Saved by the Sheikh! / Million-Dollar Marriage Merger: Saved by the Sheikh! / Million-Dollar Marriage Merger

She didn’t know what he was talking about. Yet the warmth of his breath against her ear caused a fresh wave of shivers to race up and down her spine, spreading out along every inch of her skin.

This time she didn’t fight the sensation. She allowed it to sweep her away. Pleasure soared.

He grew still. Then he moved, his body driving in quick thrusts into hers, his breath fast.

A cry of shock caught in her throat as her body convulsed. Waves of heat broke, rippling through her, a tide of inexorable sensation that left her limp.

Tiffany opened her eyes and blinked against bright sunlight.

Disorientation was quickly followed by a suffocating sense of dread. What had she done? Slowly, she turned her head against the plump oversized pillow.

The space beside her in the giant king-size bed was empty. Rafiq was already awake … and out of the bed. With any luck he’d stay closeted in the bathroom until she could escape. Except she could hear no sound. Perhaps he’d gone to have breakfast … a swim … to work out. Anything.

Tiffany didn’t care so long as she didn’t have to confront him.

A movement drew her gaze to the floor-to-ceiling windows where the drapes had already been thrown back. Squinting against the gauze-filtered sunlight, Tiffany made out the dark shadow of a backlit figure.

Rafiq.

She shifted and he must’ve heard the movement, because he wheeled around and spoke. “You’re awake.”

Too late to squeeze her eyelids shut and fake sleep.

“Yes.” She offered him a tremulous smile, and tried to read his expression, but bright light behind him frustrated her attempt.

“Good.”

Was it? She wasn’t so sure. He moved closer and came into focus. The passionate lover from last night’s dark, delicious world had vanished. Replaced by the aloof man she’d met—was it only the evening before?

Tiffany shuddered.

“You’re already dressed.” Did she have to sound so plaintive?

He shrugged. “I have a busy day planned.”

And it was time for her to make herself scarce.

He didn’t need to speak the words out loud. It was painfully obvious.

But she had no intention of getting out of bed with him standing less than three feet away. She was naked under the sheet. And he was impeccably, immaculately dressed. She’d exposed more of herself than she’d ever intended, and she had no one but herself to blame. He would not see another inch of her body. A fresh flush of humiliation scorched her at the memory of what had passed between them last night.

Tiffany raised her chin and bravely met his granite gaze. “So why are you still here?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to awaken.”

The harsh features that had been aflame with desire last night had reverted to keep-out coldness. Any hope that he’d wanted to tell her something momentous withered. Her stomach balled into a tight knot.

“Why?”

He reached into his jacket pocket.

His fist uncurled. A cell phone lay there—slim and silent.

Tiffany frowned, trying to make sense of the tension that vibrated from him. And what it had to do with her. “That’s Renate’s phone. I slipped it into my belt—”

“You took pictures last night.”

Oh. Darn. She’d forgotten all about that. “I meant to delete—”

“Yes.” His mouth curled. It was not a nice smile. “I’m sure you meant to. But you didn’t. And you assured Sir Julian that you already had deleted the images.”

She’d been scared of losing her job—now she’d been caught in a lie. She wriggled under the sheet, trying to think of how to explain. In the end she decided she’d probably be better off remaining silent, before she dug herself into a deeper hole. What a mess.

“Nothing to say?”

“Why do you care?”

“Oh, I care.” He brandished the phone at her. “One of the photos is of me with Sir Julian—and enough of Renate to make sure the viewer knows exactly what kind of relationship she’s contemplating with him.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Of course, you didn’t.” He sneered. “You were very interested in talking about Sir Julian Carling last night, too.”

“I was making conversation.” Tiffany was utterly bewildered by the turn the conversation had taken. “So what?”

His eyes darkened. “So what? That’s all you have to say for yourself?”

Tiffany drew the top sheet more securely around herself. What had possessed her to let this daunting stranger get so close last night?

“You are wise to be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” she lied. “I’m confused.”

The silence swelled. Tiffany was growing decidedly nervous. Her gaze flitted toward the door. Even if she made it out the room, she wouldn’t get very far without any clothes. And she doubted she’d have time to scoop up her dress and bag off the floor.

