He’d noticed her as soon as she’d walked into the bar.

Her hair, an unusual shade of red-gold, would make her a standout in any gathering. Did Selina Carrington’s red hair reflect a passionate nature?

Her petal-perfect complexion, set off by a few stray freckles, heightened her natural, sexy allure.

And she was mouthy. Many American women were. But Selina’s rosy lips were pretty enough that he preferred to silence her with a kiss.

If only she wasn’t at the resort with her grandfather, Kamar’s associate.

Kam liked women—many women—but he never conducted liaisons with business contacts or their families. With a sigh, he mentally classified the stunning Selina as off-limits….

Engaged to the Sheikh
Sue Swift

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SUE SWIFT

Since 2000, Sue Swift has published five books and two short stories, an amazing feat for someone whose major focus in life is perfecting her slap shot.

It’s fitting that the theme of her books is personal growth and transformation, since Sue has transformed from a librarian to a trial attorney to a novelist. Her books have won awards too numerous to list; her first Silhouette novel reached the finals of the prestigious RITA® Award contest. She’s active in the Romance Writers of America, serving as president of her local chapter in 2001. She also lectures to authors’ groups on various topics about writing.

A self-proclaimed jock, Sue is probably the only Silhouette author to own both a second-degree black belt in karate and ice hockey gear. She and her real-live hero of a husband live in Fair Oaks, California, with two retrievers and several dozen orchids.

She loves to hear from readers, especially through her Web site at sueswift.com. Her mailing address is P.O. Box 241, Citrus Heights, CA 95611-0241.

The Tale of the Robe of Feathers

[Source: F. Hadland Davis, Myths and Legends of Japan

(London: G. G. Harrap and Company, 1913), pp. 127-129.]

Once, a fisherman sat down to enjoy the shore. There he saw, hanging from a pine, a beautiful robe of pure white feathers. No sooner had he taken the robe, then a beautiful maiden from the sea requested he return the robe to her.

The maiden proclaimed that she could not return to her celestial home without the robe, but the hard-hearted fisherman refused to be swayed. The robe was a marvel he intended to keep.

But after further pleading he relented. “I will return it to you, if you will dance for me.”

The maiden agreed. “I will dance the movements that make the Palace of the Moon turn round, but I cannot dance without my feathers.”

The fisherman was at first suspicious, but seeing that she was a heavenly being who would keep her promise, he trusted her.

When she had put on her garment, she danced and sang of the Palace of the Moon. Soon, she lifted into the air, white of her robe shining against the sky. She rose, playing and singing, beyond the mountains and into the ether, until she reached the glorious Palace of the Moon.

Contents

Prologue

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

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Prologue

La Torchere Resort, Florida’s Gulf Coast,

Sunset, late July

As she strode through the resort gardens toward the wharf, Merry Montrose tugged her enchanted cell phone from the side pocket of her navy linen suit.

The result of a curse cast by her godmother, Merry was condemned to remain in the body of a crone unless she brought together twenty-one couples before she turned thirty.

The screen of the magic phone, when correctly charmed, enabled her to check on the nineteen unions she’d arranged over the course of the seven-year curse. She wanted to make sure all was well with “her” couples.

She flipped the phone open and tapped a button. Nothing.

“Cockles and grouse,” she muttered. Unless those nineteen couples stayed happy and married, she’d not reach her goal. She still needed to arrange two more love matches within a few weeks or she’d forever lose everything that had made her life fun.

Merry had been a princess—Princess Meredith of Silestia, an enchanted island in the Adriatic Sea. If she didn’t lift the curse, she could never return to her homeland, which she dearly loved. Instead, she’d be stuck in ElderHell as an old lady with a bad temper and aching joints.

Initially stumped by her situation, Merry had talked her way into a management job at an exclusive Florida resort. A perfect hunting ground, La Torchere featured romantic gardens and beautiful beaches and attracted plenty of singles ready to fall in love. All she had to do was throw together men and women who were eager for romance.

