Книга - The Sheikh’s Undoing

The Sheikh's Undoing
Sharon Kendrik


Ultimate playboy Sheikh Tariq lives life firmly in the fast lane!Independent to his core, Tariq relies on no one but himself – with a little bit of help from his indispensable, sensibly dressed PA, Isobel Mulholland. When a car accident leaves this dynamic sheikh injured and reliant on Isobel, his first reaction is to be furious!The only way through it is to make the most of having Isobel at his beck and call – and under her enchanting touch Tariq’s thoughts turn to seduction… This sweet girl, who has been under his nose the whole time, could just be the Sheikh’s undoing!







Crouching down in front of the grate, he watched as she began to blow on the flames to coax them into life, and Tariq found his eyes drawn to the skirt—which had now stretched tightly over her curves.

He swallowed down a sudden, debilitating leap of desire, which made him harden in a way he wasn’t expecting. In five years of close contact with his highly efficient assistant, he could never remember noticing her bottom before. And it was actually a rather fine bottom. Firm and high and beautifully rounded. The kind of bottom a man liked to cup in the palms of his hands as he was …

‘What?’ Isobel turned round and frowned.

‘I didn’t …’ Tariq swallowed.

What the hell was going on? Did bumps to the head make men lose their senses, so that they started imagining all kinds of inappropriate things?

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘But you made a funny sort of noise.’ Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. ‘Are you all right? Your eyes have gone all glazed.’

‘Are you surprised?’ Shifting his position, Tariq glared at her, willing his arousal to subside. ‘I’ve just had to endure your driving.’


Dear Reader (#u15910da4-4cd9-5c08-871a-ba79994dc428),

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia to escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100


story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx


Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.


SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…


The Sheikh’s Undoing

Sharon Kendrick






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CONTENTS


Cover (#u458dbe65-3bf4-5dbd-ad24-6f21a72086f2)

Extract (#ua14eb2e2-8e35-539a-b5bd-eb188cbdecfa)

Dear Reader (#u5470e77f-b234-5e29-ac5d-d89d8ae01478)

About the Author (#ucfc1c570-bc14-5e3e-b066-5fac662f3c1c)

Title Page (#ue0f089f5-ee64-5375-b87f-7d794e965fbf)

CHAPTER ONE (#ud66f37da-3e90-58cf-af15-a84bfd7c9872)

CHAPTER TWO (#u2752e30a-8efe-59a1-b919-c6efa67d36cd)

CHAPTER THREE (#ua7ed93a1-0022-5b65-9960-210809d438b1)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#u15910da4-4cd9-5c08-871a-ba79994dc428)


THE sound of the telephone woke her, but Isobel didn’t need to see the name flashing on the screen to know who was ringing. Who else would call her at this time of night but the man who thought he had the right to do pretty much whatever he wanted? And frequently did.

Tariq, the so-called ‘Playboy Prince’. Or Prince Tariq Kadar al Hakam, Sheikh of Khayarzah—to give him his full and rather impressive title. And the boss if not exactly from hell then certainly from some equally dark and complicated place.

She glanced at the clock. Four in the morning was early even by his standards. Yawning, she picked up the phone, wondering what the hell he had been up to this time.

Had some new story about him emerged, as it so often did, sparked by gossip about his latest audacious takeover bid? Or had he simply got himself tied up with a new blonde—they were always blonde—and wanted Isobel to juggle his early morning meetings for him? Would he walk into the office later on with yesterday’s growth darkening his strong jaw and a smug smile curving the edges of his sensual lips? And the scent of someone’s perfume still lingering on his skin …

It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened, that was for sure. With a frown, Isobel recalled some of his more famous sexual conquests, before reminding herself that she was employed as his personal assistant—not his moral guardian.

Friends sometimes asked whether she ever tired of having a boss who demanded so much of her. Or whether she was tempted to tell him exactly what she thought of his outrageously chauvinistic behaviour—and the answer was yes. Sometimes. But the generous amount of money he paid her soon put a stop to her disapproval. Because money like that provided security—the kind of security which you could never get from another person. Isobel knew that better than anyone. Hadn’t her mother taught her that the most important lesson a woman could learn was to be completely independent of men? Men could just walk away whenever they wanted … and because they could, they frequently did.

She answered the call. ‘Hello?’

‘I-Isobel?’

Her senses were instantly alerted when she heard the deep voice of her employer—because there was something very different about it. Either he was in some kind of post-coital daze or something was wrong. Because he sounded … weird.

She’d never heard Tariq hesitate before. Never heard him as anything other than the confident and charismatic Prince—the darling of London’s casinos and international gossip columns. The man most women couldn’t resist, even when—as seemed inevitable—he was destined to break their heart into tiny little pieces.

‘Tariq?’ Isobel’s voice took on a sudden note of urgency. ‘Is something wrong?’

From amid a painful throbbing, which felt as if a thousand hammers were beating against his skull, Tariq registered the familiar voice of his assistant. His first brush with reality after what seemed like hours of chaos and confusion. Almost imperceptibly he let out a low sigh of relief as his lashes parted by a fraction. Izzy was his anchor. Izzy would sort this out for him. A ceiling swam into view, and quickly he shut his eyes against its harsh brightness.

‘Accident,’ he mumbled.

‘Accident?’ Isobel sat up in bed, her heart thundering as she heard the unmistakable twist of pain in his voice. ‘What kind of accident? Tariq, where are you? What’s happened?’

‘I …’

‘Tariq?’ Isobel could hear someone indignantly telling him that he shouldn’t be using his phone, and then a rustling noise before a woman’s voice came on the line.

‘Hello?’ the strange voice said. ‘Who is this, please?’

