‘Is this okay, Zahid?’ Aware that his bright, hard gaze was still fixed on her, Frankie brushed her palms down over the silk skirt of her dress and gave him an anxious look. Why on earth was he scowling at her like that? ‘The dress, I mean?’
‘Are you searching for a compliment?’ he queried, more acidly than he had intended—but he was having to quash a reaction to her that he had not intended and did not particularly want. The kind of reaction which would have usually culminated in him peeling her brand-new dress from her body and tossing it contemptuously to the floor, thus ensuring that they would be late for dinner. ‘I’m sure you’re perfectly aware that it’s more than okay and that you look very … agreeable,’ he finished.
Her smile was uncertain as she looped a big cashmere wrap around her shoulders. Agreeable? Was that supposed to have been a compliment? She wasn’t sure—not when he had managed to make it sound like some sort of growled insult.
Frankie felt nervous as they went downstairs to the car—a short journey which seemed to involve a lot of high-powered and pre-arranged choreography. Cocooned by a small phalanx of bodyguards, Zahid walked at speed through the lobby—seemingly oblivious to the curious eyes which were darted in his direction—with her tottering on high heels behind him.
A limousine was waiting outside the hotel—its door already open and engine purring—and as Frankie sat back against the squishy, soft leather seat she wondered how all this could have happened—and so quickly. Why, only last week she’d been showing a couple around a new-build and today she was being whisked through central London in a luxury limousine, with a brooding-looking sheikh sitting beside her.
She splayed her fingers out over her lap. He seemed uncomfortably close—so that the atmosphere seemed full of his own particular scent. A potent cocktail of raw male mixed with sweet sandalwood and the tang of lemons was now invading her senses. And somehow he was managing to imprint his powerful body onto her subconscious, even though she was pointedly looking out of the car window in an attempt to lessen the impact he was having on her. What on earth was the matter with her? Shouldn’t she have been missing Simon—if only a little bit—instead of fantasising what it might be like if Zahid pulled her into his arms and began to kiss her?
‘Where … where are we going?’ she questioned breathlessly. ‘And tell me a bit more about what Tariq is doing these days.’
Zahid watched with interest as she dug her nails into one silk-covered thigh. Much more of that and she would claw tiny holes into that new dress of hers, he thought. ‘There’s a private members’ club next door to The Ivy—and we’re meeting him there. He lives in England permanently now.’
‘Does he? Doing what?’
‘He runs the European arm of the family business—but he also has a very successful polo club in the south of England which he bought quite recently.’
Of course he does, thought Frankie as the car coasted past the shining shop lights which lightened the dark November night and drew to a halt in front of a discreet door. She knew that Tariq was a superb and talented polo player, so it followed that he would have a club of his own. The Al Hakam family never did anything by halves.
Inside the private members’ club, masses of flowers stood in eye-catching arrangements and a glass lift zoomed them up to a large room which somehow managed to have an intimate feel to it. In one corner, a grand piano was being played softly by an aging crooner who smiled at them as they walked in—and on a nearby table, Frankie recognised a soap-star who was more famous for her chequered love-life than for her work as an actress.
They were ushered towards a small, private dining room and when they arrived Tariq was already seated at the table. It was the first time that Frankie had ever seen the brothers together—and with their dramatically dark good looks, the family resemblance was startling. But the younger brother was wearing faded jeans and a silk shirt—his shadowed jaw resolutely unshaven—and he had an air of slightly disreputable charm, which was at odds with Zahid’s rather more formal appearance.
He rose to his feet when he saw them approach and the two men embraced. And then as Tariq let his arms fall away he gave Frankie a smile which she suspected had made many women melt into a puddle at his feet.
‘How unusual. It’s not like you to bring a woman with you, Zahid,’ he observed, his voice a honeyed murmur. ‘So who is this little beauty?’
Zahid glared at his sibling. ‘This is Francesca.’