Even better, she’d learned that some people who weren’t happy were often the most willing to take the plunge into matrimony, as though marriage would solve their problems. Formerly cynical, Merry had been startled to see that love often smoothed the road through life.

Despite the occasional interference of her godmother, Lissa, who’d gotten herself a job as a concierge at La Torchere, matters were humming along perfectly.

Or so Merry hoped. With her enchanted cell phone on the fritz, she couldn’t be sure. She shook the wretched thing again.

Having magical gifts wasn’t all the fairy tales said it was. This cell phone, for instance, sometimes worked and sometimes it didn’t. She glared in the general direction of the resort, wondering if her interfering, know-it-all godmother had hexed the phone.

“Cell phone, cell phone, let me see, all the marriages due to me.” Still nothing.

Merry smacked the cell phone against her thigh, and the thing crackled to life. She shuttled through her weekly check of the magic nineteen, dreaming of when she could increase their number. Her fingers danced, tippety tapping on the buttons.

Ah. The phone’s tiny screen showed her latest success, Brad and Parris Smith. They’d been a tough match, he a scruffy scientist and she a socialite too spoiled for her own good. But now Brad was feeding Parris breakfast in bed: a marmalade-laden muffin, followed by a kiss.

Hastily Merry closed the cell phone with a snap, ruminating.

She cast her eye toward the ferry dock. Sunset flamed across the sky, casting brilliant ribbons of coral and peach across a few puffy clouds.

On this, a Monday evening, she didn’t expect many newcomers to La Torchere. A shame, given the glorious sunset, but most folks arrived for the weekend.

But what was this? A red Porsche roared off the ferry, driven by the impatient hand of a darkly handsome man. Following more sedately on foot came a willowy beauty whose hair reflected the reddish lights of the sunset. She was with a distinguished older fellow. Perhaps father and daughter?

Merry hurried to the front desk and pushed aside a surprised clerk. “I’ll see the register now, Gordon.”

“Right away, ma’am.”

“And get ready to check in three guests. They are…” Merry let her voice trail off as she looked through the computerized register. “Kam Asad.” An odd name, that. She frowned, but continued. “And, um, Selina and Jerome Carrington.” She moved the computer’s mouse and double-clicked. “All three are staying in penthouse suites, Asad in one and the Carringtons in another.”

Merry retreated from the front desk to her office, again pulling out her cell phone. Pressing buttons with frantic fingers, she focused on the trio’s hands. No wedding rings. Good.

Kam Asad…there was a mystery there, she guessed, but did she really care? What mattered to Merry was that the dark man in the fast car could match nicely with pretty Selina Carrington. And for Jerome, a silver fox all the way, Merry would find someone.

“You’re getting good at this, my girl,” she told herself. “Soon…” Sitting back in her chair with closed eyes, she lost herself in memories of her beloved Silestia.

Chapter One

Selina Carrington’s hobby was breaking hearts, and she’d just spotted fresh prey.

Two stools away at a seaside bar, he was blocked from her direct view by a touchy-feely couple in the heated throes of romance. Just as well; Selina preferred to observe him covertly, watching his reflection in the mirror behind the bar’s glittering shelves of bottles and glasses.

Ignoring the gentle sea breezes and the moonlit night, Selina’s target held a cell phone clamped to his head. Speaking in a foreign tongue she couldn’t identify, he was conducting business loudly enough to mask the soft sigh of nearby ocean waves.

A jazz combo started to set up at the other end of the bamboo-paneled room. As the guitarist tuned his instrument, Selina’s prey swung around on his bar stool, a glare crossing his otherwise handsome face.

Handsome was good; in fact, handsome was essential. She never bothered with nerds. Taking them down was neither fun nor kind, but handsome, arrogant asses were legitimate victims. This one was a dead ringer for George Clooney and, without a doubt, knew it.

Selina finished her mojito and smiled. The bartender stopped polishing glasses to ask, “Another?”