Isobel felt fear begin to whisper over her as she recognised the sound of officialdom, and it took an almighty effort just to stop her voice from shaking. ‘M-my name is Isobel Mulholland and I work for Sheikh al Hakam—would you please tell me what’s going on?’

There was a pause before the woman spoke again. ‘This is one of the staff nurses at the Accident and Emergency department of St Mark’s hospital in Chislehurst. I’m afraid that the Sheikh has been involved in a car crash—’

‘Is he okay?’ Isobel interrupted.

‘I’m afraid I can’t give out any more information at the moment.’

Hearing inflexible resistance in the woman’s voice, Isobel swung her legs over the side of the bed. ‘I’m on my way,’ she said grimly, and cut the connection.

Pulling on a pair of jeans, she grabbed the first warm sweater which came to hand and then, after shoving her still-bare feet into sheepskin boots, took the elevator down to the underground car park of her small London apartment.

Thank heavens for sat-nav, she thought as she tapped in the name of the hospital and waited for a map to appear on the screen. She peered at it. It seemed that Chislehurst was on the edge of the Kent countryside—less than an hour from here, especially at this time in the morning.

But, even though there was barely any traffic around, Isobel had to force herself to concentrate on the road ahead and not focus on the frightened thoughts which were crowding into her mind.

What the hell was Tariq doing driving around at this time in the morning? And what was he doing crashing his car—he who was normally as adept at driving as he was at riding one of his polo ponies?

Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel as she tried and failed to imagine her powerful boss lying injured. But it was an image which stubbornly failed to materialise, for he was a man who was larger than life in every sense of the word.

Tall and striking, with distinctive golden-dark colouring, Sheikh Tariq al Hakam commanded attention wherever he was. Complete strangers stopped to watch him walk by in the street. Women pressed their phone numbers into his hand in restaurants. She’d seen it happen time and time again. His proud and sometimes cruel features had often been compared to those of a fallen angel. And he exuded such passion and energy that it was impossible to imagine anything inhibiting those qualities—even for a second.

What if … ? Isobel swallowed down the acrid taste of fear. What if her charismatic boss was in danger? What would she do if he was in a life-threatening condition? If he … he …

She’d never thought of Tariq as mortal before, and now she could think of nothing else. Her heart missed a beat as she registered the blaring horn of a passing car and she tightened her fingers on the steering wheel. There was no point in thinking negatively. Whatever it was, he would pull through—just like he always did. Because Tariq was as strong as a lion, and she couldn’t imagine anything dimming that magnificent strength of his.

A dull rain was spattering against the windscreen as she pulled into the hospital car park. It was still so early that the morning staff hadn’t yet arrived. The whole building seemed eerily quiet as she entered it, which only increased her growing sense of foreboding. Noiselessly, she sped down the bright corridors towards the A&E department until she reached the main desk.

A nurse glanced up at her. ‘Can I help you?’

Isobel wiped a raindrop from her cheek. ‘I’ve come … I’m here about one of your patients. His name is Tariq al Hakam and I understand he’s been involved in a car crash.’

‘And you are?’ enquired the nurse, her carefully plucked eyebrows disappearing beneath her fringe.

‘I work for him.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything,’ said the nurse, with a dismissive smile. ‘You aren’t his next of kin, are you?’

Isobel shook her head. ‘His next of kin lives in the Middle East,’ she said. Swallowing down her frustration, she realised that she’d crammed her thick curls into a ponytail and thrown on a pair of old jeans and a sweater. Did she look unbelievably scruffy? The last kind of person who would be associated with the powerful Sheikh? Was that the reason the nurse was being so … so … officious? ‘I work closely with the Prince and have done for the past five years,’ she continued urgently. ‘Please let me see him. I’m … I’m …’

For one stupid moment she was about to say I’m all he’s got. Until she realised that the shock of hearing he was injured must have temporarily unhinged her mind. Why, Tariq had a whole stable of women he could call upon in an instant. Women who were far closer to him than Isobel had ever been or ever would be.

‘I’m the person he rang just over an hour ago,’ she said, her voice full of appeal. ‘It was … it was me he turned to.’

The nurse looked at her steadily, and then seemed to take pity on her.

‘He has a concussion,’ she said quietly, and then shook her head as if in answer to the silent question in Isobel’s eyes. ‘His CT scan shows no sign of haemorrhaging, but we’re putting him under observation just to be sure.’

No sign of haemorrhaging. A breath of relief shuddered from Isobel’s lips, and for a moment she had to lean on the nurses’ station for support. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Can I see him? Please? Would that be okay? Just for a moment.’

There was a moment’s assessment, and then the nurse nodded. ‘Well, as long as it is a moment. A familiar face is often reassuring. But you’re not to excite him—do you understand?’

Isobel gave a wry smile. ‘Oh, there’s no danger of that happening,’ she answered—because Tariq thought she was about as exciting as watching paint dry.

He’d often described her as the most practical and sensible woman he knew—citing those as the reasons he employed her. Once, she’d even overheard him saying that it was a relief to find a woman under thirty who wasn’t a distraction, and although it had hurt at the time, she could live with it. She’d always known her place in his life and that wasn’t about to change now. Her job was to soothe his ruffled feathers, not to excite him. There were plenty of other contenders for that category.

She followed the rhythmical squishing of the nurse’s rubber-soled shoes into a side-room at the far end of the unit, and the unbelievable sight that confronted her there made her heart skip a painful beat.

Shrouded in the bleached cotton of a single sheet lay the prone figure of her boss. He looked too long and too broad for the narrow hospital bed, and he was lying perfectly still. The stark white bedlinen threw his darkly golden colouring into relief—and even from here she could see the dark red stain of blood which had matted his thick black hair.

