Undressed by the Boss: Sheikh Boss, Hot Desert Nights / The Boss's Bedroom Agenda / Taken by the Maverick Millionaire

‘Remember you’re leaving with me,’ he murmured discreetly as he escorted her off the stage.

There might have been an electric charge beneath his hand, and the air was certainly electric between them as he adjusted her shawl. It was the pretty shawl fate had tempted her to bid for that night.

‘Or perhaps you’d rather take a cab?’ he said, noticing how she trembled when his breath brushed her neck.

‘I’m sure there will be plenty,’ she retorted, staring him steadily in the eyes. ‘Raffa, you have to stop teasing me like this. If I’m going to work in A’Qaban you must let me do things for myself.’

‘Are you going to work here, Casey?’

She fell quiet, and he guessed she was still confused. She thought him arrogant. She hadn’t forgiven him for his supposedly miserly actions that night.

‘That’s in your hands, Raffa,’ she said at last.

‘Maybe you will. But I’d like you to come somewhere with me before I make you an offer, and before you decide whether to take it or not.’

‘Come with you where?’ she said suspiciously.

‘Let’s find out, shall we?’ he murmured, taking hold of her arm.

He waved his guards away, wanting Casey to himself. He kept on walking until they reached a long, silent corridor, at the end of which some double doors led on to impressive formal gardens. It would be difficult, if not impossible for Casey to remain tense and angry here. As he’d expected, she stopped and gazed around, forgetting her anger and confusion as she took in their surroundings.

‘Raffa, this is beautiful …’

The scent of strawberry sheesha smoke was in the air, and fountains played tinkling background music. Even he, who had seen this many times before, paused to appreciate the elaborate mosaics and lush green planting. The architects he had employed to make his vision a reality had exceeded his wildest dreams. As had Casey, he reflected wryly.

Taking her hands, he said, ‘I want to add my personal thanks to the guests’ for what you did tonight. You can’t imagine how many people will benefit from the money you raised.’

‘Then I’m pleased …’ Her voice faded and her gaze dropped as she remembered her disappointment.

He drew her closer.

‘Raffa …’ She placed a hand against his chest, but she didn’t press very hard, and then her fingers curled around the edges of his robe. ‘I wish …’

He didn’t let her get any further. Perhaps it was the tears in her eyes, or the trembling of her lips, but he was overwhelmed by the need to reassure her.

Tasting her was tasting heaven. Holding her against him was an education in everything he’d been missing. He deepened the kiss and felt a surge of desire when she responded, and he went on kissing her until Casey’s reluctance was transformed into whimpering sighs.

But then his sane side took over. What was he doing? Where was this going? There was only one possible destination, and he would never take advantage of Casey while she was tired and confused and so vulnerable. Kissing the corner of her mouth, he pulled back. Bringing out his phone, he summoned his limousine, and then, taking her by the hand, he led her back through the doors.

The limousine was at the kerb. Knowing she was tired, he supported her arm so she wouldn’t stumble. ‘My driver will take you home.’

Her eyes cleared and she stared at him in bewilderment. Gradually the realisation came to her that the kiss had been a kiss, and nothing more.

‘Goodnight, Casey,’ he murmured, handing her safely into the car.

She turned to stare back at him through the rear window. He shouldn’t have been surprised to see the anger and confusion in her eyes, but whatever he had chosen to do for the auction, whatever his reasons for drawing back from wanting to make love to Casey, wasn’t anyone’s business but his own.

As soon as breakfast had been delivered the following morning she went back to bed and hid her head under the pillow. What she thought that would achieve Casey had no idea. The day had to be faced, even if the night before had been the utmost in humiliation. Tossing her pillow to the floor, she sat up cross-legged on the bed. Touching her fingertips to her mouth, where Raffa’s sharp black stubble had abraded her, she realised her lips were still tender and swollen from his kiss.

His kiss …

Closing her eyes, she relived every moment of the embrace, quivering with arousal. And quickly jerked herself round. Sometimes her body frightened her. The way it reacted so violently to thoughts of Raffa—as if it knew something she didn’t—was truly alarming.

With a sigh, she shook her head, forced to accept that nothing, not even her own fear of intimacy, could stop her wanting him.

