The Sheikh's Bought Wife

Awkwardly she rose to her feet, aware of those flashing black eyes whipping over her as briefly she bowed her head.

‘Forgive me, Your Serene Highness,’ she said. ‘I was not expecting you to walk in unannounced.’

Zayed raised his eyebrows. Was that censure he heard in her soft English voice? ‘Should I perhaps have made an appointment first?’ he questioned sarcastically. ‘Checked up to see whether or not you had time to fit me into your busy schedule?’

The answering gesture of her hand as it encompassed the book-cluttered room was expansive but he noticed that her smile was thin.

‘I would have tidied up first, if I had known that Your Royal Highness was going to grace my office with his presence.’

It was on the tip of his tongue to suggest that she might have tidied up her own person as well as her office, but he recognised that such honesty would do little to further his cause. ‘The untidy state of your office is of no consequence to me at the moment,’ he said impatiently. ‘It is you I have come to see.’

‘Oh?’

She was looking at him with question in her eyes—in a way which somehow managed to be deeply insubordinate, though he couldn’t quite work out why. He wasn’t used to women staring at him like that—as if they would prefer he was anywhere other than here. He was used to adoration and submission—and from women far more beautiful than the one standing in front of him. He had intended to walk in here and tell her that he needed a wife—and quickly—but Jane Smith’s faintly hostile expression was making him reconsider as suddenly the unthinkable occurred to him.

What if she refused?

Zayed’s mind raced. Refusal was something he would not countenance but perhaps he might have to employ a little good old-fashioned diplomacy along the way. And yet wasn’t it slightly ironic that he should have to go creeping around to ask for a favour from a woman like her?

His lips curved as he noticed she wasn’t wearing a scrap of make-up and that her brown hair was scraped tightly back into a bun more befitting a woman of fifty than one in her twenties. An ugly blouse was tucked into an equally ugly skirt which fell in an unflattering length to just below her knees and, as always, it was impossible to see what kind of body lay beneath her drab clothes. She was undoubtedly the most unattractive female he had ever set eyes on and thus the perfect candidate for what he had in mind. Could he ever imagine being sexually attracted to a woman like Jane Smith? Not in a million years.

‘I have a proposition to put to you,’ he said.

Her eyes became hooded as she looked at him warily. ‘What kind of proposition?’

Zayed could barely restrain his click of displeasure. How insolent she was! Did she not realise that his power was all-encompassing? Why wasn’t she nodding her head in instant agreement—eager to please him in whatever it was he demanded? The loud clicking of a clock on the wall penetrated his thoughts as he became aware of the street view from the basement window. It suddenly occurred to him that laying out his terms for her brief tenure as his Sheikha might be better done elsewhere—not here in this cluttered office with embassy staff nervously patrolling the corridor outside, waiting for his next command or perhaps listening, with their ears pressed close to the door.

Injecting his tone with a deliberate silkiness, Zayed gave a rare smile, aware of its powerful impact on members of the opposite sex. ‘It might be easier to explain over dinner.’

‘Dinner?’

‘You know?’ His patience was wearing thin. ‘The meal you eat between lunch and breakfast.’

‘You want to have dinner?’ She frowned. ‘With me?’

Now was not the time to tell her that no, he didn’t, not really. That the shared meal would be nothing more than something to be endured while he told her what he had planned for her. But why ruin what was undoubtedly going to be the night of a lifetime for her? Why not dazzle her as women so loved to be dazzled?

‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I do.’

She screwed up her face. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘But you will, Jane. You will. All will be explained in due course. So.’ Lifting his arm so that the fine material of his robe revealed one hair-roughened wrist, he glanced down at the heavy gold timepiece which his father had once worn. ‘You had better leave now.’

She stared at him blankly. ‘You mean, leave work?’

‘Of course.’

‘But I’ve only just got here. And I’m deep into research about a sixteenth century Kafalahian love poem which has just come to light.’ She brightened up at this point. ‘It was actually written by one of your ancestors to the most favoured member of his harem.’