Waves of dizziness washed over her at the sight of the seemingly indestructible Tariq looking so stricken, and Isobel had to quash a stupid instinct to run over to his side and touch her fingers to his cheek. But the nurse had warned her not to excite him, and so she mustered up her usual level-headed attitude and walked quietly towards him.

His eyes were closed—two ebony feathered arcs of lashes were lying against a face which she could see was unusually blanched, despite the natural darkness of his olive skin.

She swallowed down the acid taste of fear. She had seen Tariq in many different guises during the five eventful years she’d been working for him. She’d seen him looking sharp and urbanely suited as he dominated the boardroom during the meetings which filled his life. She’d seen him hollow-eyed from lack of sleep when he’d spent most of the night gambling and had come straight into the office brandishing a thick wad of notes and a careless smile.

Once she’d started remembering Isobel couldn’t stop. Other images crowded into her mind. Tariq in jodhpurs as he played polo with such breathtaking flair, and the faint sheen of sweat that made his muddy jodhpurs stick to his powerful thighs. Tariq in jeans and a T-shirt when he was dressed down and casual. Or looking like a movie idol in a sharply tailored tuxedo before he went out to dinner. She’d even seen him in the flowing white robes and headdress of his homeland, when he was leaving on one of his rare visits to the oil-rich kingdom of Khayarzah—where his brother Zahid was King.

But she had never seen her powerful boss looking so defenceless before, and something inside her softened and melted. At that moment she felt almost tender towards him—as if she’d like to cradle him in her arms and comfort him. Poor, vulnerable Tariq she thought bleakly.

Until the reality of the situation came slamming home to her and she forced herself to confront it. Tariq was looking vulnerable because right at this moment he was. Very vulnerable. Lying injured on a hospital bed. Beneath the wool of her sweater she could feel the crash of her heart—and she had to fight back a feeling of panic, and nausea.

‘Tariq,’ she breathed softly. ‘Oh, Tariq.’

Tariq screwed up his eyes. Through the mists of hammering pain he was aware of something familiar and yet curiously different about the woman who was speaking to him. It was a voice he knew well. A voice which exemplified the small area of calm which lay at the centre of his crazy life. It was … Izzy’s voice, he realised—but not as he’d ever heard it before. Normally it was crisp and matter-of-fact, sometimes cool and disapproving, but he’d never heard it all soft and trembling before.

His eyes opened, surprising a look of such darkened fear in her gaze that he was momentarily taken aback. He studied the soft quiver of her lips and felt the tiptoeing of something unfamiliar on his skin. Was that really Izzy?

‘Don’t worry. I’m not about to die,’ he drawled. And then, despite the terrible aching at his temples, he allowed just the right pause for maximum effect before directing a mocking question at the woman in uniform who was standing beside his bed, her fingertips counting the hammering of his pulse. ‘Am I, Nurse?’

Inexplicably, Isobel felt angry at Tariq for being as arrogant as only he knew how. He could have killed himself, and all he could do was flirt with the damned nurse! Why had she wasted even a second being sentimental about him when she should have realised that he was as indestructible as a rock? And with about as much emotion as a rock, too! She wanted to tell him not to dare be so flippant—but, recognising that might fall into the category of exciting him, she bit back the words.

‘What happened?’ she questioned, still having to fight the stupid desire to touch him.

Bunching her wistful fingers into a tight fist by her side, she stared down at the hawkish lines of his autocratic face.

‘You may not be the slowest driver in the world, but you’re usually careful,’ she said. And then seeing the nurse glare at her, Isobel remembered that she was supposed to be calming him, not quizzing him. ‘No, don’t bother answering that,’ she added hastily. ‘In fact, don’t even think about it. Just lie there—and rest.’

Black brows were elevated in disbelief. ‘You aren’t usually quite so agreeable,’ he observed caustically.

‘Well, these aren’t usual circumstances, are they?’

Isobel gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile—but it wasn’t easy to keep the panic at bay. Not when all she wanted to do was take him in her arms and tell him that everything was going to be all right. To rest his cheek against the mad racing of her heart and lace her fingers through the inky silk of his hair and stroke it. What on earth was the matter with her?

‘You’ve just got to lie there quietly and let the nurses take care of you and check that you’re in one p-piece.’

That unfamiliar tremble in her voice was back, and Tariq’s eyes narrowed as her face swam in and out of focus. Funny. He couldn’t really remember looking at Izzy’s face before. Or maybe he had—just not like this. In the normal progression of a day you never really stared at a woman for a long time. Not unless you were planning to seduce her.

But for once there was nowhere else to look. He could see the freckles standing out like sentries against her pale skin, and her amber eyes looked as if they would be more at home on a startled kitten. She looked soft, he thought suddenly. Cute. As if she might curl into the crook of his arm and lie there purring all afternoon.

Shaking his head in order to rid himself of this temporary hallucination, he glared at her.

‘It’ll take more than a car crash or a nurse to make me lie quietly,’ he said, impatiently moving one leg—which had started to itch like no itch he could remember. As he bent his knee, the sheet concertinaed down to his groin and one hair-roughened thigh was revealed. And despite the pain and the bizarre circumstances he could not resist the flicker of a smile as both the nurse and Isobel gave an involuntary little gasp before quickly averting their eyes.

‘Lets just cover you up, shall we?’ questioned the nurse briskly, her cheeks growing bright pink as she tugged the sheet back in place.

Isobel felt similarly hot and bothered as she realised that her handsome boss was completely naked beneath the sheet. That, unless she was very much mistaken, the sheet seemed to be moving of its own accord around his groin area. She wasn’t the most experienced cookie in the tin but even she knew what that meant. It was a shockingly intimate experience, which started a heated prickling of her skin in response. And that was a first.

