‘It’s just that you have grown up into a beautiful and very desirable young woman—and I’m finding it difficult to know how to react to you.’

It was such a stark and honest admission that it took Frankie completely by surprise. She looked at him in disbelief until she found herself blushing, and then glanced down at her plate, terrified about what he might read into her embarrassment. Did he have any idea that she had entertained stupid fantasies about him since the year dot?

For a full minute there was silence, and when the tension in the air had grown to such a point that she couldn’t take it any more Frankie risked glancing up into his eyes once more.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ she whispered.

And for once in his life neither did Zahid.

Dear Reader,

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia to escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx

Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…

Monarch of the Sands

Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

With special thanks to Dr Lloyd Wood—

whose passion about oil discovery was contagious

and helped make my heroine’s father become real.

And to Sarah of Smart Bitches,

who inadvertently inspired this story.

Contents

Cover

Extract

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

AGAINST her pale skin, the diamond flashed like a shooting star and Frankie gazed at it in wonder. Who would ever have thought it? Geeky, freaky Frankie O’Hara engaged to be married—and sporting a solitaire the size of a blueberry.

Spreading out her fingers, she watched as the precious stone caught the pale November light and glittered it back at her. Her father would have smiled and said that a diamond was nothing but a hard and highly refractive form of carbon—but to Frankie it was so much more than that. It was a symbol. It signified that a man loved her and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.A handsome, successful man, too. Not the kind of man she’d ever have thought would be attracted to someone like her—not in the million or so years it took to make a diamond.

The low roar of a car disturbed her dreamy thoughts and Frankie blinked with surprise and a slight feeling of panic. Surely Simon wasn’t here already? Why, she hadn’t peeled a single potato for the celebration meal she’d been planning—and surely the chicken breasts hadn’t been marinating for nearly long enough?

She peered out of the window and the breath caught sharply in her throat as she saw the expensive and gleaming vehicle which was making its way up the drive, spraying little shoals of gravel in its wake.

That certainly wasn’t Simon—who drove a comfortable saloon indistinguishable from the many others which dominated the roads of this affluent area of suburban England. The car which was now pulling to a halt in front of the house was sporty, black and powerful and looked as if it would be more at home on an international racing circuit than in this quiet corner of the world. And she didn’t have to look at the driver’s hard profile to know exactly who was driving it.

Zahid!

Her heart began to pound and Frankie’s mouth became parchment-dry. After all, the man in question was pretty close to every woman’s fantasy man and he was sitting right outside her house. Zahid Al Hakam—royal Sheikh and King. The man with the hard, hawklike features and the dark, enigmatic eyes.

It was highly unusual for someone as ordinary as Frankie to be friends with an exotic and powerful sheikh, but life often had funny twists and turns along the way. The sheikh’s father had been a long-time friend of her father’s, so she’d known the Prince of Khayarzah ever since she’d been a little girl—though his visits had tapered away since he had unexpectedly become King. The sudden death of his uncle and his cousin had left Zahid as the heir apparent—with no time in his busy diary to visit old friends in small English towns.

At first, she’d missed his visits dreadfully, before deciding that his absence was probably all for the best—because hadn’t she wasted too many hours fantasising about a man who was way out of her league?

She glanced out of the window again. So why had he just turned up out of the blue? And why today, of all days?

She saw him get out of the car—unfolding his long-legged frame with the lithe elegance which always made her think of a jungle cat. He slammed the car door but didn’t bother locking it—though, come to think of it, he’d probably stationed his security people at the end of the drive. And besides, who would dare try and steal his car?

The pealing of the doorbell galvanised her into life—and as she rushed to answer it she thought that wasn’t the only thing which was peeling. The walls badly needed painting. The big house was inevitably showing signs of wear and tear—despite her best efforts to try to maintain the place. And didn’t that only reinforce Simon’s increasingly urgent suggestion that she sell the family home and the valuable land on which it stood?

Heart still pounding, she pulled open the door and psyched herself up to greet him, praying that she might have grown up and moved on enough not to be affected by him. Five long years had passed since she’d last seen him—surely enough time to give her some kind of immunity against him.

Vain hope. She swallowed, trying to quell the rush of guilty longing which made her heart begin to race as she stared into his stern face. Because was there a woman on earth who could have been unmoved by his presence—even if they had just agreed to marry someone else?

He wasn’t how most people expected a sheikh to look—with not a flowing robe in sight—but that was deliberate. Years ago, he had told her that he liked to blend in—like the chameleon who adapted its appearance to its habitat in order to survive. That was the reason why he was fluent in several languages and spoke them like a native. Except that someone as rugged and as powerful as Zahid could never really blend in. No matter what he said or wore, he drew the eye and caught people’s attention, just as a beautiful bloom tossed on a dusty roadside might have done.

Clad in a beautifully cut grey suit, which showcased the musculature of his magnificent body, he completely dominated the doorway of her house. Eyes like chips of black stone surveyed her from a hawk-featured face, his skin a shade lighter than burnished copper. With that raven-dark hair, he looked like some brooding movie-star of yesteryear, she thought, with a sudden and unwanted ache. He was all stillness and silence—while managing to exude a raw and undeniable animal magnetism.

For some inexplicable reason, Frankie plunged her left hand deep into the pocket of her jeans and a wave of guilt shivered through her. Was she trying to hide her brand-new engagement ring? And why on earth was she doing that?

‘Hello, Zahid,’ she said.

Few people—and especially commoners—were permitted to use his first name, but Zahid wasn’t thinking about protocol at that moment. For a moment there was complete silence as his gaze raked over her in astonishment. Surely there must be some kind of mistake?

‘Francesca?’ His eyes narrowed—as if he’d been confronted by a mirage in the middle of the desert. ‘Is that really you?’

Frankie tried not to react. Nobody called her Francesca. Nobody except him. She heard the familiar way he curled the syllables around his tongue and a stupid little shiver whispered over her skin. It was a name given to her by her glamorous mother who had been hoping for a mini-me and been bitterly disappointed. When the duckling child had stubbornly refused to become a swan, the exotic tag had disappeared and been replaced by the much more workaday ‘Frankie’ and that was what she’d been ever since. But not to Zahid.

‘Of course it’s me!’ she said, but she wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t felt a sudden rush of pleasure at that flash of very grown-up appreciation in his eyes. He’d never looked at her in any way other than the way he might have regarded a faithful retainer. A loyal servant, say—or a pet dog who came running over with its tail wagging eagerly. She knew that her question was an unnecessary one but she wanted to hear how Zahid would answer it. ‘Why, do I look different?’

