She nodded, and thought of his mother’s initial reaction to her. ‘When I walked into the dining room, your mother looked…’
He stilled. ‘What?’
‘I don’t know—shocked—surprised.’ She shrugged. ‘Something, anyway.’
‘Is there anything which escapes those perceptive eyes of yours?’ he demanded.
‘And she said something to you, too—something in Marabanese which I couldn’t understand.’
He nodded.
‘What was it, Khalim?’
He gave a painful sigh, knowing that he could not be evasive with her, could not resist the sapphire appeal in her eyes. Was this destiny he was about to recount, or simply history? Coincidence, even? ‘You bear a strong resemblance to a woman my great-great-grandfather knew.’
She stared at him, wondering what he wasn’t telling her.
He seemed to make his mind up about something. ‘Come with me,’ he said, and changed the direction in which they were walking.
Intrigued, Rose quickened her step to match his. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she whispered.
‘You will see.’
The chamber he took her to was so carefully hidden that no one could have found it, certainly not unless they were intended to. A small, almost secret chamber containing nothing other than books and a desk, with a carved wooden stool.
And a portrait.
‘Look,’ said Khalim, very softly, and pointed to the painting. ‘Look, Rose. Do you see the resemblance now?’
The air left her lungs of its own accord, and Rose sucked in a shuddering gasp of astonishment.
A portrait of a woman, whose flaxen hair was contrasted against a gown of crimson silk, her blue eyes capturing the viewer—mesmerising, bright blue eyes which seemed to see into your very soul. Her face was pale, almost as pale as Rose’s own skin and she knew without a doubt that this was no Marabanesh woman.
‘Wh-who is it?’ she whispered, and she only just prevented herself from saying, Is it me?
‘A woman that Malik loved,’ he told her tonelessly.
‘And lost?’ she guessed.
He shook his head sadly. ‘She was never his to be had, Rose,’ he said. ‘The cultural differences between them were too great. And they discovered that love, in this particular case, could not conquer all. She returned to America and they never saw one another again.’
‘Oh, but that’s terrible!’ she breathed.
‘You think so? It was the only solution open to them, my sweet, romantic Rose.’
She discerned in his voice the emphatic acceptance of his own destiny, and she didn’t say another word as he ushered her out of the room and back towards her own apartments.
‘We are here.’ He stopped outside her door and stared down at her for one long moment. ‘And now…’ he was aware of the sudden rapidity of his breathing, the erratic thundering of his heart ‘…you must sleep, or…’
‘Or what?’ she asked breathlessly.
He didn’t answer at first, just raised his dark hand to lift a strand of the blonde hair which rippled down over her shoulders. ‘So pale. Pale as the moon itself,’ he whispered.
She stared up at him, too excited to be able to say a single word, other than his name. ‘Khalim?’ And it came out like a prayer.
He looked down into her eyes, read the unmistakable invitation in them and felt a heady rush of triumph wash over him, knowing that she wanted him, that he could pin her up against the wall and make her his.
He felt himself grow exquisitely hard in anticipation, until he drew himself up short and reminded himself that this was no ordinary woman. She was more beautiful than most, for a start. And a woman like this would surely spend her life warding off advances from men. Not that she would ever reject him, of course—but how many times would she have been made to wait for something she wanted? To simmer with desire? Until the slow heat of need became unbearable and boiled over into a heated fire?
And hadn’t he become curiously intimate with this Rose? Confided in her in a way which was unknown to him? He had heard men say that sex combined with intimacy was the most mind-blowing experience of all. Could he not taste that pleasure once, just once, before his inevitable marriage?
He curved his mouth into a slow, almost cruel smile as he bent his head and briefly touched his lips to hers, feeling her instinctive shudder of elation being quickly replaced by one of disappointment as he swiftly lifted his head away from hers.
‘Goodnight, sweet Rose,’ he said softly, resisting the soft, blue temptation of her eyes. And he turned back along the wide, marbled corridor, the shadowy figure of his bodyguard immediately echoing his movements, and she watched him go with a sense of disbelief.
