Читать книгу Australia: In Bed with a Sheikh!: The Sheikh's Seduction / The Sheikh's Revenge / Traded to the Sheikh - Emma Darcy, Emma Darcy - Страница 8

SARAH GLANCED ANXIOUSLY at her watch. The drive into the city had taken over two hours. The morning was slipping away from her. It was almost eight o’clock and she was still locked in Melbourne traffic. A sleepless night and a heavy weight of worry wasn’t doing much for her judgment on which were the faster transit lanes, either.

She’d left Werribee as early as she could but not as early as she would have liked. It had taken time to instruct one of the stable hands in the house routine so he could look after the children until the foreman’s wife could come. It wasn’t the best arrangement but this was an emergency situation.

Her main fear was the possibility she was already too late to make any difference to Tareq’s decision. He may have acted yesterday, lining up another trainer to take his horses. Or he could be at Flemington right now, discussing business. The Spring Carnival wasn’t over yet. It was Oaks Day tomorrow. Many owners gathered with trainers at the racetrack at dawn each morning, watching the form of favoured horses.

On top of which, even if Tareq was at his hotel, there was no guarantee he would see her. Or talk to her. Let alone listen to what she had to say. All Sarah could do was hope and pray for a chance to change his mind before his decision became irreversible.

When she finally reached the Como Hotel, she did a double take. Despite its being in South Yarra, outside the main city area, she had expected a big, plush, ostentatiously luxurious establishment, the kind of place one automatically associated with oil-wealthy sheikhs. The Como was relatively small, almost boutique size. Sarah hoped it meant Tareq was more approachable.

She found a parking station just off Chapel Street, left the jeep there, and walked back to the hotel.

The moment she entered it, the decor screamed class—quiet, exclusive class—marble floors, black leather sofas, floral arrangements worthy of being called exquisite modern art. It might not be ostentatious luxury but it was just as intimidating to anyone who didn’t belong to the privileged people.

Sarah could feel herself bridling against its effect and mentally adopted a shield of untouchability to carry her through gaining entry to Tareq’s presence. She knew from experience with her mother’s high-strata world that her appearance would not be a critical factor. The dark brown corduroy jeans and fawn skivvy would pass muster anywhere these days. The wind had undoubtedly tossed her unruly curls but that didn’t matter. Neither did the fact she wore no make-up. “Being natural” could be just as fashionable as designer clothes.

The concierge directed her to the reception area, around to the left and down a flight of steps, privacy from the street effectively established. One elegant freestanding desk was apparently enough to serve the guests. The woman behind it smiled invitingly. Sarah willed her to be obliging, too.

“I’ve come to call on Sheikh Tareq al-Khaima. Is he in?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Whom should I say is calling?”

“If you’ll just give me his suite number…”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. That’s against our security rules. I can call up to his suite for you. What name should I give?”

Security. Of course. This place was probably as tight as Fort Knox—no unwanted visitors allowed past the steel doors of the elevator. “Sarah Hillyard,” she stated flatly, resigning herself to the inevitable. If Tareq didn’t want to see her, she couldn’t force him to.

Her nerves knotted as the call was made and the message passed on. There seemed to be a long hesitation before an answer was given. Sarah’s tension eased slightly when the receptionist smiled at her, indicating no problem.

“He’s sending Mr. Larsen down to fetch you. It should only be a minute or two, Miss Hillyard.”

“Fetch me?”

“There’s a special key for the executive floor. The elevator won’t take you up without it.”

“Oh! Thank you.”

Relief poured through her. Past the first hurdle. Though Mr. Larsen, whoever he was, might prove to be another barrier. She wondered how big Tareq’s entourage was. He wouldn’t have come alone to Australia and might well have taken over the whole hotel. Such information hadn’t been of interest to her until now and it was too late to ask her father or Susan for more facts.

When the steel doors opened, a tall, fair-haired man, impeccably dressed in a silver-grey suit, emerged from the elevator. His face was thin and austere; high cheekbones, long nose, small mouth, and very light eyes. He looked to be in his early thirties and carried an air of lofty authority. He inspected Sarah as though measuring an adversary; a swift, acute appraisal that left her highly rattled.

