She looked up to find Saladin Al Mektala studying her intently and, once again, a shiver of something inexplicable made her nostalgic sentiments dissolve as she began to study him right back.
He wasn’t dressed like a sheikh. There were no flowing robes or billowing headdress to indicate his desert king status. The dark cashmere overcoat that he was removing—without having been invited to—was worn over dark trousers and a charcoal sweater that hugged his honed torso. He looked disturbingly modern, she thought—even if the flinty glint of his dark eyes made him seem disturbingly primitive. She watched as he hung the cashmere coat over the back of a chair and saw the gleam of melted snow on his black hair as he stepped a little closer to the fire.
‘So,’ she said. ‘You must want something very badly if you’re prepared to travel to the wilds of Derbyshire in order to get it.’
‘Oh, but I do,’ he said silkily. ‘I want you.’
Something in his sultry tone kick-started feelings Livvy had repressed for longer than she cared to remember and for a split second, she found herself imagining what it would feel like to be the object of desire to a man like Saladin Al Mektala. Would those flinty eyes soften before he kissed you? Would a woman feel helpless if she was being held in arms as powerful as his?
She swallowed, surprised by the unexpected path her thoughts had taken her down because she didn’t fall in lust with total strangers. Actually, she didn’t fall in lust at all. She quickly justified her wayward fantasy by reminding herself that he was being deliberately provocative and had made that statement in such a way—as if he was seeking to shock her. ‘You’ll have to be a little more specific than that,’ she said crisply. ‘What do you want me to do?’
His face changed as the provocation left it and she saw a shadow pass over the hawklike features. ‘I have a sick horse,’ he said, his voice tightening. ‘A badly injured stallion. My favourite.’
His distress affected her—how could it fail to do so? But Livvy hardened her heart to his problems, because didn’t she have enough of her own? ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said. ‘But as a king of considerable wealth, no doubt you have the best veterinary surgeons at your disposal. I’m sure they’ll be able to work out some plan of action for your injured horse.’
‘They say not.’
‘Really?’ Linking her fingers together, she looked up at him. ‘What exactly is the problem?’
‘A suspensory ligament,’ he said, ‘which has torn away from the bone.’
Livvy winced. ‘That’s bad.’
‘I know it’s bad,’ he gritted out. ‘Why the hell do you think I’m here?’
She decided to ignore his rudeness. ‘There are revolutionary new treatments out there today,’ she said placatingly. ‘You can inject stem cells, or you could try shockwave treatment. I’ve heard that’s very good.’
‘You think I haven’t already tried everything? That I haven’t flown out every equine expert to examine him?’ he demanded. ‘And yet everything has failed. The finest specialists in the world have pronounced themselves at a loss.’ There was a pause as he swallowed and his voice became dark and distorted as he spoke. ‘They have told me there is no hope.’
For a moment, Livvy felt a deep sense of pity because she knew how powerful the bond between a man and his horse could be—especially a man whose exalted position meant that he could probably put more trust in animals than in humans. But she also knew that sometimes you had to accept things as they were and not as you wanted them to be. That you couldn’t defeat nature, no matter how much you tried. And that all the money in the world would make no difference to the outcome.
She saw the steely glint in his dark eyes as he looked at her and recognised it as the look of someone who wasn’t intending to give up. Was this what being a king did to a man—made you believe you could shape the world to your own wishes? She sighed. ‘Like I said, I’m very sorry to hear that. But if you’ve been told there’s no hope, then I don’t know how you expect me to help.’
‘Yes, you do, Livvy,’ he said forcefully. ‘You know you do.’
His fervent words challenged her nearly as much as his sudden use of his name.
‘No. I don’t.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t have anything to do with horses anymore. I haven’t done for years. That part of my life is over, and if anyone has told you anything different, then they’re wrong. I’m sorry.’
There was a pause. ‘May I sit down?’
His words startled her as he indicated one of the faded brocade chairs that sat beside the blazing fire—and his sudden change of tactic took her by surprise. And not just surprise. Because if she was being honest, wasn’t there something awfully flattering about a sheikh asking if he could prolong his stay and sit down? Briefly, she wondered if he would let her use his endorsement on her website. ‘The Sheikh of Jazratan loves to relax in front of the old-fashioned fire.’ She met the cold glitter of his eyes. Probably not.
‘If you want,’ she said as she turned on one of the lamps so that the fading afternoon was lit with something other than firelight.
But her heart began to race as he sat down—because it seemed disturbingly intimate to see his muscular body unfold into a chair that suddenly looked insubstantial, and for those endlessly long legs to stretch out in front of him. He looked like a panther who had taken an uncharacteristic moment of relaxation, who had wandered in from the wild into a domestic domain, but all the time you were aware that beneath the sheathed paws lay deadly claws. Was that why her cat suddenly opened its eyes and hissed at him, before jumping up and stalking from the room with her tail held high? Too late she realised she should have said no. She should have made him realise she meant what she said before ejecting him into the snowy afternoon before the light faded.