“Thanks, Janis.” Selina read the bartender’s name from the tag pinned to the young woman’s white blouse.

While Janis mashed fresh mint leaves, she asked, “Just arrived, ma’am?”

“It’s Selina, and yes,” she said. “What’s there to do around here?” She sucked on an ice cube.

Janis sported a short rasta hairstyle, a Jamaican accent and a wide, white smile. “Anything and everything, mon. We pride ourselves on providing de complete resort experience. You can walk by de ocean or swim in it, sail on it, or even parasail above it.”

“Parasailing sounds fun.”

Janis’s hands remained busy as she clinked ice, poured, stirred. “It is. Scary-excitin’, ya know what I mean?” She winked. She put the fresh drink in front of Selina while clearing the drained glass.

The couple next to Selina left, arms around each other’s waists, and Janis scooped up the two twenties that lay on the bar.

Selina sipped. The drink slid, cool and sweet, down her throat. “Mmm, this is good. The fresh mint leaves make all the dif—”

“Pardon me.” A male voice broke into their conversation, distinguished by a British accent and undisguised annoyance. “But just for kicks and giggles, how about a little service over here?”

Janis’s dark brows shot to the top of her forehead, disappearing beneath her jet-beaded rasta braids. Selina set down her glass and swiveled her bar stool toward the interruption.

Having finished his conversation, the Clooney clone now glowered at them down the length of the bar.

“Excuse me,” Janis said to Selina. As the bartender headed toward the man, she stopped, pulled a small towel from the belt on her black pants and wiped a puddle.

He tapped impatient fingers on the bar. Selina noticed that his nails weren’t merely manicured, but buffed. Her smile broadened. Not only arrogant, but her target was too wealthy, judging by the gleaming nails, expensive watch and bad attitude.

On top of all that—as if he weren’t enough of a jerk—he wore a diamond stud in his left ear. How last millennium.

This was getting better and better. The Clooney clone would be a perfect diversion while she was stuck on the Gulf Coast away from her job and her life.

“What can I do for you, sir?” Janis asked the clone.

“Oh, don’t give me that jibber-jabber, now that you’ve decided to do your job,” the clone snapped.

Janis leaned on the bar and smiled at the clone. “What can I bring you, suh?” Belying her deferential tone, she turned her head and winked at Selina, who stuck her fist over her mouth to keep from laughing.

“A…martini,” the clone said, as though the fate of the earth rested on his decision. “What kinds of vodka do you pour?”

Janis began to recite, “Grey Goose, Absolut, Stoli, Skyy—”

“Anything not made with potatoes, please. Wheat only. Thank you.” Clone waved a condescending hand as if ordering Janis away.

Pivoting toward Selina, Janis’s face contorted in a visible struggle to trap her laughter. Losing the fight, she dashed to a back room behind the bar. Selina heard a loud, snorting guffaw just as the door slapped shut.

Unfortunately for Selina’s decorum, Clooney clone now zeroed in on her. “Hallo, there,” he said in a low, soft voice. “You don’t come here often, do you?”

He actually pronounced the t in often. Gawd. Selina bit down hard on her lower lip while thinking, Control yourself. “Uh, no,” she said, affecting bland innocence. “How could you tell?”

“Oh, you’re easy,” he said.

Did he intend the insulting double entendre? Probably. Wondering how and when she’d cut him off at the knees, she raised her brows and openly surveyed him.

Wearing an open-necked white linen shirt with matching trousers, he looked cool and elegant even in the humid Florida night. His dark-amber skin contrasted with the linen, giving his elegance a savage undertone, as though a lion had wandered into the bar looking for a martini—wheat vodka only, nothing made with potatoes.

His blatant masculinity challenged her.

He’d be fun to take down.

“I also know that your visit here was unexpected,” he continued.

“Also true.” Selina gave him a come-hither look from under her lashes. “Even though you have the right accent, I didn’t know your last name was Holmes.”

