The Sheikh's Sinful Seduction

by Dani Collins

  The suggestion stunned her. She considered working with women to ensure the health of their children. It wasn’t bra burning, but it was something everyone could get behind and benefit from. Within seconds, her eager mind was leaping with excitement to get started. And it meant she could be an asset to him, not a detriment.

  But the way he said it, like it had only just occurred to him, made her wonder.

  “Did your first wife do that sort of thing?” she asked, already sensitive to wearing the woman’s shoes.

  “No,” he said flatly. Something flashed in his expression, but she could only see his profile and whatever it was gone before she could identify it. “She was pregnant. Tariq was young.”

  I’m pregnant, she almost said. And Amineh managed a work schedule around having two children.

  He must have sensed her puzzlement because he added, “As I said, she was very traditional. Not complacent, but not like Amineh, who was educated here and exposed to different ideas. Sadira wasn’t interested in taking a public role.”

  Sitting deeper into her bucket seat, Fern let that explanation sink in. “She didn’t really have time, did she? Amineh said she died of cancer.”

  “She did.” The privacy field he’d erected swelled with thick layers.

  “Did you come to love her?” she worked up the courage to ask, even though her trepidation of the answer was so strong her voice shrank.

  His jaw worked as he took care to gear down and follow a curve through a gate and into a tunnel of wet, overhanging tree branches down a long graveled drive.

  “Love—the passionate kind found in marriage—is a Western notion. Not something that served my father well.”

  Zafir is more Arab than English, remember that, Fern. Her lungs shrank and hardened, squeezing her heart. But Amineh has love, she wanted to argue.

  The boulevard of trees ended abruptly and the estate house, gloriously regal with spiking chimneys and a staid facade, struck her in the face. It perched on the highest hillock that overlooked rolling grounds, a pond and, farther in the distance, thick green woods, all of it curtained by a fey mist of rain.

  The house itself was intimidating in its sense of peerage, and consisted of ancient bricks and tall windows. The north side was coated in ivy, the south held what she thought might be a solarium. The garage was its own building with seven double doors.

  Zafir followed the circular drive around a fountain then parked before the wide front stairs, clicked off the engine and turned toward her while the rain pattered loudly on the roof above them.

  “Sadira is Tariq’s mother. I love him with everything in me. For giving him to me, I will always have the utmost regard and respect for her. You already have the same from me, Fern.”

  Meeting his steady stare was hard. She was afraid he’d see the shadows of wanting more in her eyes when she’d never realized how badly she did want more until this moment. He expected her to tie herself to him for the rest of her life, cut off any chance of meeting the man who might love her and settle for what was, quite possibly, more than she had ever expected before today.

  “I’m worried you won’t respect me in the long run,” she admitted. “I’m not a good match for you. I don’t have a strong personality. You can, quite obviously, talk me into anything,” she said with a disparaging gesture at where they were. “I don’t want to be a doormat and I don’t want to see your contempt as I turn into one.”

  He frowned, deflating her.

  “That puts me in a difficult position,” he growled. “If I disagree with what you just said, you’ll accuse me of talking you around. Let’s do this. Try me, Fern. I’ve seen you hold your ground. I’ll keep in mind that a little defiance is a lot for you and we’ll see how far we get.”

  She snorted and said, “Okay,” then rolled her eyes at the irony of capitulating. Again.

  He grinned, looking so handsome he made her catch her breath. When his gaze fixed on her mouth, her heart stopped.

  A flicker behind him made her nod toward the house through the drizzle-coated window.

  “Someone’s coming,” she told him, reaching for her handbag. Had he been thinking of kissing her? She really would be a puddle of spent willpower if he did.

  “Stay there,” he commanded as she started to reach for her door latch.

  He pushed out of his side and said something to the man who’d rushed out with an open umbrella.

  Now would be the time to push back against one of his dictates, but it was no easy task to throw herself from a vehicle these days in a fit of independence. She sat there like a lump and waited for him.

  A moment later, while the young man extended his arm to cover them both with the umbrella, Zafir helped her from the car, giving her an illusion of grace as he levered her bulk with a firm but gentle hand under her elbow.

  With a murmur of thanks, Zafir exchanged keys for an umbrella and escorted her inside while the servant—was he called a footman?—collected her case from the boot.

  Is this it? Zafir had asked when she had only that one case and an overnight bag after completing her packing.

  She had a few boxes in Miss Ivy’s storage compartment in the basement. “But they’re just sentimental things I wasn’t ready to part with after my mother passed. Nothing I really need,” she’d explained. “I was starting fresh when I took the overseas contract.”

  He hadn’t said much to that, had only carried her things to the car while she’d said her goodbyes to Miss Ivy. Fern had lingered to assure her friend that while she didn’t know if she was marrying Zafir, she had to admit that he was devoted to his baby and that meant more to her than only another child rebuffed by their father could understand. She couldn’t in good conscience keep him out of her baby’s life.

  Somewhat reassured, Miss Ivy had repeated that she was always there for Fern and now, entering what looked more like a museum than a house, Fern wondered if it was too late to change her mind and go running back to the sofa bed with the iron bar that had dug into the middle of her back every night.