One eyebrow was slightly raised. “Miss Hillyard?”

“Yes. Mr. Larsen?”

He gave a slight nod and waved her into the elevator. No smile. His eyes were a silver grey like his suit. Very cold. He didn’t speak as he used a key to set the compartment in motion, nor did he acknowledge her in any way as they rode upwards. Sarah felt comprehensively shut out from this man’s consciousness.

Fighting another rise of tension, she inquired, “Have you been with Sheikh Tareq al-Khaima for a long time, Mr. Larsen?”

He looked directly at her, his mouth curling slightly. “You could say that.”

Oxford accent. Upper-class English. “Are you a friend or do you work for the sheikh?” she asked, needing to place him.

“I’m his trouble-shooter. Are you trouble, Miss Hillyard?”

A hatchet man, she thought. “Am I seeing him or you?”

“The sheikh will see you personally.”

The man’s superior manner provoked her. “Then I hope I’m trouble, Mr. Larsen.”

“Brave words, Miss Hillyard.”

And probably foolish. Getting anyone close to Tareq offside was hardly good politics.

Mr. Larsen turned away, though not before Sarah saw a flicker of amusement in the light grey eyes. A chill ran down her spine. This man’s amusement would undoubtedly be aroused by the anticipation of seeing someone cut to pieces. It did not augur well for her meeting with Tareq. But at least she was seeing him, which gave her a chance at persuasion.

Sarah clung to that reassurance. The elevator stopped. Mr. Larsen led her along a corridor, stopping at a door on which he knocked before using a key to open it. Poker-faced once more, he ushered Sarah into a suite full of light.

The blinds had been lifted from two huge picture windows, allowing a spectacular view over the city. Tareq stood at the window. Although his back was turned to her and he was anonymously clothed in a navy blue suit, Sarah had no doubt who it was. The thick black hair, dark olive skin, his height and build, brought an instant wave of familiarity, despite the passage of years between their meetings. Yet Sarah was just as instantly aware of something different.

She remembered him as carrying an air of easy selfassur-ance, confident of who he was and what he wanted from life. To a child who felt no security about anything, it had seemed quite wonderful to be like that. Now she sensed something more, a dominant authority that didn’t bend.

Perhaps it was in the square set of his shoulders, the straightness of his back, the quality of stillness telegraphing not only total command of himself, but command of the situation. Even the plain dark suit implied he needed no trappings to impress himself on anyone. He didn’t have to do anything. He certainly didn’t have to turn to her need to appeal to him.

Her formidable escort had followed her into the suite and shut the door behind them. He waited, as she did, for Tareq to acknowledge their presence. Waiting for the entertainment to begin, Sarah thought, and wondered if she should take the initiative and greet Tareq. The silence seemed to hum with negative vibrations, choking off any facile words.

“Did your father send you, Sarah?”

The quiet question had a hard edge to it. Without moving, without so much as a glance at her, Tareq had spoken, and Sarah suddenly realised he was standing in judgment. she sensed his back would remain turned to her if her answer complied with whatever dark train of thought was in his mind. She didn’t know what he expected to hear. The truth was all she could offer.

“No. It was my own idea to come to you. If you remember, we met in Ireland when…”

“I remember. Did your father agree to your coming here?”

Sarah took a deep breath. Tareq al-Khaima was not about to be swayed by reminiscences. He was directing this encounter and she had no choice but to toe his line.

“I haven’t even spoken to my father. Nor seen him,” she answered. “I was at Werribee yesterday, looking after the children. Susan, his wife, phoned last night. She was terribly distressed…”

“So you’ve come to intercede for him,” he cut in, unsoftened.

“For all of them, Tareq. It doesn’t just affect my father.”

“What do you intend to offer me to balance what he’s done?”

“Offer?” The concept hadn’t occurred to her. No way could she compensate for whatever had been lost. ‘I…I’m sorry. I have no means to pay you back for…for my father’s mismanagement.”

