Sold To The Sheikh

‘Oh, yes, I met him at a recent première party at Fox Studios. He has a stunner of a wife, doesn’t he?’

‘That’s the one. Dominique’s her name. They’re good for a few grand at the auction. Both have hearts of gold. Can’t say quite the same about my number-four poker-playing partner, but he can be generous on occasion. He’s—’

‘Are you ready to order, ladies?’ the waitress interrupted.

‘Just give us a moment,’ Charmaine said, and the waitress hurried off to attend to another table. The restaurant they were having lunch at was situated on one of the renovated wharves at Wooloomooloo, right on the harbour. Only a stone’s throw from the city centre, it was very trendy and very popular, particularly at lunch time on a splendid spring day.

‘Enough about the auction, Renée,’ Charmaine said firmly. ‘Back to the business at hand. Food. Shall we be bad and order something fattening for once?’ She picked up the menu and started perusing it avidly. ‘Gosh, this is all so tempting! It’s been months since I had a hamburger. I hear the designer hamburgers here are out of this world. Ooh, and look, there’s mango cheesecake on the dessert list. I have a penchant for cheesecake. Damn it, I’m definitely ordering that. With cream,’ she finished up defiantly.

Renée laughed. She knew first-hand that models rarely ate anything really fattening, not even the naturally curvy variety like Charmaine. ‘You can, if you like,’ she said, ‘but not me. I’ve already put on eight kilos with this pregnancy, and I’m told I could double that if I go full term.’

‘Do you know what sex the babies are?’ Charmaine asked.

Renée beamed as she always did when asked about her precious twins. ‘I do indeed. A boy and a girl. Aren’t I just the luckiest woman in the world?’

Till she’d married Rico, Renée had thought she’d never have children. But with her husband’s love and support and the best IVF team in Australia, she was now, at the ripe old age of thirty-six, expecting not just one baby, but two! Rico was over the moon and Renée was ecstatic. Everything had gone very well so far and, other than the occasional spot of heartburn and backache, she felt as fit as a fiddle.

Charmaine smiled at her. ‘I imagine you just might be. Although my mum is a pretty lucky lady. There again, she’s married to my dad, so perhaps I’m biased.’

Renée absorbed this piece of information with some surprise. Charmaine never talked about her family. For some reason, Renée had assumed she was estranged from them these days. Clearly, she was mistaken. Maybe they’d just lost touch a bit. Charmaine’s life was a hectic one, what with the demands on her time for her career, and now her charity work.

Renée knew from earlier Press articles about Charmaine that her parents were country folk who ran a cotton farm out west of the Great Divide, pretty well in the middle of nowhere. Their nearest town only had one garage, one hotel and one general store. From the time she was fifteen, Charmaine had used to work behind the counter of that store at the weekend, and during lulls—which was probably most of the time—filled in her time reading magazines about models and dreaming of one day being one herself. At fifteen and a half, she’d entered her photograph into a teen magazine’s cover-girl competition, and won. By sixteen she was strutting her stuff on the catwalk in Sydney during Australia’s fashion week.

Renée had been a model herself back then and recalled how peeved all the other older models were when this inexperienced teenage upstart carrying far too many curves had upstaged them. But she’d been an instant hit, especially with the designers. On Charmaine’s tall yet shapely figure, all clothes looked fabulous, and so sexy. When Charmaine had to go home for a while with a nasty case of glandular fever the other models had breathed a sigh of relief. But she’d returned to Sydney the following year and taken up right where she left off.

By then eighteen, a slightly slimmer but more mature-looking Charmaine had been simply stunning. Ravishing was how she was described by the fashion Press. Ravishing and ready to rule the modelling world. She hadn’t quite done that, but she was soon right up there with the best of them, and Renée’s agency now had a piece of that success.

‘Do you take after your mother or your father?’ Renée asked, her curiosity aroused.

‘Both, in looks. But neither in character. Mum’s a sweetie and Dad’s an old softie. I might act soft and sweet, but underneath I’m a total bitch,’ she said, then laughed. ‘But then, you already know that, don’t you?’

