Читать книгу To Catch a Sheikh - Teresa Southwick, Teresa Southwick - Страница 9

Penny paced back and forth in front of the French doors in her room. Wired by nerves and the small amount of caffeine consumed before the disaster, she couldn’t relax. It was a good thing the suite was so large—lots of space to pace in. If only she could sleep. Oblivion would be preferable to the mental kicking her backside was taking. She alternated between how could she have been so stupid and how could he have let her go on?

Rafiq. A rakish name. It suited him. He was very good-looking. But that didn’t excuse his behavior. He was a prince, a ruler of his country. That excused his behavior. Mortified, she remembered the conversation—her inane prattle. He knew how well a staff member in the royal palace was paid. He’d seen Princess Farrah once or twice. She’d told him he was handsome, for goodness’ sake. But that information he’d pried out of her.

She covered her face with her hands, wishing fatigue could block out the humiliating scene. What a fool she’d made of herself. And he’d let her even after she’d asked him to help her not to do that!

It wasn’t the first time a man had made a fool of her. Last time, the man had taken her money and disappeared. This time, she’d been told to disappear. His exact words—she should take the rest of the day off. To acclimate. Was that El Zafirian for get ready to be drawn and quartered at dawn for the crime of impertinence?

“I almost wish I was dead,” she said to the white walls surrounding her. “But I’d prefer something non-violent and less messy.”

She had to admit that if she breathed her last at dawn, these digs were a fabulous place to spend her final hours. The walls were white, the starkness broken by colorful tapestries hanging in the living room, dining area and bedroom. A low, soft sofa took up one corner of the room that faced a lush, colorful garden. Flowers and greenery abounded below her window. She couldn’t see the ocean, but on the balcony she’d breathed in the fragrance of sea air mixed with the perfume of the flowers. The two blended, creating an intoxicating scent she’d never before experienced.

The bedroom contained a large four-poster bed, matching dresser and armoire—as if she had enough clothes to fill the two pieces of furniture. In the corner was a chair and ottoman covered in white cashmere, or so she’d been told by the maid who’d helped her unpack her meager belongings. What was she doing here? It was a rhetorical question, which fortunately didn’t require an answer. She wouldn’t be around long enough to bother with one. Not after what she’d done—correction—not after she’d been baited and reeled in.

Then the baiter in question—one Rafiq Hassan, Prince of El Zafir—had calmly given her the day off. Wouldn’t it have been simpler to just send her to the airport? Surely he wouldn’t allow her to stay after she’d insulted him.

It didn’t matter that there were no nameplates in his office. That should have been a dead giveaway. Although, she wasn’t especially comfortable with the dead part. Everyone knew the royal family. Why would they need their names on the doors? Lack of sleep could no longer be an excuse for what she’d done. Hands down, she would win ninny of the year or the El Zafirian equivalent. Being new to the country should be considered mitigating circumstances. And he—Rafiq—had set her up. But he was a prince; she was a pauper.

An unexpected knock on the door made her jump. Her heart contracted painfully. Here it comes, she thought. We who are about to die, or be ignominiously deported back to the U.S., salute you.

She opened the door. It was him! For the second time that day she found herself in the unnatural condition of being unable to form words.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“Of course.” She pulled the door wide and stood back, allowing him entrance. After all, this was his place. Place? Oops. Palace. Far different from the average, ordinary, run-of-the-mill man’s place.

He looked at her. “You’ve changed.”

“Not really. I’m the same person I was a while ago. I just don’t have the words—”

He pointed to her pants. “I meant your clothes.”

“Oh.” She followed his glance to her bare feet, jeans and Don’t Mess With Texas T-shirt. When she met his gaze again, she thought it contained a spark of—something she didn’t understand. But she could only think of one word to describe his black eyes. Smoldering.

Her research on the country in general and the royal family in particular had revealed that his last name, Hassan, meant handsome and he certainly lived up to it. His thick black hair was cut short. Subtle waving told her that if it was longer, some serious curling would happen. His face was a composition of high cheekbones, straight nose and square jaw that came dangerously close to male perfection. Broad shoulders and a wide chest fit his tall body. His sinfully expensive navy-blue business suit highlighted lean, masculine strength. Then she remembered her tasteless remark about cowboys being the standard of male appeal in Texas. Prince Rafiq Hassan had just upped the benchmark. She had the heart palpitations, weak knees and sweaty palms to prove it.

