Uncaging the lion of the desert…
Sheikh Shazim Al Q'Aqabi is horrified to discover that the woman who will execute his late brother's conservation dream is the exotic dancer he encountered in London!
But Isla Sinclair's feisty nature is like a cool glass of water in the desert to the unchallenged ruler. For his entire life, Shazim's only mistress has been duty. Now he's considering a far more pleasurable way to spend his nights under the desert stars.
Yet acting on his desire for such an unsuitable woman would be tantamount to treason! Shazim will have to make the hardest decision of his life…
Celebrating Susan Stephens's 50th book with Harlequin Presents!
Taking hold of her shoulders, Shazim brought her in front of him. The fire he’d made to combat the chill of the desert night crackled on, while the moon beamed down benevolently. Everything was as it should be, but he still got the feeling that everything in his rigidly controlled life was about to change.
‘I think you’d rather be with me, in the tent,’ Isla whispered.
‘Have you learned nothing?’ he demanded, putting her away from him. Impatiently, he toed the cushions into place.
As she reached for him it became clear that she had not. And this time he’d call her bluff.
The air between them was electric as Shazim drew her deeper into his erotic net. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply and shakily as he dipped his head to lightly brush her lips with his. His kiss was like a question: did she want to carry on? Her answer was yes, most certainly.
This time she reached up and laced her fingers through his hair to keep him close. Her senses were full of him. He intoxicated her. He tasted of all things good. He smelled of woodsmoke and sandalwood, and the delicate balance between her fear of physical love and the growing sense that she was safe with him reached tipping point. Realistically, she was in the greatest danger of her life. Shazim’s destiny called him to greater things than a girl by a campfire in the desert. But she had no intention of spending the rest of her life wondering what a night with Shazim would be like.
Dear Reader,
It’s hard to believe this is my 50th romance. I dreamed of writing one. I struggled to write one. My first book took me eighteen months to write. Honing my craft to the point where my story was ready took me two years—probably longer.
Books and stories provide friends to believe in and an introduction to many different, exciting worlds. At school, essay-writing was the lesson I looked forward to more than any other as I anticipated the moment when I would be able to share my dreams. When I began to write in earnest I collected a box of rejections—and threw them out, thinking I was finished with dreaming. How wrong could I be? The last rejection was from an editor at Mills & Boon, but she asked if I had anything else. It took a friend to point it out. What could I lose by submitting one more story?
One thing I’ve learned—one thing I can pass on to you—is never give up. It doesn’t matter what you’re striving for—keep at it. Learn from everything you get wrong, and put right what you can, then forge ahead. That last push might be the one that gets you where you want to be—and that’s when the hard work starts!
Writing is amazing, though frustrating at times, but the reward of friendship across the world—from readers, fellow authors and other publishing professionals—has been a blessing I could never have anticipated.
Thank you all for everything you give to me.
Susan
SUSAN STEPHENS
In the Sheikh’s Service
Susan Stephens was a professional singer before meeting her husband on the Mediterranean island of Malta. In true Harlequin Presents style, they met on Monday, became engaged on Friday and married three months later. Susan enjoys entertaining, travel and going to the theater. To relax she reads, cooks and plays the piano, and when she’s had enough of relaxing she throws herself off mountains on skis, or gallops through the countryside singing loudly.
Books by Susan Stephens
Harlequin Presents
Bound to the Tuscan Billionaire
Master of the Desert
Hot Brazilian Nights!
In the Brazilian’s Debt
At the Brazilian’s Command
Brazilian’s Nine Months’ Notice
Back in the Brazilian’s Bed
The Skavanga Diamonds
Diamond in the Desert
The Flaw in His Diamond
The Purest of Diamonds?
His Forbidden Diamond
The Acostas!
The Untamed Argentinian
The Shameless Life of Ruiz Acosta
The Argentinian’s Solace
A Taste of the Untamed
The Man from Her Wayward Past
Taming the Last Acosta
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
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Thanks to the late Penny Jordan, and to Lucy Mukerjee, my first editor at Harlequin, for believing in me.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Excerpt from Claiming His Wedding Night by Louise Fuller
CHAPTER ONE
A POLE-DANCING CLUB across from the Michelin-starred restaurant where he was dining with his ambassador was an unhappy coincidence. He should have known what to expect when his people booked the ambassador’s favourite table for dinner. This was Soho, London, England, where strip clubs coexisted happily with top-end eateries, but the ambassador was an old friend, and Shazim had fallen in with the old man’s wish to try something new. The downside was that the ambassador’s son had come along too.
Sitting still seemed beyond the edgy thirty-something. Girls dancing in the club across the road had grabbed his attention. It wasn’t just the guy’s blatant lack of good manners Shazim found appalling, but something more nagging at his senses. Whatever happened, he would not allow the ambassador’s son to harass the girls.
