Sheikh's Convenient Marriage

That was what he should be thinking about, he reminded himself grimly. Not a woman who had made him feel slightly...

He frowned.

Used?

Had she?

‘Gabe! Here you are at last. May I welcome you to my home?’

An accented voice broke into his thoughts. Gabe turned to find the Sultan standing on the steps to greet him. A tall and imposing figure, he was framed by the dramatic arches of the palace entrance behind him. His robes and headdress were pure white and the starkness of his appearance was broken only by the luminosity of his olive skin. For a moment, a distant memory floated across Gabe’s mind before it disappeared again, like a butterfly on a summer’s day.

Gabe smiled. ‘Your Most Imperial Highness,’ he said. ‘I am most honoured to be invited to your palace.’

‘The honour is all mine,’ said the Sultan, stepping forward to shake him warmly by the hand. ‘How was London when you left?’

‘Rainy,’ said Gabe.

‘Of course it was.’ The two men exchanged a wry look.

Gabe had first met the Sultan at the marriage of one of his own employees. At the time, Sara Williams had been working as a ‘creative’ at his advertising agency before she’d ruffled a few feathers by bringing her rather complicated love-life into the office.

During that rather surreal wedding day in the nearby country of Dhi’ban, the Sultan had told Gabe that he knew of his formidable reputation and asked if he would help bring Qurhah into the twenty-first century by helping change its image. Initially, Gabe had been reluctant to accept such a potentially tricky commission, but it had provided a challenge, in a life where fresh challenges were rare.

And he had timed it to coincide with an anniversary which always filled him with guilt and regret.

‘You are comfortable at your hotel?’ asked the Sultan.

For a moment, Gabe felt erotic recall trickle down his spine. ‘It’s perfect,’ he said. ‘One of the most beautiful buildings I’ve ever stayed in.’

‘Thank you. But you will find our royal palace more beautiful still.’ The Sultan made a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘Now come inside and let me show you a little Qurhahian hospitality.’

Gabe followed the monarch through the long corridors of the palace, made cool by the soft breeze which floated in from the central courtyard. Past bowing ranks of servants, they walked—overlooked by portraits of hawk-faced kings from ages gone by, all of whom bore a striking resemblance to his host.

It was more than a little dazzling but the room which they entered defied all expectation. Tall and as impressive as a cathedral, the high-ceilinged chamber was vaulted with the soft gleam of gold and the glitter of precious gems. People stood chatting and sipping their drinks, but the moment the Sultan entered everyone grew silent and bowed their heads in homage.

What must it be like to have that kind of power over people? wondered Gabe as he was introduced first to the Sultan’s emissary and then to a whole stream of officials—all of them men. Some of them—mainly the older generation—were clearly suspicious of a foreigner who had been brought in to tamper with the image of a country which had always fiercely prided itself on its national identity. But Gabe knew that change inevitably brought with it pain, and so he listened patiently to some of the reservations which were being voiced before the bell rang for dinner.

He accompanied Sultan into a vast dining room, where lavishly laid tables were decorated with fragrant roses coloured deep crimson. Inexplicably, he found his eyes flickering towards their dark petals and wondering why the sight of them unsettled him so. Like the blood on his sheets, he thought suddenly—and a whisper of apprehension iced his skin.

‘I have seated you next to the Ambassador of Maraban, who is one of the most influential men in the region,’ said the Sultan. ‘With my sister on the other side. Her English is excellent and she is eager to meet with you, for she meets few Westerners. Ah, here she comes now. Leila!’

But Gabe didn’t need to hear his host say her name to know the woman’s identity. He knew that from the moment she entered the banqueting hall. Even though her body was swathed in flowing silk and even though a matching veil of palest silver was covering half her face, there could be no mistaking her. No amount of camouflage could disguise that sexy sway of her body—or maybe it was because in some primeval and physical way, he still felt connected to her.

He could still smell her on his skin.

He could still taste her in his mouth.