“I don’t—”

“Yes?” he prompted.

“What do I call you?” she blurted out. “Your Majesty? Your Highness? Your Worship? The member of the royal family formerly and still known as Prince?”

She was being impertinent, but she couldn’t help it. That’s who she was. Besides, what did she have to lose? She’d already put her foot in her mouth. Even though he should share part of the blame for leading her on, he was probably there to tell her she was fired. From here she had nowhere to go but the airport.

“You may call me Your Highness, Prince Rafiq Hassan, Minister of Foreign and Domestic Affairs, the bountiful and benevolent.”

She felt like reaching for her scratch pad to write down the lengthy form of address when she noticed that his wonderful firm lips were curving up at the corners. “You’re joking,” she accused.

“Yes.”

“Oh, thank goodness.”

“What?”

“You do have a sense of humor.”

“Of course. Why would you doubt it?” He shrugged and extended one hand in a self-effacing gesture.

There was a Band-Aid on his index finger, sporting a cartoon character. It was a sign. He was more than a pompous, arrogant baiter of unsuspecting women.

“At our first meeting you never cracked a smile,” she reminded him.

“That is why I’m here.”

“To show me you can smile?”

“No. To…start again.”

For half a second, she’d thought he was going to apologize for leading her on, making her appear foolish.

She looked up at him, way up, then adjusted her glasses more securely on her nose. “I figured you were here to can me.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, terminate me.” She shook her head. “Bad choice of words.”

“Why?”

“I was wondering if I’d be drawn and quartered in the city square at dawn.”

“Actually, the idea of beheading came up.”

She gasped. “No!”

“Yes. Then the merits of cutting out your tongue.”

She backed up a step before noticing his smile. A full-on, showing-his-great-teeth, go-for-broke, steal-her-heart grin. “You’re teasing me.”

“Yes.” He slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks, upsetting the sleek line at the bottom of the matching jacket. “By ‘can’ and ‘terminate’ you meant revoke your employment.”

“Right. Fire me.” Although the way he looked could give a whole new meaning to the word. He was what the girls back home called a “hottie.”

“I’m not here to do that.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Although you must admit that if you’d told me right away who you are, there wouldn’t be a large coffee stain on the carpet in your office.”

“I don’t have to admit anything,” he said. “I am the prince.”

“Of course.” And exactly the reason she decided against taking him to task for leading her on. Besides, it looked as if she was getting a reprieve. Bearding the lion in his den, so to speak, probably wasn’t the wisest course. “And a prince is the master of all he surveys.”

“Something like that,” he said, a sparkle in his eyes betraying that he was amused.

“If you’re not here to admit anything, then why are you here?”

“To welcome you—properly—to El Zafir.”

“Thank you—” She tipped her head to the side and said, “You still haven’t told me what to call you.”

“Prince Rafiq in public. In private, when we are working, my given name is appropriate.”

Rafiq. The name raised shivers on her arms that scurried over her chest and abdomen. He wasn’t like anyone she’d ever met. Just his name conjured up visions of mystery and magic, enchantment and romance. For the first time, she believed what the travel posters had claimed about his country.

“Prince Rafiq,” she said, testing the name.

“Since it has fallen to me to train you—”

“But I’m supposed to work for Princess Farrah.”

“There’s been a change of plan. My father has appropriated my secretary and my aunt—”

“Princess Farrah?”

He nodded. “My father’s sister. She has given you to me.”

The shivers, which had barely disappeared, kicked up again at the suggestion that she’d been given to him. Lordy, why did her mind have to go there? It wasn’t really such a stretch. This was an exotic country with a different history and culture. Myths of women being swept off their feet and literally carried away by mesmerizing men had been widely romanticized in movies and books. Feminists might object, but Penny had the feeling if any of them took one look at Rafiq, bras would go up in flames and not because anyone was protesting.

“So I’m to work with you?”

He nodded. “If you wish I can arrange for chocolate to be brought. We can do the bonding thing.”

“You really are different from other men,” she blurted out.

