Australia: In Bed with a Sheikh!

“Perfect!” he declared—a perfect torment of seductive innocence.

“I know it’s right for me,” she said artlessly. “I loved it from the moment I tried it on when I went shopping in Naples. But is it right for tonight?”

She would stand out like a spring flower amongst hothouse roses, Tareq thought, and the imagery instantly inspired the only course for him to take…if he was to keep her in his life…a bit longer anyway…long enough to make sense of everything.

“Perfect!” he repeated, smiling reassurance as he walked towards her. “You look so very lovely, I consider it an honour to be escorting you tonight.”

She flushed at the compliment, pleasure warming her eyes.

He lifted one of her hands to his lips and bestowed a soft kiss of homage. Gallantry was not dead. Tareq had just resurrected it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

London

14th December

Dear Jessie,

It hasn’t snowed here yet but the weather people are forecasting a white Christmas in England. It’s bitterly cold outside, much colder than Washington and New York. Lucky for us, Tareq’s house in Eaton Place has good central heating. I do miss the sun, though. I guess I was spoiled by the two weeks we had in Florida.

SARAH STARED AT the words on the computer monitor screen and was struck by the sheer inanity of bumbling on about the weather. It was what people did to evade touching on anything more sensitive. It filled in space that couldn’t be filled with anything else. Certainly not the truth. Impossible to confide the truth to a ten-year-old child.

The acute sense of loneliness that she’d hoped to allay by writing to Jessie became more acute. She was hopelessly in love with Tareq al-Khaima and there was no one she could talk to about how she felt, no one she could turn to for advice. Certainly not her mother.

The day after arriving in London she’d telephoned Marchington Hall to ask that the clothes she’d left there in storage be sent to her. Amongst them were her good cashmere cape and some classic woollens that never went out of fashion.

“What number did you say in Eaton Place?” her mother had queried.

Sarah had repeated it and the Countess of Marchington had gloatingly pounced. “I know that address. It’s Tareq al-Khaima’s residence. What are you doing there, Sarah?”

There was no point in denial. Her mother was like a ferret when it came to finding out what she wanted to know about noteworthy people. “I met up with Tareq in Australia and he invited me to travel with him. I’m his guest at the moment,” Sarah had rattled out, trying to make it all sound blithely innocent.

“What a clever girl you are! Do try to hang on to him, darling. He’s fabulously wealthy. And so gorgeous!”

The avid note in her voice had been enough to turn Sarah off saying anything more. Everything within her recoiled from having what she felt tarnished by her mother’s values. She’d swiftly ended the call, though she suspected her mother would now plot a meeting to check out the possibilities. That had to be blocked at all costs. It would be hideously embarrassing and humiliating.

Sarah gritted her teeth against a rise of bitterness and forced her mind back to the letter.

Washington…the word leapt out at her from the screen. She’d sent Jessie postcards of the White House, Arlington Cemetery, the Ford Theater where President Lincoln had been shot, the Air and Space Museum which had housed so many marvels from the first plane flown by the Wright Brothers to the Apollo space capsule carrying models of the astronauts; all the places she had visited during the day when Tareq was busy with meetings. But the nights…

It had been both daunting and exciting accompanying Tareq to the dinners and parties where his VIP status was awesomely in evidence. He was courted by politicians, lobbyists, diplomats, not to mention their wives who were very solicitous of his pleasure. No one mentioned horses or property developments. The oil markets and Middle East politics were the hot topics and Tareq handled them with an authoritative ease that demonstrated another dimension of the man.

He handled everything masterfully, from fending off fawning women to rescuing Sarah from sticky questions and ensuring she was not exposed to problems or unpleasantness by the simple but effective measure of not allowing anyone to take her from his side. Even pre-arranged places at tables were rearranged to accommodate his insistence on their not being separated.

It was stamped on every mind that Sarah Hillyard was to be respected as Sheikh Tareq al-Khaima’s companion and under his protection and woe betide anyone who put a foot wrong with her or slighted her in any way. His manner to her was courteous, gentlemanly, above reproach in word and deed. In short, he treated her like a princess and subtly forced others to do the same.