Had she been mistaken, then? Imagining that Khalim’s not-so-hidden agenda had been to seduce her? And she had actually accused him of that? Oh, Lord! She leaned her forehead against the cool of the wall, recognising that she had just succeeded in making a complete and utter fool of herself.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BUT by the time she was dressed the following morning, Rose had recovered most of her equilibrium. The morning sun always had a habit of putting things into perspective. Okay, so Khalim hadn’t made a pass at her—why, she should be celebrating, not moping around the place! Falling into his arms—which she had been all too ready and willing to do last night—was a sure-fire recipe for a broken heart. Her head had already told her that in no uncertain terms.
His authoritative rap sounded just after nine, but she went through the pantomime of asking, ‘Who is it?’ and hearing the reluctant trace of amusement in his voice as he replied. ‘Khalim.’
She opened the door to find the ebony eyes mocking her. ‘Good morning, Khalim,’ she said innocently.
‘I see you learn your lessons well,’ he told her softly as he scanned her face for the tell-tale signs of crying. But there were none, and he was taken aback by a sense of disappointment that she had not wept in the night for his embrace.
And Rose knew exactly what he was thinking! Had he hoped to find her despondent? she wondered wryly. ‘That depends on whether or not I have a good teacher!’ she murmured.
‘And am I?’ he purred. ‘A good teacher?’
She walked past him, knowing how dangerous this kind of conversation could be if she allowed it to continue. The seductive tilt to his question made her want to melt into his arms, and that was not on his agenda—he had made that quite clear. ‘It doesn’t require a lot of skill to tell someone not to open the door without first finding out who’s there!’
Khalim’s mouth hardened. Such impudence! So—today she was refusing to play the game, was she? He wondered anew why had he not tasted the pleasures she had been all too willing to offer him last night, tasted them over and over again until he had grown bored with them?
‘Let us go and eat breakfast!’ he growled.
‘Lovely,’ she murmured.
They broke bread and ate fruit on a terrace which overlooked the tiered rose-gardens and the scent and sight of the flowers were almost too distracting. Just as Khalim was. And where had her appetite gone? Rose picked undisinterestedly at a pomegranate and drank juice instead.
‘You aren’t hungry?’ he demanded irritatedly, because of his restless night racked with frustrated dreams.
‘It’s too hot.’
Too something, he thought, shifting slightly in his chair as if mere movement could dispel the rapidly building ache of longing deep inside him. ‘We shall drink some coffee, and then leave.’ He glanced down her long legs which were modestly covered in sage-green linen, matching the short-sleeved safari shirt which gave no emphasis to the curve of her bosom beneath. ‘I see you have worn trousers.’
‘I knew you would not want me showing any flesh.’
He bit back his instinctive comment that she could show him as much flesh as she wanted, and whenever she wanted.
‘And I didn’t know if I would have to climb stairs at the refinery,’ she continued
animatedly. ‘So I played safe.’
‘Yes.’ His pulse hammered as he imagined her walking upstairs, worrying about her modesty. Affording him the occasional tantalising view of lace panties. A pulse began to hammer at his temple. She would wear lace, he was certain of that. And once they were lovers he would buy her a tiny little skirt and she would wear no panties at all, and he would demand that she climb the stairs in front of him…
‘Khalim? Is something wrong?’
Her face was an enchanting picture of genuine concern, and Khalim glared. ‘Nothing is wrong!’ he snapped as his erotic daydream didn’t quite do the decent thing of leaving him alone. ‘But the sooner we get out to the refinery, the better!’
They drank their coffee in uncomfortable silence and then walked around to the front of the palace, where two gleaming four-wheel drives sat awaiting them.
Khalim went to the first and opened the passenger door for her and Rose looked over her shoulder to see that the second vehicle had a burly and shadowy figure at the driving seat.
‘Who’s in the other car?’ she asked as he climbed in and turned the key in the ignition and the second vehicle started its engine in synchrony.