He flashed the pearly whites at her. “You’re wearing a new dress I saw in the resort boutique, so your trip must have been impromptu.”

“Very good. You are very good…aren’t you?” She adjusted the scoop neckline of her red gauze dress, remembering she’d gone braless in the sultry Florida night. Trimmed with feathers, the floaty, sexy creation was unlike anything else in her closet, and now she took full advantage of its flirty design, exposing a little more of her décolletage and dipping forward so her target could get a better look at the goods.

He responded by leaning toward her, practically diving into the front of her dress. “You arrived here on the last ferry. You bought this pretty dress, took a shower, and then came down here.”

“You hit everything right.” She ran her fingers through her loose, damp hair, which would normally be blown dry and bound into a French twist.

“I’m here on business, but I’ll have plenty of time…” He winked at her.

She winked back. “Won’t your business associates take most of your attention?”

“I can lose them with no effort.” He again gestured dismissively.

“Them?” she asked.

“A real estate agent and his granddaughter. No one of importance.”

As Selina’s smile stretched wider, her grandfather entered the room and took the bar stool next to hers. He’d also freshened up and wore a loose polo-style shirt with khaki shorts.

“Oh, I’m glad to see you both here, already getting acquainted,” Grandpa Jerry said.

“I wouldn’t say we’re acquainted…yet,” Selina said sweetly.

Jerry patted her arm. “Sellie, I’d like you to meet Kam Asad.”

A flush rose beneath the Clooney clone’s swarthy skin. “You’re—”

She held out a hand. “Selina Carrington.” She smirked at him, enjoying his discomfiture. “So you’re Kam Asad. My grandfather tells me that you’re in the market for—”

“Shh!” He put a finger to his full lips. “This is high security.” He scowled at Jerry. “You told her?”

Selina liked him even less, if that was possible. No one dissed her grandfather in her presence without a slash from the knife-edge of her tongue.

“So what if he did, Mr. Superspy?” she asked. “What’s so high security about buying a house? I noticed you jibber-jabbering away on your cell phone a few minutes ago as if you had no secrets at all.”

Kam Asad’s flush deepened. “I was speaking in an Arabic dialect of my people. It is doubtful that anyone in this hemisphere understands it.”

An Arabic dialect of my people. Yeah, right. Who was this dude, Rudolph Valentino? “Cell phones aren’t exactly high security,” Selina said. “Anyone could be listening in—”

“Let’s start over.” Jerry, ever the suave salesman, interceded. “Selina, this is Kamar Asad. As you know, he’s in the market for some property in the D.C. area. Kam, this is my granddaughter, Selina.”

Selina corralled her naturally sarcastic mouth, saying only, “Pleased to meet you.” She extended her right hand.

“A pleasure for me, also.” Asad shook her hand once, then dropped it as though she were Typhoid Mary.

She glanced at her grandfather, well aware that inside Jerry’s mind, he was humming, “Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match,” to the accompaniment of wedding bells.

She hoped that he wasn’t too stuck on the idea of seeing her with Kam Asad. There was something of the untamed, the wild, lurking behind Kam’s facade, she thought, before immediately chiding herself for her silly fantasies. Kam Asad was an ordinary man, even though he obviously thought he was a cut above the herd. But she knew better. All men were alike under the skin, whether or not that skin was handsome or ugly, old or young.

Selina didn’t like handsome men. She didn’t like any men, really, and few women, but she disliked handsome men most of all.

A memory of another too-handsome man flashed through her mind, but she banished it immediately to the furthest recesses of her brain.

The only man she did like, her grandfather, now nudged her with a gentle elbow. But before Jerry could speak, Janis reappeared with Kam’s martini. Sliding the glass onto a coaster on the bar, she said to Jerry, “Good evening, sir. Can I get something for you?”

“Whiskey or even a scotch,” Jerome said. “What brands do you pour?”