Leaping out of bed, she stood hugging herself as she thought things through. How bad did Raffa have to be for this longing to go away? He was no good for her. He lived his life behind a guarded façade, thinking money was the answer to everything. But when the chips were down …

She didn’t want to think about the auction. And she had to eat to get through the day. She looked at the delicious food and juices waiting on the table. Maybe if she ate breakfast … maybe if she went through the motions of a normal day … her heart wouldn’t ache so much and she could screw her business head back on.

She was so tense by the time she sat down at the table she didn’t even notice the fabulous view over the marina and the pearlescent ocean beyond. Having poured a cup of fresh mint tea, she unfurled a copy of that morning’s A’Qaban Times—and got no further than the headline.

Last bid opened is from ruling Sheikh, who promises to double record-breaking auction proceeds.

A groan escaped Casey’s throat. Putting the paper down, she pushed her plate away and stood up. Suddenly she wasn’t hungry any more.

Raffa was on the polo field, his office told her.

She didn’t have an outfit for polo, but she did have her various purchases stowed in the wardrobe. Selecting the modest skirt and cardigan she had bought for work, along with her low heeled office shoes, she decided on no make-up and hair tied back. This was not an outing but a penance, and perhaps the last appointment she would ever have with Raffa. She had been far too quick to jump to conclusions.

But he had thrown money at the auction rather than taking part, Casey reflected in the hotel limousine on the way to the polo field. That being the case, once she had made this apology she wasn’t sure they had much left to say to each other. How Raffa lived his life was no business of hers, but somehow she had imagined them being close in a place where all the jewels and couture clothes in the world made no difference. And now she had to face the fact that wasn’t so.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CASEY wasn’t sure quite what to do when she arrived at the polo field. Seeing as the hotel driver was instantly recognised by the security guards, she decided it was best to ask him to take her as far as he could to avoid any run-ins with Raffa’s bodyguards.

Having thanked the driver, Casey left the car and walked up to the fence bordering the field of play, where she stood leaning over it. The match had already started, and her gaze was immediately drawn to Raffa. Wearing pale breeches and a dark shirt, he had a ferocious-looking face-guard in place and was altogether a formidable sight. She remembered reading somewhere that a polo ball could travel at up to a hundred miles an hour—which explained the guard, as well as the chunky leather knee protectors strapped to his legs.

Legs which were currently wrapped around the quivering flanks of a sweating mare. She was transfixed by his strength and control. If she hadn’t been half in love with him already, Raffa at full gallop, wielding a mallet with such remarkable skill, would have been enough. She moved closer, drawn in by the speed and power of the game and wanting to speak to him when he dismounted in the paddock at the end of the chukka.

As he pulled off his helmet and ruffled his thick black hair, he confirmed her opinion that in close-fitting breeches Raffa was prodigious in every sense of the word. She blushed selfconsciously when he glanced her way. Having weighed up the leggy blondes hanging round him, though, she decided her apology must wait.

‘Excuse me, Ms Michaels?’

She started guiltily, finding a security guard standing at her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have a pass,’ she hurried to explain. ‘But I do work for His Majesty.’

The man waited until she had finished before politely informing her that His Majesty had asked him to escort her to the pavilion, where she could sit in the shade.

‘Oh, I see …’ Casey smiled and relaxed, and then glanced anxiously towards Raffa, who was busy checking on his polo pony and didn’t see her looking.

A shady pavilion would be just the place for him to fire her, Casey reflected.

Or he might just be being considerate, her sensible inner voice suggested, as the sun was blazing down.

Thanking the messenger, she followed the man towards the large marquee. She paused on the threshold, seeing it was full of noisy, confident people—the sort of people she designed campaigns for but never mixed with.

‘Ms Michaels?’ the man escorting Casey prompted.

She couldn’t keep him waiting, Casey reasoned. Bracing herself, she walked inside.

The interior of the tent was the epitome of luxury, with large squashy sofas upholstered in cream linen, and any number of easy chairs gathered around low, pale wood tables. The whole area was temperature controlled, and there were beautiful flower arrangements everywhere. There was even a bar and a buffet, with waiter service.

