Stolen by the Sheikh Read online

  CHAPTER THREE

  HE WASwaiting for her at the airport. One glance at him through the tinted limousine windows was enough to send the courage she’d found to disregard Paolo’s warnings scampering for cover. Standing next to the jet, Khaled seemed taller, even larger than he had done in the salon, his dark eyes fixed searchingly on the approaching car.

  Why was she here? What if Paolo was right? What if Khaled was as dangerous as Paolo suggested? Would she have cause to regret defying him?

  Already she regretted their argument. He’d left soon after, not staying for dinner, let alone for the night, and she hadn’t heard from him all weekend. No doubt he’d already be winging his way back to the States.

  She hated that they’d parted this way. She’d never defied him so openly or so vehemently before, but then he’d never tried to stop her from doing anything either, certainly for no valid reason. If only there’d been some sound basis to his objections, she’d have had no compunction in taking more notice.

  But no, Paolo was wrong and he’d have to admit it when she returned in four weeks. Not that he was likely to be around to welcome her home, whatever his vague offer was to sort things out between them.

  And even if he was, things were going to be different between them. It was just as well he hadn’t stayed the night. Right now she wasn’t sure what she felt for Paolo, but it sure as hell wasn’t the happy-ever-after love she’d once assumed their relationship to be heading for. Things had changed between them over the past months and not for the better. A change of scenery would give her a chance to get her scrambled thoughts in order.

  The driver pulled up alongside the private jet sending her thoughts into further disarray. Why on earth had she imagined they would be flying to Jebbai on a conventional airliner? Of course, she hadn’t known back then that he was a sheikh. Naturally he would have his own plane, more than likely an entire fleet of them.

  Then her door was opened and her insulated world in the limousine’s interior was invaded by the unfettered brilliance of daylight, the roar of engines and the high-octane smell of jet fuel. In the time it took to blink he was there, at the door, offering her his hand.

  ‘Signora Clemenger, I am so pleased you have decided to accept my commission.’

  Even over the whine of engines his cultured voice flowed over her, warm and rich in a way that somehow curled into her senses.

  She stepped from the car to be greeted by the wind, whipping at the loose tendrils of her hair, and his half-smile, tugging at her self-confidence. Dark eyes shone down on her, a degree of self-satisfaction plainly evident.

  She bristled. He didn’t have to feel smug about her compliance; it was only a job after all.

  ‘Did you ever doubt it,Sheikh Khaled Al-Ateeq?’

  If she hadn’t been searching his face she might have missed it, that tell-tale tiny tic in his cheek, the jolt of realisation that caused his eyes to narrow fractionally.

  ‘I see you have discovered my little secret.’

  ‘So it would appear,’ she rejoined. ‘Although I very much doubt that I have discovered them all.’

  He laughed, throwing his head back and taking her completely by surprise. She’d wanted to warn him, to let him know that she was noingénue heading off into the desert with a stranger. Paolo’s fears were way off base, she was sure, but in any event, it paid to let him know that he would have to earn her trust.

  Yet he laughed in a way that sounded as if he was truly delighted. And she liked the way it sounded. Even more so, she liked the way he looked. His pale blue fine-knit sweater hugged his torso without stretching, the colour contrasting vividly against his deep olive skin, especially where the shallow V-neck revealed a tantalising slice of his chest. Fitted black trousers accentuated his firm abdomen, showing off his long legs to full effect.

  There was no doubt about it; he was going to make one dashing groom. She made a mental note for her design plans—if she didn’t do the right thing by the bride, Sheikh Khaled was likely to steal the show.

  His head tilted back towards her, catching her frank appraisal and making her wish her eyes had found themselves a safer occupation while he laughed. But she resisted the temptation to turn them away; instead letting them stay locked on to his. He might be drop-dead handsome, but she was no teenaged schoolgirl who could be embarrassed simply by being caught out looking at a man. And he was her client after all. It wasn’t as if she was interested in him for herself.

  ‘Come,’ he said at last, a smile lingering in his eyes as he ushered her towards the steps, ‘we’ll take care of the formalities inside.’

  She took one last look around her, bidding farewell to the now familiar mountain range towering over the hangars and planes to the north of Milan’s Malpensa Airport. Already her life working with Gianfranco Bacelli seemed distant as she climbed the steps into the plane, a sense of excitement building in her veins at this new adventure that not even the too-close proximity of the sheikh at her back could dispel.

  He liked what she was wearing, the soft rose-coloured fabric of her dress contrasting with the blue of her eyes and her dark-gold hair, and the style was feminine without being flowery. But what he liked best was the way it moulded to her shape, showing off the roundness of her behind invitingly as she climbed the stairs.

  In her wake her clean scent, a hint of perfume, light and summery, was a refreshing relief from the fume-laden air. She smelled fresh and ripe, with not a trace of the fear she’d projected when he’d offered the commission. There was something though—a wariness? Certainly her comment on greeting him had been nothing short of a challenge.

