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Less than two weeks to go—so she’d just have to enjoy this experience while it lasted.
Morgan closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, the scent of frangipani adding a heady sweetness to the air. If she tried hard she could almost imagine she was there, in Nobilah’s home in Jamalbad, the desert-warmed air kissing her skin, the sweet scent of the palace orange grove tugging at her senses.
A shadow moved over her as the sun disappeared behind a cloud—until she remembered there were no clouds today, and there should be no shadow.
She snapped open her eyes with a start to see a man standing over her, a dark statue looming tall and powerful, his features indistinguishable with the wash of light behind. Without seeing his eyes she knew this man was a stranger. Without seeing his eyes she could still feel their impact like an acid burn. He was looking down at her. Staring. Assessing.
Her senses on trembling alert, she swung her legs over the edge of the chair, pushing herself to stand so as to remove at least some of the advantage he had by virtue of his height. But just standing was nowhere near enough. He still stood a full head above her, although at least from this angle she could finally see his eyes.
And immediately regretted the fact.
They burned gold, with scattered flecks like flaming coals, burning all the brighter with the contrast of his dark lashes and arched brows and the darkly shadowed angles of his cheeks and jaw.
Never before had she been confronted with someone so totally, unashamedly masculine. And never before had she felt more like an insect under a microscope. It was impossible not to resent his inspection. At the same time there was something compelling about those golden eyes that wouldn’t let her turn away.
She swallowed, trying to quell the insane rush of sensation that coursed through her.
Attraction.
Desire.
Fear.
All those things rolled into one prickly surge of awareness as he silently continued to watch her.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked at last, when the silence had stretched out much longer than was polite, and it was clear he was not about to break it.
The corners of his mouth turned up, drawing her eyes to his full lips. And to a wide mouth she could tell immediately would be equally at home delivering either pleasure or pain. ‘That is my intention,’ he answered cryptically. But before she could think about a response, Nobilah stirred on the lounger alongside.
‘Tajik! You’re back already. Why didn’t you tell me?’
He turned his attention to the much older woman, releasing the hold on Morgan’s eyes as abruptly as the snapping of chains.
‘The negotiations finished early,’ he said, moving to the older woman’s side and enclosing her in a bear-like hug that swept her off her feet and around in a circle of dark silk. ‘I wanted to surprise you.’
‘You did!’ she said, her age-plumped features creasing in delight. ‘I’m so pleased.’
Morgan watched the reunion, waiting for the perfect time to withdraw. So this was Nobilah’s son, the Sheikh? She’d expected someone older, maybe forty or so, given that Nobilah was in her mid-sixties, but this man looked in his prime. He couldn’t be more than early thirties. But then Nobilah had talked often of him as a child, of her dark haired boy who had grown up wild and untamed in the deserts of Jamalbad only to become a prince when her husband had unexpectedly came to the sheikhdom. Of the boy who had been torn from one life and thrown into another much more demanding and exacting.
As she looked at him now she could see no trace of that wild boy-child. Royalty was everything about him. His composure. His bearing. His sheer presence.
He could have been born to rule.
As if sensing her thoughts, he turned and captured her gaze. ‘So this is your new companion?’ he said, still holding his mother’s hands in his own. ‘So, tell me, is she any good?’
‘Come and meet her,’ his mother scolded, tugging him around. ‘See for yourself.’
Morgan stiffened as he allowed his mother to lead him to the hired help. As if it was necessary. Surely he’d seen enough while he’d been standing over her? And if talking about her in the third person had been intended to make her feel uncomfortable, he’d sure hit the spot. She gave him a glare that should strip paint.
If he noticed her glare of disapproval he gave no hint of it. ‘Morgan Fielding,’ he uttered slowly—so slowly and deliberately, that the sound of her own name rolled through her, a strange, unfamiliar thing.
With an accent that was like a blend of the richest coffee and the darkest chocolate, he made her name sound good enough to eat. No, she corrected herself, catching sight of white teeth flashing between lips that looked too confident, too predatory, he made her name sound good enough to devour. She shivered. Because his eyes echoed the certainty. They looked down at her, their golden depths too knowing, too intent, as if he was reaching to some place deep inside her she hadn’t known existed until now. And instinct warned her this man would do nothing by half measures.
And then he held out one hand, and she had no choice, no matter what her senses screamed to her in warning, but to do likewise.
She felt long fingers enclose her hand, circling around her wrist in a sensual dance of flesh against flesh as he drew her arm weightlessly towards him. With his eyes firmly fixed on hers she felt powerless to resist. Just when she thought he was intending to take her all the way to his lips, he stopped, and with the merest smile nodded slightly. ‘It is indeed…a pleasure.’
Her heart thumping in her chest, it was all she could do to form, let alone hear, her own words. ‘Sheikh Tajik, I’ve heard a lot about you.’
His smile widened, although his eyes remained steady, calculating.
‘You have me at a distinct disadvantage,’ he said. ‘I know next to nothing of you—a failing I intend to rectify at the first opportunity, I assure you.’
Golden eyes told her he meant every word he said, while the gentle stroke of one long finger over her wrist sent tremors of heat reverberating up her arm.