He felt a flicker of something unexpected. Damned right she did. Different didn’t even come close to it. Last time he’d seen her, she’d been a tomboyish nineteen-year-old, so nondescript and shapeless that you’d never have noticed her in a crowd. So what the hell had happened in the intervening years?

He studied her closely. The short hair, which used to stick out at odd angles, had been allowed to grow so that now it fell in dark, silken waves down her back. The thick, geeky glasses had disappeared and instead he could see a pair of eyes which were a deep shade of startling blue. And the shapeless clothes she used to wear had been replaced by a pair of snug jeans and a soft oatmeal sweater, which hinted at a body he would never have imagined Francesca possessing.

‘What the hell happened to your glasses?’ he demanded unevenly.

‘Oh, I wear contacts now.’ She shrugged. ‘Everybody does.’

He wanted to ask when had she developed such an amazing pair of breasts and a bottom which was curvier than a scimitar? He wanted to know when the dramatic transformation from girl to woman had taken place—but he stopped himself by biting back the faintly erotic questions. Because this was Francesca he was talking to—sweet, innocent little Francesca—not some potential lover he’d just met at a cocktail party.

Instead, he fixed her with a cool look, which was intended to remind her that although he was a family friend of long-standing he still expected a degree of formality and protocol.

Frankie saw the faint furrow which had appeared on his brow and correctly interpreted it. ‘Oh, forgive me! Would you …?’ She opened the door a little wider, unable to decide whether she wanted him to go or to stay. Because if he stayed—wouldn’t it unsettle her? Wouldn’t it risk starting those stupid fantasies again—the ones she used to get whenever he strode into the house? The ones which had always ended with Zahid scooping her up in his arms and starting to kiss her before telling her that he couldn’t live without her. ‘Would you like to come in?’ she finished weakly.

No, he’d driven down from London to stand on her doorstep like a salesman! ‘Thanks,’ he said drily, and walked into the hallway—a place which was at once both alien and familiar to him. A large and faintly shabby English home with a big, green garden. Yet hadn’t this been the one place outside his homeland where he had always been able to kick back and relax? A place where nobody watched him or where there were no indiscreet gossips or the threat of someone talking to the press. Because being the sheikh’s nephew meant that you were always watched; always listened to.

Over the years, his father used to bring him here—to talk to the man who had changed the course of his country’s history. Francesca’s brilliant and eccentric geologist father. It had been his unexpected discovery of oil which had lifted Khayarzah out of the crippling debts caused by decades of warfare—and changed its whole future.

As Francesca shut the door behind him Zahid found his gaze lingering for longer than usual on her unexpectedly blue eyes, remembering seeing her soon after she’d been born. What a mewling little creature she’d been—with her bright red face screaming out from amid a swathe of white blankets. He’d have been, what—thirteen at the time?

He remembered the way she used to waddle up to him as a chubby-faced toddler—unbelievably cute—and the way she’d demand to be carried by him just before she first started school. And hadn’t he done as she’d asked? Allowed her to twist him round her little finger in a way which no woman had ever done before, nor since.

He remembered, too, the cold air of neglect and despair which settled on the house when her mother left, pronouncing herself bored with her older, scientist husband. She’d run off with someone richer. Someone who had shown her the finer things in life. The first of the many wealthy lovers who would ultimately dump her before she died in a car crash, a tragedy sullied by the shame of knowing that the car was being driven by a prominent and very married politician.

But Francesca and her father had rallied. They’d formed a tight little unit. The little girl had grown up surrounded by scientists and left largely to her own devices. Consequently, she hadn’t gone through the coy teenage years—or the stage of showing off her body with minuscule clothes. In fact, up until this precise moment you would barely have noticed she was a woman at all.

He remembered teaching her how to play cards when she’d been unhappy at school. And actually letting her beat him! He was deeply and instinctively competitive, and it was the only time in his life that he hadn’t insisted on winning. It had been worth it just to see the little smile which had briefly illuminated her troubled features.

A voice broke into his thoughts and he realised she was speaking to him. ‘Did you say something?’ he questioned, shaking his head a little because it was unlike him to be sentimental.

‘I was asking what had brought you here, to Surrey.’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘Or were you just passing?’

For a moment he didn’t answer. What had brought him here today? The realisation that he hadn’t seen her in nearly five years and the faint guilt which had accompanied that thought? He knew that she was alone in the world now—and though he’d always intended to keep an eye on her, life just somehow kept getting in the way. And ever since the unexpected crown had been placed on his head just eighteen months ago the restrictions imposed by his new role had piled down thick and fast.

‘I have business in London, so I thought I’d do a detour,’ he said. ‘To see how you are. Realising that it is quite some time since I last saw you—and that I really ought to do something about it.’

He was looking at her in such an odd and piercing way that Frankie could feel colour stealing into her cheeks.

‘Would you … would you like a drink?’ she asked, knowing that he rarely accepted any kind of sustenance. She used to wonder if it was because he always had to be careful about someone trying to poison him until her father explained that royals always liked to keep a certain amount of distance about them, no matter where they were.

‘Yes, I would.’

‘You would?’

He knitted his eyebrows together. ‘Didn’t you just offer me a drink—or have I started hearing things? And if you offer something, then it’s usually expected you’ll provide it. Tea, please. Mint—if you have it.’

Nervously, she nodded, wishing that he’d disappear for a moment, leaving her to compose herself. So she could slip her engagement ring off until after he’d gone—thus postponing the inevitable questions she had no desire to answer even though she wasn’t quite sure why that was. ‘Would you … would you like to wait in the sitting room?’

Zahid frowned. What the hell was the matter with her today? He began to wonder if her dramatic physical transformation was responsible for her odd and rather secretive attitude? ‘No. I’ll come into the kitchen and talk to you while you’re making it—that’s what I usually do.’

‘Yes.’ But usually she didn’t feel this odd and prickling kind of awareness fizzing in the air around them. As if something had changed between them and nobody had bothered to warn her about it. ‘Come with me,’ she said.

Zahid followed her along the chilly corridor, carefully trying to avert his eyes from the rhythmic sway of her bottom and wondering why she was being so edgy. And why she was walking in a way which seemed …

They’d reached the kitchen when he worked out just what the anomaly was and he frowned. ‘Is there something the matter with your hand, Francesca?’

She turned round, her heart thudding guiltily against her breast. ‘My hand?’

‘The one which seems to be glued to your left thigh.’

