Monarch of the Sands (3 page)

Frankie puckered her lips tightly as she picked up the
teapot. Don’t show emotion, she told herself fiercely. It’s counterproductive because it will only get you upset—and it really isn’t done to break down in front of the sheikh, no matter how well you think you know him.

‘I understand,’ she answered, her voice sounding like a child’s squeaky toy. ‘You explained in your letter that you had only just acceded to the throne, and that you c-couldn’t get away.’

Zahid nodded, remembering back to those troubled days—when the crown he had never imagined he would wear had been placed on his head. ‘I couldn’t,’ he said simply.

‘It was good of your brother to come in your place. And that wreath you sent,’ Frankie added, with a gulp. ‘It was absolutely b-beautiful.’

He heard her voice wobble and he glared, getting up from the table to take the teapot from her trembling hands. ‘Here. Let me take that.’

‘You can’t pour your own tea.’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ he returned. ‘I can just about upend a pot of boiling water. Or do you think I have people waiting on me every second of the day?’

‘Pretty much.’

A faint smile edged the corners of his mouth. ‘Impertinent woman,’ he murmured, and as he said it found himself looking into her startled blue eyes as one word leapt out and hung in the air surrounding them. He felt a pulse of heat deep in his groin.
Woman.
He swallowed. He would never have said that to her before. Nor found himself looking at her lips and wondering what it would be like to kiss them—even though they weren’t wearing a scrap of make-up. Did
Simon
not like her wearing make-up? he wondered heatedly.

Frankie took one of the mugs of tea and quickly moved away—the fact that it was burning her hand hardly noticeable when measured against the hot burning in her cheeks which had followed that curiously intense moment back then. ‘I’ll … I’ll get some honey,’ she said.

Glad to have the distraction of moving away, she walked over to one of the cupboards. Her fingers were trembling as she brought out a half-filled jar and handed it to him, and she watched as he spooned a teaspoonful of honey in each cup, seeing it melt in a golden puddle into the pale green liquid.

He looked up then, a careless question in his eyes. ‘So when do I get to meet him?’

‘Meet him?’ Francesca’s heart thudded. Surely he didn’t mean what she thought he meant? ‘Wh-who?’

‘Simon.’

She stared at him, trying to disguise her horror—some instinct telling her that Zahid and Simon should be kept apart at all costs. ‘Wh-why on earth would you want to meet him?’

He shrugged and her obvious reluctance to have him do so only fired up his sense of determination that he should. ‘Why wouldn’t I? My country owes a great debt to your father and I am an old family friend. Since you don’t have any senior male relative to look out for you, I consider it my duty to meet the man you are intending to marry.’

Frankie hoped that her face didn’t betray her appalled reaction to his suggestion—and not just because he had painted a rather grim image of himself as a “senior male relative”. The last thing she wanted was for
him to meet Simon—because surely Zahid would make
any
man look hapless in his presence.

‘Well, perhaps we can arrange something for the next time you’re in town,’ she said, with the confident air of someone who knew that tight royal schedules made such casual meetings almost impossible.

‘But aren’t you seeing him tonight? Aren’t you planning to cook him dinner?’

She wondered how on earth he could have known that until she saw him looking at the covered dish of chicken and the little heap of potatoes waiting to be peeled; the box of unopened candles which lay next to them. Perhaps he had been a detective in another life, she thought crossly. ‘Yes, I’m cooking him dinner. I’d ask you to join us except that you’re probably busy.’ She gave a weak smile. ‘And I’ve only got two chicken breasts.’

Zahid almost laughed at the sheer banality of her statement, but the truth of it was that her attitude was firing him up even more. He wasn’t used to people saying no to him. And his curiosity had been aroused. What was she trying to hide? ‘No woman should have to cook a meal when she’s just got engaged—she should be freed from the drudgery of domesticity and left to enjoy the romance,’ he said silkily. ‘So I’ll take you and Simon out to dinner instead.’

‘No, honestly—’

‘Yes,
honestly
,’ he mocked. ‘I insist. What’s the name of a good local restaurant?’

‘Le Poule au Pot is pretty good—but you’ll never get a table this late.’

‘Please don’t be naïve, Francesca—I can always get a table. I’ll meet you in there at eight-thirty,’ he said
implacably, as—pushing away his untouched tea—he got up from the table.

