The Sheikh's Reward

“You lured me here on false pretences. You had no right.”

“You knew I was the kind of man who would never forgive….” He took a step closer. “You forced my hand over the check. That stung my pride.”

“Your pride!” Frances scoffed.

His voice changed, became harder. “The ruler of a country must be a man of pride. If not, he is unfit to rule. I could not allow an insult to go unpunished. I decided it was time you had a lesson in reality.”

“Reality?” she echoed, hardly able to believe her ears. “Putting me with your concubines? Ali, this has gone far enough. I want my bag, my clothes, and I want to get out of here.”

He laughed softly. “You are wonderful. You are completely helpless in my power and yet you speak with such authority. I tremble in my shoes.”

“I don’t believe this,” she said in a shaking voice. “I’m dreaming, and I’ll wake up soon.”

“I wish you the sweetest of dreams, and I hope they will all be of me. But when you awake, you will still be here. And you will remain here, at my pleasure, until I decide otherwise.”

Lucy Gordon cut her writing teeth on magazine journalism, interviewing many of the world’s most interesting men, including Warren Beatty, Richard Chamberlain, Roger Moore, Sir Alec Guinness and Sir John Gielgud. She also camped out with lions in Africa, and had many other unusual experiences, which have often provided the background for her books.

She is married to a Venetian, whom she met while on holiday in Venice. They got engaged within two days, and have now been married for twenty-five years. They live in the Midlands of the U.K., with their dogs.

Two of her books have won the Romance Writers of America RITA Award—Song of the Lorelei in 1990, and His Brother’s Child in 1998 in the Best Traditional Romance category.

The Sheikh’s Reward

Lucy Gordon

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

HE WAS a prince to his fingertips. Tall, black-haired, his head set at a proud angle, Prince Ali Ben Saleem, Sheikh of the principality of Kamar, drew everyone’s gaze as he walked into the casino.

It wasn’t just his handsome features and his tall body with its combination of power and grace. There was something about him that seemed to proclaim him skilful at everything he attempted. And so men regarded him with envy, women with interest.

Frances Callam watched with the others, but her eyes held a peculiar intentness. Ali Ben Saleem was the man she had come here to study.

She was a freelance journalist, much in demand for her skill at profiling people. Editors knew that she was unbeatable in stories where large sums of money were concerned. And Ali was one of the wealthiest men in the world.

‘Will you look at that?’ Joey Baines breathed in awe, watching Ali’s imperial progress to the tables. Joey was a private detective whom she sometimes hired as an assistant. She’d brought him along tonight as cover while she visited the casino and watched Ali at play.

‘I’m looking,’ Fran murmured. ‘He certainly lives up to the legend, doesn’t he? In appearance anyway.’

‘What’s the rest of the legend?’

‘He’s a law unto himself, accountable to nobody for where his money comes from or where it goes to.’

‘But we know where it comes from,’ Joey objected. ‘Those oil wells he’s got gushing away in the desert.’

‘And a lot of it vanishes in places like this,’ Fran said, looking around her with disapproval.

‘Hey, Fran, lighten up. Can’t we enjoy life among the fleshpots for just one night? It’s in a good cause.’

‘It’s in the cause of nailing a man who doesn’t like answering questions about himself, and finding out what he has to hide,’ Fran said firmly.

Joey ran a finger around the inside of his collar. His short, undistinguished person looked uncomfortable in the black tie and dinner jacket that was de rigueur for the men.

‘I can’t believe you came here looking like a goddess just to work,’ he said, eyeing her slender figure, pale skin and red-gold hair with wistful lust.

‘Down, Fido,’ Fran said amiably. ‘Tonight this is my work outfit. I need to look as if I belong in this place.’

She’d succeeded in her aim. Her dress seemed to be solid gold glitter with a neckline that plunged low, and a side slit that came up to her thigh. She was rather disconcerted by the dress’s frank immodesty, and had hired it only with misgiving. But she was glad now that she’d done so. In the glittering, sophisticated ambience of The Golden Chance, London’s premier casino, this was how to look.