“Mismanagement!”

Her heart leapt as he swung around. The vivid blue blaze of his eyes shot electric tingles through her brain, paralysing her thought processes. Her whole body felt caught in a magnetic field. Her stomach contracted. Goose bumps broke out on her skin. She couldn’t even breathe. Never in her life had she felt such power coming from anyone. She was helpless to do anything but stare back at him. His gaze literally transfixed her.

The initial bolts of anger transmuted into laser beams. It felt as though he was peeling back the years, remembering how she’d been at twelve, then piling them on again, rebuilding the woman she was now, studying her, seeing if she measured up to whatever he thought she should be.

Sarah struggled to reclaim her mind. He had changed. The shock of such blue eyes—an inherited gene from His English mother—against his dark complexion still held fascination but she saw no kindness in them, nothing to encourage hope. His strikingly handsome face had matured into harder, sharper lines, his softer youthfulness discarded. She knew him to be thirty-four, yet he had the look of a man who wielded power at any level and commanded respect for it. He was armoured, in every sense.

His mouth suddenly curved in a half-smile. “How can dark chocolate shine so brightly?”

They were the teasing words he’d used about her eyes the morning he’d invited her to ride with him on her stepfather’s estate in Ireland, she on a pony, he on a thoroughbred stallion. Sarah floundered in a wash of memories. She had no reply to the remark, any more than she’d had then.

“You haven’t learnt any artifice, Sarah?” he asked.

The abrupt change to a more personal line of conversation confused her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

The half-smile took on a cynical twist. “You’re a grown woman, yet I still see the child. The same rioting brown curls. The same appealing face, bare of make-up. Clothes that are nothing more than clothes. Perhaps that was intentional. Artifice in lack of artifice.”

She blushed at his dissection of her appearance and hated herself for letting him make her feel gauche. “Look! This isn’t about me,” she implored.

“The messenger always carries many messages,” he stated, his eyes mocking her assertion. “You’re a beautiful young woman. Beautiful women usually know and use their power.”

His gaze dropped to her breasts, making Sarah acutely conscious of the stretch fabric of her skivvy hugging their fullness. Then he seemed to mentally measure her waist, the wide leather belt she wore undoubtedly aiding his calculation. The curve of her hips and the length of her legs were inspected, as well, much to Sarah’s growing embarrassment.

His appraisal of her feminine power increased her awareness of the strong sexual charisma which, at twelve, she’d been too young to recognise in him. It was certainly affecting her now, so much so it prompted the realisation he was probably used to women throwing themselves at him. Wealth alone was considered an aphrodisiac. With his looks…

An awful thought occurred to her. When Tareq had asked what she intended to offer him, had he imagined a proposition involving sexual favours? Was he summing up her desirability in case she took that line of persuasion?

Sarah almost died of mortification. She wouldn’t even know how to go about it. Men hadn’t featured largely in her life, none in any intimate sense. As for Tareq…she was losing all her bearings with him.

“The question is…how grown up are you?” he mused, the glitter of speculation in his eyes discomforting Sarah even further.

“I’m twenty-three,” she replied, fervently wishing everything could be more normal between them. She remembered feeling safe with Tareq all those years ago. She didn’t feel safe now.

“I know how old you are, Sarah. Your age doesn’t answer my questions.”

“I told you…this isn’t about me.”

“Yes, it is. It’s very much about you. How long have you been at Werribee?”

Was this a chance to start explaining? “Two years,” she answered, and it was as though she’d slapped him in the face.

She physically felt his withdrawal from her. There was the merest flicker in his eyes, a barely visible tightening of his jawline, no other outward sign. he remained absolutely still, yet she felt every thread of connection with her being ruthlessly cut.

“So…you’ve been assisting your father,” he said coldly.

Sarah realised he’d just cloaked her with her father’s sins, whatever they were. “Not with the horses. I’ve had nothing to do with them,” she rushed out. “I’ve been helping with Jessie. She’s ten years old, Tareq. My little half-sister. And she’s a paraplegic.”

