Читать книгу The Sheikh's Convenient Virgin - Trish Morey - Страница 8

‘EXCELLENCY, this is madness. Taking a wife, taking a sheikha for your country, this is a serious matter.’

‘You’re right, Kamil,’ he said with a brotherly slap on the back, ‘and much too serious to be decided for me by the likes of my cousin.’

‘But to decide on this woman on a whim, when the council cannot force you to marry Abir?’

‘Listen, my good friend, do you think that if I refuse to marry Abir, Qasim will desist in his efforts to gain power? Of course he won’t. He will keep working away, using whatever influence he has on the council for his own purposes.’ He shrugged before continuing, ‘And on one level Qasim and the council are right. Jamalbad needs an heir. And, sadly, I am in no position to provide them with an heir without a wife—a wife I simply have no interest in searching for.’ He waved his hand in the direction of the window. ‘Especially not when such an apparently suitable specimen sits just a few yards away. And she looks nothing like your “women on the beach”. I am sure I can convince the council that she has all the necessary virtue she needs. Now, does this woman, this companion for my mother, have a name?’

His secretary was still shaking his head, but he could no more refuse his ruler than stop breathing. ‘Her name is Morgan Fielding, Excellency. But what makes you think, even if she were suitable for the role, that she would agree to marry you?’

Tajik laughed. The idea was preposterous. ‘Come now, Kamil, she is a woman, and if you believe everything my cousin says I am a playboy through and through. With such a reputation, how could any woman resist me?’

Today was Gold Coast weather at its best: the sky an endless stretch of azure blue, bisected only by the occasional spear of jet stream, and with a slight breeze taking the edge off the sun’s heat. Palm fronds swayed lazily in the gardens surrounding the pool, and diamonds of light played on the surface of the aqua water.

If a job could be perfect, then this one had to come close—relaxing days, beautiful surroundings, and nothing more taxing to do than keep a fascinating woman from an equally fascinating country company. She loved the stories Nobilah had told her about Jamalbad. She seemed to make the rich desert sunsets and the colours, scents and noise of the local soukhs come alive with her words.

Oh, yes, it was a dream job. Just a pity that it ended in less than two weeks. The gentle-faced Nobilah would return to Jamalbad and she would return to the temp agency. She sighed a wistful sigh. There was no way she could expect to be this lucky again. More likely she’d end up working ten hours a day for a madman in some office where the milk in the fridge lasted longer than the PAs.

Less than two weeks to go—so she’d just have to enjoy this experience while it lasted.

Morgan closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, the scent of frangipani adding a heady sweetness to the air. If she tried hard she could almost imagine she was there, in Nobilah’s home in Jamalbad, the desert-warmed air kissing her skin, the sweet scent of the palace orange grove tugging at her senses.

A shadow moved over her as the sun disappeared behind a cloud—until she remembered there were no clouds today, and there should be no shadow.

She snapped open her eyes with a start to see a man standing over her, a dark statue looming tall and powerful, his features indistinguishable with the wash of light behind. Without seeing his eyes she knew this man was a stranger. Without seeing his eyes she could still feel their impact like an acid burn. He was looking down at her. Staring. Assessing.

Her senses on trembling alert, she swung her legs over the edge of the chair, pushing herself to stand so as to remove at least some of the advantage he had by virtue of his height. But just standing was nowhere near enough. He still stood a full head above her, although at least from this angle she could finally see his eyes.

And immediately regretted the fact.

They burned gold, with scattered flecks like flaming coals, burning all the brighter with the contrast of his dark lashes and arched brows and the darkly shadowed angles of his cheeks and jaw.

Never before had she been confronted with someone so totally, unashamedly masculine. And never before had she felt more like an insect under a microscope. It was impossible not to resent his inspection. At the same time there was something compelling about those golden eyes that wouldn’t let her turn away.

She swallowed, trying to quell the insane rush of sensation that coursed through her.

Attraction.

Desire.

Fear.

All those things rolled into one prickly surge of awareness as he silently continued to watch her.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked at last, when the silence had stretched out much longer than was polite, and it was clear he was not about to break it.

