by Tara Pammi
That made her tongue come unstuck from the roof of her mouth. “I got tired of waiting. If I had to sit on my behind any longer, I’m sure it would have been flattened under me, that’s how long—”
“I hope our furniture didn’t cause your...posterior any lasting harm.”
Her hand went to the particular section of her anatomy. “It’s hard enough to find clothes that fit my height within a budget, so yeah, a flattened backside is not good. And nope, it’s perfectly fine,” she quipped. And only after she spoke the words did she realize this whole line of conversation was ridiculous.
Embarrassment sent heat flooding up her neck, blocked her throat. And she wished she had a genie in hand, like in her father’s elaborate stories, to make herself disappear. Or at least, start over this whole conversation.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt...”
“Apology not required,” he said, and Amalia bit down on the retort that she hadn’t been offering one. “The process is taking longer than it should.” A hint of irritation peeked through that sentence. From anyone else, it could have been an apology. But Amalia was pretty sure he didn’t intend it to be one.
She pushed her feet into the pumps. One hand went to her stomach as if to shoo away the butterflies rioting in there, and one went to her hair. She expelled a sigh of relief when she realized her tight ponytail had stayed put. Once she made sure all of her person was intact—she needed that assurance—she raised her gaze.
Between one rushing heartbeat and the next, she became aware that the man’s utter dominance, over everything in the room, even over the very air she was struggling to breathe, was bred into his bones. His power clung to his skin, not his clothes or to this room or the throne.
It was centuries of legacy, she realized, a sheen of sweat covering her forehead now. He looked like a king because he was a bloody king. Or to use the right terminology, His Royal Highness, Sheikh Zayn Al-Ghamdi of Khaleej. Brilliant statesman, inventive playboy that Celebrity Spy! claimed liked fast cars, fast technology and fast women.
Her first instinct was to mumble an apology and run from the room. The element of surprise was on her side and if she just went back through the unending corridor, back to the waiting area, she could lose herself and slither out of the palace.
Poised on the balls of her feet, Amalia forced herself to calm down and reconsider.
This was the sheikh, the man with all the power, the man who was responsible—fine, indirectly—for Aslam being wrongfully imprisoned. What were the chances that she would ever get an audience with him again?
No way could she tuck her tail between her legs and run away just because the man had to be the most dominating presence she’d ever felt.
Her breath seesawed through her chest as he stood up from the recliner, prowled the width of the room and then stood, leaning against an immense white oak desk. A sitting area to the right had a chaise longue.
Although lounging seemed like too still an activity for him.
The energy of the man, his sheer presence, filled the room and pressed at her from all sides, as if to demand acknowledgement and acquiescence.
A shining silver tea set on the side table made her aware of her parched throat.
As if she’d voiced her request out loud, he moved to the silver service, poured a drink—mint and lemon sherbet—into a tall silver tumbler and walked over to her.
That sense of being overwhelmingly pressed on a sensory level amplified. He had a sandalwood scent. And he gave off heat like there was a furnace inside him. Or was that she who was feeling the heat when really he was giving off none?
Sensations she didn’t like and couldn’t control continued to pour through her and Amalia just stood there, shuddering inwardly in the wake of them.
Where was the super-stalwart Amalia that Massi depended on? Where was the woman who’d been dubbed “the calm in the storm” by colleagues and coworkers?
“Drink. Strangers to the country forget that even when they do not sweat, the heat is still unrelenting.”
His command was supercilious, arrogant, exaggeratedly patient. Better if he thought her brain had short-circuited because of the heat than because of the sheer masculinity of the man.
“I’m not a stranger.”
His gaze swept over her. “You do not look like a woman from my country.”
She took the tumbler and drank the sherbet without pause. The liquid was a cool, refreshing breeze against her throat. Even her head felt better. Lowering the glass from her mouth, Amalia wondered if the man’s theory had credit.
Really, she’d been meandering for almost twenty minutes. Was it a stretch that she had lost her composure because of the heat? Armed with that defense, she extended the glass back to him. “Thanks, I needed that.”
He didn’t move. He didn’t take the glass she offered. He didn’t speak, either.
Slowly, Amalia raised her gaze and looked at him. Really looked at what had to be the most aggressively masculine specimen on the planet.
And promptly realized all her theories about heat and dehydration messing with her composure were just those: theories with a hefty dose of self-delusion.
Tall windows above and behind her cast just the right amount of golden light onto his face as if they, too, had been beat into submission by the will of this man.
A single brow rose imperiously, his gaze very much on her face. A gesture filled with a dark sarcasm. Was it because she had given the glass back to him, as if he was a servant? Was his sense of consequence so big that he was insulted by her innocent gesture?
He had short, thick, curving eyelashes that shaded his expression—a tactic she was sure he used to intimidate people. Light turned the brown of his eyes into a hundred golden hues, the eyes of a predatory cat.