Was it rude to stand in front of a sheikh with your hand rammed deeply into your pocket? She supposed that it was. And she couldn’t exactly potter one-handedly around this vast kitchen making tea, with his clever black eyes watching her, could she? Reluctantly, she withdrew her fingers, aware of the scratch of the stone against the denim and the dazzle of the gem as it emerged into the light.

The feeling of wonderment she’d been experiencing just minutes before his arrival now evaporated into one of acute embarrassment. Stupidly, she found her cheeks colouring as she lifted her eyes to meet his—but finding nothing other than cold curiosity in his gaze.

‘Why, Francesca,’ he said, with a note in his voice she’d never heard before. ‘I don’t believe it. You’re engaged to be married.’

CHAPTER TWO

BLACK eyes burned into her with a question blazing at their depths and for a moment Frankie felt oddly weak beneath their fierce scrutiny.

‘You’re getting married?’ Zahid queried silkily.

Frankie nodded, her throat parchment-dry, wondering why she was feeling so damned nervous when she should have been feeling proud. ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘Just—yesterday.’

‘Let me see. Oh, please don’t be coy about it.’ His black eyes gleamed with some dark emotion she didn’t recognise. ‘Come on, Francesca—I thought that all women loved showing off their engagement rings?’

Reluctantly, Frankie extended her hand and as he took it in his she felt the prickle of awareness as the sheikh’s warm flesh touched hers. Hadn’t there been years and years when she’d dreamt of Zahid holding her hand like this? And yet the exquisite irony was that at last it was happening and it meant precisely nothing. All he was doing was holding her hand so that he could examine an engagement ring bought for her by another man!

Zahid frowned as he studied the gem closely, feeling her unmistakable shiver as she pulled her fingers away. And hadn’t he felt the faintest whisper of something himself? Something which, if he didn’t know better, might almost have been the first potent shimmering of desire. Lifting his head, he met her eyes, raising his brows in mocking query. ‘But surely this should be a cause for celebration, rather than secrecy?’

The colour in her cheeks intensified. ‘Oh, but it is.’ So why had she been hiding the ring from him? The unspoken question hovered on the air, but even if he’d asked her Frankie doubted whether she would have been able to come up with a satisfactory explanation. Not to him—not even to herself. And as it happened, he didn’t ask her.

‘So who’s the lucky man?’

‘His name’s Simon Forrester.’

‘Simon Forrester.’ Zahid pulled out a chair from beneath the large, scrubbed oak table and sat down, spreading his legs out in front of him. Idly, he noticed the unusual and fancy display of hothouse roses which were sitting there replacing the hand-picked sprigs from the garden which she normally favoured. Had ‘Simon’ bought her those? Was he the reason for the long hair and the junking of her glasses? The incentive to start wearing sexy jeans and a clinging sweater? Had Simon woken her up to all kinds of new experiences, as well as a new way of dressing?

Inexplicably, he felt the souring flavour of distaste in his mouth. ‘And what does he do, this Simon Forrester?’

Frankie’s smile became fixed. Wasn’t this what she had instinctively been fearing—having to give a detailed account? She felt like telling him that it wasn’t his place to just breeze in after however long it had been and start interrogating her. But she knew that there was no point. Zahid was used to getting exactly what he wanted—and why on earth wouldn’t she tell him?

‘He owns the estate agency I work in. Remember I mentioned I’d started there, in one of my Christmas cards?’

Had she? Zahid frowned. He was certain she knew that Christmas wasn’t celebrated in Khayarzah, but she still insisted on sending him a card every year. And for some reason, he insisted on opening them himself—instead of letting one of his aides deal with it. They were always variations on a theme: images of robins and berry-laden sprigs of holly. Or carol singers singing in snowy villages. And even though he didn’t celebrate Christmas, he did find those cards made him nostalgic for the years he spent in England while he was at boarding school.

‘Maybe you did mention it,’ he said slowly. But it was a surprise. Hadn’t he thought she might follow a scientific route, like her father? ‘Tell me more.’

Frankie bit her lip. He didn’t have a clue what she was talking about! Obviously, he never even bothered to read the chatty accompanying letter she always took the time to tuck inside the annual card. ‘Well, Simon runs a very successful company—’

‘Not about the company, Francesca—about him,’ he butted in. ‘This man you are proposing to marry. This Simon Forrester.’

It wasn’t easy when she felt as if he were spearing her with hostile black light from his eyes and spitting out Simon’s name as if it were some particularly nasty kind of medicine, but Frankie tried to remember all the things she liked best about her fiancé. Those blue eyes and the way he’d dazzled her with his attention. The roses which he’d had sent to her house, week after week—she, who had never received a bunch of flowers in her life!

She licked her lips. ‘He’s not the kind of man I would have normally expected to go out with—’

‘Really? You go out with many men, do you?’ he fired back. ‘And then compare them?’

‘N-no.’ Why on earth was he looking at her so darkly? ‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘So what do you mean?’

Frankie swallowed as she filled the kettle from the big, old-fashioned sink and put it on to boil. Why was he tying her up in knots with his clever line in questioning and, furthermore, why was he being so … aggressive? As if he had some sort of right to question her. Resisting the impulse to tell him it was none of his business, she forced her mind back to Simon and an image of his face popped into her mind. She thought of the thick lock of hair which flopped onto his forehead unless he brushed it back, which he did—rather a lot, as it happened. ‘Well, he’s blond and very good-looking.’

Zahid scowled. ‘I’m disappointed in you, Francesca,’ he said. ‘Are you really so superficial that physical attributes matter most?’

‘That’s rich, coming from you!’ said Frankie quietly, before she could stop herself.

There was a short and disbelieving silence. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Oh, but it does.’ His voice dipped to a tone of menacing silk. ‘Tell me.’

Frankie met the flash of annoyance which sparked from his eyes. Why shouldn’t she tell him? He didn’t think twice about foisting his opinion on her. ‘You’re not such an angel yourself, are you, Zahid? Don’t you use your so-called “business” trips to Europe and the United States as a cover-up for your affairs with women?’

It would have been laughable if it were not so insulting and Zahid felt a mounting fury that Francesca—whom he had known all her life—could think so poorly of him. As if he were nothing more than some brainless stud. ‘And just where did you acquire this fascinating piece of information?’

‘The gossip columns are always full of your exploits—though I notice that they’ve tailed off since you became King. But prior to that, you were always being seen with some woman or other!’

‘How very naïve you are, Francesca.’ With a faint sigh of impatience, he shook his dark head and subjected her to a look of chilly censure. ‘Do you really believe everything you read in the papers?’

