Carrying The Sheikh's Baby

You don’t want to be a mouse for ever.

‘Okay—you’ve got a deal,’ she said, the surge of excitement at her own daring almost overwhelming her panic.

She reached out her hand, but then long strong fingers folded over hers—and she yearned to snatch it back. His grip was firm, impersonal, but the rush of sensation that raced up her arm was anything but.

‘How long will it take you to pack?’ he asked.

‘Umm... I should be able to fly over in a week or so,’ she said, grateful when he released her hand. She needed to rearrange her teaching schedule, pack up her flat on campus and give herself more time to make absolutely sure she was happy jumping off this cliff.

‘Not good enough,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon?’ she said, disturbed by the no-nonsense tone, and the sensation still streaking up her arm.

‘I’ll have the contract drawn up and delivered to you within the hour. Is five hundred thousand pounds sufficient for your input on the project?’

Half a million pounds!

‘I... That’s very generous.’

‘Excellent, then we will leave for Narabia tonight.’

We...? Tonight...? What...?

‘I...’

He held up his hand, and the feeble protest got stuck in her throat.

‘No buts. We made a deal.’ He took a phone out of his trouser pocket, and walked past her. The two bodyguards and Walmsley, who must have been lurking outside the door, all snapped to attention as he opened it.

So Zane Khan didn’t just have that disturbing effect on her.

‘Dr Smith will be leaving on my private jet tonight,’ he announced.

Walmsley’s mouth dropped open comically, but Cat didn’t feel much like laughing.

Zane glanced over his shoulder. ‘A car will arrive in four hours to take you to the airport,’ he said.

‘But that’s not enough time,’ she managed, past the constriction in her throat. What exactly had she just agreed to? Because she was starting to feel like a mouse again. A very timid, overwhelmed mouse, in the presence of a large, extremely predatory lion.

‘Anything you need will be provided for you,’ he said, cutting off any more protests by lifting the phone back to his ear and striding away down the corridor, with the two bodyguards flanking him.

Cat watched his tall figure disappear round the corner, her breath locked in her lungs and her stomach free-falling off the cliff without the rest of her.

Problem was, she hadn’t had the chance to jump off this particular cliff—because she’d just been pushed.

CHAPTER TWO

CAT ARRIVED AT the private airfield outside Cambridge four and a half hours later, still dazed from her meeting with the Narabian ruler.

Is this actually happening?

The arc lights from the airfield hangar illuminated a sleek private jet painted in the gold and green colours of the desert kingdom’s flag.

The driver, who had arrived on the dot of eight o’clock at her flat on campus, hauled her borrowed rucksack out of the back of the limousine and escorted Cat across the airfield to the plane’s steps.

A man appeared at the aircraft’s door, dressed in a robe and a traditional Narabian headdress. He lifted the battered bag off the chauffeur’s shoulder and ushered her onto the plane, introducing himself as Abdallah, one of the Sheikh’s personal servants.

She was led through the cabin—the plush leather seats and polished teak tables offset by thick wool carpeting—into a private bedroom at the end of the plane.

‘You will be served dinner in here once we are airborne,’ the man said in perfect English, putting her bag onto one of the cabin’s armchairs. She stifled the sting of embarrassment at the sight of the hastily packed rucksack marring the butter-soft leather upholstery. ‘Suitable clothing has been made available for your stay in Narabia,’ Abdallah announced, his gaze flicking discreetly over her attire—and making her acutely aware of the battered boots, jeans and second-hand sweater she hadn’t had a chance to change out of. There was no censure in his tone, but still she felt impossibly awkward and ill-prepared. Especially when the servant slid open the door of a built-in wardrobe to reveal an array of dark flowing robes.

‘His Excellency, His Divine Majesty, has asked that you dress appropriately when leaving the plane—and limit your questions to myself or the other palace staff at all times.’

Cat nodded mutely, her nervousness accompanied by a tingle of irritation. It seemed His Divine Majesty was used to giving orders and having them obeyed without question. But how was she going to be able to do the research she needed to do on Narabia’s customs and culture if she was not able to be a free agent?