A muscle in his cheek contracted.

Sarah plunged on, wanting him to understand the background. “Two years ago, Susan was terribly ill, being treated for breast cancer. Then Jessie was injured and Susan couldn’t cope. There were the boys, too…”

“Boys?”

“My half-brothers. Twins. They’re seven now but they were only five when I came back to Werribee to help.”

“You were asked to do so?”

“No. Susan wrote about Jessie.”

“Where were you then?”

“London. I’d just finished my finals at university.”

“And you dropped everything to help them?”

He made it sound incredibly self-sacrificing but it wasn’t. “I’ve always loved Jessie. How could I not come when she had to face never walking again?”

He frowned. “You stayed with her…all this time.”

“I was needed.” It was the simple truth.

His eyes bored into hers and she felt the reconnection. It was a weird sensation, as sharp and quick as a switch being thrown, making her nerves leap and jangle, an invasion she had no control over.

“The child belongs to its mother, Sarah,” he said quietly. “She is not the answer to your loneliness.”

Her heart pumped a tide of heat up her neck and into her cheeks; burning, humiliating heat. He knew too much about her. He was plucking at her most vulnerable chords. It had felt good to be needed. And wanted.

Her reluctance to cut herself off from those feelings had influenced her choice to stay in her father’s home longer than was strictly necessary, but she did realise it was time to move on. Though this latest disaster confused the issue.

“I can’t desert them now. Don’t you see?” she pleaded. “My father will be ruined if you take your horses away. What will happen to the children?”

“It is not your responsibility,” he retorted harshly. “Your father brought this outcome upon himself.”

“Did he? Did he?” she cried, and plunged into a passionate defence. “Was it his fault his wife got cancer? Was it his fault Jessie was crippled? There were astronomical medical bills and the house had to be renovated to accommodate a handicapped child, a special suite built on with all the aids for Jessie to learn to be independent, a special van bought to transport her. There were so many adjustments to be made, and the continual cost of physiotherapy, masseurs…Do you wonder that my father was distracted from doing his job properly?”

Sarah was out of breath from the frantic outpouring of words. Her eyes clung to Tareq’s, begging understanding. If he could see through her so easily, couldn’t he see this, too?

Or did he see an ongoing problem?

“But things are better now,” she hastily declared. “Susan’s been cleared of the cancer. She’s fine. No trace of secondaries. And Jessie has made fantastic progress. It’s amazing how much she’s learnt to do for herself. The boys have become good at helping her, too. So you see…my father no longer has so many worries on his mind. He could concentrate on the training if you’ll just give him another chance.”

Her plea seemed to be falling on deaf ears. There was no visible reaction to it on Tareq’s face, no trace of sympathy. She needed some response, some hint of whether he was reconsidering his stance or not.

His brick wall silence tore at her nerves. It went on for an agonising length of time. Sarah fought against a mounting sense of defeat. Was there anything more she could say that might touch him?

“Leave us, Peter.”

The quiet command startled her into jerking her head around. She’d forgotten the presence of Mr. Larsen behind her. He was still there, a witness to everything that had been said. His gaze was locked on Tareq, the chilling light eyes slightly narrowed, as though trying to discern the reason behind the command, or perhaps sending a silent warning that a witness was a wise precaution against trouble.

Whatever he thought, he left without a word, not even glancing at Sarah. The door clicked shut after him, emphasising the continued silence and making Sarah intensely aware she was alone with Tareq. She spun her attention back to him, fighting a rush of inner agitation. Her heart beat chaotically as he started walking towards her.

“You fight very eloquently on your father’s behalf,” he said, though he didn’t look impressed. “I find that quite remarkable since he didn’t fight for you. He gave you up, freeing himself to marry again without any encumbrances and have this family you care so much about.”

“Whatever my father’s shortcomings, the children are innocent,” she argued, inwardly quailing as Tareq came closer and closer. “It’s more for their sake that I’m asking you to reconsider your decision.”