While Jerome Carrington and the bartender chatted about fine whiskies, Kamar took a moment to reexamine the granddaughter, Selina. He’d noticed her as soon as she’d walked into the bar and had planned to meet her after finishing his conversation with his father’s foreign minister.

Selina’s hair, an unusual shade of red-gold, would make her a standout in any gathering, he mused, and all the more so in the dimly lit bar. Though recently washed and still damp, her gleaming hair lit the night like a torch, swinging loose along her slender neck like a silken scarf.

He was a sucker for the long, bare throats of sexy American women. His lust for them approached an obsession. Perhaps it was because the females of his country were always shrouded, but American girls, with their anytime, anyplace, anywhere approach to lovemaking attracted him like no other women. Did Selina Carrington’s red hair reflect her sexuality? He promised himself that he’d find out, and soon.

She wasn’t afraid of male attention, either, judging by her attire, a feather-trimmed dress constructed of scraps and shreds of red fabric that floated and fluttered while concealing few of her body’s slender curves. Her unplanned trip had also prevented her from bringing makeup, and her petal-perfect complexion, set off by a few stray freckles, heightened her natural, sexy allure.

She’d be a worthy bedmate if she hadn’t come with her grandfather. Kamar liked women—many women—but he didn’t believe in fouling the nest. He never conducted liaisons with business contacts or their families. The world was his playground, and he’d found many willing partners. He didn’t fool around close to home.

A beautiful girl like her, there was probably a man in her life already.

And she was mouthy. Many American women were. Often a smart mouth on a woman repelled him, but Selina’s rosy lips were pretty enough that he’d prefer to silence her with a kiss.

Then again, here was Jerome Carrington. So, with a sigh, Kamar mentally classified the stunning Selina and her beautiful neck as off-limits.

But he could still talk to her, couldn’t he? “American women are usually such busy girls,” he told her. “It was kind of you to accompany your grandfather on this trip.”

She shrugged, and her low neckline dipped even further. “Grandpa Jerry thought I should get away.”

“Get away? From who or what?”

“I work for an ad agency, and we just presented one of our major clients with a new campaign.” Her smile was thin. “This was the first time I was responsible for the entire project.”

He didn’t care about her job, but girls liked it when one showed interest in their pastimes. “And what was this project about?”

“It’s an advertising campaign for a cereal called Corny Crunch.”

“Did you say horny crunch?” He gave her his most flirtatious smile.

“Like I haven’t heard that, oh, at least twenty times before.” Selina stirred her drink.

He’d try again. “What kind of, um, advertising campaign did you plan?”

“Breakdancing corn chips in cargo pants down to their ankles.” She grinned at him. A real smile this time, not a fake one.

Progress, he thought. “Very charming. But why would anyone over the age of twelve buy these horny crunchies?”

Her smile broadened. “They have lots of fiber and even some oats. That’ll lower your cholesterol. You ought to be thinking about that at your age.”

There was such a thing as too mouthy, Kamar discovered. “At my age? For your information, I have but twenty-eight years.”

“Oh, shouldn’t everyone think about maintaining good health?” Selina turned to her grandfather, who ambled closer, sipping whiskey from a cut crystal tumbler. “Grandpop, what do you think of Corny Crunch?”

“A great product,” he said. “Selina’s ad campaign will sell millions. Another coup for the marketing goddess.”

“Oh, so now you are a goddess,” Kamar said. “I should have known.”

She arched a perfectly plucked brow at him. “Why?”

“You have the demeanor of someone…exalted,” he said. “Goddess attitude, you might say.”

“Ouch.” Selina clapped a hand to her face with a mock frown. “I guess I deserved that.”

“You certainly did.” Her grandfather glowered at her.

Kamar smiled. “Speaking of business, when shall we begin?”

“How about tomorrow morning?” Jerome Carrington asked. “We’ll meet in the dining room at nine.”

“Aren’t there several restaurants in a resort like this one?” Selina asked.