‘Is Mr Khan on the plane?’ she asked.

The man’s eyebrows rose a fraction before he spoke. ‘His Excellency, His Divine Majesty, the Sheikh of Narabia is flying the plane, Dr Smith. He has asked me to assist you in any way you desire.’

The tightness around her ribcage eased at the thought she wouldn’t have to see Zane Khan again until they landed. But then she felt disappointed in herself.

This was going to be an adventure. An adventure she would one day be able to tell her grandchildren. Events had moved much faster than she was comfortable with. But was that really a bad thing?

Impulsiveness was a trait she’d quashed throughout her childhood and teenage years—and she’d persuaded herself it was a good thing she hadn’t had the chance to quash it this time.

Unfortunately, that didn’t make what lay ahead of her any less intimidating or overwhelming. And Zane Khan’s presence did make it that much harder to process, because she didn’t seem to be able to breathe properly when he was near her—let alone process her thoughts. But his decision to start dictating her every move before they’d even left the UK did not bode well for her work.

She wanted to do a thorough job. Which meant she would have to get up the guts to confront His Divine Majesty if she had to.

‘We will be landing in Narabia at eight tomorrow morning,’ Abdallah informed her, his implacable gaze revealing nothing. ‘His Excellency, His Divine Majesty, will speak with you then, before we proceed to the Sheikh’s palace.’

Cat’s pulse hammered her collarbone. The Sheikh’s palace had been built over five hundred years ago on a natural spring, and its architectural splendour was rumoured to rival that of the Taj Mahal, but no photographs existed of it. Only a few pencil drawings done by a British explorer in the nineteen twenties.

She would be the first outsider to see it in generations. She took a deep breath and let it out again to contain the leap of excitement.

Strike one for impulsiveness.

‘Thank you, I look forward to seeing it,’ she said, barely able to stifle her grin as Abdallah excused himself and left.

Her breathing clogged again though, as the plane’s engines rumbled to life. She strapped herself into the leather passenger seat and imagined Zane Khan’s long fingers handling the controls. Her stomach lifted into her throat as the plane raced down the tarmac and rose into the night sky above Cambridge.

There was a three-hour time difference between the UK and Narabia, which gave her approximately nine hours to figure out how she was going to handle her interaction with His Divine Majesty the next time she saw him.

She counted her breaths in and out, as the lights of Cambridge disappeared under the cover of clouds.

Not hyperventilating would be an excellent start.

After a three-course dinner—consisting of Narabian delicacies in a tantalising combination of African and Middle Eastern flavours—Cat managed a fitful four hours’ sleep on the luxurious bed. The last time she woke, to the efficient purr of the plane’s engines, the desert landscape was visible through the cabin windows, only a few thousand feet below.

With only an hour till they landed she rushed her shower—while struggling to get her head around the idea of having a shower on a plane—then dug out her meagre supply of make-up. She rarely wore it, but in this instance the smudge of eyeshadow and the slick of lip gloss should help boost her confidence and her courage.

Donning one of the robes proved a great deal more challenging. The flowing floor-length garment was made of gossamer-thin black silk with stunning gold embroidery at the cuffs and hem. The fitted bodice hooked up the front right to the neck, and included a matching scarf. But what exactly was she supposed to wear underneath it? Was the robe supposed to be worn as a dress or an overgarment?

Even in spring, the desert kingdom would be extremely hot. But the only other items in the closet were other similar robes and an array of delicate underwear. Heat incinerated her cheeks as she ran her fingertips over the transparent lace.

Just the thought of wearing the skimpy undergarments with only a thin layer of silk to cover them in front of Zane Khan had her hyperventilating again. She was nervous enough already. Of course, he wouldn’t be able to see she was virtually naked beneath her robe, but she would know.

In the end, she settled for putting on her sturdy cotton bra and panties and one of her maxi summer dresses under the robe. Made for summer in Cambridge, not spring in Narabia, the dress was a great deal heavier than the lightweight material of the robe, and it made the robe itself a bit snug, but the added layer helped to slow her rampaging pulse. After wrestling with the hooks to fasten the front of the robe over her breasts, she tied back her damp hair with an elastic band, draped the exquisitely embroidered scarf over her head and tied the ends at the back of her neck.