As well as the dress, she’d hired the solid gold jewellery that went with it. Hanging earrings accentuated the length of her neck, heavy gold bracelets weighed down her wrists, and a long gold pendant plunged between her breasts, emphasising her décolletage.

I look like a kept woman, she thought, faintly shocked at herself.

But so did every other woman here, and in that respect the outfit was a success.

Certainly she could have held her own among the women who crowded around Sheikh Ali, competing for his attention, and being rewarded with a smile, or a kiss of the fingers in their direction. The sight made her seethe.

‘Arrogant so-and-so,’ she muttered. ‘Men like that are supposed to be extinct.’

‘Only the ones who can’t get away with it,’ Joey told her wisely. ‘Those who can are as bad as ever.’

‘You’re jealous,’ she said indignantly.

‘We all are, Fran! Look around you. Every man in the place wants to be him, and every woman wants to sleep with him.’

‘Not every one,’ she said firmly. ‘Not me.’

Ali had finished his royal progress and was settling at one of the tables. Fran edged nearer, trying to observe him without looking too interested.

He played for very high stakes, and when he lost he merely shrugged. Fran gulped at the sums he tossed away as though they were nothing. She noticed, too, that once play started he forgot about the women at his elbow. One minute he was flirting madly with them. The next they didn’t exist. Her annoyance grew.

It grew even more when play stopped and he turned on the charm again, clearly expecting to take up with them where he’d left off. Worse still, they let him.

‘You see that?’ she muttered to Joey. ‘Why doesn’t one of them spit in his eye?’

‘You try spitting in the eye of a hundred billion,’ Joey said. ‘See how easy it is. Why must you be such a puritan, Fran?’

‘I can’t help it. It’s how I was raised. It’s not decent for one man to have so much—so much—just so much.’

She’d been going to say ‘so much money’, but Sheikh Ali had so much of everything. From the moment of his birth it had all fallen into his lap. His father, the late Sheikh Saleem, had married an Englishwoman and remained faithful to her all his life. Ali was their only son.

He’d inherited his little principality at the age of twenty-one. His first act had been to cancel all deals with the world’s mighty oil corporations, and to renegotiate them, giving Kamar a far larger slice of the profits. The companies had raged but given in. Kamar’s oil was of priceless quality.

In the ten years since then he’d multiplied his country’s wealth more than ten times. He lived a charmed life between two worlds. He had apartments in both London and New York, and he commuted between them in his private jet, making huge, complex deals.

When not enjoying the high life in the west he returned to his domain to live in one of his palaces, or to visit Wadi Sita, a top secret retreat in the desert, where he was reputed to indulge in all manner of excesses. He never contradicted these rumours, nor even deigned to acknowledge them, and because no journalist had ever been allowed to glimpse the truth the stories flourished unchecked.

‘Does Howard know you’re here tonight?’ Joey asked, naming the man whom Fran usually dated.

‘Of course not. He’d never approve. In fact he doesn’t approve of my doing this story. I asked him what he could tell me about Ali, and he just gave me the PR line about how important he was, and how Kamar was a valuable ally. When I said there were too many mysteries, Howard went pale and said, “For pity’s sake, don’t offend him.”’

‘What a wimp!’ Joey said provocatively.

‘Howard isn’t a wimp, but he is a merchant banker, and he has a banker’s priorities.’

‘And you’re going to marry this guy?’

‘I never said that,’ Fran answered quickly. ‘Probably. One day. Maybe.’

‘Boy, you’re really head over heels about him, aren’t you?’

‘Can we concentrate on what we’re here for?’ she asked frostily.

‘Place your bets, please!’

Ali pushed a large stake out over the board to red twenty-seven, then leaned back with an air of supreme indifference. He maintained it throughout the spinning of the wheel as the little ball bounced merrily from red to black, from one number to another. Fran found she was holding her breath, her eyes riveted on the wheel, until at last it stopped.

Red twenty-two.

The croupier raked the stakes in. Fran watched Sheikh Ali, frowning. He didn’t even look at the fortune that was vanishing. All his attention was for his new stake.

Suddenly he looked up at her.

