A Diamond for the Sheikh's Mistress

But he doesn’t know about your leg, reminded a chiding voice.

And he never would, she vowed now. Because if he did it would mean he’d breached her last defences.

She walked over to the closet and opened the doors, purposely picking out the most casual clothes she possessed.

But when Zafir appeared at her door again, in exactly an hour’s time, he looked smart and gorgeous in a dark suit, with his shirt open at the neck, and she felt like a rebellious teenager. His explicit look told her what he thought of the soft leather trousers, flat ankle boots and the loose, unstructured grey top. She’d left her hair down, wore minimal make-up, and reached for her light wraparound jacket and bag before coming into the hall and closing the door behind her.

Zafir appeared amused, which made her feel even more exposed and silly. ‘Don’t worry, Kat. I won’t get the wrong idea, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’

He stood back to let her precede him into the elevator, and as it descended he leant against one mirrored wall with his hands in his pockets.

‘You used to love wearing short skirts and high heels,’ he observed. ‘Is this some new feminist stance or is it just to ward me off?’

Kat’s insides turned to ice. She had loved wearing the highest of heels and the shortest of dresses and skirts. And only ever for this man, because the carnal hunger and appreciation in his gaze had used to make her feel sexy and desired.

Relief warred confusingly with disappointment to hear that Zafir would obviously prefer to see her dressing as she’d used to.

Feeling exposed, she rounded on him, saying heatedly, ‘No, it’s not a feminist stance, actually. Women should be able to wear whatever they want—and not to entice a man. For themselves.’

He wasn’t perturbed by her outburst. As the elevator doors opened he said easily, ‘I was merely making an observation, not stating a preference, and I agree with you one hundred per cent. For what it’s worth, Kat, you could wear a sack from head to toe and it wouldn’t diminish how much I want you.’

Before she could respond to that, he took her arm in a loose but proprietorial hold to guide her across the exclusive Paris hotel lobby and out through the doors to his chauffeur-driven car.

She barely noticed the ubiquitous security vehicle waiting to tail their every move. Zafir had blindsided her a little. She’d always pegged him as being unremittingly traditional and conservative because he was so effortlessly alpha, but maybe that wasn’t fair.

When they were settled in the back of his car she asked, ‘Where are we going?’

He looked at her, his face cast into shadow, making it stern and even more compelling. ‘It’s a surprise.’

Kat’s insides clenched. She had a feeling she knew exactly where, and if she was right she wanted to jump out of the car right now. Zafir had introduced her to a restaurant here on their first trip to Paris, shortly after they’d started seeing each other, and the experience was seared into her memory.

It was one of the city’s oldest establishments, famous for its decadent furnishings and for its private dining rooms, which had been used in previous centuries for clandestine assignations of a very carnal nature. Zafir had, of course, booked one of those rooms, and Kat’s memories of the evening had nothing to do with the food they’d eaten and everything to do with the wicked pleasures he’d subjected her to in the intimate and luxuriously furnished space...

She refused to let Zafir guess how agitated she was by these memories and looked out of the window, taking in the glittering lights and beautiful buildings. She’d always loved Paris as it had been the first place she’d visited outside of America in her early modelling days. Its beauty and history had astounded her, and nowhere else had ever had the same effect on her.

Her conscience twinged... Except for Jahor, the awe-inspiring capital city of Zafir’s country, Jandor. It sprawled across a series of hills, overlooking the sparkling sea, and the skyline was made up of minarets and flat roofs, with children flying multicoloured kites as the sun went down. Overlooking it all was the golden-hued grand palace.

‘We’re here.’

Kat came out of the past and frantically checked where they were, a sigh of relief moving through her when she realised they weren’t at the restaurant she’d been thinking of. Instead, as Zafir came around and helped her out of the car, she saw that they were in a small street on Île de la Cité—one of Paris’s many small islands in the Seine.

Intrigued in spite of herself, she let Zafir lead her over to a small restaurant tucked between two tall buildings. From the outside it looked inviting, with golden light spilling out onto the street. And it was not like anywhere Zafir had ever brought her before.

In fact when he spoke he sounded almost...uncertain. ‘This is one of Paris’s best kept secrets.’

Kat looked at him and said drily, ‘Were you expecting me to throw a tantrum because it’s not a restaurant three hundred storeys up with a view of the Eiffel Tower?’

Zafir was unreadable, ‘I’m not sure what to expect any more.’

Before she could respond, he was leading her into the restaurant. She was surprised to see that he got a warm welcome from the proprietor, who greeted Zafir like a long-lost son and her like an old friend.

Within seconds their coats had been taken and they were seated in a discreet corner, tucked away but able to see everything. The table was small, but exquisitely set with a white tablecloth and silver cutlery. Soft music played in the background and every other table was full, everyone engrossed in each other. It was achingly and effortlessly romantic.

Feeling vulnerable and defensive, Kat said, ‘I wouldn’t have thought this was your kind of place.’

Zafir shook out his napkin and laid it across his lap before reaching for a bread roll. ‘I worked here in the kitchen as an apprentice chef while I was at the Sorbonne for a semester.’

Kat’s jaw dropped. Zafir looked at her and smiled.