He was beginning to get irritated now. Didn’t she realise the great honour which was being afforded to her? Did she think he asked out women like her every night of the week—and that he would tolerate being turned down so that she could read a poem? ‘You are having dinner with the leader of the country for whom you work—not grabbing a sandwich in a nearby café!’ he bit out. ‘And doubtless you will wish to prepare yourself. For not only is this an honour for a member of my staff, it is also supposed to be a treat.’

‘A treat?’ she echoed doubtfully.

‘Indeed. I don’t imagine you frequent the capital’s high spots every night of the week.’

‘I’m not really a “high spot” sort of person,’ she said stubbornly.

‘No. I can tell.’ Fleetingly, Zayed thought her reaction might be almost amusing if it weren’t so insulting. But she would soon learn to be grateful. ‘I will send a car for you shortly before eight. Make sure you’re ready.’

She opened her mouth as if she was about to say something else but maybe something in his eyes stopped her for she nodded, even though her expression made her look as if she’d been asked to do some sort of penance. In fact, he was almost certain that she’d just stifled a resigned kind of sigh.

‘Very well, Your Royal Highness,’ she said stiffly. ‘I will be ready just before eight.’

CHAPTER TWO

HER MOBILE PHONE clamped tightly to her ear, Jane paced up and down in her small sitting room as she willed her sister to answer. She had been trying in vain to get hold of her all day—ever since she’d been forced to leave work early in order to prepare herself for a dinner date she didn’t want with the arrogant Sheikh. An arrangement which was still puzzling her as she couldn’t work out why he should want to spend time with her, since she was confident that the work she did for him and his country was of the highest possible standard. And especially since he made no attempt to hide the fact that he found her company about as appealing as she found his.

But an evening with Zayed was far less worrying than the two calls she hadn’t dared pick up, from the same number as the man with the threatening voice who’d called this morning. Suddenly Jane’s safe and contained world felt as if it were spinning out of control.

‘Hello?’ The connection clicked and a cautious female voice came onto the line. ‘Is that you, Jane?’

Cleo! At last. ‘Who else did you think it would be?’ Jane questioned, drawing in a grateful breath as she heard her sister’s sexy voice. ‘What’s going on? Why have I been getting threatening phone calls on your behalf from some man who says you owe money?’

There was a pause. A disturbingly long pause from her normally garrulous sister. For a moment she thought the connection had been lost before a single word split the silence.

‘Hell.’

Something in the delivery of that word sent a shiver of apprehension quivering down Jane’s spine. ‘Cleo? Are you going to start telling me what’s going on?’

Cleo began to speak, a little hesitantly at first—and then it all came out in a babble which seemed perilously close to tears. And Jane felt she could have written the script herself, because it was all so predictable. Her dizzy, impractical twin sister, whose big dreams had always been way too big, had decided to start living those dreams. Inspired by too much time spent monitoring the lives of minor celebrities on social media, her out-of-control spending had ended in a pile of debts which looked now like mountains.

‘Can’t you go and speak to your bank manager?’ said Jane, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘And pay the money back in instalments?’

There was a hollow kind of laugh in response. ‘It’s gone beyond that. If I’d borrowed from the bank in the first place, maybe. But I didn’t. I borrowed from a man down the pub. Turned out he’s a loan shark.’

‘Oh, Cleo? Why?’

There was a pause. ‘Because he was willing to lend to me—why else? I’m not like you, Jane. I don’t think everything through to within an inch of its life. I don’t spend my life wading through dusty textbooks and wearing thrift shop clothes and letting life pass me by. So I...’ Cleo’s voice faltered. ‘I decided I wanted to see the world. I went on a fancy cruise and bought myself a wardrobe to match and I...’

‘You pretended to be someone you weren’t,’ said Jane slowly, because this was a familiar pattern going right back to their childhood. Gorgeous Cleo who wanted to be a famous model—only she wasn’t quite tall enough or thin enough. Cleo who had been the apple of their mother’s eye. Who had been so devastated when Mum died that everyone had gone out of their way to cushion her from the tearing pain of her emotions. Maybe they had tried too hard, Jane conceded now. Made too many allowances. Bailed her out one time too many. Accepted with a resigned shrug when Cleo dropped out of yet another course and just gone ahead and enrolled her on another—as if they were all waiting for some magic solution to fix her life for her. It had become even worse after their father had died and Jane had been left feeling like the responsible one, the one who needed to take care of Cleo. But that was the story of her life, wasn’t it? Everyone leaned on Jane. Good old reliable Jane.

