by Kristi Gold
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Contents:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
© 2004
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One
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The search for premiere horseflesh had brought Imogene Danforth to SaHráa Stables. The discovery of prime man flesh had been a very definite plus.
She stood outside the open stall door watching the stranger's bare back as he shoveled shavings onto the floor, spreading them meticulously over the rubber matting. A rivulet of sweat slid down between his shoulder blades and tracked the pearl path of his spine before disappearing below the waistband of a pair of well-worn jeans. Those jeans and the tear right below the back pocket, his tensile muscle covered by warm sand-toned skin, garnered Imogene's complete attention.
Unfortunately, thoroughly examining a stable hand's assets was not on her agenda, even if he did have a landmark butt and expansive shoulders. Leasing a four-legged foe was her goal, even though her knowledge of the equine species could be compiled on the head of an amoeba. In fact, the last time she'd ridden a horse, she'd been five years old and the pony had managed to buck her off. And the last time she'd been involved with a man, he'd thrown her over for a more suitable partner. So when it came to horses and men, Imogene hadn't been too lucky in either instance. But she could still appreciate both, regardless of her less-than-happy history. However, her appearance here today was strictly business.
The dust kicking up from the shavings tickled Imogene's sensitive nose. No doubt, she was going to start sneezing in rapid succession. She never did anything halfway; this was no exception.
After five or so obnoxious ah-choos, Imogene muttered "Excuse me," in apology and greeting as she took a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her watering eyes, hoping her mascara had remained intact, otherwise she would be more raccoon than woman. Once her vision cleared, she directed her attention on the stable hand to find he had turned to give her a full-frontal view.
He was phenomenally tall and predictably gorgeous with tousled raven hair, a straight-edge nose and a shading of whiskers framing full lips that Imogene would wager had seen lots of action in the kissing department. His chiseled chest revealed the results of physical labor as well as a spattering of dark hair. The jeans began right below his navel, offering a glimpse of what Imogene's brothers used to call The Happy Trail, a path of hair leading to that part of the male anatomy that made men very happy to be men. And admittedly, made many women glad to be women—as long as a man did not utilize it as his primary brain.
Imogene finally traveled back to his eyes—thunderstorm-gray eyes rimmed with an almost black perimeter. Seductive eyes that surveyed her with barefaced interest, the same way she had blatantly assessed him.
"How may I help you?" he asked in a moderately deep voice that was darkly lyrical and surprisingly sophisticated.
Imogene could think of several responses, none that would be fitting for a woman who needed to keep her mind on her business, not on his butt. "I'm looking for Sheikh Shakir."
He braced both palms on the shovel's handle, highlighting the prominent veins on his arms. "Is he expecting you?"
Imogene obviously should have called first, but there hadn't been time. She'd found the stable on the Internet, discovered it was the closest to Savannah and then rushed out of the office. Besides, if she had called, only to find the owner wasn't available, then she would have missed out on this manly panorama standing before her. "Actually, I didn't make an appointment. I hope that won't be a problem since the sign out front says Visitors Welcome."
"That would depend on what you want from him."
"I need a good Arabian, and fast," she blurted before she realized how questionable that sounded. Where was her brain? Back in the Beemer?
His smile arrived gradually. A somewhat sardonic smile but patently sensual as his gaze raked over her, from blond bangs to sensible pumps, lingering at her legs and breasts. "I am Arabian, and I can be very good."
Saints above, he was flirting with her, literally baring her body and soul with a few choice looks and suggestive words. Oddly enough, Imogene wanted to flirt back. But she couldn't, or shouldn't. "I appreciate the offer, but I was referring to an Arabian horse."
He shifted his weight from one leg to the other while Imogene did the same, her heels digging into the artificial green turf covering the aisle—appropriate, considering the barn was as big as a football field.
"Are you interested in breeding?" he asked.
What a novel idea. Unfortunately, that was not on the agenda, either. "Excuse me?"
"Are you looking for breeding stock? Perhaps a stallion?"
"Actually, I'm looking for someone to ride." Someone? Oh, jeez. "I mean, I need a horse to ride."
His grin deepened, reflecting a trace of amusement and a very definite, very sexy charm. "How much experience do you have?"
Although she assumed he'd meant equestrian experience, his provocative tone indicated he might mean something else altogether, and so did the heat in his eyes. "I have some experience." Just a slight stretch of the truth, especially where horses and men were concerned.
He leaned the shovel against the wall then folded his arms across his chest. "Would you want a gentle mount? Or are you comfortable with something more daring?"
Imogene was suddenly assailed by the image of taking a wild ride with this particular stud. A long, wild ride. She inclined her head and gave him a coy look, greatly enjoying the exchange. After all, what harm could it do? She would probably never see him again after today. It sure beat the heck out of her usual money-matters conversations with men. "Whatever I need to stay in the saddle for more than a few minutes."
"That can be achieved with practice."
"Then I'm assuming you've had a lot of practice?"
"Undeniably."
What a confident cad. An incredibly stunning, confident cad.