‘My bodyguard,’ he said shortly.
The ubiquitous bodyguard! ‘Doesn’t your bodyguard have a name?’
He gave a thin smile. ‘I am monitored twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, Rose,’ he said. ‘There are a team of them—faceless, nameless and invisible to all intents and purposes. It is better that way—if I build a relationship with any of them then it makes me…’ He had been about to say vulnerable, but changed his mind. Khalim vulnerable? Never! ‘Familiarity makes them more accessible to bribery,’ he compromised.
She tried to imagine being watched all the time. ‘And don’t you ever feel trapped?’
‘Trapped?’ He considered the question as he turned right onto a wide, dusty road surrounded by sand which was the pale silvery colour of salt. ‘I have never known any different,’ he explained slowly. ‘Even at school, I had someone there, a figure always in the background.’
‘But don’t you ever want to break free?’ she asked wistfully.
Her voice held a trace of disquiet, and something in the way her face had softened made Khalim feel a sudden overwhelming sense of regret for what could never be. ‘This is freedom of a kind,’ he said simply. ‘To be alone in a car with a beautiful woman, here in Maraban.’
She thought about this as the car effortlessly negotiated the pock-marked road. ‘Why have you never brought a woman here before? There must have been…’ She tried to be sophisticated but, stupidly, her voice threatened to crack. ‘Lovers.’
There had been women, yes—many lovers in his thirty-five years. So why was it that he could not picture a single one of their faces? Nor recall one conversation which had enthralled him enough to stay locked in his memory?
‘My family and my people would disapprove if I flaunted Western permissiveness in their faces.’
Rose flinched at his choice of phrase, but his attention was on the dusty horizon ahead of them, and he did not notice. Did he classify her as a permissive Westerner, then?
He tried to give her a brief picture of his existence. ‘I live two types of life, Rose. The man who jets around the world and wears suits and stays in all the major cities—he is not the same man who dwells here in Maraban.’
‘A man of contrasts,’ she said slowly. ‘From a land of contrasts.’
He was unable to resist a slow smile of delight. ‘A few hours in my country and already you are an expert!’
That smile tore at her heart. Wasn’t he aware of its devastating impact? Didn’t he know he could ask for the moon with a smile like that—and very probably be given it on a shining golden platter? It just wasn’t fair, thought Rose as she stared sightlessly out at the unforgiving desert. ‘That’s another part of my job,’ she said. ‘I learn very quickly.’
He wondered what had made her renew that flippant tone, or to sit so rigidly in her seat, but at that moment he saw the gleam of reflected light which heralded the first view of the refinery.
‘Look, Rose,’ he urged softly.
She forced herself to look interested, forcing herself to put thoughts of Khalim out of her mind. He wasn’t hers. He never could be hers. What would Kerry say if she knew that her finest head hunter was sitting staring dismally ahead like a lovesick schoolgirl?
But the smile she had pinned onto her face became genuine as she stared at the maze of silver towers and pipes which appeared on the stark horizon.
‘It’s so modern!’ she exclaimed. ‘Like a space-age city!’
‘You imagined camels, did you?’ he questioned drily. ‘Robed figures rolling barrels of crude oil around?’
‘Maybe a bit,’ she admitted.
‘Maraban’s refinery is one of the world’s finest,’ he told her, with a quiet pride. ‘It takes billions to build a refinery and millions to maintain. Cost-cutting inevitably leads to breakdowns in the system, and we must be one hundred per cent reliable if we are to stay ahead of our competitors.’
There was a tough, uncompromising note to his voice, and in that moment she realised that he was far more than just a figurehead. He was involved. Caring. Passionate. About his country and its industry, if nothing else.
The guards at the heavily barred security gates, who had obviously been alerted to their arrival, bowed and ushered them through and Khalim drew up outside the simple but beautifully designed main entrance. Huge tubs of fleshy-leaved shrubs gave a welcoming flash of green.