“The barkeep will know.” Jerome caught the bartender’s eye. “Where’s the best place for breakfast?”

“There are a number of choices, sir. There are four restaurants and two cafés at La Torchere. The poolside café can become noisy with children at play, so I would recommend The Greenhouse for breakfast.”

“The Greenhouse?” Selina tilted her head to one side. “That sounds fun.”

Kamar frowned. “I do not know if I want to eat my breakfast in a greenhouse.”

“Why not?” Selina asked. “I’m sure they don’t grow potatoes in there.”

She caught the bartender’s eye, and both girls laughed. Azhib, he thought. Wonderful. Within a few hours of his arrival, he’d convinced two women he was a fool. And he was stuck here until a deal for the property could be struck.

“Do you know what’s going on here? Because I’m at sea.” Jerome looked from his granddaughter’s face to the bartender, and then to Kamar. “What’s this about potatoes?”

“Nothing,” Kamar said sourly. “The Greenhouse will be fine—9:00 a.m.?”

“I’ll make a reservation,” Jerome said, eyeing Kamar with an uneasy expression.

“Oh, no problem, sir.” Janis removed Kamar’s empty martini glass. “I’ll leave a note for the concierge before I go off shift. What would the name be?”

“The Asad party.” And without another word, Kamar stalked off.

“What bug’s up his rear?” Jerome asked.

“Maybe a potato bug,” Selina replied, and both women exploded with gales of laughter.

Chapter Two

Selina admired stability and safety, needed it, really. She worked hard to keep her life and everything in it well-organized. Her pumps, always leather and always polished to a dull glow, were neatly matched and hung two-by-two on her shoe tree in perfect order. She always bought bras with matching panties—two pairs, so one was always clean and at the ready—and folded them carefully in her lingerie drawer with their mates. Likewise, tap pants and camisoles. She bought outfits, not separates, and never ordered à la carte.

Grandpa Jerome, the only father she had and the most important person in her twenty-three-year-old life, was the opposite. Unless a maid picked up after him, his closet was total chaos. His secretary often remarked that she had a lifetime job because “Jerry doesn’t know where I keep the checkbook.” Indeed, his desk would remain a mountain of garbage if she didn’t arrange it.

Selina didn’t like the unexpected. Grandpa Jerry thrived on it.

Selina hated surprises. Grandpa Jerry liked to throw surprise parties and sweep her away on unplanned excursions. Like this one, to an exclusive resort on Florida’s Gulf Coast. Less than twelve hours ago, Grandpa Jerry had shot into her cubicle at VIP Publicity, grabbed her jacket, held it open for her and said, “Come on, little Sellie. Grandpa’s got a fun surprise for you.”

Since Selina had sought refuge in his home at age fifteen, Grandpa Jerry had said those words many times, and she’d come to trust that his surprises would be fun. Trips to the zoo, to museums, to shops. Sometimes the museums would be in Rome or the shops in Paris.

And now, her magic pixie of a grandfather, claiming she worked too hard, had swept Selina to Florida. On the plane, he’d admitted that he was brokering a real estate deal and that Selina’s presence would enliven an otherwise dull jaunt.

Selina wasn’t so sure. Now, getting ready for bed in the penthouse suite atop La Torchere, she brushed her teeth with the toiletries supplied by the resort before donning their thick terry cloth robe. She left her bathroom to meet Jerry in the living room of the suite. “I don’t know quite what I’m doing here,” she told her grandfather.

“You’re here to keep me company.” Jerry lounged on the sofa in a similar robe worn over a pair of checked pajama pants. He’d already left his mark on the suite. Recent copies of the Wall Street Journal and the Washington Post littered the coffee table in front of him, and sheaves of computer printouts detailing various D.C. properties were scattered on the couch’s cushions.

“Your client doesn’t want me here. What’s so top secret, anyway?”

Jerry hesitated. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but he’s a sheik.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. With that accent? And don’t sheiks live in desert tents with camels?”