‘Francesca?’ There was a pause as Tariq frowned and then his face suddenly cleared as he made the connection. ‘Frankie? Frankie? I don’t believe it! Is that really you?’
‘Yes!’ She smiled back as he gathered her in a bear hug and she realised that Zahid had said pretty much the same thing. Which begged the question of how much she had changed. Did she really look that different? She guessed she did. Yet it was funny how you could be altered so radically on the exterior—and yet inside you felt exactly the same … with all those same nagging doubts and insecurities. ‘Yes, it’s really me!’
‘Wow! You look so different. Amazing! All pretty, and grown-up. Good heavens …’ Tariq frowned. ‘You and Zahid, I mean you aren’t—’
‘We aren’t anything,’ Zahid snapped, giving his brother another furious glare. ‘Francesca is working for me now.’
‘Is she now? That’s quite a bold step.’
‘But maybe it’s about time. Such an appointment will show the western world that we do take women seriously. And it will pacify some of the more rebellious females back home in Khayarzah.’
Tariq laughed. ‘There speaks my brother, the King! How completely ruthless you can be, Zahid.’
‘You think so? I prefer to describe myself as a realist.’ Zahid shrugged. ‘And why not capitalise on opportunity when it comes knocking?’
Frankie bit her lip as she heard herself described as an ‘opportunity’.
‘Wine, Frankie?’ asked Tariq.
‘I’d better not—’
‘Nonsense. If Zahid wants to show the world he’s tolerant and open to the ways of the west, then he should let his pretty guest have a glass of wine even if he doesn’t much care for it himself.’
She rarely drank but Frankie suddenly found herself longing for a glass. So many emotional missiles had been hurled at her over the last few days and she still felt a little dazed by it all. Her whole pattern of living had crashed and she hadn’t quite got used to the new, rebooted version. She knew that she should be feeling more pain about the end of her relationship with Simon—but the crazy thing was that she didn’t. And that in turn made her feel guilty. She kept questioning her own judgment and every time she did it filled her with a feeling of failure. A drink might help relax her.
‘Thank you,’ she said, ignoring the narrow-eyed look which Zahid sent shooting in her direction. ‘I think I will.’
The meal was a mixture of glamour and grit. Frankie was aware that she was in a high-octane atmosphere and being served some of the best food in the capital. But she felt strangely removed from it all—as if she was an outsider, looking in.
Maybe that wasn’t so surprising. She was with two members of a royal family and they spent a lot of the evening speaking—and arguing—in their native tongue. Consequently, she found herself sipping at the rich red wine without really noticing and before she knew it she was halfway through a second glass. Her cheeks had begun to burn and Zahid was frowning at her across the table—and suddenly she found herself lost in the judgemental razoring of his gaze. Her tongue snaked out to encircle lips which had suddenly become bone-dry and she could have sworn she saw his eyes darken in response.
‘Don’t have anything more to drink, Francesca.’
She hadn’t been intending to—at least, not until he clipped out that peremptory order. ‘Why, are you rationing me now?’ she questioned. ‘This is only my second glass.’
Zahid felt irritated. It had been bad enough that his younger brother was stubbornly refusing to listen to reason and t
ake his advice—without Francesca suddenly throwing her inhibitions to the wind. Why the hell had Tariq foisted that wine on her—and why had she let him?
‘You’re clearly not used to it. Come on,’ he said abruptly, rising to his feet. ‘It’s time we were going.’
‘But I haven’t had any pudding!’ she protested.
‘Wasn’t the chocolate you were eating earlier enough to satisfy your sweet cravings?’ questioned Zahid acidly.
‘But I only had one—and I missed lunch!’
Dark eyes looked positively frozen now. ‘You can order something from room service when we get back,’ he snapped. ‘And fascinating as this conversation is, I feel we must deprive my brother of any more of it.’
But Tariq was laughing. ‘Oh, please don’t let me stop you—I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sounding quite so domesticated, Zahid.’