She turned her attention back to him and decided to brazen it out. “Why are you angry?”

His eyebrow shot up. “You expect me to believe you don’t know? Come, come, it’s enough now.”

Tiffany decided it would probably be better to say nothing. It would only enrage him further. So she waited.

“There’s a text message from your friend on her phone asking how your night went.”

The expression of distaste on his face told her that he’d jumped to the conclusion that she’d discussed sleeping with him with Renate.

Damn Renate. “You’re misunderstanding—”

He held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear it. How much do you want?”

“What?”

“To forget that you ever saw me with Sir Julian.”

Her mouth dropped open. He was delusional. Or paranoid. Or maybe just plain crazy. That was enough to make her say hastily, “Just delete the images—it’s what I meant to do last night. I forgot … and then I forgot to give the phone back to Renate.”

“How convenient.”

Tiffany didn’t like the way he said that.

“When you didn’t respond, your friend’s texts make it clear she’s decided you must’ve stolen her phone.” He smiled, but his eyes still smoldered like hot coals. “That you’re planning to sell the images yourself.”

“I wouldn’t do that!”

He made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a snort. “Sell the images or steal her phone? Since when is there honor among thieves?”

What on earth was he getting at? She gave him a wary glance, and then said, “Just say what you mean.”

“You and your friend intended to blackmail me and Sir Julian. Your friend has decided you’ve decided to proceed alone. I think she’s right.”

“Blackmail?”

He was definitely, certifiably crazy. Her eyes flickered toward the door again. Maybe, just maybe she could get out of here … and if she yanked the sheet along, she’d have cover.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he growled and sat down on the bed, pinning her under the sheet that she’d been planning to escape in, wrapped around her like a toga.

“I know.” She gazed at him limpidly.

His eyes narrowed to slits. “That look won’t work. I know you’re no innocent.”

If he only knew.

“Uh …” Tiffany’s voice trailed away. No point telling him, he wouldn’t believe her.

“So what were the two of you intending to do with the photos?”

“Nothing.”

He shook his head. “You take me for a fool. Your friend was desperate to know whether you still had the phone and the photos. Someone was ready to buy them. You were in on the deal.”

She wasn’t going to argue with him. Not while he was looming over her, and she wasn’t wearing a stitch under the scanty cover that the hotel’s silk sheet provided. No way was she risking sparking the tension between them into something else … something infinitely more dangerous.

Panic filled her. “Get off me!”

He didn’t budge. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to delete the images from the phone. Then I’m going to buy you the ticket that you were so desperate for last night. Then I never want to see or hear from you again. Do you understand?”

Tiffany nodded.

He sat back and she breathed again.

“I’m not going to give you the money you so badly want. I’m going to take you to the airport and pay whatever it takes to get that ticket changed—so I hope you really need a flight to Auckland.”

“I do,” she croaked.

He pushed himself away from her. “It will be waiting for you downstairs when you are ready to leave.”

As he rose from the bed, her bravado returned. Her chin lifted. “I don’t need you to take me to the airport—it won’t help. My temporary travel documents will only be ready on Monday. I’ll take a cab back to the hostel.”

“I want you out of Hong Kong.”

“I have no intention of staying a minute more than I have to. Nor will I cause you any grief. I promise.”

He gave her one of those narrow-eyed glances that chilled her to the bone. “If I learn that you have—”

“I’m not going to do anything. I swear. And, believe me, I intend to pay you back,” she said fervently. Tiffany had no intention of being beholden to this man.

He waved a dismissive hand. “Please. Don’t lie.”

“I will repay you. But I’ll need your bank details.”

“To further scam me?” The bark of laughter he gave sounded ugly. His eyes bored into hers. She didn’t look away. The mood changed, becoming hot and oppressive. Something arced between them, an emotion so intense, so powerful that she lost the ability to think.

Without looking away, Rafiq reached into his pocket for his wallet. This time he extracted a small white card. “Here are my details. You can post me a check … but I don’t want to see you again. Ever.”

It stung.

Determined to hurt him, she flung the words back at him. “I have no intention of seeing you again.” Then, for good measure, she added defiantly, “Ever.”