It made her feel cosseted, valued, cared for as though she was precious to him. This was heightened by his air of possessiveness. Only he took her arm. Only he rested a light hand on her waist. Only he danced with her. It was heady stuff for Sarah who found it more and more difficult to keep her feet on the ground.

At first she had thought Tareq was treating her as he believed she wanted to be treated, a cynical display of his reeducation. But there was nothing even slightly sardonic in his behaviour towards her. Then she had reasoned Washington was a hotbed of political gossip and Tareq’s public performance was probably being reported to the embassy which served his country and thus back to his uncle. Perhaps she was being convincingly set up as the woman in his life so she would come as no surprise at his half-brother’s wedding.

All she absolutely knew was Tareq eased off the act in private, remaining polite and considerate but holding a distance she could not cross. Some nights he parted very abruptly from her. Other nights he questioned her closely—Had she enjoyed herself? Was she interested or bored? Would she prefer not to be involved with such company?—and she had the chilling sense of more pieces being fitted into his jigsaw of her. What struck her more painfully than anything else was that once they were alone together, there was no physical touching, absolutely none.

Exhilaration…frustration. Sarah swung from one to the other like a yo-yo. She needed the daytime away from Tareq to regain some equilibrium. Yet still he shadowed her every hour. If she wasn’t thinking of the evening before or the evening to come, she was thinking of what to share with him of her sight-seeing activities, how to be companionable while covering up the ever-constant desire of wanting more from him.

The same pattern had been repeated in New York, although there the meetings and dinners had been with bankers and the talk had revolved around the money markets. More new clothes had become a necessity. The between seasons outfits she had purchased in Naples simply didn’t suit the New York winter and she was very conscious of not letting Tareq down in company.

They had flown to England a week ago, taking up residence in this house, and in some ways it had proved the most difficult time for her. There was nothing new about the city of London to distract her, no social engagements taking up the evenings, nothing to busy her in the house since a married couple looked after everything. And highlighting her failure to reach into Tareq’s heart, was Peter Larsen, the person who knew him better than anyone.

The trusted trouble-shooter was already in London when she and Tareq had arrived. Whether he had flown directly to England from Australia, Sarah didn’t know and didn’t ask. Peter Larsen practised British reserve and discretion to the nth degree. He never spoke of business in front of her, despite spending most of each day at Eaton Place, either in this office which she presently occupied, or in the library where he was currently closeted with Tareq, discussing some business strategy.

He shared lunch with them, was unfailingly polite to her, and kept his own private life extremely private. The only personal thing Sarah knew about him was he owned an apartment overlooking the Thames.

She couldn’t say she disliked him. He gave her no reason to. But she deeply envied the easy rapport between him and Tareq. Sometimes they talked in a kind of shorthand, their understanding so closely attuned, a look or a gesture conveyed more of a message than words.

Since the incident with Dionne Van Housen, Tareq had given Sarah no cause to be jealous of other women, but she was jealous of what he shared with Peter Larsen. Their communication didn’t miss a beat and the bond of trust was so strong neither ever paused to question it. Somehow it turned her into an outsider, despite being in the same room as them.

Sarah heaved a despondent sigh and dragged her attention back to the letter she had started. She had no heart for it but she tried to find something more to say.

I’m glad the parcel from New York arrived safely and the twins had such fun at school with the Statue of Liberty hats.

The symbol of freedom. Would she ever feel free of Tareq, even when the year was over? She hoped her father was making the best of a fresh start because she was surely paying for it.

The office door opened, startling Sarah out of her reverie. Peter Larsen stepped into the room, carrying a file of papers. He paused, frowning slightly as he saw her occupying the chair in front of the computer. Sarah leapt up, gesturing an apology as she sought to excuse herself.

“I was writing to Jessie. I hope you don’t mind my being here while you were with Tareq.”

He shrugged. “As I understand it, you have the freedom of the house, Miss Hillyard. Do continue your letter if you so desire.”

“I don’t want to be in your way.”

“I have only to return this file to the cabinet and then I’ll be leaving.” He surprised her by asking, “How is Jessie?”

