by Lucy Monroe
Gene smiled and said something to the head of desk reception. And all the air expelled from Liyah’s lungs in a single whoosh.
She’d seen that smile in the mirror her whole life. His lips were thinner, but the wide smile above a slightly pointed chin? That was so familiar it made her heart ache.
His eyes were blue, hers were green—but their shape was the same. That hadn’t been obvious in the publicity shots she’d seen of him.
She’d gotten her mother’s honey-colored skin, oval face, small nose and arched brows, not to mention Hena’s black hair and five-foot-five stature. Their mother-daughter connection had been obvious to anyone who saw them together.
Liyah had never considered she might also share physical traits with her father.
The resemblance wasn’t overly noticeable by any means, but that smile? Undeniably like hers.
This man was her father.
Hit with the profundity of the moment, Liyah’s knees went to jelly and she had to put her hand against the wall for stability.
Unaware of her father’s moderate financial support and way too aware of the Amari rejection of any connection, Liyah had spent her life knowing of only one person in her family.
Hena Amari.
Her mom was the only Amari who had ever recognized Liyah as a member of that family. A family who had cast her out for her disgrace.
And since her mom’s death, Liyah had been alone. In that moment, she realized that if this man accepted her—even into the periphery of his life—she wouldn’t be alone any longer.
Her father’s face changed, the smile shifting to something a lot tenser than the expression he’d worn only seconds before. He stood a little straighter, his entire demeanor more alert.
Liyah’s gaze followed his, and for the second time in as many minutes she went weak in the knees.
Surrounded by an impressive entourage and dressed in the traditional garb of a Zeena Sahran sheikh stood the most beautiful man Liyah had ever seen. Known for his macho pursuits and outlook, despite his supreme political diplomacy, the emir wouldn’t appreciate the description, she was sure.
But regardless of…or maybe because of his over-six-foot height, square jaw and neatly trimmed, close-cropped facial hair, the sheikh’s masculine looks carried a beauty she’d never before encountered.
No picture she’d ever seen did him justice. Two-dimensional imagery could never catch the reality of Sheikh Sayed bin Falah al Zeena’s presence. Not his gorgeous looks or the leashed power that crackled in the air around him like electricity.
Nothing about the unadorned black abaya worn over Armani, burgundy keffiyeh on his head and black triple-stranded egal holding it in place expressed anything but conservative control. The Zeena Sahran color of royalty of the keffiyeh and three strands of the egal, rather than the usual two, subtly indicated his status as emir.
Wearing the traditional robe over a tailored designer suit with the head scarf implied supreme civilization. And yet, to her at least, it was obvious the blood of desert warriors ran in his veins.
The first melech of Zeena Sahra had won independence for his tribe—which later became the founding people of the emirate of Zeena Sahra—through bloody battles western history books often glossed over.
Inexplicably and undeniably drawn to the powerful man, Liyah’s feet carried her forward without her conscious thought or volition. It was only when she stood mere feet from the royal sheikh that Liyah came to an abrupt, embarrassed stop.
It was too late, though.
Sheikh Sayed’s espresso-brown gaze fell on her and remained, inquiry evident in the slight quirking of his brows.
Considered unflappable by all who knew her, Liyah couldn’t think of a single coherent thing to say, not even a simple welcome before moving on.
No, she stood there, her body reacting to his presence in a way her mother had always warned Liyah about but she had never actually experienced.
Part of her knew that he was surrounded by the people traveling with him, the Chatsfield Hotel staff and even her father, but Liyah could only see the emir. Discussion around them was nothing more than mumbling to her ears.
The signature scent of the Chatsfield—a mix of cedarwood, leather, white rose and a hint of lavender—faded and all she could smell was the emir’s spicy cologne blending with his undeniable masculine scent.
Her nipples drew tight for no discernible reason, her heart rate increasing like it only did after a particularly challenging workout and her breath came in small gasps she did her best to mask with shallow inhales.
His expression did not detectably change, but something in the depths of his dark gaze told her she was not the only one affected.
“Sheikh al Zeena, this is Amari, our chambermaid floor supervisor in charge of the harem floor and your suite,” the head of desk reception stepped in smoothly to say.
Being referred to by her last name was something Liyah was used to; meeting a crown prince was not.
However, her brain finally came back online and she managed to curl her right hand over her left fist and press them over her left breast. Bowing her head, she leaned slightly forward in a modified bow. “Emir. It is my pleasure to serve you and your companions.”
*
Sayed had a wholly unacceptable and unprecedented reaction to the lovely chambermaid’s words and actions.
His sex stirred, images of exactly how he would like her to serve him flashing through his mind in an erotic slide show of fantasies he was not aware of even having.
The rose wash over her cheeks and vulnerable, almost hungry expression in her green eyes told him those desires could be met, increasing his unexpected viscerally sexual reaction tenfold. Hidden by the fall of his abaya, his rapidly engorging flesh ached with unfamiliar need.
Sayed’s status as a soon-to-be-married man, not to mention melech of his country, dictated he push the images aside and ignore his body’s physical response, however. No matter how difficult he found doing so.