Good Lord! She couldn’t believe she’d said that. It was completely inappropriate. Granted she’d said something similar when she’d thought he was an assistant like herself. But now she knew who he was. Besides that, it was flirtatious. She’d never been a flirt. Partly because she’d never had the time. Partly because her nature didn’t lean toward flirting. But her remark had come dangerously close. Was it something in the air of exotic El Zafir? Something in the water? Or was it a mysterious something in the man that unleashed her inner flirt?

“Different?” he asked. He didn’t look shocked or offended, merely curious.

“Where I come from, there are talk shows dedicated to the fact that most men don’t listen, let alone remember,” she explained.

“Perhaps cowboys leave something to be desired as the masculine standard in your country?”

He really had listened, she thought, as heat surged into her cheeks. “Maybe listening and remembering are highly overrated skills.”

He smiled. Were his teeth really white enough to be featured in an ad for dental bleaching? Or did they just look that way because his skin was so very tanned?

“With all due respect,” he said, “I have yet to meet a woman who prefers a man to ignore her.”

She couldn’t help wondering how much research he’d done on women. Quite a bit according to what she’d read about the royal family. She’d seen articles in the tabloids detailing the romantic exploits of Prince Rafiq. She’d even seen his picture, which made her feel all the more ridiculous for not recognizing him. But in person, the flesh-and-blood hunk bore no resemblance to the one-dimensional Don Juan she’d seen in the papers.

How many women had he been involved with? Ten? Twenty? A hundred? And how many cowboys had she been with? Zero. Zilch. Nada. So who was better qualified to judge?

“Okay. You get points for listening and remembering,” she agreed.

“Thank you.” He looked around her suite. “I trust the accommodations are satisfactory?”

“Oh, yes.” She followed his gaze. “This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”

“As compared to Texas?”

“As compared to anywhere. Even the hotel where I met your aunt.”

“It is more spartan than the New York hotel she prefers.”

Penny nodded. “But there’s something to be said for simplicity. Sometimes less is more.”

“I know precisely what you mean.” He met her gaze and his own darkened. His irises were blacker than midnight—smoldering.

There was that word again. It took the air from her lungs. But didn’t fire do that, steal oxygen? Where was an extinguisher when you really needed one?

“Tell me about yourself, Penny.”

The question surprised her. She wasn’t sure why, except that it seemed odd for a member of the ruling family to care about someone like her. The hired help. Then she remembered the cartoon Band-Aid. He must have interacted with his brother’s children and forgotten it was on his finger. She took courage from that. He was a flesh-and-blood man who put his pants on one leg at a time.

Speaking of legs, he’d been standing for a really long time. “Would you like to sit down?”

He only hesitated a moment before saying, “Yes. Thank you.” With athletic, catlike grace he sat on the sofa then indicated the space beside him. “Please.”

She did as he requested, but left an appropriate distance between them. “So what would you like to know about me?”

“Why did you leave your country and take a job halfway around the world in El Zafir?”

There were so many reasons. “Your country is very progressive.”

He nodded. “We’re working hard to make it so. What else?”

It was as if he could read her mind. “I believe we’ve already established that a position in the palace pays well,” she said, smiling.

He grinned in return. “Yes, I believe we did. Is money important to you?”

“Only someone who’s never needed it would ask that question.”

“Is that a yes?” He lifted one dark eyebrow.

“It is.”

“Tell me why.”

“You don’t really want to know.”

“On the contrary.”

“Money is important to me because my mother worked very hard for it.”

“Your father?”

“I never knew him. It was always only my mother and me. She died when I was young.”

He looked very grave. “Mine did as well. Aunt Farrah filled the void when my mother was gone.”

“You’re lucky. I didn’t have anyone to fill the emptiness. The small nest egg she managed to leave me didn’t take away the pain when she was gone. I was raised in an orphanage.”

“I see.”

She found his matter-of-fact response strangely appropriate. “I’m sorry” was a meaningless, conditioned response and brought little comfort. “At eighteen, the state says you’re an adult and on your own.”

“The state is wrong,” he answered. “Such an age is still a child.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. But I was determined to get a degree.”

“And you did—in early childhood education and business. My aunt tells me you interned for Sam Prescott in Dallas.”

“Yes. The Prescotts have been very good to me. In fact Sam is the one who suggested I might think about working in El Zafir.”