Frankie’s feisty mood had evaporated by the time she retrieved her cashmere wrap from the cloakroom, and Tariq slid it round her shoulders with automatic courtesy. Why couldn’t Zahid do a gentlemanly thing like that, she wondered wistfully—instead of glaring at her as if she had suddenly become radioactive? She stepped out into the cold night and the drop in temperature was so dramatic that she stumbled a little until Zahid caught her elbow and steadied her.
She could feel his fingers burning through the fine cashmere of her wrap and she saw his mouth grow taut, before he gently manoeuvred her into the limousine as it slid to a halt beside them.
He turned to his brother, his face tense and his voice low. ‘Just remember what I said. You are now the brother of the sheikh—the heir. You shouldn’t be associated with a woman like that, a woman who is …’
Frankie had been listening intently to their conversation but rather annoyingly he had said the last word in his native language—or rather, he hissed it out like a cornered snake she had once seen at the zoo.
‘Who’s Tariq going out with who you obviously don’t approve of?’ she questioned, after they’d said goodbye and the car was pulling away.
‘Nobody,’ he answered tersely.
‘But I just heard you say—’
‘Well, you shouldn’t have done. You should have blocked the sound out. Don’t you know what they say about eavesdroppers?’
‘If I’m supposed to be working for you, and if you’re supposed to trust me, then don’t I need to know these things?’
‘Not now, Francesca! You will know what I wish you to know and when I wish you to know it. But top of the list of my requirements is an assurance that you do not persist with a line in questioning when your sheikh has expressly forbidden it. Do you understand?’
He had never spoken to her like that before. Never. Not once had he ever pulled rank—and Frankie shrank back against the seat of the car as she realised that this was the price she must pay for working for him. She was no longer to be indulged and protected by him—but to be treated as he would treat any other member of his staff. And didn’t a stupid and stubborn little part of her suddenly long for some of the slightly indulgent and caring attitude which he’d always shown to her before? ‘I think you’ve made yourself very clear,’ she said, in a small voice.
He turned towards her, his mood made sombre by his younger brother’s stubbornness—but something in the crestfallen expression on her face wiped the anger clean out of his head and replaced it with something entirely different.
Her lips were trembling and her face was pale. Framed by the soft cashmere of her wrap, the dark green silk of her dress seemed to be straining against the weight of her luscious breasts. And legs. He swallowed down the sudden hot surge of lust. What about her legs? When she crossed them like that, was she aware that the delicate silk moulded against the outline of her thighs and that her shapely ankles would drive any normal, hot-blooded man crazy with desire?
He wanted to kiss her.
He wanted to tear away the silk-satin to see those breasts for himself before tasting their rosy tips. He wanted to slide the dress still further up her legs and make her hot and sweet and wet for him.
He must be out of his mind!
Shifting his position further along the seat, Zahid stared at her with an expression which would have made his sage old advisors back in Khayarzah shiver with apprehension if they’d seen it. But his fury was directed at himself.
What the hell was he playing at?
‘Cover your legs!’ he bit out.
His furious words crashed in and shattered Frankie’s pensive mood and she sat up and returned his angry stare, her eyes bewildered. Her legs? Why, there was hardly any of her legs on show—barely even a flash of ankle! Perhaps she hadn’t been sitting in a way which was very ladylike, but even so—there was no need for him to shout. She leaned forward to tug at her skirt but that didn’t seem to please him either.
‘Is this the way you behave when you go out for dinner with a man?’ he demanded. ‘Quaffing wine by the glass and wriggling around in the back of a car with a dress which looks at least one size too small?’
‘No! No! I told you—I hardly drink a thing. And the dress is a perfect fit! Don’t be so old-fashioned, Zahid!’
