by Miranda Lee
Pity. She had a good rear view—especially in stretch jeans.
After five minutes, Samantha had a much more positive checklist about her overall appearance than the quick one she’d made back in the car.
Face. Not bad. Nice blue eyes. Clear skin. Great teeth.
Hair. Good. No, better than good. Sexy. She now had sexy hair, when it was out. Which it was at the moment.
Figure. Damned good. Provided a man didn’t mind tall, with B-cup breasts. But she had great legs, a flat stomach and a tight butt.
Who knew? Maybe the Sheikh had grown bored with all his super-glamorous, super-sucking-up girlfriends and wanted to try something different. Like a six-foot-tall Aussie girl with an attitude problem and a suddenly over-inflated opinion of herself.
‘Truly, you’ve begun to let Cleo’s mini makeover go to your head,’ Samantha muttered.
That’s what I should do, Samantha decided sensibly after shutting the wardrobe door. Ring Cleo and find out exactly what’s going on around here.
Samantha scooped her bag up off the floor, dumped it onto the plain white duvet which covered the double bed and unzipped one of the side pockets. Extracting her mobile phone, she turned it back on, ignoring the message bank ringtone which heralded missed messages, and called the number up at the main house.
‘Norm, here. How can I help you?’
Samantha was momentarily taken aback. Norm was Cleo’s husband. He worked for Prince Ali as well, as a general handyman and gardener around the house. But he never answered the phone.
‘Norm?’ she said. ‘Hi. It’s Samantha. Is Cleo there?’
‘Hi, there, love. Yep, she’s here—running around like a chook with her head cut off. You’ve no idea what’s happened.’
‘Er…what?’ Samantha thought it best not to tell Norm about her run-in with the Sheikh.
‘Ali’s dad kicked the bucket last Thursday—the day after you left—and Ali’s had to go home for the funeral, plus his brother’s coronation. The whole family’s gone for three weeks. Anyway, Ali asked this mate of his to keep an eye on the place whilst he’s gone. He’s the bloke they named little Bandar after: Sheikh Bandar bin Something-or-other. Cleo knows all about him. You can ask her later. Anyway, we thought he wasn’t arriving here till tomorrow. He flew in from London last night and was supposed to rest up today in that hotel suite in Sydney that Ali owns. But it seems he was keen to get here and see to that horse of his. You know the one. He’s been giving poor Ray a whole heap of trouble.’
Samantha knew the one all right. But he wouldn’t be giving the stallion manager so much trouble after his three-mile gallop around the track today.
‘Anyway, Cleo was a bit upset, because she didn’t have the main guest suite ready for him,’ Norm raved on, ‘so that’s what she’s been doing. It’s Samantha, love!’ he called out, presumably to his wife. ‘Yes, she’s back. You are back, aren’t you?’ he directed at Samantha.
‘Yes. I’m back.’
‘She’s back! Here’s Cleo. She wants to talk to you.’
‘Samantha. Why are you back so early? You weren’t due home till late this afternoon.’
‘I caught an earlier flight.’
‘Oh-oh. That doesn’t sound like the Gold Coast trip was a raging success.’
‘It was a nice break.’
‘You didn’t get lucky, then?’
‘Nope.’
‘Never mind. It was worth a try. Did Norm tell you what’s been going on here?’
‘He sure did. Poor Ali. Was he upset about his dad dying?’
‘Hardly. The old man had him exiled, after all. But he was glad for his brother. Said it was about time Dubar had a king who was more in touch with the real world. Have you heard about our very interesting temporary visitor?’
‘Yep. Norm told me. Though he couldn’t quite remember all his names. Only the Sheikh Bandar bit.’
Cleo laughed. ‘Yes, I can’t remember all his names, either. But he’s a bit like Ali where names are concerned. Doesn’t stand on too much ceremony. Likes to be called Bandar.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. Doesn’t let grass grow under his feet, either. Was off to see his horse as soon as he arrived. But not before asking me to put on a small dinner party tonight. Nothing grand, he said. He just wants a getting-to-know-everyone meal with the main management staff. I presume he means Ray and Trevor. Gerald, too, of course—which means you’ll probably get an invitation as well.’
‘He’s already asked me,’ Samantha confessed, feeling foolish indeed now over the fantasies she’d wound around the invitation. More than foolish. She felt like a balloon which had just been pricked.
‘What? You’ve met Bandar already? Why didn’t you say so?’
‘Because it was just so embarrassing. I didn’t realise he was who he was at first, Cleo,’ Samantha said dispiritedly. ‘I thought he was just a groom. And a gypsy to boot.’
‘A gypsy! Well, he does look a bit like a gypsy, I suppose. With that hair and skin and eyes. But, Samantha, for pity’s sake, he doesn’t look or act anything like a groom! So tell me. What on earth happened?’
Samantha told her the horrible truth, though she didn’t add the genuinely humiliating part about how she’d thought he might have fancied her.
