Her chest felt as though it had been cracked open. ‘Um, yes, I am, I think.’ She dropped her eyes to the shining floor.
Because I enjoyed talking to you, too, she amended inwardly, fully aware that she was moving into a territory that was lined with danger.
‘But if you’re worried you offended me, let me assure you, I am not easily offended,’ he offered, and now he smiled, in a way that was like forcing sunshine into a darkened room. Her breath burned in her lungs.
‘Frankly, I’d be surprised if you were.’
‘Then you can bring me tea tonight. I have a dinner but Malik will send for you when it’s done.’
He had no idea what he was doing. The American woman was beautiful, but it had been a long time since Sariq had considered beauty to be a requirement in a woman he was interested in. Besides, he couldn’t be seriously interested in her. His duty was clear: to return to the RKH and marry, so that he could begin the process of shoring up his lineage. There were two women whom it would make sense to marry and he would need to choose one, and promptly.
Enjoying the companionship of his hotel’s concierge seemed pointless and futile, and yet he found himself turning his attention to his watch every few minutes throughout the state dinner, willing it to be over so he could call for a tray of tea and the woman with eyes the colour of the sky on a winter’s morning.
She had asked the kitchen to prepare tea for two, with no further explanation. And even though they had no way of knowing the Sheikh wasn’t entertaining in his suite, she felt a flush of guilt as she took the tray, as though surely everyone must know that she was about to cross an invisible line in the sand and socialise with a guest.
Calm down, she insisted to herself as the elevator sped towards the top of the building. It’s just tea and conversation, hardly a hanging offence. He was grieving and despite the fact he was surrounded by an entourage, she could easily imagine how lonely his position must be, how refreshing to meet someone who hadn’t been indoctrinated into the ways of worshipping at his feet by virtue of the fact that he ruled the land from which they heralded.
This was no different from the other unusual requests she had been asked to fulfil, it was just a lot harder to delegate. He wanted her. To talk to her. She couldn’t say why—she wasn’t particularly interesting, which filled her with anxiety at the job before her, but, for whatever reason, he had been insistent.
She knocked at the door then pushed it inwards. He was standing almost exactly where he’d been the night before, still wearing the robes he had been in earlier that day, though he’d removed the headpiece, so her heart rate trebled. Because he looked so impossibly handsome, so striking with his tanned skin and strong body encased in the crisp white and gold.
It brought out a hint of blond in his hair that she hadn’t noticed at first, just a little at the ends, which spoke of a tendency to spend time outdoors.
He walked towards her so she stood completely still, as though her legs were planted to the floor, and when his hands curved around the edges of the tray, it was impossible for them not to brush hers. A jolt of electricity burst through her, splitting her into a thousand pieces so she had to work hard not to visibly react.
‘I’m pleased you came.’
He stood there, watching her, for a beat too long and then took the tray, placing it on the coffee table.
‘The first reference to persimmon tea comes from one of our earliest texts. In the year forty-seven AD, a Bedouin tribe brought it as a gift to the people of the west of my country. Their skill with harvesting the fruit late in the season and drying them in such a way as to preserve the flavour made them popular with traders.’
He poured some into a cup and held it in front of him, waiting, a small smile on his lips that did funny things to her tummy.
She forced her legs to carry her across the room, a tight smile of her own crossing her expression as she took the teacup. ‘Thank you.’
He was watching her and so she took a small sip, her eyes widening at the flavour. ‘It’s so sweet. Like honey.’
He made a throaty noise of agreement. ‘Picked at the right time, persimmons are sweet. Dried slowly, that intensifies, until you get this.’
She took another sip, her insides warming to the flavour. It was like drinking happiness. Why had she resisted so long?
‘Are you going to have some?’
‘I don’t feel like sleeping tonight.’
Her stomach lurched and she chattered the cup against the saucer a little too loudly, shooting him a look that was half apology, half warning.
She had to keep this professional. It was imperative that she not forget who she was, who he was, and why her job mattered so much to her. She was lucky with this position. She earned a salary that was above and beyond what she could have hoped, by virtue of her untarnished ability to provide exemplary customer service. One wrong move and her reputation would suffer, so too would her job, potentially, and she couldn’t jeopardise that.
It helped to imagine her manager in the room, observing their conversation. If she pictured Henry watching, she could keep things professional and light, she could avoid the gravitational pull that seemed to be dragging on her.
‘You were at the United Nations today, sir?’
A quirk shifted his lips, but he nodded. ‘It was my first official speech as ruler of the RKH.’
‘How did it go?’
He gestured towards the sofa, inviting her to sit. She chose one side, crossing her legs primly and placing the cup and saucer on her knee, holding it with both hands.
He took the seat beside her, not opposite, so she was aware of his every movement, the shift of his body dragging on the cushions on the sofa, inadvertently pulling her towards him.
‘I was pleased with the reception.’