‘So,’ she said, with a quick glance at her watch. ‘Like I said, I have things I need to do, so maybe you could just cut to the chase?’
‘An ironic choice of words in the circumstances,’ he commented drily. ‘Or perhaps deliberate? Either way, it is unlikely that my stallion will race again, even though he has won nearly every major prize in the racing calendar. In fact, he is in so much pain that the vets have told me that it is cruel to let him continue like this and...’ His voice tailed off.
‘And?’
He leaned his head back against the chair and his eyes narrowed—dark shards that glinted in the firelight. ‘And you have a gift with horses, Livvy,’ he said softly. ‘A rare gift. You can heal them.’
‘Who told you that?
‘My trainer. He described to me a woman who was the best horsewoman he’d ever seen. He said that she was as light as a feather but strong as an ox—but that her real skill lay in her interaction with the animal. He said that the angriest horse in the stables would grow calm whenever she grew close. He said he’d seen her do stuff with horses that defied logic, and astounded all the horse vets.’ His voice deepened as his dark eyes grew watchful. ‘And that they used to call you the horse whisperer.’
It was a long time since Livvy had heard the phrase that had once followed her around like mud on a rainy day at the stables. A phrase that carried its own kind of mystique and made people believe she was some kind of witch. And she wasn’t. She was just an ordinary person who wanted to be left to get on with her life.
She bent to pick up a log so that her face was hidden, and by the time she straightened up she had composed herself enough to face his inquisitive stare and to answer him in a steady voice.
‘That’s all hocus-pocus,’ she said. ‘Nothing but an old wives’ tale and people believing what they want to believe. I just got lucky, that’s all. The law of probability says that the horses I helped “heal” would have got better on their own anyway.’
‘But I know that sometimes nature can contradict the laws of probability,’ he contradicted softly. ‘Didn’t one of y
our most famous poets say something on those lines?’
‘I don’t read poetry,’ she said flatly.
‘Maybe you should.’
Her smile was tight. ‘Just like I don’t take advice from strangers.’
His eyes glittered. ‘Then, come and work for me and we’ll be strangers no longer.’
With a jerky movement she threw another log onto the grate and it sparked into life with a whoosh of flames. Had he deliberately decided to use charm—knowing how effective it could be on someone who was awkward around men? She knew about his reputation but, even if she hadn’t, you needed only to look at him to realise that he could have a woman eating out of his hand as easily as you could get a stroppy horse to munch on a sugar cube.
‘Look,’ she said, trying to sound less abrasive, because he was probably one of those men who responded best to a woman when she was cooing at him. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you, but I haven’t got a magic wand I can wave to make your horse better. And although I’m obviously flattered that you should have thought of me, I’m just not interested in your offer.’
Saladin felt a flicker of frustration. She didn’t sound flattered at all. What was the matter with her? Didn’t she realise that accepting this job would carry a huge financial reward—not to mention the kudos of being employed by the royal house of Al Mektala?
He had done his research. He knew that this ancient house she’d inherited was written up in all the guidebooks as somewhere worth visiting and that she ran it as some kind of bed and breakfast business. But the place was going to rack and ruin—anyone could see that. Old houses like this drank money as greedily as the desert sands soaked up water, and it was clear to him that she didn’t have a lot of cash to splash about. The brocade chair on which he sat had a spring that was sticking into his buttocks, and the walls beside the fireplace could have done with a coat of paint. His eyes narrowed. Couldn’t she see he was offering her the opportunity to earn the kind of sum that would enable her to give the place a complete facelift?
And what about her, with her tomboy clothes and freckled face? She had turned her back on the riding world that had once been her life. She had hidden herself away in the middle of nowhere, serving up cooked breakfasts to the random punters who came to stay. What kind of a life was that for a woman who was nearly thirty? In his own country, a woman was married with at least two children by the age of twenty-five, because it was the custom to marry young. He thought of Alya and a spear of pain lanced through his heart. He remembered dreams crushed and the heavy sense of blame, and he cursed the nature of his thoughts and pushed them away as he looked into Olivia Miller’s stubborn face.
‘You might not have a magic wand, but I would like you to try. What is it that you say? Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And I think you will discover that the financial rewards I’m offering will be beyond your wildest dreams.’ He tilted the corners of his mouth in a brief smile. ‘And surely you don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth?’
She didn’t respond to his attempt at humour, she just continued to stare at him, only now there was a distinct flicker of annoyance in her amber eyes. Saladin felt another rush of sexual attraction, because women didn’t often glare at him like that and he was finding her truculence a surprising turn-on. Because no woman had ever refused him anything.
‘How many ways do I have to say no before you’ll believe I mean it?’ she said.
‘And how long will it take you to realise that I am a very persistent man who is used to getting what I want?’
‘Persist away—you won’t change my mind.’
And suddenly Saladin did what he’d told himself he was only going to do as a last resort, which he seemed now to have reached. He leaned back, his eyes not leaving her face. ‘So is this how you are intending to spend the rest of your life, Livvy?’ he questioned softly. ‘Hiding yourself away in the middle of nowhere and neglecting a talent that few possess—and all because some man once left you standing at the altar?’