Stepping over colourful rugs, she was tempted to linger by plump cushions whose pattern reminded her of her beautiful auction purchase. In bolder colours, perhaps, the cushions boasted the same intricate pattern as her shawl. There was even a giant screen on which to watch the match, though the game was taking place only a few yards away.

It seemed most of Raffa’s guests preferred to collect around the bar and the buffet table, in small, tight-knit intimate groups, Casey noticed, deciding she would keep to herself. But she was soon restless. She wanted to see the match—and not on a giant screen.

‘Would it be possible for me to watch the match outside the pavilion?’ she asked the guard before he left.

‘Not on the screen in here?’ He seemed surprised.

What was the point in that? Casey wondered. When she could watch it just as well on a screen in her hotel room? ‘I’d prefer to sit outside, if it’s not too much trouble for you …’

‘No trouble at all,’ the man said. ‘But the sun is very strong.’ Sensing her disappointment, he added, ‘Perhaps if we put a chair for you beneath the awning you would still be in the shade, as His Majesty has requested …’

The last thing she wanted was to get this man in trouble with Raffa. ‘If His Majesty won’t think you went against his orders, that would be perfect; thank you.’

A large chair was brought and positioned for her in the shade, where she still had a clear view of the field. She perched tensely on the edge of it, conscious that Raffa was already well into the next chukka. Glancing at the scoreboard, she saw that his side was winning by one goal. She watched him marshalling his troops as the other side drew even. His grim determination to win was obvious as he turned his pony in tight, tense circles. The members of his team responded instantly, seeming to draw themselves up in the saddle and firm their resolve.

Raffa was a king amongst men, and one who didn’t need a title to prove it, but still she feared for his safety and tensed as the air horn blew and the game restarted.

How could she relax, knowing Raffa was in danger? Her apology, difficult though that would be, was the least of her fears. Watching the riders heading for each other at full tilt, whilst swinging their mallets like deadly weapons, made her flinch each time one of them came close to Raffa.

Minutes passed while hooves thundered a tattoo on the sunbaked ground. Perhaps the most frightening thing of all was that she could sense what Raffa meant to do. It was as if they were on the same wavelength, thinking the same thoughts. She was no horse rider, but what he planned seemed utter madness to her.

Riding at full stretch, he leaned over the neck of his pony and with infinite precision swung his mallet to secure another goal. Realising she was biting her knuckles, Casey made herself sit back. This was the time to relax, while the teams changed ends—which they did after every goal.

How she wished for a world in which she and the ruler of A’Qaban were not at odds, Casey reflected, aching with tension as the air horn sounded. Raffa had a handicap of ten, which was the highest possible ranking in the game, and she had read that only one man in the world could match him. For all that, she was still gripped by a prescient dread that something would go wrong today. She must feel that way, Casey reasoned, because Raffa would never back down, however tough a fight became.

Thankfully, half time arrived without incident, though Casey shrank back in her chair as everyone from the marquee hurried outside. The end of the half was the cue for spectators to either head over to the paddock, where the polo players were gathered, or onto the field to stamp the divots down. Casey chose the latter, selecting a small patch of ground in front of the marquee on which to exercise her frustration at drawing so many wrong conclusions where Raffa was concerned.

The tip-tap of iron on the paved yard alerted her to fresh ponies being led round by the stable lads. A bell rang, signalling it was time for the riders to mount up and for everyone else to clear the field. As she watched the teams prepare, Casey offered up a silent plea that Raffa would remain unharmed in the second half. He sprang into the saddle, ignoring the attempt of a beautiful young girl to hold his stirrup for him, preferring to adjust his own equipment, Casey noticed with relief.

And there was rather a lot of equipment to adjust, Casey also noticed, beginning to wish she hadn’t looked.

Raffa flashed a glance her way, emphasising how closely tuned they were. It was a disturbing moment for Casey, as well as a reminder to keep her head clear of questionable thoughts for the remaining three chukkas.

Raffa was gone in a rattle of hooves, leaving Casey too agitated to watch the second half from her seat in the shade. She approached the fence bordering the field of play and leaned over it. She didn’t like failure any more than Raffa, she accepted, flinching back as Raffa thundered past to steal a ball, but were they too far apart in the things that mattered for them ever to work successfully together?