‘Have you finished eating?’ The ambassador’s son stared imploringly at him. ‘Can we look in across the road?’
He was like a puppy on a leash. Shazim had to grab a glass to steady it as he lurched away from the table in his hurry to leave the restaurant.
Shazim caught up with him at the door. His security guys hovered. With a look, he ordered his men to stand down.
‘Aren’t you a bit old for this?’ He angled his chin towards the rose-tinted windows of the club, where shadowy forms were undulating back and forth.
By this time the ambassador had joined them, and there was real danger of a scene. ‘Go with him, Shazim,’ the ambassador begged. ‘See that he doesn’t get into trouble, will you? Please? For me?’
Tasking one of his team to escort the elder statesman home, he thrust a bundle of notes into the maître d’s hand and followed the ambassador’s son out of the restaurant.
* * *
Oh, for goodness’ sake! This was ridiculous. Her friend Chrissie wasn’t exactly lacking in the bosom department, but Chrissie wasn’t exactly overabundant, either, Isla fretted
as she attempted to squeeze her ample frontage into the microscopic bikini top.
If someone had asked Isla to name the very last thing on earth she liked to do, it would be to make herself look provocative in front of a room full of men—and there was every reason for that, but Chrissie was a good friend and Chrissie had a family emergency tonight.
The past couldn’t reach out and hurt her, Isla told herself firmly, not unless she allowed it to, and tonight it wouldn’t.
Her mother’s death eighteen months ago had left her shaken to the core, and what had happened directly after the funeral could still send her reeling, but tonight was Chrissie’s night, so she would get on with the job—if she could force her breasts into submission. Turning this way and that, she measured the risk factor of her breasts going one way while she went the other. Here was living proof that no one could squeeze a quart into a pint pot. Nor could they make a plain, stocky woman into a sugarplum fairy overnight. She was a down-to-earth mature student in the veterinary sciences department. Far from being the glamorous type, she usually had grime of unspeakable origins beneath her fingernails. On the plus side, the costume was gorgeous. She loved a bit of twinkle, and the bikini was a deep, rich pink, exquisitely decorated with glittering crystal beads and sequins. It would look fantastic on Chrissie, as it would on any woman with a normal figure, but on Isla’s super-sized, top-heavy figure?
It looked like a sparkling bandage wrapped around a bun.
One of the many jobs Isla had taken in order to pay her fees at the university was to lead a class of enthusiastic children in gymnastics at the university gym, but she wore a sports bra for that, not an unfit-for-purpose sequinned bikini. This was the first time she could remember having a flexible body and the ability to use it being both an advantage and a disadvantage. She would never have agreed to do this if Chrissie’s need hadn’t been greater than Isla’s fear of ever making it seem that she was trying to lead a man on. Once upon an ugly time, that accusation had been cruelly levelled at her, and it had left a lingering doubt.
She had to hope the apprehension she was feeling went away once she lost herself in practising her moves for the Christmas concert at the gym.
Get over yourself and get out there—
She swung around at a knock on the door.
‘Five minutes, please,’ a disembodied male voice informed her.
Five minutes? She’d need five hours to make this disaster fly! She took a last look in the mirror and wished her breasts would shrink.
‘I’ll be there,’ she called out, slipping on her high-heeled shoes with agitated fingers. She’d kick the heels off once she got started, but Chrissie had said first impressions were all-important to the audience, and she had no intention of letting Chrissie down.
* * *
There were certain things that came with ruling a country Shazim could do without. Tolerating the offspring of loyal subjects was one of them. Entering a pole-dancing club in order to prevent the ambassador’s son hitting on one of the girls was another. Most clubs ran a strict ‘no-touch’ policy, but the ambassador’s spawn was the type to do as he pleased and then hide behind diplomatic immunity.
As he negotiated the mass of men in the overheated club, he thought about his elder brother, and the strength it had taken him to wear the yoke of duty. There were a lot of things about being a king that held no appeal.
Shazim had not been trained to be a king, but the tragedy in the desert, for which he held himself responsible, had thrust him into the role, opening his eyes to a burden his brother had carried so lightly. Following his brother’s death, Shazim, the reckless brother, had become poacher turned gamekeeper, and there was no way he would allow shame to fall on his people’s heads because of the ambassador’s son.
‘Can I get you something, sir?’
He eyed the girl. Beautiful. Slender. But with a wary gaze beneath her glossy shell. ‘No. Nothing. Thank you.’ Removing the ambassador’s son from the club with the minimum of fuss was his only goal.
‘A seat, sir?’
He glanced at the second girl. Her eyes were as dead as those of the girl currently working the pole. ‘No, thank you.’ He continued to hone in on his target.
