The Sheikh's Undoing

Until the day he had spoken to her and made a lonely little girl’s day.

He’d have been about seventeen at the time, and had come to the sanatorium to ask about a malaria injection for a forthcoming trip he was taking. Her mother had been busy with one of the other pupils and had asked Isobel to keep the young Prince entertained.

Initially Isobel had been tongue-tied—wondering what on earth she could say to him. But she couldn’t just leave him looking rather impatiently at his golden wristwatch, could she? Why, her mother might get into trouble for daring to keep the young royal waiting.

Shyly, she had asked him about his homeland. At first he had frowned—as if her question was an intrusion. But a brief and assessing look had followed, and then he had sat down so that he was on her level before starting to talk. The precise words she had long forgotten, but she would never forget the dreamy way he had spoken of desert sands like fine gold and rivers like streams of silver. And then, when her mother had appeared—looking a little flustered—he had immediately switched to the persona of confident royal pupil. He hadn’t said another word to her—but Isobel had never forgotten that brief encounter.

It had been over a decade later before their paths crossed again. She had gone back to the school for the opening of a magnificent extension to the library and Tariq had been there, still surrounded by adoring women. For one brief moment Isobel had looked at him with adult eyes. Had registered that he was still as gorgeous as he was unobtainable and that her schoolgirl crush should sensibly die a death. With a resigned little shrug of her shoulders she had turned away and put him right out of her mind as of that moment.

The new library was fabulous, with softly gleaming carved wooden panels. Tooled leather tables sat at its centre, and the long, leaded arched windows looked out onto the cool beauty of the north gardens.

By then Isobel had been a secretary—working in a dusty office for a rather dry bunch of lawyers in London. It hadn’t been the most exciting work in the world, but it had been well paid, and had provided her with the security she had always craved.

There’d been no one in the library that she knew well enough to go up and talk to, but she’d been determined to enjoy her time there, because secretly she’d been delighted to get an invitation to the prestigious opening. Just because she’d been educated at the school free, it didn’t mean she’d been overlooked! She’d drunk a cup of tea and then begun to look at the books, noting with interest that there was a whole section on Khayarzah. Picking up a beautifully bound volume, she’d begun to flick through the pages, and had soon been lost in the pictures and descriptions of the land which Tariq had once made come alive with his words.

She’d just got to a bit about the source of the Jamanah River when she’d heard a deep voice behind her.

‘You seem very engrossed in that book.’

And, turning round, she’d found herself imprisoned in the Sheikh’s curious gaze. She’d thought that his face was harder and colder than she remembered—and that there was a certain air of detachment about him. But then Isobel recalled the sixth-former who’d been so kind to her, and had smiled.

‘That’s because it’s a very engrossing book,’ she said. ‘Though I’m surprised there’s such a big section on your country.’

‘Really?’ A pair of jet eyebrows was elevated. ‘One of the benefits of donating a library is that you get to choose some of its contents.’

Isobel blinked. ‘You donated the new library?’

‘Of course.’ His voice took on a faintly cynical air. ‘Didn’t you realise that wealthy old boys—particularly foreign ones—are expected to play benefactor at some point in their lives?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

Afterwards, Isobel thought that his question might have been some sort of test—to see if she was one of those people who were impressed by wealth. And if that was the case then she’d probably passed it. Because she genuinely didn’t care about money. She had enough for her needs and that was plenty. What had her mother always told her? Don’t aim too high; just high enough.

‘I just wanted to know if it was as beautiful as …’ Her words tailed off. As if he could possibly be interested!

But he was looking at her curiously, as if he was interested.

‘As beautiful as what?’

She swallowed. ‘As the way you described it. You once told me all about Khayarzah. You were very … passionate about it. You said the sand was like fine gold and the rivers like streams of silver. You probably don’t remember.’

Tariq stared at her, as if he was trying to place her, but shook his head.

‘No, I don’t remember,’ he admitted, and then, as he glanced up to see a determined-looking blonde making her way towards them, he took Isobel’s elbow. ‘So why don’t you refresh my memory for me?’ And he led her away to a quieter section of the room.

And that was that. An unexpected meeting between two people who had both felt like outsiders within the privileged walls of an English public school. What was more it seemed that Tariq happened to have a need, and that Isobel could be just the person to answer that need. He was looking for someone to be his assistant. Someone he could talk to without her being fazed by who he was and what he represented. Someone he could trust.

The salary he was offering made it madness for her even to consider refusing, so Isobel accepted his offer and quickly realised that no job description in the world could have prepared her for working for him.

He wanted honesty, yes—but he also demanded deference, as and when it suited him.

He was fair, but he was also a powerful sheikh who had untold wealth at his fingertips—so he could also be highly unreasonable, too.

And he was sexy. As sexy as any man was ever likely to be. Everyone said so—even Isobel’s more feminist friends, who disapproved of him. But Isobel’s strength was that she simply refused to see it. After that meeting in the library she had trained herself to be immune to his appeal as if she was training for a marathon. Even if she considered herself to be in his league—which she didn’t—she still wouldn’t have been foolish enough to fancy him.