‘Not at all,’ Renée replied, astounded. ‘You play hardball in business matters but that’s not the same. I’ve met plenty of total bitches in my life and trust me, Charmaine, you are certainly not one of them. A total bitch wouldn’t work so hard for charity for starters, I can tell you.’

‘Aah, but that’s my only Achilles heel,’ Charmaine said, looking sad and wistful for a moment. ‘Kids with cancer. Poor little mites. I can bear it when life is unspeakably cruel and unfair to adults. But not children. They do not deserve that fate. Not when they’ve done nothing to cause it.’

She swallowed, then gritted her teeth.

You’re not going to cry, are you? Crying never achieves a thing. Crying is for babies, and the broken-hearted. You’re hardly a baby, and your heart isn’t broken any more, Charmaine. It’s been super-glued back together and nothing will ever break it again.

She reached for the complimentary glass of water that sat on the café table and sipped it till she had herself totally under control. Then she put the glass down and smiled at the woman opposite her, who had a worried frown on her lovely face.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I get emotional when I talk about kids with cancer.’

‘There’s no need to be sorry. I think what you feel is very admirable. I can understand it entirely.’

Charmaine refrained from laughing at this statement. How could Renée possibly understand? No one could understand who hadn’t been through it themselves. Watched a child suffer and die. A sweet, innocent little child.

But she probably meant well.

How old was Renée? Charmaine wondered. Early thirties? Older? Must be a bit older, though she still looked marvellous. Some women glowed when they were pregnant. Others looked drawn and dreary. Renée was clearly the glowing kind.

The waitress materialised at their table again.

‘Ready to order yet, ladies?’ she asked chirpily.

‘Absolutely,’ Charmaine replied and ordered the Caribbean-style beef-burger with fries and salad, mango cheesecake with cream, and a cappuccino.

When Renée stared at her, she laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t eat any dinner tonight and I’ll punish myself in the gym tomorrow.’ As she always did. Every single day.

But then her whole life was now a punishment, wasn’t it? For her sins, especially that one really wicked sin, the one she could never forgive herself for, the one she would never forget.

‘You’ll have to if you hope to fit into that dress you’re planning to wear on Saturday night,’ Renée pointed out. ‘As it is, it looks as if you’ve been sewn into it.’

‘Oh, darn, you’re right. I’d momentarily forgotten about that.’ She sighed and looked up at the patiently waiting waitress. ‘Could I change my order to something less fattening, like a lettuce leaf au naturel?’

The waitress grinned. ‘I’m so glad you have to watch what you eat, too. If I thought you could look the way you do without suffering even a little, it would kill me.’

‘Then do not despair,’ Charmaine said drily. ‘I suffer more than a little. I suffer a lot every single day.’ And then some! ‘OK, give me the fish of the day, grilled, with a side salad. No dressing. No dessert. And black coffee to follow. How’s that?’ she asked Renée.

Renée laughed. ‘Perfect. I’ll have the same.’

CHAPTER TWO

THE ballroom at the Regency Hotel was a popular Sydney venue for top-drawer functions. Its spectacular Versailles-inspired walls had borne witness to many society balls, awards nights, fashion extravaganzas, product launches, company Christmas parties and, yes, quite a few charity benefits. Its ornate, high-domed ceilings and huge chandeliers had looked down upon the rich and famous on many occasions as they gathered in their finery to celebrate or support whatever cause had brought them together.

Tonight’s cause was one which never failed to touch even the most hard-hearted. Kids with cancer. Charmaine knew that for a fact. And she’d exploited it shamelessly as she’d put together this, her first charity banquet and auction.

But it had been one hell of a lot of work, taking up every spare moment of her time for the last six months. Her social life—what there was of it these days—had suffered accordingly. Even her career had suffered, with her refusing any assignments that would take her overseas for more than a few days.

But it was all worth it to see the fantastic turn-out tonight. Every table filled, and all by people who could well afford the hefty thousand-dollar price tag on each ticket. For which they would get a moderately nice sit-down dinner which probably cost less than fifty dollars a head to produce.

Not that the Friends of Kids with Cancer foundation had to pay anything at all for the catering. The relatively new owner of the Regency Hotel had been persuaded to donate the three hundred dinners required, plus all the drinks and the ballroom itself. Charmaine had discovered that Max Richmond’s brother had died of cancer when quite a young man, an unfortunate tragedy which she’d been quick to capitalise on.

