Читать книгу Sold To The Sheikh - Miranda Lee - Страница 9

THE ballroom at the Regency Hotel was a popular Sydney venue for top-drawer functions. Its spectacular Versailles-inspired walls had borne witness to many society balls, awards nights, fashion extravaganzas, product launches, company Christmas parties and, yes, quite a few charity benefits. Its ornate, high-domed ceilings and huge chandeliers had looked down upon the rich and famous on many occasions as they gathered in their finery to celebrate or support whatever cause had brought them together.

Tonight’s cause was one which never failed to touch even the most hard-hearted. Kids with cancer. Charmaine knew that for a fact. And she’d exploited it shamelessly as she’d put together this, her first charity banquet and auction.

But it had been one hell of a lot of work, taking up every spare moment of her time for the last six months. Her social life—what there was of it these days—had suffered accordingly. Even her career had suffered, with her refusing any assignments that would take her overseas for more than a few days.

But it was all worth it to see the fantastic turn-out tonight. Every table filled, and all by people who could well afford the hefty thousand-dollar price tag on each ticket. For which they would get a moderately nice sit-down dinner which probably cost less than fifty dollars a head to produce.

Not that the Friends of Kids with Cancer foundation had to pay anything at all for the catering. The relatively new owner of the Regency Hotel had been persuaded to donate the three hundred dinners required, plus all the drinks and the ballroom itself. Charmaine had discovered that Max Richmond’s brother had died of cancer when quite a young man, an unfortunate tragedy which she’d been quick to capitalise on.

Ah, yes, there wasn’t anything she wouldn’t stoop to to raise money to reach tonight’s ten-million-dollar target, including going without food of any appreciable kind both yesterday and today so that she could fit into the dress she was wearing as co-host of tonight’s auction, a dress that almost defied description.

Wicked was the word that sprang to mind.

How she came to be wearing this particular dress was intriguing. She’d gone to see the head of Campbell Jewels at her home, as she’d personally visited all of the CEOs of Sydney’s top companies, begging and bulldozing them for donations for her auction. Most accommodated her in some way. Celeste Campbell had been very amenable, donating a lovely selection of jewellery. She’d also had that no-nonsense, straight-down-the-line manner that Charmaine admired in a woman. Charmaine had warmed to her immediately, and vice versa.

When Celeste found out the charity auction was being held in the Regency ballroom, she’d related to Charmaine the story of another auction that had been held there a decade earlier, not long before Charmaine herself had first come to Sydney. Apparently there’d been a sit-down banquet, like tonight, followed by the auction of the famed black opal called the Heart of Fire, which was now in the Australian Museum.

Charmaine had been startled to learn that during the course of the evening there’d been an attempted robbery and a shooting. Charmaine had been fascinated by the woman’s story, then totally blown away when Celeste showed her the dress she’d worn that night. It was one of the most provocative evening gowns Charmaine had ever seen.

When Celeste proclaimed she was too old to wear such a dress these days, Charmaine had swiftly jumped in and asked if she could borrow it to wear to the charity auction. She’d known straight away that it was just the thing to get some rich fool to bid a ridiculous price for a dinner date with her. Celeste Campbell had refused—and given her the gown instead! Charmaine had been thrilled.

And now here she was, wearing it, but not feeling quite so confident, or so cocky. Her stomach was doing more somersaults than it had on her very first modelling assignment. Yet she was never nervous these days, no matter how much flesh she was flaunting.

Not that Celeste Campbell’s dress showed all that much bare flesh. Its wickedness was far more subtle than that.

There was nothing at all risqué about its basic full-length strapless style, except perhaps that her breasts were having difficulty being confined in the tightly boned bodice, which was two sizes too small for her. Even that little problem was hidden to some degree by the layer of sheer chiffon stretched over the satin underdress, the chiffon reaching high up around the neck and running tightly down her arms to her wrists.

It was the skin tone of both the satin material and the chiffon, plus the selected beading on the front and back of the gown that was wicked, because it created the illusion of her wearing not a ballgown, but a very skimpy and exotic costume. From even a short distance, the skin-coloured material took on the appearance of bare flesh, with just the shimmering pattern made by the gold beads standing out.

At a glance, front-on, it looked as though the beads were stuck to her nude body in the shape of a bikini. Side-on, where there were no beads, she looked naked. Viewed from the back, the sight was possibly even more provocative, with nothing but skin-coloured chiffon to her waist, a triangular smattering of beads across her behind and a split up the middle back seam to the very top of her thighs. At least the split meant she could walk with her usual long-legged stride instead of tottering around.

