‘I went for dinner with a woman,’ he said.
‘No—’ Isobel started to say something and then changed her mind, but Tariq seized on her swallowed words like a cat capturing a mouse.
His thick lashes parted by a fraction. ‘No what, Izzy?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Oh, but it does,’ he answered stubbornly.
‘I was about to say no change there. You having dinner with a woman is hardly remarkable, Tariq. Blonde, was she?’
‘Actually, she was.’ Reluctantly, his lips curved into a smile. Sometimes Izzy was so damned sharp he was surprised she didn’t cut herself. Maybe that was what less attractive women did—they made up for their shortcomings by developing a more sophisticated sense of humour. ‘But she wasn’t all she seemed to be.’
‘Not a transvestite, I hope?’
‘Very funny.’ But despite the smile which her flippant comment produced Tariq was irritated with himself. He had been stressed out, and had intended to relax by playing poker until the small hours. He hadn’t really been in the mood for any kind of liaison, or the effort of chatting someone up. But the woman had been very beautiful, and he’d found himself inviting her for a late dinner. And then she had started to question him. Wanting to know the kind of things which suggested that she might have done more than a little background research on him.
Tariq had some rules which were entirely his own.
He didn’t like being interrogated.
He didn’t trust people who knew too much about him.
And he never slept with a woman on a first date.
At heart, he was a deeply old-fashioned man, with plenty of contradictory values. For him sex had always been laughably easy—yet he didn’t respect a woman who let him too close, too soon. Especially as he had a very short attention span when it came to the opposite sex. He liked the slow burn of anticipation—to prolong the ache of desire until it became unbearable. So when the blonde had made it very clear that she was his for the taking—some primitive sense of prudery had reared its head. Who wanted something which was so easily obtained? With a jaded yawn, he had declined her offer and reached for his jacket.
And that was when the woman’s story had come blurting out. It seemed that it hadn’t been fate which had brought her into his life, but cunning and subterfuge.
‘She was a journalist,’ he bit out. He’d been so angry with himself because he hadn’t seen through her flimsy cover. Furious that he had fallen for one of the oldest tricks of all. He’d stormed out, wondering if he was losing his touch, and for those few seconds when his attention had wandered so had his powerful sports car. ‘She wanted the inside story on the takeover bid,’ he finished.
Isobel shrugged as her little car took a bend in the road. ‘Well, if you will try and buy into the Premier League, what do you expect? You know the English are crazy about football—and it’s a really big deal if some power-hungry Sheikh adds a major team to his portfolio.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with being hungry for power, Izzy.’
‘Only if it becomes addictive,’ she countered.
‘You think I’m a power junkie?’
‘That’s not for me to say.’
His black eyes narrowed. ‘I notice you didn’t deny it, though.’
‘I’m glad you’re paying attention to what I say, Tariq.’
With a small click of irritation, he attempted, without much success, to stretch his legs. Some lurid looking air-freshener in the shape of a blue daisy hung from the driving mirror and danced infuriatingly in front of the windscreen. Other than the occasional childhood ride on a camel in his homeland, he could never remember enduring such an uncomfortable form of transport as this. Rather longingly, he thought about the dented bonnet of his smooth and gleaming sports car and wondered how long before it would be roadworthy again.
‘Is your cottage as cramped as your car?’ he demanded.
‘You don’t like my car?’
‘Not really. I don’t like second-hand cars which don’t go above fifty.’
‘Then why don’t you give me a pay raise?’ she suggested sweetly. ‘And I’ll buy myself a newer one.’
For a moment Tariq acknowledged the brief flicker of discord which made his pulse quicken. Wasn’t it strange how a little tension between a man and a woman could instantly begin to heat a man’s blood and make him start thinking of...
But the smile left his face as he realised that this was Izzy he was about to start fantasising about. Safe and sensible Izzy. The plain stalwart of his office—and the very last candidate for any erotic thoughts. So how was it that he suddenly found his attention riveted on a pair of slender thighs which were outlined with delectable precision beneath the blue of her denim skirt?
With an effort, he dragged his gaze away and settled back in the seat. ‘I pay you enough already—as well you know,’ he said. ‘How far is it?’
‘Far enough,’ said Isobel softly, ‘for you to close your eyes and sleep.’ And stop annoying me with your infuriating comments.
‘I’m not sleepy.’
‘Sure?’
‘Quite sure,’ he mumbled, but something in her voice was oddly soothing, so he found himself yawning—and seconds later he was fast asleep.
Isobel drove in a silence punctuated only by the low, steady sound of Tariq’s breathing. She tried to concentrate on her driving and on the new green buds which were pushing through the hedgerows—but it wasn’t easy. Her attention kept wandering and she felt oddly light-headed. She kept telling herself it was because her usual routine had been thrown out of kilter—and not because of the disturbing proximity of her boss.
But that wouldn’t have been true. Something had happened to her and she couldn’t work out what it was. Why should she suddenly start feeling self-conscious and peculiar in Tariq’s company? Why couldn’t she seem to stop her eyes from straying to the powerful shafts of his thighs and then drifting upwards to the narrow jut of his hips?
She shook her head. She’d been alone with Tariq many, many times before. She had shared train, plane and car journeys with him on various business trips. But never like this. Not in such cramped and humble confines, with him fast asleep beside her, his legs spread out in front of him. Almost as if they were any normal couple, just driving along.
Impatiently, she shook her head.
Normal? That was the last adjective which could ever be applied to Tariq. He was a royal sheikh from the ancient House of Khayarzah and one of the wealthiest men on the planet.
Sometimes it still seemed incredible to Isobel that someone like her should have ended up working so closely for such a powerful man. She could tell that people were often surprised when she told them what she did for a living. That he who could have anyone should have chosen her. What did she have that a thousand more well-connected women didn’t have? That was what everyone always wanted to know.
Deep down, she suspected it was because he trusted her in a way that he trusted few people. And why did he trust her? Hard to say. Probably because she had met him when he was young—at school—before the true extent of his power and position had really sunk in. Before he’d realised the influence he wielded.
She’d been just ten at the time—a solitary and rather serious child. Her mother, Anna, had been the school nurse at one of England’s most prestigious boarding schools—a job she’d been lucky to get since it provided a place to live as well as a steady income. Anna was a single mother and her daughter Isobel illegitimate. Times had changed, and not having a father no longer carried any stigma, but it certainly had back then—back in the day.
Isobel had borne the brunt of it, of course. She remembered the way she’d always flinched with embarrassment whenever the question had been asked: What does your father do? There had been a thousand ways she had soug
ht to answer without giving away the shaming fact that she didn’t actually know.
As a consequence, she’d always felt slightly less than—a feeling which hadn’t been helped by growing up surrounded by some of the wealthiest children in the world. She’d been educated among them, but she had never really been one of them—those pampered products of the privileged classes.
But Tariq had been different from all the other pupils. His olive skin and black eyes had made him stand out like a handful of sparkling jewels thrown down onto a sheet of plain white paper. Sent to the west to be educated by his father, he had excelled in everything he’d done. He’d swum and ridden and played tennis—and he spoke five languages with native fluency.
Sometimes, Isobel had gazed at him with wistful wonder from afar. Had watched as he was surrounded by natural blondes with tiny-boned bodies and swish flats in Chelsea.
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, illu
minating 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?
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