Closing her eyes, she pressed the phone against her ear. ‘How much do you owe, Cleo? And I don’t want rough estimates designed to shield me from the truth. How much exactly?’

The sum her sister mentioned made Jane feel quite sick and for a minute she actually thought her knees might give way. ‘You’re kidding?’ she questioned hoarsely.

‘I wish I was. Oh, Jane, what am I going to do?’

It was an all too familiar cry and what could Jane do but respond to it, as she had responded so many times before? Tightly, she gripped her phone. ‘You’re going to sit tight and wait for me to get back to you.’

‘But you haven’t got that kind of money.’

‘No. I haven’t.’ Jane swallowed as an image of Zayed’s face swam before her eyes—all flashing black eyes and cruel, mocking lips. ‘But I know somebody who does.’

Slowly, she put the phone down. Did she dare ask the impossibly wealthy Sheikh for some kind of loan to help tide her sister over? A loan which she could pay back over the next however many years? She was so lost in thought that she didn’t realise the time until she heard the clock chime out seven times and realised that Zayed’s car would be here in less than an hour.

Dashing into the shower, she sluiced tepid water over her fleshy body realising that she’d been so worried about her sister that she’d barely stopped to wonder just why Zayed had been so insistent about taking her out for dinner. No doubt she would find out soon enough. Opening up her wardrobe, she cast an uninterested eye over its contents but clothes had never been important to her and, anyway, she doubted the arch-seducer Sheikh would notice what someone like her was wearing. She gave a faint shudder of distaste as she thought about the Kafalahian ruler’s reputation with women, before pulling on a warm sweater and thick tights to go with her tweed skirt—because the autumn evening had a decided nip to the air.

There was a knock at the door and Jane didn’t miss the chauffeur’s look of astonishment when she opened it, though—to the man’s credit—he instantly tried to disguise it with a polite smile, especially when she greeted him in fluent Kafalahian. Looking glaringly out of place, the royal limousine was parked outside the small house owned by a college friend of hers, which had been divided into two apartments—the top one of which Jane rented. Still. At least her friend was working abroad and not around to witness the bizarre spectacle of a Kafalahian flag on the bonnet of the car, flapping in the light breeze.

It felt weird to have the driver open the door for her and for her to slide somewhat awkwardly onto the soft leather seat, because she’d never travelled in one of the royal cars before. There was a small fridge in situ, along with a glittering row of crystal glasses—as well as a TV screen much bigger than the one in her apartment. Jane stared out of the window at the darkening evening, wondering just what she was going to do about Cleo. Maybe she could ask Zayed for some sort of pay-rise. She bit her lip. It would have to be a fairly hefty pay-rise and she would need to have it immediately in order to bail her sister out.

‘We’re here, miss.’

The driver’s voice broke into her troubled thoughts and Jane blinked. The journey had been so smooth that she hadn’t even noticed the car gliding to a halt and suddenly the door was being opened again—this time by a uniformed porter, who was ushering her into an exclusive members’ club, discreetly positioned in a wide street not far from Leicester Square Tube station. A mighty door clanged shut behind her as she stepped into an interior of pure opulence and grandeur—a cavernous hall lined with dark oak panelling and more paintings on the walls than you’d see in one of the nearby national art galleries. As Jane followed the porter inside, she became aware of several older women decked in dazzling jewels, who were peering at her as if she were a curiosity, with no right to be there.

In truth, she did feel more than a little out of place because even she, with her practically zero experience of social occasions, could tell that she’d woefully misjudged the occasion. There was nothing wrong with her knee-length tweed skirt or sweater, but they looked ridiculously understated in this grand and formal setting. And then another door was being flung open and there was Zayed, standing beside a carved marble fireplace, in which scented logs smouldered and crackled. He was wearing a flowing thawb in palest gold, which emphasised the burnished gleam of his skin and the raven blackness of his thick hair. Jane felt an unwelcome punch to her heart and the flicker of something warmer, low in her belly, as she met his flashing black eyes—though he did nothing to disguise the contemptuous curve of his lips as he stared at her.