Oh, Lordy, she had the hots for a stable hand. Her parents would certainly love that. But as much as Imogene wanted to continue playing this innuendo game, she didn't have time. She needed to find a horse and report back to her slug of a boss, Sid Carver, who'd gotten her into this mess by telling prospective clients she was an equestrienne extraordinaire. Next month, she was to join her client and his wife at their farm with her own show-quality Arabian, pretending to be a hotshot rider as well as a hotshot investment banker. Had it not been for the possibility of a promotion, she would never have stepped foot in a stable and risked stepping in something not at all pleasant.
But she would have to agree that the man before her was a positive. Still, she needed to meet with his boss and get the show on the road so she could get back on the road. She needed to quit fantasizing about his big hands and feet, his deadly smile and the fact that he'd hooked his thumbs in his pockets, drawing her attention to a place she had no good reason to go. But, oh, did she want to go there.
Straightening her jacket lapels and her shoulders, Imogene forced herself back into professional mode and her gaze back to his face. "I need to meet with the sheikh to discuss leasing one of his better horses."
His expression turned suddenly serious. "I assure you that Sheikh Shakir does not lease his quality stock to someone off the street. He would have to know more about your intentions."
So much for fun and games. "I understand, so now if you'll go get him, we can begin to negotiate."
He retrieved his discarded denim shirt from the handle of the wheelbarrow then slipped it on without bothering to button it. "If you will follow me, I'll show you to his private office where you may wait for his return."
"Good enough. Just lead the way."
He passed by her on a wave of heat, and the scent of sawdust and sw
eat combined with a trace of sandalwood cologne—pheromone-laden smells that had Imogene's recently inactive libido in an uproar.
She followed behind him to ascend a staircase, gauging every roll of his narrow hips that caused the torn fabric below his pocket to part even more, but not quite enough to get a substantial view of the upward curve of his buttock from the top of his thigh. Now if he could just manage to tear it open a tiny bit more…
Apparently her hormones had hijacked her common sense. Strictly business, she silently chanted with every step she took.
Once they reached the top, he opened the door to a small apartment complete with brown suede furniture, a small kitchenette, an office partially concealed by French doors and a hallway that most likely led to a bedroom or two. She wondered if that would be a stopover on the grand tour.
Obviously not since he showed her to the living area and gestured to a chair that faced the door. "Make yourself comfortable while you wait. You are welcome to any refreshments in the refrigerator."
"Thanks." She looked around the room because it was simply too tempting to look at him. "This is a very nice place. Does the sheikh come in here often?"
"Yes."
She brought her attention back to him. "Do you live on the premises?"
"Yes."
His brief answers indicated he was no longer willing to carry on a conversation, or carry on at all. Just as well since Imogene had more pressing—albeit mundane—issues to attend to. "Well, thanks, Mr.…" She frowned. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."
"Nor I yours, but perhaps it would be best if we kept it that way."
He turned and walked out the door, leaving Imogene alone with the assumption that he'd probably been told that the sheikh's female clients were hands off. She would definitely like to get her hands on him and take a few things off.
She sank back in the chair and sighed. What in the world was wrong with her? Sure, she'd been in a dating drought of late, ever since her breakup with Wayne well over a year ago.
Dear CPA Wayne, who liked his women with finer feminine qualities, and who had found Imogene lacking in that respect. A Magnolia blossom Imogene was not, nor would she ever be. She'd always preferred business suits to ball gowns. Preferred premium stocks to proms. And she had no intention of getting involved again with someone who had unrealistic expectations of how she should think and act. She loved her job and she intended to stick to it, climbing her way up the proverbial corporate ladder whatever it might take, even if she didn't have much of a social life.
But, hey, she wore skirts now and then, like today, a really ridiculous thing to do considering she had to traipse around in a barn. But since she hadn't been given much notice, she hadn't had time to change. From now on, she would wear slacks, especially in a barn. Not that she intended to visit any on a regular basis.
However, the man dearth still didn't excuse her horny reaction to the stable boy. Stable man, she corrected. All man. Every bit of him, and she suspected that he was six feet tall plus a good four inches. Much more, if she counted his…
Good heavens. She tipped her head back in the chair and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. How ridiculous. Her life was much too hectic to include silly fantasies about some stranger's manhood.
Imogene closed her eyes, intending to regroup since sleep had been at a premium lately and she needed to have sharp wits about her. Instead, she only saw Mr. Stable Man. After at least ten minutes of attempting to go over a mental laundry list of what needed to be said when she met with the sheikh, she finally gave up and let her daydream take flight. No one would have to know where her thoughts were leading. No one would suspect that her imagination had taken her back into that stall where all conversation was suspended, giving way to forbidden foreplay with a very tall, very well equipped manly man.
Although her logical side tried to convince her that this was not the time or the place to immerse herself in a sexual scenario, Imogene continued to play out the scene in her mind.
After all, what better way to spend the time while she waited? No one would ever have to know, least of all the stable hand.