‘I believe the evidence of my own eyes! I’ve seen enough photos of you wit … with …’ To her fury and consternation, Frankie found that her breath was catching in her throat and that her mind was now being plagued with images far more vivid than that of Simon’s face.

Zahid with a Hollywood hottie gazing up at him, with naked adoration on her face. Zahid being papped with a sexy international lawyer who had been representing one of his rivals in some complicated court case. Except that she was pretty sure it wasn’t written into a legal code of conduct that a legal representative should look at her own client’s adversary as if she’d like to eat him up for breakfast. ‘With all kinds of women!’ she finished hotly. ‘Making you look like some sort of international playboy!’

Zahid winced and, to be fair, he conceded that she did have a point. He had always enjoyed a colourful and varied sex-life until the constraints of his unexpected new role as King had forced him to employ a little more prudence. But even so …

‘And you think that’s the only reason I travel?’ he demanded. ‘To have affairs with women?’

As his tone of indignation washed over her Frankie forced herself to remember all his humanitarian work. She thought about the money he’d poured into a world peace project and the well-received speeches he had made on the subject. Just because she had experienced the green-eyed monster when she’d seen the photos didn’t mean that she should make him out to be some kind of uncaring brute who was only interested in bedding members of the opposite sex.

She shook her head. ‘No, of course I don’t and I shouldn’t have implied that I did,’ she said stiffly, tipping boiling water into a pot containing two mint tea bags and glancing up to find his eyes on her. ‘But even you wouldn’t deny that it’s probably one of the perks of being away from all the restrictions in Khayarzah.’

He gave a brief nod. How well she knew him. Or maybe it was just that she was permitted the rare freedom to be able to voice such thoughts because of her long association with his family. And because of the great debt he owed to her father …

‘I’m sorry about your father,’ he said suddenly. ‘And I’m sorry I couldn’t get to the funeral.’

Frankie puckered her lips tightly as she picked up the teapot. Don’t show emotion, she told herself fiercely. It’s counterproductive because it will only get you upset—and it really isn’t done to break down in front of the sheikh, no matter how well you think you know him.

‘I understand,’ she answered, her voice sounding like a child’s squeaky toy. ‘You explained in your letter that you had only just acceded to the throne, and that you c-couldn’t get away.’

Zahid nodded, remembering back to those troubled days—when the crown he had never imagined he would wear had been placed on his head. ‘I couldn’t,’ he said simply.

‘It was good of your brother to come in your place. And that wreath you sent,’ Frankie added, with a gulp. ‘It was absolutely b-beautiful.’

He heard her voice wobble and he glared, getting up from the table to take the teapot from her trembling hands. ‘Here. Let me take that.’

‘You can’t pour your own tea.’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ he returned. ‘I can just about upend a pot of boiling water. Or do you think I have people waiting on me every second of the day?’

‘Pretty much.’

A faint smile edged the corners of his mouth. ‘Impertinent woman,’ he murmured, and as he said it found himself looking into her startled blue eyes as one word leapt out and hung in the air surrounding them. He felt a pulse of heat deep in his groin. Woman. He swallowed. He would never have said that to her before. Nor found himself looking at her lips and wondering what it would be like to kiss them—even though they weren’t wearing a scrap of make-up. Did Simon not like her wearing make-up? he wondered heatedly.

Frankie took one of the mugs of tea and quickly moved away—the fact that it was burning her hand hardly noticeable when measured against the hot burning in her cheeks which had followed that curiously intense moment back then. ‘I’ll … I’ll get some honey,’ she said.

Glad to have the distraction of moving away, she walked over to one of the cupboards. Her fingers were trembling as she brought out a half-filled jar and handed it to him, and she watched as he spooned a teaspoonful of honey in each cup, seeing it melt in a golden puddle into the pale green liquid.

He looked up then, a careless question in his eyes. ‘So when do I get to meet him?’

‘Meet him?’ Francesca’s heart thudded. Surely he didn’t mean what she thought he meant? ‘Wh-who?’

‘Simon.’

She stared at him, trying to disguise her horror—some instinct telling her that Zahid and Simon should be kept apart at all costs. ‘Wh-why on earth would you want to meet him?’

He shrugged and her obvious reluctance to have him do so only fired up his sense of determination that he should. ‘Why wouldn’t I? My country owes a great debt to your father and I am an old family friend. Since you don’t have any senior male relative to look out for you, I consider it my duty to meet the man you are intending to marry.’

Frankie hoped that her face didn’t betray her appalled reaction to his suggestion—and not just because he had painted a rather grim image of himself as a “senior male relative”. The last thing she wanted was for him to meet Simon—because surely Zahid would make any man look hapless in his presence.

‘Well, perhaps we can arrange something for the next time you’re in town,’ she said, with the confident air of someone who knew that tight royal schedules made such casual meetings almost impossible.

‘But aren’t you seeing him tonight? Aren’t you planning to cook him dinner?’

She wondered how on earth he could have known that until she saw him looking at the covered dish of chicken and the little heap of potatoes waiting to be peeled; the box of unopened candles which lay next to them. Perhaps he had been a detective in another life, she thought crossly. ‘Yes, I’m cooking him dinner. I’d ask you to join us except that you’re probably busy.’ She gave a weak smile. ‘And I’ve only got two chicken breasts.’

Zahid almost laughed at the sheer banality of her statement, but the truth of it was that her attitude was firing him up even more. He wasn’t used to people saying no to him. And his curiosity had been aroused. What was she trying to hide? ‘No woman should have to cook a meal when she’s just got engaged—she should be freed from the drudgery of domesticity and left to enjoy the romance,’ he said silkily. ‘So I’ll take you and Simon out to dinner instead.’

‘No, honestly—’

‘Yes, honestly,’ he mocked. ‘I insist. What’s the name of a good local restaurant?’

‘Le Poule au Pot is pretty good—but you’ll never get a table this late.’

‘Please don’t be naïve, Francesca—I can always get a table. I’ll meet you in there at eight-thirty,’ he said implacably, as—pushing away his untouched tea—he got up from the table.

Frankie scrambled to her feet, aware of the sheer power of his body as she stared up into his hawklike features. ‘I suppose there’s no point in me trying to change your mind?’

‘No point at all.’ Black eyes bored into her. ‘And why would you want to?’

This silky challenge she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—answer. All she knew was that the thought of subjecting Simon—and herself—to the distracting company of the powerful man she’d known since childhood was filling her with trepidation.

