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So that was that, she thought. There’d be no holiday this summer. Instead she was going back to work.
Tired tears started to come, but she squeezed her eyes closed, forced them away, refusing to feel sorry for herself. She’d done the right thing. She knew she had. How could she possibly have gone on holiday when Aaron would have faced horrible fines and stiff charges? Better to miss some beaches and skiing and live with a clear conscience.
“You must be hungry,” Sharif said, his voice deep in the car’s dark interior. “It’s nearing eleven, and I can’t imagine you’ve eaten since noon.”
“No, but I haven’t been hungry. Too many emotions,” she answered, sinking back deeper against the impossibly soft leather seat. She was tired and thirsty and virtually numb from the roller-coaster day.
When she’d woken up this morning she’d thought she would be flying to Brisbane tonight. Instead the plane had taken off without her and she was facing the prospect of a long summer in Sarq.
The thought alone sent prickles of fresh panic up and down her spine.
How could she do this? How could she spend ten weeks with Sharif and his family? The fact that he was widowed changed nothing for her.
“I know nothing about this job I’ve accepted,” she said. “You’ll have to tell me about your children. How many … then-names, their ages, as well as your objectives.”
“I will,” he answered. “But first things first, and that’s a proper dinner, because I know you—you need to eat. You always skimp meals to get things done, but in the end, it backfires. You just end up irritable.”
“I don’t.”
“You do. And you are already. You should see your face. You’re famished and exhausted.”
She bit back her immediate retort. It wouldn’t help to get into a hissing contest with Sharif. The fact was, they were going to spend a considerable amount of time together. Better to try to get along with him than become adversaries. “So, distract me from my hunger. Tell me something about your family. How many children will I be teaching?”
“Three.”
“Boys and girls, all boys …?”
“All girls.” His expression never outwardly changed, but Jesslyn sensed tension and didn’t know why or what it was.
“They’re bilingual?” she asked, knowing her Arabic would get her by on market day but wouldn’t be considered proper Arabic by any stretch of the imagination.
“Yes, but you’ll discover all that tomorrow when we head home.”
Home. His home. Sarq. A country she’d visited only once, and very briefly, to attend Aman’s funeral. She’d flown in and out the same day, and in her grief, she remembered nothing but the heat. It was summer after all and hot, so very very hot.
But they weren’t in Sarq yet. No, they were heading for the glossy and busy city-state of Dubai.
A 200-year-old city, once populated by pirates and smugglers, today Dubai was a cosmopolitan melting pot, teeming with more foreigners than locals. The city had blossomed overnight with the discovery of oil and now had so much money that the powers that be kept coming up with the most interesting ways to put it all back into the country and boost tourism. Jesslyn hadn’t quite gotten used to the idea of manmade islands shaped like the world, or the snow ski facility in the desert. There were already plans underway for a huge theme park called Dubailand, along the lines of Disneyland and even an underwater hotel.
Dubai Creek ran through the middle of the city-state with the business district Deira to the east, and Bur Dubai, the commercial and historic district, to the west.
But the driver wasn’t going to Deira or Bur Dubai, he was destined for Jumeriah Beach, the playland for the rich, royal and beautiful.
Despite living in the Emirates for six years Jesslyn had spent very little time at Jumeriah Beach’s posh waterfront resorts. For one, you couldn’t even get into some of the hotels unless you were a hotel guest, and “treating” oneself to a night at the Burj Al Arab, reportedly the most luxurious hotel in the world, wasn’t in the budget, not when rooms started at $1,280. But obviously that wasn’t a problem for a man with Sharif’s wealth.
“We’re eating here?” she asked Sharif as the car turned into the hotel’s private drive.
“And staying here. I’ve my own suite reserved for my exclusive use.”
“That’s nice.”
He merely smiled at her, the smile of a king who’d become used to having his way.
As they stepped from the car, Jesslyn felt as if she’d entered a production of Arabian Nights: gilded doors magically opened, overhead lights dimmed, lush green fronds parted.
The uniformed staff scrambled to assist Sharif, and while Jesslyn knew hotel staff were exceptionally attentive in Dubai, she personally found the attention overwhelming. There were too many people, too much bowing, too much of everything.
“You’ll have your own suite,” Sharif said. “And the hotel manager has promised to see you there and make sure you’ve everything you need.”
Jesslyn glanced around. “My luggage—”
The hotel manager nodded. “It’s already there, ma’am.”