Because walk she had to do, right out onto the catwalk that had been put together for the fashion parade conducted earlier during the dinner. The long, well-lit walkway jutted out from the middle of the stage, bisecting the ballroom and giving the occupants of all the tables a top view, especially the ones seated close by. In rehearsal the other night Charmaine had told Rico she would parade out there whilst he auctioned off her dinner-date prize, an idea that hadn’t seemed all that bold at the time, possibly because she’d been wearing jeans.

This outrageous dress, however, had sent her usual boldness packing. Charmaine had been bothered by it all evening. Fortunately, during the dinner she hadn’t eaten, she’d been sitting down. Seated, the dress was quite modest.

But she was no longer seated. She was up on the ballroom stage, peering through the heavy, wine-coloured stage curtain at the huge crowd down below and trying to control this alien fear that she was about to make the most shameless display of herself.

What on earth was wrong with her? She wasn’t usually like this. Usually, she didn’t give a damn how little she wore or if people stared at her, especially the men.

A scornful anger quickly replaced these highly uncharacteristic qualms. Let them think what they liked. She really didn’t care as long as one of them coughed up with a big fat cheque for her foundation.

Feeling marginally better, she glanced at her slender gold wrist-watch and was thinking it was high time for Rico to make an appearance to begin the auction when a very male whistle split the air behind her. She whirled and the man himself was standing there, smiling a wry smile.

‘That is some dress, Charmaine. Are you sure you won’t be arrested for wearing it?’

‘I’ve worn less,’ she retorted, nervous tension making her snappy.

‘Yes, but in this case more is worse.’

‘Do try not to leer, Rico.’

‘I never leer.’

‘No,’ she conceded with a sigh. ‘No, you don’t. Sorry. Actually, you’re much nicer than I thought you’d be, for someone who’s so darned good-looking.’ Which he was. Tall, dark and handsome. But not the kind of tall, dark and handsome that she’d once found irresistible. Big and macho were not her preference. She’d always preferred the leaner, more elegant kind of man.

‘Thank you,’ Rico replied. ‘I think.’ Straightening his bow-tie, he scooped in a deep breath. ‘So! Shall we get this show on the road?’

Again, nerves rushed in, making her want to turn tail and run. Which in turn brought forth a redeeming rush of defiance. ‘Too right,’ she said. ‘It’s time to make those poor kids some serious bucks.’

‘Amen to that!’ Rico agreed.

The auction started off well, at that point the target of ten million looking within easy reach. But the economic times were tough and around halfway the bids began to lag. No matter how much Rico cajoled, by the time the auction had only two prizes left, the amount raised was just under seven million. Charmaine sighed her disappointment. The island holiday Rico was about to offer might make fifty grand. But that would still leave a shortfall of nearly three million. Even if she went out onto the catwalk stark naked, no man here was going to bid that much just to have dinner with her.

‘We’re not even going to make seven million,’ she groaned after Rico sold the holiday for a paltry thirty thousand.

‘No, it doesn’t look like it,’ Rico replied quietly, having placed his hands over the microphone. ‘Perhaps you should have got yourself a real auctioneer.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve been marvellous. It’s not you. It’s the times. People are getting tight. We’ve really done quite well. My hopes were too high. Come on, let’s see what we can get for my pathetic prize.’

‘Now who’s being ridiculous? A dinner date with you is anything but a pathetic prize, Charmaine.’

‘Flatterer. Just get on with it. I want to get this torment over and done with.’ A telling comment, but true. She’d never felt this reluctant to sell herself.

‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, on to the last prize of the evening,’ Rico began again, reviving that Italian accent which seemed to come and go at will. ‘Our lovely hostess, Charmaine, one of Australia’s top supermodels, is offering a dinner date with herself right here in the Regency’s own fabulous By Candlelight restaurant, to be taken next Saturday night. This is a fabulous prize to end this evening with and one which I’m sure will command a top offer.’

He flashed Charmaine an encouraging smile then muttered, ‘Off you go, sweetheart,’ under his breath. ‘Strut your stuff.’

Charmaine rolled her eyes at him, but off she went, undulating her way down the catwalk, doing her best to smile through gritted teeth, well aware that all eyes in that ballroom were glued to her body. Not that she could see much. The footlights that bathed her in light threw the rest of the ballroom into relative darkness. She could see silhouetted shapes but no details, no actual eyes.

Yet she could feel them stripping her in a way that she had never felt before. It had to be because of this darned dress. What else could it be?

‘Might I remind you that Charmaine was recently voted the sexiest woman in Australia by a national magazine?’ Rico raved on. ‘You can see for yourself that that tag is no exaggeration. I would imagine having a private dinner with such a stunning creature would be some man’s dream come true. So come along, gentlemen, make your bids for this once-in-a-lifetime privilege!’

Charmaine almost winced with embarrassment. Dear heavens, now she felt as though she was on the auction block of some white slaver, and that it was her body being sold, not just a few hours of her companionship.