‘But I am old-fashioned!’ he thundered, before the hypocrisy of his own words hit him. He wasn’t usually old-fashioned when it came to women, was he? Usually, the more outrageous the outfit, the more he enjoyed it. He thought of Katya the other night, turning up in nothing but her glittery panties and a fur coat and his mouth thinned. He hadn’t enjoyed that very much, had he?
‘We are almost at the hotel,’ he said in a cold voice. ‘Do you think you can possibly manage to make it upstairs on your own, without stumbling?’
She’d never heard him sound quite so frosty before—or so angry—and Frankie puckered her lips together, afraid that she might top off the evening with something unforgivable—like bursting into tears. Had she had made another serious misjudgement, thinking that the answer to her problems had been to grab at this job? Had she really thought that working for Zahid might be some sort of adventure?
Well, she had been wrong. Now they seemed to do nothing but rub each other up the wrong way and she would tell him so. She would tell him that she had made a mistake and that she would be staying in England after all. But not tonight. She wanted tonight to end as soon as possible. She would inform him in the cold, clear light of day that it was probably better if she looked elsewhere for a job. ‘Of course I can,’ she answered flatly.
Their little convoy of cars drew to a halt and they travelled up in the lift together—an awkward little group which consisted of a stony-faced Zahid, a Frankie who was trying very hard not to let her lips wobble and two bodyguards who were built like bulldogs.
And when they reached their floor and Frankie had extracted her key-card, her fumbling fingers somehow prevented her from getting the door open and Zahid plucked it from her with a click of irritation.
For a moment their fingers brushed together and her eyes widened in startled recognition of the sudden warm thrill of that brief, physical contact. Irresistibly, their gazes locked and she saw the sudden darkening of his eyes. For one crazy second she observed the soft parting of his lips and the breath froze in her throat. Was Zahid attracted to her—as she was to him? Was he leaning forward as if he was about to kiss her?
But then the moment passed and he turned away. Her heart was beating frantically as he swiped the key-card and this time the light went on.
‘Ah, I’m getting the green light again,’ he said sardonically, unable to resist the sensual taunt—but she made no response to it. And he found himself wondering what he would have done if she had taunted him right back …
Frankie set her face into a frozen little smile. Was he laughing at her? Making fun of her? Her heart gave a painful lurch but she kept her face completely expressionless. ‘Goodnight, Zahid,’ she said quietly. ‘Thank you very much for dinner.’
Her dignified statement filled him with a sudden feeling of guilt and Zahid wasn’t quite
sure what had provoked it. Perplexed, he watched as she closed the door behind her and he was left standing outside Francesca’s bedroom with a distinctly rare feeling of frustration.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ZAHID slept restlessly for much of the night. He was troubled by the stubbornness of his brother and the life he seemed to be leading. But he was troubled by something else, too—and that something was desire.
He opened his eyes. Nothing new there. Desire was as much a part of his life as eating. He had the healthy appetite of a man in his glorious prime and enjoyed sex as much as he enjoyed hunting, or riding—or seeing his beloved falcon soar up into the azure splendour of the Khayarzah skies.
But he had never made the connection between sex and emotion before—mainly because the latter did not figure greatly in his life. Early on, he had recognised that it was useful for a king to be emotionally detached. Maybe it was useful for all men to be so.
Emotion was messy—and so was depending on only one person—everyone knew that. Wasn’t he grateful that his position as King meant that he would never be required to walk such a potentially explosive path?
Pushing back the sweat-damp sheets, he got out of bed and walked naked into the bathroom, where he stood beneath a cold shower. The icy jets of water lashed down onto his tense and overheated body to briefly offer some relief. But not for very long.
His erotic dreams of last night had disturbed him—and they disturbed him still—because this time they were not easily fixed. For once, the dreams had not been of some beauty he’d met at some function, whom he could summon at will and have writhing beneath him before the day was out. Someone with whom he could enjoy a sweet, no strings affair—before kissing them goodbye with a significant piece of jewellery to remember him by.
Because the face which had haunted him all night long had been that of Francesca.
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