Monarch of the Sands (8 page)

‘No, not a problem at all,’ she said calmly. ‘I’m very adaptable.’

‘Good. Then come and meet the rest of my staff. I’ll introduce you to my bodyguards and they’ll explain a few simple guidelines to you.’ He glanced down at her rain-spattered legs and the shoes which didn’t quite match the plain blue dress. ‘And we’d better organise some clothes for you. You’ll need something appropriate to wear—especially in Khayarzah, where it’s very hot but women cover their legs and their arms at all times. Something which befits a staff member to the sheikh.’

Frankie looked down at the dress she’d bought specially for this meeting—wondering if he had any idea of all the angst which had gone into choosing the neat garment. ‘You mean there’s something wrong with what I’m wearing?’

Did he protect her from the truth, or did he give it to her straight? Zahid’s mouth hardened. Hadn’t she already been lied to enough by one man? And she would never learn about life’s harsh realities unless somebody taught her. He looked her straight in the eye. ‘There’s nothing fundamentally
wrong
with it, Francesca—other
than that it’s cheap.’ He gave her a regretful shrug as he reached out to pick up the phone. ‘And I’m afraid I don’t do cheap.’

P
LONKING
herself down on the bed, Frankie kicked the shoes from her aching feet and fell back against the snowy bank of pillows. It had been a long day. Even longer than yesterday, when she’d travelled back down to Surrey, packed some essentials and locked up the house—ready to embrace her new role as a member of Zahid’s staff. Already, her world seemed to have altered out of all recognition. She’d been given a luxurious room in one of London’s smartest hotels, a list of all the people who worked for the sheikh—as well as his busy schedule for the weeks ahead.

And today she had been sent off to see a stylist and to acquire the clothes which Zahid had told her were essential for her working trip to his homeland.

She hadn’t realised that shopping could be so exhausting—but then she didn’t usually buy an entire wardrobe at one fell swoop. The swish store was situated in a side street, not far from the Khayarzah Embassy, and Frankie was put in the hands of an elegant woman who seemed to know exactly the kind of clothes she needed for her forthcoming trip.

The shopping expedition had been so intensive that she’d missed lunch and by the time she got back to the
hotel she was too exhausted to bother with room service. So she ate the chocolate which had been left lying on her pillow and lay down on the bed just to rest her eyes.

She must have dozed off because before she knew it she was startled out of some bizarre and fitful dream about telephones by an urgent knocking on the door. Reluctantly, Frankie got up off the feathery mattress and padded across the room to answer it. Still yawning, she pulled open the door to find Zahid standing there with a look of unmistakable irritation on his face.

‘I’ve been calling and calling you—didn’t you hear me?’

Still dozy from an unfamiliar daytime nap, she raked her fingers through her tousled hair. ‘No, of course I didn’t—otherwise I’d have answered.’ With difficulty, she stifled another yawn. ‘Sorry—I must have fallen asleep.’

‘Clearly.’ Reluctantly, Zahid found his eyes drawn to her. Her cheeks were flushed and her lashes looked like ebony smudges making spiky shadows on her soft cheek. With her hair spilling down untidily over her shoulders, she looked as if she had just been ravished, he thought—with an unwelcome beat of awareness. But she was wearing an old pair of jeans and an oatmeal-coloured sweater he recognised and he frowned. ‘I thought you’d been out shopping?’

‘I have. I just got back.’ She saw him looking askance at her jeans and shrugged as his gaze travelled over to the still open doors of her wardrobe, where the new clothes could be seen hanging in a neat line. ‘They seem almost too nice to wear—does that sound stupid?’

‘Yes.’

‘Especially when I’m just mooching around the hotel room.’

‘Well, stop mooching and start getting ready,’ he said coolly. ‘We’re having dinner with my brother in just over an hour.’

‘You’re kidding?’

He sucked in a breath of irritation as he glanced at the rumpled bed directly behind her. ‘No, Francesca, I am not. And just remember that I’m not paying you to lie around …’ Now why had his mind focused on
that
particular verb? Dragging his gaze away from the ruffled duvet, he narrowed his eyes as he spotted a discarded chocolate wrapper lying on the carpet. ‘Eating chocolate all day and napping! Be ready in an hour,’ he ordered. ‘One of my bodyguards will let you know when we’re ready to go.’