The corners of his mouth turned up, drawing her eyes to his full lips. And to a wide mouth she could tell immediately would be equally at home delivering either pleasure or pain. ‘That is my intention,’ he answered cryptically. But before she could think about a response, Nobilah stirred on the lounger alongside.

‘Tajik! You’re back already. Why didn’t you tell me?’

He turned his attention to the much older woman, releasing the hold on Morgan’s eyes as abruptly as the snapping of chains.

‘The negotiations finished early,’ he said, moving to the older woman’s side and enclosing her in a bear-like hug that swept her off her feet and around in a circle of dark silk. ‘I wanted to surprise you.’

‘You did!’ she said, her age-plumped features creasing in delight. ‘I’m so pleased.’

Morgan watched the reunion, waiting for the perfect time to withdraw. So this was Nobilah’s son, the Sheikh? She’d expected someone older, maybe forty or so, given that Nobilah was in her mid-sixties, but this man looked in his prime. He couldn’t be more than early thirties. But then Nobilah had talked often of him as a child, of her dark haired boy who had grown up wild and untamed in the deserts of Jamalbad only to become a prince when her husband had unexpectedly came to the sheikhdom. Of the boy who had been torn from one life and thrown into another much more demanding and exacting.

As she looked at him now she could see no trace of that wild boy-child. Royalty was everything about him. His composure. His bearing. His sheer presence.

He could have been born to rule.

As if sensing her thoughts, he turned and captured her gaze. ‘So this is your new companion?’ he said, still holding his mother’s hands in his own. ‘So, tell me, is she any good?’

‘Come and meet her,’ his mother scolded, tugging him around. ‘See for yourself.’

Morgan stiffened as he allowed his mother to lead him to the hired help. As if it was necessary. Surely he’d seen enough while he’d been standing over her? And if talking about her in the third person had been intended to make her feel uncomfortable, he’d sure hit the spot. She gave him a glare that should strip paint.

If he noticed her glare of disapproval he gave no hint of it. ‘Morgan Fielding,’ he uttered slowly—so slowly and deliberately, that the sound of her own name rolled through her, a strange, unfamiliar thing.

With an accent that was like a blend of the richest coffee and the darkest chocolate, he made her name sound good enough to eat. No, she corrected herself, catching sight of white teeth flashing between lips that looked too confident, too predatory, he made her name sound good enough to devour. She shivered. Because his eyes echoed the certainty. They looked down at her, their golden depths too knowing, too intent, as if he was reaching to some place deep inside her she hadn’t known existed until now. And instinct warned her this man would do nothing by half measures.

And then he held out one hand, and she had no choice, no matter what her senses screamed to her in warning, but to do likewise.

She felt long fingers enclose her hand, circling around her wrist in a sensual dance of flesh against flesh as he drew her arm weightlessly towards him. With his eyes firmly fixed on hers she felt powerless to resist. Just when she thought he was intending to take her all the way to his lips, he stopped, and with the merest smile nodded slightly. ‘It is indeed…a pleasure.’

Her heart thumping in her chest, it was all she could do to form, let alone hear, her own words. ‘Sheikh Tajik, I’ve heard a lot about you.’

His smile widened, although his eyes remained steady, calculating.

‘You have me at a distinct disadvantage,’ he said. ‘I know next to nothing of you—a failing I intend to rectify at the first opportunity, I assure you.’

Golden eyes told her he meant every word he said, while the gentle stroke of one long finger over her wrist sent tremors of heat reverberating up her arm.

‘Taj,’ Nobilah rebuked with a laugh, breaking the spell. ‘Stop flirting with my companion. Come and tell me all about Paris. I’ll send for tea.’

‘I…I’ll get it,’ Morgan offered, smiling her thanks at Nobilah as she sensed a means of escape. She tugged her hand free and set off for the house, unable to ignore the prickle of heat on her skin, almost as if a pair of golden eyes were burning tracks into her back the whole way.