“Fine! Looking forward to Christmas.”

He smiled. Actually smiled. “Such a bright little girl. She took to the computer like a duck to water. I liked her very much. Say hello to her from me.”

Sarah was quite stunned by this unexpected crack in Peter Larsen’s customary reserve. “Yes, I will,” she answered, dazedly watching him cross the room to the filing cabinet before it occurred to her to remark, “I didn’t know you’d met her.”

He answered matter-of-factly as he took a set of keys from his trouser pocket, unlocked the cabinet and pulled out a drawer. “I made a point of it after my last meeting with your father. Mainly to check her progress, see that the tutor was doing his job well and Jessie was happy with what she was learning.” He glanced at Sarah, smiling again. “She insisted on demonstrating her new skills to me so I could tell Tareq how good she was.”

A child like Jessie could bring warmth out of a stone, Sarah thought. Hoping this was an opportunity to milk Peter Larsen of more information on her family, she asked, “How long ago was this?”

“Just before I flew out,” he replied, inserting the file in the drawer. “First of December.”

Sarah totted up the time he’d spent in Australia after she and Tareq had left. Four weeks. Which seemed an excessive amount.

“Was my father holding up okay?” she asked anxiously. “I mean…were you satisfied he was doing the right thing by the horses and everything?”

“I was satisfied your father had every good intention, Miss Hillyard.” He gave her a sympathetic look. “You must know that only time will bring results.”

“Yes. of course. It was just…I was worried about Firefly…and his poor performance in the Melbourne Cup.” She cast around for a way to ask if her father had displayed any particular attitude towards the prize horse.

“It’s been taken care of, Miss Hillyard. I saw to it personally. There’ll be no more trouble coming from that quarter,” Peter Larsen quietly assured her, then proceeded to relock the cabinet.

Sarah’s concerns were far from answered. Had Peter Larson taken Firefly to another trainer? But that would defeat the test of Firefly’s performance at the end of the year.

“How has it been taken care of?” she cried. “I don’t see how…”

“Miss Hillyard, it’s quite irrelevant how.” There was a ruthless cast to the face Peter Larsen turned to her. “Rest assured the bookmaker who was squeezing your father has been convinced that any further attempt at dirty dealing with Tareq’s horses would be very bad business. Extremely bad business.”

Sarah’s mind was reeling. All her assumptions were knocked in a mushy heap and what was emerging was too repulsive to accept. Dread clutched her heart, yet she had to ask, had to look at the can of slimy worms Peter Larsen had opened up. She could barely get her voice to work. The words came out faintly, strained through a welter of emotional resistance to hearing an even more damning statement.

“Are you saying my father threw races for a bookmaker?”

The satisfaction in the light silvery eyes blanked into shock. “Tareq didn’t tell you?”

Sarah felt the blood draining from her face. “It wasn’t just loss of heart and…and stress…”

“But you must know,” he argued, more to himself than to her. “Surely Tareq asked me to leave so he could tell you in private how far your father had abused his trust…”

He was recalling the morning at the Como Hotel, the fateful morning when the bargain had been struck. It rushed back on Sarah, too. “Why did he keep it from me? If my father was crooked…taking bribes…”

Peter Larsen passed a hand across his face, muttered something vicious to himself, then recomposed his expression to impervious reserve. “I do beg your pardon, Miss Hillyard. It seemed reasonable to set your mind at rest.”

“Please…I want to know…”

“You must excuse me. I have been unforgivably indiscreet.”

It was true then. Had to be. It was written all over Peter Larsen as he strode from the room, tight-faced, stiff-backed, patently appalled at what he had let slip to her. He’d almost certainly go straight to Tareq and relay what he’d done. And then what?

Sarah felt sick. Tareq’s words came spinning back to her…a matter of trust. Trust abused beyond trusting again. And Tareq knew it. Had known all along while she’d pleaded a case for lenience, for understanding, for mercy on a man who, unbeknownst to her, had criminally cheated him.

