The Sheikh Who Blackmailed Her: Desert Prince, Blackmailed Bride / The Sheikh and the Bought Bride / At the Sheikh's Bidding

‘I can hardly wait.’

‘I was just joking. That place is vast—and you’re not likely to get invited to dinner with the King.’

Gabby, her mind very much on the ordeal awaiting her that evening, joined in weakly as Paul laughed heartily at his own joke.

‘Come on,’ she said, playfully knocking his foot down from the sofa. ‘Shake a leg. You don’t want to miss your flight.’

‘What did I tell you?’ Paul said as she climbed into the limo beside him. ‘VIP treatment. I’m tempted to stay and milk it a bit.’

‘They might be tempted to change their mind and throw you back into jail.’

Paul laughed and patted her hand. ‘You’re such a worrier, Gabby.’

At the airport the VIP treatment continued. They were even shown through to a private lounge and offered refreshments. Gabby had a few moments’ panic when the flight was called and Paul was nowhere to be found, but he returned before she had gone into meltdown, looking pleased with himself.

‘Where were you? The flight has been called.’

‘First class,’ he announced as she hustled him out of the lounge. ‘Now do you believe me?’

She smiled and shook her head. ‘You’re incorrigible. But promise me one thing—don’t talk to any strange women.’

‘I’ve sworn off women.’

‘I’ve heard that before,’ Gabby muttered as she watched him go through security.

The relief she felt as she watched Paul’s flight lift off was intense.

He was safe. She had achieved what she came out here to do. But at a price.

The heat outside the air-conditioned terminal building hit Gabby like a solid shimmering wall as she stepped onto the wide pavement in front.

There was no sign of the car that had deposited them, and Gabby was wondering what to do next when a long black limo with tinted windows pulled up.

The rear door opened.

‘Get in,’ a disembodied voice snapped.

It was the verbal equivalent of a click of the fingers. Gabby’s lips thinned in displeasure. She would have given a lot not to jump in in response, but she had very little option.

‘Is that an invitation or an order?’

‘It’s whichever works.’

With a snort, Gabby slid into the back seat. She arranged her skirts neatly around her knees and crossed her ankles, but she was only delaying the inevitable. She had to look at him some time.

‘How did you find your brother? He is well?’

As if he actually cared. With anger in her eyes, Gabby turned her head and promptly forgot what she had been about to say.

Today, along with a traditional flowing white robe, his head was covered by a white keffiyah, held in place by a woven gold band. The only blemish on his face was the healing wound on his forehead. The traditional headgear emphasised the remarkable bones, the sybaritic purity and the strongly sensual quality of his face. Especially, she thought, the sensual quality of his mouth. Her eyes were irresistibly drawn to the blatantly sexual curve of his lips. It was obvious that a man with a mouth like that had to be a good kisser—and he was.

It was some time later that her drifting, dreamy gaze finally connected with his. He arched a questioning brow. Embarrassed colour flew to her pale cheeks.

She compressed her lips and tossed him a cold response. ‘Considering what he’s been through, he’s remarkably well.’ She sniffed and thought, No thanks to you!

‘You have explained the situation?’

‘You mean did I tell him I bought his freedom by relinquishing mine? Strangely enough, no, I didn’t. This may seem like some sort of business deal to you, but to most people it would look like blackmail—and, actually, that’s how it feels.’

And you’re telling him this why? Rafiq is not interested in how you feel.

Instead of answering her outburst with some cutting riposte or sinister warning he didn’t say anything at all. But she could feel his eyes, even though she had turned her head and was staring blindly out of the window. Finally she could bear it no longer. She turned her head.

Rafiq was scowling at her.

She lifted her hands like someone protesting their innocence. ‘What? It’s the truth. Can you say you haven’t blackmailed me?’

‘What have you done to yourself?’

The seemingly unconnected criticism made her blink. ‘Done to myself? I haven’t done anything.’

He lifted a hand and inscribed a motion above his own head. ‘Your hair … your face.’

‘That wasn’t me—that was your hit squad. You don’t like it?’ She just managed to stop herself touching her hair.

‘I do not like it.’

‘How very rude of you to mention it.’ And how totally ridiculous that I actually care.

‘Why did you let them do this to you?’

The utter unfairness took her breath away. ‘Like me, they were following orders—yours!’

Her orders had been delivered on a silver tray. Along with details of her brother’s flight and where she could meet him, the handwritten note had also informed her that she would be dining that evening with the two Princes. The postscript had explained that a selection of suitable outfits would be delivered to her room later.

They had been—along with a hairdresser, a stylist and a make-up artist. They had admired her skin until Gabby had let slip that her skincare regime was a bit hit and miss, and depended greatly on what skincare products were on special offer. The women had then discovered a lot more room for improvement.

Rafiq looked outraged. ‘I did not tell them to do this!’

‘This?’ This time she couldn’t stop herself touching her hair. ‘What’s wrong with it? I’ve been styled, made over …’ And apparently I still don’t make the grade—great!

‘You could be any woman in the street.’

Only the ones who could afford couture, she thought. ‘No—any woman in the street could catch a plane and go back home.’

‘Your style is individual.’ His frowning scrutiny returned to her hair, which shone like glass and fell river-straight down her back.

‘That’s what I thought you wanted to get rid of.’