While Sharif took one elevator, she took another, escorted by the hotel manager and a young woman in a fashionable robe and veil. The hotel manager described the hotel, explained where everything was, including the numerous restaurants and lounges. “You’ll have your own butler,” he added, gesturing to the veiled young woman, “and anything you should need will be taken care of. Also, you will be dining with His Highness in thirty minutes. Meena will escort you to the restaurant where you’ll be joining Sheikh Fehr.”
Jesslyn barely had time for a quick bath, a change into a simple black skirt topped by a soft silk pearl-gray blouse and a quick brush of her hair before it was time to go.
She followed the robed woman back to the elevator where they went to a lower level, transferred to a different elevator, which went straight to the restaurant at the very top of the luxurious hotel.
Jesslyn had to skirt a group of robed men who were in animated discussion. She caught bits and pieces of the conversation—impossible not to as they were talking quite loudly—and discovered their conversation had to do with Sheikh Fehr. Apparently two or more of the men had daughters and each father was quite adamant that it was his daughter who would be marrying King Fehr next September.
Jesslyn froze and stiffened as though she’d just been doused with a bucket of ice water.
Was Sharif getting married again? Were plans in the works for another Dubai princess?
Her head practically throbbed. Jesslyn put a hand to her temple, closed her eyes, wondering all over again just what kind of personal hell she’d agreed to. Tragically, she had no one else to blame for her situation. She’d agreed to this scenario. Had offered herself up.
Her ridiculous morals and values. Her ridiculous Joan of Arc complex!
One day she’d wise up. One day she’d put herself first, protect herself first.
“Headache?” a deep voice murmured at her elbow. Lifting her head, Jesslyn looked up into Sharif’s face.
The lashes fringing his silver eyes were thick and black. Strong cheekbones jutted above an equally strong jaw.
“Terrible,” she admitted, but unwilling to tell him that he was the source of her tension.
“Food will help and they have our table waiting.”
Sharif signaled to the maître d’ that they were ready, and immediately the host showed them to a prime window table with a view of the entire city where skyscrapers glittered in every direction.
Sharif ordered several appetizers to be brought right away as well as platters for dinner. “Eat,” Sharif said when the first of the appetizers arrived, pushing the small plates of seasoned meat, fish and assorted flat breads toward her. “You’ll feel better.”
But eating in front of Sharif was almost impossible. Even though the dishes were superbly prepared, chewing and swallowing required a Herculean effort, and after a few more bites of food Jesslyn gave up.
Sharif had watched her attempt to eat and now observed her pushing her food around her plate. “Have you developed one of those eating disorders? You never had a problem with food before.”
Jesslyn was grateful to drop the pretense. “It’s been a long day and a hard day. I thought I’d be on a plane right now and instead …” Her voice drifted off and, looking across the table at Sharif, she gave her head a slight, bemused shake. “It’s hard to take in, hard to accept.”
Just saying the words filled her with fury and resentment. Sharif could have helped her without insisting she give up her holiday. He could have helped her just because he was in a position to be able to help.
“You’re upset because I won,” he said, his tone deceptively mild.
She turned her head, gave him a long, level look. “Is that what this is to you? A competition? Or better yet, a battle where one person must win and the other loses?”
The edge of his generous mouth curved, and yet his gaze was hard, hot, sharp, and he looked at her so intensely that she felt bolts of electricity shoot through her.
“You haven’t yet learned that everything in life is a competition?” he drawled, his deep voice pitched low, his tone lazy, almost indulgent. “Life is just one endless battle after another. It’s all about power. It’s nothing but a quest for control.”
The chemistry between them had always been strong, and even though nearly a decade had passed since she’d last seen him, Jesslyn felt wildly, painfully aware of Sharif.
“Is that what being a king has taught you?”
He suddenly leaned forward, close enough that she could see the sparks of fire and ice in his eyes. “It’s what being a man has taught me.”
She didn’t know if it was his tone or his words but she shifted nervously, strangely self-conscious. Sharif had never made her feel this way before. Anxious. Unsettled. Undone. But then, he’d never been an adversary before and yet somehow it’s what he’d become.
Winners and losers, she silently repeated as she crossed her legs beneath the table and accidentally touched his knee with her own. Abruptly she drew back, but not before heat washed through her, heat and embarrassment and a painful awareness.
Their table was too small.
The dining room was too dark.
The atmosphere too charged.
Fortunately just then more food arrived, plates and platters and bowls. Jesslyn thought the food would be a distraction and Sharif would now eat and she’d have a moment to gather her composure. But Sharif threw her all over again with his command.
“You’ll serve,” he said with such authority that she immediately gritted her teeth.
“Has something happened to your hands?” she flashed, unable to control her burst of temper and defiance.
“You know it’s the custom for the woman to serve the man.”