‘Oh, Samantha,’ Cleo exclaimed, half-laughing, half-chiding. ‘One day you’ll have to learn to put your brain into gear before you open your mouth. Men hate aggressive women. That’s your main problem, you know, love. You’re way too aggressive.’
‘I prefer to think of myself as assertive,’ Samantha defended, though a bit more lamely than usual.
‘Same thing. But not to worry. It’s not as though you’re trying to come on to the Sheikh. I mean, men like that…’ Her voice trailed off knowingly.
‘I’m well aware of the kind of women men like that go for, Cleo,’ Samantha said drily.
‘Unfortunately not short, plump, fifty-year-old married women having a bad hair day,’ Cleo quipped back.
Now it was Samantha’s turn to laugh. Cleo always made her laugh. She was going to miss her when she left.
Cleo sighed in that wistful way women had been sighing since time began. ‘My, but heis very attractive, isn’t he?’
‘I suppose so. If you like male chauvinist pigs.’
‘Samantha, truly, he’s no such thing! He’s just as charming as Ali. In fact, Bandar’s much more charming than Ali was when he first came here. Must be all those years he’s lived in London, mixing with the upper crust.’
‘I can see he’s charmed you all right. I’ll bet the men don’t think he’s quite so charming.’
‘You might be wrong about that. He was lovely to Jack. I measure a man’s character by how he treats Jack. And how Jack responds to him. Animals and children can’t be fooled.’
Women could be, though, Samantha thought privately. Give a man looks and wealth, and women seemed to become blind to their faults and flaws.
Samantha had always thought she was above such nonsense. But it seemed she wasn’t. She suspected that if the Sheikh wanted to charm her, he probably could. Look at the way she’d been constantly thinking about him since their brief encounter.
She had to stop it.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ she offered. ‘Norm mentioned you were pretty busy. And Gerald isn’t expecting me back on the job till tomorrow morning.’
‘No, I’m on top of things now. And I have Judy coming in later, to help with the cooking and serving.’
‘What are you going to cook?’
‘No idea yet. Nothing too flash or complicated. Roast lamb, probably. With home-baked bread. And some of my quince pie and cream afterwards. Ali loves that menu, so it should be all right. I’m not sure about an entrée. I might just put out some nibbles to have with drinks beforehand.’
‘He won’t drink if he’s a Muslim,’ Samantha pointed out.
‘Gosh, you’re right. I didn’t think of that. I’ll ask him w
hen he gets back what his attitude to alcohol is. Ali always serves it, though he doesn’t drink it himself. But the men will be expecting a beer or two. Especially Ray. Trevor, too. And Gerald loves wine with a meal. Look, I’m sure he won’t mind the others having a drink. He’s a sophisticated man, and he’s lived in London most of his life. He must be used to the western world’s drinking habits by now.’
‘If he isn’t, he soon will be out here,’ Samantha said drily. Australian men loved their beer.
‘Did Bandar give you a time to be up here?’ Cleo asked.
‘He said eight.’
‘Oh, dear—that late? By the time everyone has a drink and a chat it’ll be nearly nine before you all sit down to eat. I sure hope he doesn’t expect me to serve up dinner at that ungodly hourevery night. I know people who live in Europe eat late in the evenings, but we don’t. Not up here in the country, anyway. Still, he’s the boss, I guess. I’ll just have to put up with it till Ali gets back. But I’m going to miss all my favourite TV shows. Oh-oh—I hear someone on the gravel outside. I think he’s back. Gotta go, love. See you tonight.’
Tonight, Samantha thought with a shudder as she clicked off her phone.
Already she was looking forward to it. And dreading it.
‘I’m a bloody fool!’ she growled, just as her mobile phone rang.
‘Yes?’ she said sharply.
‘Sam. It’s me—Gerald. A little birdie told me you were back. Look, I could do with a hand. One of the weanlings has slipped in some mud near a gate and gashed its front leg. A colt, of course. I need someone to keep him calm while I stitch him up. Do you think you could come? You seem to have a special touch with colts.’
Samantha was only too glad to do something. The thought of sitting around the cottage, getting herself into a state about tonight, did not appeal.
‘I’ll be right there,’ she said.
‘Great! See you soon, then.’
Samantha slipped back into her leather jacket, her spirits lifting immediately. Working with horses always made her feel good. Because she was good at it. No one could ever take that away from her.
To hell with men, she thought as she headed for the door. Give me horses any day!
CHAPTER THREE
DARKfell long before eight o’clock. The days were short at this time of the year, with the temperature dropping sharply once the sun sank behind the mountain range, especially on nights like this, which were clear of cloud. A full moon hung low in the sky, bathing the valley in its silvery light and making the huge white house on the hill stand out even more.
Samantha left the cottage right on eight, knowing full well it would take her another couple of minutes to drive back to the fork in the road, then up the hill to the house. She was determined not to be right on time, as ordered by the Sheikh. But not late enough to be seriously rude.
She was also determined not to surrender to temptation and try to doll herself up for this dinner. The others there tonight would think it odd. They were used to the way she looked and dressed. Cleo might roll her eyes at her choice of clothes, but that was too bad.