She gasped. Two points of light pierced her, held her imprisoned.

Then he smiled, and it was the most wickedly charming smile she had ever seen. It invited her into a conspiracy of delight and something in her leaped to accept. She discovered that she was smiling back; she didn’t know how or why. Simply that the smile had taken over her mouth, then her eyes, then her whole body.

Common sense told her that only pure chance had made him look in her direction, but somehow she didn’t believe it. He’d sensed her there. Among so many others, he’d known that she was watching him, and been impelled to meet her eyes.

Ali leaned forward to her, stretching out his hand across the narrow table. As if hypnotised she placed her own slender hand in his. He held it for a moment and she had the unnerving sense of steely strength in those long fingers. There was power enough there to break a man—or a woman.

Then he raised her hand to his lips. Fran drew in a sharp breath as his mouth brushed her skin. It was the lightest touch, but it was enough for her to sense the whole male animal, vibrant, sensual, dangerous.

‘Place your bets, please.’

He released her, reached for his stake and pushed it out onto the table. It stopped at black twenty-two, but he didn’t look to see. He’d forgotten the other women as soon as the wheel spun, but he kept his eyes on Fran, ignoring the wheel. She watched him back, meaning to tear her eyes away, but mysteriously unable to do so.

Black twenty-two.

Ali seemed to come out of a dream to realise that the croupier was pushing the chips towards him. It had been a large stake and with one win he’d recouped almost all his losses. He grinned, showing white teeth, and indicated the place beside him with the slightest inclination of his head.

She edged around the table towards him. The other women pouted and sulked, reluctant to give way to her, but he dismissed them with a faint gesture.

Fran felt as if she was moving in a dream. Luck had fallen her way with stunning suddenness. She had meant to study Ali tonight, and now fate had presented her with the perfect opportunity.

‘You have brought me luck,’ he said as she reached him and sat down. ‘Now you must stay close by me so that my luck remains.’

‘Surely you’re not superstitious?’ she asked with a smile. ‘Your luck will come and go. It has nothing to do with me.’

‘I think otherwise,’ he pronounced in a tone that silenced further argument. ‘The spell you cast is for me alone. Not for any other man. Remember that.’

Arrogant beast, she thought. If this didn’t happen to suit me I’d enjoy taking him down a peg.

‘Place your bets.’

With a gesture of his hand Ali indicated for her to place the stake for him. She put the counters on red fifteen, and held her breath as the wheel spun.

Red fifteen.

A sigh went up from everyone around the table.

Almost everyone.

Ali alone was not watching. His eyes were fixed admiringly on Fran. As the counters were pushed towards him he gave a shrug which said, ‘Of course.’

‘I don’t believe that happened,’ she breathed.

‘You made it happen,’ he assured her, ‘and you will make it happen again.’

‘No, it was chance. You should stop now. Take it while you have it.’

His smile said that it was for petty men to worry about such things. Princes controlled their own fate. Under his hypnotic glance Fran found herself believing it.

‘Put it on for me again,’ he said. ‘All of it.’

Dazed, she piled up all his winnings and went to put them on—on—

‘I can’t decide,’ she said frantically.

‘What day of the month is your birthday?’

‘The twenty-third.’

‘Red or black? Choose.’

‘Black,’ she said recklessly.

‘Then black twenty-three it is.’

She watched in agony as the wheel began to spin.

‘Don’t look,’ he said, smiling. ‘Look only at me, and let the little gods of the tables take care of the matter.’

‘Can you make them do your pleasure as well?’ she whispered.

‘I can make anyone and anything do my pleasure,’ he said simply.

The wheel stopped.

Black twenty-three.

A prickle went up Fran’s spine. This was eerie. Ali saw her startled look and laughed.

‘Witchcraft,’ he said. ‘And you are the most beautiful witch of all.’

‘I—I don’t believe it,’ she stammered. ‘It can’t happen like that.’

‘It happened because you are magic. And I can’t resist magic.’