He turned to look at her, thinking how wonderfully cool she looked with her hair caught back in that sophisticate pleat. Almost aloof—like some exquisite ice maiden. An ice maiden he would one day make take fire, he vowed silently, and then cursed the answering kick of excitement in his loins.
‘I have arranged for you to interview both men in the director’s office.’
She nodded as she picked up her briefcase from the floor of the car. ‘Good. I’ll meet you afterwards.’
His smile was bland. ‘I don’t think you understand, Rose. I will, of course, be present during the interviews—’
‘You will not.’
His eyes narrowed with displeasure. ‘Quite apart from the fact that I am not used to having my wishes so flagrantly flouted—my family own this refinery. Any decisions will ultimately come back to haunt me. I should like to observe each man’s interaction with you.’
‘Fine.’ Rose flashed him a fake-pleasant smile and put her briefcase back down on the floor just as Khalim jumped out of the vehicle and pulled her door open.
‘Come on,’ he said, seeing that she sat there, so still that she could have been carved from marble.
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
Frustration and recognition of that stubborn streak of hers very nearly made him lose his temper. ‘Oh, yes, you are,’ he contradicted softly. ‘I happen to be paying you to—’
‘You’re paying me to do a job!’ she snapped. ‘And I cannot do it properly if you happen to be sitting in the room like some great big spectre!’
‘Spectre?’ he repeated faintly. So she was openly insulting him now, was she?
‘You’re not just the boss—so to speak—you’re their ruler, for goodness’ sake! How can I expect them to answer me honestly, when all they’ll be concerned about is saying what they think you want to hear?’
He glowered at her, because he knew she was right—and the only conclusion he could draw from that was that he was wrong. And he was never wrong! ‘Are you getting out?’ he asked dangerously.
‘Not unless you agree to my terms,’ she answered sweetly.
There was a short, tense silence. He wondered what would happen if he exercised his royal prerogative and picked her up and carried her to the director’s private dining room and ravished her there and then? And then shook his head in disbelief at the answering throb of need his thoughts had produced.
Was she going to drive him insane, this Rose Thomas?
‘Very well,’ he agreed tightly. ‘It shall be as you wish.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, but as she slid from the car he caught her wrist, bringing her up close so that black eyes dominated her vision, burning like coals brought up from the depths of hell. And she shivered in response to his touch, even though the temperature was soaring.
‘You may find me a far more daunting adversary than you imagine, Rose,’ he warned her softly.
Something in his face told her they weren’t talking oil refineries now and excitement and fear fused in the pit of her stomach. ‘But we aren’t fighting any more,’ she protested.
‘Now you’ve got your own way, you mean?’ he mocked. ‘Oh, yes, we are. We’ve been fighting one way or another since the moment we first met.’ And maybe there was only one way to get this confounded conflict out of his system once and for all. He felt another heated tug of desire, provoked by the irresistible darkening of her eyes.
She stared at him. And the stupid thing was that all she wanted right then was for him to kiss her. To kiss her and never stop kissing her. ‘K-Khalim?’ she said falteringly, shaken by the depths of his anger—an anger which was surely disproportionate to the crime of having the courage to stand up to him? Especially when her professionalism was at stake.
‘Come inside,’ he said with silky menace as he steeled his heart to the appeal in her eyes, ‘and I’ll introduce you.’
He showed her into the director’s office, which looked like any other high-ranking executive’s hidey-hole, with the exception of the pictures on the wall which were both exotic and vaguely erotic. And the desk looked like something out of a museum, with its dark, old wood inlaid with gold.
‘Murad Ovezov, the present incumbent, has agreed to speak to you first. He should be able to give you a good idea of what the job entails.’
She hated this new coldness in his eyes, the new distance in his attitude towards her. Well, tough! He had hired her to do a job, and do it she would—to the very best of her ability. And that definitely did not include having his powerful and disapproving person present at the interviews!
Surrender to the Sheikh (London's Most Eligible Playboys Book 2) Page 10