Because men like Tariq were trouble—too aware of their power over the opposite sex and not afraid to use it. She’d watched as women who fell in love with him were discarded once he’d tired of them. And she knew from her own background how lives could be ruined if passion was allowed to rule the roost. Hadn’t her mother bitterly regretted falling for a charmer like Tariq? Telling her that the brief liaison had affected her whole life?

No, he was definitely not on Isobel’s wish-list of men. His strong, muscular body and hard, hawkish features didn’t fill her with longing, but with an instinctive wariness which had always served her well.

Because she wouldn’t have lasted five minutes—let alone five years—if she had lost her heart to the Sheikh.

She steered the car up a narrow lane and came to a halt outside her beloved little cottage. The March sunshine was clear and pale, illuminating the purple, white and yellow crocuses which were pushing through the earth. She loved this time of year, with all its new beginnings and endless possibilities. Opening the car door a fraction, she could hear birds tweeting their jubilant celebration of springtime—but still Tariq didn’t stir.

She turned to look at him—at the ebony arcs of his feathered lashes which were the only soft component to make up his formidable face. She had never seen him asleep before, and it was like looking at a very different man. The hard planes and angles of his features threw shadows over his olive skin, and for once his sensual lips were relaxed. Once again she saw an unfamiliar trace of vulnerability etched on his features, and once again she felt that little stab of awareness at her heart.

He was so still, she thought wonderingly. Remarkably still for a man who rarely stopped. Who drove himself remorselessly in the way that successful men always did. Why, it seemed almost a shame to wake him … and to have him face the reality of his convalescence in her humble home.

Racking her brain, she thought back to how she’d left the place last weekend, and realised that there was no fresh food or milk. Stuff she would normally have brought down with her from London.

Reaching out her hand, she touched his shoulder lightly—but his eyelashes moved instantly, the black eyes suspicious and alert as they snapped open.

For a moment Tariq stayed perfectly still, his memory filtering back in jigsaw pieces. What was he doing sitting in an uncomfortably cramped and strange car, while Izzy frowned down at him, her breathing slightly quickened and her amber eyes dark with concern?

And then he remembered. She had offered to play nursemaid for the next week—just not the kind of nursemaid which would have been his preference. His mouth hardened as he dispelled an instant fantasy of a woman with creamy curves busting out of a little uniform which ill concealed the black silk stockings beneath. Because Isobel was not that woman. And under the circumstances wasn’t that best?

‘We’re here!’ said Isobel brightly, even though her heart had inexplicably started thudding at some dangerous and unknown quality she’d read in his black eyes. ‘Welcome to my home.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘CAREFUL,’ warned Isobel.

‘Please don’t state the obvious,’ Tariq snapped, as he bent his head to avoid the low front door.

‘I was only trying to help,’ she protested, as he walked straight past her.

Stepping into the cluttered sitting room was no better, and Tariq quickly discovered that the abundance of overhanging beams was nothing short of a health hazard. ‘I’ve already had one knock to the head, and I don’t particularly want another,’ he growled. ‘Why is your damned ceiling so low?’

‘Because men didn’t stand at over six feet when these houses were built!’ she retorted, thinking that he had to be the most ungrateful man ever to have drawn breath. Here she was, putting herself out by giving him house-space for a week, and all he could do was come out with a litany of complaints.

But some of her exasperation dissolved as she closed the front door, so that the two of them were enclosed in a room which up until that moment she had always thought of as a safe and cosy sanctuary. But not any more. Suddenly it didn’t seem safe at all …

She felt hot blood begin to flood through her veins— because the reality of having Tariq standing here was having a bizarre effect on her senses. Had the dimensions magically shrunk? Or was it just his towering physique which dwarfed everything else around him?

Even in jeans and the soft swathing of a grey cashmere sweater he seemed to exude a charisma which drew the eye like nothing else. His faded jeans were stretched over powerful thighs and the sweater hinted at honed muscle beneath. Somehow he managed to make her cottage look like a prop from Toytown, and the thick and solid walls suddenly seemed insubstantial. Come to think of it, didn’t she feel a little insubstantial herself?

She remembered that uncomfortable feeling of awareness which had come over her in the hospital—when she’d looked down at him and something inside her had melted. It was as if in that moment she had suddenly given herself permission to see him as other women saw him—and the impact of that had rocked her. And now it was rocking her all over again. Something about the way he was standing there was making her heart slam hard against her ribcage, and an aching feeling began to tug at her belly.

Isobel swallowed, willing this temporary madness to subside. Because acknowledging Tariq’s charisma was the last thing she needed right now. Arrogant playboys were not number one on her list of emotional requirements. And even if they were … as if he would ever look at a woman like her.

She flashed him a quick smile, even as she became aware of the peculiar prickle of her breasts. ‘Look, why don’t you sit down and I’ll make you some tea?’