Nobilah had thought he’d been flirting with her? Why, then, had every word felt like some kind of threat? And why had the touch of his fingers on her flesh felt like some kind of promise?

She shivered again, wanting to shake off the unfamiliar sensations, and let herself into the house via the wide glass doors that led into the casual living areas and through to the kitchen beyond. She had almost crossed the cool tiled floor when she heard the voices—the even, low tones of Kamil and the raised voice of Anton, the chef they’d lured from one of Brisbane’s top hotels for the duration of their stay.

‘I have a contract,’ the chef protested. ‘I will not be sacked!’

Morgan pulled herself up short of the door. Obviously this was not a good time. But why were they sacking Anton? It made no sense. His cooking was three star Michelin standard, his menus superb. And Nobilah had made no secret of the fact that if she could she would like to take him back to Jamalbad with them.

‘Not sacked,’ she heard Kamil reply, his tone soothing yet insistent. ‘The remaining balance owing on your contract will be paid in a lump sum, together with a generous bonus for any inconvenience.’

Anton grunted his displeasure and Morgan tuned out. She was turning to leave—right now was probably not the best time to ask for tea—when she heard the words, ‘We leave for Jamalbad at first light tomorrow. All you need do is prepare a light breakfast and then you are free to go. You will have the day to clear your things before the house is closed up.’

They were leaving? Tomorrow? So that was why they wouldn’t need a chef any longer. And if they didn’t need a chef…

She stood there, drinking in the knowledge that her services were about to be terminated prematurely, and the clatter of pans coming from the kitchen as Anton grudgingly came to terms with the news echoed her mood.

She’d thought she still had two weeks of being Nobilah’s companion. Now she had less than twenty-four hours. Damn. Working nine to five in some office hellhole was going to seem very ordinary after this assignment.

‘Miss Fielding?’

Morgan blinked and swung around to see Kamil watching her from the kitchen door, a frown creasing his brow. Mentally she prepared herself, waiting for the axe to fall. Kamil had been the one to hire her. If her services were about to be terminated, he might as well get it over with right now. But he just stared right back at her.

‘Was there something you wanted?’

She hesitated, still expecting him to take advantage of finding her outside the kitchen to deliver the news of her own dismissal. But when he failed to speak again, Morgan could put it off no longer. She nodded, feeling awkward. ‘Nobilah requested tea.’

He looked at her oddly, his expression a mix of concern and something that looked like pity. Then he simply glanced over his shoulder. ‘Anton, tea for Nobilah, if you please.’ He turned back to Morgan. ‘Was there anything else?’

You tell me, she was tempted to say. ‘No,’ she whispered instead. ‘Just the tea.’

‘In that case, please excuse me. I have much to arrange. Anton will have the tea ready for you in just a moment.’ He nodded and turned to leave, but all of a sudden she couldn’t let him go—not without knowing for sure.

‘Kamil…’

He halted and swivelled back round. ‘Yes?’

‘I…I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help but overhear. You’re leaving for Jamalbad? Tomorrow?’

He inclined his head. ‘That is true.’

‘The entire household, including Nobilah?’

‘Again, this is true.’

‘Oh,’ she whispered. ‘I see.’

Kamil hesitated a moment, and once more she caught almost a look of pity in his features—but in a blink it was gone, his usual mask of efficiency returned.

‘If that is all…?’

‘Of course,’ she said, letting him withdraw. He would have plenty to do to organise the family’s early departure without her getting in his way.

Why had he looked at her that way? she wondered as she carried the tray from the kitchen. Unless Kamil had assumed she might be expecting a generous bonus for the early termination of her contract too?

He needn’t be worried on that score. Anton had been with them for the best part of two months, and was a top-flight chef, while she’d been Nobilah’s companion for little more than a week. Under the circumstances she’d be more than happy to have her contract paid out.

She slowed as she crossed the terrace, her pulse starting to beat irregularly as she took in the sight of Nobilah with her son. They were walking side by side along the stone flagging that lined the large, Italian-inspired pool. Tajik dwarfed his mother, a petite woman for all her curves, rendered all the more petite by the man walking alongside her and whose elegance could not be disguised by the abaya she wore, its fabric swirling about her like poetry as she walked.

