by Miranda Lee
Several large rings graced his elegantly long fingers. One had a black centre stone, the second a diamond, the third a huge blue sapphire. Undoubtedly all were real. A thick gold watch encircled his left wrist. A thinner but probably even more expensive gold chain hung around his neck, the end nestling in the wispy curls of chest hair exposed by the deep V of the shirt.
His head had turned at her entry, his black eyes raking over her from top to toe. They did not flash at her this time, either with admiration or amusement. But there was something in their depths which compelled her to keep staring at him. She literally could not take her eyes away from his, could not move.
But there was movement inside her. A hot rushing of blood. A feeling not of being frozen, but of melting.
‘I was beginning to worry something might have happened to you,’ he said, an impatient edge in his voice.
Ray made a sniggering sound. ‘Not likely. Sam’s not that kind of girl—are you, Sam?’
‘And what kind of girlam I, Ray?’ Samantha whipped back, irritated by the remark, yet grateful for the distraction. At last she managed to look away from the Sheikh, close the door behind her and walk further into the room.
‘Not the kind who gets herself into trouble,’ Ray said with a dry laugh.
‘Any woman can get herself into trouble,’ the Sheikh remarked, his softly delivered words drawing Samantha’s eyes once more.
‘Come,’ he commanded. ‘I’ll get you a drink.’ And he gestured for her to follow him over to the long sideboard under the front windows, where Cleo always put the drinks and the glasses.
Samantha was startled that he would personally be getting her a drink. Cleo had said he didn’t stand on ceremony, but Samantha hadn’t found the owner of Smoking Gun of an easygoing or casual nature earlier today. He’d been downright arrogant and autocratic in his manner towards her.
Possibly he was a chameleon of a male, depending on his mood and the occasion. She’d met plenty of moody men in her time. Her father was moody. So were a couple of her brothers. Moody, and occasionally mean. One good thing about coming to live in the country had been finally moving out of home. When she returned to Sydney she would buy a place of her own. She had plenty of savings—enough for a deposit on a house.
‘What can I get you?’ he asked, slanting a questioning glance over at her as she joined him by the sideboard. ‘Spirits? Wine? Or something softer?’
Was that a slight smirk she glimpsed in his eyes when he said the wordsofter ?
‘You don’t have to serve me,’ she returned stiffly. ‘I am quite capable of getting myself a drink.’
Now he smiled. Definitely a smile of amusement.
‘I am sure you are,’ he said smoothly. ‘But that is not the point. A gentleman always gets a lady her drink,’ he added, and flashed her a warm smile.
Samantha gritted her teeth. He was determined to have his way, either by using his authority to order her around or by laying on the charm. Of course men like him were used to having their own way. Used to exercising their charm over women as well. Cleo had already fallen victim to it. Nowshe was in danger of following suit. The man was almost irresistible when he smiled like that.
And didn’t he know it!
This last thought made Samantha resolve not to surrender to his charm. Different, perhaps, if he’d been an ordinary man. But swooning over a billionaire playboy sheikh not only went against her grain, it was a total waste of time. Much more so even than her getaway to the Gold Coast.
‘A glass of white wine will do,’ she said offhandedly, as though she didn’t give a hoot what she drank, or who she drank with.
But as she watched him draw a bottle of Chardonnay out of the ice-bucket and pour the chilled wine into a glass, her treacherous body refused to obey her head. Standing this close to him was doing strange things to her. Not only had her heart started racing, but all her senses seemed suddenly to be heightened. Never before had she been conscious of how a man smelled—perhaps because the men she was around mostly smelled of horses.
Bandar didn’t smell of horses. Not in the slightest. The scent wafting from his body was as exotic as he was: something spicy, sensual and sexy. Oh, yes, very sexy.
‘I am told this wine comes from an excellent local vineyard,’ he said, as he held the glass out in her direction.
She turned to take it and their eyes met once more, his again flicking from her face to her feet, then back up again. Not with admiration this time, either. Curiosity, perhaps?
Samantha winced inside. She knew what he was thinking. What kind of woman was this, who cared nothing for her appearance?
Embarrassment besieged her, plus a perverse regret that she hadn’t taken some trouble with her appearance tonight. Her tongue raced to her rescue, as it always did when she found herself feeling vulnerable in male company.
‘I thought Muslims didn’t drink,’ she said sharply, when he picked up his brandy balloon again.
He took a sip before lowering the glass from his mouth. ‘Some do,’ he replied, eyeing her with curiosity. ‘The world is full of imperfect people. But I am not Muslim.’
That took her aback. ‘Oh. Sorry. I just presumed. Most of you are.’
His dark brows lifted. ‘Most ofwho are?’
‘Arabs.’
‘Some Arabs are Christian,’ he pointed out. ‘Some are Jewish. Some are even Buddhists and atheists. But I am not any of those, either.’
‘Then what are you?’ she threw at him.
‘I am who I am.’
‘Which is what?’
‘Just a man named Bandar.’
‘Asheikh named Bandar,’ she corrected. Samantha hated false modesty. He was no ordinary man, this Bandar. He was a billionaire, for starters.
