Never Refuse a Sheikh

by Jackie Ashenden

  The fact that she’d lost him would become real.

  And that, she did not want. Especially that.

  She’d played one last, desperate card, for once not being the one who pushed for more but the one who offered it. Her heart. Her love. And still he hadn’t wanted it. Still he hadn’t let himself take it. Which had left her with nothing more to give.

  She stared at the sheikh’s signet ring sitting on the desktop, sun glinting off it.

  So, she couldn’t have what she truly desired and yet he had given her something else. A choice. A purpose. She could take up the ring and take the throne. Be more than merely a figurehead or a symbol. Be the queen.

  He’d promised her they’d do it together, but that wasn’t going to happen now. She would have to do this on her own. It wasn’t what she wanted and yet …

  Slowly Safira reached out and picked the ring up from the desk. Slid it onto her finger. It was heavy, solid. A reminder of duty, of sacrifice. And yet it also represented the power to change things. To make a difference, to make things better.

  Altair had believed she could do this and she would.

  Safira didn’t know how much time had passed, but finally she stirred herself. Perhaps she’d leave making formal announcements until tomorrow. Give herself at least one night to grieve for something that possibly had never existed in the first place.

  Leaving the office at last, she found Hamiz waiting for her outside and his low bow, for some reason, caused her even more pain. Did this man, Altair’s closest advisor, not even mourn his abdication? Did he not even care? Was her blood so strong that he could give up the man he’d served for five years without even a pang of regret?

  “Your highness,” Hamiz began.

  But she cut him off before he could continue. “Tomorrow, Hamiz. Al-Harah can wait until tomorrow.”

  He inclined his head. “Indeed, your highness.”

  Then she asked, because she could not help herself. “You give your loyalty to me so easily? After so many years with Altair?”

  A tiny flicker of emotion moved through the old advisor’s gaze. “Not so easily, highness. He told me to trust you. And because I trust him, I trust you.”

  For some reason, the pain in her heart eased at little. “Good,” she said. “He … is an excellent ruler. And … and a good man.”

  “Yes, highness. He is.” There was a pity in Hamiz’s eyes that she couldn’t bear.

  “I wish to be left alone for the evening,” she ordered as she turned away. “Tomorrow I will deal with all that needs to be done.”

  Wordlessly Hamiz bowed his head and she walked away, down the echoing corridors to her rooms.

  How strange to walk the same halls she had as a child and naughty, rebellious princess, now as the ruler.

  Your parents would be so proud of you …

  Her heart twisted painfully. She could not think about that. She could not think about him.

  It didn’t matter anyway. All that mattered was that he was gone.

  Inside her apartments, she stripped off the robes she’d worn to make some point, she couldn’t even remember what, and slipped into the huge tiled bath that was part of her suite.

  The water was warm and soothing, and she lay there staring at the beautiful mosaic on the ceiling, the stars and moon of a desert night sky. It reminded her of the oasis and lying outside beside the fire in Altair’s arms …

  Safira closed her eyes, pain turning over inside her. She would have the mosaic torn down. Tomorrow.

  There was no sound and yet somehow the quality of the air in the room changed and she knew all at once that she wasn’t alone.

  Her eyes snapped open, her heart beating wildly, her brain automatically trying to figure out where she’d left her knives. Only to meet a pair of familiar amber eyes staring back at her.

  And they were not cold or hard or remote. They burned like the sun itself.

  She froze, her whole body locking with shock.

  Altair, his desert boots quiet on the tiles, wrenched off his keffiyeh and sank to his knees beside the bath. “Safira.” His voice was hoarse, his knuckles white against the edge of the tub as he gripped it. “I know I should not be here. I know I should not have come back. But I … I cannot leave. I cannot leave you.”

  She was shaking, her throat unable to work, all the words getting stuck somewhere in her chest.