  So, she suspected there was more to him than met the eye, yet still she was here. The woman had courage. So much the better. He liked nothing better than a challenge himself.

  His eyes followed her progress upwards. It was a long time since he’d had a woman. Too long. He could feel the ache building even now as he watched her ascend, the natural roll of her hips accentuating the curve to her slim waist. Much, much too long.

  But he could wait four weeks for this one.

  She would be worth it.

  And she would be his.

  TheGulfstream V took off smoothly and ate up the miles through the air with a five-star efficiency that mirrored its internal opulence. Sapphy nestled into the soft leather upholstery of the armchair, taking a brief break from the preliminary sketches she was working on, knowing that she’d never look at air travel in quite the same way again.

  The cabin had been fitted out to ensure the comfort of its passengers. The few seats were all large and luxurious, the dining setting where she was now sitting large enough for a silver-service menu, and to the rear was a business office complete with computer and fax facilities made possible by satellite-communication links. There were other rooms too, she could tell, closed off to the rear. Space, speed and luxury. Sheikh Khaled obviously travelled in style.

  And so far he’d been the perfect host. He’d handled the outgoing formalities with aplomb, seen her settled and comfortable for their take-off and then he’d excused himself, retiring to the cockpit to talk to the pilot. Meanwhile the attentive stewards ensured she was supplied with everything she needed and more.

  If this was a taste of how things would be in Jebbai, she had nothing at all to fear from Sheikh Khaled. Just as she’d rationalised, he would have plenty enough to keep him occupied and she’d need hardly ever see him.

  The cockpit door swung open and Sapphy’s eyes felt compelled to follow the movement. Khaled emerged and seemed to pause, mid-step, as his eyes met hers. Breath jagged in her chest as she saw something pass through them, something hot and hungry and real…

  And then it was gone, and the corners of his mouth kicked up and he resumed his progress towards her. She turned her face back to her sketches, making random lines with her pencil, knowing the sudden burst of internal fire she was experiencing would be splashed vividly all over her face.

  So much for feeling rel
axed.

  Then his hand was on her shoulder and her pencil jerked in her fingers as every muscle inside her clamped shut.

  ‘Lovely,’ he said, close enough to her ear as he bent down to look at her sketches that she could feel his warm breath on her cheek and there was no way he couldn’t hear the pounding of her heart. She didn’t dare glance sideways—he was too close, way too close.

  She licked her lips, trying to focus on the sketches. ‘They’re just some rough ideas at this stage, but I was wondering if you have any idea which kind of style you think your bride will prefer? I don’t even have a clue as to her measurements yet, so some of these may not be appropriate.’

  He stayed silent for a few seconds, seconds where his hand remained on her shoulder and his breath curled against her skin. Seconds that dragged long and interminable.

  ‘I like this one,’ he said at last, pointing with his free hand to a graceful princess-line dress, scooped over the shoulders and neck and falling to a full skirt with cleverly designed pleats that revealed a complementary underskirt. ‘What do you think?’

  From her peripheral vision she knew he’d turned and was looking at her, waiting for her response. She breathed in, licked her lips and nodded. That particular design was her own personal favourite from the half-dozen scattered over the table. It was elegant, stunning in its simplicity, and yet regal enough for a princess.

  ‘If you think it will suit her,’ she offered, turning her head fractionally towards him at last, while still directing her eyes anywhere but on his face.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, his voice low and husky. ‘I think it will be perfect…’

  She lifted her eyes to his and her mouth went dry.

  ‘Just perfect.’

  He was close. Too close. So close she could taste his breath on hers. So close she could see herself reflected in the dark mirror of his eyes. So close she had cause to wonder whether Paolo’s warnings hadn’t been somewhere near the mark. This was no ordinary man. Had she done the wrong thing by coming after all?

  Yet why did she seem to freeze when she should be doing something—anything? And he wasn’t pulling away. If she wasn’t mistaken, he was getting even closer…

  This wasn’t happening!She jerked her head away and leaned forward, scrabbling with the papers on the table in a poor interpretation of organising them. ‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘I’ll keep working on that design if it suits you. And as soon as I have some measurements, I’ll make some real progress.’

  She knew she was babbling but it kept her mouth busy and right now that seemed the most important thing on earth. The way he’d looked at her lips. Surely he hadn’t been going to kiss her? He was a man about to get married after all.

  She must have been imagining it. Paolo’s words had poisoned her. Was it possible to suffer altitude sickness in a pressurised aircraft?

  She was aware of him standing upright and his hand left her shoulder at last. Strange, it had been there so long, it almost felt cold now that he’d removed it.

  ‘This calls for champagne,’ he said, gesturing to the stewards. He sat down in the chair alongside her as if nothing had just happened as a steward delivered two champagne flutes and an ice bucket containing a chilled bottle of sparkling wine. She recognised the label instantly.

