His Cinderella Housekeeper 3-in-1

by Various

  But her actions were belying her words and, unseen, he smiled as he reached down to ruck up the filmy fabric of her gown, sliding his hand up the cool silk of her inner thigh with delicate yet ruthless efficiency. Like a dance he had engaged in so many times before, the moves were as natural to him as breathing. And so was her reaction. The shudder. The little cry as his fingertip alighted on that most vulnerable and feminine part of her. But the sense of wonder which made her voice shiver into that incredulous little gasp—surely that was Natasha ’s and Natasha ’s alone?

  ‘Are you quite sure we shouldn’t?’ he urged, as he moved his provocative finger away and heard her muffled and slurred little sound of objection.

  ‘No…I mean, yes…I mean…’

  But Raffaele knew exactly what she meant, and he began to tug at the moist little scrap of material with a low growl, his own erection so hard that it was actually painful.

  At that moment a low bell began to ring.

  They both froze, and Natasha was the first one to act—trying to pull away from him. But he held her firm.

  ‘Let me go!’

  He could smell the heady incense of her desire and grazed his lips to her earlobe. ‘Let me take you first.’

  Wasn’t it appalling that part of her should thrill to that outrageous demand—or was it only natural when he murmured in that silken, accented voice? And maybe she should be grateful that he’d said it—because although Natasha was terribly aroused, aching for him, the sexist and matter-of-fact way he had stated his intention brought her to her senses.

  Or rather, away from her senses.

  This time, fired by indignation and given strength by just how dreadful it would look should someone stumble upon them, she managed to extricate herself from the enticement of his embrace.

  ‘Raffaele! We must stop it,’ she urged furiously, and she began to tug her clothing straight and lift her fingertips to her hot and flushed cheeks in a vain effort to cool them.

  Through the dim light he raised his eyebrows imperiously. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why do you think? Because our host happens to be summoning us to dinner and is waiting for us!’

  He shrugged. ‘Zahid will understand.’

  For some reason his careless excuse offended her even more. ‘Well, maybe he will,’ she stormed softly. ‘But it would be an unforgivable breach of good manners, and one that I certainly wouldn’t tolerate.’

  He stared at her, seeing the situation through her eyes for the first time and suddenly he understood. She wasn’t just thinking of her own reputation—and he had to admit he hadn’t really been thinking about it either, had he? She was concerned about all the people who would be waiting to serve them with what would undoubtedly be a lavish dinner.

  Raffaele was used to people waiting for him, but for Natasha it was the exact opposite. She was always at his beck and call, wasn’t she? Waiting on his wishes and his commands. But this weekend was different. He had asked her to masquerade as someone else, and she was obeying him to the letter!

  Somewhere along the way she seemed to have acquired all the haughty attributes which actually made her believable as his fiancée. She was telling him what to do—and he could tell by the expression on his face that he would not be able to change her mind. At least, not now.

  He nodded curtly as they stepped out into the courtyard once more, but frustration continued to linger in his blood—and something about the way she had admonished him perturbed him.

  Because he had thought of them as not being equals—yet hadn’t Natasha just demonstrated the exact opposite by her actions? When had a woman last told Raffaele what to do? Never in his adult life, that was for sure. And when had a woman last stopped him from making love to her?

  Never.

  The bell rang again, and they turned in its direction. But just before they set off he caught her by the arm—and heard her sharp intake of breath, saw the way her eyes darkened at just that light touch.

  ‘Very well,’ he whispered, recognising the power he had over her with silent satisfaction.

  ‘We will go in to dinner and we will play the attentive guests—but never doubt for one moment what I intend for us to do later, once we can excuse ourselves. I shall spend the evening feasting on the sight of your kiss-bruised lips, mia bella. I shall be imagining the feel of your naked skin next to mine—and I shall be cursing that infernal bell for not ringing a few minutes later, when I should have been safely inside you and when no power on earth could have separated us!’