She bit her lip hard to stop it trembling as he swung away, and she watched him head for the door with long, raking strides. When the door thudded shut behind him, she glanced down at the card she held.

Rafiq Al Dhahara. President, Royal Bank of Dhahara.

She should’ve known. He wasn’t any old banker. He was the boss. The man who had showed her a glimpse of heaven would never be an ordinary man.

Four

Rafiq could not settle.

He’d been restless for weeks now. He told himself it was the fierce desert heat of Dhahara that kept him awake deep into the heart of the night. Not even the arctic air-conditioning circulating through the main boardroom of the Royal Bank of Dhahara soothed him.

“Stop pacing,” Shafir said from behind him. “You called us in to talk about the new hotel you’ve financed, but now you wear holes in that kelim. Sit down and talk.” He tapped his gold pen against the legal pad in front of him. “I’m in a hurry.”

Swiveling on his heel, Rafiq put his hands on narrow hips, and scowled down at where his brother lounged in the black leather chair, his white robes cascading about him. “You can wait, Shafir.”

“I might, but Megan won’t. My wife is determined to spend every free minute we have at Qasr Al-Ward.” Shafir flashed him the wicked grin of a man well satisfied by that state of affairs. “Come for the weekend. Celebrate that the contracts for the new Carling Hotel are in place. It’ll give you a chance to shed that suit for a couple of days.”

Shaking his head, Rafiq said, “Too much else to do. I’ll resist the call of the desert.” He envied his brother the bond he had to Qasr Al-Ward, the desert palace that had been in the family for centuries. Since his marriage to Megan, Shafir had made Qasr Al-Ward their home.

“Don’t resist it too long—or you may not find your way back.”

“Why don’t you take our father?” Rafiq wasn’t eager to engage in the kind of analysis that Shafir’s sharp gaze suggested was about to begin. In an effort to distract his brother, he tipped his head to where King Selim was intent on getting his point across to his firstborn son. The words “duty” and “marriage” drifted across the expanse of the boardroom table. “That way Khalid might get some peace, too.”

Shafir chuckled. “Looks like our father is determined not to give him a break.”

“You realize your marriage has only increased the pressure on Khalid?”

Stabbing a finger at his brother’s chest, Shafir chuckled. “And on you. Everyone expected you to marry first, Rafiq. Unlike Khalid, your bride isn’t Father’s choice. And unlike me, women don’t view you as already wed to the desert. You spent years abroad—you’ve had plenty of opportunity to fall in love.”

“It wasn’t so straightforward.” Rafiq realized that was true. “There were no expectations on you, Shafir. No pressure. You’ve always done exactly what you want.”

His brother had spent much of his life growing up in the desert; he’d been allowed rough edges, whereas Rafiq had been groomed for a corporate role. Educated at Eton, followed by degrees at Cambridge and Harvard. There had been pressure to put thought and care into his choice of partner—someone who could bear scrutiny on an international stage. A trophy wife. A powerful trophy wife.

How could he explain how a relationship that started off as something special could deteriorate into nothing more than duty?

“Take it.” His father’s rising voice broke into his thoughts.

Rafiq refocused across the table. His father was trying to press a piece of paper into Khalid’s hand. “All three of these women are suitable. Yasmin is a wealthy young woman who knows what you need in a wife.”

“No!” Khalid’s jaw was like rock.

“She’s pretty, too.” Shafir smirked.

“I don’t want pretty,” his eldest brother argued.

Pretty. Rafiq shied away from the word. Tiffany had thought she was pretty. Not beautiful. Pretty. Rafiq had considered her beautiful.

“I want a woman who will match me,” Khalid was saying. “I don’t care what she looks like. I need a partner … not a pinup.”

“Hey, my wife is a partner,” Shafir objected. “In my eyes she’s a pinup, too.”

Newly—and happily—married, he’d become the king’s ally in the quest to seek a suitable wife for his brothers. Although Rafiq suspected that Shafir was only trying to drive home how fortunate he’d been to find his Megan. If he could find a woman as unique, as in tune with him as Megan was with Shafir, he’d get married in a shot ….

