The Sheikh's Shock Child

There was nothing sinister about this room, Millie told herself firmly. It smelled lovely, felt lovely, was lovely, apart from the lurid hangings. Could people really contort their bodies like that? Angling her chin, she tried to work out the mish-mash of limbs and faces, and had to give up. Anyway, the stateroom looked fabulous with those golden sheets in their rightful place. But who would sleep here? she wondered with a frown. Was this a gilded cage, waiting for another broken bird?

Stop it! This was a particularly lavish suite on board a billionaire’s yacht, and nothing more. Millie had merely provided some final touches for a guest—

Khalid’s mistress?

Why should she care? He might be married, for all she knew—

‘Mademoiselle Millie?’

She almost jumped out of her skin as the door opened, but it was only the steward wanting to know if she needed any help. ‘I’m doing fine, thank you,’ she reassured him with a smile. ‘I’ve nearly finished.’

Aladdin’s cave could take another pop of gold, Millie concluded as the door closed quietly behind the steward. And her overactive imagination could take a hike. The Sheikh probably wasn’t even on board. And even if he were, would he have changed that much? He was probably the same, devastatingly good-looking charmer who made promises he couldn’t keep; a man who’d spirited his brother out of the country after her mother’s death.

Power and money made anything possible, Millie concluded, firming her lips into an angry line. Eight years ago, the headlines had read: ‘The Nightingale of London found drowned in King’s Dock.’ But had her mother drowned? Or was she murdered? And did anyone care?

Millie cared, and was determined to uncover the truth of a night she would never forget. She wouldn’t rest until she found justice for her mother. Cause of death had never been established, let alone convincingly explained to Millie. It felt to her as if everything had been brushed under the carpet. Claiming diplomatic immunity, Sheikh Saif had left the country, while his brother, now Sheikh Khalid, had remained in the UK to clear up his mess. As far as Millie was concerned, he was responsible for allowing Saif to get away. The coroner’s court had managed to establish that drink and drugs had contributed to her mother’s drowning, but who had given her those things? Miss Francine had warned Millie to leave the past alone, but how could she ignore a chance like this? Sitting down at the dressing table, she plucked the pencil out of her hair and began to write a note on the order pad she always carried.

She flinched guiltily as the door opened a second time, and stood, as if to demonstrate her readiness to leave. The guard was talking into his mouthpiece.

‘Just collecting up my things,’ she said.

If he noticed that she was nowhere by the bed, he didn’t respond. He was too busy talking to whoever was at the other end of the line. She relaxed as he left the room. Maybe now she could finish that note.

Maybe not. The door opened again almost immediately.

* * *

He deplored ostentation. Even the intricately decorated solid-gold handle of this guest stateroom jarred as he closed his fist around it, but this particular suite of rooms had been kept intact, and was in the traditionally ornate style, favoured by his late brother. It served as a reminder to Khalid that extreme wealth could be extremely corrupting. He thought Tadj would appreciate the irony. The last time they’d stayed together had been in a basic tent when they were both serving in Special Forces.

After his brother’s death, Khalid had insisted on a deep clean of the entire vessel, following which he’d brought in several cutting-edge designers to modernise the ship, with the proviso that this vintage suite be left intact. The best palace craftsmen had worked on the project, and the suite had fast become a talking point, both for its recording of unique and authentic historical detail, and for the erotic hangings above the bed.

‘Your Majesty...’

He thought his guard seemed slightly uncomfortable. ‘Yes?’ Khalid paused with his hand on the door.

‘I didn’t expect you here so soon,’ the guard admitted.

Khalid was instantly suspicious. ‘Well, I’m here,’ he said, opening the door wide.

‘Millie?’

He would have known her anywhere, even after all this time. Eight years simply faded away. She’d changed beyond recognition, but the bond between them remained the same. She was a very beautiful woman. The braids were gone, likewise the spectacles, and there was no panic in her steady stare, reassuring him that her vibrant spirit was intact too.

The girl on the dock. Of course!

‘Your Majesty!’

She seemed equally surprised, and for a few moments they just stared at each other. Her long, honey-gold hair was still damp from the rain where her oilskins had failed to protect her. Bundled up loosely on top of her head, the messy arrangement boasted an unusual ornament in the shape of a pencil, which she’d just stabbed into it as she catapulted away from the dressing table to stand in front of him, in what he guessed was the best expression of innocence she could muster. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

‘Writing you a note,’ she said with the frankness he remembered from all those years ago. ‘I suppose I don’t have to now,’ she added.

‘A note?’ he queried.

‘A request to meet with you—to talk,’ she explained.

The bright blue eyes were completely steady on his. Her gaze was as direct as ever.

‘Hello, by the way,’ she added, as if finally realising that this meeting was a bombshell for both of them.

‘Do you generally wear a pencil in your hair?’ he asked as her cheeks blazed red.

‘It’s useful for writing notes on how to fix boilers,’ she said.

He waved away the guard and steward as they entered the room to see what all the fuss was about. ‘Welcome on board the Sapphire, Miss Dillinger.’

Her look said clearly, I’m not a guest, and if it hadn’t been for these wretched sheets, I wouldn’t be here at all.

* * *

Electricity didn’t just crackle in the air, it was bouncing back and forth between them. She was so shocked at seeing Sheikh Khalid again, and in flowing robes that made him look more intimidating than ever, she couldn’t think straight. What annoyed her most of all was the fact that he’d thrown her to the point where she was quivering like a doe on heat, rather than standing her ground in front of him like a hard-working professional.