Frankie scrambled to her feet, aware of the sheer power of his body as she stared up into his hawklike features. ‘I suppose there’s no point in me trying to change your mind?’

‘No point at all.’ Black eyes bored into her. ‘And why would you want to?’

This silky challenge she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—answer. All she knew was that the thought of subjecting Simon—and herself—to the distracting company of the powerful man she’d known since childhood was filling her with trepidation.

Zahid looked down into her upturned face and those strangely kissable lips, which her tiny white teeth were currently digging into as she turned anxious blue eyes up at him. And in that moment she looked so vulnerable yet so damned
sexy
that he began to wonder whether fate might not have had a hand in bringing him here today.

‘Just don’t be late,’ he added softly.

‘S
MILE
, baby, and just relax—we’re going to have a ball.’
Relax?
Frankie swallowed down the acid taste of nerves as Simon eased his car into the last available spot in the Le Poule au Pot’s car park. How could she possibly relax, knowing that an evening with Zahid lay ahead of them? Questions had been spinning round in her head all the time she was getting ready. Wondering why the autocratic sheikh was insisting on taking them out to dinner—and what on earth his agenda was. Was it really because he wanted to vet Simon, to see if he measured up and was suitable? And if so, wasn’t that an awfully
old-fashioned
point of view?

‘I just wish we weren’t going out,’ she said, her fingers playing nervously with her necklace. ‘And having a quiet dinner at home instead—the way we’d planned.’ Simon put the brakes on and shot a quick look at himself in the driving mirror. ‘Are you crazy? You’re best buddies with some
sheikh
—’

‘I wouldn’t describe us as “best buddies”—’ ‘

Well, friendly enough for him to invite us out. And you’d rather be sitting in your old kitchen with a home-cooked meal? I mean, what planet are you on, Frankie?
Wait
till I tell everyone that I had dinner with a royal!’

‘But you mustn’t,’ put in Frankie anxiously. ‘That’s the whole point. You’re not supposed to mention it to anyone—it’s an infringement on their privacy and they get little enough of that as it is.’

Simon’s smile was tight. ‘Let’s not drift too far from reality, shall we? I don’t need lessons in protocol from my secretary.’ He gave her knee a quick squeeze. ‘Even if she does also happen to be my fiancée!’

She gave him a weak, answering smile but Frankie’s heart was pounding as they entered the restaurant and she felt an overpowering feeling of relief when she realised that Zahid wasn’t there. Maybe he’d changed his mind about coming, she thought hopefully as they were led to their table. Decided that something more important—or someone very beautiful—had come up. Any minute now and the maître d’ would discreetly slide up to their table and tell them that he had been unavoidably detained, and …

‘Hello, Francesca.’

She’d been so deep in thought that she hadn’t noticed the sheikh enter the room until his silken and faintly accented voice broke into her thoughts. She looked up and there he was, standing in front of their table like some dark god—with Simon springing to his feet as if his long-lost brother had just appeared and for one awful moment Frankie thought that he was actually going to try to
embrace
the sheikh.

But Zahid pre-empted any inappropriate familiarity by extending a cool hand in greeting and an even cooler smile. ‘You must be Simon.’

‘And you must be Zahid. Frankie’s told me
all
about you.’

‘Has she really?’ Dark eyes were briefly glittered
in her direction as Frankie attempted to clamber to her feet, but a careless wave of his hand indicated that she should remain seated.

‘Of course I haven’t,’ said Frankie. ‘And please won’t you sit down, Zahid?’ she added on a whisper. ‘Everyone’s staring at us.’

It was true. Even the eyes of the more studiedly cool diners seemed to be drawn irresistibly to the tall man in the impeccably cut suit, whose two burly-looking companions had been seated rather ostentatiously at a table right by the door. Frankie sighed. Even if it hadn’t been for his bodyguards, he just oozed power, wealth and a potent sexual charisma which had all the women in the restaurant responding to him. She could see a blonde who’d been shoehorned into a silver dress and who seemed to be wearing most of Fort Knox around her neck was now flashing him a sticky, vermilion-lip-sticked smile.

But Zahid seemed oblivious to the restrained excitement his presence was causing. Instead, he sat down with his back to the room, and as two waiters fussed round them with the kind of speed she wasn’t used to Frankie realised that this was the first time she’d actually been out in public with him—and that this must be what it was like all the time. The flattery and deference. His every wish anticipated and granted. No wonder his manner could be so assured and so … so …
arrogant
.