He slammed the door shut behind him and for a moment Frankie stood staring at it in disbelief. Talk about leaping to the wrong conclusions! He’d made her sound like some decadent couch potato who loved stuffing her face with carbs—when pretty much all she’d eaten all day had been that one, measly chocolate.

But she enjoyed soaking in a scented bath—and afterwards selecting something silken and suitable from her newly acquired wardrobe. The clothes she had been guided towards were fundamentally modest—there wasn’t a low neck or a miniskirt in sight. Their beauty lay in the quality of the exquisite fabrics as they whispered delicately over her skin. As she slid on her own bra and knickers she thought that they seemed positively
dingy
in comparison to the quiet opulence of the green silk gown she’d chosen to wear.

One of Zahid’s enigmatic-looking bodyguards
rapped at the door at eight o’clock precisely, and Frankie stepped into the corridor to find Zahid just emerging from his own room. He was wearing a suit of pale grey, which served as a perfect foil for his bronzed and dark colouring. But he stopped dead when he saw her and stood completely still—as if someone had turned him to stone.

‘Are you … ready?’ she asked tentatively, wondering if she had committed some awful faux pas that she wasn’t aware of. Was the dress too formal? Her shoes too high? Should she have worn her hair up instead of letting it tumble loosely down her back?

In answer to her stumbled question Zahid nodded—though he wasn’t really listening to what she’d asked him. Because, against all the odds—she looked
beautiful
. More beautiful than any woman he had ever seen. Like some princess who had stepped from the pages of one of the old Khayarzah fables his nanny used to read to him as a child.

Her dark hair was glossy, her blue eyes wide and watchful—and the deep green of her dress emphasised the porcelain paleness of her face and soft curves of her body. What must it be like for her, he wondered, to have blossomed as she had blossomed—to have gone from tomboy to temptress in one seamless step? Was she aware of the power which now lay at her fingertips—the power possessed by every woman who could hold a man in her thrall?

Yet
Simon
had been the one to awaken her, he reminded himself grimly. He might have been a duplicitous and money-grubbing creep—but he was responsible for this new, sensual allure of hers. He had been the one who had … who had …

‘Is this okay, Zahid?’ Aware that his bright, hard gaze was still fixed on her, Frankie brushed her palms down over the silk skirt of her dress and gave him an anxious look. Why on earth was he scowling at her like that? ‘The dress, I mean?’

‘Are you searching for a compliment?’ he queried, more acidly than he had intended—but he was having to quash a reaction to her that he had not intended and did not particularly want. The kind of reaction which would have usually culminated in him peeling her brand-new dress from her body and tossing it contemptuously to the floor, thus ensuring that they would be late for dinner. ‘I’m sure you’re perfectly aware that it’s more than okay and that you look very … agreeable,’ he finished.

Her smile was uncertain as she looped a big cashmere wrap around her shoulders.
Agreeable?
Was that supposed to have been a compliment? She wasn’t sure—not when he had managed to make it sound like some sort of growled
insult
.

Frankie felt nervous as they went downstairs to the car—a short journey which seemed to involve a lot of high-powered and pre-arranged choreography. Cocooned by a small phalanx of bodyguards, Zahid walked at speed through the lobby—seemingly oblivious to the curious eyes which were darted in his direction—with her tottering on high heels behind him.

A limousine was waiting outside the hotel—its door already open and engine purring—and as Frankie sat back against the squishy, soft leather seat she wondered how all this could have happened—and so quickly. Why, only last week she’d been showing a couple around a new-build and today she was being whisked
through central London in a luxury limousine, with a brooding-looking sheikh sitting beside her.

She splayed her fingers out over her lap. He seemed
uncomfortably
close—so that the atmosphere seemed full of his own particular scent. A potent cocktail of raw male mixed with sweet sandalwood and the tang of lemons was now invading her senses. And somehow he was managing to imprint his powerful body onto her subconscious, even though she was pointedly looking out of the car window in an attempt to lessen the impact he was having on her. What on earth was the matter with her? Shouldn’t she have been missing Simon—if only a little bit—instead of fantasising what it might be like if Zahid pulled her into his arms and began to kiss her?