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Sheikh Rafi ibn Shakir knew women very well. He knew what made them sigh, what made them tremble, what made them weep. He knew how to heighten their gratification as he sought each erogenous zone with both his hands and his mouth. He knew the look of bliss in a lover's face, and he had known the pleasure of watching a lover sleep. Therefore he recognized that the woman he now observed from the apartment doorway had her eyes closed, but she was definitely not sleeping. Nor was she aware of his appearance. He intended to keep it that way, at least for a few more moments.
On the surface she appeared to be all-business despite her chin-length golden-blond hair and attractive features. Yet as he watched her slide her tongue over her bottom lip and her hand graze her stocking-covered thigh below the hem of her black skirt, he was convinced that a sensual being resided beneath the professional image.
Without opening her eyes, she released the button on her tailored jacket, allowing it to fall open to reveal a white silk blouse. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she laid one palm over her bare flesh where the blouse parted at the collar. Her respiration increased, evident by the rise and fall of her breasts as her fingertips brushed across her chest, moving farther and farther beneath the fabric. And with each pass of her hand, Raf imagined his own hand there. His hands everywhere on her body. That thought made him shift against the tightness building in his groin and the temptation to join her.
Some might think him arrogant to assume that she was in the throes of a fantasy involving them, together. Yet he had good intuition when it came to the opposite sex and solid instincts when it came to chemistry between a man and a woman. That chemistry had been very apparent in the stall when she had assessed him with inquisitive emerald eyes. That chemistry was still apparent as he continued to watch her, knowing she was very vulnerable at the moment and quite possibly open to making the fantasy reality. If he were less controlled, he would drop to his knees before her, slide his hands beneath her skirt and discover exactly how her body was reacting to her current musings. He would open his pants, relieving him of his discomfort, part her legs and take her right there where she sat.
As enticing as that prospect might be, honor bound him to make his presence known even though he would prefer to continue to see how far she would go before she recognized she was no longer alone. To see how long his own neglected need would allow him to only observe her before he tossed caution to the wind. Not too long, he decided as her legs slightly parted and her fingertips drew a path up and down the inside of her knee.
When he reached behind him and tripped the lock on the door, her eyes snapped open, she gripped the chair's arms and her frame went rigid.
Her gaze met his, mortification in her startled expression. "I didn't hear you come in," she said in a raspy voice.
He took a step forward and affected casualness even though he was not unaffected by what he had witnessed. "I was reluctant to disturb you since you seemed to be enjoying your nap."
She glanced away but not before he saw a flash of guilt in her eyes. "I guess I drifted off." She shifted in the seat. "This is a very comfortable chair."
And Raf was more than uncomfortable. In an effort to hide his own reaction, he took a seat on the small sofa facing her and crossed one leg over the other.
"I almost didn't recognize you in the khakis and polo," she said while she surveyed the room as if afraid to look at him.
"Are you saying you do not like my attire now?" Why that mattered to Raf at all, he did not have a clue. But for some strange reason, her opinion did matter.
She finally brought her attention back to him. "Actually, you look more natural in jeans, not that I'm complaining."
If she only knew he had exchanged his royal trappings for casual attire not more than two years ago when he'd come to America. He had no intention of enlightening her yet. "Exactly why are you he
re?"
She tugged at her skirt. "I've already told you why I'm here. I need a horse. Now I need to talk to the owner."
Raf needed to keep his eyes off her breasts, and to reveal the truth. "I am the owner."
"You're not serious." Her eyes widened with awareness. "You're Sheikh Shakir?"
"Sheikh Rafi ibn Shakir."
Her astonishment gave way to irritation. "Oh, really? So how am I to address you? Sheikh? Your Highness? I certainly don't want to step on your royal toes."
Her sarcasm both amused and intrigued him. "You may call me Raf."
"Is that Rafe with an e on the end?"
"No e on the end. Why do you ask?"
She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and lifted her chin. "I'm just trying to get everything straight."
Raf ignored the venom in her tone. "And you are?"
"Confused as to why you were passing yourself off as a worker," she said. "Unless, of course, you're lying to me now. So which is it? Sheikh or stable boy?"
The accusation did not sit well with Raf, although he supposed he could understand her suspicion. "I assure you, I am the owner of SaHráa Stables. And I am not a boy."
"That's obvious," she said, a tinge of color rising to her cheeks.
"You have still not told me your name."
"Ms. Danforth."
Raf leaned back in the chair and streaked a hand over his jaw. "Would that be any relation to senatorial candidate Abraham Danforth?"
"He's my uncle. My father's brother."
"Both involved in the Danforth coffee dynasty?"
"Yes, but my father's retired now."
For all intents and purposes, Ms. Danforth was most likely an heiress, although very unlike those Raf had encountered since his arrival in Georgia. He found it somewhat refreshing that she obviously was not here because of his money or his position. Perhaps she would be interested in what he could offer in terms of pleasure, but that would be unwise to ask. At the moment she did not look amenable to any suggestions of that nature. "I have contributed to your uncle's campaign on several occasions. I greatly respect him."