In Raffa’s world, she concluded, money talked. Whereas in her world it paid bills. He had thrown colossal sums of money at the auction while she had been hoping for some small personal gesture, she realised now.

She couldn’t knock him, what he’d done was great, but she had always been a romantic dreamer. But why should Raffa change any more than she could change her own frigid ways?

Casey was still mulling this over when she heard a shout. Starting back in alarm, she realised Raffa’s horse was galloping straight for her—and it was him shouting at her to get out of the way.

Raffa was almost flat on his horse’s neck as he pressed it to the limit, but as the drumming hooves beat a deadly tattoo Casey’s legs remained wooden and unresponsive. Raffa was trying to ride another man off the field, she saw in horror.

No, the other man’s horse was out of control, and Raffa was trying to push it off course because it was bolting straight for her.

Shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, Raffa and the other polo player bore down on her. She was certain they were going to ride straight over her when Raffa swerved at the last minute, somehow avoiding a collision with the fence. The other rider didn’t possess half his skill, and she screamed soundlessly as horse, rider and fence hurtled towards her.

CHAPTER TWELVE

CASEY barely registered what happened next. One moment she was watching the impending disaster play out, feet refusing to budge and brain refusing to compute what was happening, and the next she was high off the ground and safe in Raffa’s arms. ‘You saved my life,’ she managed weakly as he settled her on the saddle in front of him.

Grim-faced, Raffa remained silent as he tightened his grip around her waist.

Strength gone, she folded into him. ‘Is the other horse okay?’

‘And the rider,’ he informed her tersely. ‘The fence didn’t make it.’

She turned her head. The sight of Raffa’s strong white teeth gritted behind his face guard brought back every second of the drama in heart-stopping slow motion—the fierce cry from his throat and the blaze of his eyes as he raced to sweep her out of danger.

‘Thank you …’ It was so inadequate.

‘Please try to remain still until I have you checked over.’ Raffa urged his polo pony towards the first aid tent. ‘You little fool,’ he murmured in a low-pitched voice stretched tight with tension. ‘Why did you put yourself in danger?’

Because I was watching you, worrying about you … caring about you …

She knew Raffa didn’t expect an answer—not that she was incapable of giving him one. She could do more than rest against him like a newborn baby, with all her strength gone and no will of her own.

Shock, Casey registered groggily, willing it to pass quickly.

‘I get you out of the sun only for you to decide it’s time to hug a fence. Can’t I leave you alone for a minute?’

Once again, no answer was required, Casey registered as Raffa’s rough cheek accidentally brushed her face. She sensed he held himself responsible for the accident, and was going to remain in this severe mood for some time. ‘It wasn’t your fault. It was all my fault.’

‘We’ll discuss your part in this later.’

‘Did we win?’

‘We survived,’ he said dryly. Reining in by the first aid tent, he tossed the reins to a waiting stable lad. Swinging down from the saddle, he reached up. ‘Come,’ he said in a suddenly much kinder voice, ‘lean on me …’

He lowered her with infinite care, but as she reached the ground her knees buckled. ‘Watch out!’ Raffa exclaimed, catching hold of her.

‘Sorry …’ She was still faint with shock—but not so faint she didn’t know when the ruler of A’Qaban had swung her into his arms and was carrying her safely the rest of the way.

The nurse pronounced Casey fit and well; Raffa pronounced her fate.

‘As I can’t leave you alone for a minute,’ he said, ‘I’m going to keep you with me while you’re in A’Qaban.’

It was all she had ever wanted to hear, but Raffa made it sound like a punishment. Still, when you were confidently expecting an airline ticket home, anything else was a reprieve, Casey reminded herself, brushing her clothes down as they left the first aid tent together.

‘I’ll be travelling into the interior after the trophy for this match has been awarded.’

As she exclaimed with pleasure he dampened her enthusiasm. ‘I can make no allowances for the accident, Casey. You do understand that, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ she said tensely.

‘The interior of A’Qaban is dangerous territory where shocks are commonplace—’

‘I understand.’ More dangerous than a polo field?

‘Your powers of recovery from this are crucial. If an accident happens in the desert you can’t waste time, you must think immediately: what next?’

