The Sheikh's Undoing

And he never slept with a woman on a first date.

At heart, he was a deeply old-fashioned man, with plenty of contradictory values. For him sex had always been laughably easy—yet he didn’t respect a woman who let him too close, too soon. Especially as he had a very short attention span when it came to the opposite sex. He liked the slow burn of anticipation—to prolong the ache of desire until it became unbearable. So when the blonde had made it very clear that she was his for the taking—some primitive sense of prudery had reared its head. Who wanted something which was so easily obtained? With a jaded yawn, he had declined her offer and reached for his jacket.

And that was when the woman’s story had come blurting out. It seemed that it hadn’t been fate which had brought her into his life, but cunning and subterfuge.

‘She was a journalist,’ he bit out. He’d been so angry with himself because he hadn’t seen through her flimsy cover. Furious that he had fallen for one of the oldest tricks of all. He’d stormed out, wondering if he was losing his touch, and for those few seconds when his attention had wandered so had had his powerful sports car. ‘She wanted the inside story on the takeover bid,’ he finished.

Isobel shrugged as her little car took a bend in the road. ‘Well, if you will try and buy into the Premier League, what do you expect? You know the English are crazy about football—and it’s a really big deal if some power-hungry Sheikh adds a major team to his portfolio.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with being hungry for power, Izzy.’

‘Only if it becomes addictive,’ she countered.

‘You think I’m a power junkie?’

‘That’s not for me to say.’

His black eyes narrowed. ‘I notice you didn’t deny it, though.’

‘I’m glad you’re paying attention to what I say, Tariq.’

With a small click of irritation, he attempted, without much success, to stretch his legs. Some lurid looking air-freshener in the shape of a blue daisy hung from the driving mirror and danced infuriatingly in front of the windscreen. Other than the occasional childhood ride on a camel in his homeland, he could never remember enduring such an uncomfortable form of transport as this. Rather longingly, he thought about the dented bonnet of his smooth and gleaming sports car and wondered how long before it would be roadworthy again.

‘Is your cottage as cramped as your car?’ he demanded.

‘You don’t like my car?’

‘Not really. I don’t like second-hand cars which don’t go above fifty.’

‘Then why don’t you give me a pay rise?’ she suggested sweetly. ‘And I’ll buy myself a newer one.’

For a moment Tariq acknowledged the brief flicker of discord which made his pulse quicken. Wasn’t it strange how a little tension between a man and a woman could instantly begin to heat a man’s blood and make him start thinking of …

But the smile left his face as he realised that this was Izzy he was about to start fantasising about. Safe and sensible Izzy. The plain stalwart of his office—and the very last candidate for any erotic thoughts. So how was it that he suddenly found his attention riveted on a pair of slender thighs which were outlined with delectable precision beneath the blue of her denim skirt?

With an effort, he dragged his gaze away and settled back in the seat. ‘I pay you enough already—as well you know,’ he said. ‘How far is it?’

‘Far enough,’ said Isobel softly, ‘for you to close your eyes and sleep.’ And stop annoying me with your infuriating comments.

‘I’m not sleepy.’

‘Sure?’

‘Quite sure,’ he mumbled, but something in her voice was oddly soothing, so he found himself yawning—and seconds later he was fast asleep.

Isobel drove in a silence punctuated only by the low, steady sound of Tariq’s breathing. She tried to concentrate on her driving and on the new green buds which were pushing through the hedgerows—but it wasn’t easy. Her attention kept wandering and she felt oddly light-headed. She kept telling herself it was because her usual routine had been thrown out of kilter—and not because of the disturbing proximity of her boss.

But that wouldn’t have been true. Something had happened to her and she couldn’t work out what it was. Why should she suddenly start feeling self-conscious and peculiar in Tariq’s company? Why couldn’t she seem to stop her eyes from straying to the powerful shafts of his thighs and then drifting upwards to the narrow jut of his hips?

She shook her head. She’d been alone with Tariq many, many times before. She had shared train, plane and car journeys with him on various business trips. But never like this. Not in such cramped and humble confines, with him fast asleep beside her, his legs spread out in front of him. Almost as if they were any normal couple, just driving along.

Impatiently, she shook her head.

Normal? That was the last adjective which could ever be applied to Tariq. He was a royal sheikh from the ancient House of Khayarzah and one of the wealthiest men on the planet.

Sometimes it still seemed incredible to Isobel that someone like her should have ended up working so closely for such a powerful man. She could tell that people were often surprised when she told them what she did for a living. That he who could have anyone should have chosen her. What did she have that a thousand more well-connected women didn’t have? That was what everyone always wanted to know.