  A butler greeted them. At least, that was Fern’s assumption of his title when introduced to Mr. Peabody, who bowed and took her coat. He glanced at the footman as the young man entered with her case. “I’ll ask Mrs. Reid to prepare a room in the guest wing—”

  “Miss Davenport will stay in my suite,” Zafir interrupted. “I’ll take her there now. Please let my mother know we’re four for dinner.”

  “Of course.” Another bow and Mr. Peabody disappeared.

  Zafir guided Fern up the right wing of the curving dual staircase to the landing where they were level with the ornate chandelier over the entranceway. So much space! It was like visiting a posh opera theater, not a home.

  Their footsteps made no sound on the thick ivory carpet. They passed ancient portraits and little tables and vases and candle sconces that she had enough history education to assess as Tudor and Regency and Victorian. Old, old family heirlooms.

  Zafir was out of his mind, bringing her into this.

  His “suite” was essentially a town house, taking up all three floors of the southeast corner of the main house.

  “My mother converted it for when my father stayed with us. After he passed, she couldn’t bear to be in here so she moved back into her old rooms. Tariq has the upstairs to himself. I don’t bother keeping a full staff. We eat in the main house, but there’s a kitchen below along with laundry and the rest.”

  The rest being...an indoor pool? A bowling alley?

  “And you make do with this,” she murmured, pacing the lounge that could fit a dozen of Miss Ivy’s little parlor.

  An archway on the left led to an expansive dining room with a balcony that overlooked the outdoor pool, covered at the moment. The fading light through those windows was the only natural light into the lounge because, she quick
ly realized, the front of the apartment was dominated by the master bedroom. Peeking through one of the sets of French doors into his private space, she noted that he liked earth tones and modern art and tons of room to stretch. The view of fields and woods beyond the tall windows was breathtaking.

  The footman left her case at the bottom of the stairs. His curious eyes glanced off her belly before he offered a quick smile. “Will that be all?”

  “Thank you, James,” Zafir said.

  With a bow, the young man started off, pulling a buzzing mobile phone from his pocket as he went. Glancing at it as he reached the door, he turned and said, “Excuse me, sir. I’m to let you know that Ms. Calloway has arrived. Mrs. Reid will bring her up. She wants to check that the guest room is in order. Also, your mother would like to speak with you.”

  “Leave the door open for Vivienne, tell Mrs. Reid we’re not using the guest room and please inform my mother that I’ll be tied up until dinner.”

  James nodded and hurried off, leaving the door open.

  Fern stared hard at Zafir’s stony expression. Had he heard her at all in the car five minutes ago? Her nerves pulled taut with anxiety at having a confrontation, and part of her was so hot for him, she didn’t even want to fight him on this, but...

  “Is this a test? You just told a stranger that I’m sleeping with you without asking me first.” She didn’t even know if she was allowed to have sex!

  He blinked as though her complaint surprised him. “It’s a little late to pretend we haven’t shared a bed.”

  “And a little early to start doing it again!”

  “What do you...? It’s a big bed,” he said, going a little darker beneath his deeply tanned skin. “I realize we might have to wait until the baby comes, but where you sleep is not negotiable. We can’t make this marriage work if you’re haunting another side of the house.”

  Haunting. Interesting choice of words, but hardly the most pertinent factor here. “But you are expecting this to be a real marriage. With, um, sex and everything.” Oh, she hated herself for blushing with anticipatory heat.

  He tucked his chin and lifted his brows. “You said you weren’t a good match for me, but when it comes to bed, we’re inflammable.”

  She’d love to think that would be enough, but... “There’s no guarantee that sort of thing sustains,” she argued, crossing her arms. “What if it wears off?”

  “Shall we see if it’s still there now?” He took a step toward her.

  “No.” She retreated and hugged herself, trying to contain the bloom of excitement that expanded in her. She could barely think when the prospect of sex with him filled her mind.

  He stopped, rooted and still, his posture aggressive, and scowled as he narrowed his sharp gaze into some kind of tractor beam that willed her toward him.

  “This is what I mean, Zafir! I don’t have any defenses against you, especially physically. Marriage is the biggest decision a person makes. Look where giving in to my hormones has got me so far. Do I really want the rest of my life to be decided by the simple fact that you turn me on?”

  “So you don’t want to sleep with me?” he demanded.

  “I’d like a chance to think about it!” she cried as she finally identified which door led to the powder room and moved through it.

  It was as much an escape as to use it for its intended purpose, but she didn’t come to any firm conclusions until she emerged to find him talking to an attractive brunette. The woman was smiling and nodding and blinking her thick, darkened lashes with flirty awe at him.

  A green monster, warty and equipped with dangerously sharp teeth, rose inside Fern. He’s mine, she thought, and knew in that second that she was sunk. The idea of him sleeping with any other woman was abhorrent. He had said to her at the oasis that if he couldn’t have her, no one else would. Well, if she didn’t accept him, someone else would. The only way she could ensure he wasn’t making love to other women would be to lie with him herself.

