The Sheikh's Undoing (6 page)

For a moment Tariq tensed, as an unwilling sense of identification washed over him. Her childhood sounded sterile and lonely—and wasn’t that territory he was painfully familiar with? The little boy sent far away from home to endure a rigid system where his royal blood made him the victim of envy? And, like her, he had never known what it was to be part of a ‘normal’ family.

Suddenly, he found his voice dipping in empathy. ‘That’s a pretty tough thing to happen,’ he said.

Isobel heard the softness of his tone but shook her head, determined to shield herself from his unexpected sympathy—because sympathy made you weak. It made regret and yearning wash over you. Made you start wishing things could have been different. And everyone knew you could never rewrite the past.

‘It is what it is. Some people have to contend with far worse. My childhood was comfortable and safe—and you can’t knock something like that. Now, would you like some more tea before it gets cold?’ she questioned briskly.

He could tell from the brightness in her voice that she wanted to change the subject, and suddenly he found he was relieved. It had been his mistake to encourage too much introspection—especially about the past. Because didn’t it open up memories which did no one any good?
Memories which were best avoided because they took you to dark places?

He shook his head. ‘No thanks. Just show me which bathroom you want me to use.’

‘Right.’ Isobel hesitated. Why hadn’t she thought of this? ‘The thing is that there’s only one bathroom, I’m afraid.’ She bit her lip. ‘We’re going to have to … well, share.’

There was a pause. ‘Share?’ he repeated.

She met the disbelief in his eyes. He’s a
prince
, she reminded herself. He won’t be used to sharing and making do. But it might do him some good to see how the other half lived—to see there were places other than the luxurious penthouses and palaces he’d always called home.

‘My cottage is fairly basic, but it’s comfortable,’ she said proudly. ‘I’ve never had the need or the money to incorporate an
en-suite
bathroom—so I’m afraid you’ll just have to get used to it. Now, would you like me to show you where you’ll be sleeping?’

Tariq gave a mirthless smile, acknowledging that it was the first time he’d ever been asked that particular question without the involvement of some kind of foreplay. Wordlessly he nodded as he rose from the sofa to follow her out into the hall and up a very old wooden staircase. The trouble was that her movements showcased her bottom even more than before. Because this time he was closer—and every mounting step made the blue denim cling like honey to each magnificent globe.

How could he have been so blind never to have noticed it before? His gaze travelled downwards. Or to have registered the fact that her legs were really very
shapely—the ankles slim enough to be circled by his finger and his thumb … ?

‘This is the bathroom,’ Isobel was saying. ‘And right next door is your room. See?’

She pushed open a door and Tariq stepped inside and looked around, glad to be distracted by something other than the erotic nature of his thoughts.

It was a room like no room he’d ever seen. A modestly sized iron bedstead was covered with flower-sprigged bedlinen, and on top of one of the pillows sat a faded teddy bear. In the corner was an old-fashioned dressing table and a dark, rickety-looking wardrobe—other than that, the room was bare.

Yet as Tariq walked over to the window he could see that the view was incredible—overlooking nothing but unadulterated countryside. Hedgerows lined the narrow lane, and primroses grew in thick lemon clusters along the banks. Beyond that lay field after field—until eventually the land met the sky. There was absolutely no sound, he realised. Not a car, nor a plane—nor the distant trill of someone’s phone.

The silence was all-enveloping, and a strange sense of peace settled on him. It crept over his skin like the first sun after a long winter and he gave a sigh of unfamiliar contentment. Turning around, he became aware that Izzy had walked over to the window to join him. And she was looking up at him, her eyes wide and faintly uncertain.

‘Do you think you could be comfortable here?’ she questioned.

Contentment forgotten now, he watched as she bit her lip and her teeth left behind a tiny indentation. He saw the sudden gleam as the tip of her tongue moistened the
spot. Her tawny eyes were slitted against the sunlight which illuminated the magnificent Titian fire of her hair. Wasn’t it peculiar that before today he’d never really noticed that her hair was such an amazing colour? And that, coupled with the proximity of her newly discovered curvaceous body, made a powerful impulse come over him.

