The Sheikh's Bought Wife

His tone was imperious now, managing to be both haughty and condescending. She had never seen him pulling out all the royal stops before and Jane was suddenly reminded of why he was known as Zayed The Majestic in his homeland.

‘Yes, really,’ she said.

His eyes narrowed, throwing into relief his dark winged brows as his disbelieving gaze skated over her. ‘I invited you for dinner,’ he bit out. ‘Told you to take the rest of the day off in readiness and yet you turn up to my club looking like some suburban housewife on the school run!’

Jane felt her cheeks flush with colour but she kept her gaze steady as she returned his. ‘I don’t have any fancy clothes or jewels,’ she said stiffly.

‘But you have a hairbrush, don’t you? And a pretty dress? And surely it isn’t outside the realms of possibility that you might have reddened your lips and darkened your eyes so that it might please me to look upon you.’

‘I don’t particularly want you to look upon me and I certainly don’t care about pleasing you!’ Jane retorted, before she had time to think about her words. And then she wished she could have bitten them back because she was planning on asking him a favour, wasn’t she? Not making his face grow even darker with anger. She sucked in a breath and adopted a smile which felt as forced as the first Christmas decorations which had started appearing in the stores at the beginning of September. ‘I... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude.’

‘No? Then I’d certainly hate to hear what you might come out with if you were.’

He seemed to be making a conscious effort not to lose his temper and very briefly Jane wondered why—because Zayed was not a man known for his patience.

‘Why don’t you try to relax and enjoy yourself?’ he continued condescendingly. ‘And I shall get someone to bring you a glass of champagne.’

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she didn’t really drink champagne—apart from that cheap fizz she’d had on the night of her eighteenth and which had made her wake up with a splitting headache. Why would she drink something associated with glamour? She wasn’t Cleo. But she took a foaming crystal goblet, which had been brought in on a tray by a butler, who had appeared as if by magic.

‘I have ordered food for us,’ said Zayed airily. ‘Since I do not wish to waste any more time than is necessary with you fussing over the menu.’

‘Shouldn’t you have checked with me first to check that I don’t have any food allergies?’ she said, annoyed by yet another display of his presumption and arrogance. ‘Since I don’t actually eat meat.’

‘Well, isn’t that a coincidence? Neither do I,’ he responded silkily, sitting down at the table, his powerful frame seeming to completely dwarf the gilt chair. ‘At least that’s one thing we do have in common. Sit, Jane.’

As she lowered herself stiffly into the chair opposite him, Zayed leaned back to study her a little more, still unable to believe just how drab she looked. He thought about his mistress in New York and how she might have appeared if she had been invited to dinner at his club—with her creamy breasts spilling out of one of those ‘bandage’ dresses she was so fond of, her slim legs encased in silk stockings and heels so high they should have carried a health warning.

But despite her bare face, her tied back hair and her appalling clothes sense, there was an intelligence about Jane Smith’s eyes which was rare to behold. She had an undiscernible air of complexity about her—as if there were layers to this woman which he’d never encountered before.

He shook his head, reminding himself that her peculiarities were as inconsequential and as forgettable as a brief breeze which wafted through the high heat of summer. She was a means to an end and nothing more. He gestured for the main course to be carried in and nodded as it was placed in front of them, for he had decided against an appetiser. Why drag out this meal for longer than was necessary when all he needed to do was to get her to agree to his plan?

He waited for her to come out with some nicety. Maybe some shy little question about why he wanted to see her, but to his annoyance she didn’t seem to be paying him any attention. Even her plate of food was barely touched as she peered over his shoulder and he had to turn round to discover that she was staring at a painting on the wall behind him and not at him.

‘Is that the Kafalahian desert?’ she questioned.

He nodded. ‘Indeed it is. I donated it to the club,’ he conceded reluctantly.

‘I thought I recognised it. That’s Tirabah in the distance, isn’t it? You can just about see the three blue towers, if you look carefully.’

Zayed was torn between admiration for her obvious love of his country and irritation that she was effectively ignoring him. Because he wasn’t used to being ignored. He ate a couple of mouthfuls of the spiced rice, pistachio and pomegranate dish—his favourite and one specially prepared for him whenever he came here—before laying down his fork. He noticed she wasn’t eating, but that didn’t surprise him. Women were often too awed to be able to consume food in his presence.

‘Tell me about yourself, Jane Smith,’ he said suddenly.