He’d sent Peter Larsen out of the hotel room right at the moment when he should have revealed the truth. If he had gone ahead and done it, as Peter had assumed, the result would have been…Sarah concentrated hard on thinking back, remembering her state of mind. The truth would have swept the mat out from under her feet, would have smashed any grounds for giving her father a second chance. She would have died of shame and given up, faced with her father’s crooked dealings with a bookmaker.

But Tareq hadn’t wanted that result. He had posed the bargain, pressing her to accept, using his knowledge of her, using everything at his command to get her to accept.

For what purpose?

In the light of all that had followed in these past six weeks with him, Sarah still didn’t know. Tareq had her so confused, it was driving her crazy wondering what he wanted of her. She was sick to death of his testing and teasing and tantalising behaviour. She wanted answers. And she was going to get them.

Now!

CHAPTER TWELVE

SARAH DIDN’T BOTHER knocking. Nothing was going to stop her from having a showdown with Tareq. She opened the library door and marched in, breathing fiery determination.

Peter Larsen swung around, opening a clear view of his employer friend, seated at the splendid mahogany desk he favoured. Sarah ignored the trusted trouble-shooter, her gaze fastening directly on the sharp blue windows to Tareq al-Khaima’s unfathomable soul.

“I want to talk to you. Alone. And without delay,” she stated, unshakably intent on getting her own way. Tareq was not going to dominate this encounter!

He rose from his chair, languidly unfolding to his full height, insufferably confident of controlling everything. “Thank you, Peter,” he said, not the slightest trace of any acrimony in his tone. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Of course there was no cause for Tareq to be upset by the indiscretion, Sarah savagely reasoned as Peter Larsen took swift leave of them. the bargain had been struck and there was no going back. Tareq was sitting pretty on whatever he was sitting on. Except he wasn’t sitting anymore. He was strolling around the desk. By the time the door behind Sarah was closed, he was propped casually against the front edge of the desktop, perfectly at ease.

The urge to smash his smooth facade raged through Sarah. How many deceptions was he juggling in the super-clever mind behind that handsome face? The feeling of being a pawn in a game she was not allowed to see put a violent edge on her churning emotions.

“I wouldn’t have asked you to cover up criminal activity,” she hurled at him. “If I’d known my father was intentionally cheating you, I would not have come to you at all.”

“But you still would have wanted what you did achieve, Sarah,” came the perfectly chosen pertinent reply. “Your father given a chance to redeem himself, and the security of the children assured as far as it can be.”

In other words, everything else should be considered irrelevant. Sarah dug in her heels. “And just how far have you gone to achieve that, Tareq? How far do you go to get what you want?” she demanded heatedly.

He replied with calm logic, completely unruffled. “I find that people usually listen to reason when the profit and loss are laid out to them. Irrefutable facts do have impact.”

“You withheld facts from me,” Sarah pointed out, her eyes flashing resentment at his cavalier way of doing what suited him with her.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said with heart-twisting simplicity. “You were innocent, Sarah.”

But she was hurt, hurting non-stop from his keeping things from her and his arbitrary withdrawals that drove her into a deep trough of frustration. This confrontation wasn’t really about her father. It was about attitude and honesty and the direction of this journey they were supposed to be taking together.

“I’m not a child, Tareq,” she protested. “I’d rather be faced with the truth than be protected from it.”

The moment the words were out, Sarah was struck by the realisation that Tareq had been treating her like a child all along, a grown-up one to some extent, but still to be indulged and protected as though she were a complete innocent.

“What good would it have done?” he asked.

“I don’t need you to make judgments for me. Nor decisions,” she retorted, smarting over how many things had been arranged for her—without discussion—by her self-appointed keeper. “It’s so intolerably patronising!”

“Sarah…” he chided.

“Don’t use that tone of voice to me,” she exploded, hating the sense of being relegated to some lesser level of understanding. “What right do you think you have to take over my life as though you know best?”

That stopped him from giving his soothing little smile. His eyes glowered, some dark emotion climbing over sweet reason. “I have tried to do my best by you, Sarah,” he growled. “If you don’t appreciate it…”

“Why don’t you try appreciating I can think for myself?” she retaliated, cutting off his self-serving argument, finding it so intensely provocative, she stormed off around the room, savagely muttering, “Doing his best for me. Doing his best. Doing his best.”