He forgot that she was sensible Isobel—the reliable and rather sexless assistant who organised his life for him. He forgot everything other than the aching throb at his groin, which was tempting him with an insistence he was finding difficult to ignore. He wanted to kiss her. To plunder those unpainted lips with a fierce kind of hunger. To cup those delicious globes of her bottom and find if they were covered with cotton or lace. And then …

He felt the rapid escalation of desire as his sexual fantasy took on a vivid life of its own and the deep pulse of hunger began a primitive beat in his blood. For a moment he let its tempting warmth steal into his body, and he almost gave in to its powerful lure.

But Tariq prided himself on his formidable willpower, and his ability to turn his back on temptation. Because the truth was that there wasn’t a woman in the world who couldn’t be replaced.

What would be the point of seducing Isobel when the potential fall-out from that seduction could have far-reaching consequences? She’d probably fall in love with him—as women so often did—and when he ended it, what then?

When she’d told him about her father he’d seen a streak of steel and determination which might indicate that she wasn’t a total marshmallow—but still he
couldn’t risk it. She was far more valuable to him as a member of staff than as a temporary lover.

He saw that she was still waiting for an answer to her question, the anxious hostess eager for reassurance, and he gave her a careless smile. ‘I think it will be perfectly
adequate
for my needs,’ he answered.

Isobel nodded. Not the most heartfelt of thanks, it was true—but who cared? She was feeling so disorientated that she could barely think straight. Had she imagined that almost
electric
feeling which had sizzled between them just now? When something unknown and tantalising had shimmered in the air around them, making her blood grow thick with desire? When she’d longed for him to pull her into his arms and just
kiss
her?

Apprehension skittered over her skin as she tried to tell herself that she didn’t find Tariq attractive. She
didn’t
. Her innate fear of feckless men had always protected her from his undeniable charisma.

So what had happened to that precious immunity now? Was it because they were in
her
home, and on
her
territory instead of his, that she felt so shockingly vulnerable in his presence? Or because she’d been stupid enough to blurt out parts of her life which she’d always kept tucked away, and in so doing had opened up a vulnerable side of herself?

Suddenly she was achingly aware of his proximity. Every taut sinew of his powerful body seemed to tantalise her and send a thousand questions racing through her mind. What would it be like to be held by him? To be pressed against that muscular physique while his fingertips touched her aching breasts?

Aware that her cheeks had grown flushed, she lifted
her eyes to his, wondering what had happened to all her certainties. ‘Is there … is there anything else you need?’

He wondered what she would do if he answered that question honestly, and a wry smile curved the edges of his lips as he noted her sudden rise in colour. Would her lips fall open with shock if he told her that he longed for her to fall to her knees, to take him in her mouth and suck him? Or would she simply comply with the easy efficiency she showed in all other elements of their working relationship? Would she
swallow?
he found himself wondering irreverently.

His desire rocketed, frustrating him with a heavy throbbing at his aching groin. He needed her out of here. Now. Before he did or said something he might later regret.

‘Leave me now, Izzy,’ he commanded unsteadily. ‘Unless you’re planning to stay and watch while I shower?’

S
OMEHOW
, Isobel managed to hold onto her composure until she’d closed the bedroom door, and then she rushed back down the creaky staircase to the kitchen. Once there, she leaned against one of the cupboards, her eyes squeezed tight shut as she tried not to think about the Sheikh’s powerful body, which would soon be acquainting itself with her ancient little bathroom. Her heart was hammering as an imagination she hadn’t known she possessed began to taunt her with vivid images.

She thought about Tariq naked. With little droplets of water gleaming against his flesh.

She thought about Tariq drying—the towel lingering on his damp, golden flesh as he rubbed himself all over.

Swallowing down the sudden lump which had risen in her throat, she shook her head. Weaving erotic fantasies about him would lead to nothing but trouble—and so would baring her soul. Taking Tariq into her confidence would only add to the vulnerability she was already experiencing. She wondered what had made her confide in him about her father, and the fact that she’d never known him.