And then there was Tajik. Tall and broad-shouldered and hard, as if he’d been carved from stone and breathed into life by the kiss of the gods. His pale blue sweater could not mask a firm chest and flat abdomen; his dark trousers could not disguise lean hips and long legs.

As she watched, he angled his face towards his mother, and Morgan found herself reacquainted with the determined angles of his jaw, the strong line of his nose. Everything about the man said power, even the fire-flecked golden eyes and the passionate slash of his mouth.

What did his return today have to do with the family’s sudden departure? It couldn’t be coincidental. There’d been no hint of a possible early return to Jamalbad before now.

Not that there was anything she could do about it. With a sigh she pushed herself off the deck, heading for the pool area while the pair were still strolling around the far end of the pool. Screened by trees, she’d take the opportunity of leaving the tea on the table and make herself scarce while mother and son enjoyed their reunion. She had no desire to lock horns—or gazes, for that matter—with Sheikh Tajik again, not when he had such a disconcerting ability to get under her skin.

Morgan gave a wry smile as she reached the table. If she had to find a bright side to the early end to this assignment, she guessed being saved any further contact with Sheik Tajik would probably fit the bill. That would be some consolation at least.

He’d known the second she’d emerged from the house. He’d felt her presence like a sigh of satisfaction. She’d taken a long time, much longer than it took to collect a mere pot of tea, and he’d wondered if he’d actually scared her off completely. After all, she’d almost bolted for the sanctuary of the house the second Nobilah had mentioned the word “tea”.

He’d waited with unexpected enthusiasm for her to rejoin them while he’d gone over the plans to leave with his mother, until finally Morgan had reappeared, but even then she’d hesitated, like some quaking virgin on her way to her wedding feast—knowing but not really comprehending what was in store for her.

He allowed himself a smile at the parallel as his mother headed back to the house to check with Kamil on progress.

Morgan was perfect. Up close he could see she was both good-looking enough for everyone to believe he’d chosen her as his bride for just that reason alone, and meek enough not to complicate his plans. She was exactly what he needed to quash Qasim’s lust for the throne.

He watched her place the tray on the table, her cream linen trousers moulding to her neat backside as she bent down, emphasising the flare of her hips and firing off a primitive spike of need in his loins that took him both by surprise and delight. Oh, no, he thought as he circled the pool towards her, appreciating the neat waist between those feminine curves, it would be no hardship playing Qasim at his own game. Not with such an appetizing partner in crime.

The object of his attention straightened and set off without a backward glance. He smiled to himself. She was kidding herself if she thought she could escape that easily.

‘Miss Fielding,’ he called. ‘You will be joining me for tea.’ It wasn’t a question.

She stopped with a jolt, before her back straightened and she swung around.

The polite smile on her face did nothing to hide her obvious discomfiture at being caught.

‘I’m afraid I only brought two cups.’

He swung his hand around in a sweeping arc that could only emphasise the leanness in his body, the sheer latent strength. ‘As you can see, there are only two of us.’

‘But Nobilah?’ Frantically her eyes scanned the pool area.

‘Has gone to organise the staff,’ he finished.

She took a step towards the house. ‘Then I should help her.’

‘No.’ His hand whipped out and caught her forearm, arresting her mid-turn. ‘Not just yet. I wanted the opportunity to talk to you.’

She looked up at him, her hazel eyes wide with what looked almost like panic, her lips still parted with surprise. Underneath his hand her skin felt smooth and warm, and his thumb picked up the race of her pulse through her slender limb.

Then her chin kicked up on a swallow. ‘If it’s about leaving tomorrow, I already know.’ She looked down at his hand. ‘So, if you’ll kindly take your hand away…’

He didn’t. Not right away. He let it linger long enough to drink in more of the touch of her skin, long enough to tell her that he was the one who would decide what and where. As she would soon come to know.