Square jaw, rough with bristles, sat below high cheekbones and a straight nose that lent his features a hardness she didn’t like. His mouth was wide and thin-lipped. A mouth given to passion; the strange thought sent a shiver down her spine.
Amalia was tall, only two inches short of six feet. He topped over her easily by four or five inches. His neck was the same glistening tone as his face—a dark golden, as if he had been cast from one of those ancient metals that Khaleejians had used several centuries ago. Her father had had a small knife whose handle gleamed like his skin tone.
He propped a finger under her chin and lifted it up. All of her being seemed to concentrate on that small patch of skin. “Your appraisal is very thorough after being so flustered.”
Heat poured through Amalia’s cheeks. “I wasn’t flustered.”
“No?” The brow-rise again. “A lot of women lose their composure when they see me.”
“Second of all,” she continued, “you look like a man who needs to be met square in the eye, Your Highness.”
Amusement filtered through the implacability in his eyes. “That is a bold statement to make. Tell me your name.”
“Ms. Christensen.”
“Did your parents not give you a first name?”
She didn’t want to tell him her name, which was the weirdest thing Amalia had ever felt.
He waited and the silence grew. “Amalia Christensen. I was dehydrated. Now I’ve found my bearings again.”
Taking the coward’s way, Amalia stepped back from the sheer presence of the man and made a meandering path through the room.
A haunting memory of listening to one of her father’s stories of ancient history of Khaleej gripped her. A traditionally designed curved dagger, almost the size of her lower arm, hung against a beige-colored rug on the wall, its metallic hilt gleaming in the afternoon light. She ran reverent fingers over the handle.
Yet, she couldn’t leave the infuriating presence of the man behind. It was like trying to ignore a lion that was sitting two feet away from you and
eyeing you for his next meal. Neither could she curb the rising panic that the longer she took to explain herself, the harder it was going to be to convince him to help Aslam.
The scent and heat of him rubbed up against her senses.
“This is a fifteenth-century khanjar, isn’t it?” she said, just to puncture the building tension around them. “Men used to wear them on their belts. It was a sign of status, a sign of prowess.”
“Among other things, yes,” he said drily, and a fresh wave of warmth washed over her.
“A sign of their macho-ness, in modern words,” she added, tongue-in-cheek.
It seemed they didn’t even have to look at each other for that almost tangible quality to build up around them. Was it just awareness of each other? Attraction? Or was it her fear of the consequences of her pretense that was making her heart ratchet in her chest so violently?
“Decorative pieces now.”
His surprised gaze rested on her face but Amalia looked straight ahead. She couldn’t rid herself of the lingering sensation in her gut.
“You’ve studied the history of Khaleej in preparation for this interview?” he said, a thread of something in his tone. “I have to admit to both surprise and admiration for that. Having a knowledge of Khaleej and its customs is a huge point in your favor.”
Interview? For a position with him?
For the first time in two months, luck was on her side. If it was a job among the palace staff, a position closer to the sheikh himself, much better. Maybe she wouldn’t have to blurt out the truth this minute and risk getting on the wrong side of the man.
Would waiting only make it worse for Aslam? Which option was better?
“Yet, I didn’t receive a file on you from Ms. Young.”
Face coloring, Amalia pulled her phone out of her bag. “I can email you my résumé in a minute.”
“No, that is far too...strange, even for me.”
Now, what did he mean by that?
“Tell me about yourself. I’m curious why Ms. Young picked you to be a candidate when it’s clear you don’t have a royal connection or any other advantages.”
Royal connection? How high up was this job that there were candidates with royal connections applying?
“I didn’t actually prep for the interview,” she said, deciding to dole out truth little by little and see how he reacted. She needed to get a sense of what kind of man he was—if he was fair-minded or just like his cousin.
“I was born here in Khaleej and lived here until I was thirteen. My...father is a historian at the Sintar University and an expert on antique objects. He...” The sudden lump in her throat made it hard. “My twin, Aslam, and I...it used to be our favorite pastime to sit in his study and listen to his long, rambling stories about Khaleej. He is, or used to be, a consummate storyteller.” So good that she’d utterly believed him when he had said he’d send for her very soon. That had been more than a decade ago.
“Used to be?”
“I haven’t seen him in a while.”
“You seek to make a home in Sintar again, to reconnect with him?”
“No. And I have no intention to.” He frowned and she added, “No intention to reconnect with him, I mean. I have other reasons for being here.”
“But you do not have a Khaleejian name.”
She shrugged. “My mother and he divorced and they split us up. She took her name back and asked me if I wanted to, as well. I said yes.”
“You should have your father’s name. You should have something that speaks to that part of your heritage.”
“I don’t really see why when he and I have had nothing to do with each other,” Amalia retorted, angry with him, angry with herself for reacting at all. She was supposed to learn about his temperament, not pour out her own nonexistent relationship with her father.