  “I am selfish,” he went on, softly, fiercely. “I am a coward. I am a dog. You asked me whose forgiveness I wanted? I wanted forgiveness from my father. The man who brought me up, who died with your parents.” The strong column of his throat moved as he swallowed. “The man who trusted me to broker that peace. The man whom I failed. And that’s all the past fifteen years of my life have been, trying to earn forgiveness from a dead man.”

  The proud, beautiful lines of his face blurred, her already painful eyes filling with more tears. “It’s not him you need forgiveness from, Altair.”

  “I know. It is myself I need to forgive.” His burning golden gaze searched hers. “But I didn’t know how. Until I realized that if you could forgive me, then anything was possible.”

  Her throat closed. “So that’s all you’re here for? To tell me that?”

  The expression on his face changed, flooded with something hot and bright. “No,” he said fiercely. “I’m here for you.” And he reached for her, his hands sliding over her bare wet skin, pulling her out of the bath and into his arms, holding her so tightly against him she almost couldn’t breathe. But that was all right. Perhaps she didn’t need to.

  “I was wrong,” he whispered into her hair. “Oh, kitten, I was so wrong. My heart has always lied to me, especially about what happened with my father, and I could not believe it. Even though I wanted to, and holy God, how I wanted to.”

  She lifted her head, looking up into his face, relishing the hard strength of his body against hers. “Wanted to believe what? Tell me.”

  The look in his eyes burned hotter. “Believe that I loved you.”

  She shivered as he said the words. “And do you believe it now?”

  “I want to.” He lifted his hands into her hair, pushing the wet strands back from her face. “I do not find it easy to trust anything these days. But I do know I trust you, Safira. I trust your heart.”

  She swallowed. “I can teach you. We can learn together.”

  He smiled that soul-destroying smile of his. “Do you know where I went? To the oasis. I don’t know why, but I went. And by the pool, I realized something. For a long time my father’s words—Tariq’s words—have been the law by which I live. And I did so because I loved him. Because I wanted him to be proud of me.”

  “Oh, Altair,” she whispered, reaching out to cup his jaw, feeling the brush of stubble against her palm. “He would have been proud of you and what you have achieved. So very proud.”

  He turned his head into her touch. “I hope so. But I think that there is a better memorial for him—and for your parents too—than a secure throne.”

  “What?”

  Eyes the color of flames flared bright. “Happiness for their children.”

  Her chest went tight with hope. “What are you saying?”

  “I want you, Safira.” The fierce light in his gaze was undeniable. “I want you more than I have wanted anything in my entire life. But if you have changed your mind and do not want to marry me after all, I will still be here to help whatever you decide. Even if all the help you need is mucking out the stables and grooming your horses.”

  She leaned back in his arms, looked into his face, her heart thundering. “And if I were not Kashgari? What about then? Would you still want me?” The question she’d never had a decent answer to.

  His body was motionless, even his breathing seemed to stop. His golden eyes searched her face. “As long as you are Safira, I don’t care whose blood runs in your veins.”

  Her throat tightened, her eyes prickling. “But I—”

  “It is you I love, kitten.�
�� His arms tightened around her. “Not the princess. Not the sheikha. Believe it.”

  He spoke with such conviction, she’d believe anything.

  She lifted her arms around his neck. “I do believe it. Which means that the offer of my heart is still there.” She rose up on her toes, pressed her mouth against his, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I have not changed my mind, Altair. I want to marry you. I want to rule at your side. I want to do this together, like you promised.”

  “Then we shall,” he said simply.

  Her heart was just about bursting out of her chest and she had to blink hard, refusing to let her tears fall. This was no time for crying. “In that case, I am going to require one thing of you.”

  He smiled, the smile she recognized from their time at the oasis. Warm and bright and just for her. The smile of the man, not the sheikh. “A command from my sheikha?”

  “Indeed. I require that you take me to bed. Right now.”

  Altair laughed, the sound of it washing over her like a caress, making her shiver. “I have been in the desert and I am dusty, and I smell like a horse.”