Ah, yes, there wasn’t anything she wouldn’t stoop to to raise money to reach tonight’s ten-million-dollar target, including going without food of any appreciable kind both yesterday and today so that she could fit into the dress she was wearing as co-host of tonight’s auction, a dress that almost defied description.

Wicked was the word that sprang to mind.

How she came to be wearing this particular dress was intriguing. She’d gone to see the head of Campbell Jewels at her home, as she’d personally visited all of the CEOs of Sydney’s top companies, begging and bulldozing them for donations for her auction. Most accommodated her in some way. Celeste Campbell had been very amenable, donating a lovely selection of jewellery. She’d also had that no-nonsense, straight-down-the-line manner that Charmaine admired in a woman. Charmaine had warmed to her immediately, and vice versa.

When Celeste found out the charity auction was being held in the Regency ballroom, she’d related to Charmaine the story of another auction that had been held there a decade earlier, not long before Charmaine herself had first come to Sydney. Apparently there’d been a sit-down banquet, like tonight, followed by the auction of the famed black opal called the Heart of Fire, which was now in the Australian Museum.

Charmaine had been startled to learn that during the course of the evening there’d been an attempted robbery and a shooting. Charmaine had been fascinated by the woman’s story, then totally blown away when Celeste showed her the dress she’d worn that night. It was one of the most provocative evening gowns Charmaine had ever seen.

When Celeste proclaimed she was too old to wear such a dress these days, Charmaine had swiftly jumped in and asked if she could borrow it to wear to the charity auction. She’d known straight away that it was just the thing to get some rich fool to bid a ridiculous price for a dinner date with her. Celeste Campbell had refused—and given her the gown instead! Charmaine had been thrilled.

And now here she was, wearing it, but not feeling quite so confident, or so cocky. Her stomach was doing more somersaults than it had on her very first modelling assignment. Yet she was never nervous these days, no matter how much flesh she was flaunting.

Not that Celeste Campbell’s dress showed all that much bare flesh. Its wickedness was far more subtle than that.

There was nothing at all risqué about its basic full-length strapless style, except perhaps that her breasts were having difficulty being confined in the tightly boned bodice, which was two sizes too small for her. Even that little problem was hidden to some degree by the layer of sheer chiffon stretched over the satin underdress, the chiffon reaching high up around the neck and running tightly down her arms to her wrists.

It was the skin tone of both the satin material and the chiffon, plus the selected beading on the front and back of the gown that was wicked, because it created the illusion of her wearing not a ballgown, but a very skimpy and exotic costume. From even a short distance, the skin-coloured material took on the appearance of bare flesh, with just the shimmering pattern made by the gold beads standing out.

At a glance, front-on, it looked as though the beads were stuck to her nude body in the shape of a bikini. Side-on, where there were no beads, she looked naked. Viewed from the back, the sight was possibly even more provocative, with nothing but skin-coloured chiffon to her waist, a triangular smattering of beads across her behind and a split up the middle back seam to the very top of her thighs. At least the split meant she could walk with her usual long-legged stride instead of tottering around.

Because walk she had to do, right out onto the catwalk that had been put together for the fashion parade conducted earlier during the dinner. The long, well-lit walkway jutted out from the middle of the stage, bisecting the ballroom and giving the occupants of all the tables a top view, especially the ones seated close by. In rehearsal the other night Charmaine had told Rico she would parade out there whilst he auctioned off her dinner-date prize, an idea that hadn’t seemed all that bold at the time, possibly because she’d been wearing jeans.

This outrageous dress, however, had sent her usual boldness packing. Charmaine had been bothered by it all evening. Fortunately, during the dinner she hadn’t eaten, she’d been sitting down. Seated, the dress was quite modest.

But she was no longer seated. She was up on the ballroom stage, peering through the heavy, wine-coloured stage curtain at the huge crowd down below and trying to control this alien fear that she was about to make the most shameless display of herself.

What on earth was wrong with her? She wasn’t usually like this. Usually, she didn’t give a damn how little she wore or if people stared at her, especially the men.

