She took a step out of the elevator and felt a prickle of tension. Guns disgusted her. She supposed though that the ruler of a powerful country such as Dashan must be under constant threat of kidnapping. The idea, though sinister, amused her, for kidnapping a man like Sheikh Zamir Fayez seemed to be an impossible task. He was both enormous and silently powerful.
Not an ideal candidate to nab in the middle of the night, even without his personal army.
“Miss Henderson?” A man with greying hair and excellent posture walked brusquely towards her. He held a hand out and she shook it on instinct.
“Please, call me Olivia.”
He nodded swiftly. “Very well. This is your identification tag. You must carry it or wear it at all times. These men do not mess around.”
“I rather got that impression,” she murmured with a small shiver.
“The life of the crown prince is most valuable to our Kingdom.” He began to move down the hallway. “Any of these men will conduct spot checks at any time. Without your identity tag, you will not be welcome in the presence of the Sheikh. It does not matter if you forget it somewhere. It is your key to this job. Understood?”
She nodded.
“His highness informed you that you are to remain in the hotel?”
“Yes,” she agreed. What more could she say? That it had been an order she’d been forced to obey?
Marook inserted the key card into a slot in the door and then handed it to Olivia. “Have you ever worked for royalty?”
She shook her head wordlessly. “You will find it completely different to anything else.”
“I’ve had some very demanding clients in the past.”
“Yes. Perhaps.” He smiled at her kindly. “Nothing compared to this. It is not the Sheikh who will test you, so much as the pace at which he lives.”
She smiled in what she hoped was a dismissive way and stepped into the hotel room.
“Sleep when you can,” was Marook’s parting advice.
Olivia reached over and flicked the light switch on. The room illuminated with a slightly shuddering electric glow. There was a bathroom to her right, and down the end of a narrow hallway, a bedroom. The balcony overlooked the lights of the strip. Sophie pulled out first one earring and then the next, laying them on her bedside table in what was a routine action at the end of each day. Her shoes followed suit.
She bent down and collected them from the floor and moved towards the wardrobe, intending to place them in the shoe rack. When she slid the mirrored door open, a full selection of clothes stared back at her.
Her clothes.
Her jaw slackened; her mouth dropped. She fingered the outfits with a growing sense of invasion and indignation, then lifted her phone from her pocket. She dialled her boss’s number and waited impatiently for it to connect.
“Liv. How’d you go?”
Johnny Lane spoke with his trademark drawl. He’d tell anyone who’d listen that he was fifth generation Vegas, as though the city itself were a principality, and he at heart of it.
“Well, fine. I got the job.”
Johnny’s smile was broad.
“Something which I suspect you already knew.”
“Yeah. Knew you’d hit it off.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” She pictured the Sheikh’s enormous golden eyes and shivered. “Johnny, why the hell are my clothes in this hotel room?”
His laugh was indulgent, not in the least self-conscious. “Thought that’d piss you off.”
“I’m just confused,” she corrected, closing the wardrobe door and easing down onto the bed.
“That Marook fella insisted I get you all set up. Said you’d be starting work immediately an’ that you’d be grateful for the head start.”
“So you went through my stuff?” She demanded, her sense of having been invaded increasing.
“Nah. Ebony did,” he corrected, referring to one of the other concierge staff. Sally was mildly mollified.
“A heads up would have been nice,” she remarked, laying back on the pillow and staring up at the ceiling.
“Yeah, tell me about it. But this whole booking happened pretty darned fast. Look. Liv, I know you’re a pro. Just … take really good care of this guy. The Dashani royal family’s got a lot of princes and princesses in its midst and they’re worth a packet. Wouldn’t mind picking up some future business from them.”
Secure in the knowledge she was unobserved, Olivia rolled her eyes. Johnny thought of two things. Money and women. And the Dashani royal family certainly provided an opportunity for money. “Sure, Johnny.” She rung off as soon as she could and sat back up again.
Her hair had been clipped into a tight bun all day. She removed each and every bobby pin with a grateful sigh. The relief from allowing her hair to flow loosely down her back was immense. She bathed quickly and dressed in a pair of black yoga pants and a grey singlet, then climbed between the crisp white sheets.
Olivia drifted off to sleep on a wave of distraction. While she was modest and down to earth, she was not stupid. Olivia knew that something about the way she had been put together made her an object of men’s interest. And while she’d become adept at the game of flirtation, she’d never really met anyone who’d set her heart racing. Until that moment, her interaction with the opposite sex had been more about the effect she had on men.
Being on the flipside of the coin was not an experience she was relishing. Particularly not given that she had to work for the man in question.
Marook had told her to be prepared for anything, but it was still a surprise when the hotel phone began to scream in the middle of the night. She woke with a start, her heart pounding and her breathing ragged, then flicked the light on. It took a moment for her eyes to focus and her mind to catch up with where she was, and on which assignment.
Then, she remembered.
The Sheikh.
She grabbed the phone up quickly. Her voice was husky when she spoke, “Good evening, sir. How may I help you?”