It didn’t matter that it was probably true. It was what a parent said to a child. Her frustration with their relationship boiled over. She glared at him—this man who held himself back from her while subtly laying siege to her heart—and the need to strip him of his formidable control clawed through her.

“You obviously see me as a little girl to be pampered and given treats,” she mocked, her hands flying around in scornful gestures. “Never mind that I’m twenty-three years old and a hardened survivor. I’m probably still twelve in your mind.”

That straightened him up from the desk and whipped some tension through him. A primitive satisfaction zinged through Sarah. She wished she could rip his clothes off, get right down to the naked truth of how he felt about her. The remembered image of his almost-bare physique played through her mind, stirring a wanton excitement, a wild desire to goad him into action, any action that involved touching.

“You are being ridiculous!” he said tersely.

“Am I? You don’t credit me with a woman’s needs, a woman’s feelings, a woman’s desires. ‘Don’t play with fire, Sarah,’” she mimicked. “Just stand by and watch the sophisticated grown-ups like Dionne Van Housen play with it because they understand it and you don’t.”

His face darkened with an angry rush of blood and Sarah exulted in having reached and plucked a sensitive chord. It flashed through her mind she wasn’t being completely fair, but she was on a wild, non-stop roller-coaster, her nerves screaming with frustration, heart pumping with rushes of adrenalin, thoughts careering down the track he had chosen for her, the track that kept her at arm’s length from him.

“Then there was Washington,” she plunged on, gesticulating with mocking emphasis as she interpreted his actions. “Trotting me out like a young debutante, protecting me from other men, saving me from any little awkwardness, watching over me like a father.”

His mouth compressed.

To Sarah, it denoted she’d hit the nail on the head and she heedlessly hammered it further, furious he’d denied her the maturity she knew she could lay claim to. “You even dictated when I should go to bed, saying goodnight when it suited you. Same in New York. And here, of course, you’ve had the relief of adult company with Peter Larsen. It’s a wonder you haven’t given me dolls to play with.”

“Are you quite finished with this absurd tantrum?” Tareq demanded, his eyes glittering with barely suppressed anger.

Tantrum…

The word stopped Sarah in her tracks. She shuddered in revulsion. A child threw tantrums. She had delivered a tirade of truth. Close enough to truth anyway. For Tareq to interpret it as a tantrum…

She drew in a deep breath. Her eyes stabbed him with daggers of pain as she made the only decision she could make. Then with all the passion of her womanhood, she replied, “I’m finished with you, Tareq. Since you treat me as though I haven’t reached the age of consent, our bargain is null and void and I am out of here!”

Having flung down the gauntlet she turned her back on him and marched to the door.

“Wait!” he thundered.

“What for?” she flung back at him, throwing out dismissive hands. “I don’t need another father. I’ve already had three. Between them they’ve done a fine job of ripping away any innocent illusions I might have had about life, so you don’t have to worry about me being hurt. Henceforth I am a cynical woman of the world who doesn’t believe in anybody.”

She twisted the knob and pulled the door open. Before she could step out of the library an arm reached past her and slammed the door shut. Startled, she did nothing to stop the strong brown hand from dropping to the knob and activating the locking device. Her mind grasped the consequence though, and in the next instant she was whirling around to contest it, rebellion rampaging through her heart.

“I will not be your prisoner!” she yelled, her hands slamming against Tareq’s broad chest in violent rejection of any more domination from him.

“Shut up!” he retorted fiercely.

The shock of it snapped her eyes up to his.

“You want raw truth?” he demanded, his voice harsh, his nostrils flaring, the windows to his soul revealing chaotic conflict. “I’m a man with a man’s needs. And those needs don’t come wrapped in finer feelings. How ready are you to accept that, Sarah?”

Dark turbulence enveloped her, sucking the strength from her mutiny, swirling around her thwarted desires, fanning them into a ferment of need, tearing at the feelings that had made being with him a torment, transforming them into something more intense, overwhelming, flooding her with a warm, liquid weakness, and she knew she would accept anything of him. Anything…