‘Is this some kind of joke?’ he demanded.

She honestly didn’t know what he was talking about—and she was still so preoccupied with Cleo’s worries that she couldn’t work it out. ‘A joke, Your Royal Highness? I don’t understand.’

‘Really?’

His tone was imperious now, managing to be both haughty and condescending. She had never seen him pulling out all the royal stops before and Jane was suddenly reminded of why he was known as Zayed The Majestic in his homeland.

‘Yes, really,’ she said.

His eyes narrowed, throwing into relief his dark winged brows as his disbelieving gaze skated over her. ‘I invited you for dinner,’ he bit out. ‘Told you to take the rest of the day off in readiness and yet you turn up to my club looking like some suburban housewife on the school run!’

Jane felt her cheeks flush with colour but she kept her gaze steady as she returned his. ‘I don’t have any fancy clothes or jewels,’ she said stiffly.

‘But you have a hairbrush, don’t you? And a pretty dress? And surely it isn’t outside the realms of possibility that you might have reddened your lips and darkened your eyes so that it might please me to look upon you.’

‘I don’t particularly want you to look upon me and I certainly don’t care about pleasing you!’ Jane retorted, before she had time to think about her words. And then she wished she could have bitten them back because she was planning on asking him a favour, wasn’t she? Not making his face grow even darker with anger. She sucked in a breath and adopted a smile which felt as forced as the first Christmas decorations which had started appearing in the stores at the beginning of September. ‘I... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude.’

‘No? Then I’d certainly hate to hear what you might come out with if you were.’

He seemed to be making a conscious effort not to lose his temper and very briefly Jane wondered why—because Zayed was not a man known for his patience.

‘Why don’t you try to relax and enjoy yourself?’ he continued condescendingly. ‘And I shall get someone to bring you a glass of champagne.’

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she didn’t really drink champagne—apart from that cheap fizz she’d had on the night of her eighteenth and which had made her wake up with a splitting headache. Why would she drink something associated with glamour? She wasn’t Cleo. But she took a foaming crystal goblet, which had been brought in on a tray by a butler, who had appeared as if by magic.

‘I have ordered food for us,’ said Zayed airily. ‘Since I do not wish to waste any more time than is necessary with you fussing over the menu.’

‘Shouldn’t you have checked with me first to check that I don’t have any food allergies?’ she said, annoyed by yet another display of his presumption and arrogance. ‘Since I don’t actually eat meat.’

‘Well, isn’t that a coincidence? Neither do I,’ he responded silkily, sitting down at the table, his powerful frame seeming to completely dwarf the gilt chair. ‘At least that’s one thing we do have in common. Sit, Jane.’

As she lowered herself stiffly into the chair opposite him, Zayed leaned back to study her a little more, still unable to believe just how drab she looked. He thought about his mistress in New York and how she might have appeared if she had been invited to dinner at his club—with her creamy breasts spilling out of one of those ‘bandage’ dresses she was so fond of, her slim legs encased in silk stockings and heels so high they should have carried a health warning.

But despite her bare face, her tied back hair and her appalling clothes sense, there was an intelligence about Jane Smith’s eyes which was rare to behold. She had an undiscernible air of complexity about her—as if there were layers to this woman which he’d never encountered before.

He shook his head, reminding himself that her peculiarities were as inconsequential and as forgettable as a brief breeze which wafted through the high heat of summer. She was a means to an end and nothing more. He gestured for the main course to be carried in and nodded as it was placed in front of them, for he had decided against an appetiser. Why drag out this meal for longer than was necessary when all he needed to do was to get her to agree to his plan?

He waited for her to come out with some nicety. Maybe some shy little question about why he wanted to see her, but to his annoyance she didn’t seem to be paying him any attention. Even her plate of food was barely touched as she peered over his shoulder and he had to turn round to discover that she was staring at a painting on the wall behind him and not at him.

‘Is that the Kafalahian desert?’ she questioned.

He nodded. ‘Indeed it is. I donated it to the club,’ he conceded reluctantly.

‘I thought I recognised it. That’s Tirabah in the distance, isn’t it? You can just about see the three blue towers, if you look carefully.’