Having refused wine himself, Zahid ordered champagne for a clearly eager Simon and then leaned back in his chair—looking, thought Frankie indignantly, as if he were interviewing them for some sort of job!

‘I gather congratulations are in order, Simon,’ he murmured. ‘You are indeed a lucky man.’

Simon took a mouthful of champagne, followed by
an appreciative glance at the label on the bottle. ‘Aren’t I just? Although naturally, there were lots of raised eyebrows when we first announced it!’

Zahid slowly curled his fingers over the starched linen surface of the tablecloth. ‘Really?’ he questioned coolly.

Simon leaned across the table towards him, in a man-to-man kind of way. ‘Well, lots of my friends were surprised to begin with,’ he confided.

Frankie squirmed. She could guess what was coming and although she didn’t usually mind Simon’s justifiable boasts about the dramatic effect he’d had on her appearance, something in her rebelled at having
Zahid
hear them. ‘Zahid isn’t interested,’ she said quickly.

‘Oh, but Zahid is,’ corrected the sheikh archly. ‘In fact, he’s absolutely fascinated. Do continue, Simon.’

Simon gave a disarming shrug. ‘Well, Frankie isn’t my usual type. In fact, she won’t mind me saying that she looked a bit of a geek when she came to work for me, didn’t you, darling?’ He shrugged like a man who had found a winning lottery ticket scrunched up on the pavement. ‘So I told her to grow her hair, to lose the glasses and wear a few clothes that might show off her body—and suddenly it’s “Good Morning, Cinderella!”.’ He raked the flop of blond hair off his forehead and glittered her the kind of smile which had once made her go weak at the knees. ‘And just look at her now!’

Zahid turned his head, taking in the slump of Francesca’s shoulders and the look of acute embarrassment on her face. And even though he had been amazed and surprised by her new look, he would not have dreamed of speaking of it in such a way. He certainly would not have boasted about it as if he had been
preparing a horse for its first important race. A slow tide of rage began to build up inside him. What kind of a man had she harnessed her destiny to—who would humiliate her in such a way? Some pretty-pretty blond boy who was drinking champagne as if it were cordial!

‘Why, you flaunt her as if she were a new toy,’ he observed softly.

‘And a very cuddly toy she is, too,’ said Simon.

Frankie knew Zahid well enough to know when he was angry and he was very angry now. Surely Simon wasn’t blind to the nerve which was flickering at his temple, or the way he had started flexing and unflexing his long fingers on the starchy linen tablecloth. Why wouldn’t he shut up? Her eyes were beseeching him to stop being indiscreet but he didn’t even notice her—instead he seemed transfixed by his royal dining companion.

‘Shall we … order?’ she questioned hurriedly.

‘Yeah, let’s.’ Simon scanned the menu with the avaricious scrutiny of someone who knew they wouldn’t be paying the bill. ‘I’ll have the foie gras, followed by the duck à l’orange.’

Across the table, Zahid’s black eyes met hers and she thought she read in them a mixture of mockery and contempt. She felt like squirming in her seat—or trying to explain that Simon wasn’t
always
like this—but instead she just offered the sheikh a polite smile.

‘Francesca?’ he questioned sardonically.

She wasn’t in the least bit hungry, but she could hardly sit there with an empty plate while her fiancé ate his way through a gourmet feast. ‘Oh, a salad—and then the fish please.’

‘I’ll have the same,’ said Zahid, snapping shut his
leather menu and handing it back to the maître d’. ‘I’m assuming you’ll drink wine, Simon?’

‘Love to!’ Simon beamed. ‘Frankie can drive, can’t you, darling?’

‘Of course I can.’

The drinks and first courses were brought and after he’d seen off most of his foie gras, Simon, now further emboldened by more wine, pushed back his lock of blond hair and smiled at Zahid.

‘I’m still not entirely sure how you happen to be such a good friend of the family, Zahid,’ he said. ‘Something to do with your fathers being friends, isn’t it?’

Zahid nodded. There was no earthly reason not to try to engage in conversation with the man—even though something about him was setting his teeth on edge. He glanced over at Francesca, who was picking uninterestedly at a plate of salad, and he found his eyes lingering with reluctant fascination on the creamy swell of her breasts, which was emphasised by the silky black dress she wore.