It was time to get real. This was not the tough guy in jeans who invaded her dreams most nights, but an all-powerful king in whose water-borne kingdom she was currently—well, if not a prisoner, at the very least, vulnerable, which was not a condition she ever flirted with. No one could call his brutal attraction charm. However divinely warm, clean and sexy the Sheikh might appear, he was in reality a granite-faced titan without a single decent bone in his body. He’d turned a blind eye when she’d begged him for help. So whatever her body thought of his blistering masculinity, Millie Dillinger remained unimpressed.

But...

Calm down and think. This was almost certainly the only chance she’d ever get to ask him about that night. Being as different from the women he must be used to as it was possible to be, with her no-make-up face and her long hair piled carelessly on top of her head—not to mention the pencil garnish—she doubted she was in any immediate danger.

‘When will you have finished your work?’ he asked with an edge of impatience, confirming her conclusion that she was not his ravishment of choice.

‘I have finished, Your Majesty. Please call the laundry if you need anything more.’

‘I’ll be sure to tell my housekeeper what you advise,’ he commented with withering amusement.

Fortunately, she’d always been able to take a joke, though the thought that he might have a sense of humour only made it worse. If he was actually human, how had he allowed her mother to die? Whatever he’d done or not done on that night, it had changed the course of Millie’s life, and had tragically ended her mother’s. She had to dip her head so he couldn’t see her angry eyes.

They came from different worlds, Millie concluded. In her world, people were answerable for their actions, but in his, not so much.

* * *

This was no milksop princess with a desire to please him, Khalid concluded, but a very angry woman, who was different and intriguing. She made him want to fist that thick gold hair and draw back her head so he could taste her neck. The girlish figure was long gone and had been replaced by curves in all the right places. Her features were pale from lack of sun, but her complexion was flawless. ‘We will talk,’ he promised as his senses sharpened. ‘And sooner rather than later.’

‘We must,’ she returned fiercely, clenching her fists, which were held stiffly at her side.

She’d had years to ponder what had happened that night, so her anger was excusable. The death of her mother was bad enough, but believing he was involved in some sort of cover-up must be a festering wound. It was a reasonable supposition, he conceded.

‘It must have been hard for you to return to the Sapphire.’

‘Ghosts?’ she suggested with a level look.

‘Memories,’ he countered.

‘Life goes on,’ she said flatly.

‘As it must,’ he agreed.

‘Forgive me, Your Majesty, but if you don’t have time to meet with me now, I have work to do on shore.’

She was dismissing him? he wondered with amusement.

‘We’re very busy at the laundry,’ she excused, no doubt realising she had overstepped the mark.

On the contrary, he thought her a breath of fresh air. It would be all too easy for him to slip into the belief that because everyone else bowed the knee, Millie Dillinger would, or that other people’s deference made him special in some way. A dose of Millie medicine was exactly what he needed. ‘I will see you in my study in ten minutes’ time.’

She seemed surprised and didn’t answer right away. ‘My time is also valuable, Ms Dillinger. My guard will escort you,’ he explained, ‘and my PA will call the laundry to explain your delay.’

‘But—’

‘Miss Francine is an intelligent woman,’ he interrupted. ‘She’ll understand.’

Millie’s frown deepened.

‘Ten minutes,’ he repeated before he left the room.

* * *

Millie wasn’t sure she had breathed properly for the entirety of that interview. Sheikh Khalid was so much more than she remembered. She needed a big, wide space, and absolute silence to get used to it. And the guard didn’t give her any time. He quick-marched her out of the sumptuous suite, and didn’t pause until they stood in front of an impressive gleaming teak door. The entrance to the hawk’s eyrie, Millie presumed. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she sucked in a deep, steadying breath, and prepared for round two.

At some silent signal, the guard deemed it appropriate to open the door. Standing back, he allowed her to enter. Sheikh Khalid was seated at the far end of his study behind a sleek modern desk where he appeared to be signing some documents. He didn’t look up as she walked in. The scratch of his pen was a stark reminder that this was his territory, his kingdom, where things ran to his schedule, and she would have to wait until His Majesty was ready to receive her.

Forget pride. Any opportunity to interview a potential witness from that night had to be seized. She glanced around with interest. Order predominated. There was no clutter, no family photographs to soften the ambience—a fact that filled her with unreasonable relief—there was just a bank of tech and the desk piled high with official-looking documents.

Shouldn’t he invite her to sit?

This might be the private space of a very private man, but Sheikh Khalid had invited her to come here. What about the so-called politeness of Princes? She’d explained that she was busy too. Ten minutes, he’d said. Did he time-keep to the second? That wasn’t a bad thing, Millie counselled herself, because if Sheikh Khalid was so meticulous, he could hardly deny what he remembered of that night.

‘My apologies,’ he said at last, straightening up to fix her with his hawk-like stare. ‘Millie,’ he added softly.

His husky tone could have been a caress to her senses if she hadn’t ruthlessly banished such nonsense in her thinking. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘We meet again.’

One ebony brow quirked, challenging her resistance to his blistering appeal. Their stares only had to connect for her body to respond with enthusiasm. Determinedly, she took an objective view. This study, this impersonal workspace, was deceiving. Designed to keep visitors at bay. She wasn’t fooled. This was no cold, remote man who chose not to reveal his inner self, but a smouldering volcano, who surrounded himself with a sea of ice.

‘You’ve been patient,’ he commented with monumental understatement.

‘For eight years,’ she agreed.

They both knew that wasn’t what he’d meant, and as they stared at each other across the desk she thought they were like two combatants facing each other across a ring.

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