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

‘Don’t worry—I’m not going to jump.’ Now that the moment of sheer terror was over she was becoming a lot more conscious of other details—disturbing details, like the hot, hard imprint of his body where her spine curved into his lean length. She was tempted to stay where she was and prolong the moment. ‘Thank you,’ she said huskily. ‘I’m not good with heights.’

‘I’m disappointed. I thought nothing frightened this jumping-from-moving-vehicles action woman.’

One arm still wrapped in a supportive band across her midriff, Rafiq felt her ribcage rise as she sought to suck in a deep breath before responding huskily, but with a lot less attitude than she had shown so far.

‘So sorry to be a disappointment, but we all have our weaknesses.’ It seemed a good time for her to remember that her weaknesses did not usually include being attracted by obvious beefcake—even the exotic variety.

Very exotic, she thought as the clean, musky and very male scent of his body teased her quivering nostrils. Her eyelashes brushed her cheeks as her gaze fastened onto his fingers, long and tapering where they lay on her arm. A large red stone set in a thick gold band decorated one finger. If the stone had been real it would have been worth a small fortune.

Was he married?

Did he have a brood of children and an adoring doe-eyed wife who worshipped him? The images of domestic harmony that passed before her eyes made Gabby feel vaguely dissatisfied.

Was it envy? Obviously not of the woman who was married to this total stranger, but Gabby was twenty-four, and she had never even met anyone she cared enough about to have a serious relationship with—this was one area of her life where she was risk-averse.

As recently as the previous weekend Gabby had produced a jokey response when her friend Rachel had made an exasperated suggestion that she should lower the bar and maybe have a little fun.

Gabby was no prude, but she wasn’t sure she wanted the ‘fun’ her friend was talking about—and she wasn’t about to admit that she was a closet romantic. And anyway, everyone would treat her confession as a joke. She was simply not the type of girl anyone expected to admit she believed there was someone special for everyone—someone worth waiting for.

But she couldn’t help but occasionally wistfully wonder if there actually was anyone out there for her, and she found it increasingly difficult to even imagine meeting someone she wanted to share her life with. Maybe Rachel was right? she mused. Maybe she was just making life difficult for herself …?

It could be she was doomed to stay single. Oh, well—there were worse things—things like being married to a man every woman under a hundred lusted after, she thought.

As she sucked in another tremulous breath Rafiq could feel the tremors running through her body. She felt soft, warm, scarily delicate. The man in him recognised that he was strongly attracted to her; the Prince in him knew that even had circumstances been different, even if he hadn’t just been given a death sentence, a woman like this would not be for him.

There had never been any room for distraction in his life, and that went double now. His glance flickered across the top of the blonde’s tousled head. There was no doubt this woman had distraction written all over her.

Her colour heightened, Gabby pulled away and walked back in to the octagonal room. She couldn’t decide if her legs felt as shaky as those of a newborn colt due to her fear of heights and the accumulated stress of the last two days, or to this badly timed visceral reaction to a stranger.

Now, that was weird—because she had never been attracted to men like him, who projected animal magnetism. As she tilted her chin to meet his level dark gaze she was forced to acknowledge she had never actually met men like him before.

Her lips twisted into a wry smile. She was guessing there were no other men like him …

‘Why do you want to speak to the King?’

Self-recrimination tautened her soft face as his question made her realise she was in danger of losing focus here.

‘I really don’t see why that would be any of your business.’

There was another bang on the door—loud enough to make Gabby flinch.

Without taking his eyes from Gabby’s face, he nodded towards the door. ‘It is possibly his business.’

Gabby glared at him. ‘Well, if you must know I want the King to intercede. It’s my brother—he’s under arrest, awaiting trial.’

Gabby watched comprehension and distaste spread across his lean face. Her chin lifted. She had seen this response before, but most people attempted to conceal it. He did not.

‘Your brother is the English drug-smuggler?’

Indignation sparkled in her eyes as she retorted, ‘My brother is not a smuggler.’ She saw the look of cynical contempt in the tall Arab’s face and struggled to stop her eyes falling guiltily from his. ‘What’s the point?’ she said, throwing up her hands in disgust. ‘You’ve already made up your mind,’ she accused angrily. ‘Everyone in this stupid place has already made up their minds,’ she added, with an emotional quiver in her voice as she realised Paul didn’t stand a chance.

The embassy man had been right—his fate was sealed.

The idea hit him like the classic bolt from the blue. He had been searching for an answer to his problems and the answer had come looking for him—or as good as.

He smiled, and his answer glared back at him with loathing.

Had he gone mad?

Admittedly on the surface it seemed a crazy, desperate idea, but sometimes you had to think outside the box—something he was famed for, though admittedly he had never ventured this far outside on previous occasions.

He’d never had to.

His thoughts raced. This girl possessed the qualities his brother was lacking: toughness, resourcefulness and a healthy lack of respect for people in authority. And loyalty was a quality you could not buy. How many people would have gone to the lengths she had for a brother? And even now, when she knew deep down it was hopeless, she refused to give up.

And he had something she needed.

Looking at the defeated slump of her slender shoulders, and at the tears sparkling on her cheeks, Rafiq felt a moment’s doubt about his intentions. He quickly pushed aside the disquiet and walked towards the door. This was about the future of his country. He could not afford sentiment.

Gabby lifted her head at the sound of the lock being clicked.

With the door half open he turned back to look at her, and Gabby lifted her chin. She had not realised until this moment that she had hoped, quite irrationally, that this stranger might be on her side. Which probably made her certifiably stupid.

Gabby waited, sickly anticipating armed men appearing. When they didn’t she moved towards the door, but any tentative hope she had that the coast might miraculously be clear for her to make her escape vanished when she heard the sound of deep male voices outside.

One belonged to the man who had just walked out, the other possibly to the man who had been escorting her from the premises—though it was hard to tell, because he wasn’t sounding cold or dismissive now.

If anything he was sounding … well, deferential.

Gabby was still trying to make sense of this conundrum when the tall Arab reappeared. He closed the door.

Gabby noticed immediately that the air of hauteur she had noticed in his manner was now more pronounced. She folded her arms protectively across her chest as she regarded him with deep suspicion. She was missing something.

He waved a hand towards a low divan covered in tumbled silk cushions. ‘Have a seat, Miss Barton.’

Gabby didn’t miss the significant fact that this was not a suggestion. ‘What’s going on? The guard—where is—?’

‘I have convinced Rashid that you offer no immediate threat to security.’

She gave a dubious shake of her head. ‘And your word was enough to make him go away?’

‘Perhaps I should introduce myself?’ Without breaking eye contact with Gabby, he bowed fractionally at the waist and said, ‘I am Prince Rafiq Al Kamil.’

The hot colour flew once again to Gabby’s cheeks.

If the introduction had come from anyone else she would have thought them delusional and politely asked if they had taken their medication, but as her gaze travelled up the length of the tall figure, from his dusty feet to his gleaming dark head, she had to bite back a groan at her own stupidity.

She might have been looking for royalty, but in her own defence she hadn’t been expecting to find it so literally. If she had been thinking straight she might have worked it out herself—his whole manner proclaimed that he was speaking the truth.