting member of state that you are soon to be my adoring wife.’

He saw her hands tighten into fists. ‘Zayed,’ she repeated, digging out the word as if it were an unwanted weed.

‘Slightly better,’ he conceded. ‘But it’s going to require a lot of work.’

She was staring out of the tinted windows, as if she was drinking in the sight of the passing desert landscape, but her face was pensive as she turned back to look at him.

‘It’s still proving a difficult concept to get my head around—that I’m actually going to be your wife,’ she admitted.

‘I imagine the payment you’re getting will help you get used to it.’ There was a pause. ‘What did you do with the money I gave you?’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Is that really relevant?’