  Such a chore, she chided herself. But there was an insecure part of her that wondered if they really were still as volatile as they’d been. She wasn’t the pristine virgin he’d had eight months ago.

  “Here we go,” Zafir said, indicating Fern so the supermodel pivoted on her high heels and gave Fern a once-over with a sharp, critical gaze. “Fern, this is Vivienne Calloway, Amineh’s stylist.”

  “I’m delighted to work with you. Please call me Vivienne,” she said as she came forward and shook Fern’s hand. Her stomach was concave and her hips were the width of a soda straw. Her shiny hair slithered with silky, shampoo-ad brilliance. Her perfect teeth practically dinged as she smiled. “May I call you Fern? Amineh and I are on first-name terms and she has instructed me to pull out all the stops for you.”

  “Amineh?” Fern repeated, glancing warily toward Zafir.

  “I spoke with her while I was loading your things into the car.”

  Fern’s knees weakened. Her hand was still in Vivienne’s warm grip and turned into cooked asparagus. “What did she say...?”

  “That you would need something to wear tonight,” Zafir answered blithely. “We dress for dinner.”

  “She suggested the blue dress from her own wardrobe and I agree, now that I’ve seen you. The color will bring out your eyes. Let’s try it on, see if it needs adjustment.”

  Minutes later, Fern was in a silver slip with a powder-blue lace sheathe over it. The sleeves were a demur three-quarter length, the collar scalloped across her plump breasts. Shoes were another matter, but Vivienne brought a bag filled with a variety of sizes and styles from her car.

  “Maternity wear is so tricky, but if you feel comfortable in those, they’ll do,” she said about a pair of low silver pumps. “We’ll have more choices when we’re not worrying about swollen ankles. Now lie down and rest while I tailor that dress and set up to do your hair and makeup.”

  Fern did as she was told, partly out of genuine exhaustion, partly to escape what was happening to her. This morning she’d woken in Miss Ivy’s flat, gone to work for a few hours, caught her regular bus and wondered if there was enough of last night’s chicken to make a sandwich for lunch. In the last few hours, her entire life had spun into chaos and she needed to be still for a few minutes to let the pieces settle.

  She didn’t expect to sleep, but crashed hard and woke to the click of the lamp.

  Vivienne smiled. “I let you sleep as long as I could. Rest is the ultimate beauty enhancer. But it’s time to dress.”

  Fern submitted to makeup and hairpins and a fitting for a new bra, one in ice-blue lace with matching bottoms that she was thankfully allowed to change into privately. When she looked at the final result, she blinked at the stranger in the mirror.

  Her eyes popped like freshly minted shillings from a face where her freckles had been downplayed with a layer of light powder. Her mouth was coated in a shiny nude gloss and her hair was gathered like an Edwardian maiden’s with a pearlescent blue ribbon woven through it. She looked as modest as she usually did, but sweetly maternal and, she had to be honest, quite pretty.

  When she moved into the lounge, she was both anxious and excited to see Zafir’s reaction.

  He wore black pants and a white shirt closed at the throat with a black bow tie, and he shrugged on a white dinner jacket as she emerged. He looked her over as he buttoned his jacket, his gaze incredibly thorough, but dispassionate and assessing.

  “No?” she prompted uneasily. Behind her, Vivienne was zipping and clipping things back into bags and cases. She’d taken such care and shown such enthusiasm for the result, but maybe Fern was a lost cause.

  “Honestly?” he asked.

  Bracing herself, she nodded. “Yes.”

  “Don’t cover your freckles. And I prefer your hair loose. But you look very lovely.” He moved close to brush his lips against her
cheek. Something flashed in his eyes as he drew back. Pride or possessiveness. Maybe both. When he showed her what he was holding, his expression shifted from a hard stubborn set to something less implacable. Appeal. “Will you wear this? Please?”

  A ring.

  “Oh,” she breathed.

  “It was my English grandmother’s. My first wife wore one that belonged to my father’s mother.”

  Another heirloom from some yesteryear when jewelers were romantic enough to set a blue sapphire in white gold and encircle it with diamonds like petals on a flower. A pair of green stones off either side played the part of leaves.

  It was elegant and priceless. Fern could only stare.

  “In my country, wedding rings are worn on the right. Do you mind?” He held up his palm, inviting her to place her hand in his.

  “Zafir, are you sure...?”

  He picked up her hand himself, but just held it as he said, “I can’t see into the future any better than you can, Fern. But right now, yes, I’m sure this is what I want. I’m sure you are what I want. Do you want me?”

  She couldn’t lie. Deception wasn’t ever easy for her and right now, with him standing so close and looking at her like she meant something to him, she couldn’t be anything but completely honest.

  “I do,” she whispered, and reinforced her agreement with a shaky nod.

  His breath came out in a light caress on her knuckles and he smiled with arrogant satisfaction, but what looked like relief, too. Like she’d made him happy.

  His touch as he threaded the ring onto her finger and kissed her knuckle sent a thrill of joy through her. Maybe he was right. Maybe they could make it work.