Because—unlike just about every other female with a pulse—she was immune to Tariq al Hakim and his sex appeal. His hard, muscular body left her completely cold—as did those hawk-like features and the ebony glitter of his dark-lashed eyes. She didn’t go for men who were self-professed playboys—sexy, dangerous men who knew exactly the kind of effect they had on women. Who could walk away from the women who loved them without a backward glance. In fact, those were precisely the men she tended to despise. The ones her mother had warned her against. Men like her own father—who could shrug off emotion and responsibility so easily …

Composing herself with a huge effort of will, she turned to the nurse. ‘What happens now?’ she asked but Tariq answered before the woman in uniform had a chance to.

‘I get off this damned bed and you drive me to the office. That’s what happens,’ he snapped. But as he tried to sit up the stupid shooting pain made him slump back against the bed again, and he groaned and then glared at her again as if it was all her fault.

‘Will you please lie still, Prince al Hakam?’ ordered the nurse crisply, before turning to Isobel. ‘The doctors would like to keep the Sheikh in for twenty-four hours’ observation.’

‘Izzy,’ said Tariq, and as Isobel turned to him his black eyes glinted with the kind of steely determination she recognised so well. ‘Sort this out for me, will you? There’s no way I’m staying in this damned hospital for a minute longer.’

For a moment Isobel didn’t speak. There were many times when she admired her boss—because nobody could deny his drive, his determination, his unerring nose for success. But his arrogance and sheer self-belief sometimes had the potential to be his downfall. Like now.

‘Look, this isn’t some business deal you’re masterminding,’ she said crossly. ‘This is your health we’re talking about—and you’re not the expert here, Tariq, the doctors and nurses are. They don’t want to keep you in because it’s some sort of fun—I can’t imagine it’s much fun having you as a patient—but because it’s necessary. And if you don’t start listening to them and doing what they say, then I’m going to walk out of here right now and leave you to get on with it.’

There was a pause as Tariq’s eyes narrowed angrily. ‘But I have meetings—’

‘I know precisely what meetings you have,’ she interrupted, her voice gentling suddenly as she registered the strain which was etched on his face. ‘I organise your diary, don’t I? I’ll sort everything out back at the office and you’re not to worry about a thing. Do you … ?’ She found herself staring down at the white hospital sheet which now seemed to be stretched uncomfortably tight across the muscular expanse of his torso. ‘Do you want me to get hold of some pyjamas for you?’

‘Pyjamas?’ His mouth curved into a smile which mocked her almost as much as the lazy glitter of his eyes. ‘You think I’m the kind of man who wears pyjamas, do you, Izzy?’

Inexplicably, her heart began to pound with unwilling excitement—and Isobel was furious at her reaction. Had he seen it—and was that why his smile had now widened into an arrogant smirk? ‘Your choice of nightwear isn’t something I’ve given a lot of thought to,’ she answered crossly. ‘But I’ll take that as a no. Is there anything else you want?’

Tariq winced as he recalled the blood-stained and crumpled clothing which was stuffed into a plastic bag in the locker next to his bed. ‘Just bring me some clean clothes, can you? And a razor?’

‘Of course. And as soon as the doctors give you the thumbs-up I’ll come and get you. Is that okay?’

There was a pause as their gazes met. ‘You don’t really want me to answer that, do you?’ he questioned, closing his eyes as a sudden and powerful fatigue washed over him. It was like no feeling he’d ever experienced and it left him feeling debilitated. Weak. The last thing he wanted was for his assistant to see him looking weak. ‘Just go, will you, Izzy?’ he added wearily.

Slipping silently from the room, Isobel walked until she stepped out into the brightening light of the spring morning. Sucking in a deep breath, she felt a powerful sense of relief washing over her. Tariq was alive. That was the main thing. He might have had a nasty knock to the head, but hopefully he hadn’t done any lasting damage. And yet … She bit her lip as she climbed into her car and started up the engine, her thoughts still in turmoil. How alone he had looked on that narrow hospital bed.

The loud tooting of a car made her glance into the driving mirror, where she caught a glimpse of her pale and unwashed face. A touch of reality began to return.

Alone?

Tariq?

Why, there were innumerable women who would queue around the block to put paid to that particular myth with no more incentive than the elevation of one black and arrogant eyebrow and that mocking smile. Tariq had plenty of people to take care of him, she reminded herself. He didn’t need her.

Arriving back in London, she spent the rest of the day cancelling meetings and dealing with the calls which flooded in from his associates. She worked steadily until eight, then went over to his apartment—a vast penthouse in a tall building which overlooked Green Park. Although she held a spare set of keys, she’d only ever been there once before, when she had delivered a package which the Sheikh had been expecting and which had arrived very late at the office, while she’d still been working. Rather than having it couriered round to him, Isobel had decided to take it there herself.

It had been one of the most embarrassing occasions of her life, because a tousle-headed Tariq had answered the door wearing what was clearly a hastily pulled on silk dressing gown. His face had been faintly flushed as he’d taken the package from her, and she hadn’t needed to hear the breathless female voice calling his name to realise that he had company.

But it had been his almost helpless shrug which had infuriated her more than anything. The way his black eyes had met hers and he’d bestowed on her one of his careless smiles. As if he was inviting her to join him in a silent conspiracy of wondering why he was just so irresistible to women. She remembered thrusting the package into his hands and stomping off home to an empty apartment, cursing the arrogance of the Playboy Prince.

Closing her mind to the disturbing memory, Isobel let herself into the apartment using the complicated trio of keys. Experience made her listen for a moment. But everything was silent—which meant that his servants had all gone home for the evening.