Khalid bestowed a killing look on Shafir, who laughed and helped himself to a cup of the rich, fragrant coffee that the bank’s newest secretary was busy pouring into small brass cups.

“Thank you, Miss Turner.” To his father Khalid added, “I don’t need a list. I will find my own wife.”

Rafiq craned his neck, peering at the list. “Who else is on there?”

“Farrah? She’s far too young—I don’t want a child bride.”

“Leila Mummhar.”

Rafiq’s suggestion had captured his father’s attention.

“Pah.” The King flung out his arms. “Don’t you give him advice. I was certain you’d be married long before Shafir. Now look at you—no woman at your side since your beloved departed.”

“Shenilla and I had … differences.” It was the best way to describe the pushy interest that Shenilla’s father had started to exert as soon as they’d considered him hooked. Shenilla was a qualified accountant, she was beautiful, her family was well respected in Dhahara. On paper it was the perfect match.

Yet he’d run ….

“Differences?” His father growled. “What is a little difference? Your beloved mother and I had many differences while we were courting. We overcame them and—”

“But your marriage was expected,” Rafiq interrupted. “It was arranged between your families from the time you were very young. You could not end such a relationship.”

The king shook his head. “It made marriage no easier. But we worked at it. Happiness is something to strive for, my son, every day of your life. And you were so in love. Ay me, I was so certain that this time it would be right.”

How could Rafiq confess that he’d been sure that Shenilla had been perfect for him, yet once their families had become involved as quickly as he’d fallen in love with her, he’d fallen out again? And it hadn’t been the first time. Before that there had been Rosa and before her, Neela. He wasn’t indiscriminate. His cautious courtships lasted for lengthy periods—that was expected after the care he put into the choice. But just when they got to the point where formalities like engagements became expected, when the pressure to set a wedding date was applied, the love dwindled, leaving only a restless need to escape the cloying trap the relationship had become.

“Khalid, you may object now but you know your duty.” The king patted his firstborn son on the shoulder. “Choose any one of those women and you will be richly rewarded.”

Rafiq eyed the list and thought of the requirements he’d set for women he considered in the past—after all he was a practical man, his wife would have to fit into his world. Wealthy. Beautiful. Well connected. “Yasmin comes from a powerful family.”

Khalid shook his head fiercely. “No, it’s not her family I’d be marrying. And I want more than power, wealth and looks in a bride. She must be able to keep me interested for many years, long after worldly goods are forgotten.”

Interested? Rafiq’s thoughts veered to the last woman who had occupied his bed.

Tiffany had kept him interested from the moment he’d met her. Yes, he’d told her she was beautiful. And he’d meant it. But she was nothing like the other beauties he’d dated. Her features reflected her every emotion, and the graceful way she moved had held him entranced. She certainly fulfilled none of the other criteria he looked for in a wife … she’d never be suitable.

It shamed him that in one short night with little effort she’d stripped him of the restraint and control he prided himself on. It had disturbed him deeply that a woman whom he didn’t love, held no fondness for, a woman he suspected of being a con artist, a blackmailer, could hold such power over him.

She’d insisted she’d had no intention of bedding him; she’d been as deliciously tight as a virgin, yet she’d produced a condom at the critical moment. And she’d lied about deleting the photos she’d taken of him and Sir Julian. The more he thought about it, the more he decided he’d been played for a fool by an expert.

He’d given her his business card.

Fool!

He stared blindly at the list he held until Shafir stretched across the boardroom table and snagged it. His brother studied it … and hooted with laughter, pulling Rafiq out the trance that held him immobile. “I can’t believe Leila is on here—she’s more work than all the bandits that hide on the border of Marulla.”

“It would make political sense—we would be able to watch her relations,” the king growled.

“Father, we don’t want the trouble that her uncles would bring.” Rafiq shook his head as he referred to the spats that the two sheikhs were infamous for waging. “Pick someone with less baggage.”

Khalid fixed his attention on Shafir. “Maybe I should do what you did … choose a woman with family on the other side of the world. That way I will have no problem with my inlaws.”

Suppressing the urge to grin, Rafiq waited for his father to launch into a tirade about the sanctity of family. But his father wore an arrested expression. “Rafiq, did you not say that Sir Julian Carling has a daughter?”

