by Lynne Graham
‘And you have to do whatever I ask?’ he prompted.
A small smile lifted her lips. ‘Well, not quite.’ She couldn’t suppress the teasing quality from her voice. ‘I can’t cook and I don’t know any jokes, but when it comes to facilitating your requests, then yes, I do whatever is humanly possible to make them happen.’
‘And that’s your employment.’
‘Yes.’
He sipped the tea without taking his dark eyes off her. Ordinarily, she would have taken that opportunity to leave, but there was a contradiction within this man that had her saying, ‘I would have thought you’d be used to that degree of service.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because you travel with an entourage of forty men, all of whom it would appear exist to serve your every whim?’
Another sip of his tea. ‘Yes, this is their job. I am King, and in my country serving the royal family is a great honour.’
Something tweaked in the back of her brain. A memory from a news article she’d read a couple of weeks ago. His father had died. Recently.
Compassion moved through her, and empathy, because she could vividly remember the pain of that loss. Five years ago, when her mother had died, she had felt as if she’d never be whole again. In time, day by day, she’d begun to feel more like herself, but it was still a work in progress. She felt her mother’s absence every day.
It was that understanding that had her saying something she would normally not have dared. ‘I’m sorry, about your father. Losing a parent is…we know it’s something we should expect, but I don’t think anything really prepares us for what life without them will be like.’
His eyes jolted to hers, widening in his face, so she immediately regretted her familiarity. He was a king, for goodness’ sake, and her job was to bring the tea!
Dipping her head forward, she found she couldn’t meet his eyes. ‘If that’s all, sir, goodnight.’ She didn’t wait for his answer; turning away from him, she strode to the concealed door. Her hand was on it when he spoke.
‘Wait.’
She paused, her heart slamming against her ribcage.
She didn’t turn around, though.
‘Come back here.’
Her pulse was like a torrent in her veins.
She turned to face him. He was watching her. Her heart rate accelerated to the point of, surely, danger.
‘Yes, sir?’
A frown etched itself across his face. ‘Sit.’ He gestured to the sofas. ‘Drink tea with me.’
A million reasons to say ‘no’ came to her. Not once in all the time she’d held this job had she come close to socialising with a guest. For one thing, it was completely forbidden in her contract.
This is a professional establishment. They are not our friends. They are guests at the most exclusive hotel in the world.
But that wasn’t the only reason she was resisting his invitation.
He was too much. Too charming, too handsome, too completely masculine, and if her first, epic failure of a marriage had taught her anything, it was that men who were too handsome for their own good were not to be trusted.
‘I insist.’ His words cut through her hesitations, because, ultimately, he was asking her to join him for tea and surely that was within her job description? What the guests wanted, the guests got—within reason.
‘I don’t see how that will help you sleep,’ she reminded him, gently.
His expression was like a whip cracking. ‘Are you refusing?’
Panic had her shaking her head.
Keep the guest happy, at all costs.
‘Of course not, sir.’ She was already walking through the room, towards the sofas. Only one cup had been on the tray—besides, she didn’t feel like persimmon tea. But she took a seat near the tray, her hands clasped neatly in her lap. And she waited for him to speak, her nerves stretching tighter and tighter with every silent beat that passed.
‘Good.’ His nod showed approval but it was hardly relaxing. The differences in their situations were apparent in every way. He was a king, his country renowned for its natural source of both oil and diamonds, making it hugely prosperous, with a chequered history of power-play as foreign forces sought to control both these natural resources for their own financial gain. Perhaps that explained the natural sense of power that exuded from every pore of his; he was a man born to rule a country that required a strong leader.
‘Would you like a tea?’
‘I think it would be rude to refuse,’ she said quietly, but he heard, if the quirk of his brow was anything to go by.
‘I have no interest in force-feeding you drinks native to my country. Would you prefer something else? Room service?’
The idea of anyone else seeing her sitting on the sofa talking to the Sheikh was impossible to contemplate.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re sitting there as though you’re half afraid I’m going to bite you.’