  The sexual boast should have horrified her, but it did no such thing. It started her pulse racing and that melting feeling came to the pit of her stomach again. But Natasha hid it with a look of outrage. Because anger was a lot safer than showing how vulnerable you felt inside.

  ‘Will you take me in to dinner?’ she said quietly.

  Or what? he wondered. For a moment he was tempted to test her. But something in her eyes stopped him. A look which lit the light blue with a fierce kind of fire. He had seen that look before—it had been burning there on the night she’d walked into his life: a mixture of defiance and pride.

  ‘Yes, I’ll take you in to dinner,’ he answered. ‘But I cannot wait for it to be over!’ His voice dropped to a husky promise. ‘Because once it is over we both know what will happen.’

  If it hasn’t been for the brittle tension which seemed to radiate from his powerful frame she might have challenged him on that—but she didn’t dare. Not least because she was afraid that he was right and that she wasn’t going to be able to resist him.

  And since when had she treated her impending introduction to a Middle-Eastern potentate so casually? Had she completely lost her senses as well as her heart? ‘What am I supposed to call the Sheikh?’ she questioned anxiously, smoothing at her hair and wondering if it looked a complete mess.

  ‘You can address him by his first name—once he gives you permission to do so.’ He paused.

  ‘And your hair looks wonderful.’

  She pushed the remark aside as a servant suddenly materialised from one of the side-rooms, bowed and gestured that they should follow him. Natasha found herself wondering how much he had overheard as they climbed a staircase to the very top of the building. But all her doubts were dissolved when they walked onto the rooftop terrace and a scene awaited her which looked like something out of the Arabian Nights.

  Polished lamps were burning and softly buffed bronze tables stood before low divans scattered with cushions in gold and burgundy and rich saffron. Beneath them the city lay spread out—the lighted bustle of the main square contrasting with the soaring floodlit monuments and the dark, twisting streets of the Souk. Above them was an indigo ceiling of star-studded sky, with a crescent moon shining like white-gold, and Natasha ’s impression was of so many different shades of light that she was dazzled by it all.

  And then she heard the whisper of someone approaching and became aware of the focussed activity of yet more servants, trailing in the wake of the imperious character who now swept onto the terrace. He was clothed in shimmering robes and a headdress covered his autocratic head. The dark searchlight of his eyes swept over her, burning with curiosity.

  Instinct told her to bow and then she raised her eyes and waited for the Sheikh to address her.

  ‘And who is this?’ Waving an imperious hand to dismiss the servants, he spoke to Raffaele, as if she had no voice of her own.

  ‘This is Natasha .’

  ‘Ah.’ The Sheikh’s eyes were like pieces of jet. ‘Your fiancée?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The Sheikh surveyed her thoughtfully—as if, Natasha thought with slight indignation, she were some object for sale in the marketplace! But maybe that was how he’d been brought up to think, she reasoned.

  ‘You realise how many women would long to be in your shoes?’ he questioned softly.

  ‘I count my blessings daily,’ said Natasha demurely, and to her surprise, the Sheikh gave a shout of laughter, though Raffaele’s
eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

  ‘And what of your sister?’ questioned the Sheikh, his voice suddenly and unexpectedly soft.

  ‘I understand from my aides that she is unwell?’

  Raffaele nodded, acknowledging that this powerful ruler had some of the most thorough information-gatherers in the world. ‘She is having the best treatment available—and now her doctors inform me that she is making good progress. I spoke to her this morning, and I haven’t heard her sound so upbeat for a long time.’

  The Sheikh nodded. ‘That is excellent. Natasha—you must call me Zahid, not Highness. And now—let us be seated.’ He flicked a look of barely veiled annoyance at a surprisingly modern watch, which seemed a little out of place when contrasted with his very regal and traditional robes. ‘We cannot begin dinner until our final guest arrives, but we shall have something to drink in the meantime. You will take champagne, perhaps?’

  Natasha shook her head, tempted, but knowing that she mustn’t. She would need all wits about her if she was planning to resist Raffaele—and it was imperative for her sanity that she did. Her sensibilities must not be changed or softened by the introduction of alcohol.

