Ruling Sheikh, Unruly Mistress

‘I’ll leave Omar here should you need anything.’

‘No, take him too,’ Lucy told Mac, thinking the invisible presence of a bodyguard she might stumble across at any moment almost as alarming as having Omar’s boss scrutinise her every move. ‘There are people on call at the chalet company if I need anything.’

‘In that case, see you later, Lucy.’

‘My pleasure,’ she added to an already empty room. If she had needed a reality check on how vital she was to Mac’s existence, she just got it.

As the front door shut behind the men she sank down on the nearest chair. She was trembling. She felt as if she’d run a marathon. She had. She had just completed the most important race of her life—to keep her job, though she wasn’t foolish enough to think that couldn’t change at any moment if Mac changed his mind.

She had to get back to work. Dreaming didn’t clean floors—plus she had some eggs to beat for tonight’s meal before covering them and leaving them in the fridge…

Staring round the gleaming kitchen as she cracked eggs in a bowl on autopilot, Lucy mulled over what she had learned about her guests. Aside from an overload of testosterone in the chalet, there were a lot of heavy gold rings in evidence engraved with family crests. Theo didn’t wear one, but Tom’s crest, along with Sheridan’s and William’s, marked them out as members of the British aristocracy. That was simple enough to work out, but what was she supposed to make of the fierce lion and the scimitar engraved on Mac’s ring?

The vision of an awe-inspiring desert landscape came to mind. But where had the green eyes come from? And such eyes…eyes that spoke of billowing Bedouin tents and the pearly light of dawn on the oasis as lovers woke and stretched their pliant limbs before making love again and again and again…

It took remarkably little imagination to take the hunk in jeans and place him in flowing robes. Hmm. Whisk suspended. As the picture drew clearer the whisk picked up pace again. The silk sheets on their Bedouin cushions would cling tenaciously to Mac’s powerful limbs, hinting at the brute strength underneath. But the sheets were covering him.

So she’d throw them off.

‘Are you going to beat that egg to death?’

She nearly hit the ceiling as Mac stopped her hand. She hadn’t realised he’d come back.

‘What has that poor egg done to you?’ He held her gaze in the most disturbing fashion.

‘I was just surprised when you came back.

’

‘Is there a curfew in operation?’

‘Sorry.’ Her brain was addled. Mac in cool black performance gear, ready for the snow, was even more alarming than Mac in jeans. And he was still holding on to her hand.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ he said, releasing her. ‘I’m not checking up on you.’

Then why was he here? Lucy nursed her hand. Mac’s touch was warm, firm and commanding—and he’d let go of her far too fast for her daydreams and not nearly fast enough for here and now.

‘So, what are you up to?’ he said, staring into her eyes.

She gazed around, desperate for an answer. ‘Something for tonight…cake.’

‘Cake?’ Mac prompted, staring pointedly at the array of cakes already laid out on the table.

‘Isn’t Tom waiting for you?’ Lucy said hopefully.

‘And if he is?’

‘Could you pass me the cake tin, please?’

He held it out. She took hold of it, but he didn’t let go, so now she was joined to Mac by an inflexible ring of tin.

‘Lucy?’

She blinked and returned to her customary kitchenconfident self. ‘If you’d like a piece of the cake I’ve already made, just sit down, and I’ll—’

‘Serve me?’ Mac suggested wickedly, releasing the tin.

‘I’ll cut the cake,’ Lucy said primly, reaching for a knife.