‘Taj,’ Nobilah rebuked with a laugh, breaking the spell. ‘Stop flirting with my companion. Come and tell me all about Paris. I’ll send for tea.’
‘I…I’ll get it,’ Morgan offered, smiling her thanks at Nobilah as she sensed a means of escape. She tugged her hand free and set off for the house, unable to ignore the prickle of heat on her skin, almost as if a pair of golden eyes were burning tracks into her back the whole way.
Nobilah had thought he’d been flirting with her? Why, then, had every word felt like some kind of threat? And why had the touch of his fingers on her flesh felt like some kind of promise?
She shivered again, wanting to shake off the unfamiliar sensations, and let herself into the house via the wide glass doors that led into the casual living areas and through to the kitchen beyond. She had almost crossed the cool tiled floor when she heard the voices—the even, low tones of Kamil and the raised voice of Anton, the chef they’d lured from one of Brisbane’s top hotels for the duration of their stay.
‘I have a contract,’ the chef protested. ‘I will not be sacked!’
Morgan pulled herself up short of the door. Obviously this was not a good time. But why were they sacking Anton? It made no sense. His cooking was three star Michelin standard, his menus superb. And Nobilah had made no secret of the fact that if she could she would like to take him back to Jamalbad with them.
‘Not sacked,’ she heard Kamil reply, his tone soothing yet insistent. ‘The remaining balance owing on your contract will be paid in a lump sum, together with a generous bonus for any inconvenience.’
Anton grunted his displeasure and Morgan tuned out. She was turning to leave—right now was probably not the best time to ask for tea—when she heard the words, ‘We leave for Jamalbad at first light tomorrow. All you need do is prepare a light breakfast and then you are free to go. You will have the day to clear your things before the house is closed up.’
They were leaving? Tomorrow? So that was why they wouldn’t need a chef any longer. And if they didn’t need a chef…
She stood there, drinking in the knowledge that her services were about to be terminated prematurely, and the clatter of pans coming from the kitchen as Anton grudgingly came to terms with the news echoed her mood.
She’d thought she still had two weeks of being Nobilah’s companion. Now she had less than twenty-four hours. Damn. Working nine to five in some office hellhole was going to seem very ordinary after this assignment.
‘Miss Fielding?’
Morgan blinked and swung around to see Kamil watching her from the kitchen door, a frown creasing his brow. Mentally she prepared herself, waiting for the axe to fall. Kamil had been the one to hire her. If her services were about to be terminated, he might as well get it over with right now. But he just stared right back at her.
‘Was there something you wanted?’
She hesitated, still expecting him to take advantage of finding her outside the kitchen to deliver the news of her own dismissal. But when he failed to speak again, Morgan could put it off no longer. She nodded, feeling awkward. ‘Nobilah requested tea.’
He looked at her oddly, his expression a mix of concern and something that looked like pity. Then he simply glanced over his shoulder. ‘Anton, tea for Nobilah, if you please.’ He turned back to Morgan. ‘Was there anything else?’
You tell me, she was tempted to say. ‘No,’ she whispered instead. ‘Just the tea.’
‘In that case, please excuse me. I have much to arrange. Anton will have the tea ready for you in just a moment.’ He nodded and turned to leave, but all of a sudden she couldn’t let him go—not without knowing for sure.
‘Kamil…’
He halted and swivelled back round. ‘Yes?’
‘I…I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help but overhear. You’re leaving for Jamalbad? Tomorrow?’
He inclined his head. ‘That is true.’
‘The entire household, including Nobilah?’
‘Again, this is true.’
‘Oh,’ she whispered. ‘I see.’
Kamil hesitated a moment, and once more she caught almost a look of pity in his features—but in a blink it was gone, his usual mask of efficiency returned.
‘If that is all…?’
‘Of course,’ she said, letting him withdraw. He would have plenty to do to organise the family’s early departure without her getting in his way.
Why had he looked at her that way? she wondered as she carried the tray from the kitchen. Unless Kamil had assumed she might be expecting a generous bonus for the early termination of her contract too?
He needn’t be worried on that score. Anton had been with them for the best part of two months, and was a top-flight chef, while she’d been Nobilah’s companion for little more than a week. Under the circumstances she’d be more than happy to have her contract paid out.
She slowed as she crossed the terrace, her pulse starting to beat irregularly as she took in the sight of Nobilah with her son. They were walking side by side along the stone flagging that lined the large, Italian-inspired pool. Tajik dwarfed his mother, a petite woman for all her curves, rendered all the more petite by the man walking alongside her and whose elegance could not be disguised by the abaya she wore, its fabric swirling about her like poetry as she walked.
And then there was Tajik. Tall and broad-shouldered and hard, as if he’d been carved from stone and breathed into life by the kiss of the gods. His pale blue sweater could not mask a firm chest and flat abdomen; his dark trousers could not disguise lean hips and long legs.
As she watched, he angled his face towards his mother, and Morgan found herself reacquainted with the determined angles of his jaw, the strong line of his nose. Everything about the man said power, even the fire-flecked golden eyes and the passionate slash of his mouth.