“Not this one,” Jerry said. “Kamar and his brothers were all educated in England—Cambridge, no less. His country has one of the world’s most productive diamond mines. They recently opened diplomatic relations with the United States and purchased an embassy building in D.C. Now Kamar’s looking for the ambassador’s residence.”

“I’m impressed,” Selina said. “This is quite a lucrative set of deals for you.”

“And it does have to be top secret.” Jerome shuffled papers together into a messy stack. “If the location of the residence becomes public knowledge, the safety of the ambassador could be compromised.”

“Oh, so that’s why the snotty sheik was so upset with me.” Selina sat on a side chair.

“You were pretty hard on him.”

She huffed.

“You were mean, Sellie. I’ve never known you to be mean.”

“You should have seen him with the bartender.”

“What was the bit about the potatoes?”

“He was razzing the bartender about the vodka,” she said. “Only wheat vodka, nothing made from potatoes. He was quite specific. Who does he think he is, James Bond?”

“A man has the right to choose his poison. I thought Kam was trying to be nice to you.”

“He was trying to redeem himself. Unsuccessfully, I might add. He’s affected and arrogant. The man can’t love himself enough.”

Jerome was silent for a second, then said, “Sometimes people who can’t love themselves enough suffer from a lack of love from others. Like you.”

She swallowed against her dry mouth. “I’m loved. You love me, right?”

“I adore you, but we both know that’s not enough. When was the last time you were involved with a man?”

“Hey, I date all the time. You know that. You call on Saturday night to check on me. I don’t call back until Sunday morning because—”

“Because on Saturday night you’re out breaking hearts.”

Selina grinned.

“Yes, you date,” Jerry continued. “But do you ever become involved?”

She compressed her lips. “So I’m picky.”

“Sellie, baby, you’re beyond picky. Don’t you think it’s time you got over Donald?”

She dropped her face into her hands and mumbled, “Grandpa Jerry, I was in therapy for seven years. My head’s been shrunk so much I’m surprised you can still see it. I’ve meditated. I’ve rolfed. I’ve yoga’ed. I’ve sought enlightenment and personal growth everywhere I could. I honestly don’t think I’ll ever get over Donald. Or what Mom did.” She hadn’t seen her mother or her stepfather for years.

Leaving the couch, Jerry knelt by her side. “If you don’t get over it, they win.”

She nodded, rubbing her temples where a headache had started banging at her brain. “I know, but I—”

“Try.” Her grandfather took her hand. “Try. I won’t be around forever—”

“Why, where are you going?” Selina raised her head, her insides turning wintry. “Pawtucket, maybe, or Poughkeepsie?”

He wiggled her chin. “Laugh all you want, sweetheart, but I’m an old guy, and getting older every minute. You need to be with a man your own age, not some old fart with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.”

Selina scoffed. “You’ll outlive all of us.”

“No, I won’t. Promise me, Sellie, that you’ll make an effort.”

Sobered by her grandfather’s seriousness, Selina said, “Okay, I promise. Sometime. I’m still young, okay?”

He fixed her with a stern look, though his eyes twinkled. “Be nice to the sheik.”

“The snotty sheik?”

He laughed. “People magazine calls him the sexy sheik.”

“He does have a certain George Clooney appeal, if you like the type.”

“Do you?”

She squirmed. Grandpop was hitting a little too close to home. She didn’t want to talk to him about the kind of men she liked. Too weird. “Maybe.”

“Well, why don’t you let that maybe turn into a yes? At least give that little maybe a chance.”

She chuckled. “Maybe I will.”

He hesitated, then asked, “Sellie, are you truly happy?”

“Sure I am. I have a great job, a great home and you.” She hugged him around the shoulders. “Why should I want more?”

“There’s more to life, and you know it. But for now, be nice to Prince Kamar.” He winked. “Especially since I want to take quite a large wad of cash out of his wallet.”

She sighed. “For you, anything…even Prince Kamar.”