Strapping herself in for the landing, she devoured the dramatic sight of the rocky terrain as the plane skimmed over a mountainous region to touch down at a deserted airfield. But as the plane taxied and then came to a stop in front of a large, sleekly modern glass-and-steel hangar, her stomach didn’t quite land with it.

When Abdallah arrived ten minutes later, she’d repaired her make-up twice—and debated about fifty times whether to simply step out of the cabin. Perhaps they had forgotten she was on the plane?

‘His Divine Majesty awaits your presence,’ Abdallah announced, picking up her rucksack.

Play it cool, and remember to keep breathing.

She smoothed sweaty palms down the robe, feeling the bulk of fabric where her dress tightened the fit.

As she stepped out of the cabin her gaze locked on a group of men dressed in robes standing beside the plane’s open door. Or one man in particular, who stood head and shoulders above the rest.

As if he had sensed her presence, Zane Khan turned to face her, and her breath locked in her lungs again.

Breathe, Cat, breathe.

She struggled to regulate her lung function before she passed out. She’d never seen anything so magnificent—or so masculine—as the Sheikh of Narabia in his traditional ceremonial garb.

Her gaze stole up his frame, taking in every aspect of the striking outfit.

Knee-high leather boots shone in the blazing desert sunlight stealing in through the cabin’s door, and moulded to impressive calf muscles. Black cotton trousers hung loose around his long legs to give him ease of movement but did nothing to disguise the powerful muscles in his thighs. A silk sash that matched the extraordinary blue of his eyes provided a startling splash of colour around his lean waist. The long flowing cloak he wore trailed to his knees but any semblance of modesty was belied by the black tunic that hung open at his neck in a deep V, revealing tantalising wisps of chest hair. But it was his dramatic headdress—draped to shade his head and shoulders and the back of his neck and held on with a jewelled gold band around his forehead—and the sabres glinting on his hips and attached by across-the-shoulder leather straps that had Cat’s breath gushing out.

No wonder they call him the Divine Majesty.

He didn’t only look magnificent, he looked indomitable—a man entirely at one with his heritage and his own masculinity. Those pure blue eyes seemed to bore into her through the silk of her own robe—right through the fabric of her dress and the sturdy cotton of her underwear to her palpitating heart. She thanked God she had decided to wear the extra layers, because even with them on she felt naked—every inch of her skin tingling with awareness.

‘Dr Smith,’ he said in that rough, commanding baritone. He held out a hand and hooked a finger, directing her to come to him. ‘I see you found the clothing,’ he said.

All her senses screamed in unison—although she wasn’t sure what they were screaming for her to do, fall into his arms, or run like hell in the opposite direction, because both options seemed viable.

You’re a cat, not a mouse. Move.

Breathing deeply, she stepped forward and laid trembling fingers in his wide palm. He folded her arm into the crook of his elbow and she found herself drawn forward and tucked against his side.

‘Let’s get to the car before the plane becomes an oven,’ he said, the conversational tone doing nothing to calm her rampant heartbeat.

She bobbed her head, feeling like a compliant puppet.

They descended the plane steps together. The desert heat was immense, even so early in the morning, the sun creating mirages on the tarmac and a heat haze on the horizon. But she burned hottest where their bodies touched, the gossamer silk of her robe and the thick cotton of her dress feeling heavier than armour and yet offering her no protection whatsoever from the subtle shift of muscle and sinew where his forearm tensed against her side.

Sweat pooled in her collarbone and trickled down her temple, her heart beating so fast and so loudly she wondered if he could hear it, because it sounded like a machine gun to her.

They walked through a phalanx of servants and bodyguards, all of whom dropped to one knee as Zane passed, the look of awe on their faces something she was very much afraid had been reflected on her face when she’d first walked out of her cabin.

She tried to school her features. Just because Zane Khan was treated like a living god in Narabia, he was still only a man.