“If she has a relationship with or to him. But I am not yours. I don’t belong to you—”
“But you do work for me,” he interjected softly. “And as one that is now in my employ, it would be proper for you to serve me.”
Her chin jerked up and she stared at him in mute fury. He was enjoying this, she thought. He enjoyed having power over her. “Why exactly did you come looking for me today?”
“I needed your help.”
But it wasn’t just that. It was more than that. She knew it was more because this wasn’t the Sharif she’d known. This wasn’t a man she’d want to know. “For what?”
He sighed. “You already know this. My children need a tutor. I want you to be their tutor—”
“Then don’t treat me like a second-class citizen,” she interrupted. “I agreed to teach your children this summer but that doesn’t make me your servant or part of the royal staff, and it doesn’t mean I’ll wait on you or any other member of the royal family.”
He held her gaze, his own silver eyes glittering with heat and an emotion she couldn’t discern. “Did I upset you by not saying please?”
It was all she could do not to dump her glass of water over his arrogant head as she bit back one angry retort after another. Battling to control her temper, she looked away, out the window to the sparkling lights of the city as it curved to meet the dark sea. A helicopter buzzed past the window on its way to the hotel’s landing pad.
“You upset me,” she said at length, “by asking me to do something you would have never asked me to do ten years ago.” She drew an unsteady breath. “Ten years ago you would have served me.”
“We were in London then,” he answered.
Her lips lifted in a hard bitter smile. “And you weren’t the sheikh.” Her head turned and she met his gaze once more. “Isn’t that right? This is back to your new philosophy on winning and losing and everything in life being a battle for control.”
Sharif reached for the tongs on one of the platters and served himself a generous portion of the lamb and then a scoop of the seafood-laced rice. “There,” he said, pushing the bowl of rice toward her. “Consider that a victory. You’ve won that round.”
Jesslyn blinked, her chest hot with bitter emotion. Where had the old Sharif gone, the one who’d once been so kind, so relaxed, so thoughtful?
Shifting in her seat, she accidentally bumped into his leg again beneath the table, his body big, hard, warm, and she nearly ran. She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t sit here and play nice, not when she remembered how it’d been between them, how he’d once been with her.
She realized that for her the attraction hadn’t gone. The old desire hadn’t died, and Sharif of ten years ago flashed through her mind—long hair, faded tattered jeans, beach flip-flops on his feet.
As if he knew what she was thinking he said, “I’m not a heartless ogre. I’m not cruel. I care very much about duty, family, responsibility.”
Words he would never have used ten years before, at least not like that. From the first time she’d met him, he’d been concerned about his family, concerned about peoples’ feelings. He would never have run roughshod over anyone.
Painful memories returned, memories of them as they’d once been—arm in arm walking through Hyde Park, laughing, talking, oblivious to the prince’s security detail tailing them everywhere.
Back then Sharif had lived as though he wasn’t royal, as though he had only himself to answer to.
He was wrong. And they both knew that. But they could pretend, and they did. For the two and a half years they were together, they pretended….
With an effort she swallowed around the funny lump in her throat. “Now tell me about your girls, their school, everything. Why are you so concerned about them? What is it you want me to do?”
He made a rough sound. “Give me a miracle.”
She frowned, not understanding. “What does that mean?”
Sharif didn’t immediately answer. Instead he toyed with his spoon, his gaze fixed on a distant point across the restaurant. “I don’t actually know what the problem is,” he said after a moment. “The girls apparently had considerable problems this year at school, problems I wasn’t aware of until they returned home for the summer. The headmistress sent word that it had been a difficult year and she wasn’t sure she could have them back, at least, not all of them.”
He set the spoon down, pushed it away, his eyes shadowed. “I don’t want the girls split up. They’ve already lost their mother. They shouldn’t lose each other.”
Jesslyn nodded slightly. She totally agreed with him on that. “Did the headmistress give any specifics about the ‘difficult’ year? Were the girls struggling academically or was it something else?”
“I’ve looked at their end-of-year marks and they are down across the board, but it’s their conduct marks that trouble me. My daughters aren’t spoiled princesses. They’re good girls. Polite children. And yet it seems the school … the teachers … have come to view them as troubled.”
“Troubled?”
He took a quick rough breath, as though the entire subject was so painful he could barely endure it. “The youngest had the worst marks. She essentially failed everything. She’s the one the school isn’t sure should return.”
Jesslyn waved off the waiter who was trying to refill her water. “Perhaps it isn’t the right school for the girls.”
“They’ve been there for nearly two years.”
“Not every school is right for every child.”