Because she’d planned to start her own preschool. And she’d foolishly given away her seed money. But as comfortable as Rafiq made her feel, she still didn’t think he would want to hear about all that. Or maybe it was more that she didn’t want to confess how stupid she’d been. Taken in by a handsome man. She’d vowed never again to be suckered by a good-looking game player.

He was staring at her and the intensity of his gaze made her wonder if he could see all the way to her soul. She hoped not. He wouldn’t want someone so gullible working for him.

“I have known Sam Prescott since we were boys. Is there a particular reason that earning a lot of money is important to you?” he asked.

Because a promise was a promise. The vow she’d made a long time ago meant everything to her. But he wouldn’t want to hear about that. He was a businessman. “It’s my dream to open a preschool, possibly in a corporate environment. That way it could be subsidized by the company.”

“Why?”

“As a businessman yourself, I should think that would be obvious. Corporate sponsorship would increase the success ratio—”

“No. I meant why a preschool?”

“Oh. Well. I like children.” She met his gaze and was surprised he didn’t look bored. In fact, he gave a good imitation of being interested, which gave her the courage to continue. “I think that’s hereditary. My mother loved teaching elementary school. Before I was old enough to go to school, she struggled with the cost of child care. She always said a mother shouldn’t have to choose between a safe place for her child at the expense of a stimulating environment.”

“A preschool would do both?”

“Yes. As long as women are part of the workforce, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon, quality care for children will be an issue.”

“In my country as well.”

“Really?”

Rafiq watched as she made herself comfortable on the sofa. She scooted back and, though it was low, her short legs didn’t allow her feet to touch. Small feet, he noted and bare so he could see her red-painted toe-nails. Strangely unexpected—and appealing. She tucked her legs to the side and rested her elbow on the back of the furniture. Her golden hair was no longer pulled severely back from her oval face and secured in a bun at her nape. The waist-length strands cascaded around her like a silky sunshine curtain, begging a man to run his fingers through it.

He’d struggled with his reaction to her ever since she’d opened the door to him. Oddly enough, the shapeless khaki dress she’d worn earlier had been distraction enough. But jeans outlined her small waist and slender legs. As body types went, she was the complete opposite of the women who caught his eye. Speaking of eyes, hers regarded him through huge glasses. Obviously, she expected him to continue the conversation. And he would. As soon as he remembered what they’d been discussing.

“I didn’t think many women worked outside the home in El Zafir,” she said.

Ah, he thought. Preschools. “More and more educated women are choosing careers in this country. We’ve overlooked this great natural resource and vital addition to our workforce far too long.”

“Then child care becomes a problem.”

“Exactly.”

“I would still like to know why your brother specifically requested a homely nanny for his children.”

How could he get her to forget that particular question? His gaze settled on her mouth. Earlier, when she’d talked so much, he hadn’t noticed how very lush and full her lips were. He had a sudden inclination to taste her. That might make her forget about homely nannies. But he forced the thought away. She was his temporary assistant. Nothing more. And he would do well to remember that and forget how curvy she looked in her jeans.

He was her employer. And she was hardly more than a child. He was twenty-nine years old, but she made him feel ancient.

“I need to go.” He stood up. “About work.”

“Yes?”

She stood also. So small. Her head barely came to his shoulder. He felt a sudden strange burst of protectiveness for her. The same as he would feel for a child, he amended. This surprising reaction was merely the result of being with much taller women. None of them had ever evoked this reaction of wanting to stand between her and whatever storms life would blow into her path.

Penny had been hurt. Because his aunt had revealed that to him, he’d recognized the disillusionment in the depths of her eyes when she’d talked about her dream. Rage flared inside him. Again he wanted to make the jackal who had taken advantage of this innocent pay for his unforgivable sin.

“What about work?” she asked.

“Yes, work.”

“What time do you want me to report to the office?”

“Nine.”

She smiled. “At least there won’t be commuter traffic.”

“No.” He cleared his throat. “About your attire—”

“Your aunt already filled me in on that. No pants in public. She said in this country a woman covers her arms, and skirts must be worn well below the knee.”

“Yes.”

He should be relieved that she was aware. But he found himself strangely heavyhearted that jeans were inappropriate and Penny was aware of it.

“Tomorrow then,” she said.

“Yes. Tomorrow.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

As was he. Far more than he should.