She sipped her tea, forcing herself to relax. ‘I can’t imagine having to do that,’ she confided with a small smile. After all, he wanted to talk to her—sitting there like a petrified automaton wasn’t particularly conversational. ‘I’m terrible at public speaking. I hate it. I feel everyone’s eyes burning me and just want to curl up in a ball for ever.’
‘It’s a skill you can learn.’
‘Perhaps. But fortunately for me, I don’t need to.’
Silence prickled at their sides.
She spoke to fill it. ‘I don’t feel like you would have needed to do much learning there.’
He frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Sorry, that wasn’t clear.’ She shook her head. ‘I just mean you were probably born with this innate ability to stand in front of a group of people and enthral them.’
She clamped her mouth shut, wishing she hadn’t come so close to admitting that she was a little bit enthralled by him.
He smiled though, in a way that relaxed her and warmed her. ‘I was born knowing my destiny. I was born to be Sheikh, ruler of my people, and, as such, never imagined what it would be like to...avoid notice.’ His eyes ran over her face speculatively, so even as she was relaxing, she was also vibrating in a way that was energising and demanding.
‘I don’t think you’d be very good at it.’
‘At being Sheikh?’
‘At avoiding notice.’
‘Nor are you, so this we have in common.’
Heat spread through her veins like wildfire.
‘I don’t think you see me clearly,’ she said after a moment.
‘No?’
‘I’m very good at not being seen.’
His laugh was husky. ‘It’s quite charming that you think so.’
She shook her head a little. ‘I don’t really understand...’
‘You are a beautiful young woman with hair the colour of desert sand and eyes like the sky. Even in this boxy uniform, you are very, very noticeable.’
She stared at him for sever
al seconds, pleasure at war with uncertainty. Remember Max, she reminded herself. He’d noticed her. He’d praised her, flattered her, and she’d fallen for it so fast she hadn’t stopped to heed any of the warning signs. And look how that had turned out!
‘Thank you.’ It was stiff, an admonishment.
He laughed. ‘You are not good with compliments.’
She bit down on her lip, their situation troubling her, pulling on her. ‘I should go.’
He reached a hand out, pressing it to her knee. Her skin glowed where he’d touched her, filling her with a scattering sensation of pins and needles. ‘No more compliments,’ he promised. ‘Tell me about yourself, Daisy Carrington.’
Her eyes flared wide. ‘How do you know my surname?’
‘I asked my chief of security.’
‘How...?’
‘All hotel staff are independently vetted by my agencies,’ he explained, as though that were no big deal.
Her lips parted. ‘Then I suspect you know more about me than I realised.’
‘It’s not comprehensive,’ he clarified. ‘Your name, date of birth, any links to criminal activity.’ He winked. ‘You were clear, by the way.’
Despite herself, she smiled. ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’
‘May I call you Daisy?’
‘So long as you don’t expect me to call you anything other than Your Highness,’ she quipped.
‘Very well. So, Daisy? Before you started working here, what did you do?’
Her stomach clenched. Remembered pain was there, pushing against her. She thought of her marriage, her divorce, her acceptance to the Juilliard, and pushed them all away. ‘This and that.’ A tight smile, showing more than she realised.
‘Which tells me precisely nothing.’
‘I worked in hospitality.’
‘And it’s what you have always wanted to do?’
The question hurt. She didn’t talk about her music. It was too full of pain—pain remembering her father, and the way he’d sat beside her, moving her fingers over the keys until they learned the path themselves, the way she’d stopped playing the day he’d left. And then, when her mother was in her low patches, the way Daisy had begun to play again—it was the only thing she had responded to.
‘It’s what I gravitated to.’
‘Another answer that tells me nothing.’
Because she was trying to obfuscate but he was too clever for that. What was the harm in being honest with him? He had reserved this suite for four nights—this was his second. He would be gone soon and she’d never see him again.
‘I wanted to be a concert pianist, actually.’
He went very still, his eyes hooked to hers, waiting, watching. And she found the words spilling out of her even when she generally made a habit of not speaking them. After all, what good could come from reliving a fantasy lost?
‘My father was a jazz musician. He taught me to play almost from infancy. I would sit beside him and he would arrange my fingers, and when we weren’t playing, we would listen to music, so I was filled with its unique language, all the beats that mixed together to make a song, to tell a story and weave a narrative with their melody. I love all types of music, but classical is my favourite. I lose myself in Chopin and Mozart, so that I’m barely conscious of the passage of time.’
He stared at her, his surprise evident, and with little wonder. It was as though the words had burst from her, so full of passion and memory, so alive with her love and regrets.
‘Do you play?’
A beat passed, a silence, as he contemplated this. ‘No. My mother did, and very well.’ Another pause, and, though his expression didn’t shift, she had a feeling he was choosing his words with care. ‘After she died, my father had all the pianos removed from the palace. He couldn’t bear to hear them played. Music was not a big part of my upbringing.’
Her heart twisted in her chest. The pain of losing a mother was one she was familiar with. ‘How old were you?’