Zahid looked down into her upturned face and those strangely kissable lips, which her tiny white teeth were currently digging into as she turned anxious blue eyes up at him. And in that moment she looked so vulnerable yet so damned sexy that he began to wonder whether fate might not have had a hand in bringing him here today.

‘Just don’t be late,’ he added softly.

CHAPTER THREE

‘SMILE, baby, and just relax—we’re going to have a ball.’ Relax? Frankie swallowed down the acid taste of nerves as Simon eased his car into the last available spot in the Le Poule au Pot’s car park. How could she possibly relax, knowing that an evening with Zahid lay ahead of them? Questions had been spinning round in her head all the time she was getting ready. Wondering why the autocratic sheikh was insisting on taking them out to dinner—and what on earth his agenda was. Was it really because he wanted to vet Simon, to see if he measured up and was suitable? And if so, wasn’t that an awfully old-fashioned point of view?

‘I just wish we weren’t going out,’ she said, her fingers playing nervously with her necklace. ‘And having a quiet dinner at home instead—the way we’d planned.’ Simon put the brakes on and shot a quick look at himself in the driving mirror. ‘Are you crazy? You’re best buddies with some sheikh—’

‘I wouldn’t describe us as “best buddies”—’ ‘

Well, friendly enough for him to invite us out. And you’d rather be sitting in your old kitchen with a home-cooked meal? I mean, what planet are you on, Frankie? Wait till I tell everyone that I had dinner with a royal!’

‘But you mustn’t,’ put in Frankie anxiously. ‘That’s the whole point. You’re not supposed to mention it to anyone—it’s an infringement on their privacy and they get little enough of that as it is.’

Simon’s smile was tight. ‘Let’s not drift too far from reality, shall we? I don’t need lessons in protocol from my secretary.’ He gave her knee a quick squeeze. ‘Even if she does also happen to be my fiancée!’

She gave him a weak, answering smile but Frankie’s heart was pounding as they entered the restaurant and she felt an overpowering feeling of relief when she realised that Zahid wasn’t there. Maybe he’d changed his mind about coming, she thought hopefully as they were led to their table. Decided that something more important—or someone very beautiful—had come up. Any minute now and the maître d’ would discreetly slide up to their table and tell them that he had been unavoidably detained, and …

‘Hello, Francesca.’

She’d been so deep in thought that she hadn’t noticed the sheikh enter the room until his silken and faintly accented voice broke into her thoughts. She looked up and there he was, standing in front of their table like some dark god—with Simon springing to his feet as if his long-lost brother had just appeared and for one awful moment Frankie thought that he was actually going to try to embrace the sheikh.

But Zahid pre-empted any inappropriate familiarity by extending a cool hand in greeting and an even cooler smile. ‘You must be Simon.’

‘And you must be Zahid. Frankie’s told me all about you.’

‘Has she really?’ Dark eyes were briefly glittered in her direction as Frankie attempted to clamber to her feet, but a careless wave of his hand indicated that she should remain seated.

‘Of course I haven’t,’ said Frankie. ‘And please won’t you sit down, Zahid?’ she added on a whisper. ‘Everyone’s staring at us.’

It was true. Even the eyes of the more studiedly cool diners seemed to be drawn irresistibly to the tall man in the impeccably cut suit, whose two burly-looking companions had been seated rather ostentatiously at a table right by the door. Frankie sighed. Even if it hadn’t been for his bodyguards, he just oozed power, wealth and a potent sexual charisma which had all the women in the restaurant responding to him. She could see a blonde who’d been shoehorned into a silver dress and who seemed to be wearing most of Fort Knox around her neck was now flashing him a sticky, vermilion-lip-sticked smile.

But Zahid seemed oblivious to the restrained excitement his presence was causing. Instead, he sat down with his back to the room, and as two waiters fussed round them with the kind of speed she wasn’t used to Frankie realised that this was the first time she’d actually been out in public with him—and that this must be what it was like all the time. The flattery and deference. His every wish anticipated and granted. No wonder his manner could be so assured and so … so … arrogant.

Having refused wine himself, Zahid ordered champagne for a clearly eager Simon and then leaned back in his chair—looking, thought Frankie indignantly, as if he were interviewing them for some sort of job!

‘I gather congratulations are in order, Simon,’ he murmured. ‘You are indeed a lucky man.’

Simon took a mouthful of champagne, followed by an appreciative glance at the label on the bottle. ‘Aren’t I just? Although naturally, there were lots of raised eyebrows when we first announced it!’

Zahid slowly curled his fingers over the starched linen surface of the tablecloth. ‘Really?’ he questioned coolly.

Simon leaned across the table towards him, in a man-to-man kind of way. ‘Well, lots of my friends were surprised to begin with,’ he confided.

Frankie squirmed. She could guess what was coming and although she didn’t usually mind Simon’s justifiable boasts about the dramatic effect he’d had on her appearance, something in her rebelled at having Zahid hear them. ‘Zahid isn’t interested,’ she said quickly.

‘Oh, but Zahid is,’ corrected the sheikh archly. ‘In fact, he’s absolutely fascinated. Do continue, Simon.’

Simon gave a disarming shrug. ‘Well, Frankie isn’t my usual type. In fact, she won’t mind me saying that she looked a bit of a geek when she came to work for me, didn’t you, darling?’ He shrugged like a man who had found a winning lottery ticket scrunched up on the pavement. ‘So I told her to grow her hair, to lose the glasses and wear a few clothes that might show off her body—and suddenly it’s “Good Morning, Cinderella!”.’ He raked the flop of blond hair off his forehead and glittered her the kind of smile which had once made her go weak at the knees. ‘And just look at her now!’

Zahid turned his head, taking in the slump of Francesca’s shoulders and the look of acute embarrassment on her face. And even though he had been amazed and surprised by her new look, he would not have dreamed of speaking of it in such a way. He certainly would not have boasted about it as if he had been preparing a horse for its first important race. A slow tide of rage began to build up inside him. What kind of a man had she harnessed her destiny to—who would humiliate her in such a way? Some pretty-pretty blond boy who was drinking champagne as if it were cordial!

‘Why, you flaunt her as if she were a new toy,’ he observed softly.

‘And a very cuddly toy she is, too,’ said Simon.

Frankie knew Zahid well enough to know when he was angry and he was very angry now. Surely Simon wasn’t blind to the nerve which was flickering at his temple, or the way he had started flexing and unflexing his long fingers on the starchy linen tablecloth. Why wouldn’t he shut up? Her eyes were beseeching him to stop being indiscreet but he didn’t even notice her—instead he seemed transfixed by his royal dining companion.