‘I don’t want any tea,’ he said. ‘But I’d quite like to avoid getting frostbite. It’s absolutely freezing in here. Give me some matches and I’ll light a fire.’

Isobel shook her head. ‘You aren’t supposed to be lighting fires. In fact, you aren’t supposed to be doing anything but resting. I can manage perfectly well—so will you please sit down on the sofa and put your feet up and let me look after you?’

Tariq’s eyes narrowed as her protective command washed over him. His first instinct was to resist. He wasn’t used to care from the fairer sex. His experience of women usually involved the rapid removal of their clothing and them gasping out their pleasure when he touched them. Big eyes clouded with concern tended to be outside his experience.

‘And if I don’t?’ he challenged softly.

Their gazes clashed in a way which made Isobel’s stomach perform a peculiar little flip. She saw the mocking curve of his lips and suddenly she felt almost weak—as if she were the invalid, not him. Clamping down the sudden rise of longing, she shook her head—because she was damned if he was going to manipulate her the way other women let him manipulate them. ‘I don’t think you’re in any position to object,’ she answered coolly. ‘And if you did I could always threaten to hand my notice in.’

‘You wouldn’t do that, Izzy.’

‘Oh, wouldn’t I?’ she returned fiercely, because now she could see a hint of that awful pallor returning to his face, and a horrifying thought occurred to her. Yes, her mother had been a nurse, and she had learned lots of basic first aid through her. She had managed to convince the hospital doctor that she could cope. But what if she had taken on more than she could handle? What if Tariq began to have side-effects from his head injury? She thought about the hospital leaflet in her handbag and decided that she’d better consult it. ‘Now, will you please sit down?’

Unexpectedly, Tariq gave a low laugh. ‘You can be a fierce little tiger at times, can’t you?’

Something about his very obvious approval made her cheeks grow warm with pleasure. ‘I can if I need to be.’

‘Okay, you win.’ Sinking down onto a chintzy and over-stuffed sofa, he batted her a sardonic look. ‘Is that better, Nurse?’

Trying not to laugh, Isobel nodded. ‘Marginally. Do you think you could just try sitting there quietly while I light the fire?’

‘I can try.’

Tariq leaned back against a heap of cushions and watched as she busied herself with matches and kindling. Funny, really—he’d never really pictured Izzy in a cottage which was distinctly chocolate-boxy despite the sub-zero temperatures. Not that he’d given very much thought at all as to how his assistant lived her life.

Stifling a yawn, he looked around. The sitting room had those tiny windows which didn’t let in very much light, and a big, recessed fireplace—the kind you saw on the front of Christmas cards. She was crouching down in front of the grate, and he watched as she began to blow on the flames to coax them into life. He found his eyes drawn to the denim skirt, which now stretched tightly over the curves of her buttocks.

He swallowed down a sudden, debilitating leap of desire which made him harden in a way he hadn’t been expecting. In five years of close contact with his highly efficient assistant he couldn’t remember ever noticing her bottom before. And it was actually a rather fine bottom. Firm and high and beautifully rounded. The kind of bottom which a man liked to cup in the palms of his hands as he …

‘What?’ Isobel turned round and frowned.

‘I didn’t …’ Tariq swallowed. What the hell was going on? Did bumps to the head make men lose their senses, so that they started imagining all kinds of inappropriate things? ‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘But you made a funny sort of noise.’ Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. ‘Are you all right? Your eyes have gone all glazed.’

‘Are you surprised?’ Shifting his position, Tariq glared at her, willing his erection to subside. ‘I’ve just had to endure your driving.’

Isobel turned back to the now leaping flames, an unseen smile playing around her lips. If he was jumping down her throat like that, then there couldn’t be very much wrong with him.

She waited until the fire was properly alight and then went into the kitchen and made his favourite mint tea—bringing it back into the sitting room on a tray set with bone china cups and a jar of farm honey.

To her relief, she could see that he had taken her at her word. He’d kicked off his hand-made Italian shoes and was lying stretched out on the sofa, despite it being slightly too small to accommodate his lengthy frame. His thick black hair was outlined by a chintz cushion and his powerful thighs were splayed indolently against the faded velvet. It made an incongruous image, she realised—to see the über-masculine Sheikh in such a domestic setting as this.

She poured tea for them both, added honey to his, and put it down a small table beside him, her gaze straying to his face as she sat on the floor beside the fire. Tariq was known for his faintly unshaven buccaneering look, but today the deep shadowing which outlined the hard definition of his jaw made him look like a study in brooding testosterone.

Now it was Isobel’s turn to feel vulnerable. That faint butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling was back, bigtime. And so was that sudden sensitive prickling of her breasts. She swallowed. ‘How are you feeling?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Will you stop talking to me as if I’m an invalid?’

‘But that’s what you are, Tariq—otherwise you wouldn’t be here, would you? Just put my mind at rest. I’m not asking you to divulge the secrets of your heart—just answer the question.’

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