‘Where … where are we going?’ she questioned breathlessly. ‘And tell me a bit more about what Tariq is doing these days.’

Zahid watched with interest as she dug her nails into one silk-covered thigh. Much more of that and she would claw tiny holes into that new dress of hers, he thought. ‘There’s a private members’ club next door to The Ivy—and we’re meeting him there. He lives in England permanently now.’

‘
Does
he? Doing what?’

‘He runs the European arm of the family business—but he also has a very successful polo club in the south of England which he bought quite recently.’

Of course he does, thought Frankie as the car coasted past the shining shop lights which lightened the dark November night and drew to a halt in front of a discreet door. She knew that Tariq was a superb and talented polo player, so it followed that he would have a club of
his own. The Al Hakam family never did anything by halves.

Inside the private members’ club, masses of flowers stood in eye-catching arrangements and a glass lift zoomed them up to a large room which somehow managed to have an intimate feel to it. In one corner, a grand piano was being played softly by an aging crooner who smiled at them as they walked in—and on a nearby table, Frankie recognised a soap-star who was more famous for her chequered love-life than for her work as an actress.

They were ushered towards a small, private dining room and when they arrived Tariq was already seated at the table. It was the first time that Frankie had ever seen the brothers together—and with their dramatically dark good looks, the family resemblance was startling. But the younger brother was wearing faded jeans and a silk shirt—his shadowed jaw resolutely unshaven—and he had an air of slightly disreputable charm, which was at odds with Zahid’s rather more formal appearance.

He rose to his feet when he saw them approach and the two men embraced. And then as Tariq let his arms fall away he gave Frankie a smile which she suspected had made many women melt into a puddle at his feet.

‘How unusual. It’s not like you to bring a woman with you, Zahid,’ he observed, his voice a honeyed murmur. ‘So who is
this
little beauty?’

Zahid glared at his sibling. ‘This is Francesca.’

‘Francesca?’ There was a pause as Tariq frowned and then his face suddenly cleared as he made the connection. ‘Frankie?
Frankie?
I don’t believe it! Is that really you?’

‘Yes!’ She smiled back as he gathered her in a bear
hug and she realised that Zahid had said pretty much the same thing. Which begged the question of how much she had changed. Did she really look that different? She guessed she did. Yet it was funny how you could be altered so radically on the exterior—and yet inside you felt exactly the same … with all those same nagging doubts and insecurities. ‘Yes, it’s really me!’

‘Wow! You look so
different
. Amazing! All pretty, and grown-up. Good heavens …’ Tariq frowned. ‘You and Zahid, I mean you aren’t—’

‘We aren’t anything,’ Zahid snapped, giving his brother another furious glare. ‘Francesca is working for me now.’

‘
Is
she now? That’s quite a bold step.’

‘But maybe it’s about time. Such an appointment will show the western world that we do take women seriously. And it will pacify some of the more rebellious females back home in Khayarzah.’

Tariq laughed. ‘There speaks my brother, the King! How completely ruthless you can be, Zahid.’

‘You think so? I prefer to describe myself as a realist.’ Zahid shrugged. ‘And why not capitalise on opportunity when it comes knocking?’

Frankie bit her lip as she heard herself described as an ‘opportunity’.

‘Wine, Frankie?’ asked Tariq.

‘I’d better not—’

‘Nonsense. If Zahid wants to show the world he’s tolerant and open to the ways of the west, then he should let his pretty guest have a glass of wine even if he doesn’t much care for it himself.’

She rarely drank but Frankie suddenly found herself longing for a glass. So many emotional missiles had
been hurled at her over the last few days and she still felt a little dazed by it all. Her whole pattern of living had crashed and she hadn’t quite got used to the new, rebooted version. She knew that she should be feeling more pain about the end of her relationship with Simon—but the crazy thing was that she didn’t. And that in turn made her feel guilty. She kept questioning her own judgment and every time she did it filled her with a feeling of failure. A drink might help relax her.

‘Thank you,’ she said, ignoring the narrow-eyed look which Zahid sent shooting in her direction. ‘I think I will.’

The meal was a mixture of glamour and grit. Frankie was aware that she was in a high-octane atmosphere and being served some of the best food in the capital. But she felt strangely removed from it all—as if she was an outsider, looking in.