What did his return today have to do with the family’s sudden departure? It couldn’t be coincidental. There’d been no hint of a possible early return to Jamalbad before now.
Not that there was anything she could do about it. With a sigh she pushed herself off the deck, heading for the pool area while the pair were still strolling around the far end of the pool. Screened by trees, she’d take the opportunity of leaving the tea on the table and make herself scarce while mother and son enjoyed their reunion. She had no desire to lock horns—or gazes, for that matter—with Sheikh Tajik again, not when he had such a disconcerting ability to get under her skin.
Morgan gave a wry smile as she reached the table. If she had to find a bright side to the early end to this assignment, she guessed being saved any further contact with Sheik Tajik would probably fit the bill. That would be some consolation at least.
He’d known the second she’d emerged from the house. He’d felt her presence like a sigh of satisfaction. She’d taken a long time, much longer than it took to collect a mere pot of tea, and he’d wondered if he’d actually scared her off completely. After all, she’d almost bolted for the sanctuary of the house the second Nobilah had mentioned the word “tea”.
He’d waited with unexpected enthusiasm for her to rejoin them while he’d gone over the plans to leave with his mother, until finally Morgan had reappeared, but even then she’d hesitated, like some quaking virgin on her way to her wedding feast—knowing but not really comprehending what was in store for her.
He allowed himself a smile at the parallel as his mother headed back to the house to check with Kamil on progress.
Morgan was perfect. Up close he could see she was both good-looking enough for everyone to believe he’d chosen her as his bride for just that reason alone, and meek enough not to complicate his plans. She was exactly what he needed to quash Qasim’s lust for the throne.
He watched her place the tray on the table, her cream linen trousers moulding to her neat backside as she bent down, emphasising the flare of her hips and firing off a primitive spike of need in his loins that took him both by surprise and delight. Oh, no, he thought as he circled the pool towards her, appreciating the neat waist between those feminine curves, it would be no hardship playing Qasim at his own game. Not with such an appetizing partner in crime.
The object of his attention straightened and set off without a backward glance. He smiled to himself. She was kidding herself if she thought she could escape that easily.
‘Miss Fielding,’ he called. ‘You will be joining me for tea.’ It wasn’t a question.
She stopped with a jolt, before her back straightened and she swung around.
The polite smile on her face did nothing to hide her obvious discomfiture at being caught.
‘I’m afraid I only brought two cups.’
He swung his hand around in a sweeping arc that could only emphasise the leanness in his body, the sheer latent strength. ‘As you can see, there are only two of us.’
‘But Nobilah?’ Frantically her eyes scanned the pool area.
‘Has gone to organise the staff,’ he finished.
She took a step towards the house. ‘Then I should help her.’
‘No.’ His hand whipped out and caught her forearm, arresting her mid-turn. ‘Not just yet. I wanted the opportunity to talk to you.’
She looked up at him, her hazel eyes wide with what looked almost like panic, her lips still parted with surprise. Underneath his hand her skin felt smooth and warm, and his thumb picked up the race of her pulse through her slender limb.
Then her chin kicked up on a swallow. ‘If it’s about leaving tomorrow, I already know.’ She looked down at his hand. ‘So, if you’ll kindly take your hand away…’
He didn’t. Not right away. He let it linger long enough to drink in more of the touch of her skin, long enough to tell her that he was the one who would decide what and where. As she would soon come to know.
Finally he let her go, and she clutched her arms around her as if she was cold. But he knew from her touch that she wasn’t cold. Far from it.
‘Walk with me,’ he said, ‘and tell me what you think you know.’
Her eyes sparked at the implication, but she said nothing, merely falling into step alongside him as he set off along the path that threaded through the palms around the perimeter. She walked with a slight limp, he noticed, a limp she was working hard at disguising.
For a moment he wondered if he was acting too rashly and there might be some pressing medical reason why he would be foolish to take this woman as his wife, but if Kamil had not listed it amongst his concerns, as surely he would have, then it must be a detail of no consequence. Beside him the woman gave a small sigh of resignation.
‘Just that the household is returning to Jamalbad tomorrow and that everyone will be leaving.’
‘You’re not sorry? I believe from Kamil that your contract has two weeks to run?’
‘I will miss Nobilah.’
He nodded, liking the way this conversation was developing. ‘As my mother seems to like you.’
She smiled in return, transforming her features to dazzling. ‘I love hearing Nobilah’s stories of life in Jamalbad. I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘It just all sounds so exotic.’
She looked up at him, her eyes bright and her smile wide, until, as suddenly as if she’d flicked a switch, her eyes clouded over and she let her smile slide away.
‘Anyway,’ she continued, looking ahead once more, the prim miss back in control, ‘I will miss her.’
He waited a stride or two before answering, taking his time to appreciate the slightly irregular sway of her hips as they walked together. It was good. Even the way she moved pleased him. ‘That will not be necessary,’ he told her.
He heard the rapid intake of air that preceded her words. ‘Look, it may not be necessary, as you put it, but I do like your mother. I’ve enjoyed her company immensely, whether you believe me or not.’