His frown sliced through her anger. “My point is I would be an asset in any position with my understanding of the cultural norms. My Arabic is rusty but I can polish that up, too.”
He gave her one of those considering looks again. Never had she struggled so much to hold a man’s gaze. “That is good but might not be completely necessary. Both parts of your heritage could be put to use. You could be the western connection that Khaleej needs.”
So it was a position in close quarters with him? Excitement and alarm twisted in her stomach.
“Tell me more about yourself, Ms. Christensen,” he invited in a languorous voice.
Keeping her gaze on some point left of his face, she began, “I worked for five years as an executive assistant to the CEO of a multimillion-dollar company. I’m fluent in four languages. I never lose my cool.” The raised brow again, damn it. “And I work extremely well under pressure. Also, I’m very good at managing public relations and media, too.”
“You sound like a paragon of hard work and efficiency, Ms. Christensen.”
“You sound like it’s a bad thing,” she retorted.
He smiled, and Amalia for the first time understood the meaning of knee-buckling. Her fingers tingled to trace the grooves in his cheeks.
“I should warn you that this is unlike any job you’ve worked at before. What are your expectations?”
“That I would be compensated well and dealt with fairly.”
He laughed then. She’d been right. Full of his own consequence he was, but he also had a sense of humor. The laugh lines around his mouth sat easily on the hard contours of his face. “Your bluntness is refreshing. You know that monetarily, you will be set up very well for the rest of your life.” He sobered up. “As to being treated fairly, I always treat women well.”
“Have I convinced you that I am right for this...position, then?”
“I’m holding judgment on that. As you know,” a glint in his eyes made Amalia aware of her own skin, the rapid beat of her heart, the slow tingling low in her belly, “it is not a decision I can make in a half hour. But you will be glad to know, on paper, I would have rejected you immediately. I have to hand it to Ms. Young. She made a bold but different choice with you.”
“You would’ve rejected me? When I’m supremely qualified?”
“Defiant as you are in rejecting your Khaleejian heritage, I can’t believe you can be that naive about your suitability, Ms. Christensen. Khaleej is at the most troubling and exciting point in history now, straddling ancient traditions and the modern world. Everyone around me reflects on me.”
Amalia prided herself on the career she’d worked so hard for. She’d dedicated years to it, had looked after her mom before she’d passed away last year, paid for her endless treatment... His dismissal of her stung. “Just tell me why,” she demanded.
“A career woman full of her own ideas about independence and gender equality and with a grudge against her own father is the last thing I need on my hands.”
All those fluttery, useless sensations that she was beginning to recognize died a sudden, much-appreciated death as Amalia tried to wrap her head around the sheikh’s statement.
If he didn’t want a professional, dedicated, experienced career woman for the position, how did he expect to get anything done? What use would a woman who couldn’t think for herself be in—?
Her heart sank to the soles of her sensible pumps.
It wasn’t a job he was interviewing for.
And if it was a stripper or a belly dancer she’d insanely thought, well, he’d have asked questions about that field, wouldn’t he? Maybe even asked her to give a trial performance. But even that crazy idea was better.
Her pulse skidding everywhere, her eyes wide, Amalia stood rooted to the spot as the last piece of the puzzle slotted into place.
That was why the palace was mostly empty, why women had been brought in all morning. The Ms. Young he kept mentioning wasn’t a headhunter but a matchmaker.
Sheikh Zayn Al-Ghamdi of Khaleej was interviewing eligible candidates for a wife, for his sheikha, and Amalia Christensen, dedicated career woman and valuer of her independence, had inadvertently applied for the position.
Her pulse skittered as fear filled her veins.
What if she had ruined Aslam’s only chances for release with her dangerous charade?
CHAPTER TWO
AMALIA CHRISTENSEN WAS the kind of woman who made men grateful for being men, who brought forth all the uncivilized, rampantly aggressive instincts that men pretended they didn’t feel anymore to cater to the modern feminist’s sensibilities.
He had never been struck by an attraction so hard and so fast.
The way she’d been so hotly flustered when he’d let his gaze sweep over her lithe form had been incredibly interesting and stroked his masculinity in a way he hadn’t needed in more than a decade.
Zayn couldn’t turn his gaze away from the color seeping up her cheeks or the way her expressive eyes flashed her dismay, confusion, followed by the resolve. He could practically see her spine lock into place.
Khaleej had always been a progressive nation. Even Zayn agreed there was a place and reason for gender equality and the feminist movement.
Just not in his life. Or in his bed. He had no doubt that he, in particular, would be deemed a male chauvinist or an antifeminist devil for there was no room for another strong personality in his life, let it be a lover or a wife.
He liked and preferred women who understood and accepted that he was the dominant one in bed, that he would take care of all their needs as long as they trusted him. As long as they were equally wild as he was.
Every aspect of his life had been controlled, first by his father and then by himself, and would continue to be until he was dead. But his private life, his sex life—it was where the wildness in him ran free.