‘Shall we … order?’ she questioned hurriedly.

‘Yeah, let’s.’ Simon scanned the menu with the avaricious scrutiny of someone who knew they wouldn’t be paying the bill. ‘I’ll have the foie gras, followed by the duck à l’orange.’

Across the table, Zahid’s black eyes met hers and she thought she read in them a mixture of mockery and contempt. She felt like squirming in her seat—or trying to explain that Simon wasn’t always like this—but instead she just offered the sheikh a polite smile.

‘Francesca?’ he questioned sardonically.

She wasn’t in the least bit hungry, but she could hardly sit there with an empty plate while her fiancé ate his way through a gourmet feast. ‘Oh, a salad—and then the fish please.’

‘I’ll have the same,’ said Zahid, snapping shut his leather menu and handing it back to the maître d’. ‘I’m assuming you’ll drink wine, Simon?’

‘Love to!’ Simon beamed. ‘Frankie can drive, can’t you, darling?’

‘Of course I can.’

The drinks and first courses were brought and after he’d seen off most of his foie gras, Simon, now further emboldened by more wine, pushed back his lock of blond hair and smiled at Zahid.

‘I’m still not entirely sure how you happen to be such a good friend of the family, Zahid,’ he said. ‘Something to do with your fathers being friends, isn’t it?’

Zahid nodded. There was no earthly reason not to try to engage in conversation with the man—even though something about him was setting his teeth on edge. He glanced over at Francesca, who was picking uninterestedly at a plate of salad, and he found his eyes lingering with reluctant fascination on the creamy swell of her breasts, which was emphasised by the silky black dress she wore.

Swallowing down the sudden stir of lust, he looked at Simon. ‘Our fathers were indeed friends—they met at university and maintained that connection throughout their lives. You know that Francesca’s father was a geologist?’

‘Well, I never met him, of course,’ said Simon. ‘He sounds as if he was brilliant.’ He smirked. ‘Though more than a bit batty—a sort of nutty-professor type.’

Francesca looked up, her face flushing. ‘Eccentric,’ she corrected. ‘He was eccentric.’

‘He was very brilliant,’ said Zahid icily. ‘It was through his ground-breaking work into unusual rock formations in the desert that we discovered Khayarzah’s first oil well. That discovery brought unimaginable riches to my country at a time when they were badly needed.’ His eyes met Francesca’s and he held her gaze, giving her a soft smile. ‘Leaving us for ever indebted to him.’

Simon swirled some ruby-coloured claret in his glass and took a large mouthful. ‘Ah, so that explains why your father gifted him the house and land,’ he said smoothly.

Zahid arched questioning eyebrows at Francesca and she rushed in with an explanation—terrified he would think she’d been abusing their friendship by blabbing or boasting about it.

‘Simon couldn’t work out why we had such a big property in such a wealthy area and no …’

‘No money!’ finished Simon cheerfully. ‘I’m afraid that Frankie is asset rich and cash poor, as we say in the business. It’s a common enough scenario—and completely unnecessary, especially when she’s sitting on an absolute gold mine. Land round here is worth an absolute fortune—which is why we’re putting the house on the market as soon as possible.’

There was an odd kind of pause and when Frankie looked into Zahid’s eyes she didn’t like what she could see there. Was that disappointment she could read?

‘You’re selling the house?’ he asked quietly.

‘It’s so big,’ she said helplessly, wishing he wouldn’t look at her so disapprovingly.

‘But you love that house, Francesca.’

She bit her lip. Of course she loved it—who wouldn’t love it? Much of her past was tied up in the place. It was a very old and beautiful building with a disused laboratory in the grounds, where her father used to work. It also had large and exquisitely laid-out grounds, which looked glorious during every season of the year. But she couldn’t afford the upkeep and the garden was much too big for one person to handle—and Simon was unwilling to take it on.

‘And it’s so expensive to maintain,’ she added, though Zahid’s grim expression did not soften one bit.

Simon nodded. ‘Life will be much easier without it. I’ve told her that if we give the place a lick of paint and stick a few hanging baskets outside, then we should be able to shift it fairly quickly.’ He fiddled with the signet ring on his little finger and winked at Frankie. ‘And then we’ll be able to move into one of the brand-new houses which are being built in the middle of town. Perfect for us, aren’t they, darling?’

‘You seem to have it all planned out, Simon,’ said Zahid slowly.

Simon nodded. ‘You could say that I needed to. Frankie has her head in the clouds a lot of the time—she just needs a little guidance, that’s all.’

‘And you feel you are just the person to do it, do you?’

‘As her fiancé, yes, I do.’

Frankie cringed. She felt like an outsider as she sat there, picking at her food and listening to the two men engaged in an unmistakable sparring match. Zahid was interrogating Simon as if he were a suspect in some major crime and Simon was showing off—it was as simple as that.

It was a strange sensation watching them both—as if she were a spectator at some sort of gladiatorial event. But worse than that, it seemed as if Zahid were holding up a mirror and she was suddenly seeing Simon through his eyes.

Her blond fiancé’s breezy confidence—which had once so captivated her—now appeared to be more like a conceited swagger. Was that coincidence, she wondered—or was Zahid deliberately winding him up? Needling him with all the wrong questions in order to make him look bad.

But why on earth would he do something like that?

Not that she cared what Zahid’s motives were—they, and he, were irrelevant to her life. She loved Simon. He was the first real boyfriend she’d ever had—when she’d given up hope of ever finding anyone who cared about her. Hadn’t he stepped into her life when she’d most needed someone? Given her a job even though she wasn’t really qualified for anything, because she’d spent much of the last few years looking after her sick father. And he’d given her so much more than that, hadn’t he? He’d offered her a glimpse of what a normal life could be like—with pubs and restaurants and trips to the cinema. He’d changed her from the geeky young woman who had walked so hesitantly into his life and made her into someone he wasn’t ashamed to be seen with. She’d been so grateful for that … grateful to him.

Refusing pudding and the brandy which Simon accepted with alacrity, Frankie was relieved when at last the dinner was over and it was time to leave—though she noticed that they weren’t presented with anything as vulgar as a bill. She saw one of the bodyguards speaking to the maître d’ and assumed that he had dealt with the financial transaction.

‘Th-thanks very much, Zahid,’ said Simon as he rose unsteadily to his feet.

But the sheikh’s attention was focused solely on Frankie. ‘You’re sure you’re going to be okay getting home?’ he questioned, with a frown.

‘I’ve only had water all night,’ she said.

‘It’s dark. I can have one of my aides drive the car for you?’