CHAPTER TWO
AT FIRST LIVVY didn’t react to Saladin’s cruel taunt because not reacting was something she was good at. One of the things she’d taught herself to do when the man she’d been due to marry had decided not to bother turning up. She’d learned not to show what she was feeling. Not to give the watching world any idea what was going on inside her head, or her heart. But the sheikh’s words hurt. Even now, they hurt. Even though it was a long time since anybody had been crass enough to remind her that she had once been jilted. That she had stood at the altar wearing a stupid white dress and an eager smile, which had faded as the minutes had ticked by and the silence had grown into hushed and increasingly urgent whispers as it had dawned on the waiting congregation that the groom wasn’t going to show.
She looked at the man sitting there with firelight illuminating his hawklike face and in that moment she actually hated him. How dare he bring up something so painful just so he could get what he wanted? Didn’t he care about hurting people’s feelings and trampling all over them—or was he simply a master of manipulation? Didn’t he realise that such a public humiliation had dealt her self-confidence a blow from which it had taken a long time to recover? And maybe it had never completely recovered. It had still been powerful enough to make her want to leave her old life behind and start a new one. To leave the horses she’d once adored and to view all subsequent advances from men with suspicion.
She would like to take a run at him and shake him. To batter her fists against that hard, broad chest and tell him that he was an uncaring beast. But she suspected her rage would be wasted on such a powerful man, and mightn’t he regard such a strong response as some petty kind of victory?
‘My abandoned marriage has nothing to do with my reasons for not wanting to work for you,’ she said, with a coolness she’d cultivated to cope with all the questions she’d had to deal with afterwards. And she’d needed it. She remembered the badly disguised glee in the voices of the women—those wafer-thin blondes who couldn’t understand why Rupert de Vries had proposed to someone as unremarkable as her in the first place. He didn’t say why? You mean you honestly had no idea? No. She’d honestly had no idea. What woman would ever subject herself to that kind of public ridicule if she’d had any inkling the groom was going to do a runner?
She glared into Saladin’s glittering dark eyes. ‘Though the fact that you even asked the question is another mark against you.’
His dark brows knitted together. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about the fact that you’ve obviously been delving into my private life, which isn’t making me feel very favourable towards you. No person likes to feel they’re being spied on, and you’re not doing a very good job of selling yourself as a prospective employer.’
‘I don’t usually have to sell myself,’ he replied, with a coolness that matched hers. ‘And surely you can understand why I always investigate people I’m planning to employ.’
‘When are you going to accept that you won’t be employing me?’
He opened his mouth and then shut it, turning to look around the room, his gaze coming to rest on the faded velvet curtains, as if he’d only just noticed that the sun had bleached them and that moths had been attacking some of the lining.
Had he noticed?
‘So is your bed and breakfast business thriving?’ he questioned casually.
It was quite clear what he was getting at and suddenly Livvy wanted to prove him wrong. So just show him, she thought—though it didn’t occur to her until afterwards that she wasn’t obliged to show him anything. She wondered if it was pride that made her want to elevate her image from jilted bride to that of budding entrepreneur, even though it wasn’t exactly true.
‘Indeed it is. It’s been a very popular destination,’ she said. ‘Historic houses like this have a wide appeal to the general public an
d people can’t get enough of them. Speaking of which...’ Pointedly, she looked at her watch. ‘Your half hour is almost up.’
‘But it must be hard work?’ he persisted.
She met the mocking question in his black eyes. ‘Of course it is. Cooking up to eight different breakfasts to order and making up beds with clean linen most days is not for the faint-hearted. But I’ve never been afraid of hard work. You don’t get anything for nothing in this life.’ She paused, her smile growing tight. ‘Although I suppose someone like you might be the exception to the rule.’
Not showing any sign of moving, he surveyed her steadily. ‘And why might that be?’
‘Well, you’re a sheikh, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘You’re one of the richest men in the world. You own a string of prizewinning racehorses and a palace—for all I know, you might own hundreds of palaces. You have your own plane, I imagine.’
‘And?’
‘And you’ve probably never had to lift a finger to acquire the kind of wealth you take for granted. You’ve probably had everything handed to you on a plate.’
There was silence as Saladin felt a flicker of exasperation. It was an accusation levelled at most people born to royal status, but never usually voiced in his presence because usually people didn’t dare. Yes, he was unimaginably rich—but did she think that he had grown up in a bubble? That he’d never had to fight for his country and his people? That he’d never known heartbreak, or stared into the dark abyss of real loss? Once again, Alya’s beautiful and perfect face swam into his memory, but he pushed it aside as he met the Englishwoman’s quizzical gaze.
‘Materially I do not deny that I have plenty,’ he said. ‘But what about you? You’re not exactly on the breadline, are you, Livvy? This place is hardly your average house. You, too, have known privilege.’
The Sheikh's Christmas Conquest Page 2