He could still remember the exact moment when he had broken through her tightness and claimed her for his own.

Why the hell had she kept her identity hidden from him?

The Sultan was saying something, and Gabe had to force himself to listen and to pray that the sudden clamour of his senses would settle.

‘Leila.’ The hawk-faced leader smiled. ‘This is Gabe Steel—the advertising genius from London of whom you have heard me speak. Gabe, I’d like you to meet Princess Leila Scheherazade of Qurhah—my only sister.’

For a moment Gabe was so angry he could barely get a word out in response, but he quickly asserted the self-possession which was second nature to him. He had worked all his life in an industry which traded on illusion and knew only too well how to wear whichever mask the occasion demanded. And so he produced the slightly deferential smile he knew was expected of him on meeting the royal princess. He even inclined his head towards her, before catching a peep of a crystal-encrusted sandal which was poking out from beneath the folds of her gown. And the sight of those beautiful toes sent a surge of anger and lust shooting through him.

‘I am honoured to meet you, Your Royal Highness,’ he said, but as he straightened up he saw the sudden colour which flushed over the upper part of her face. He saw the brief flicker of distress which flared in the depths of her blue eyes. And that distress pleased him. His mouth hardened. It pleased him very much.

‘The pleasure is also mine, Mr Steel,’ she said softly.

‘Leila, please show our guest to his place.’ The Sultan clapped his hands loudly, and once again the room grew silent. ‘And let us all be seated.’

Silently, Gabe followed Leila across the dining room and took his place beside her. In the murmured moments as two hundred guests sat down, he seized the opportunity to move his head close to hers. ‘So. Are you going to give me some kind of explanation?’

‘Not now,’ she said calmly.

‘I want some sort of explanation, Your Royal Highness.’

‘Not now,’ she repeated, and then she lifted her fingers and began to remove her veil.

And despite the anger still simmering away inside him, Gabe held his breath as her features were slowly revealed to him. Because in a world where nudity was as ubiquitous as the cell phone, this was the most erotic striptease he had ever witnessed.

First he saw the curve of her chin and, above that, those sensual lips, which looked so startlingly pink against her luminous skin. He remembered how those lips had felt beneath the hard crush of his own and he felt himself harden instantly. He tried to tell himself that her nose was too strong and aquiline for conventional beauty and that there were women far more lovely than her. But he was lying—because in that moment she looked like the most exquisite creature he had ever seen.

And she had deceived him. She had lied to him as women always lied.

Taking a long draught of wine in an effort to steady his nerves, somehow he hung on to his temper for as long as it took to charm the ambassador during the first course, which he had no desire to eat.

He wondered if it was rude to completely ignore Leila, but he didn’t care—because he still didn’t trust himself to speak to her again. It wouldn’t look good if he exploded with anger at the exalted banqueting table of the Sultan, would it? Yet he found his gaze drawn inexorably to the way her fingers toyed with the heavy golden cutlery as she pushed food around her plate.

The ambassador had turned away to talk to the person on his left and Gabe took the opportunity to lean towards her, his voice shaking with suppressed rage. ‘So is there some kind of power game going on that I should know about, Leila?’ he said. ‘Some political intrigue which will slowly be revealed to me as the evening progresses?’

Her heavy golden fork clattered to her plate and he saw the apprehension on her face as she turned to face him.

‘There’s no intrigue,’ she answered, her voice as low as his.

‘No? Then why all the mystery? Why not just tell your brother that we’ve already met. Unless he doesn’t know, of course.’

‘I—’

‘Maybe he has no idea that his sister came to my hotel today,’ he continued remorselessly. ‘And let me—’

‘Please.’ Her interruption sounded anguished. ‘We can’t talk here.’

‘Then where do you suggest?’ he questioned. ‘Same time, same place tomorrow? Maybe you’d already planned to return for a repeat performance, wearing a different kind of disguise. Maybe the masquerade aspect turns you on. I don’t know.’ His eyes bored into her. ‘Had you?’

‘Mr Steel—’