Her boot-leg blue jeans were clean. So were her elastic-sided riding boots. Her black roll-neck was as good as new and not too warm. The house was well insulated, and air-conditioned, though she suspected that the fireplaces would be lit tonight. Samantha had put on her black leather jacket for the drive up, but would remove it once she was inside.
She’d decided against make-up, despite now owning quite a bit and being able to apply all of it reasonably well. Cleo had left no stone unturned before sending her off last week on her mission impossible.
Samantha reasoned she hadn’t been wearing any make-up earlier today, when she’d met the Sheikh, so she wasn’t about to plaster any on tonight. Not even lipstick. The same thing with perfume. She had, however, freshly shampooed, conditioned and dried her hair—for fear it might smell of horses—but she’d pulled it back and fastened it at the nape of her neck with a black clip. No way did she want him thinking she was trying to look sexy for him by wearing her hair down.
She took her time driving up the hill, noting the now empty helipad with a mixture of surprise and irritation. That she’d missed hearing the helicopter’s departure was an indictment on her distracted state of mind. The darn thing was horribly noisy. Admittedly she’d put her stereo on fairly loudly when she’d arrived back at the cottage around five. Possibly the helicopter had left during the time she was inside. Hopefully, it had. She didn’t like to think she was totally losing it.
The other three staff members coming to the dinner had arrived by the time she pulled up her vehicle in the guest parking area to the side of the house. Gerald’s very dusty four-wheel drive was parked between Trevor’s battered ute and Ray’s equally worse-for-wear blue truck.
Country men, Samantha had quickly come to realise last year, weren’t as car-mad as city guys. All they required from a vehicle was that it did the job required. Both Ray and Trevor were dyed-in-the-wool bachelors in their late forties, not at all interested in attracting women, so their vehicles were even worse than most.
Samantha was very attached to her forest-green four-wheel drive, bought not long before she left Sydney. She liked to keep it clean and polished and performing well.
Samantha guided it smoothly to a halt on the gravel beside Trevor’s ute, leaving the keys in the ignition when she alighted. No one was going to steal it here.
She carried no bag with her. There would be no titivating tonight—unlike last week, when she’d run off to the nearest powder room all the time, to check her make-up and hair. She knewexactly what she looked like tonight.
Her tomboy image was reflected in Cleo’s exasperated expression when she answered the front door.
‘I know I said there wasn’t any point in batting your eyelashes at our VIP visitor,’ Cleo muttered as she closed the door behind Samantha. ‘But truly, girl, a little practice wouldn’t go astray. On top of that, you’re late. I don’t think Bandar is pleased. He was just asking me where you were.’
Samantha liked the thought of the Sheikh not being pleased. But she didn’t show it. She just shrugged in feigned indifference as she removed her leather jacket and hung it in the coat closet which came off the spacious foyer. ‘I’m only a few minutes late. I presume everyone’s in the front room?’ She was well acquainted with the layout of the house, having traipsed around after Cleo on several occasions.
‘Yes—so get yourself in there, pronto. I have a roast to attend to.’ And Cleo was off, a bustling bundle of energy, dressed tonight in an emerald-green velour tracksuit.
Cleo was as far removed from a cliché housekeeper as one could get. No dreary black dresses for her, or severely scraped-back hair. Cleo’s hair was very short, very spiky, and very red. Her lipstick tonight was just as bright.
Once alone, Samantha glanced to her right at the shut double doors. Like all the doors in the house, they were very grand, made of a rich cedar, carved in a middle eastern style, with huge brass doorknobs. Behind these, she knew, was a formal reception room, with brocade-covered sofas and chairs arranged around an enormous marble fireplace. The fire would be lit tonight, making the expensive furniture glow and the chandelier above gleam as only a crystal chandelier could.
Steeling herself, Samantha reached for the right door knob, turned it, and pushed the door open.
‘Ah—here’s Sam now,’ Gerald announced as she walked in.
Samantha had heard stories about people in stressful circumstances imagining that everything around them seemed suddenly frozen, like a tableau. Maybe that was going too far, but her step definitely faltered. Her eyes swiftly bypassed Gerald, who was sitting in an armchair, holding a glass of sherry, before flicking over Trevor and Ray, both of whom were perched uncomfortably at either end of the main sofa, glasses of beer in their hands, and finally landing on the man standing to one side of the softly glowing fire, his left elbow leaning on the marble mantelpiece, a crystal brandy
balloon cupped in his right hand.
If Samantha had thought the Sheikh sexy earlier today, she now found him devastatingly so. He looked simply superb, in slimline black trousers and a royal blue silk shirt, the design of which was not dissimilar in style from that of the white shirt he’d had on earlier. Open-necked, its long sleeves were fuller than a business shirt, gathered in at the cuffs. He still didn’t look like a sheikh, but no longer like a gypsy. His black wavy hair was too well groomed, his face freshly shaved, his appearance immaculate.
He did still look exotic. And not quite of this world. Samantha could see him playing the part of a buccaneer—a very wealthy one, by the look of his jewellery.