She smiled. How old-fashioned he could be! ‘I’m perfectly capable of driving home, thank you, Zahid—and I’m fine in the dark. My eyesight is perfect and it’s only just down the road!’

But Zahid wasn’t happy. Not happy at all. He watched while Francesca was handed her coat by the cloakroom attendant. It was a cheap-looking thing, in his opinion—and as she slid it over her shoulders it covered up the milky-pale flesh of her arms, which had drawn his eye throughout the meal.

Would Simon be removing the coat and then the dress later? he wondered—and a spear of some unknown emotion shot through him. It made his blood feel thick and his groin heavy. It felt like desire but it was underpinned with something else. Something dark and bitter and unpalatable. Surely … He shook his head. Surely it wasn’t jealousy? Why on earth would he be jealous of little Francesca O’Hara’s lover—when he could have any woman he wanted?

Except that she wasn’t so little any more, was she? Not in any sense. Not in height, or … He swallowed. Surely the last time he’d seen her, she’d been completely flat-chested? Or had the slouchy clothes she used to favour done her no favours?

‘Thanks so much for the meal, Zahid.’

She was smiling up at him now—the curve of her lips putting deep dimples in her cheeks the way it had done all those years ago, and he was hit by a renewed wave of protectiveness.

He found himself remembering the time when, as a lively ten-year-old, she had scrambled into a huge tree looking for a lost shuttlecock and managed to get herself stranded there. He had climbed up into the branches and rescued her, quietening her teeth-chattering fear with a few teasing words of admonishment. And she had put her arms around his neck and clung to him like a little monkey.

He should have been there for her when her father had died. Why the hell hadn’t his brother reported back to him that she was vulnerable? And she was vulnerable. Even now. Anyone could see that.

He saw Simon giving a young waitress an easy smile, the careless crinkling of his eyes the tell-tale sign of the practised flirt. But Francesca didn’t seem to have noticed.

Zahid watched as she buttoned up her thin coat, the ostentatious engagement ring glittering on her finger, and his mouth tightened. A man would have to spend a lot of money to buy a diamond that size, he thought suddenly. A man who was a lot more committed than her pretty-boy fiancé seemed to be.

‘You’re going back home soon, are you, Zahid?’ Francesca was asking.

She was leaning towards him and he caught an elusive drift of her scent—which smelt of rain-washed rose petals—and a distracting shiver began to whisper its way over his skin.

‘Mmm?’ he questioned distractedly.

She dimpled him another smile. ‘I feel so guilty— we’ve hardly said a word about you all evening, and I love hearing about Khayarzah.’

‘Please don’t feel guilty,’ said Zahid as he nodded over at one of his bodyguards to indicate that they were ready to leave. ‘We shall be meeting very soon and I will tell you everything you wish to know.’

Frankie smiled uncertainly. Was he just making polite conversation? Unlikely. Yet they both knew how uncommon his visits to England were, especially these days. But suddenly, she could see that it was probably a good thing that their paths didn’t cross very often. Too much of Zahid Al Hakam could make a woman feel very discontented with her lot. ‘What, you mean next year?’ she joked.

‘No, not next year, but next week,’ he corrected silkily. ‘I have business in mainland Europe all this week—but after that, I’ll come back.’

‘Come back?’ questioned Frankie nervously, turning her head to look for Simon and wondering what that waitress could be saying to him, which was making him look so engrossed. ‘Come back where?’

‘Don’t look so scared, Francesca—I just meant that we still have a lot of catching up to do.’ Zahid’s eyes flicked over to Simon, who was now leaning even closer to the young waitress. ‘I’m sure your fiancé won’t object if I visit you again on my return.’

Like a goldfish, Frankie opened her mouth and shut it again. Because how could she possibly object? Even if Zahid hadn’t been a king whose requests could not be turned down from a protocol point of view—she could hardly tell him that she thought it was a bad idea, because she found him dangerous and unsettling as a man. Why, he would probably laugh in her face.

So she nodded obediently and hoped her misgivings didn’t show. ‘Okay. I’ll … I’ll look forward to it.’ ‘So will I,’ promised Zahid softly.

CHAPTER FOUR

IN THE days which followed the awkward restaurant meal Frankie tried to convince herself that the sheikh’s promise to return must have been made on the spur of the moment. He probably hadn’t meant it. It was the kind of flippant thing which people always said when they were leaving—“oh, we must meet up soon”—and then you didn’t see them for years.

But she was wrong. One of his aides rang and told her that he would be arriving on Saturday afternoon and that he wished to see her, alone.

Alone?

Uncomfortably, she touched her shiny new engagement ring—as if expecting it to suddenly disappear in a puff of smoke. Her conscience was making her feel slightly awkward and she had been worried what Simon would say. Was it wrong for her to have made an arrangement to see the king?

Nervously, she’d asked her fiancé about Zahid’s proposed visit, but it seemed that Simon didn’t mind at all. In fact, to Frankie’s surprise he seemed inordinately pleased by the idea.

‘Maybe he’s planning to give you a wedding present —hopefully in the form of some whacking great cheque,’ he said, when she told him.

‘That’s a very mercenary thing to say,’ objected Frankie.

‘I’m a businessman, sweetheart—being mercenary goes with the territory!’ He fiddled with his gold signet ring and shot her a sly glance. ‘Maybe you could get him to invest in some property while you’re at it? That colossal eyesore at the top of the hill could do with a big injection of Middle Eastern cash.’

‘I don’t think so.’ With a wan smile, she walked out of Simon’s office, wishing that she could shrug off the restlessness which had haunted her since the night they’d had dinner with Zahid. Up until that point, she had been relatively contented with her lot. She’d been anticipating being a new wife, with a new life ahead of her—but now everything had changed and, deep down, she knew exactly why. It was all because she had seen the dashing desert king again, after years of absence.

Images of his hawklike features kept flashing into her mind at the most inopportune moments. She had found herself filling up her car at the petrol station and wondering if Khayarzah might have supplied the fuel. Last night she’d even dreamt about him—some stupid, schoolgirlish fantasy which seemed to involve him riding in the desert on one of his favoured black stallions and scooping her into the saddle in front of him …

And this morning she had woken up with her heart racing and an odd, squirmy feeling at the pit of her stomach—plus a terrible feeling of guilt that she could feel that way about him, when she was planning to marry Simon.

She prepared for Zahid’s visit with the same care she’d employed when she’d been growing up and he and his father used to stop by. Nowadays she was rather more efficient at cleaning the house, and the home-made cake which filled the kitchen with the smell of lemons didn’t have a great big crater in the centre.

