Never Seduce a Sheikh (International Bad Boys Book 2)

by Jackie Ashenden

  In the robes of the desert tribes, she looked like a queen.

  Her head lifted and she turned, dark eyes meeting his. And he allowed himself a certain sense of masculine satisfaction as those dark eyes widened.

  “You are stunned by my magnificence I see, Ms. Harkness.”

  “Stunned would be going a little far. Surprised, is perhaps more accurate. I didn’t realize you would be in traditional dress too.”

  “But of course. I am their ruler and it is proper to do so at such occasions.”

  She gave him another glance, her cheeks flushing slightly. “I’m not sure what I’m wearing is traditional.”

  “It is not.” He stepped into the tent, letting the flap slide close behind him.

  Lily’s gaze was cool. “And why is that? I thought adhering to tradition was important?”

  He’d been very deliberate when he’d chosen the robes to take out to the desert with them. Oh, the chiefs would find nothing to complain about in her dress, he’d made sure of that. But after seeing the response of his ministers to her the night before, he’d decided that capitalizing on the advantages she did have wouldn’t go amiss. Being female could work in her favor if she played it right.

  “My government was impressed by you last night. And not just because you are an astute businesswoman, Ms. Harkness. They were also impressed by your beauty.”

  Her jaw tightened. “My looks or otherwise should have no bearing on the deal.”

  “No, they should not. But they do, and to pretend otherwise would be naïve.” He walked over to her. “You should use the fact that you are female to your advantage, in other words.”

  “There is no advantage in being female, Sheikh,” Lily said. “Especially when you keep telling me it’s a hindrance.”

  “It is only a hindrance if you let it become one.”

  She snorted, turning away to the mirror that sat on the dresser. “So, what? You want me to flirt and charm again? Or would the dumb blonde look be more appropriate?”

  He studied her face in the mirror as she fiddled around with the scarf. “That is not what I meant and you know it.”

  “Tell me what you do mean then, Sheikh.”

  He came closer, standing behind her, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “The chiefs respect strength, but they also admire beauty. You already have a sharp, incisive business mind and this will surprise them. Even more so, if they are already taken off-guard by your beauty and charm.”

  Her gaze flickered to his then away again, her hands fussing with the scarf as she tried winding around her head. She didn’t say anything.

  “Why do you find that idea so uncomfortable?” he asked softly.

  “Being a woman in the oil industry isn’t easy and playing on the fact that you’re female only makes it worse.” This time her gaze in the mirror held his and there was no flinching away. “It makes you a target. And I am not a target.”

  Isma’il went still at the look in her eyes. “That sounds like the voice of experience. Have you been made a target before, Lily?”

  Her mouth went tight. “No,” she said flatly, in a tone that brooked no argument. “I have not.”

  A tense silence fell.

  She finally looked away from him again, fingers fumbling with the silk, and he thought about pressing the issue, asking her for more, because she was definitely holding something back, he was certain of it.

  But to do so now would hardly be fair, when she had a tent full of tribal chiefs to confront.

  Instead he said quietly, “You know business. You know competition. Surely using any advantage you have over the rest of the field is part of that?”

  She paused, the scarf held awkwardly in her hands. “You sound almost as if you want me to get the deal?”

  “Perhaps I do.” He took a step closer. “Here, let me tie that.”

  Lily’s posture tensed and for a minute he thought she might refuse. But then her hands dropped away. “Be my guest.”

  Isma’il reached for the silk, beginning to wind it around her head. His fingers brushed her hair and it felt even softer than her scarf. She remained utterly still, but he could sense the tension in her, her back rigid. Yet she didn’t pull away like she had in the palace.

  Her gaze in the mirror was level. A challenging look.

  A crackling electricity sparked as his fingers brushed her hair yet again and he felt desire stir, gripping on tight. He wanted to push his fingers through the cool strands, stroke the vulnerable nape of her neck.

  Unbidden, the words of his minister the night before caught in his memory.