In his dressing room she found jeans, cashmere sweaters and a leather jacket—and added a warm scarf. But when it came to selecting some boxer shorts from the silken pile which were heaped neatly in a drawer, she found herself blushing for the second time that day. How … intimate it was to be rifling through Tariq’s underwear. Underwear which had clung to the oiled silk of his olive skin …

Frustrated with the wayward trajectory of her thoughts, she threw the clothes into an overnight bag and let herself out. Then she phoned the hospital, to be told that the Sheikh’s condition was satisfactory and that if he continued to improve then he could be discharged the next day.

But the press had got wind of his crash—despite the reassuring statement which Isobel had asked his PR people to issue. Fabulously wealthy injured sheikhs always provided fascinating copy, and by the time she arrived back at the hospital the following morning there were photographers hanging around the main entrance.

Tariq had been transferred to a different side ward, and Isobel walked in to see a small gaggle of doctors gathered around the foot of his bed. There was an unmistakable air of tension in the room.

She shot a glance at her boss, who was sitting up in bed, unshaven and unashamedly bare-chested—the vulnerability of yesterday nothing but a distant memory. His black eyes glittered with displeasure as he saw her, and his voice was cool.

‘Ah, Izzy. At last.’

‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.

‘Damned right there is.’

A tall, bespectacled man detached himself from the group, extending his hand and introducing himself as the consultant. ‘You’re his partner?’ he asked Isobel, as he glanced down at the overnight bag she was carrying.

Isobel went bright red, and she couldn’t miss the narrow-eyed look which Tariq angled in her direction. But for some reason she was glad that she wasn’t the same wild-haired scarecrow she’d been in the middle of the night. That she’d taken the care to wash and tame her hair and put on her favourite russet-coloured jacket.

Just because the Sheikh never looked at her in the way he looked at other women it didn’t mean she was immune to a little masculine attention from time to time, did it? She gave the doctor a quick smile. ‘No, Doctor. I’m Isobel Mulholland. The Sheikh’s assistant.’

‘Well, perhaps you could manage to talk some sense into your boss, Isobel,’ said the consultant, meeting her eyes with a resigned expression. ‘He’s had a nasty bang to the head and a general shock to the system—but he seems to think that he can walk out of here and carry on as normal.’ The doctor continued to hold her gaze. ‘It sounds like a punishing regime at the best of times, but especially so in the circumstances. Unless he agrees to take things easy for the next week—’

‘I can’t,’ interrupted Tariq testily, wondering if his perception had been altered by the bump on the head he’d received. Was the doctor flirting with Isobel? And was she—the woman he’d never known as anything other than a brisk and efficient machine—flirting back? He had never found her in the least bit attractive himself, but Tariq was unused to being overlooked for another man, and his mouth thinned as he subjected the medic to an icy look. ‘I need to fly to the States tomorrow.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong. You need rest,’ contradicted the consultant. ‘Complete rest. Away from work and the world—and away from the media, who have been plaguing my office all morning. You’ve been driving yourself too hard and you need to recuperate. Otherwise I’ll have no alternative but to keep you in.’

‘You can’t keep me in against my will,’ objected Tariq.

Isobel recognised that a stand-off between the two men was about to be reached—and she knew that Tariq would refuse to back down if it got to that stage. Diplomatically, she offered the consultant another polite smile. ‘Does he need any particular medical care, Doctor?’

‘Will you stop talking about me as if I’m not here?’ growled Tariq.

‘Just calm and quiet observation,’ said the doctor. ‘And a guarantee that he won’t go anywhere near his office for at least seven days.’

Isobel’s mind began to race. He could go to a clinic, yes—but even the most discreet of clinics could never be relied on to be that discreet, could they? Especially when they were dealing with billionaire patients who were being hunted by the tabloids. Tariq didn’t need expensive clinics where people would no doubt seek to exploit his wealth and influence. He needed that thing which always seemed to elude him.

Peace.

She thought about the strange flash of vulnerability she’d seen on his face and an idea began to form in her mind.

‘I have a little cottage in the countryside,’ she said slowly, looking straight into a pair of black and disbelieving eyes. ‘You could come and stay there for a week, if you like. My mother used to be a nurse, and I picked up some basic first aid from her. I could keep my eye on you, Tariq.’




CHAPTER TWO (#u15910da4-4cd9-5c08-871a-ba79994dc428)


‘WHERE the hell are you going, Izzy?’

For a moment Isobel didn’t answer Tariq’s growled question as she turned the small car into a narrow country lane edged with budding hedgerows. Why couldn’t he just settle down and relax—and be grateful she’d managed to get him out of the hospital? Maybe even sit back and appreciate the beauty of the spring day instead of haranguing her all the time?

It wasn’t until she was bowling along at a steady pace that she risked a quick glance and saw the still-dreadful pallor of his face, which showed no signs of shifting. He was in pain, she reminded herself—and besides, he was a man who rarely expressed gratitude.

Already she’d had to bite back her words several times that morning. They had left by a staff exit at the back of the hospital, and although he had initially refused to travel in a wheelchair she had persuaded him that it would help elude any waiting press. Which of course, it had. The photographers were looking for the muscular stride of a powerful sheikh—not a man being pushed along by a woman. She remembered her mother telling her that nobody ever looked at people in wheelchairs—how society was often too busy to care about those who were not able-bodied. And it seemed that her mother was right.

‘You know very well where I’m going,’ she answered calmly. ‘To my cottage in the country, where you are going to recuperate after your crash. That was the agreement we made with the doctor before he would agree to discharge you. Remember?’