A tight smile. ‘Seven.’
The tightness in her chest increased. ‘I’m sorry.’
He nodded. ‘As am I. Her death was a grief from which my father never recovered.’
‘The flipside to a great love.’
‘Speaking from experience?’
Her denial was swift and visceral. ‘No.’
Though she’d been married, she could see now that she’d never loved Max. She’d felt grateful to him, glad to have someone in her life after her mother’s death.
‘My mom died five years ago, and not a day passes when I don’t think of her in some small way. At this time of year, when the sunflowers in the street are all in bloom, I ache to take photos for her. She loved that, you know. “Only in New York would you get sunflowers as street plantings.”’ Her smile was wistful.
‘How did she...?’
Daisy’s throat thickened unexpectedly. ‘A car accident.’ She didn’t elaborate—that her mother had been responsible. That she’d driven into a lamppost after drinking half a bottle of gin.
They sat in silence for several moments, but it was no longer a prickly, uncomfortable silence. On the contrary, Daisy felt an odd sense of peace wrap around her, a comfortable fog that made her want to stay exactly where she was.
It was the warning she needed, and she jolted herself out of her silent reflection, forcing herself to stand.
‘I really should go, sir. It’s late and I’m sure you have more important things to do than talk to me.’
As with the night before, he didn’t try to stop her. She ignored the kernel of disappointment and stalked to the door, pulling it inwards. But before leaving him, she turned back to regard him over her shoulder.
‘Goodnight, Your Highness. Sleep well.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘HE’S ASKING FOR YOU.’
Daisy had just walked in through the door of the hotel, and she shot a glance at her watch. It was after ten o’clock at night. The Sheikh was supposed to be at a party until midnight. She’d come in early to settle her nerves, and to mentally prepare her excuses in case he called for her to come and talk to him again.
Henry grimaced apologetically. ‘He seems more demanding than most.’
‘No, he’s not really.’
‘You sure? You could get Amy to take care of him. She’s already been up there a few times today.’
Daisy thought of the woman who’d been recruited to shadow Daisy, taking care of Daisy’s clients when Daisy couldn’t. Instinctively, she pushed the idea aside.
‘He’s a very important guest, Henry. It should be me. You should have called.’
‘I don’t want you getting burned out, love. You can’t work around the clock. We can’t afford to lose you.’
‘I’m fine.’ Her heart twisted in her chest. She’d been buzzing with a heady sense of anticipation all day, waiting to see him, wondering if he’d call for her, or if wisdom and sense would have prevailed so that he woke up and wondered why the heck he was bothering to spend so much time talking to a servant.
‘When did he call?’
‘An hour ago.’
Panic lurched through her. ‘Why didn’t you page me?’
‘He said to tell you to go up when you arrived. I knew you wouldn’t be long...’
‘Henry,’ she wailed, shaking her head. ‘What if it was something urgent?’
‘Then that Malik man would have made himself known.’ Henry exaggerated a shudder. ‘He has no problems demanding whatever the hell he wants, when he wants it.’
That was true. Up until recently, all the requests had come from Malik. ‘I’ll go up now.’
She reached for the buzzer, to order some persimmon tea, but the kitchen informed her the Presidential suite had already requested dinner. ‘It should only be another few minutes.’
‘I t
hought he was at a function.’
‘Dunno,’ came the unhelpful response, so Daisy frowned as she disconnected the call. Double-checking her appearance in the mirror, she wished her cheeks weren’t so pink, nor her eyes so shining with obvious pleasure. The truth was, she couldn’t wait to see him, and that was dangerous.
Because he was going home soon, and, even if he weren’t, he was just a client. A client who was developing a habit of asking for her in the evenings.
She took the service elevator to the top floor, so the doors whooshed inwards and she knocked once. Before she could step inside, the door was pulled inwards and Sariq stood on the other side. He was wearing more familiar clothes this time—a pair of dark jeans and a white tee shirt with a vee at the neck that revealed a hint of curls at his throat.
Damn it, out of nowhere she found herself wondering how far down his hair went, imagining him without his shirt, and that made it almost impossible to keep a veneer of professionalism on her face.
‘Thank you for coming.’
‘It’s my job,’ she reminded him.
He didn’t move, but his eyes glowed with something that could have been amusement and could have been cynicism. If it was the latter, she didn’t have to wonder at why: it was pretty obvious that her being there had very little to do with her professional obligations.
‘I thought you had something on tonight.’
‘It didn’t last as long as the schedule had allowed,’ he said simply, drawing the door open without stepping far enough aside, so in order to enter the suite, she had to brush past him, and the second their bodies connected she felt a rush of awareness that was impossible to ignore. Instinctively, her face lifted to his and she saw the raw speculation there; the same interest that flooded her veins was rushing through his. Her knees shuddered and heat pooled between her legs, making thought, speech and movement almost impossible.
The Secret Kept From The King (Mills & Boon Modern) Page 3