As if in acknowledgement of this fact, Zane stopped to speak to several of his subjects as he passed, introducing her to two men in particular as the heads of his ruling council. Four SUVs were parked in a line at the end of the welcoming committee, their paintwork gleaming in the sunshine and looking strangely incongruous given the ancient power being honoured by all present. A guard rushed forward to whisk open the back door of the car in the middle, which looked as if it was half limousine, half all-terrain vehicle. The flags, bearing the insignia of the ruling house of Nawari, marked it out as the Sheikh’s vehicle. Stepping to one side and finally letting go of her, Zane swept his arm forward, directing her into the interior.

She bent to climb inside, but was only halfway into the car when she came to an abrupt halt. Her knees slammed onto the seat tangled in the robe, her palms slapping on the cool leather, her bottom jutting up in the air as she struggled to free herself. She flapped her feet furiously, as embarrassment scorched her insides, but all she managed to do was lose her sandals. She was stuck fast, hideously mindful of Zane standing behind her, being presented with her upraised bottom.

A husky chuckle made her humiliation complete before strong fingers snagged her ankle, sending sensation skimming up her leg and weakening her already straining knees.

‘Hold still,’ said the deep voice, now rough with amusement. ‘The hem is caught.’

Seconds later, the forward momentum had her landing on the seat with a loud ‘oomph’ in a sprawl of silk, cotton, bare legs and bruised pride.

She scrambled to right herself, her cheeks now hotter than the Narabian sun despite the cool interior of the air-conditioned car. Deep chuckles reverberated off the leather interior as Zane folded himself into the seat beside her and the door slammed behind them. The car drove off.

‘Neatly done, Dr Smith,’ he said, obviously enjoying himself immensely at her expense.

But then she looked into his face. He seemed so much younger, almost boyish, his usually severe expression softened by laughter, his shoulders vibrating so hard, the sabres were jingling like bells.

A bubble of laughter burst out. She covered her mouth, but as he continued to chuckle, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from joining him. Suddenly they were laughing together, his husky guffaws matched by her higher-pitched giggles. For a few precious moments, the nerves and anxiety in her stomach dissolved and she felt like a child, free and unencumbered by the sizzling sexual tension that had characterised all her interactions with Zane Khan so far.

‘I can’t believe I made such a monumental tit of myself,’ she finally managed as the laughter slowed to a few intermittent chuckles.

‘Neither can I,’ he said, huffing out one more laugh.

He wiped his eyes with the corner of his robe. And a burst of euphoria rose up her torso. She had no idea why, but she had the strangest feeling Zane Khan didn’t laugh nearly often enough. Dignity and pride seemed a small price to pay for managing to demolish the austere facade—even if only for a few moments.

‘Here.’ He leaned towards her and she saw her sandals resting in his large palm. ‘You dropped these.’

‘Oh, thank you.’ They shared a few more errant chuckles as she plucked them out of his hand.

But as she absorbed the warmth of his touch that lingered on the soft leather, the last of her laughter trailed away, and a heavy sense of intimacy descended.

She could feel his gaze as she fumbled with the hem of her robe and her dress before slipping the footwear back on. She rearranged her skirts to cover her legs, unbearably aware of him once more.

‘I think I see what the problem is,’ he murmured.

‘The problem?’ she asked, making the mistake of glancing at him.

All traces of the boyish amusement were gone as his gaze roamed over her clothing.

‘The robes are designed to be worn with as little beneath them as possible.’ Was it her imagination or had his voice dropped several octaves? ‘Adding extra layers makes them more cumbersome and tends to inhibit the cooling effect.’

‘O-oh, I see,’ she stuttered.

The hot brick in her stomach plunged between her thighs and her nipples tightened as they made the rest of the drive through the desert in silence.

Ruining the cooling effect completely.

What the hell? I have an undiscovered toe fetish.

Zane absorbed the rocky, forbidding landscape as the car crested the rise and headed into the desert valley towards the Sheikh’s palace, far too aware of the woman sitting stiffly in the seat beside him—and the burn on his fingertips where his hand had connected with her ankle. The sight of her unpainted toes and bare feet as she’d slipped on her sandals hadn’t helped contain the surge of lust that had been tormenting him ever since she’d stepped out of her cabin.