He made a small sound of displeasure beneath his breath. His head was throbbing, his throat felt as dry as parchment, and now Izzy was being infuriatingly stubborn. ‘That’s the doctor you were flirting with so outrageously?’ he questioned coolly.

Isobel’s eyes narrowed as she acknowledged her boss’s accusation. In truth, she’d been so worried about him that she’d barely given a thought to the crinkly-eyed consultant. But even if she had fallen in love at first sight and decided to slip the doctor her phone number—well, it was none of Tariq’s business. Wasn’t she doing enough for him already, without him attempting to police her private life for her?

‘And what if I was?’ she retorted.

He shrugged. ‘I would have thought that extremely unprofessional behaviour on his part.’

‘I hardly think that you’re in any position to pass judgement on flirting,’ she murmured.

Tariq drummed his fingers against one tense thigh. It was not the response he’d been expecting. A firm assertion that the doctor had been wasting his time would have been infinitely more desirable. Isobel was resolutely single, and that was the way he liked it. It meant that she could devote herself to his needs and be there whenever he wanted her.

‘I thought you only told him all that stuff about taking me to your cottage to get him off my back,’ he objected.

‘But that would have been dishonest.’

‘Do you always have to be so damned moral?’

‘One of us has to have morals.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Is that supposed to be a criticism?’

‘No, Tariq,’ she answered calmly. ‘It’s merely an observation.’

He stared at her set profile and inexplicably began to notice the way the pale spring sunshine was picking out the lights in her hair, turning it a glowing shade of amber. Had the doctor also noticed its subtle fire? he wondered. Would that explain his behaviour? ‘I don’t know why you’re dragging me out to the back of beyond,’ he said, ‘when I can rest perfectly well at home.’

‘In central London?’ She gave a dry laugh. ‘With the press baying at your door like hounds and all your ex-girlfriends lining up to offer to come and mop your brow for you? I don’t think so. You’ll be much safer at my cottage. Anyway, it’s a done deal. I’ve informed the office that you’ll be incommunicado for a week, and that all calls are to come through me. Fiona in the PR office is perfectly capable of running things until we get back. I’ve had your housekeeper pack a week’s worth of clothes, which are being couriered down. And I haven’t told anybody about your exact whereabouts.’

‘My brother—’

‘Except for your brother,’ she concurred, remembering the brief conversation she’d had earlier that day with the ruler of Khayarzah. ‘I telephoned the palace and spoke to the King myself—told him that you’re on the mend but that you needed to recuperate. He wanted you flown to Khayarzah, but I said that you would be fine with me.’ She shot him a glance. ‘That was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?’

‘I suppose so,’ he answered moodily, but as usual she had done exactly the right thing. The last thing he needed was the formality of palace life—with all the strictures that came with it. He’d done his level best to escape from the attendant attention which came with being the brother of the King—a role which had been thrust on him when his brother had suddenly inherited the crown. A role which had threatened his freedom—something he had always guarded jealously. Because wasn’t his freedom the only good thing to have emerged from the terrible isolation of his childhood?

He fixed her with a cool and curious stare. ‘You seem to have it all worked out, Izzy.’

‘Well, that’s what you pay me for.’ She glanced in the driving mirror and let a speedy white van overtake them before starting to speak again. ‘Do you want to tell me what happened? About why one of the most careful drivers I know should crash his car?’

Tariq closed his eyes. Wasn’t it frustrating that a split-second decision could impact so dramatically on your life? If he hadn’t been beguiled by a pair of blue eyes and a dynamite body then he wouldn’t be facing the rather grim prospect of being stuck in some remote cottage with his assistant for a week.

‘I went for dinner with a woman,’ he said.

‘No—’ Isobel started to say something and then changed her mind, but Tariq seized on her swallowed words like a cat capturing a mouse.

His thick lashes parted by a fraction. ‘No what, Izzy?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Oh, but it does,’ he answered stubbornly.

‘I was about to say no change there. You having dinner with a woman is hardly remarkable, Tariq. Blonde, was she?’

‘Actually, she was.’ Reluctantly, his lips curved into a smile. Sometimes Izzy was so damned sharp he was surprised she didn’t cut herself. Maybe that was what less attractive women did—they made up for their shortcomings by developing a more sophisticated sense of humour. ‘But she wasn’t all she seemed to be.’

‘Not a transvestite, I hope?’

‘Very funny.’ But despite the smile which her flippant comment produced Tariq was irritated with himself. He had been stressed out, and had intended to relax by playing poker until the small hours. He hadn’t really been in the mood for any kind of liaison, or the effort of chatting someone up. But the woman had been very beautiful, and he’d found himself inviting her for a late dinner. And then she had started to question him. Wanting to know the kind of things which suggested that she might have done more than a little background research on him.

Tariq had some rules which were entirely his own.

He didn’t like being interrogated.

He didn’t trust people who knew too much about him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Only if it becomes addictive,’ she countered.

‘You think I’m a power junkie?’

‘That’s not for me to say.’

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

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

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

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

‘You don’t like my car?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I’m not sleepy.’

‘Sure?’

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

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

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

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

Impatiently, she shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You seem very engrossed in that book.’

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

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

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

Isobel blinked. ‘You donated the new library?’

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

‘No, I didn’t.’

Afterwards, Isobel thought that his question might have been some sort of test—to see if she was one of those people who were impressed by wealth. And if that was the case then she’d probably passed it. Because she genuinely didn’t care about money. She had enough for her needs and that was plenty. What had her mother always told her? Don’t aim too high; just high enough.

‘I just wanted to know if it was as beautiful as …’ Her words tailed off. As if he could possibly be interested!

But he was looking at her curiously, as if he was interested.

‘As beautiful as what?’