A small smile lifted Daisy’s mouth. ‘How should I be sitting, sir?’
He took the seat opposite, his own body language relaxed. His legs, long and muscled, were spread wide, and he lifted one arm along the back of the sofa. He looked so completely at home here, in this world of extreme luxury. That was hardly surprising, given he’d undoubtedly been raised in this kind of environment.
‘However you would usually sit,’ he prompted.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, the words quizzical rather than apologetic. ‘It’s just this has never happened before.’
‘No?’
‘My job is to provide for your every need without actually being noticed.’
At that, his eyes flared wider, speculation colouring his irises for a heart-racing moment. ‘I’m reasonably certain it would be impossible for you to escape anyone’s notice.’
Heat rose in her cheeks, colouring them a pale pink that perfectly offset the golden tan of her complexion. She wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she stayed quiet.
‘Have you worked here long?’
She compressed her lips then stopped when his eyes followed the gesture, tracing the outline of her mouth in a way that made her tummy flip and flop.
‘A few years.’ She didn’t add how hard that had been for her—to finally accept that her long-held dream of attending the Juilliard was beyond reach, once and for all.
‘And always in this capacity?’
‘I started in general concierge.’ She crossed her legs, relaxing back into the seat a little. ‘But about six months later, I was promoted to this position.’
‘And you enjoy it?’
Of their own accord, her eyes drifted to the view of New York and her fingers tapped her knee, as if playing across the keys of the beloved piano she’d been forced to sell. ‘I’m good at it.’ She didn’t catch the way his features shifted, respect moving over his face.
‘How old are you?’
She turned back to face him, wondering how long he intended to keep her sitting there, knowing that it was very much within her job description to humour him even when this felt like an utterly bizarre way to spend her time.
‘Twenty-four.’
‘And you’ve always lived in America?’
‘Yes.’ She bit down on her lower lip thoughtfully. ‘I’ve actually never even been overseas.’
His brows lifted. ‘That’s unusual, isn’t it?’
She laughed softly. ‘I don’t know. You tell me?’
‘It is.’
‘Then I guess I’m unusual. Guilty as charged.’
‘You don’t have any interest in travelling?’
‘Not having done something doesn’t necessarily equate to a lack of interest,’ she pointed out.
‘So it’s a lack of opportunity, then?’
He was rapier sharp, quickly able to read between the lines of anything she said.
‘Yes.’ Because there was no point in denying it.
‘You work too much?’
‘I work a lot,’ she confirm
ed, without elaborating. There was no need to tell this man that she had more debt to her name than she’d likely ever be able to clear. Briefly, anger simmered in her veins, the kind of anger she only ever felt when she thought about one person: her waste-of-space ex-husband Max and the trouble he’d got her into.
‘I thought you were guaranteed vacation time in the United States?’
Her smile was carefully constructed to dissuade further questioning along these lines, but, for good measure, she turned the tables on him. ‘And you, sir? You travel frequently, I presume?’
His eyes narrowed as he studied her, and she had the strangest feeling he was pulling her apart, little by little, until he could see all the pieces that made her whole.
She held her breath, wondering if he was going to let the matter drop, and was relieved when he did.
‘I do. Though never for long, and not lately.’ His own features showed a tightness that she instinctively understood spoke of a desire not to be pressed on that matter.
But despite that, she heard herself say gently, ‘Your father was ill for a while, before he died?’
The man’s face paled briefly. He stood up, walking towards the window, his back rigid, his body tense. Daisy swallowed a curse. What was she thinking, asking something so personal? His father had just died—not even a month ago. She had no business inviting him to open that wound—and for a virtual stranger.
‘I’m so sorry.’ She stood, following him, bitterly regretting her big mouth. ‘I had no right to ask you that. I’m sorry.’ When he didn’t speak, she swallowed, and said, quietly, ‘I’ll leave you in peace now, Your Highness.’
Copyright © 2020 by Clare Connelly
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ISBN-13: 978-1-488-05857-8
Second-Time Bride
First published in 1996. This edition published in 2020.
Copyright © 1996 by Lynne Graham
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