To Catch a Sheikh

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On the upside, after a week in El Zafir she was a bit more comfortable making her way through the palace without a compass or a clear view of the North Star. No, she knew her way to the royal dining room, and it was all she could do not to take off in the opposite direction. But how far could she get on legs that shook like tree limbs in a hurricane? If the invitation had come from anyone but Princess Farrah…

She would have refused? Yeah, like that was going to happen. Her common sense told her it wasn’t smart to bite the hand that feeds you. Retreat was not an option. Besides, she liked and respected the princess.

If only she wasn’t so nervous.

Descending the stairway, Penny held the polished mahogany railing. Each marble step had Berber carpet in the center. At the bottom, she walked to her left and pushed open one of the double doors into the dining room. Over and over she repeated to herself, “I will not talk too much.”

She poked her head inside to get her bearings before everyone showed up. Her heart nearly stopped as she saw the royal family already there. She quickly counted heads. Yup—all of them. Was she late? She hated being late. She despised walking into a room where everyone could look at her when she arrived. At least no one was sitting at the table yet. Table, ha. It was long—really long. An airport runway—without landing lights and covered by a lovely tablecloth.

Penny shook her wrist, then looked at her watch. She’d given herself enough time to be ten minutes early and catch her breath waiting for everyone else to walk in. But no. Just her luck to dine with the only royal family on the planet more punctual than herself. She loathed lateness. And nerves. It was the reason she’d had such a disastrous first meeting with Rafiq. Nerves and lateness, she had learned the hard way, were a recipe for disaster.

The butterflies in her stomach began a rousing rendition of the cancan as she noted the sheer number of people present. She’d met them all, one at a time. But all this royalty gathered together in one room was enough to give her a case of hives. How did someone like her deal with royals in droves? Very carefully, she thought, stifling a giggle that could turn hysterical at the drop of a hat, crown or, God forbid, coffee cup.

Like a magnet picking up metal, her gaze homed in on her boss. He was talking with his brothers and suddenly smiled. In an instant, the serious, aloof, authoritative man she’d become familiar with disappeared. The expression changed him from handsome to hubba-hubba gorgeous in zero point two seconds. Her legs started shaking again, but for a very different reason. She found she was much more comfortable with her boss, the prince, than this man who smiled or, oddly enough, the one who teased about cutting out her tongue.

Rafiq.

He’d told her to address him by his given name in private. Was there a rule about how many people constituted public? Did it matter that this was his family? Should she call him Prince Rafiq or lose the title? She would seriously consider selling her soul for just a drop of social confidence.

Glancing down, she sighed at her long-sleeved, high-necked black knit dress skimming the tops of her ankles. She recalled the teenaged salesclerk at the store where she’d purchased it telling her you could never go wrong with black. Her first mistake had been believing a teenager with pink hair. Penny had gone so very wrong. But then, she didn’t have the budget to go right.

“Ah, Penny.” Princess Farrah, in a dark green silk dress with matching heels and diamonds at her ears and neck, came forward to greet her.

“Good evening, Your Highness.” Penny looked around. “I hope I’m not late. You said seven—”

“You are perfect, my dear. Isn’t she, Gamil?” she said to the king.

Two steps away, the distinguished ruler turned at her words. He joined them and bowed slightly from the waist. “Miss Doyle. I’m very pleased you could join us for dinner this evening.”

“You are most kind to include me.” She looked around at everyone. The princess had told her it would be an intimate dinner with the family. Meeting the woman’s friendly gaze, Penny asked before she could stop herself, “Do you dress like this for dinner every night?”

The princess laughed. “Three or four times a week. The other nights one or more of us has an official government function requiring black tie and formal wear.”

“This isn’t formal?” she asked, hating that her voice sounded more like a squeak.

“Good heavens, no,” the princess answered.

Penny had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. They were probably laughing at her—or would be soon. Her less than stylish attire made her stand out like the ugly duckling at a gathering of swans.

“So for the royal family this is casual?”

“I suppose you could say that,” the king answered.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be impertinent,” Penny apologized, although he didn’t look mad. “It’s just that I have no frame of reference for this. What I meant to say is, it was most gracious of Your Highness to extend the invitation,” she finished. “And I can see where your sons get their good looks,” she added. One could never go wrong with a compliment.