She swallowed. ‘As the way you described it. You once told me all about Khayarzah. You were very … passionate about it. You said the sand was like fine gold and the rivers like streams of silver. You probably don’t remember.’

Tariq stared at her, as if he was trying to place her, but shook his head.

‘No, I don’t remember,’ he admitted, and then, as he glanced up to see a determined-looking blonde making her way towards them, he took Isobel’s elbow. ‘So why don’t you refresh my memory for me?’ And he led her away to a quieter section of the room.

And that was that. An unexpected meeting between two people who had both felt like outsiders within the privileged walls of an English public school. What was more it seemed that Tariq happened to have a need, and that Isobel could be just the person to answer that need. He was looking for someone to be his assistant. Someone he could talk to without her being fazed by who he was and what he represented. Someone he could trust.

The salary he was offering made it madness for her even to consider refusing, so Isobel accepted his offer and quickly realised that no job description in the world could have prepared her for working for him.

He wanted honesty, yes—but he also demanded deference, as and when it suited him.

He was fair, but he was also a powerful sheikh who had untold wealth at his fingertips—so he could also be highly unreasonable, too.

And he was sexy. As sexy as any man was ever likely to be. Everyone said so—even Isobel’s more feminist friends, who disapproved of him. But Isobel’s strength was that she simply refused to see it. After that meeting in the library she had trained herself to be immune to his appeal as if she was training for a marathon. Even if she considered herself to be in his league—which she didn’t—she still wouldn’t have been foolish enough to fancy him.

Because men like Tariq were trouble—too aware of their power over the opposite sex and not afraid to use it. She’d watched as women who fell in love with him were discarded once he’d tired of them. And she knew from her own background how lives could be ruined if passion was allowed to rule the roost. Hadn’t her mother bitterly regretted falling for a charmer like Tariq? Telling her that the brief liaison had affected her whole life?

No, he was definitely not on Isobel’s wish-list of men. His strong, muscular body and hard, hawkish features didn’t fill her with longing, but with an instinctive wariness which had always served her well.

Because she wouldn’t have lasted five minutes—let alone five years—if she had lost her heart to the Sheikh.

She steered the car up a narrow lane and came to a halt outside her beloved little cottage. The March sunshine was clear and pale, illuminating the purple, white and yellow crocuses which were pushing through the earth. She loved this time of year, with all its new beginnings and endless possibilities. Opening the car door a fraction, she could hear birds tweeting their jubilant celebration of springtime—but still Tariq didn’t stir.

She turned to look at him—at the ebony arcs of his feathered lashes which were the only soft component to make up his formidable face. She had never seen him asleep before, and it was like looking at a very different man. The hard planes and angles of his features threw shadows over his olive skin, and for once his sensual lips were relaxed. Once again she saw an unfamiliar trace of vulnerability etched on his features, and once again she felt that little stab of awareness at her heart.

He was so still, she thought wonderingly. Remarkably still for a man who rarely stopped. Who drove himself remorselessly in the way that successful men always did. Why, it seemed almost a shame to wake him … and to have him face the reality of his convalescence in her humble home.

Racking her brain, she thought back to how she’d left the place last weekend, and realised that there was no fresh food or milk. Stuff she would normally have brought down with her from London.

Reaching out her hand, she touched his shoulder lightly—but his eyelashes moved instantly, the black eyes suspicious and alert as they snapped open.

For a moment Tariq stayed perfectly still, his memory filtering back in jigsaw pieces. What was he doing sitting in an uncomfortably cramped and strange car, while Izzy frowned down at him, her breathing slightly quickened and her amber eyes dark with concern?

And then he remembered. She had offered to play nursemaid for the next week—just not the kind of nursemaid which would have been his preference. His mouth hardened as he dispelled an instant fantasy of a woman with creamy curves busting out of a little uniform which ill concealed the black silk stockings beneath. Because Isobel was not that woman. And under the circumstances wasn’t that best?

‘We’re here!’ said Isobel brightly, even though her heart had inexplicably started thudding at some dangerous and unknown quality she’d read in his black eyes. ‘Welcome to my home.’




CHAPTER THREE (#u15910da4-4cd9-5c08-871a-ba79994dc428)


‘CAREFUL,’ warned Isobel.

‘Please don’t state the obvious,’ Tariq snapped, as he bent his head to avoid the low front door.

‘I was only trying to help,’ she protested, as he walked straight past her.

Stepping into the cluttered sitting room was no better, and Tariq quickly discovered that the abundance of overhanging beams was nothing short of a health hazard. ‘I’ve already had one knock to the head, and I don’t particularly want another,’ he growled. ‘Why is your damned ceiling so low?’

‘Because men didn’t stand at over six feet when these houses were built!’ she retorted, thinking that he had to be the most ungrateful man ever to have drawn breath. Here she was, putting herself out by giving him house-space for a week, and all he could do was come out with a litany of complaints.

But some of her exasperation dissolved as she closed the front door, so that the two of them were enclosed in a room which up until that moment she had always thought of as a safe and cosy sanctuary. But not any more. Suddenly it didn’t seem safe at all …

She felt hot blood begin to flood through her veins— because the reality of having Tariq standing here was having a bizarre effect on her senses. Had the dimensions magically shrunk? Or was it just his towering physique which dwarfed everything else around him?

Even in jeans and the soft swathing of a grey cashmere sweater he seemed to exude a charisma which drew the eye like nothing else. His faded jeans were stretched over powerful thighs and the sweater hinted at honed muscle beneath. Somehow he managed to make her cottage look like a prop from Toytown, and the thick and solid walls suddenly seemed insubstantial. Come to think of it, didn’t she feel a little insubstantial herself?