A scornful anger quickly replaced these highly uncharacteristic qualms. Let them think what they liked. She really didn’t care as long as one of them coughed up with a big fat cheque for her foundation.

Feeling marginally better, she glanced at her slender gold wrist-watch and was thinking it was high time for Rico to make an appearance to begin the auction when a very male whistle split the air behind her. She whirled and the man himself was standing there, smiling a wry smile.

‘That is some dress, Charmaine. Are you sure you won’t be arrested for wearing it?’

‘I’ve worn less,’ she retorted, nervous tension making her snappy.

‘Yes, but in this case more is worse.’

‘Do try not to leer, Rico.’

‘I never leer.’

‘No,’ she conceded with a sigh. ‘No, you don’t. Sorry. Actually, you’re much nicer than I thought you’d be, for someone who’s so darned good-looking.’ Which he was. Tall, dark and handsome. But not the kind of tall, dark and handsome that she’d once found irresistible. Big and macho were not her preference. She’d always preferred the leaner, more elegant kind of man.

‘Thank you,’ Rico replied. ‘I think.’ Straightening his bow-tie, he scooped in a deep breath. ‘So! Shall we get this show on the road?’

Again, nerves rushed in, making her want to turn tail and run. Which in turn brought forth a redeeming rush of defiance. ‘Too right,’ she said. ‘It’s time to make those poor kids some serious bucks.’

‘Amen to that!’ Rico agreed.

The auction started off well, at that point the target of ten million looking within easy reach. But the economic times were tough and around halfway the bids began to lag. No matter how much Rico cajoled, by the time the auction had only two prizes left, the amount raised was just under seven million. Charmaine sighed her disappointment. The island holiday Rico was about to offer might make fifty grand. But that would still leave a shortfall of nearly three million. Even if she went out onto the catwalk stark naked, no man here was going to bid that much just to have dinner with her.

‘We’re not even going to make seven million,’ she groaned after Rico sold the holiday for a paltry thirty thousand.

‘No, it doesn’t look like it,’ Rico replied quietly, having placed his hands over the microphone. ‘Perhaps you should have got yourself a real auctioneer.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve been marvellous. It’s not you. It’s the times. People are getting tight. We’ve really done quite well. My hopes were too high. Come on, let’s see what we can get for my pathetic prize.’

‘Now who’s being ridiculous? A dinner date with you is anything but a pathetic prize, Charmaine.’

‘Flatterer. Just get on with it. I want to get this torment over and done with.’ A telling comment, but true. She’d never felt this reluctant to sell herself.

‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, on to the last prize of the evening,’ Rico began again, reviving that Italian accent which seemed to come and go at will. ‘Our lovely hostess, Charmaine, one of Australia’s top supermodels, is offering a dinner date with herself right here in the Regency’s own fabulous By Candlelight restaurant, to be taken next Saturday night. This is a fabulous prize to end this evening with and one which I’m sure will command a top offer.’

He flashed Charmaine an encouraging smile then muttered, ‘Off you go, sweetheart,’ under his breath. ‘Strut your stuff.’

Charmaine rolled her eyes at him, but off she went, undulating her way down the catwalk, doing her best to smile through gritted teeth, well aware that all eyes in that ballroom were glued to her body. Not that she could see much. The footlights that bathed her in light threw the rest of the ballroom into relative darkness. She could see silhouetted shapes but no details, no actual eyes.

Yet she could feel them stripping her in a way that she had never felt before. It had to be because of this darned dress. What else could it be?

‘Might I remind you that Charmaine was recently voted the sexiest woman in Australia by a national magazine?’ Rico raved on. ‘You can see for yourself that that tag is no exaggeration. I would imagine having a private dinner with such a stunning creature would be some man’s dream come true. So come along, gentlemen, make your bids for this once-in-a-lifetime privilege!’

Charmaine almost winced with embarrassment. Dear heavens, now she felt as though she was on the auction block of some white slaver, and that it was her body being sold, not just a few hours of her companionship.