Zayed was torn between admiration for her obvious love of his country and irritation that she was effectively ignoring him. Because he wasn’t used to being ignored. He ate a couple of mouthfuls of the spiced rice, pistachio and pomegranate dish—his favourite and one specially prepared for him whenever he came here—before laying down his fork. He noticed she wasn’t eating, but that didn’t surprise him. Women were often too awed to be able to consume food in his presence.

‘Tell me about yourself, Jane Smith,’ he said suddenly.

Jane put her fork down and looked up at him, grateful to be able to give up her pretence of eating. The food smelt delicious but she was still so churned up with anxiety for Cleo that it had ruined her appetite. She gazed at him suspiciously. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Because I do,’ he answered unhelpfully.

She pursed her lips. ‘Are you unhappy with my work?’

‘No, Jane—but I am growing increasingly unhappy about your inability to answer a straight question.’

She stared at him, willing herself not to be mesmerised by the ebony gleam of his eyes but that was pretty much impossible. She wondered how it was that you could be repulsed and infuriated by a man and yet still your heart would pound like a piston whenever you looked at him.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘How you ended up working in my embassy and having an unrivalled knowledge about my country.’

Ignoring her champagne flute, Jane took a sip of water, slightly confused about where exactly to begin. Did she tell him that she’d been a quiet and serious child who used to lose herself in the world of books? That she’d been more like her academic father than the beautician mother who had been his surprising choice of wife?

No. Zayed Al Zawba wasn’t interested in the personal. He wanted to know about her qualifications—and if she was planning to ask him for a pay-rise, or a loan, then wouldn’t it be in her best interests to be honest about them for once, instead of playing down her achievements for fear that it might come over as boasting?

‘I studied at the School of Oriental and Asian Studies in London and it was there that I became aware of some of Kafalah’s great lyric poets. I became obsessed with one in particular and it was he who inspired me to learn your language so that I could translate his verses.’ She smiled as she thought about the impact those poems had first had on her. The sudden realisation of just how powerful words could be. ‘You will, of course, be familiar with the work of Mansur Beyhajhi?’

‘I have no interest in poetry,’ he said carelessly. ‘That was more my father’s line.’

Jane tried not to wince at his reaction but she wasn’t sure if she managed it. But even though she was appalled at his cavalier dismissal of the greatest poet his country had ever produced, she shouldn’t have been surprised. He hardly had a reputation as a man of great sensitivity, did he? He was known for racing fast cars and flying in private jets, as well as his legendary sexual consumption of beautiful women. And yes, everyone knew he was a wizard at playing the stockmarkets which added even more to the financial reserves of his oil-rich country—but that didn’t stop Jane from sometimes thinking it was a pity that Kafalah had such a barbarian for a ruler. Had the early deaths of his parents contributed to his insensitivity—or had the responsibilities of having to rule at such a young age hammered them out of him?

Try to make allowances for him, she thought.

‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘For a moment I quite forgot that you are a man of action, rather than a man of letters.’

There was a slow intake of breath from the other side of the table, a low hissing—not unlike how she imagined a striking snake might sound.

‘You make me sound like an intellectual and cultural lightweight. Was that your intention, Miss Smith?’

‘I thought we were supposed to be talking about me, Your Serene Highness, not you.’

His black eyes narrowed. ‘And I note you’ve neatly avoided answering my question.’

Jane nodded. Keep him sweet, she urged herself. Whatever it takes, just keep him sweet. ‘You are a desert sheikh whose role is to work for his country,’ she said boldly. ‘It is not necessary for you to love poetry.’

He gave a brief nod, as if partially mollified by her diplomatic reply. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Tell me about yourself.’

She drew in a deep breath. ‘I wrote an essay about Beyhajhi which caused some excitement in the academic world and I was called to your embassy by the then Ambassador, who wanted to speak to me about it. He offered me a job right there and then—cataloguing, translating and preserving the beautiful manuscripts which your father had collected and rescued from the country during his life. To be honest...’ And for the first time that day, Jane properly relaxed as she remembered how that job offer had felt. As if everything had slotted into place. As if for the first time in her life, she was exactly where she was supposed to be. ‘It was my dream job,’ she admitted, with a smile. ‘And I leapt at the chance.’