He stopped so close she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. His eyes burned into hers with mesmerising intensity. “And if I don’t reconsider, you are willing to give them more devoted service. More of your time,” he said, stroking her cheek with feather-light fingertips as though seeking to get under her skin and feel all she was.

Sarah’s legs turned to jelly. His nearness was overpowering, his touch insidiously weakening both her mind and body. She’d never experienced anything like it in her life. Movement was beyond her. She could hardly think.

He raked back some curls and tucked them behind her ear, his eyes simmering into hers, holding them captive to his will. “I like your giving heart, Sarah. It’s a rare thing in today’s world.”

She swallowed hard, trying to rid herself of the constriction in her throat. “Can’t you give, too, Tareq?”

“Perhaps.”

“You were once kind to me,” she pleaded.

“And I’ll be kind to you again, though you may not appreciate the form it comes in.”

“What do you mean?”

“A bargain, Sarah. You want me to give your father another chance. I want something in return.”

She literally quaked. He was still fiddling with her hair, winding curls around his fingers, tying her to him. It took all her willpower to force out the words, “What is it you want?”

“For the length of time it takes for your father to prove he can be trusted to do his best by my horses, you will stay with me. Let us say…you will be a hostage to his conscientious efforts to redeem himself.”

Dear God! He did mean to tie her to him! Sarah tried to rally her wits out of their state of shock. “You mean…like a prisoner.”

“No need to be so grim. You can be my travelling companion…my social secretary…”

Euphemisms for current mistress? Or was her imagination running riot, along with her hormones?

“Staying with me should not be a hardship,” he assured her. “I’ll pay you a generous salary for your devoted service.”

“Like what?” Sarah’s mind was spinning, unable to decide what was real or unreal. How devoted was the service to be?

“What did your father pay you for all the hours you gave to his family?”

She flushed. “It’s my family, too.”

“Two years of unpaid labour, Sarah? Two years of putting your life on hold with nothing to show at the end of it?”

“Is there a price on love, Tareq?”

“Oh, yes.” A taunting twist of his mouth mocked her naivety. “There’s always a price. You’ve been paying it. And you’d pay more. So make up your mind as to where it’s best paid, Sarah. You continue to give yourself to your family with potential ruin on their doorstep, or you give yourself to me, securing the second chance you’ve been pleading for.”

“Why does it have to be this way?” she cried. Why did he want her with him?

“It’s a question of trust,” he answered, a relentless beat in his voice. “I don’t trust your father. He betrayed the confidence I placed in him. If you trust him to come good on another chance, you have nothing to fear from this bargain and a lot to gain.”

That was the crux of it. Testing her trust in the trust she was asking him to give. She saw the hard ruthlessness in his eyes and knew there was no mercy in him. If he didn’t get the performance he wanted, he would extract compensation, one way or another.

Her mind was in chaos. What if her father didn’t pull himself together and apply himself to fulfilling Tareq’s expectations? On the other hand, having stared ruin in the face, surely the prospect of being handed another chance would sober him up. Sarah didn’t—couldn’t—place much store in his caring for what might happen to her, but his love for his other children had always been much in evidence.

And the plain truth was, they didn’t need her so much as they needed each other. She’d only ever been an extra, waiting in the wings to be called on. Now that Jessie was capable of managing herself, there was no real reason to stay. The best she could do for them was to give them the chance Tareq was offering.

His hand slid from her hair and travelled around her jawline to cup her chin. “Tit for tat, Sarah. I risk my horses. You risk yourself. Is it a deal?”

A two-way gamble. Put like that, his proposition was understandable. Reasonable. But it was difficult to hang on to reason, swamped as she was by the sexual current coursing from the touch of his hand, sensitising her skin and making a mash of her insides. She didn’t feel safe with him.

Yet without him, Jessie and the twins wouldn’t be safe. Innocent victims. As she had been. Sarah couldn’t let that happen. She stared into the diamond-hard blue eyes of Tareq al-Khaima and willed him to be honourable.

“All right. I’ll do it,” she said decisively.

The flash of satisfaction she saw curled her stomach.

Could she trust him to keep his word?

There was no guarantee.

Only risk.