Never Resist a Sheikh (International Bad Boys) (24 page)

Abruptly, he pushed himself away from her desk, holding himself tall, those black eyes
of his burning. “I broke my promise to you last time. I will not break it again. And I will abide by any decision you choose to make.”

She went very still, her throat hurting, her heart full of longing. All those things. Paltry, he called them. But they weren’t. Yet she only needed one of them.

Slowly she got up from the desk and came around the side of it. And he watched her come, his gaze
never leaving hers, watching her as if he was a man on a desert island and she was his one chance of rescue.

She came close, standing right in front of him, looking up into his dark eyes, his beautiful, beloved face. “The love I need, Zakir, is exactly the love you can give me. No one else can, only you.”

A shadow passed across his face, a darkness. “I do not know if I can, little one. I have
never loved anyone before. After seeing what Farid did to Maysan, I could not even bear the thought of opening myself up to that kind of feeling.”

“Farid was sick, though. And his illness twisted that love. You’re not sick. And you can.” She reached up and touched the warm skin of his cheek, the way he had with her before he’d walked out on her, watching as a familiar flame leapt in his gaze.
“You protected me. You made sure I was safe, that I was cared for. And those four days in the desert were the happiest of my life.” She dropped her hand to his chest, pressing her palm against the charcoal wool of his suit. “Remember your vow? Before the people, only God. When you told me what those words meant, I could see how much it meant to you. How much you believed it. And you believed it because
you care, Zakir. You love your country. Your people. And you loved your brother, too.” She blinked against the tears that threatened. “You can love, I know you can. You can love me, too.”

He was silent a moment, staring at her, so many things burning in his eyes she couldn’t untangle all of them. Then suddenly his arms were around her and she was swept up in them, close to his chest. And his
mouth was on hers, kissing her like he was starving and she was his sustenance, like a man drowning and she was the oxygen he needed in order to breathe.

Then he tore his mouth from hers and stared down at her, color along his cheekbones, passion igniting in his eyes. “I would give you everything I have to make you stay, Felicity. Anything. Everything.”

She smiled. “I only want one thing, sheikh.”

“What? Name it. It is yours.”

“I want your heart.”

And slowly, his mouth turned up, a slow, sinful curl that had her heart racing and tripping over itself inside her chest. “It is already yours, little one. I think you wrote your name on it the moment you ignored all those drawn swords and poked me in the chest.”

Was it okay to explode with happiness? Good thing he was holding her because she
thought she might just float away. “Ah, I remember that. It’s death to touch the sheikh, isn’t it?”

His smile became tender. “Yes. You were very brave.”

She spread her palms on his chest. “Will you kill me if I touch you now?”

“I think I will kill you if you do not.”

So she slid her hands up to those glorious shoulders and around his neck, keeping him on tenterhooks a little while longer,
just because she could. “I haven’t made a decision yet. In fact, I’m still thinking about the Al-Harahan offer. Thank you for negotiating with them on Red Star’s behalf, by the way. Their offer is extremely generous.”

“Little one.” His voice was a growl. “You need to make a decision. And I too can be very generous. Whatever they have offered you, I will double it.”

She looked up at him, her
throat tight. “I don’t need money, Zakir. I want to stay with you. Not because I want to be your queen and give you heirs. Not because my company’s survival depends on it. Not even to help your country. I want to stay with you because I love you. And that’s all.”

This time the look on his face was all triumph, all satisfaction. “And so I will keep my promise to you, Felicity Cartwright. Every
day I will make you happy. Every day I will love you.”

“Starting from when?”

His smile changed, became hotter, more sensual. “When do you think? Starting from now.”

And he made good on his promise.

On her desk.

Never Seduce a Sheikh

Jackie Ashenden

Copyright © 2014

O
utside the tinted
windows of the limo, the sun had turned the tarmac of the private airstrip into a molten silver river, glinting off the sleek Lear jet that had only just touched down. Mid-morning in Dahar and already the heat was intense.