  She would make a fine sheikha, your Highness . . .

  For a second, all he could see was their reflection in the mirror. How she stood in front of him, so tall in her golden robes, regal as a queen. A physical match for him in every way.

  Yes, she would make a fine sheikha. But not for him.

  Lily Harkness would never be the type of woman he could have for a wife. She was too challenging, too strong. She stirred the darkness. Made it hungry.

  A darkness that could never be allowed to rise again.

  Isma’il tied her headscarf, made himself stand back from her.

  “Come Ms. Harkness,” he said softly. “We have a banquet to attend.”

  Chapter Five

  Lily sat cross-legged at the low table that stretched the length of the tent, trying to pay attention to the black-robed chief, who sat on one side of her, all the while, bitterly conscious of the man who sat on the other.

  The Sheikh of Dahar.

  She could still feel his hands in her hair, fingers moving lightly as he’d tied the scarf around her head. She’d held herself so still, not wanting to betray for even a second the way her heart had hammered inside her chest. Or how her breathing had quickened. And all because he’d stood close, making her achingly aware, all of a sudden. Aware of herself as a woman and of him as a man.

  The chief next to her had begun talking in halting English, the only one in the tent full of men who could, and she barely understood him, but nevertheless tried her best, focusing her attention on his voice amongst the hubbub of general conversation, the sound of Arabic liquid in the air.

  Better that than thinking about the man who sat on the other side of her in the traditional robes of a sheikh. A white tunic and loose white pants, a flowing black robe over the top, a white scarf wrapped around his head and held in place by a black rope that glittered with metallic thread.

  She’d been shocked when he’d first appeared in her tent earlier that evening. Transformed from the urbane, charming man in the tuxedo, he’d become someone different. Exotic. Infinitely more powerful and far, far more dangerous. As if the suit had been a thin veneer of civilization, a mask hiding the true, dark heart of the man wearing it. A man with all the fierce, hard beauty of the desert itself in his face.

  Lily’s mouth felt dry, her heart beating fast. Too fast.

  Stop thinking about him. You have a job to do. A deal to close.

  She forced Isma’il out of her head, trying to keep her attention on the job at hand.

  He’d told her to use the fact she was a woman to her advantage. And, as galling as it was, he was right. Figuring out what your advantages were and using them was good business. It had been the same in the pool. If you had a weakness, you either made it your strength, or you excised from your life.

  Excising her sex was naturally impossible, but she’d been trying her damnedest to negate it. In the past, in other business situations that had worked. But not here. Which made his suggestion of making it work in her favor, the only other option. She didn’t like it, but then again, she’d seen how well the men of Isma’il’s court had responded to her back in the palace. It did make sense to do the same thing here.

  The chief beside her asked her something about her husband. Lily inwardly gritted her teeth and made some comment about waiting for the right man. The conversation she’d had back at the palace replayed itself with the chief offe
ring her several potential husband candidates, while she smiled at him until her face ached.

  He said something in Arabic and someone else said in her ear, “You have a conquest, Ms. Harkness.”

  Lily went still, her heart racing. Isma’il’s breath felt warm, even through the thin silk of her headscarf. Insanity to be so conscious of him. It made no sense. She hadn’t ever met a man she’d wanted in a physical sense and why this sheikh should be different, she had no idea.

  Not that she wanted him, because she didn’t. She didn’t.

  “Do I?” Her voice sounded cool. Thank God.

  “Indeed. He thinks you are graceful and beautiful.” A slight pause. “And well mannered.” Faint amusement warmed his tone, sending a frisson of something Lily couldn’t identify straight down her spine. Instinctively, she turned to look at him. The color of his eyes seemed almost shocking against bronze skin and black lashes. Framed by the white cotton of his headscarf, the intense blue-green stole her breath.

  “In fact,” he went on, “everyone has been commenting on your grace and poise. They have been admiring you all evening. You are doing well.”