Finally he let her go, and she clutched her arms around her as if she was cold. But he knew from her touch that she wasn’t cold. Far from it.

‘Walk with me,’ he said, ‘and tell me what you think you know.’

Her eyes sparked at the implication, but she said nothing, merely falling into step alongside him as he set off along the path that threaded through the palms around the perimeter. She walked with a slight limp, he noticed, a limp she was working hard at disguising.

For a moment he wondered if he was acting too rashly and there might be some pressing medical reason why he would be foolish to take this woman as his wife, but if Kamil had not listed it amongst his concerns, as surely he would have, then it must be a detail of no consequence. Beside him the woman gave a small sigh of resignation.

‘Just that the household is returning to Jamalbad tomorrow and that everyone will be leaving.’

‘You’re not sorry? I believe from Kamil that your contract has two weeks to run?’

‘I will miss Nobilah.’

He nodded, liking the way this conversation was developing. ‘As my mother seems to like you.’

She smiled in return, transforming her features to dazzling. ‘I love hearing Nobilah’s stories of life in Jamalbad. I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘It just all sounds so exotic.’

She looked up at him, her eyes bright and her smile wide, until, as suddenly as if she’d flicked a switch, her eyes clouded over and she let her smile slide away.

‘Anyway,’ she continued, looking ahead once more, the prim miss back in control, ‘I will miss her.’

He waited a stride or two before answering, taking his time to appreciate the slightly irregular sway of her hips as they walked together. It was good. Even the way she moved pleased him. ‘That will not be necessary,’ he told her.

He heard the rapid intake of air that preceded her words. ‘Look, it may not be necessary, as you put it, but I do like your mother. I’ve enjoyed her company immensely, whether you believe me or not.’

Her sudden outburst took him by surprise. So the meek-looking girl had some spirit after all? That might be a drawback if it meant she would not fall in with his plans, but then again it might make this a more interesting exercise than he’d imagined. Right now, though, he could do without getting her off-side.

‘You misunderstand me,’ he soothed. ‘I do not doubt your affection for my mother. I am saying merely that you will have no reason to miss her.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘That you are traveling to Jamalbad with us.’

‘Me?’

‘You are needed in Jamalbad.’

‘As Nobilah’s companion?’

He looked down at her. He would have to remember to thank his mother—she had made his job so much easier. ‘Fatima will be at least six weeks regaining her strength following her surgery.’

‘So you’ll be extending my contract?’

‘In a matter of speaking. I promise you it will be worth your while.’

Something about the way he said that managed to pierce the bubble of enthusiasm she’d been feeling at the news.

Jamalbad—she’d loved the very thought of the place since Nobilah had first mentioned it. The earth buildings looking as if they’d emerged fully formed from the surrounding sands, the white shell-encrusted palace walls glistening in the midday sun, the jewel colours of the women’s robes. The thought of seeing it for herself had been nothing short of a dream, and now she was being offered a chance to make that dream come true. And yet something about the offer seemed almost too good to be true.

Something didn’t feel right.

‘Surely there are plenty of women in Jamalbad who could perform the role of Nobilah’s companion?’

‘I have no doubt of that. Would that stop you from going?’

‘Well, no, but—’

‘Then perhaps you have had a better offer?’

‘No, it’s not that.’

‘Then it is settled.’ He smiled. ‘Come,’ he said, directing her back to the table, where the tea sat waiting, ‘have tea with me.’

Morgan wavered. She wasn’t sure she wanted to have tea with him. Especially now she felt she was being railroaded into going to Jamalbad—which was crazy when visiting Jamalbad was something she wanted to do. But tomorrow?

She almost never acted on impulse. That was her twin sister Tegan’s department. Gutsy Tegan, who’d come home from her aid work in Somalia and agreed to swap places with Morgan for a week while she attended a wedding in Fiji. Gutsy Tegan, who’d had no choice but to stay on for two months after Morgan’s broken leg and surgery. Gutsy Tegan, who’d fallen in love with Morgan’s boss from hell and turned him into the perfect husband.