Sheikh Isma’il ibn Khalid al Zahar stared at the aircraft, trying to concentrate
on the meeting ahead and not the thick musty scent that still seemed to fill his nostrils. Or the tainted feeling that had crept right into the very marrow of his bones.

Returning to Dahar and all the memories that lurked in the corridors of the palace had been bad enough, but spending all morning in his father’s office, going through his papers, had been worse. Yet Isma’il couldn’t put aside
what needed to be done, purely because of some personal distaste. A month had passed already since the old man’s death and Isma’il’s investiture as sheikh, and the task of rebuilding Dahar couldn’t wait.

A strange feeling lingered on his fingertips. Turning his hands palm up into the sun, for a second, he thought he saw something. A red stain. Blood maybe?

He frowned, but when he looked again,
there was nothing there.

Still frowning, Isma’il brushed his hands off with a careful, fastidious movement, wiping the strange feeling away.

Out on the tarmac, his personal bodyguards had arranged themselves to form a corridor between the limo and the jet. One, held a brightly colored silk parasol in his hand. A courtesy for his guest.

Isma’il stared at the bright splash of color and in the
dark glass of the limo window saw his reflection. Saw the smile on his face. It looked almost savage. Too savage.

Definitely, he’d been spending far too much time in his father’s office. He was here to greet a potential buyer for Dahar’s oil, not an enemy he intended fight.

With the ease of long practice, he adjusted his expression, making sure nothing remained but the cool, easy charm that
was by now effortless to him. Then, he opened the limo door and stepped out into the blinding heat of the airstrip. His bodyguards snapped to attention, his chief advisor Umar coming immediately to his side.

The jet’s doorway, however, remained empty.

“Where is she?” Isma’il was not accustomed to waiting for people and he found he didn’t much like it.

“I’ll check, your Highness,” Umar assured
him, starting towards the plane.

The man was halfway there, when abruptly a tall figure exited the aircraft. A woman.
The
woman. Lily Harkness, CEO of Harkness Oil and Petroleum.

There had been many companies frantic for the rights to Dahar’s lucrative oil reserves and Isma’il had gradually narrowed the field down to three possibilities. He’d already met with the CEOs of two of those possibilities.
Harkness Oil was the third. It had been the lead contender, at least until Philip Harkness had retired as CEO and his daughter had taken over.

His young, unproven and no doubt inexperienced daughter. An appointment that had nepotism written all over it.

Isma’il leaned back against the hot metal of the car and folded his arms, taking her in.

He’d been expecting a Daddy’s girl, a pretty little
princess stepping into the shoes her father had lovingly prepared for her. But the woman currently descending the metal stairs from the jet’s door to the tarmac below did not look like any princess he’d ever seen.

Oh, she was blonde, her features precise and lovely. But no princess was ever, surely, that tall. At least six foot. And certainly they didn’t wear blue pant suits that appeared to
be tailored to hide every feminine curve. Nor did they stride around on the tarmac in a masculine fashion with a phone glued to their ear, while various flunkeys fluttered around them like butterflies.

Oh no. Princes did that. Not princesses.

Isma’il found himself unwillingly intrigued. She was unexpected, he’d give her that. Especially when, she hadn’t even looked his way. Not once. And when
was the last time anyone had ignored him so completely? He couldn’t remember. It was difficult, after all, to remain unnoticed when you were six foot five and a sheikh.

Pushing away from the limo, he straightened, standing at his full height. The bodyguards, several of whom were slightly less at attention than they should have been, instantly did the same.

Ms. Lily Harkness didn’t seem to notice.
She was still barking into her phone like a share trader on a Wall Street trading floor. The hot sun had turned her pale blonde hair, worn in a no-nonsense chignon, almost silver, while her light golden skin had begun to flush in the heat.

Isma’il gestured to the bodyguard with the parasol. She may not have been a princess, but it had been his experience that women did not like to sweat.

As
the man stepped forward, Lily disconnected the call with a precise stab of her finger. She gestured to the flunkeys, who promptly went back up the stairs and into the jet. Then, and only then, did she finally deign to turn in his direction.