His imagination had gone into overdrive as soon as she’d appeared, everything the ankle-length robe with its intricate beading disguised somehow even more erotic than her tomboy jeans and shapeless sweater of the day before.

He shifted in his seat as the palace came into view. He heard her sharp intake of breath. The enormous five-hundred-year-old structure with its domed turrets, lavish mosaic tiling, walled gardens and courtyards and intricately carved arched walkways was a truly magnificent example of Moorish architecture that would awe any new visitor. He had been awestruck himself sixteen years ago when he’d seen it for the first time as a confused teenager, using belligerence to hide his fear—only to discover that misery, not magic, lurked behind the golden walls.

He dispelled the unpleasant memories as the car approached the town of Zahari—which had sprawled around the walls of the palace for over three hundred years—and sailed through the marketplace. Traders and customers stood at a respectful distance, many of them bowing their heads or dropping to their knees as the car passed.

‘Is that customary? For your subjects to kneel before you?’ Catherine Smith’s soft voice yanked him back to the present and tugged at his groin in a way he had been trying to ignore ever since they’d left the plane.

He would have to get his reaction to this woman under control. It could only be a result of the sexual drought he’d suffered in recent years, ever since his father’s illness and death had required him to spend so much time in Narabia.

‘It is not required,’ he said, aware of the sharp tone when she flinched.

It wasn’t her fault she had an unpredictable effect on him and his sex-starved libido. Any more than it was her fault the delicate arch of her instep and those slim, straight toes had him obsessing about sucking and licking each one in turn, then slowly inching the layers of clothing up her slim curves to discover exactly what treasures lay between her toned thighs.

He shook his head, and attempted to focus on the haze that shimmered on the palace’s golden walls as the car drove through the gates and entered the forecourt.

Seducing Catherine Smith would be a foolish move, which could easily backfire. He had no intention of giving her more access to him than was strictly necessary. She’d already requested an interview, something he’d had to force himself not to refuse out of hand. And he did not like the way she’d looked at him a moment ago, as if she somehow knew it was a long time since he’d had cause to laugh so spontaneously. Part of her job here was to study the behaviour and customs of Narabia’s people, but he did not intend to let her study him.

The thought of the indulgent burst of laughter and what it might have revealed dampened the heat in his groin as the car drove through the grove of palm trees, around the fountain that adorned the entrance to the palace and glided to a stop by the steps leading up to the arched entrance to the main residence. Climbing out of the vehicle, he offered a hand to Catherine.

One glimpse of those damn toes though, and the blood surged right back into his pants.

She exited the vehicle with a great deal more grace than she had used getting into it. But the memory of her pert bottom outlined in silk failed to alleviate the heat swelling in his groin.

The silk covering her hair did nothing to disguise the riot of chestnut curls. He clenched his fists to quell the urge to plunge his fingers into the unruly locks. Having this woman in the palace for three long months was going to be more of an ordeal than he’d thought when he had offered her the commission.

She tilted her head to view the building. ‘It’s even more breathtaking than I expected.’

The breathy comment was artlessly erotic, skimming over his skin. The heavy weight of the sabres jostled his hip as he stood aside to let her precede him up the steps.

‘Your Excellency, welcome home,’ his major-domo greeted him. As efficient and imperturbable as always, Ravi didn’t even flick an eyelash at the sight of his companion, or the evidence that Zane had arrived back from a business meeting in the UK with an unknown female guest. Clapping his hands, Ravi barked out a series of orders in Narabi at the line of servants, who rushed forward to collect the luggage.

‘This is Dr Smith,’ Zane said. ‘She is an academic scholar and is going to be writing a book about Narabia’s customs and its cultural history. She will be staying in the women’s quarters.’

As far away from my toe fetish as possible.

‘Yes, Your Excellency,’ Ravi said before turning to Catherine and bowing. ‘Welcome to Narabia, Dr Smith.’ He held out his arm. ‘If you come this way, I will escort you to your quarters.’