“Yes.” Rafiq thought of the woman he’d once met. “Elizabeth Carling.”

Despite the dislike he’d taken to Sir Julian, there’d been nothing wrong with the daughter. Elizabeth had everything he usually looked for. Wealth, beauty, connections. Yet there’d been no spark. Not like what he’d experienced with Tiffany—if such a wild madness could be termed a spark. It had been more like a conflagration.

At last he nodded. “Yes, she would be a good choice for Khalid.”

“Add her to the list,” his father commanded Shafir. “Rafiq says her father is coming to Dhahara to inspect the site for the new Carling Hotel. Her father is a very wealthy man.” King Selim gave his eldest son an arch look, and leaned back in his chair. “I will invite Lady Carling and his daughter, too.”

Even as Khalid glared at him, the young secretary reappeared in the doorway, concern in her eyes. “The CEO of Pyramid Oil is here for his appointment. What shall I tell him?”

“That’s right, run, before I kill you for adding to the pressure,” his brother muttered, but Rafiq only laughed.

“Discussing your future took the heat off me, so thanks.”

Khalid snorted in disgust.

Still grinning, Rafiq turned to the young secretary. “Miss Turner, give us five more minutes—by then I will be done.”

Tiffany stepped out of the cab into the dry, arid midday heat of Dhahara. Hot wind redolent of spices and a tang of the desert swept around her. In front of her towered the Royal Bank of Dhahara. The butterflies that had been floating around in her stomach started to whip their wings in earnest.

Sure, she’d known from his gold-embossed card that Rafiq would be an important man. President, Royal Bank of Dhahara. But not this important.

Yet coming here had been the right thing to do. She’d never doubted her path from the moment the doctor had confirmed her deepest fear. But being confronted with the material reality of where Rafiq worked, knowing that it would be only minutes before she saw him again, made her palms grow moist and her heart thump loudly in her chest.

She paid the driver and couldn’t help being relieved that she’d had the foresight to check into a city hotel and stow her luggage in her room before coming here. Pulling a filmy scarf over her hair, she passed the bank’s uniformed guard and headed for the glass sliding doors.

Inside, behind the sleek, circular black marble reception counter, stood a young, clean-shaven man in a dark suit and white headgear. Tiffany approached him, determined to brazen this out. “I have an appointment.”

His brow creased as he scanned the computer screen in front of him, searching for an appointment she knew would not be listed for today … or any day. Finally he shook his head.

But Tiffany had not come this far to be deterred. She held her ground, refusing to turn away.

“Call Rafiq Al Dhahara.” Her conjuring up the name she’d memorized from the business card caused him to do a double take. “Tell him Tiffany Smith is here to see him.” She mustered up every bit of authority that she had. “He won’t be pleased if he learns you sent me away without bothering to check.”

That was stretching the truth, because Rafiq might well refuse to see her. Even if he did agree to speak to her, he would certainly not be pleased to find her here in Dhahara.

But the bank official wasn’t to know that.

Tiffany waited, arms folded across a stomach that was still behaving in the most peculiar fashion, as it fluttered and tumbled over.

He picked up a telephone and spoke in Arabic. When he’d finished, his expression had changed. “The sheikh will see you.”

The sheikh?

Oh, my. This time her stomach turned a full somersault. “Sheikh?” she spluttered. “I thought he was—” she searched a mind gone suddenly blank for the impressive title on his business card “—the president of the Royal Bank of Dhahara.”

The bank official gave her a peculiar look. “The royal family owns the bank.”

“What does that have to do with Rafiq?”

He blinked at her casual use of his name, and then replied, “The sheikh is part of the royal family.”

Before she could faintly repeat “royal family,” the elevator doors to the left of the marble reception counter slid open, and Rafiq himself stepped out.

His face was haughtier than she remembered, his eyes darker, his cheekbones more aristocratic. Sheikh? Royal family? He certainly looked every inch the part in a dark suit with a conservative white shirt that even in this sweltering heat appeared crisp and fresh. Yet his head was uncovered, and his hair gleamed like a black hawk’s wing. After all the soul-searching it had taken to bring her here, now that she faced him she couldn’t think of a word to say.