  “Oh, I don’t care about that. It’ll remind me of home.”

  “Little sand cat. You are very fierce.”

  “I am not a sand cat. I told you, I am a lion.” Safira put her hands on his shirt and ripped it open.

  “You are.” He was still smiling. “So what does that make me?”

  She looked up at him and grinned. “A sheikh.” His hands were gliding down her back, stroking, making her purr. “Actually, no. I have thought of something better.”

  “What is better than a sheikh?”

  “You are.” Safira lifted her hands, buried her fingers in his hair. “Altair is.”

  The look he gave her made her melt at the same time as it sent her up in flames. “I will need some help with being Altair. I haven’t been him for a long time.”

  Slowly, she drew him down. “Then here is your first lesson,” she whispered against his mouth. “Kiss me.”

  And he did.

  The End

  An excerpt from

  Never Seduce a Sheikh

  Jackie Ashenden

  Copyright © 2014

  Outside the tinted windows of the limo, the sun had turned the tarmac of the private airstrip into a molten silver river, glinting off the sleek Lear jet that had only just touched down. Mid-morning in Dahar and already the heat was intense.

  Sheikh Isma’il ibn Khalid al Zahar stared at the aircraft, trying to concentrate on the meeting ahead and not the thick musty scent that still seemed to fill his nostrils. Or the tainted feeling that had crept right into the very marrow of his bones.

  Returning to Dahar and all the memories that lurked in the corridors of the palace had been bad enough, but spending all morning in his father’s office, going through his papers, had been worse. Yet Isma’il couldn’t put aside what needed to be done, purely because of some personal distaste. A month had passed already since the old man’s death and Isma’il’s investiture as sheikh, and the task of rebuilding Dahar couldn’t wait.

  A strange feeling lingered on his fingertips. Turning his hands palm up into the sun, for a second, he thought he saw something. A red stain. Blood maybe?

  He frowned, but when he looked again, there was nothing there.

  Still frowning, Isma’il brushed his hands off with a careful, fastidious movement, wiping the strange feeling away.

  Out on the tarmac, his personal bodyguards had arranged themselves to form a corridor between the limo and the jet. One, held a brightly colored silk parasol in his hand. A courtesy for his guest.

  Isma’il stared at the bright splash of color and in the dark glass of the limo window saw his reflection. Saw the smile on his face. It looked almost savage. Too savage.

  Definitely, he’d been spending far too much time in his father’s office. He was here to greet a potential buyer for Dahar’s oil, not an enemy he intended fight.

  With the ease of long practice, he adjusted his expression, making sure nothing remained but the cool, easy charm that was by now effortless to him. Then, he opened the limo door and stepped out into the blinding heat of the airstrip. His bodyguards snapped to attention, his chief advisor Umar coming immediately to his side.

  The jet’s doorway, however, remained empty.

  “Where is she?” Isma’il was not accustomed to waiting for people and he found he didn’t much like it.

  “I’ll check, your Highness,” Umar assured him, starting towards the plane.

  The man was halfway there, when abruptly a tall figure exited the aircraft. A woman. The woman. Lily Harkness, CEO of Harkness Oil and Petroleum.

  There had been many companies frantic for the rights to Dahar’s lucrative oil reserves and Isma’il had gradually narrowed the field down to three possibilities. He’d already met with the CEOs of two of those possibilities. Harkness Oil was the third. It had been the lead contender, at least until Philip Harkness had retired as CEO and his daughter had taken over.

  His young, unproven and no doubt inexperienced daughter. An appointment that had nepotism written all over it.

  Isma’il leaned back against the hot metal of the car and folded his arms, taking her in.

  He’d been expecting a Daddy’s girl, a pretty little princess stepping into the shoes her father had lovingly prepared for her. But the woman currently descending the metal stairs from the jet’s door to the tarmac below did not look like any princess he’d ever seen.