But what the heck, she reminded herself, if the foundation ended up with a good wad of money? Still, she thanked the lord that she’d banned the Press from this do. The last thing she could stand at this moment would be being besieged with camera flashes, not to mention the prospect of seeing photographs of herself in this dress splashed all across the Sunday papers tomorrow morning, accompanied by some trashy story.

With the comfort of that last thought, she plastered a more sultry smile on her face and sashayed sexily down to the end of the catwalk, where she stood motionless for a few moments, her hands on her hips in a saucy attitude. Then slowly, seductively, she turned, the audience gasping at the sight of her back view.

Her eyes connected with Rico’s and he grinned a rather lascivious grin. ‘Don’t be coy, now,’ he urged the audience. ‘If I were a single man myself, I would put my hat in the ring, I can tell you. But I’m out of the market, as my lovely wife right there will attest.’

He nodded down towards a table on Charmaine’s immediate left. She automatically glanced down, then froze.

Later that night, long after this ghastly moment was well behind her, Charmaine would be grateful she hadn’t been moving at the time, for she would surely have stumbled. Maybe even fallen. As it was, she still felt as if the floor had opened up under her.

At least now she knew why she’d been feeling so aware of male eyes on her. Because this pair of eyes had been hiding amongst the others.

Dark, beautiful eyes. Hard eyes. Dangerous eyes.

Prince Ali of Dubar, sitting right there at Renée’s table, looking dashing and debonair in a black dinner suit and gazing up at her with a coolly arrogant air.

Shock galvanised Charmaine’s brain as well as her body, several blank moments passing before she regained her composure and could even try to put two and two together. What on earth was this man doing sitting at Renée’s table? Surely they couldn’t be friends!

This unlikely possibility had barely surfaced before things which had seemed unimportant or irrelevant at the time flashed back into her mind. The prince himself, mentioning last year that he spent every weekend in Sydney going to the races and playing cards with friends. And then Renée the other day at lunch, talking about the high-rollers she played poker with every Friday night in this very hotel, in one of the presidential suites.

Who else could afford a presidential suite but a president, or a rock-star, or an oil-rich sheikh? The worst possible scenario of that little trio, of course, was the sheikh, especially one whom she’d derided and belittled and rejected and who was here tonight for one thing and one thing only. To make her eat her words that she would never go to dinner with a man like him.

Prince Ali of Dubar was undoubtedly going to be the highest bidder for the dinner date with her. Why else would he have come? He hadn’t bid for anything else so far tonight. She would have noticed if he had, a spotlight always briefly being shone on the successful bidder after an item was knocked down to them.

No, it would not be some total stranger sitting opposite her at dinner next Saturday night. It would be this man, whose pride she had severely dented last year. Now it was his turn to humiliate her, by forcing her to dine with him for several hours and endure not only his company, but also his none-too-subtle coveting of her body.

The impact of this realisation sent bile rising in Charmaine’s throat. Pride demanded she would not submit herself to such a mortifying situation. But pride also demanded she conduct herself with her usual self-contained, I’m-not-afraid-of-anything-or-any-man demeanour. After all, even if the sheikh was the successful bidder—and every cell in her brain shouted to her that he would be—what could he really do to her in a public restaurant, across the table? Proposition her once more? Try to seduce her with his charm?

This last idea was laughable.

No. Let him have his pathetic little moment of triumph.

Quite deliberately, she smiled straight at him, challenging him boldly with her eyes and her mouth.

Come on, sucker. Make your bid. See if I care.

His dark eyes narrowed a little at her smile, then slowly raked over her from head to toe, as though assessing if she was worth bidding for. For a split-second, Charmaine worried that he might not bid. Maybe he’d come to dent her pride that way.

But even as she was besieged by a thousand ambivalent emotions over this possibility, his royal mouth opened.

‘Five million dollars,’ he said firmly, and she gasped. She couldn’t help it. Neither could the rest of the people there.

Even Rico sucked in sharply. ‘Wow! That is some bid. Ladies and gentlemen, Prince Ali of Dubar has bid five million dollars for the privilege of a dinner date with our lovely Charmaine. Somehow, I don’t think there will be any better offers, but if there is some intrepid gentleman out there willing to top his royal highness’s offer, will he speak up now or forever hold his peace?’