Deep down, she suspected it was because he trusted her in a way that he trusted few people. And why did he trust her? Hard to say. Probably because she had met him when he was young—at school—before the true extent of his power and position had really sunk in. Before he’d realised the influence he wielded.

She’d been just ten at the time—a solitary and rather serious child. Her mother, Anna, had been the school nurse at one of England’s most prestigious boarding schools—a job she’d been lucky to get since it provided a place to live as well as a steady income. Anna was a single mother and her daughter Isobel illegitimate. Times had changed, and not having a father no longer carried any stigma, but it certainly had back then—back in the day.

Isobel had borne the brunt of it, of course. She remembered the way she’d always flinched with embarrassment whenever the question had been asked: What does your father do? There had been a thousand ways she had sought to answer without giving away the shaming fact that she didn’t actually know.

As a consequence, she’d always felt slightly less than—a feeling which hadn’t been helped by growing up surrounded by some of the wealthiest children in the world. She’d been educated among them, but she had never really been one of them—those pampered products of the privileged classes.

But Tariq had been different from all the other pupils. His olive skin and black eyes had made him stand out like a handful of sparkling jewels thrown down onto a sheet of plain white paper. Sent to the west to be educated by his father, he had excelled in everything he’d done. He’d swum and ridden and played tennis—and he spoke five languages with native fluency.

Sometimes, Isobel had gazed at him with wistful wonder from afar. Had watched as he was surrounded by natural blondes with tiny-boned bodies and swish flats in Chelsea.

Until the day he had spoken to her and made a lonely little girl’s day.

He’d have been about seventeen at the time, and had come to the sanatorium to ask about a malaria injection for a forthcoming trip he was taking. Her mother had been busy with one of the other pupils and had asked Isobel to keep the young Prince entertained.

Initially Isobel had been tongue-tied—wondering what on earth she could say to him. But she couldn’t just leave him looking rather impatiently at his golden wristwatch, could she? Why, her mother might get into trouble for daring to keep the young royal waiting.

Shyly, she had asked him about his homeland. At first he had frowned—as if her question was an intrusion. But a brief and assessing look had followed, and then he had sat down so that he was on her level before starting to talk. The precise words she had long forgotten, but she would never forget the dreamy way he had spoken of desert sands like fine gold and rivers like streams of silver. And then, when her mother had appeared—looking a little flustered—he had immediately switched to the persona of confident royal pupil. He hadn’t said another word to her—but Isobel had never forgotten that brief encounter.

It had been over a decade later before their paths crossed again. She had gone back to the school for the opening of a magnificent extension to the library and Tariq had been there, still surrounded by adoring women. For one brief moment Isobel had looked at him with adult eyes. Had registered that he was still as gorgeous as he was unobtainable and that her schoolgirl crush should sensibly die a death. With a resigned little shrug of her shoulders she had turned away and put him right out of her mind as of that moment.

The new library was fabulous, with softly gleaming carved wooden panels. Tooled leather tables sat at its centre, and the long, leaded arched windows looked out onto the cool beauty of the north gardens.

By then Isobel had been a secretary—working in a dusty office for a rather dry bunch of lawyers in London. It hadn’t been the most exciting work in the world, but it had been well paid, and had provided her with the security she had always craved.

There’d been no one in the library that she knew well enough to go up and talk to, but she’d been determined to enjoy her time there, because secretly she’d been delighted to get an invitation to the prestigious opening. Just because she’d been educated at the school free, it didn’t mean she’d been overlooked! She’d drunk a cup of tea and then begun to look at the books, noting with interest that there was a whole section on Khayarzah. Picking up a beautifully bound volume, she’d begun to flick through the pages, and had soon been lost in the pictures and descriptions of the land which Tariq had once made come alive with his words.

She’d just got to a bit about the source of the Jamanah River when she’d heard a deep voice behind her.

‘You seem very engrossed in that book.’

And, turning round, she’d found herself imprisoned in the Sheikh’s curious gaze. She’d thought that his face was harder and colder than she remembered—and that there was a certain air of detachment about him. But then Isobel recalled the sixth-former who’d been so kind to her, and had smiled.

‘That’s because it’s a very engrossing book,’ she said. ‘Though I’m surprised there’s such a big section on your country.’

‘Really?’ A pair of jet eyebrows was elevated. ‘One of the benefits of donating a library is that you get to choose some of its contents.’

Isobel blinked. ‘You donated the new library?’

‘Of course.’ His voice took on a faintly cynical air. ‘Didn’t you realise that wealthy old boys—particularly foreign ones—are expected to play benefactor at some point in their lives?’