  Oh, she was blonde, her features precise and lovely. But no princess was ever, surely, that tall. At least six foot. And certainly they didn’t wear blue pant suits that appeared to be tailored to hide every feminine curve. Nor did they stride around on the tarmac in a masculine fashion with a phone glued to their ear, while various flunkeys fluttered around them like butterflies.

  Oh no. Princes did that. Not princesses.

  Isma’il found himself unwillingly intrigued. She was unexpected, he’d give her that. Especially when, she hadn’t even looked his way. Not once. And when was the last time anyone had ignored him so completely? He couldn’t remember. It was difficult, after all, to remain unnoticed when you were six foot five and a sheikh.

  Pushing away from the limo, he straightened, standing at his full height. The bodyguards, several of whom were slightly less at attention than they should have been, instantly did the same.

  Ms. Lily Harkness didn’t seem to notice. She was still barking into her phone like a share trader on a Wall Street trading floor. The hot sun had turned her pale blonde hair, worn in a no-nonsense chignon, almost silver, while her light golden skin had begun to flush in the heat.

  Isma’il gestured to the bodyguard with the parasol. She may not have been a princess, but it had been his experience that women did not like to sweat.

  As the man stepped forward, Lily disconnected the call with a precise stab of her finger. She gestured to the flunkeys, who promptly went back up the stairs and into the jet. Then, and only then, did she finally deign to turn in his direction.

  Eyes the color of dark, bittersweet chocolate looked into his and he experienced the oddest sensation. Like a whisper of static across his skin, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

  Blonde brows—unusual combined with dark eyes—quirked a little in response, but she didn’t look away.

  Interesting. Most of the time, women blushed and either averted their gaze or regarded him with blatant sexual interest when he looked at them. Lily Harkness did none of the above. Instead, she looked at him up and down like a general surveying an approaching army for weaknesses.

  An instinct within him, one that had been long buried, went quiet and still in response—the hunter spotting new and challenging prey.

  She frowned, as if she too had felt something, but didn’t quite know what to make of it. Then, with the merest shrug of her shoulders, she put the phone in her pocket, and strode towards him, leaving the bodyguard trailing in her wake still
trying to get the parasol up.

  “Your Highness,” she said as she approached. “I’m Lily Harkness of Harkness Oil.” She held out her hand. “A very great pleasure to meet you.”

  He did business with many westerners, but none of them strolled up to him and introduced themselves with a handshake. Still fewer, when it was a woman doing the handshaking. And that voice. Coolly confident with a sensual, husky edge. It made him think of things not entirely appropriate for business meetings.

  He took her hand, opened his mouth to speak, but she kept right on going. “I must apologize for keeping you waiting. Some urgent business I had to deal with. I hope you didn’t have to wait too long in this heat?”

  She hoped he didn’t have to wait too long in this heat?

  Isma’il smiled. “Your concern is touching, Ms. Harkness. But as you can see, not only do I have an air-conditioned limo for my comfort, I also have a parasol.”

  Blonde brows twitched. “A parasol?”

  He raised a hand. The bodyguard with the parasol approached along the tarmac.

  She examined the bodyguard. “That’s not yours.”

  “What isn’t? The bodyguard or the parasol?”

  “The parasol.”

  “You’re right. It is not for me. It is for you.”

  “For me?” She frowned in puzzlement, as if the idea that she might need shade was utterly alien to her.

  “Yes. In my experience, many ladies find the heat here a little too much.”

  She lifted a brow. “I think you’ll find I’m not most ladies, your Highness.”

  “I think I am beginning to understand that, Ms. Harkness.”

  At least, she wasn’t like the ladies he knew. The demure, quiet ladies of his court, the soft, feminine curvaceous ones he liked in his bed. No, most definitely not.

  Small beads of sweat had begun to appear on her forehead, though the cool, professional smile she gave him betrayed no discomfort whatsoever. “Excellent. Now, I’ve been looking at the schedule you sent through and, forgive me, but there are a number of issues I’d like to raise.”