But what the heck, she reminded herself, if the foundation ended up with a good wad of money? Still, she thanked the lord that she’d banned the Press from this do. The last thing she could stand at this moment would be being besieged with camera flashes, not to mention the prospect of seeing photographs of herself in this dress splashed all across the Sunday papers tomorrow morning, accompanied by some trashy story.

With the comfort of that last thought, she plastered a more sultry smile on her face and sashayed sexily down to the end of the catwalk, where she stood motionless for a few moments, her hands on her hips in a saucy attitude. Then slowly, seductively, she turned, the audience gasping at the sight of her back view.

Her eyes connected with Rico’s and he grinned a rather lascivious grin. ‘Don’t be coy, now,’ he urged the audience. ‘If I were a single man myself, I would put my hat in the ring, I can tell you. But I’m out of the market, as my lovely wife right there will attest.’

He nodded down towards a table on Charmaine’s immediate left. She automatically glanced down, then froze.

Later that night, long after this ghastly moment was well behind her, Charmaine would be grateful she hadn’t been moving at the time, for she would surely have stumbled. Maybe even fallen. As it was, she still felt as if the floor had opened up under her.

At least now she knew why she’d been feeling so aware of male eyes on her. Because this pair of eyes had been hiding amongst the others.

Dark, beautiful eyes. Hard eyes. Dangerous eyes.

Prince Ali of Dubar, sitting right there at Renée’s table, looking dashing and debonair in a black dinner suit and gazing up at her with a coolly arrogant air.

Shock galvanised Charmaine’s brain as well as her body, several blank moments passing before she regained her composure and could even try to put two and two together. What on earth was this man doing sitting at Renée’s table? Surely they couldn’t be friends!

This unlikely possibility had barely surfaced before things which had seemed unimportant or irrelevant at the time flashed back into her mind. The prince himself, mentioning last year that he spent every weekend in Sydney going to the races and playing cards with friends. And then Renée the other day at lunch, talking about the high-rollers she played poker with every Friday night in this very hotel, in one of the presidential suites.

Who else could afford a presidential suite but a president, or a rock-star, or an oil-rich sheikh? The worst possible scenario of that little trio, of course, was the sheikh, especially one whom she’d derided and belittled and rejected and who was here tonight for one thing and one thing only. To make her eat her words that she would never go to dinner with a man like him.

Prince Ali of Dubar was undoubtedly going to be the highest bidder for the dinner date with her. Why else would he have come? He hadn’t bid for anything else so far tonight. She would have noticed if he had, a spotlight always briefly being shone on the successful bidder after an item was knocked down to them.

No, it would not be some total stranger sitting opposite her at dinner next Saturday night. It would be this man, whose pride she had severely dented last year. Now it was his turn to humiliate her, by forcing her to dine with him for several hours and endure not only his company, but also his none-too-subtle coveting of her body.

The impact of this realisation sent bile rising in Charmaine’s throat. Pride demanded she would not submit herself to such a mortifying situation. But pride also demanded she conduct herself with her usual self-contained, I’m-not-afraid-of-anything-or-any-man demeanour. After all, even if the sheikh was the successful bidder—and every cell in her brain shouted to her that he would be—what could he really do to her in a public restaurant, across the table? Proposition her once more? Try to seduce her with his charm?

This last idea was laughable.

No. Let him have his pathetic little moment of triumph.

Quite deliberately, she smiled straight at him, challenging him boldly with her eyes and her mouth.

Come on, sucker. Make your bid. See if I care.

His dark eyes narrowed a little at her smile, then slowly raked over her from head to toe, as though assessing if she was worth bidding for. For a split-second, Charmaine worried that he might not bid. Maybe he’d come to dent her pride that way.

But even as she was besieged by a thousand ambivalent emotions over this possibility, his royal mouth opened.

‘Five million dollars,’ he said firmly, and she gasped. She couldn’t help it. Neither could the rest of the people there.

Even Rico sucked in sharply. ‘Wow! That is some bid. Ladies and gentlemen, Prince Ali of Dubar has bid five million dollars for the privilege of a dinner date with our lovely Charmaine. Somehow, I don’t think there will be any better offers, but if there is some intrepid gentleman out there willing to top his royal highness’s offer, will he speak up now or forever hold his peace?’

Charmaine winced at Rico’s words, which were reminiscent of a wedding ceremony. Rather ironic, given this was as far from a romantic encounter as one could get. His royal highness just wanted the opportunity to make her eat humble pie, and he was willing to spend an exorbitant amount of money to do so.

‘No more offers? In that case…sold to His Royal Highness, Prince Ali of Dubar!’ Rico brought the gavel down on the rostrum with a loud thump that reverberated right through Charmaine.