“Thank you, Miss Amari,” Sayed said, his tone imperious by necessity to hide his reaction to her. He indicated the woman assigned to tend his domestic needs. “This is Abdullah-Hasiba. She will let you know of any requirements we may have. Should you have any questions, they can be taken directly to her, as well.”
Miss Amari’s beautiful green gaze chilled and her full lips firmed slightly, but nothing else in her demeanor indicated a reaction to his clear dismissal.
“Thank you, Your Highness.” Dipping her head again in the tradition of his people, she then turned to his servant. “I look forward to working with you Miz Abdullah-Hasiba.”
With another barely-there dip of her head, the much-too-attractive hotel employee did that thing well-trained servants were so good at and seemed to just melt away.
Sayed had a baffling and near-unstoppable urge to call her back.
CHAPTER TWO
STILL GRAPPLING WITH the fact she’d forgotten her father in the presence of the emir, Liyah knocked on Miz Abdullah-Hasiba’s door.
She hadn’t even taken the chance to meet Gene Chatsfield’s eyes for the first time. How could she have missed such a prime opportunity?
She was here to observe her father and ultimately make herself known to him. Liyah had not come to the Chatsfield London to ogle a Zeena Sahran prince.
Aaliyah Amari did not ogle anyone.
The door in front of her swung open. The unexpectedness of it, even though she’d been the one to knock, further emphasized how disconnected from her normal self Liyah was.
Wearing a dark apricot kameez embroidered around the neck and wrists with pale yellow thread, the emir’s personal housekeeper clasped her hands in front of her and bent her head forward. “Miss Amari, how may I be of service?”
“I wanted to make sure you and the emir’s other female traveling companions have found your accommodations acceptable.”
“Very much so.” The older woman stepped back and indicated Liyah should enter her room.
“Please, come in.”
“I do not want to take you from your duties.”
“Not at all. You must share a cup of tea with me.”
With no polite way to decline, and frankly not inclined to do so, Liyah followed the other woman to the small sofa on the other side of the deluxe room. As much as it might bother her, Liyah could not deny her fascination with the emir.
At least, not to herself.
The Middle Eastern tea service Liyah had purchased on behalf of the hotel—along with the ones for the sheikh and his fiancée’s suites—sat in the center of the oval coffee table.
Miz Abdullah-Hasiba poured the fragrant hot drink from the copper-and-glass pot into the short, narrow matching cups with no handles. “This is a treat.”
“Yes?”
The housekeeper nodded with a smile. “Oh, yes. We do not travel with glassware as it is too easily broken.”
“Naturally.” Liyah waited for the housekeeper to take a sip before following suit, enjoying the sweetened warm beverage and the bittersweet memories it evoked.
Her mom had insisted on beginning and ending each day with a cup of mint tea augmented by a touch of honey.
“Nevertheless, the Chatsfield is the first hotel on the emir’s current European travel itinerary to have thought to provide the traditional tea service.”
“They will only be found in your room, the emir’s suite and that of his fiancée, I’m afraid.”
The older woman smiled. “Your grasp of our culture is commendable. Most hotel staff would have put the tea set in the room for the emir’s secretary.”
Liyah did not shrug off the praise, but neither did she acknowledge it. She was more aware of the Zeena Sahran culture than the average Brit or American, but anyone observant would have taken note that the housekeeper had been booked in the most deluxe room beside the emir’s fiancée’s suite.
“His secretary is actually junior office staff, I believe,” Liyah observed.
“She is. The emir follows the old ways. By necessity, his personal administrative assistant is Duwad, a male.”
“Because your emir cannot work late hours in his suite with a woman, married or otherwise,” Liyah guessed.
“Precisely.”
“So, this is a business trip?” Very little had been said in the media about the nature of the emir’s current travel plans.
“For the most part. Melech Falah insisted Emir Sayed enjoy a final European tour as it were before taking on the mantle of full leadership of our country.”
“The king intends to abdicate the throne to his son?” She’d read speculation to that effect, but nothing concrete.
“One might consider that a possible course of events after the royal wedding.”
Liyah approved the other woman’s carefully couched answer and did not press for anything more definite. “Our head of housekeeping was scandalized at the thought of booking a separate floor for a sheikh’s harem.”
“Ah. She assumed he would be bringing a bevy of belly dancers to see to his needs, no doubt.”
“That may have been her understanding, yes.” Liyah herself had assumed something similar, if not quite so fanciful when first told of the harem.
The Zeena Sahran housekeeper laughed softly. “Nothing so dramatic, I am afraid. The emir is ever mindful of his position as a betrothed man.”
Not sure she believed that, but having very little practical experience with men and none at all with their sex drives, Liyah didn’t argue. She did know the rooms she’d prepared had all been for different female staff members of the prince’s entourage.
Most of the rooms that would ultimately be occupied were slated to house the emir’s fiancée and her mostly female traveling companions. Her brother was supposed to be accompanying her, as well, and had booked a suite on the presidential level near the emir’s.
Not quite as grand, it was nevertheless impressive accommodation.