  A ridiculous sliver of warmth went through her at the compliment. She tried to ignore it. “Thank you,” she said, trying not to sound stiff.

  “My suggestion was a good one was it not?”

  “Playing the female card you mean?”

  “Yes. You have allayed quite a few fears regarding . . . ” he paused, tilting his head a little “ . . . western females.” More amusement glinted in the depths of his astonishing eyes, an invitation for her to share it.

  And she wanted to. For some insane reason, she wanted to.

  At that moment an explosion of noise and color erupted from one end of the tent as a group of people entered. The assembled chiefs began to smile, clapping as a group of men with traditional instruments arranged themselves in one corner while two women, swathed in black robes, dropped their coverings to reveal brightly embellished costumes glittering with beads and coins, and trailing scarves.

  Belly dancers.

  The women took up their positions and then, as the music began, they danced, stamping their feet, hips moving to the beat, their armsa graceful curve above their head. The dancers were beautiful, scarves whirling around their lush bodies, the undulation of their hips an inherently sensual movement. The assembled tribesmen began to respond, smiling and laughing, clapping and cheering.

  Lily felt her whole body tense, a sense of threat closing in on her. The men were watching the women and she could see the lust in their faces. She knew what they wanted. What men always wanted from women—sex. And these men, men in positions of power, they would take it. Because that’s what those kind of men always did.

  Words of warning flooded her mouth, because the dancers didn’t seem to be afraid. They didn’t see the threat. They were smiling, teeth white against golden skin, dark eyes flashing with sensual promise. Almost as if they were enjoying themselves.

  One of them pulled up one of the older chiefs to dance, everyone in their vicinity cheering, and Lily wanted to get up and stop her. Ask her if she knew what she was doing. Ask her if she understood that men such as these could not be trusted.

  “What is wrong?” Isma’il’s voice close to her ear.

  A shiver went through her, intensifying the sense of threat, paralyzing her. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t find her voice to speak. The dancers were beautiful. Sensual.

  Sexual.

  “Don’t blame me for this, Lil.” Dan’s voice heavy with drunken anger. “It’s your own damn fault, wandering around in a wet swimsuit half the time. Everything on show. I’m not bloody made of stone you know.”

  “Lily?” Isma’il asked, softer this time.

  The dancer stopped next to her, holding out a hand. The woman was smiling, obviously enjoying herself. Utterly comfortable with her sensuality. As if there was nothing wrong with being nearly naked in a tent full of men.

  “She wants you to dance,” Isma’il prompted.

  Panic flooded through Lily, a primitive fight or flight reflex triggering. She couldn’t get up there before all these men. She couldn’t put herself on show like that. The dancers may not know what men were capable of but she was. She knew exactly.

  Lily surged to her feet. But not to take the hand the woman held out.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t,” she said hoarsely. “Please excuse me.”

  Then she turned and walked out of the tent.

  * * *

  Isma’il only just stopped himself from calling out after her as Lily fled. To do so would make him appear weak, not to mention indicate the fact that something was amiss and he could not do either in front of the chiefs. But he could see the frowns registering on the men’s faces at Lily’s abrupt exit. To leave in the middle of a banquet without even an excuse or a request for permission was disrespectful. They would see it as disrespect for their ruler too.

  The dancer looked confused. To have her invitation refused was rude and the girl clearly didn’t expect it.

  Allowing no trace of his anger to show, Isma’il smoothly handled the situation, reassuring the dancer and excusing Lily’s behaviour to the chiefs. The heat, gentlemen. Westerners are unused to it, ladies in particular. This seemed to be acceptable and the dancing continued, discussion resuming. No harm done for the moment.

  He rose to his feet, making sure to keep the movement measured, controlling the fury that burned inside him. Hadn’t he told her what was expected of her just before the banquet? Hadn’t she listened to a word he said?