Eyes the color of dark, bittersweet chocolate looked into his and he experienced the oddest sensation. Like a whisper of static across his skin, raising the
hairs on the back of his neck.

Blonde brows—unusual combined with dark eyes—quirked a little in response, but she didn’t look away.

Interesting. Most of the time, women blushed and either averted their gaze or regarded him with blatant sexual interest when he looked at them. Lily Harkness did none of the above. Instead, she looked at him up and down like a general surveying an approaching army
for weaknesses.

An instinct within him, one that had been long buried, went quiet and still in response—the hunter spotting new and challenging prey.

She frowned, as if she too had felt something, but didn’t quite know what to make of it. Then, with the merest shrug of her shoulders, she put the phone in her pocket, and strode towards him, leaving the bodyguard trailing in her wake still trying
to get the parasol up.

“Your Highness,” she said as she approached. “I’m Lily Harkness of Harkness Oil.” She held out her hand. “A very great pleasure to meet you.”

He did business with many westerners, but none of them strolled up to him and introduced themselves with a handshake. Still fewer, when it was a woman doing the handshaking. And that voice. Coolly confident with a sensual, husky
edge. It made him think of things not entirely appropriate for business meetings.

He took her hand, opened his mouth to speak, but she kept right on going. “I must apologize for keeping you waiting. Some urgent business I had to deal with. I hope you didn’t have to wait too long in this heat?”

She hoped
he
didn’t have to wait too long in this heat?

Isma’il smiled. “Your concern is touching,
Ms. Harkness. But as you can see, not only do I have an air-conditioned limo for my comfort, I also have a parasol.”

Blonde brows twitched. “A parasol?”

He raised a hand. The bodyguard with the parasol approached along the tarmac.

She examined the bodyguard. “That’s not yours.”

“What isn’t? The bodyguard or the parasol?”

“The parasol.”

“You’re right. It is not for me. It is for you.”

“For
me?” She frowned in puzzlement, as if the idea that she might need shade was utterly alien to her.

“Yes. In my experience, many ladies find the heat here a little too much.”

She lifted a brow. “I think you’ll find I’m not most ladies, your Highness.”

“I think I am beginning to understand that, Ms. Harkness.”

At least, she wasn’t like the ladies he knew. The demure, quiet ladies of his court,
the soft, feminine curvaceous ones he liked in his bed. No, most definitely not.

Small beads of sweat had begun to appear on her forehead, though the cool, professional smile she gave him betrayed no discomfort whatsoever. “Excellent. Now, I’ve been looking at the schedule you sent through and, forgive me, but there are a number of issues I’d like to raise.”

Ah, westerners. They were all the
same. All impatient. All wanted to head into business immediately without giving proper respect to the hospitality of the host. Dahar was far more westernized than it used to be, but they did have their traditions.

He’d thought Lily Harkness would be more aware of this, especially considering one of Harkness Oil’s major selling points was their sensitivity to local customs.

Perhaps this was
an example of her inexperience? If that was the case, then she would need to learn how things were done here.

He smiled at her, allowing the mask of charm to thin a little. “Of course. But as much as the idea of conducting a business meeting on the airstrip fills me with joy, perhaps this would be better discussed at a later date. It is the custom in Dahar to leave business until the proper time.”

She blinked. “The proper time?”

“Yes. There is a time and place for all such things, Ms. Harkness. And now, is neither the time nor the place.”

Like a ripple on a still pond, the faintest trace of emotion disturbed her smooth expression. Then it was gone, professional smile firmly in place. “But of course, your Highness. I understand.”

So cool. As if even the fierce sun’s heat couldn’t touch
her. A heat she clearly must be feeling given the deep flush in her golden skin and the obvious sweat on her brow and upper lip.

The hunter’s instinct stirred again, wanting to test her in some way.

“You look a little pink, Ms. Harkness,” Isma’il observed lazily, deciding to keep her outside little longer. Heat was something she would have to bear if the desert trip he’d planned to meet with
the tribes affected by the drilling was to go ahead. “Are you sure you don’t want the parasol after all?”