“It is morning.”
Olivia lifted her brows heavenward. He might have been technically correct, but it was in the very early hours of the morning; a time when she was usually escorting clients home and making sure they were tucked up safely in a drunken, yet not comatose, stupor.
“Yes, sir,” she agreed calmly.
“Come to my room.” The order was given with the complete confidence of a man who was always obeyed.
“Yes, sir.” She hung the receiver up with a wry grimace. Men like Zamir didn’t employ common civility. Why would he? Where he came from, his words were gospel; his instructions to be implicitly followed.
She scrambled out of bed and finger combed her hair then reassembled it into a neat bun. Instead of changing out of her outfit, she pulled on a button up shirt and slipped her feet into a pair of heels. A spritz of perfume and a slick of lip gloss and she was just about as good as she was going to get at two o’clock in the morning.
The hallway was far quieter than it had been the evening before. Only a handful of security men stood sentry, and Marook was nowhere to be seen. She opened the lift and pressed the button for the Sheikh’s floor.
She knew that her access to his floor would be momentary. A button at his end would give her a small window of opportunity. Such restrictions were familiar to her. He was not her first high-profile guest to utilise the high-tech security of The Infinity hotel.
When she entered his palatial suite of rooms, it took her a moment to find him. He was sitting at the piano, his fingers resting on the keys, but perfectly still. No sound was coming from the instrument.
“Good morning, sir.”
He looked sidelong in her direction without speaking, and then turned his attention back to the keys. He began to play, a slow song that was both beautiful and inexplicably sad. Olivia felt a bereft breeze shift across them.
While he played, she observed. His shoulders were broad, and his back straight. He was not just tall, he was built like an a
ncient warrior. As though he could live in the desert unaided, and survive any possible threat.
But he played like a haunted prodigy.
Olivia took a step closer on impulse, and he stopped, closing the lid of the instrument with a louder-than-necessary snap.
He turned around on the chair but didn’t stand. His eyes bore into her for such a long time that Olivia felt a ridiculous impulse to fidget with her fingers.
“How may I help you?” She repeated the question she’d asked on the phone, but still he said nothing for a very long time.
“I wish to be distracted,” he said finally, his smile ghostly.
“Of course.” She nodded with a whoosh of relief. Finally, they were returning to far more familiar ground. “You’re in the right place, sir. This is, after all, a playground city.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and loaded the app she used to track current events and activities. It updated every five minutes, and included which bars were closed, which were full, and which were at their peak. “Now, what would you like to do? There’s a high-stakes poker game at The Bellagio and I can get you a seat. Or perhaps a dinner reservation, despite the hour?”
She felt a frisson of discomfort creep along her spine as she broached the next subject. “There are some very exclusive gentlemen’s clubs in the area. Private and … well-regarded.”
He arched a single brow. It was just one tiny facial movement but it had the power to make her feel as though she’d said the most ridiculous thing imaginable.
“None of these things are of interest to me. I wish to be distracted, not bored by other people’s stupidity and lax morality.”
She pressed her lips together, willing herself not to get offended by his snappish words.
“Do you have an activity in mind then, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. If you tell me what it is, I will facilitate it.”
“As is your job,” he said unnecessarily.
She nodded, her eyes narrowing at his snappish mood.
“I would like to drink tea, and talk.”
“Tea?” She couldn’t help but repeat. “And talk?”
“There is a golden canister in the kitchen. It carries the royal tea of Dashan. Make a pot and join me.”
It was, of course, not an invitation she could refuse. It was an order. And their talk would be led by him.
This was not a tête-à-tête so much as a function of her job.
It was, however, the first time she’d been called from her bed to make drinks and chat.
She boiled the water and measured leaves into a glass pot that was beside the golden canister.
After hunting around for a few minutes, she found a tray beneath the stove. She lifted it out and laid two cups in the centre, then placed the teapot on it and moved back into the living area of the enormous suite. “I couldn’t see milk or sugar.”
“I take neither.”
He’d moved to a lounge near the large windows. Olivia spun the pot three times, unconsciously reminding herself of her mother Meredith, and then poured a measure into one of the fine bone china cups. When she handed it to him, she noticed how incongruous the tiny cup looked in his big, broad hands.
“Be seated.”
She lifted a teacup and took the seat opposite him. The view of Vegas sparkled beneath them, like something out of a modern fairy story. How many dreams were being made in the patchwork of light beneath them? How many were being broken?
Olivia didn’t speak. After all, Zamir was in charge. This was not the time to begin babbling.
“You are not from America,” he said after a long stretch of silence.
“No.”
“England?”
“Australia,” she corrected. “A small wine-growing district in the West.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “You have been here long?”
“No.”
That did surprise him. “And yet you are highly regarded by the man who owns the agency. He recommended you over all his other staff.”
Olivia felt pleasure curl her toes. She was not given to false modesty. She shrugged her slim shoulders. “I’m good at what I do.”