On the words he dropped his head and laid his lips against her palm. Instantly Fran felt as though she was being scorched, although the touch of his lips was teasingly soft. The sensation started in her skin and swiftly pervaded her. She had a sense of alarm and would have snatched her hand back, but she remembered in time that such gaucheness wouldn’t fit the role she was playing. She smiled, hoping she looked as though such tributes happened every day.

The croupier pushed over the winnings. ‘I’ll take them,’ Ali announced.

A man standing behind his chair counted up and wrote the total on a piece of paper. Fran gasped as she saw it.

While the man went to cash the chips Ali rose and drew Fran away from the table. ‘Now we will dine together,’ he announced.

Fran hesitated. Ancient female wisdom told her that it wasn’t clever to accept such an abrupt invitation from a man she’d known barely half an hour. But she was in pursuit of a story, and she wouldn’t succeed by refusing the first real break she’d been given. Besides, a restaurant was public enough.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Joey, his jaw dropping. She gave him a wink and swept out on Ali’s arm.

His Rolls-Royce was waiting outside, the chauffeur already standing with the door open. Ali handed her gallantly inside. The chauffeur got in and started the car without waiting for instructions.

When they were moving Ali turned to her, smiling mischievously, and reached into his pockets. From one he produced a necklace of priceless pearls, from the other, a diamond necklace.

‘Which?’ he asked.

‘Whi—?’

‘One of them is yours. Take your pick.’

She gaped. He carried such things around with him, in his pockets?

Feeling as though she’d been transported to another planet, she said, ‘I’ll take the diamonds.’ The voice didn’t sound like her own.

‘Turn your neck so that I can remove that gold pendant,’ he commanded. ‘The man who gives you such trumpery baubles doesn’t know how to value you.’

His fingers brushed her neck, and she took a shuddering, uncontrollable breath. This wasn’t how the evening was supposed to go. She’d come prepared to analyse Sheikh Ali, to dislike and despise him. But she hadn’t come prepared to be overwhelmed by him. It had simply happened.

She felt the chill on her flesh as he draped a king’s ransom in diamonds about her neck. His fingertips brushed against her nape and she had to struggle not to tremble at that soft, devastating impact. Then there was another sensation, so light that she couldn’t be sure of it. Had he kissed the back of her neck or not? How dared he? If he had…

‘They were made for you,’ he declared, turning her to face him. ‘No woman has ever looked better in diamonds.’

‘And you speak from a wide experience?’ she said demurely.

He laughed, neither offended nor ashamed. ‘Wider than you can imagine,’ he assured her. ‘But tonight none of the others exist. There is only you in the world. Now tell me your name.’

‘My name—’ She had a sudden inspiration. ‘My name is Diamond.’

His eyes lit up. ‘You have wit. Excellent. That will do for now. Before the night is over you will tell me your real name.’

He held her left hand in both of his and studied the fingers.

‘No rings,’ he observed. ‘You are neither married nor promised, unless you are one of those modern women who scorn to tell the world that you belong to a man. Or maybe you scorn to let yourself belong?’

‘I belong to no man,’ she said. ‘I belong to myself, and no man will ever own me.’

‘Then you have never known love. When you do, you’ll find that your aloof ideas mean nothing. When you love, you will give, and it must be all of yourself, or the gift means nothing.’

‘And who do you belong to?’ she demanded with spirit.

He laughed. ‘That is quite another matter. But I could say that I belong to a million people.’ Kamar had a population of one million. ‘No part of my life is entirely my own. Even my heart is not mine to give. Tell me about the little man with you. I wondered if he might have been your lover.’

‘Would that have made any difference to you?’

‘None at all, since he made no effort to protect you from me. A man who cannot hold onto his woman is no man.’

‘Do I need protecting from you?’ Fran mused, teasing him with her eyes.

He laid his lips against her hand. ‘I wonder if we’ll discover that we each need protection from the other?’ he said thoughtfully.

‘Who knows?’ she murmured, replying as she felt her role required. ‘The pleasure will come in discovering.’

‘And you are a woman made for pleasure.’

Fran drew a slow breath, shocked at how much the words affected her. She was used to hearing her brains praised. Howard admired her looks but was just as likely to acclaim her common sense. And her common sense told her that, while passion mattered, it wasn’t the whole of life. Suddenly she was no longer sure of that.