Jane put her fork down and looked up at him, grateful to be able to give up her pretence of eating. The food smelt delicious but she was still so churned up with anxiety for Cleo that it had ruined her appetite. She gazed at him suspiciously. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Because I do,’ he answered unhelpfully.

She pursed her lips. ‘Are you unhappy with my work?’

‘No, Jane—but I am growing increasingly unhappy about your inability to answer a straight question.’

She stared at him, willing herself not to be mesmerised by the ebony gleam of his eyes but that was pretty much impossible. She wondered how it was that you could be repulsed and infuriated by a man and yet still your heart would pound like a piston whenever you looked at him.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘How you ended up working in my embassy and having an unrivalled knowledge about my country.’

Ignoring her champagne flute, Jane took a sip of water, slightly confused about where exactly to begin. Did she tell him that she’d been a quiet and serious child who used to lose herself in the world of books? That she’d been more like her academic father than the beautician mother who had been his surprising choice of wife?

No. Zayed Al Zawba wasn’t interested in the personal. He wanted to know about her qualifications—and if she was planning to ask him for a pay-rise, or a loan, then wouldn’t it be in her best interests to be honest about them for once, instead of playing down her achievements for fear that it might come over as boasting?

‘I studied at the School of Oriental and Asian Studies in London and it was there that I became aware of some of Kafalah’s great lyric poets. I became obsessed with one in particular and it was he who inspired me to learn your language so that I could translate his verses.’ She smiled as she thought about the impact those poems had first had on her. The sudden realisation of just how powerful words could be. ‘You will, of course, be familiar with the work of Mansur Beyhajhi?’

‘I have no interest in poetry,’ he said carelessly. ‘That was more my father’s line.’

Jane tried not to wince at his reaction but she wasn’t sure if she managed it. But even though she was appalled at his cavalier dismissal of the greatest poet his country had ever produced, she shouldn’t have been surprised. He hardly had a reputation as a man of great sensitivity, did he? He was known for racing fast cars and flying in private jets, as well as his legendary sexual consumption of beautiful women. And yes, everyone knew he was a wizard at playing the stockmarkets which added even more to the financial reserves of his oil-rich country—but that didn’t stop Jane from sometimes thinking it was a pity that Kafalah had such a barbarian for a ruler. Had the early deaths of his parents contributed to his insensitivity—or had the responsibilities of having to rule at such a young age hammered them out of him?

Try to make allowances for him, she thought.

‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘For a moment I quite forgot that you are a man of action, rather than a man of letters.’

There was a slow intake of breath from the other side of the table, a low hissing—not unlike how she imagined a striking snake might sound.

‘You make me sound like an intellectual and cultural lightweight. Was that your intention, Miss Smith?’

‘I thought we were supposed to be talking about me, Your Serene Highness, not you.’

His black eyes narrowed. ‘And I note you’ve neatly avoided answering my question.’

Jane nodded. Keep him sweet, she urged herself. Whatever it takes, just keep him sweet. ‘You are a desert sheikh whose role is to work for his country,’ she said boldly. ‘It is not necessary for you to love poetry.’

He gave a brief nod, as if partially mollified by her diplomatic reply. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Tell me about yourself.’

She drew in a deep breath. ‘I wrote an essay about Beyhajhi which caused some excitement in the academic world and I was called to your embassy by the then Ambassador, who wanted to speak to me about it. He offered me a job right there and then—cataloguing, translating and preserving the beautiful manuscripts which your father had collected and rescued from the country during his life. To be honest...’ And for the first time that day, Jane properly relaxed as she remembered how that job offer had felt. As if everything had slotted into place. As if for the first time in her life, she was exactly where she was supposed to be. ‘It was my dream job,’ she admitted, with a smile. ‘And I leapt at the chance.’

Zayed stilled, momentarily taken aback by the impact of that unexpected smile. Why, it made her face light up as if it had been illuminated by sunshine. For the very first time he noticed that her eyes were the colour of caramel and that her enthusiasm had made them gleam, like the most precious amber. Why the hell didn’t she smile like that more often, instead of walking around with such an uptight and prissy expression?

But she was prissy, he reminded himself—and that was exactly why she was perfect for the role he had in mind. He didn’t want an attractive woman who flashed her eyes and her body at him, who might tempt him into sex. He wanted a brief, businesslike marriage in order to attain Dahabi Makaan for his people—and then a swift termination of their non-consummated union.

‘You love my country, don’t you?’ he questioned suddenly.

‘Absolutely,’ she said simply.

‘Yet you have never visited it before?’

‘No. I haven’t.’

She attempted another smile but this time it was more of a grimace, he noted.