She knew she had to pull herself together.
She
had
been the one who’d invited him to stay, and he was going to be here for the next few days whether she liked it or not. Just because her feelings towards him seemed to have changed—what mattered was that she didn’t let it show.

Because Tariq was no fool. He was a master of experience when it came to the opposite sex, and he was bound to start noticing her reaction if she wasn’t careful. If she dissolved into mush every time he came near, or her fingers started trembling just like they were doing now, wouldn’t that give the game away? Wouldn’t he guess that her senses had been shaken into life and she’d become acutely attracted to him? And just how embarrassing would that be?

She needed a plan. Something to stop him from dominating her mind with arousing thoughts.

Opening the door of the freezer, she peered inside and began to devise a crash course in displacement therapy which would see her through the days ahead. She would make sure she had plenty to occupy her. She would be as brisk and efficient as she was at work, and maybe this crazy
awareness
of him would go away.

But that was easier said than done. By the time Tariq came back downstairs she was busy chopping up ingredients for a risotto, but she made the mistake of lifting her head to look at him. And then found herself mesmerised by the intimate image of her boss fresh from the bath. His hair was damp and ruffled, and he carried with him the faint tang of her ginger and lemon gel.

Isobel swallowed. ‘Bath okay?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘You didn’t bother telling me that you don’t have a shower.’

‘I guessed you find out soon enough.’

‘So I did,’ he growled. ‘It’s the most ancient bathroom I’ve used in years—and the water was tepid.’

‘Don’t they say that tepid baths are healthier?’

‘Do they?’ He looked around. ‘Where’s your TV?’

‘I don’t have one.’

‘You don’t have a TV?’

Isobel shot him a defensive look. ‘It isn’t mandatory, you know. There’s a whole wall of books over there. Help yourself to one of those.’

‘You mean
read?
’

‘That
is
what people usually do with books.’

With a short sigh of impatience, Tariq wandered over to examine the neat rows of titles which lined an entire wall of her sitting room.

The only things he ever read were financial papers or contracts, or business-related articles he caught up with when he was travelling. Occasionally his attention would be caught by some glossy car magazine, which would lure him into changing his latest model for something even more powerful. But he never read books. He had neither the time nor the inclination to lose himself in the world of fiction. He remembered that stupid story he’d read at school—about some animal which had been abandoned. He remembered the tears which had welled up in his eyes when its mother had been shot and the way he’d slammed the volume shut. Books made you
feel
things—and the only thing he wanted to feel right now were the tantalising curves of Izzy’s body.

But that was a
bad
idea. And he needed something to occupy his thoughts other than musing about what kind of underwear a woman like that would wear beneath her rather frumpy clothes.

In the end he forced himself to read a thriller—grateful
for the novel’s rapid pace, which somehow seemed to suck him into an entirely believable story of a one-time lap dancer successfully nailing a high-profile banker for fraud. He was so engrossed in the tale that Izzy’s voice startled him, and he looked up to find her standing over him, her face all pink and shiny.

‘Mmm?’ he questioned, thinking how soft and kissable her lips looked.

‘Supper’s ready.’

‘Supper?’

‘You
do
eat supper?’

Actually he usually ate
dinner
—an elegant feast of a meal—rather than a large spoonful of glossy rice slapped on the centre of an earthy-looking plate. But to Tariq’s surprise he realised that he was hungry—and he enjoyed it more than he had expected. Afterwards Izzy heaped more logs on the fire, and they sat there in companionable silence while he picked up his novel and began to race through it again.

For Tariq, the days which followed his accident were unique. He’d been brought up in a closeted world of palaces and privilege, but now he found himself catapulted into an existence which seemed far more bizarre. His nights were spent alone, in an old and lumpy bed, yet he found he was sleeping late—something he rarely did, not even when he was jet-lagged. And the lack of a shower meant that he’d lie daydreaming in the bath in the mornings. In the cooling water of the rather cramped tub he would stretch out his long frame and listen to the sounds of birds singing outside the window. So that by the time he wandered downstairs it was to find his Titian-haired assistant bustling around with milk jugs
and muesli, or asking him if he wanted to try the eggs from the local farm.