That was exactly what she was thinking.

‘So, are you up for it?’

‘You won’t be disappointed. I’ll do everything you expect me to and more.’

‘But …?’ Raffa’s eyes narrowed, sensing there was something else she wanted to say.

Casey drew a deep breath. ‘But I came to apologise … for last night. I read the papers this morning, and—’

‘That’s something I don’t want to discuss with you,’ Raffa said, frowning.

‘But—’

‘No buts. My decisions aren’t up for discussion. You’re still in the running for this job. That’s all you should care about. But only if you can concentrate and be ready to leave your hotel within the hour.’

‘I will be,’ she said steadily.

Raffa arrived at the hotel in a rugged Jeep with no outriders and no bodyguards in attendance—at least none she could see. Casey was waiting on the steps, as instructed, dressed as a storm trooper once more, though not feeling so odd as when she had arrived at A’Qaban airport, because this time she was dressed in a way Raffa approved of for the desert. She had made one change—replacing her ugly hat with the lightweight shawl she’d bought at the auction, wrapping it around her head and shoulders in the A’Qabani fashion. It was a sensible choice, because it gave her the option of drawing it over her nose and mouth if the air grew dusty.

Swinging out of the driver’s seat, he took hold of her backpack. He too was dressed in survival gear, though his clothes looked considerably more worn than hers.

‘Sun cream?’ he rapped.

‘Of course.’

‘I see you’re wearing my atija; that’s a sensible precaution.’

‘Your …?’

‘Atija means gift,’ he explained, opening the door of the Jeep for her. ‘The shawl was my personal gift to the auction. Now, get in.’

She was still fingering the fine material as she absorbed what Raffa had said. Her shawl was his gift to the auction … his small, thoughtful gift to the auction. On top of all the fabulous jewels he had donated, he had given something he liked, something that was representative of the traditional craft of his country. It was everything she had hoped he might do; everything she had so firmly believed he hadn’t done.

‘Come on,’ he said impatiently, bouncing her into action, ‘The people of the desert don’t wait for anyone—they obey nature’s rules, rather than man’s.’

‘Are you Bedouin?’ she asked as she climbed into the Jeep.

‘My mother was a Bedouin princess.’

And that conjured up the most wonderful images. She longed to know more, but there was a reserve in Raffa’s voice that told her to leave it. If Raffa didn’t want to discuss his parents with her, she respected that.

‘There’s a first aid kit here, and water here.’ He pointed them out to her when they were both safely strapped in. ‘And we have a radio as well as a satellite phone, should we need them. There’s also a tracking device on the Jeep, so that we know where we are and my people know too.’

A frisson of fear mixed with Casey’s excitement. Her fantasies were left behind as she faced the realities of the desert. Raffa was warning her that they were going into dangerous terrain where anything could happen. She had prepared well. She had even taken a first aid course before leaving England. She knew how to handle a radio and was ready for anything.

Except for riding on horseback.

‘You’re joking!’ Casey exclaimed when Raffa drew up after an hour of driving.

‘I never joke,’ Raffa informed her. ‘Or at least I don’t employ humour out here, where jokes cost lives.’

A’Qabani handlers were standing by a horse transporter, while two horses were tethered in the shade. The real road had petered out, and in front of them lay miles of unseen desert. Casey gazed down the dusty trail, hardly able to believe she was about to embark on her first real expedition on horseback. When she turned back to Raffa he was winding yards of black cloth around his head.

‘We call it a howlis,’ he explained, throwing the ties over his shoulder.

He looked amazing, with just a slit for his expressive black eyes.

‘The closest word you have to describe it would be a turban. It keeps the sun off my face and the dust out of my eyes, nose, ears and mouth.’

And makes you look stunning along the way, Casey thought, nodding sagely. This was not a turban. A turban was respectable headgear. This was a wild man’s bandanna-cum-scarf that made Raffa look like a brigand. His expression was hidden, which she didn’t like, but his eyes—those she did like. They might have been amused as he stared at, or then again not. She could decide. Her throat dried as she watched him stride towards the horses, and then she saw the men bring out a mule loaded with provisions and her mouth dried a little more. This was going to be some expedition.