The pale roses which Simon had bought were already dead and so Frankie put on her old raincoat and went outside to look for something to replace them. Although she hadn’t dared tell her fiancé, she much preferred home-grown flowers to the forced, hothouse variety—and you could always find something suitable which was already growing in the garden.

Especially this garden, she thought as she looked around and breathed in the damp, autumnal air. How she loved this garden—and how she would miss it when she moved into the town house which Simon had his eye on, where they all had nothing but a small, paved ‘easy-care’ patio area.

The misty atmosphere of the November day had created diamonds on the cobwebs and fallen leaves lay like scattered toffee wrappers on the wet grass. Taking out her pair of secateurs, she began to snip at some of the hips and berry laden branches and soon her basket was half-full. She would cram them in that big copper pot and the dark green foliage and scarlet berries would contrast against it quite perfectly and brighten up the kitchen.

The sound of a powerful engine disturbed her thoughts and, turning round, she saw Zahid’s sports car growling its way up the drive before coming to a halt next to her own, rather beaten-up old car.

Frankie watched as he got out—and once again she was reminded of his chameleon-like capacity. Today’s look was casual and expensive and very, very compelling. Faded blue jeans clung to his powerful legs and beneath his leather jacket she could see a dark cashmere sweater, which echoed the coal-black of his hair. She let her gaze linger on his stern expression and her heart gave a curious little flutter before her fingers curled tightly around the secateurs she was holding. What kind of a disloyal and horrible woman was she, if the sight of a man who wasn’t her fiancé should fill her with an overwhelming sense of excitement? What was the matter with her?

Putting her basket down, she went across the damp grass to meet him, her smile feeling forced. ‘Hello, Zahid.’

‘Francesca.’ He looked down at her, thinking how young and innocent she looked today. And much more like the Francesca he knew of old, with that big old raincoat and a pair of wellington boots which had seen better days. But the dark, mist-sprinkled hair still hung in a silken fall over her shoulders and her eyes were still that newly discovered shade of blue. And she was no longer young, he thought grimly. Nor innocent. He felt an odd twist of his heart and a sense of anger building inside him, but he forced himself to control it. ‘Has Simon recovered after the other night?’

‘Yes, he was fine. Had a bit of a headache the next day. He says to say thank you for dinner—and hopes he wasn’t out of order.’

Black eyes bored into her. ‘Does he always drink that much?’

‘Of course he doesn’t!’ She saw the look of censure on his face and wondered why he had to be so judgemental—had he never had a few drinks too many? She supposed he hadn’t—for none of the Al Hakam family drank alcohol, did they? ‘He was probably just nervous, meeting you. You must be used to that, Zahid—it’s not every day that someone like Simon gets to have dinner with a real-live sheikh.’

‘Maybe not—but it was naïve and inappropriate behaviour in the circumstances. Especially for a man of—how old is he, Francesca?’

‘He’s twenty-eight—he’s hardly about to start drawing his pension!’ Frankie frowned when he gave no answering smile. ‘Have you come here today just to talk about Simon?’

‘Actually, yes. I have.’

She stared at him. ‘Well, if we’re talking inappropriate—then wanting to discuss my fiancé with me behind his back surely falls into that category? Okay, so he got a little drunk—big deal! These things happen sometimes—they probably happen in Khayarzah, if you only knew it!’

‘But nobody there would dare to get drunk in front of the king!’ Zahid snapped, before drawing in a deep breath, reminding himself that he had come here today with a purpose. Not a particularly palatable one, it was true—but he needed to muster up every diplomatic atom in his body if he was to limit the emotional damage his discovery was going to have on Francesca. ‘Shall we take a walk around the garden?’

At this, she smiled. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to go inside, into the warmth? I’ve made you a cake.’

He felt the unfamiliar stab of guilt. She’d spent the morning making him a cake—just like old times. While he had spent the morning accruing information which would …

‘No cake, thank you.’ He saw the brief look of hurt which flitted over her pale face and forced himself to breathe out a platitude. ‘I’m sorry if you went to any trouble.’

‘Not even your favourite lemon?’

‘Francesca—’ He paused, reluctant to open the can of grotesquely wriggling worms he was in possession of. ‘Tell me how you met Simon.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ Couldn’t he let this go? ‘Does it really matter?’

‘Yes.’ His gaze was steady. ‘It matters a lot.’

She stared at him, remembering about what he’d said the other day. Something about it being his ‘duty’ to meet Simon. And if that was the case, then wasn’t he taking duty a little too far? ‘Is this another quasi-paternal question?’ she questioned.

Paternal? Zahid winced. God help him but he didn’t feel in the least bit paternal at the moment—not when those wide-spaced eyes looked so blue and so deep that he felt he might be able to dive into them. ‘Just answer the question,’ he said unevenly.

She sighed, giving into the inevitable—sensing that he wouldn’t give her any peace until she provided him with the information he wanted. ‘I met him when he came to the house after my father died.’

Zahid nodded. ‘So he knew your father? He came to pay his respects?’

Francesca bit her lip because the next piece of information had never sat very easily with her—even when Simon had explained that people in the business world needed to be outgoing in order to keep themselves afloat.

‘Not really,’ she said slowly. ‘He’d read about his death in the papers and so he came … he came …’

‘He came to see whether you needed to sell the house?’

Frankie flushed under the black glare of his fierce scrutiny. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Like some low-life lawyer chasing an ambulance, touting for business?’ The words were out before he could stop them.

Frankie froze. ‘Don’t you dare judge him! How would you know what it’s like, Zahid? You’re a sheikh and even when your country was broke, you still lived in a palace and had servants all over the place—while Simon has had to fight to make his way in the world!’

‘My heart bleeds for him.’

Something about the way he said it made a queer kind of frustration bubble up inside her and for a moment Frankie actually took an angry step towards him, until he halted her with a voice like ice.

‘I think you forget yourself!’ he snapped. ‘I allow you the kind of leeway which I wouldn’t tolerate from anyone else, Francesca—but there really are limits.’

‘What, so you think you can stand there and insult my fiancé and I’m just expected to take it?’

His eyes lanced her a piercing question. ‘You aren’t even interested why I’ve brought the subject up?’

Something in the way he asked it unsettled her enough to hide behind defiance. ‘To cause trouble?’

‘Funnily enough, my schedule is usually too tight to indulge myself with random acts of interference—especially towards people I care about. I want you to tell me what happened next—after Simon came to see you that first time.’

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