Everyone in the ballroom started clapping, more so when the red arrow on the huge target metre displayed at the side of the stage was lifted by its attendant to twelve million dollars. Charmaine was forced to keep smiling when in fact she’d rather have been screaming, preferably at the man whose black eyes remained locked onto hers, his superior air evoking in her a burning desire to tell him that no man would ever own even a small piece of her, not even her time!

But, of course, that wish was to remain unrequited. No way could she turn down a five-million-dollar windfall for a cause that meant more than her silly pride. On top of that, no way in the wide world would Charmaine let this arrogant devil see how rattled and angry she was. To show anger was to show she cared. She resolved then and there to remain impeccably polite to him next Saturday night. There would be no further outbursts of temper. No rude remarks. No attempts to cut him down to size.

Given this was her intention, she really could not afford to stay standing where she was any longer. The way he kept looking at her was not conducive to ongoing politeness.

Lord knows how I’m going to control myself when I’m alone with him, Charmaine worried as she made her way—to further clapping—off the catwalk.

‘I still can’t believe it,’ Rico said to her after he’d wrapped up the auction and clicked off the microphone. ‘Good old Ali, bidding five mil just to have dinner with you. The man must have more money than sense. No offence meant, Charmaine. But even you must agree that was over-the-top.’

Charmaine frowned at Rico’s familiar remarks before realising that of course he had to be well acquainted with the prince as well, not just Renée.

‘You sound as if you’re really old friends,’ came her careful comment. As much as she despised herself for it, she couldn’t help being curious about the man who’d just paid five million dollars to have dinner with her.

‘We are,’ Rico admitted. ‘Been playing cards together every Friday night for nearly six years now. Been partners in a few racehorses over the years as well. Ali’s a great bloke. You’ll like him.’

Charmaine’s top lip curled before she could stop it. But then she decided not to be a total hypocrite. There was only so far she was prepared to carry pretence, and in private was not one of them.

‘The prince and I have met once before,’ she confessed curtly. ‘I didn’t like him then and I don’t like him now.’

Rico looked startled. ‘You’ve met before? Where?’

‘At the Melbourne Cup carnival last year. I was one of the fashion judges there on Ladies’ Day. To put it bluntly, your royal friend hit on me.’

’And?’

‘What do you mean, and? And nothing! I told you. I didn’t like him.’

‘That surprises me. Women usually do.’

‘Maybe that’s why I didn’t like him,’ she snapped. ‘Look, it’s immaterial whether I like him or not. He’s bought my company over dinner for a few hours and I’ll honour that. But if you’re talking to your Arab friend, then I suggest you warn him that paying five million dollars gives him no more privileges—or rights—than he had by paying for my lunch the last time. Yes, tell him that, Rico. Oh, and tell him I will be at the By Candlelight restaurant promptly at seven next Saturday night, but he is not to attempt to contact me before that. I would be very annoyed if my private and unlisted phone number somehow found its way into his royal highness’s hands. Comprenez-vous?’

‘I get the picture. I just wonder if you do.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning Ali is not given to flights of fancy. After what you’ve just told me, I suspect he came here tonight specifically to bid for that dinner with you, money being no object. Which leads me to believe that he must be somewhat smitten with you. If so, then I doubt your supposed disliking him at first sight will prove to be any more than a minor hurdle.’

Charmaine bristled. ‘Is that some kind of warning?’

‘I suppose so. Look, if you really don’t like him, then watch yourself. Ali is not a man to be toyed with.’

‘I have never toyed with him.’

‘Come, now, Charmaine. I saw the way you were smiling down at him just now and that was not the smile of an uninterested woman.’

Heat zoomed into Charmaine’s cheeks. ‘You don’t understand. I was just…just…’

‘Taunting him?’

She shrugged irritably. ‘In a way.’

‘Don’t,’ came his sharp rebuke. ‘That’s not the way to behave with a man like Ali. Such behaviour could make him…dangerous.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Dangerous? In what way?’

Rico shook his head. ‘Look, I’ll speak to him. Make sure he understands how the land lies. I’m sure he’ll respect your wishes if he believes you’re genuinely not interested. You are definitely not interested?’

‘Oh, please. Spare me from having to deal with a spoiled sheikh who harbours Hollywood fantasies over his irresistibility to women.’

‘Maybe he has cause to harbour them.’

She could not contain a scornful laugh. ‘The only thing Prince Ali of Dubar has going for him with me is the size of his wallet. And then only if he opens it for the foundation. You tell him that, Rico. Now I really must go and take off this infernal dress!’

A famous saying came to Rico’s mind as he watched Charmaine flounce off, her glamorous drop earrings swinging sexily around her shoulders and her long fair hair swishing back and forth across her nearly naked back.

‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’