  ‘I would prefer something soft, if you have it…Zahid,’ she said shyly.

  Raffaele watched while Zahid beamed his approval and clapped his hands together in his most sheikish manner. Was Natasha just being extremely disingenuous—or was she aware that Zahid’s upbringing meant that he rarely if ever took alcohol?

  Or was she simply afraid of the effect that alcohol might have on her and her decision-making? Raffaele felt a beat of heat and of satisfaction. No. Not a drop of any intoxication had passed her lips when he had so very nearly made love to her in that darkened alcove before dinner.

  A tray of heavy red goblets was carried in, and another containing small dishes of different nuts, and Raffaele watched with a mixture of bemusement and aching frustration as Natasha began to open up under Zahid’s unusually gentle questioning.

  He had never really seen her in this light before—but then, why would he have? Until recently he had never really looked at her at all—and, yet, now that fact seemed inconceivable. In her long gown she managed to look both modest and extremely sexy—but that shouldn’t really surprise him, either. She was a woman in her twenties, with clear skin and sparkling eyes, her figure firm and fertile.

  The ache inside him intensified, and suddenly it became about more than just fulfilling his sexual hunger. Raffaele found himself watching with something almost like jealousy as he saw Natasha smiling at a remark the Sheikh had made. Was the desert Prince flirting with her?

  But, at that moment, the fourth guest arrived, and Raffaele rose to his feet, noticing that Zahid did not—that, in fact, he barely flicked the new arrival a glance.

  The woman who entered noiselessly on sandalled feet was not the blonde goddess-type usually favoured by the Sheikh. Her hair was deep brown and her face pale.

  Zahid looked up. ‘You are late.’

  The brunette shot him a reproving glance. ‘Forgive me,’ she said lightly. ‘Zahid—aren’t you going to introduce us?’

  He frowned. ‘This is Raffaele de Feretti, a business colleague, and his fiancée, Natasha—’

  ‘Phillips,’ butted in Natasha hastily realising that Raffaele probably didn’t know.

  Zahid nodded. ‘This is Francesca.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Francesca, and smiled.

  There was, Natasha realised, no explanation as to who Francesca was, or her relationship to Zahid. He hadn’t even given Francesca’s surname! But why would a sheikh need to explain himself if he didn’t want to?

  All Natasha knew was that Francesca appeared to be completely oblivious to Zahid’s quietly simmering anger. Was he mad because she had been late, perhaps? Even Natasha knew that you were never supposed to arrive after a royal personage.

  But Natasha’s awareness of Zahid’s displeasure was quickly displaced by her own growing feelings of confusion. On the one hand she was finding it ridiculously easy to converse with the eastern ruler and the enigmatic Francesca—but on the other she was becoming acutely aware of Raffaele watching her. And—try as she might—she couldn’t seem to stop her body from responding to that very calculated scrutiny. Did he realise that he was making her skin tingle and her breasts feel heavy and aching? As if they wanted nothing more than to be touched and kissed by him. Did he know that he was awakening memories of the way he had made her feel when his lips and his hands had been familiarising themselves with her body?

  But even if he knew all that he would certainly not be aware of how he had captured her heart without even trying to.

  She felt its beat quicken with the awareness that her love for him burned as strong as ever—

  but along with the raw sting of unwanted emotion came the equally insistent demands of her body, which were making her feel weak with unwelcome longing. She felt debilitated by it, as if she wanted to squirm and wriggle and have everyone in the room just disappear as if by magic and for Raffaele to stride over to her and pin her to the ground and…and…

  Natasha hastily crossed one leg over the other—which wasn’t terribly easy when you were sitting on a floor-cushion wearing a long dress.

  But Raffaele knew of her agitation. She was certain of that, from the way those black eyes were silently sending her sizzling messages of sexual intent. The way that his teeth bit slowly down on the full cushion of his bottom lip. Did he realise that she was imagining him biting down onto her mouth in just the same way as that?

  ‘Natasha? You will eat some of this mango sorbet?’ asked Francesca. ‘You’ve barely touched your supper.’