He listened to her silence and added, ‘You’re not going to pretend not to know what I mean.’

‘There are many kinds of pleasure,’ she fenced.

‘Not for us. For you and I there is only one kind— the pleasure to be shared by a man and a woman in the heat of desire.’

‘Isn’t it a little soon to be thinking of desire?’

‘We were thinking of desire the moment our eyes met. Don’t try to deny it.’

She couldn’t have begun to deny it. The truth was shocking but it was still the truth. She wondered wildly if she could jump out of the car and flee, but he was holding her hand in a grip that was only superficially gentle. Underneath, it was unbreakable.

He touched her face with his fingertips. The next thing she knew, his lips were on hers in the lightest kiss she’d ever known. It was so light that it might not have happened, except that it was followed by another on her chin, her jaw, her eyes, and again on her lips. She barely felt them, but she felt their effects in the tingling excitement they produced all over her body.

This was alarming. If he’d tried to overwhelm her with power she could have defended herself. But Sheikh Ali was an artist, putting out all his artistry to bring her under his spell. And there seemed to be no defence against that.

She moved helplessly against him, neither returning his kisses nor fending him off. He looked down into her face, but it was too dark in the car for him to find what he wanted to know. Nor could she see the little frown of uncertainty between his eyes.

The long, sleek car glided to a halt in a quiet street in London’s most exclusive area. Slowly he released her. The chauffeur opened the door and Ali took her hand to assist her out. Then she was stepping out onto the pavement, and realising what she ought to have thought of before—that he had brought her not to a restaurant but to his home.

She knew this was the moment when she should act sensibly and run, but what kind of journalist ran away at the first hint of danger?

She gave herself a little shake. Of course there was no danger. What had put that thought into her head?

The tall windows of the mansion were filled with light. One on the ground floor had the curtains pulled back, revealing crystal chandeliers and lavish furnishings.

Slowly the front door opened. A tall man in Arab robes and headdress stood there massively.

‘Welcome to my humble home,’ said Prince Ali Ben Saleem.

CHAPTER TWO

AS SHE entered the house Fran blinked at her gorgeous surroundings. She was in a large hallway, dominated by a huge, sweeping staircase, and with double doors on either side. There were exotic tiles beneath her feet, and more of them covering the walls. It was bewildering but gorgeous.

Every set of doors leading off the hall was closed, but at that moment one pair was thrown open and a man emerged. He approached Ali, not appearing to notice Fran, and addressed him in a language she didn’t understand. While the two men talked she glanced through the doors and saw that the room was an office. The walls were covered with charts and maps, there were three fax machines, a row of telephones and a computer unlike any she had ever seen. Fran guessed that it was state of the art. So that was where he did the deals that earned him a million a day.

Ali noticed the direction of her glance and spoke sharply to the man, who retreated into the office and closed the door. Ali put his arm about Fran’s shoulder, guiding her firmly away. He was smiling, but there was no mistaking the irresistible pressure he was exerting.

‘That is only my office,’ he said. ‘In there I do very dull things that wouldn’t interest you.’

‘Who knows? Perhaps I would be interested?’ Fran said provocatively.

Ali laughed. ‘Such a beautiful woman need think only how to be more beautiful still, and to please the man who is enchanted by her.’

How about that? Fran thought, annoyed. Prehistoric, male chauvinist—

Ali threw open another set of doors and Fran gasped at the sight that met her eyes. It was a large, luxuriously decorated room with a bay window, in which stood a table laid for two. The plates were the finest porcelain with heavy gold bands around the edge. By each place stood three glasses of priceless crystal. The cutlery was solid gold.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she murmured.

‘For you, nothing is too good,’ Ali declared.

For me—or for whoever you happened to pick up, Fran thought, determined to keep her wits about her. But aloud all she said was, ‘You’re too kind.’

He led her to the table and pulled a chair out for her like the humblest of attendants. Part of the act, Fran decided, amused. All her journalistic instincts were on full alert, and while she seemed to be merely languidly accepting whatever happened she was actually observing every detail.