Never Seduce a Sheikh (International Bad Boys Book 2) (8 page)

She didn’t want to be treated differently because she was female and a deep part of her rebelled fiercely at the idea. But then, she didn’t want to disrespect a people who had already gone through much due to the actions of the previous sheikh. Neither did she want her actions reflect badly on Isma’il. He’d told her he was trying to heal his country and she believed him. Admired him for it. She knew determination when she saw it—she had the same determination within herself, after all.

“Is there a problem, Ms. Harkness?” he asked softly.

Lily lifted her chin. “Not at all. I’d be happy to wear the robes. Send them to me when you’re ready.”

*     *     *

Isma’il strode across
the expanse of rocky ground between his tent and Lily’s, the traditional robes he wore swirling out behind him, the lanterns strung between the tents sending flickering light into the dense darkness of the desert night. Already the chiefs were gathering in the big banquet tent across the camp, but before he and Lily made their entrance, he wanted a private moment in which to see her in the traditional robes of the tribes. It was important that he check to make sure the chiefs found nothing disrespectful in her dress. That she be above reproach.

At least, that’s what he told himself. But the anticipation that arrowed through him as he approached her tent had nothing to do with the chiefs or checking she was dressed appropriately. He wanted to see how she would look in traditional tribal robes for himself.

Isma’il didn’t care to examine his motivation—there were too many forbidden thoughts if he looked in that direction too closely—but he would allow himself this. After all, there was no harm in merely looking was there?

Reaching the tent’s entrance, he pulled aside the flap.

An electric lamp powered by the mini-generator he’d had his people bring with him, cast a pool of light in the center of the tent. Lily stood in the middle of it, fiddling with a long fall of blue and gold silk.

She wore the robes he’d had delivered to her tent earlier that afternoon. A fitting tunic of deep gold that reached mid-calf, with long, loose sleeves and embroidered all over in metallic thread. Underneath, she wore gold close fitting trousers with gold sandals on her feet.

He stopped, the breath catching in his throat.

Back in the palace, in her golden dress, she’d looked like a goddess.

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.”

L
ily 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 offering 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.