  Leaving the tent himself was not ideal, but he had to get Lily to return to present her apologies for her rudeness. Not to do so would be noted and held against her, jeopardizing the goodwill of the chiefs and putting into doubt Harkness’ suitability for the contract. He could not let that happen. Not only would it reflect badly on him, but then he would be left with two other contenders who, if he were totally honest with himself, did not compare with Harkness. And that wasn’t only due to his growing attraction to Harkness’s beautiful CEO.

  Isma’il stepped outside the tent. A couple of his security team came to attention, but he waved them away, scanning around for Lily’s tall figure. Eventually, he spotted her not far away, near the little stand of palms at the center of the camp, her head bent.

  He walked over to her, keeping the anger inside, the fury very carefully at bay.

  “You left.” It came out harsh but he made no attempt to soften his voice. “Did I not tell you that you need to remain in the tent for the duration of the banquet?”

  “I’m sorry.” Her usual cool tones sounded worn and frayed. “I just . . . needed some air.”

  An excuse. His anger leapt and he took a step towards her, unable to stop himself. “It is not me you need to apologize to. Your departure was rude and disrespectful and has undone the good impression you made earlier.”

  Her mouth tightened, the skin drawn tight over her lovely features. “Did I offend the dancer?”

  “You offended everyone.”

  Abruptly, she looked away and in the light coming from the tent, he saw color burning on the pale skin of her cheeks. “I’ll apologize.”

  “Of course you will. And you will also explain yourself to me. Because you are not the only one who has been made to look bad by your actions.”

  “I don’t have to give you any—”

  “I will have an explanation, Lily, and I will have it now.”

  The color on her cheeks burned brighter, the cool mask she so often wore slipping to reveal something dark glittering in her eyes. Anger. “I didn’t like the dancing,” she said, the words clipped and short. “I just . . . ” she stopped, her mouth closing with a snap as if she’d said too much.

  He stared at her, not understanding. “Why would the dancing offend you? You have belly dancers in the West do you not?”

  “Yes but the way those men were looking at them. Those women were just objects to be leered a
t and lusted after.” Her jaw tightened. “I didn’t like it and I didn’t want to be part of it.”

  He tried to contain his anger, keep it within the iron boundaries of his control. “You are self-righteous, Ms. Harkness. The men in that tent were not treating those dancers as objects. Yes, they were enjoying the dancers’ beauty, but they were also admiring their skill. Grabbing or touching, or leering is considered shameful. Unlike men in the West.”

  Her lashes came down, veiling her gaze. But not before he saw something else lurking in her eyes. Something that looked like fear.

  Unthinking, he took another step towards her. “This is not just about the dancing is it? There is more to it than that.”

  Lily folded her arms across her chest, turning her face away. She said nothing.

  “Your explanation,” he ordered. “Give it to me.”

  For a long moment she didn’t move. Then her shoulders went back and her chin lifted. Her head turned, dark eyes meeting his like a prize-fighter measuring up a challenger.

  “You want an explanation? Very well. Years ago, I was assaulted.” Her voice was hard, flat and emotionless. “Sexually assaulted to be exact. So forgive me if I find women being objectified by a room full of men a little difficult to handle.”

  Icy shock slid down his spine. A man had hurt her. In a way a man should never hurt a woman. A way a man should never hurt anyone.

  His anger, already hot, leapt like a bonfire doused with petrol, the darkness rising behind his eyes, demanding blood. The blood of her attacker.

  “Who?” His voice had gone hoarse, violence like acid in his blood. “Who did that to you? How? When?”

  “My swimming coach. I was sixteen.” She threw out the facts in hard little bursts, like bullets. “The night I won my gold medal. He’d had too much to drink at the celebration party. He tried to kiss me and when I said no, he forced me to kiss him.” Her expression was tight but she didn’t hesitate or flinch. “Then, he touched me.”

  Isma’il’s fingers curled into fists at his sides and he couldn’t seem to get a handle on the rage that gripped him. Her coach. A man she was supposed to trust. A man who’d done this . . . this thing to her. A sixteen-year-old girl.