скачать книгу бесплатно
The Sheikh's Reward
Lucy Gordon
The beautiful Englishwoman had brought him such good luck that Sheikh Ali Ben Saleem wanted to reward her. But Frances refused his valuable gifts. All she wanted was an interview for a newspaper. Ali decided to oblige–on one condition: She must accompany him to his kingdom….The gorgeous sheikh seemed a caring, generous man. Until he imprisoned her with his concubines! Was Ali creating a desert fantasy to amuse Frances? Or was his marriage proposal serious?
“You lured me here on false pretences. You had no right.”
“You knew I was the kind of man who would never forgive….” He took a step closer. “You forced my hand over the check. That stung my pride.”
“Your pride!” Frances scoffed.
His voice changed, became harder. “The ruler of a country must be a man of pride. If not, he is unfit to rule. I could not allow an insult to go unpunished. I decided it was time you had a lesson in reality.”
“Reality?” she echoed, hardly able to believe her ears. “Putting me with your concubines? Ali, this has gone far enough. I want my bag, my clothes, and I want to get out of here.”
He laughed softly. “You are wonderful. You are completely helpless in my power and yet you speak with such authority. I tremble in my shoes.”
“I don’t believe this,” she said in a shaking voice. “I’m dreaming, and I’ll wake up soon.”
“I wish you the sweetest of dreams, and I hope they will all be of me. But when you awake, you will still be here. And you will remain here, at my pleasure, until I decide otherwise.”
Lucy Gordon cut her writing teeth on magazine journalism, interviewing many of the world’s most interesting men, including Warren Beatty, Richard Chamberlain, Roger Moore, Sir Alec Guinness and Sir John Gielgud. She also camped out with lions in Africa, and had many other unusual experiences, which have often provided the background for her books.
She is married to a Venetian, whom she met while on holiday in Venice. They got engaged within two days, and have now been married for twenty-five years. They live in the Midlands of the U.K., with their dogs.
Two of her books have won the Romance Writers of America RITA Award—Song of the Lorelei in 1990, and His Brother’s Child in 1998 in the Best Traditional Romance category.
The Sheikh’s Reward
Lucy Gordon
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER ONE
HE WAS a prince to his fingertips. Tall, black-haired, his head set at a proud angle, Prince Ali Ben Saleem, Sheikh of the principality of Kamar, drew everyone’s gaze as he walked into the casino.
It wasn’t just his handsome features and his tall body with its combination of power and grace. There was something about him that seemed to proclaim him skilful at everything he attempted. And so men regarded him with envy, women with interest.
Frances Callam watched with the others, but her eyes held a peculiar intentness. Ali Ben Saleem was the man she had come here to study.
She was a freelance journalist, much in demand for her skill at profiling people. Editors knew that she was unbeatable in stories where large sums of money were concerned. And Ali was one of the wealthiest men in the world.
‘Will you look at that?’ Joey Baines breathed in awe, watching Ali’s imperial progress to the tables. Joey was a private detective whom she sometimes hired as an assistant. She’d brought him along tonight as cover while she visited the casino and watched Ali at play.
‘I’m looking,’ Fran murmured. ‘He certainly lives up to the legend, doesn’t he? In appearance anyway.’
‘What’s the rest of the legend?’
‘He’s a law unto himself, accountable to nobody for where his money comes from or where it goes to.’
‘But we know where it comes from,’ Joey objected. ‘Those oil wells he’s got gushing away in the desert.’
‘And a lot of it vanishes in places like this,’ Fran said, looking around her with disapproval.
‘Hey, Fran, lighten up. Can’t we enjoy life among the fleshpots for just one night? It’s in a good cause.’
‘It’s in the cause of nailing a man who doesn’t like answering questions about himself, and finding out what he has to hide,’ Fran said firmly.
Joey ran a finger around the inside of his collar. His short, undistinguished person looked uncomfortable in the black tie and dinner jacket that was de rigueur for the men.
‘I can’t believe you came here looking like a goddess just to work,’ he said, eyeing her slender figure, pale skin and red-gold hair with wistful lust.
‘Down, Fido,’ Fran said amiably. ‘Tonight this is my work outfit. I need to look as if I belong in this place.’
She’d succeeded in her aim. Her dress seemed to be solid gold glitter with a neckline that plunged low, and a side slit that came up to her thigh. She was rather disconcerted by the dress’s frank immodesty, and had hired it only with misgiving. But she was glad now that she’d done so. In the glittering, sophisticated ambience of The Golden Chance, London’s premier casino, this was how to look.
As well as the dress, she’d hired the solid gold jewellery that went with it. Hanging earrings accentuated the length of her neck, heavy gold bracelets weighed down her wrists, and a long gold pendant plunged between her breasts, emphasising her décolletage.
I look like a kept woman, she thought, faintly shocked at herself.
But so did every other woman here, and in that respect the outfit was a success.
Certainly she could have held her own among the women who crowded around Sheikh Ali, competing for his attention, and being rewarded with a smile, or a kiss of the fingers in their direction. The sight made her seethe.
‘Arrogant so-and-so,’ she muttered. ‘Men like that are supposed to be extinct.’
‘Only the ones who can’t get away with it,’ Joey told her wisely. ‘Those who can are as bad as ever.’
‘You’re jealous,’ she said indignantly.
‘We all are, Fran! Look around you. Every man in the place wants to be him, and every woman wants to sleep with him.’
‘Not every one,’ she said firmly. ‘Not me.’
Ali had finished his royal progress and was settling at one of the tables. Fran edged nearer, trying to observe him without looking too interested.