His work in London was crucial, and he would not allow some brash, overindulged diplomat’s son to get in the way of it by attracting adverse publicity. Creating a nature reserve where endangered species could breed safely in their natural habitat required specialist knowledge, and he had found all he could need at the nearby university where he was investing millions in research and new buildings in order to bring his late brother’s dream to reality.
Waving his security team away, he took the ambassador’s son by the arm. The man resisted him with a violent shake and a lot of cursing, but then, realising who he was swearing at, he went limp and began to stutter some excuse that Shazim had no interest in hearing. Ushering him away with a not so subtle warning, he sent him back to daddy with a flea in his ear.
He had intended to follow the ambassador’s son out of the club when something made him stop and look around at the stage where another girl was about to start dancing. She was different from the rest, if only because she was smiling. He felt irritated on her behalf when the man next to him commented, ‘She’s sensational. What a rack—’
There was no denying that the girl was attractive. She was full figured and proud of it. Her skin was honey pale and as smooth as silk, but it was her happy face that held him. She seemed lost in thought, but her uplifting aura was enough to hold every man in the club transfixed as she worked her body enthusiastically on the pole.
Leaning back against a pillar, he stayed to watch. She was skilful and sexy, with both flair and talent, but there was nothing vulgar about her. The men around him had stopped leering, and were staring at her more in wonder than in lust. In another setting, she could have put on the same performance for the Mothers’ Union, and would have held them in the palm of her hand.
With the spotlight firmly fixed on her, Isla was determined to put on the best show possible for Chrissie. There had been one brief disturbance. She had been in the middle of a complicated move—one of several she was trying out for the gym’s Christmas display—when someone was thrown out of the club. Chrissie had warned her this could happen, but had also reassured her that security was tight for the girls, so Isla had nothing to worry about.
At the gym Isla was always lost in her routine, but tonight her attention kept wandering, mainly because of the man who had come to lean against a pillar to stare at her. All the men were staring at her, but he was watching with particular intent.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about him. He was exotic-looking and powerfully built, but unthreatening, possibly because he possessed an unusual air of dignity and presence. Tall and dark, he was beautifully dressed. His crisp white shirt provided a striking contrast to his exquisitely tailored dark suit, and links that might have been black diamonds glittered at his cuffs. As he obviously wasn’t going anywhere she continued on with her routine.
She was safely back in her tiny dressing room when the knock came on the door. ‘Yes? Come in...’
She was halfway changed, with her jeans and boots on, and grabbed a robe to throw over her bra. She was expecting a visitor. One of the girls had promised to drop off Chrissie’s schedule for the next week.
‘Oh!’
Shooting out of her seat when she saw the man, she backed instinctively against the wall with fear lapping over her. It was an old fear, but no less severe for being a haunting memory from the past. One, thankfully failed, sexual assault had left Isla with an instinctive fear of men. That it had happened after her mother’s funeral when her emotions were strung out had made the fall-out all the keener. Dragging in a shaking breath, she reminded herself that security was only a shout away.
‘Forgive me if I startled you,’ the man who had been leaning against the pillar murmured in a deep, intriguingly accented voice. ‘They said I’d find you here.’<
br />
She calmed herself, telling herself rationally that every man wasn’t out to hurt her. She also had to think about Chrissie, who depended on this job. She wasn’t going to make a fuss unless she had to.
And, if she had to, she could shout louder than most.
‘Can I help you?’ she demanded in a tone that sounded scratchy and tense. The man seemed to take up most of the available space in the small room, so there was nowhere else for him to be but close. He was a stunning-looking individual, not that that made it any easier to be alone with him.
‘I wanted to apologise for the disturbance to your act.’ His dark stare remained steady on her face. ‘A man was ejected from the club while you were dancing. You’re very good at your work, and I wanted to say how sorry I am for the interruption.’
‘Thank you.’ Smiling thinly, she reached for the door handle to show him out.
‘May I give you a lift home?’
Her eyes widened in shock. ‘Oh, no, thank you. I catch the bus. But, thank you for the offer.’
‘You catch the bus alone at night?’ he demanded, frowning.
His reaction brought a faint smile to her lips. ‘Public transport in London is quite safe. The bus drops me at my door.’
‘I see.’
He was still frowning, giving her the sense that this was a man who was used to being obeyed.
He might be a devastatingly good-looking individual with an air of command and a custom-made suit, but she was an independent woman who could look after herself.
‘So. No lift?’ he queried, raising a brow as if he thought he could change her mind.
‘No lift,’ she confirmed. She had a keen sense of self-preservation. She always had her bus fare home, and she would be using it tonight.
‘Perhaps I’ll see you again,’ he suggested.
‘Perhaps,’ she agreed lightly. Taking a firmer hold of the door handle, she swung the door wide and stood aside.
‘Goodnight, Isla.’
Alarm bells rang. ‘You know my name?’
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