‘Yes, I am a sheikh. But it is merely an inherited title. I prefer not to capitalise on it. Some people I mix with in London like to address me as Sheikh because it makes them feel important. I’m sure you are not one of those. So please…call me Bandar.’
‘Suits me,’ she said with a shrug. ‘We call everyone by their first names here in Australia. Except perhaps the Prime Minister.’
‘And what do you call him?’
‘Depends on whether we’re happy with his policies or not,’ she quipped, feeling more comfortable with this kind of conversation. It was what she was used to being with men: slightly caustic, not in any way tongue-tied or vulnerable.
He stared at her, then shook his head. ‘I think I have a lot to learn about Australians,’ he said. ‘It is a pity I will only be here for three weeks. I suspect it might take considerably longer to understand your very different culture.’
‘A lot of people don’t think Australians haveany culture.’
He looked at her hard again. ‘You are a most unusual woman. We will talk later. Over dinner. But for now there are a few things I must say to the others. Do sit down,’ he ordered, before striding back towards the fireplace.
Samantha sat down. There was a time and place for outright rebellion and this was not it. Besides, she suddenlyneeded to sit down, her verbal sparring with Bandar having left her feeling oddly weak, as though she’d used up all her resistance to him.
Not that it really mattered.
Her capacity to resist this man was never going to be challenged. Or tested.
Nevertheless, her eyes followed him slavishly as he took his position at the mantelpiece once more.
‘Thank you for coming to dine with me this evening,’ he began, his manner now very formal and serious. ‘Before we retire to the dining room for our meal I have a few things I wish to make clear. Firstly, I want to reassure you that Prince Ali has the fullest confidence in all his staff here, especially his stallion and mare managers,’ he said, dipping his head slightly towards Ray and Trevor. ‘He has not put me in charge to interfere with the general running of this establishment, but to be here to make decisions if decisions need to be made. Fortunately, it is not a busy time. Foaling in your country does not
begin till August. But thoroughbreds are sensitive creatures, notorious for causing unexpected problems. If a problem arises, please refer it to me. I am a very experienced racehorse owner and breeder. There is nothing I do not know about this industry.’
Samantha tried not to look askance at this rather egotistical statement. She already knew that Bandar was arrogant. But, truly, was there anyone on the world who kneweverything about horses?
‘Having touched on the subject of my horsemanship,’ he continued. ‘I know there was considerable dissention amongst you about my riding Smoking Gun on the track today. You, Raymond, expressed some reservations at the time. Gerald also. And Samantha—who happened to pass by the track at that particular time—was quite disturbed. She thought what I was doing was reckless and risky. And said so in no uncertain terms.’
Samantha straightened in her chair when her three colleagues swung round to give her looks which proclaimed that she obviously didn’t know which side her bread was buttered on. Naturally, she hadn’t mentioned her run-in with Bandar when she’d been working with them this afternoon. But now that it was out in the open she wasn’t about to back down.
‘I still think exactly the same thing,’ she said without hesitation. After all, what could he do to her? Have her fired? She was quitting soon, anyway.
‘Why am I not surprised?’ the Sheikh muttered, his dark eyes glittering at her. ‘But you are wrong, madam. I know that horse inside out, and I know what he needs to make him behave himself. He has behaved since then, has he not?’ he directed at the stallion manager.
‘Been like a lamb,’ Ray concurred.
‘He will, however, not be so lamb-like in a few more days—at which point I will ride him again. I trust there will be no further objections. Now, do any of you have any questions?’ he asked, his gaze settling back on Samantha.
She held his steady regard without visible squirming, which was a minor miracle. She was certainly squirming inside.
‘Ali was gunna go to a dispersal sale this Wednesday,’ Trevor piped up in his broad Aussie accent. ‘The owner of one of the local stud farms around here died six months ago. His wife is sellin’ up everything and movin’ back to the city. The mares are real quality. Some of ’em are in foal to top-line stallions. I know Ali was real keen to attend.’
‘I see. I shall ring Ali tomorrow and talk to him about it. If he is agreeable, I will go to this sale in his stead. But I might need a driver for the day.’
‘Sam could drive you,’ Gerald suggested. ‘She could check over any mares you might like the look of at the same time. Sam doesn’t miss a trick, and she’s got a good eye for a horse.’
Samantha’s stomach flipped over when Bandar looked at her. ‘Is that agreeable with you, Samantha?’
Goodness, what a question! It wasnot agreeable. It was breathtakingly exciting and extremely worrying. How could she function properly with him by her side for a whole day?
Somehow she gave a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders. ‘You’re the boss,’ she said, as though the matter was of no consequence to her.
He smiled a small, enigmatic smile. ‘I will let you know before tomorrow evening if I will require you on Wednesday. Now I think it is time for us to retire to the dining room.’
CHAPTER FOUR
THEtable in the formal dining room was huge, capable of seating at least twenty people. Cleo had set only one end: her VIP visitor clearly expected to grace the head of the table, with two settings on either side of him. A huge bowl of fresh flowers sat in the middle of the long table, which meant it would be totally useless for hiding behind.