She remembered that uncomfortable feeling of awareness which had come over her in the hospital—when she’d looked down at him and something inside her had melted. It was as if in that moment she had suddenly given herself permission to see him as other women saw him—and the impact of that had rocked her. And now it was rocking her all over again. Something about the way he was standing there was making her heart slam hard against her ribcage, and an aching feeling began to tug at her belly.

Isobel swallowed, willing this temporary madness to subside. Because acknowledging Tariq’s charisma was the last thing she needed right now. Arrogant playboys were not number one on her list of emotional requirements. And even if they were … as if he would ever look at a woman like her.

She flashed him a quick smile, even as she became aware of the peculiar prickle of her breasts. ‘Look, why don’t you sit down and I’ll make you some tea?’

‘I don’t want any tea,’ he said. ‘But I’d quite like to avoid getting frostbite. It’s absolutely freezing in here. Give me some matches and I’ll light a fire.’

Isobel shook her head. ‘You aren’t supposed to be lighting fires. In fact, you aren’t supposed to be doing anything but resting. I can manage perfectly well—so will you please sit down on the sofa and put your feet up and let me look after you?’

Tariq’s eyes narrowed as her protective command washed over him. His first instinct was to resist. He wasn’t used to care from the fairer sex. His experience of women usually involved the rapid removal of their clothing and them gasping out their pleasure when he touched them. Big eyes clouded with concern tended to be outside his experience.

‘And if I don’t?’ he challenged softly.

Their gazes clashed in a way which made Isobel’s stomach perform a peculiar little flip. She saw the mocking curve of his lips and suddenly she felt almost weak—as if she were the invalid, not him. Clamping down the sudden rise of longing, she shook her head—because she was damned if he was going to manipulate her the way other women let him manipulate them. ‘I don’t think you’re in any position to object,’ she answered coolly. ‘And if you did I could always threaten to hand my notice in.’

‘You wouldn’t do that, Izzy.’

‘Oh, wouldn’t I?’ she returned fiercely, because now she could see a hint of that awful pallor returning to his face, and a horrifying thought occurred to her. Yes, her mother had been a nurse, and she had learned lots of basic first aid through her. She had managed to convince the hospital doctor that she could cope. But what if she had taken on more than she could handle? What if Tariq began to have side-effects from his head injury? She thought about the hospital leaflet in her handbag and decided that she’d better consult it. ‘Now, will you please sit down?’

Unexpectedly, Tariq gave a low laugh. ‘You can be a fierce little tiger at times, can’t you?’

Something about his very obvious approval made her cheeks grow warm with pleasure. ‘I can if I need to be.’

‘Okay, you win.’ Sinking down onto a chintzy and over-stuffed sofa, he batted her a sardonic look. ‘Is that better, Nurse?’

Trying not to laugh, Isobel nodded. ‘Marginally. Do you think you could just try sitting there quietly while I light the fire?’

‘I can try.’

Tariq leaned back against a heap of cushions and watched as she busied herself with matches and kindling. Funny, really—he’d never really pictured Izzy in a cottage which was distinctly chocolate-boxy despite the sub-zero temperatures. Not that he’d given very much thought at all as to how his assistant lived her life.

Stifling a yawn, he looked around. The sitting room had those tiny windows which didn’t let in very much light, and a big, recessed fireplace—the kind you saw on the front of Christmas cards. She was crouching down in front of the grate, and he watched as she began to blow on the flames to coax them into life. He found his eyes drawn to the denim skirt, which now stretched tightly over the curves of her buttocks.

He swallowed down a sudden, debilitating leap of desire which made him harden in a way he hadn’t been expecting. In five years of close contact with his highly efficient assistant he couldn’t remember ever noticing her bottom before. And it was actually a rather fine bottom. Firm and high and beautifully rounded. The kind of bottom which a man liked to cup in the palms of his hands as he …

‘What?’ Isobel turned round and frowned.

‘I didn’t …’ Tariq swallowed. What the hell was going on? Did bumps to the head make men lose their senses, so that they started imagining all kinds of inappropriate things? ‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘But you made a funny sort of noise.’ Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. ‘Are you all right? Your eyes have gone all glazed.’

‘Are you surprised?’ Shifting his position, Tariq glared at her, willing his erection to subside. ‘I’ve just had to endure your driving.’

Isobel turned back to the now leaping flames, an unseen smile playing around her lips. If he was jumping down her throat like that, then there couldn’t be very much wrong with him.

She waited until the fire was properly alight and then went into the kitchen and made his favourite mint tea—bringing it back into the sitting room on a tray set with bone china cups and a jar of farm honey.

To her relief, she could see that he had taken her at her word. He’d kicked off his hand-made Italian shoes and was lying stretched out on the sofa, despite it being slightly too small to accommodate his lengthy frame. His thick black hair was outlined by a chintz cushion and his powerful thighs were splayed indolently against the faded velvet. It made an incongruous image, she realised—to see the über-masculine Sheikh in such a domestic setting as this.

She poured tea for them both, added honey to his, and put it down a small table beside him, her gaze straying to his face as she sat on the floor beside the fire. Tariq was known for his faintly unshaven buccaneering look, but today the deep shadowing which outlined the hard definition of his jaw made him look like a study in brooding testosterone.

Now it was Isobel’s turn to feel vulnerable. That faint butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling was back, bigtime. And so was that sudden sensitive prickling of her breasts. She swallowed. ‘How are you feeling?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Will you stop talking to me as if I’m an invalid?’

‘But that’s what you are, Tariq—otherwise you wouldn’t be here, would you? Just put my mind at rest. I’m not asking you to divulge the secrets of your heart—just answer the question.’





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