  ‘Natasha has little appetite,’ observed Raffaele softly, his black eyes alight with mischief. ‘I wonder why.’

  Aware that everyone was looking at her, Natasha took the dish that was being offered to her.

  At least the sorbet was deliciously icy—cooling down the heated clamour of her senses. She was acutely conscious of the fact that time was ticking away inexorably and that soon there would be no reason not to go back to the huge suite she was sharing with Raffaele. And then what?

  Somehow she managed to get through the rest of the meal—nibbling at all the sweet delicacies which were brought in on beautiful dishes garnished with exotic flowers.

  The Sheikh briefly shut his eyes, and Natasha thought how tired he looked. As if echoing her thoughts, Zahid rose to his feet. ‘You will forgive me if I retire.’ His black eyes were like chips of stone in the hawklike face as he glanced down at Francesca.

  ‘Come,’ he clipped out.

  There was a momentary hesitation before Francesca stood up gracefully and gave Raffaele and Natasha a quick, forced smile.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she murmured, and then she too was gone, in a drift of filmy rose-pink fabric.

  The silence seemed immense.

  Natasha didn’t know where to look, what to do, how to behave—but it seemed that Raffaele had no such reservations, for his movements were decisive.

  Walking over to her, he bent to catch her hand in his, drawing it up to his mouth and touching his lips to her trembling fingers, his eyes never leaving her face.

  ‘Bed, Tasha?’ he questioned silkily.

  Her heart thundered as he pulled her to her feet. Because, unless she decided to sleep here, it seemed she didn’t really have any alternative. Were she and Francesca really the same woman—just a warm body suitable for the needs of a highly sexed and powerful man?

  ‘Okay,’ she said, trying to express a reluctance she couldn’t seem to feel.

  You don’t have to do anything—not a single thing, she told herself fiercely, as she followed him down the seemingly endless staircase and back to their suite.

  And the door closed softly behind them.

  Chapter 11

  His black eyes narrowing, Raffaele observed the look on Natasha’s face as she stared at him across the bedroom. No one would have believed that this was the same woma
n who had been gasping for pleasure in his arms earlier. Now she was watchful. Cautious. Her body language shrieking Stay away!

  He gave a half-smile. ‘Well, I don’t know about you—but I’m exhausted.’ Kicking off his shoes, he yawned and then headed towards his bathroom—but not before he had seen her fleeting expression of astonishment. The half-smile became even more wry. Did she really imagine that he was some kind of crass individual who would leap on her when she was very definitely sending out messages that she wanted no such thing?

  But he was aching as he showered and he was hard. He pulled on a pair of silk boxers and went back into the bedroom.

  As he had suspected she would be, Natasha was already tucked up on one side of the huge bed, the linen sheet held up chastely to her chin, her eyes closed as she feigned sleep. He stood watching her for a moment.

  ‘I know you’re awake, cara,’ he said softly. ‘You want me to sleep on the divan?’

  Natasha’s eyes snapped open, and then she wished they hadn’t—because the sight of Raffaele’s honed olive body wearing nothing but a pair of shiny dark pants was playing havoc with her equilibrium. She’d never realised quite what a magnificently athletic physique he had—but why would she have? She’d never seen him practically naked before.

  Yet, though she’d always been taught it was rude to stare, she couldn’t seem to help herself, and it was impossible to tear her eyes away from the shafts of his powerful thighs, the broad shoulders and the perfectly defined chest.

  His lips curved into a smile which was almost cruel, but the ache within in him was an exquisite agony. ‘I asked you a question, bella.’

  Natasha blinked, dazed by his proximity and the hammering of her heart. ‘You…you did?’

  ‘I asked whether you wanted me to sleep over there.’ He glanced rather contemptuously at the velvet-covered divan.

  Beneath the sheet, she shrugged her shoulders restlessly. ‘It doesn’t really seem fair, does it?

  I mean, it looks very uncomfortable.’ She met the unhelpful look in his black eyes.

  ‘Perhaps…’