After a surprisingly enjoyable visit with Hasiba—as she insisted on being called—in which the housekeeper managed to convey unspoken but clear reservations toward the future emira of Zeena Sahra, Liyah left for a meeting with the concierge.
He and his staff expected her input on a finalization of entertainment offerings to make to the sheikh over the next two weeks.
*
Liyah came out of the royal suite, pleased with the care the chambermaid assigned to the emir’s rooms had taken.
The vases of purple iris―the official flower of Zeena Sahra―Liyah had ordered were fresh and perfectly arranged. The bowls with floating jasmine on either side of the candelabra on the formal dining table did not have a single brown spot on the creamy white blossoms.
The beds were all made without a single wrinkle and the prince’s tea service was prepped for his late-afternoon repast.
She headed for the main elevator. While staff were encouraged to use the service elevator, she was not required to do so. The busiest time of day for housekeeping and maintenance usually coincided with light use on the guest elevators.
So, as she’d done at her hotel in San Francisco, Liyah opted to use them when she wasn’t carrying towels or pushing a cleaning cart. Something she rarely had to do in her position as lead chambermaid, but not outside the realm of possibility.
The doors slid open with a quiet whoosh and Liyah’s gaze was snagged by espresso-brown eyes.
The emir stared back, his expression a strange mixture of surprise and something else she had very little experience interpreting. “Miss Amari?”
“Emir Sayed.” She dipped her head in acknowledgment of his status. “I was just checking on your suite.”
“The service has been impeccable.”
“I’m glad you think so. I’ll be sure and pass your kind words on to your suite’s housekeeping staff.”
He inclined his head in regal agreement she doubted he was even aware of.
She waited for him to step out of the elevator, but he did not move. His security detail had exited first with a smooth precision that came off as a deeply ingrained habit, followed by the emir’s administrative assistant and the junior secretary.
They all waited, as well, for their sheikh to move.
Only he didn’t.
He pressed a button and the doors started to close. “Are you coming?” His tone implied impatience.
Though she didn’t know why. Her brain couldn’t quite grasp what he was doing on the other side of the doorway. If he was going back down again, wouldn’t his security be on the elevator with him?
One thing she did know: she wasn’t about to commit the faux pas of joining the emir. “Oh, no. I’ll just go to the service elevator.”
“Do not be ridiculous.” He reached out and grabbed her wrist, drawing shocked gasps from his staff and an imprecation in the Zeena Sahran dialect of Arabic from his personal bodyguard.
Liyah had little opportunity to take that in as she was pulled inexorably into the elevator through the shrinking gap between the heavy doors.
They closed behind her on another Arabic curse, this one much louder and accompanied by a shocked and clearly disapproving, “Emir Sayed!”
“Your Highness?”
“There is no reason for you to take another elevator.”
“But your people…shouldn’t you have waited for them?”
His elegant but strong fingers were still curled around her wrist and he showed no intention of letting her go. “I am not accustomed to being questioned in my actions by a servant.”
The words were dismissive, his tone arrogant, even cold, but the look in his eyes wasn’t. She’d never heard of brown fire before, but it was there in his gaze right now.
Hot enough to burn the air right from her lungs.
Nevertheless, her professional demeanor leaned toward dignified, not subservient. By necessity, she pulled the cool facade she’d perfected early in life around her with comfortable familiarity.
“And I am not used to being manhandled by hotel guests.” S
he stared pointedly at his hold on her wrist, expecting him to release her immediately.
It wasn’t acceptable in the more conservative culture of Zeena Sahra for him to touch any single woman outside his immediate family—and that did not include cousins—much less one that was a complete stranger to him.
However, his hold remained. “This is hardly manhandling.”
His thumb rubbed over her pulse point and Liyah had no hope of suppressing her shiver of reaction.
His heated gaze reflected confusion, as well. “I don’t understand this.”
He’d spoken in the dialect of his homeland, no doubt believing she wouldn’t know what he was saying. She didn’t disabuse him of the belief.
She couldn’t. Words were totally beyond her.
For the first time in her life, she craved touch worse than dark chocolate during that most inconvenient time of the month.
“You are an addiction,” he accused, his tone easy to interpret even if she hadn’t spoken the Zeena Sahran dialect fluently.
Suddenly embarrassed, wondering if she’d done something to invite his interest and reveal her own, she pulled against his hold. He let go, but his body moved closer, not farther away, the rustle of his traditional robes the only sound besides their breathing in the quiet elevator.
With shock she realized there was no subtle sound of pulleys because he’d pushed the stop button.
She stared up at him, her heart in her throat. “Emir?”
“Sayed. My name is Sayed.”
And she wasn’t about to use it. Only she did, whispering, “Sayed,” in an involuntary expulsion of soft sound.
Satisfaction flared in his dark eyes, a line of color burnishing his cheekbones. For whatever reason, the emir liked hearing his name on her lips.
He touched the name badge attached to her black suit jacket. “Amari is not your name.”
“It is.” Her voice came out husky, her throat too tight for normal speech.
“Not your given name.”