  ‘Australian wine?’

  He dipped his head a fraction. ‘In your honour. I thought you might like a taste of your homeland, seeing as I was taking you away even from your adopted city.’

  A swell of warmth moved through her as she was strangely touched by the gesture. She’d expected, from the luxury of the plane, that for him it would beDom Perignon or nothing. To choose an Australian wine, a simply stunning Australian wine none the less, was something she’d never expected. And he’d done it to make her feel at home?

  How did he do this to her? How could he make her feel so on edge one minute, so considered the next?

  The sparkling wine was poured and he handed her a flute. ‘I propose a toast,’ he said. ‘To a gown that is going to be as breathtaking as the astonishing woman who designs it.’

  He raised his glass to her, his eyes half shuttered, smiling at her purposefully before lifting the glass to his lips. His eyes never left her, even as his chin kicked up, his eyes stayed with her, dark, intent.

  She swallowed before even taking as much as a sip as her feelings of comfort rocked into uncertainty again. Maybe it was time to remind him of another woman who would play a part in this wedding, a woman who, it now occurred to her, he barely spoke about.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said softly. ‘And if I may, I’d like to propose a toast to the woman who will wear the dress, for without her, the dress is nothing. To your bride.’

  She took a sip from her crystal flute, satisfied that she’d put their relationship back into some kind of perspective. Whether or not he’d intended to kiss her just then, he’d at least know that she wasn’t likely to forget he was about to marry another woman.

  But, watching him over the rim of her glass, she could see her words didn’t faze him in the least. If anything, they just served to increase the width of his smile, the dark intent in his eyes.

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘Let us drink to the woman who will be my wife. To my bride.’

  He raised his flute and held it up to her again, still smiling, holding her gaze firm and square, and just for one moment she sensed she was missing something.

  Something had happened—oh, yes, he’d acknowledged his bride and he’d done it without missing a beat. But there was something else, curious and intriguing, that she couldn’t quite pin down. Something that didn’t feel quite right.

  Her glass moved to her lips mechanically and she had her first taste of the sparkling wine, the tiny bead bursting with the essence of yeast and fruit and neither too sweet nor too dry. But her appreciation of the wine came a poor second to the continued machinations of her mind. Just what was Sheikh Khaled about? She didn’t want to give credence to Paolo’s concerns but there was something about him that disturbed her on the deepest level.

  And yet she’d never been in the company of royalty before. Was it any wonder he was complex and guarded? It was probably bred into him, along with his power. Was it any wonder he was different from other men?

  Paolo’s words were rendering her too suspicious, too sensitive to the merest inflexion of Khaled’s voice and too ready to think the worst.

  Sheikh Khaled was clearly a gracious host. She should relax and enjoy the experience. That way she would prove Paolo’s fears groundless.

  A steward leaned over and whispered something in Khaled’s ear, his eyes widening a fraction before they narrowed on a razor-sharp gleam.

  ‘I apologise,’ he said, putting down his glass. ‘Something has arisen which I must attend to urgently. Please excuse me.’

  She looked over to the business workstation, where two uniformed officers were already gathered around the computer screen. ‘Is anything the matter?’ she asked.

  ‘It is a trifling matter, nothing to concern yourself with,’ he assured her, nodding before turning and withdrawing to join his staff. Where had his officers come from? She hadn’t noticed them on the plane earlier, although it no doubt made sense for someone of a sheikh’s standing to travel with his own security.

  Whatever the ‘trifling matter’ was, it was taking some time. And emotion. Every now and then the sound of raised voices and urgent instructions drowned out the constant hum of the engines and the sudden noise would pull her out of her designs once more to wonder what was going on. But the men were engaged in rapid-fire discussions between themselves and someone at the end of the satellite phone line and there was no way her curiosity would outweigh her good sense. She was staying right here.

  Besides, it was a welcome break to have time away from Khaled’s presence, his dark, challenging eyes and his unreadable expressions.

  A slight change in the feel of the flight told her they’d started their descent. She looked
out of the window to the ground some forty thousand feet below. They were crossing a coastline, the blue waters of what she took to be the Mediterranean a stark contrast to the white line of the coast and the wide expanse of yellow-brown interior beyond.

  She turned back to find Khaled lowering himself into the seat next to her.

  ‘It won’t be long now,’ he said.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked, with a glance to the rear of the plane, but the two officers had disappeared again.

  ‘It is now,’ he said, noncommittally.

  It wasn’t long before the sleek aircraft gently touched down on the runway at Jebbai’s airport, a short distance, Khaled explained, from the capital, Hebra. Sapphy stepped from the plane into the clean, dry heat of a Jebbai afternoon. She paused for a moment at the top of the steps. It was so different from Milan—with no mountains to shadow the small but modern airport. Instead the land was flat, reaching in all directions around, one endless golden dune after another, leading on to the horizon and broken only by a long strip of bitumen, the highway leading to the capital.