Tegan would jump at such an opportunity, she knew. But Morgan had always been the quiet one. The sensible one. She hauled in a breath, only to find it tinged with the rich scent of the man beside her—sandalwood, exotic spices, musk—an alluring mix that seemed to latch into her senses and beckon to her.

But tomorrow?

‘It’s just not as simple as that,’ she said at last.

‘It’s not?’ he asked ingenuously, with a shrug. ‘It is only tea.’

Exasperated, she slipped into a chair when it was clear he was not going to take no for an answer. Without asking he picked up the delicate teapot and, with an unexpected sensuality of movement, tilted the pot to pour tea into her cup. It was there in the curve of his fingers around the teapot. It was there in the steady pour of tea into her cup, in the heady scent of spices in the heated steam. It was there in the unwavering way he met her gaze with those golden eyes that seemed to see right inside her.

She cleared her throat, hoping it might go some way to clearing her mind. ‘I didn’t actually mean the tea. I’m talking about going to Jamalbad with you…I mean with Nobilah.’

‘I know what you meant. But you’ve already said that you don’t have a better offer. You yourself said you love what Nobilah has already told you about Jamalbad. I am offering you the chance to go there and see it for yourself. Why should you have any reason to turn down this opportunity?’ He paused, his cup almost to that sensuous slash of mouth. ‘Unless there is a man?’ He shrugged. ‘A boyfriend, perhaps?’

Maybe it was the earnest way he said it, but Morgan wanted to laugh out loud. Except one look at his eyes warned her not to. He was serious.

‘Does Jamalbad have a problem with women who have boyfriends?’

‘Would it be an issue for you if it did?’

She tried to hold his gaze, but she knew the rising heat she could feel colouring her skin would give her away anyway. ‘No,’ she acknowledged with a shake of her head.

He nodded. ‘That is for the best.’

She blinked. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Jamalbad is in a lot of ways a modern Arab emirate. However, we come from a very traditional society where women are still prized for their…shall we say, “purity”? While you are in our country, we would expect you to behave with a certain modesty.’

‘You mean as opposed to jumping into bed with every man I meet?’

His cool golden gaze collided dispassionately with her own. ‘I wouldn’t have put it quite so coarsely myself.’

‘Yet you have no problem thinking it.’ She replaced her cup on her saucer. ‘Well, it may just surprise you to know that there are some women in Australia who don’t jump into bed with every guy they meet.’

‘That is encouraging news. And would you count yourself in their number?’

She stood up quickly, the metal legs of her chair scraping across the sandstone tiles of the pool surrounds.

‘What is this? Next you’ll asking for some kind of medical certificate or something.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said, rising alongside her. ‘I think you’ve made your point. You see, the women of the palace are easily influenced by the lure of the western life, and, while I encourage their education in most respects, there are some practices I would prefer them not to adopt.’

‘Well, you have no fear on that count. They’re hardly likely to learn anything from me.’

His golden eyes glimmered in a way that sent vibrations dancing along her nerve-endings. Why did he look that way at her? Like a jungle cat sizing her up for the kill rather than someone who had to decide if she was morally upright enough to be invited to his country?

‘I expected you to be totally docile, but you surprise me with your anger. Do you have any idea how beautiful you are when you are angry?’

His words blindsided her. Nobody had called her beautiful—not since Evan—and she couldn’t believe what he’d said anyway. But the man opposite her was right about one thing—she was certainly angry. Morgan Fielding—who prided herself on staying cool under pressure—was cracking up. Something she’d never done even with Maverick, the boss with the worst reputation in the Gold Coast.

‘Well, then,’ she said, uncomfortable in the loud silence that followed, ‘given that I have such a fiery temper, I wonder if I have given you yet another reason not to be considered morally upright enough to accompany Nobilah to Jamalbad?’

She tried to toss the question off lightly, to head off the mounting tension filling the air between them, but his eyes just crinkled at the edges, their golden depths deepening like warm caramel.

‘On the contrary,’ he murmured, his voice deep and resonant. ‘You will be perfect.’