He laughed, then gave her a courtly bow. “Farrah is right. You are indeed a breath of fresh air. And a shameless flatterer.”

“On the contrary, Your Highness. Flattery implies a lack of sincerity, and I assure you I speak the absolute truth,” she said, unable to stop her gaze from straying to Rafiq.

He looked a lot like his father, she noted. King Gamil was in his mid-fifties, but hardly looked a day over forty. It wouldn’t be hollow flattery to say he could be mistaken for an older brother to his sons—the dark, dangerous and devastating threesome. The king reminded her of a distinguished movie actor. And she couldn’t help wondering why he wasn’t married. Or Princess Farrah, either, for that matter.

“We would like to welcome you properly to our country,” he said.

The princess sipped from her crystal flute then added, “I expected Rafiq to extend the dinner invitation upon your arrival. When it became clear it had slipped his mind, I took steps to rectify the situation.”

Penny figured it had slipped his mind accidentally on purpose because he was afraid she’d dump something on his expensive Armani suit. Although their working relationship was progressing smoothly, she didn’t think she would live, in El Zafir or anywhere else on earth for that matter, long enough to live down the infamous coffee-spilling incident. A thousand years from now they would still talk about the klutzy American—she came, she saw, she spilled.

Just then Rafiq joined them. “Good evening, Penny,” he said, bowing slightly as his father had.

“Hi.” Her voice was slightly breathless, and she wished with all her heart she could blame it on descending the single flight of stairs.

“May I get you a glass of champagne?” he asked.

“Yes. Thank you. I’ve never tasted champagne before.” It was starting. She could feel it building—the urge to talk a mile a minute. Taking a deep breath, she looked up at him and said, “Fair warning—you might want to keep your distance.”

“And why would I want to do that?” he asked, the intensity of his gaze focused directly on her. “The day of your arrival was obviously not the first time you drank coffee, a fact that in no way spared my office carpet.”

“I suppose it was too much to hope you might have forgotten that.”

“As you have so perceptively pointed out—I listen and remember.” The corners of his mouth turned up. “So I’ll take my chances as you taste your first champagne.”

“My son has the heart of a lion,” the king said, his black eyes twinkling.

Rafiq grinned at his father, then motioned to one of the uniformed servers bearing a tray she’d wager was silver. Not silver plate, but the real McCoy that would tarnish without a gloved staff of thousands to keep it fingerprint free. She nudged her glasses more securely on her nose and took the offered crystal flute holding bubbling golden liquid.

She couldn’t help feeling like the governess in a Gothic romance novel. The kind of woman who should be stashed away upstairs on important social occasions.

“Rafiq, you have been remiss in not inviting Penny to dinner sooner,” the princess was saying. “It is—what is that American expression?—standard procedure for each new member of the business staff to join us, so that we can personally get to know everyone.”

“One big happy family,” Penny commented.

“Exactly,” the king said, smiling. “It has become obvious over the years that contented staff are more productive. Do you think me a tyrant, Miss Doyle?”

“On the contrary, Your Highness, it’s just plain, old-fashioned common sense.”

The princess touched her forearm. “Excuse us, my dear. Gamil and I must help Johara with Fariq’s twins.”

“They look fine to me,” the older man said.

Farrah glared at him. “Hana and Nuri are sweet children, but you know as well as I that they can easily become restless.”

The king saw her look and his eyes widened in comprehension as he nodded slightly. He bowed politely. “My sister is correct. Excuse us, please.”

Penny glanced at Rafiq and her nerves developed nerves. So much anxiety, so little time. At work she felt in her element and had grown accustomed to dealing with him as her boss. He gave her a task, she carried it out as efficiently as possible. He didn’t seem disappointed with her performance. In fact, she’d wager he wasn’t the type to keep it to himself if he was displeased.

The days had fallen into a pattern. In the morning she downloaded his e-mail and printed it out, placing it on his desk. Then, allowing for time zone differences, she returned phone calls with messages from the prince, typed letters and confirmed appointments. So far, afternoons were reserved for meetings. He was in and out of the office while she fielded more phone calls and took more messages.