He studied her in detail and again her obvious physical attributes punctuated the worry that fogged him constantly at that time. He supposed she had a lot of clients who enjoyed having such a beautiful woman at their beck and call. Had she ever been asked to give more of herself than her job technically required? Had she ever been expected to indulge all of her clients’ desires?
“Do you train for something like this?”
“No, not as such,” she smiled and sipped her tea. It was delicious. Herbal and fruity, with a refreshing aftertaste. “Lots of different skills come into play.”
“Such as?” He prompted.
“Patience. Lateral thinking. Charm.” She flicked her eyes to his face. Olivia found it hard to believe this man truly wanted to hear about her professional background. He was quiet, as though her words were reverberating around his handsome head. But he didn’t speak.
After almost a minute, she said gently, “If there’s nothing else, sir …”
His expression was instantly displeased. “I would like you to remain until I dismiss you. Understood?”
Her heart turned over in her chest. He was not the first client to treat her like dirt on his shoe, but for some reason, his domineering tone cut her to the quick.
“Yes, sir,” and though she didn’t salute, the offence in her voice was obvious.
He heard it; he understood, and he cared far more than he ought. His explanation was the closest he’d come to apology in a long time. “My business here is not pleasant. I find I cannot put it from my mind. I want you to help me.” And there was a tone of pleading in his voice. “Do you have any brothers?”
This man was a contradiction in terms. Strong, confident and overbearing, there was a frailty to him that enlisted every single protective instinct she possessed. And that made no sense. “No, sir. I have two sisters though.” She didn’t reveal to many people that she was a triplet. The admission, coupled with her ridiculous cleavage and general appearance, caused more lascivious remarks than she wanted to deal with. And yet she heard herself say, “We’re triplets.”
“Triplets?” He sipped his tea, watching her carefully over the rim. “That must be interesting.”
“Yes.” She found herself relaxing a little, when she thought of Ava and Soph.
“Are you close?”
“Yes,” she responded instantly. “Not geographically at the moment. My sister Sophie is newly married and based in Europe. Ava is in Australia; she took over our vineyard when mum died.” Her voice cracked a little at the admission. No matter how many times she spoke of the loss, it still brought a mist of sadness to her.
Zamir’s eyes were speculative. “When did you lose your mother?”
“Five years ago this Christmas,” she responded, trying to insert some matter-of-factness into her words.
“How?”
Olivia shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t like to speak about it.”
If he were under less pressure, he might have known not to push her. But Zamir was curious about this woman, and about her history, and so he used his position to secure his goal. “How?” His word was imperious.
She put her teacup down and crossed her arms. “An accident.” It was the briefest amount of information she could provide.
“Yes?” He prompted, sipping his tea once more.
Olivia ground her teeth together. “With all due respect, and at the risk of being fired, it’s none of your business.”
Zamir, despite his displeasure at being disobeyed, admired her spirit and strength. “Very well,” he agreed, surprising them both.
“Thank you.” It was a small whisper of gratitude.
“How old are you?” He changed the subject with startling speed.
“I … why?”
He laughed, but it was a strangely discordant sound. As th
ough he didn’t have use for his laugh very often, and was out of practice. “I respect your decision not to speak of your mother. I too have known this grief and understand it is a private matter, above our separate positions in life.”
She leaned forward. “Sir, I am happy to work for you. And to work very hard for you. But despite your ‘position’, I don’t believe we have separate entitlements and rights.”
He was almost unmoving in his chair. “Really? Do go on.”
“Well,” she said seriously, “you’re a Prince in your country. And you’re used to people doing what you say, when you say it. But where I’m from, no one gets that kind of special treatment.”
“Yet you make a living from giving people this special treatment.”
“Within the bounds of what I deem to be respectful, yes,” she responded tautly. “I will not sacrifice my self-worth for any client.”
“You do not find this hypocritical?”
“No.”
He leaned forward in his chair, and though they weren’t touching, she felt as though his fingers were lightly grazing her flesh. The hairs at the back of her neck stood on end. “I am not accustomed to people saying no to me.”
“That’s unsurprising.”
“What is surprising,” he mused almost as if to himself, “is that you feel so comfortable disagreeing with me.”
Chastened, she forced a small smile to her lips. “You said you wanted distraction. Am I not distracting you?”
He nodded slowly. “Very much so.”
Olivia wasn’t sure if he felt the strange charge in the atmosphere, or if it was just her inexperience muddling things up.
“I don’t usually interact with my clients to this degree. I’m more of a behind-the-scenes sort of person.”
“Why do I find that hard to believe?” He was appraising her. Olivia had a feeling that she was an object he was holding in both hands, weighing her and sensing her at the same time.
She shrugged her slender shoulders. “I couldn’t say.”
The air between them was thick with thoughts and opinions. Lights from the strip barely penetrated the magical-seeming moment.
“How old are you?” He repeated his earlier question with his silent confidence. His accent was thicker at times than others; when he spoke now, it coloured each and every word, rendering them husky and mysterious.
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