He played for very high stakes, and when he lost he merely shrugged. Fran gulped at the sums he tossed away as though they were nothing. She noticed, too, that once play started he forgot about the women at his elbow. One minute he was flirting madly with them. The next they didn’t exist. Her annoyance grew.
It grew even more when play stopped and he turned on the charm again, clearly expecting to take up with them where he’d left off. Worse still, they let him.
‘You see that?’ she muttered to Joey. ‘Why doesn’t one of them spit in his eye?’
‘You try spitting in the eye of a hundred billion,’ Joey said. ‘See how easy it is. Why must you be such a puritan, Fran?’
‘I can’t help it. It’s how I was raised. It’s not decent for one man to have so much—so much—just so much.’
She’d been going to say ‘so much money’, but Sheikh Ali had so much of everything. From the moment of his birth it had all fallen into his lap. His father, the late Sheikh Saleem, had married an Englishwoman and remained faithful to her all his life. Ali was their only son.
He’d inherited his little principality at the age of twenty-one. His first act had been to cancel all deals with the world’s mighty oil corporations, and to renegotiate them, giving Kamar a far larger slice of the profits. The companies had raged but given in. Kamar’s oil was of priceless quality.
In the ten years since then he’d multiplied his country’s wealth more than ten times. He lived a charmed life between two worlds. He had apartments in both London and New York, and he commuted between them in his private jet, making huge, complex deals.
When not enjoying the high life in the west he returned to his domain to live in one of his palaces, or to visit Wadi Sita, a top secret retreat in the desert, where he was reputed to indulge in all manner of excesses. He never contradicted these rumours, nor even deigned to acknowledge them, and because no journalist had ever been allowed to glimpse the truth the stories flourished unchecked.
‘Does Howard know you’re here tonight?’ Joey asked, naming the man whom Fran usually dated.
‘Of course not. He’d never approve. In fact he doesn’t approve of my doing this story. I asked him what he could tell me about Ali, and he just gave me the PR line about how important he was, and how Kamar was a valuable ally. When I said there were too many mysteries, Howard went pale and said, “For pity’s sake, don’t offend him.”’
‘What a wimp!’ Joey said provocatively.
‘Howard isn’t a wimp, but he is a merchant banker, and he has a banker’s priorities.’
‘And you’re going to marry this guy?’
‘I never said that,’ Fran answered quickly. ‘Probably. One day. Maybe.’
‘Boy, you’re really head over heels about him, aren’t you?’
‘Can we concentrate on what we’re here for?’ she asked frostily.
‘Place your bets, please!’
Ali pushed a large stake out over the board to red twenty-seven, then leaned back with an air of supreme indifference. He maintained it throughout the spinning of the wheel as the little ball bounced merrily from red to black, from one number to another. Fran found she was holding her breath, her eyes riveted on the wheel, until at last it stopped.
Red twenty-two.
The croupier raked the stakes in. Fran watched Sheikh Ali, frowning. He didn’t even look at the fortune that was vanishing. All his attention was for his new stake.
Suddenly he looked up at her.
She gasped. Two points of light pierced her, held her imprisoned.
Then he smiled, and it was the most wickedly charming smile she had ever seen. It invited her into a conspiracy of delight and something in her leaped to accept. She discovered that she was smiling back; she didn’t know how or why. Simply that the smile had taken over her mouth, then her eyes, then her whole body.
Common sense told her that only pure chance had made him look in her direction, but somehow she didn’t believe it. He’d sensed her there. Among so many others, he’d known that she was watching him, and been impelled to meet her eyes.
Ali leaned forward to her, stretching out his hand across the narrow table. As if hypnotised she placed her own slender hand in his. He held it for a moment and she had the unnerving sense of steely strength in those long fingers. There was power enough there to break a man—or a woman.
Then he raised her hand to his lips. Fran drew in a sharp breath as his mouth brushed her skin. It was the lightest touch, but it was enough for her to sense the whole male animal, vibrant, sensual, dangerous.
‘Place your bets, please.’
He released her, reached for his stake and pushed it out onto the table. It stopped at black twenty-two, but he didn’t look to see. He’d forgotten the other women as soon as the wheel spun, but he kept his eyes on Fran, ignoring the wheel. She watched him back, meaning to tear her eyes away, but mysteriously unable to do so.
Black twenty-two.
Ali seemed to come out of a dream to realise that the croupier was pushing the chips towards him. It had been a large stake and with one win he’d recouped almost all his losses. He grinned, showing white teeth, and indicated the place beside him with the slightest inclination of his head.
She edged around the table towards him. The other women pouted and sulked, reluctant to give way to her, but he dismissed them with a faint gesture.
Fran felt as if she was moving in a dream. Luck had fallen her way with stunning suddenness. She had meant to study Ali tonight, and now fate had presented her with the perfect opportunity.
‘You have brought me luck,’ he said as she reached him and sat down. ‘Now you must stay close by me so that my luck remains.’
‘Surely you’re not superstitious?’ she asked with a smile. ‘Your luck will come and go. It has nothing to do with me.’
‘I think otherwise,’ he pronounced in a tone that silenced further argument. ‘The spell you cast is for me alone. Not for any other man. Remember that.’
Arrogant beast, she thought. If this didn’t happen to suit me I’d enjoy taking him down a peg.
‘Place your bets.’
With a gesture of his hand Ali indicated for her to place the stake for him. She put the counters on red fifteen, and held her breath as the wheel spun.
Red fifteen.
A sigh went up from everyone around the table.
Almost everyone.
Ali alone was not watching. His eyes were fixed admiringly on Fran. As the counters were pushed towards him he gave a shrug which said, ‘Of course.’
‘I don’t believe that happened,’ she breathed.