Samantha swiftly slipped into one of the chairs furthest from the end, grateful when Gerald sat down next to her, with Ray and Trevor taking up the two settings opposite. Bandar made himself comfortable at the head of the table, shooting her a sharp glance as he flicked out his serviette.
Ignoring him, she shook out her own serviette with slow, considered movements and placed it on her lap, her eyes fixed on the connecting door through which she hoped Cleo would soon come.
She did, carrying a tray laden with steaming bowls of soup.
‘You decided to serve an entrée after all?’ Samantha whispered, when Cleo placed her bowl in front of her.
‘You should have known that by the arrangement of cutlery,’ Cleo whispered back.
Samantha didn’t like to tell her that the arrangement of cutlery had been the last thing she’d been thinking about when she’d sat down at this table.
‘I hope the menu will be to your liking, Bandar,’ Cleo said, when she returned to the dining room with a plateful of herb bread. ‘It’s one of Ali’s favourite meals. Sweet potato and leek soup, followed by roast minted lamb, finished off with quince pie. Home-made too, of course. We have a lovely quince tree on the farm,’ she added, pride in her voice.
‘I can see why Ali never wants to travel,’ the Sheikh replied. ‘He is looked after too well here.’
‘Oh, go on with you,’ Cleo said, and actually gave him a playful nudge on his upper arm.
He looked momentarily shocked. Then amused.
‘Oh, dear—I’ve forgotten the wine!’ Cleo suddenly exclaimed. ‘I’ll go get it right now.’
‘Make mine red,’ Gerald called out to Cleo as she hurried back towards the door which led into the kitchen.
‘I have both opened,’ she returned over her shoulder. ‘Never fear.’
‘Ali told me his housekeeper was a treasure,’ Bandar said warmly whilst Cleo was out of the room. ‘I can see what he means. She is like a breath of fresh air. Under other circumstances, I might try to steal her away.’
‘You wouldn’t stand a chance of doing that underany circumstances,’ Samantha jumped in, before she could think better of it. ‘Cleo would never leave Ali, or his family.Or Australia.’
His dark eyes glittered at her like they had once before, when she’d challenged him over Smoking Gun. ‘You would be amazed how such things become irrelevant with the right offer of money,’ he said, that edge back in his voice.
Just then Cleo re-entered the room, carrying a bottle of white wine in an ice-bucket, plus a decanter filled with red wine. She placed them both on the table within easy reach of everyone.
‘If I paid you a million dollars a year, Cleo,’ Bandar said silkily, ‘would you come with me back to London?’
‘That depends as what,’ she shot back with a cheeky smile.
‘My personal chef.’
Cleo pulled a face. ‘Sorry. Now, if you’d said mistress, I might have considered it.’
Everyone laughed, even Samantha. But not for long. Soon she was just sitting there, staring down blankly at the soup and wishing she could be more like Cleo. That woman was never rattled by anything. She was so good with people, and had the most delightful sense of humour. It was a shame that she and Norm had never had children. She’d have made a wonderful mother.
This last thought gave rise to her own aspirations about one day being a mum. Hopefully, that was possible. Samantha had known for some years that she might have some trouble conceiving. She was shockingly irregular when she wasn’t on the Pill.
Even if shedid have a baby one day, would she be a good mother? What if she had a girl? A girl needed a mother who was feminine, who could show her how to act like a girl. How could she do that when she couldn’t do it herself?
Adult life, Samantha had discovered, was full of many unexpected complications and pitfalls. Being a child was much simpler—though perhaps not so simple when you didn’t have a mother yourself.
‘Didn’t you like my soup?’
Cleo’s aggrieved question brought Samantha back to the real world, where she discovered that everyone had finished their soup but she was still sitting there, with hers hardly touched.
‘Oh, sorry, Cleo. Yes, it’s lovely,’ she said, taking a hurried mouthful. ‘I was daydreaming. Leave it with me. I’ll finish it. I promise.’
‘Nope,’ Cleo said, whipping the bowl away. �
�You’ve lost your chance. Judy has the next course ready to serve.’
Which she did, placing a dinner plate in front of Samantha before she could say boo. It looked and smelled delicious, but somewhere along the line Samantha had lost her appetite. She sighed as she picked up her knife and fork, knowing she would have to force some down or Cleo would be totally disgusted with her.
This dinner party was proving to be an even worse trial than she’d imagined it would be. And what of Wednesday? How would she cope if Bandar wanted her to go to that dispersal sale with him? She’d have to spend the whole day with him. Alone.
Samantha had been unhappy with herself for a long time. Around the Sheikh, however, she was close to despising herself. If Cleo had been twenty-six, single and in her position, she wouldn’t have come here tonight dressed in jeans with her hair all scraped back from her un-made-up face. Cleo would have been done up to the nines. She’d have flattered the Sheikh, flirted with him, and had a great time. He’d have been totally charmed, and probably would have ended up taking her back to London with him. Or at least taking her to bed.