Chapter Three

The sharp-eyed brunette approached the concierge desk and said to the woman seated there, “Uh, can I ask for some help?”

Lilith Peterson, aka Lissa Bessart Piers, scrutinized her. That depends upon the kind of help you want, she thought. She didn’t like the brunette’s briefcase, her gray pinstriped pantsuit or her overly lacquered hair. Most people who came to La Torchere were on holiday and looked it, but this woman was all business.

Instead of challenging her, Lissa schooled her features into a hospitable smile, in keeping with her role. “Of course,” she said. “How can I help you?” She smoothed the lapel of her jacket.

“I’m trying to find a guest,” the brunette said.

“We maintain the security of all our guests. Are you a guest here, Ms….?” Lissa raised politely inquiring eyebrows.

“Yes, of course,” the brunette said, a little too quickly. She offered a hand. “Marta Hunter.”

Lissa touched the woman’s fingers and let go. She didn’t want extended contact with Marta Hunter. A strong grasp could trigger any of Lissa’s array of magical abilities. She didn’t want to inadvertently cast a curse or start a fire.

More than being the ordinary concierge Lilith Peterson, Lissa Bessart Piers was a member of the royal family of the enchanted realm of Silestia. Because she’d cursed her spoiled, disobedient niece seven years before, Lissa felt a responsibility to remain in Meredith’s life, making sure Merry remained safe while she worked to lift the curse.

But Lissa’s disguise as a concierge carried obligations, such as caring for the needs of La Torchere’s guests. She said, “Good morning, Ms. Hunter. We haven’t met before, have we?”

“I arrived early this morning on the first ferry of the day.”

“Welcome to La Torchere. How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for the sheik, Prince Kamar ibn-Asad,” Hunter said.

“Oh, I recall making a breakfast reservation for Mr. Asad’s party,” Lissa said. “If you move along, you should catch them in The Greenhouse.”

Upon seeing it for the first time, Selina thought that The Greenhouse deserved the appellation edifice. A massive glass structure with fanciful Victorian-style domes and turrets, it not only housed a casually elegant café but a glorious collection of tropical greenery.

It was crowded with plants, which in her apartment remained measly little sprouts. She had a nice pothos vine at home, but here a pothos wound heart-shaped leaves the size of dinner plates high around the bole of a graceful palm, fully twenty feet into the moist, scented air. Ferns that struggled to survive in D.C. grew to prehistoric heights here.

Masses of orchids, sporting exotic colors, shapes and fragrances, were set in banks around mossy stones. A natural-looking spring flowed through The Greenhouse from a waterfall at one end to a pool at the other, surrounding a slate-floored “island” where a group of linen-draped tables were clustered.

Holding her grandfather’s arm, Selina, cautious in new sandals, negotiated a rickety bridge to the island. When she’d purchased the red dress, she’d bought other clothing to last her for the week, including the denim shorts and T-shirt she now wore with the slippery-soled sandals.

Safely on the rough gray slate, she looked for and found Kam Asad seated at a large table. Like her grandfather, he evidently liked to read, for several newspapers were spread over the white cloth. His cell phone sat next to a silver pot. As she watched, he refilled his cup before turning a page of the paper.

A polo shirt stretched across Kam’s truly admirable torso, showing muscled forearms. The emerald-green shirt set off his amber skin and thin gold watch. The only other item of jewelry he wore was his diamond stud, a rakish touch.

She couldn’t check out his legs because they were under the table. But when she and her grandfather approached Kam’s table, he stood until Jerry had seated her. His legs matched his arms in terms of their fitness, and she had to admit that Kam was a total stud muffin. If he weren’t such a jerk, she might even be attracted to him.

“Good morning, Selina, Jerry,” he said. He handed her a menu before pouring her a cup of tea.

His old-fashioned chivalry disarmed her, and she said, “Good morning, Kam,” as courteously as she could, even though she didn’t drink tea. She assumed that he had developed his tea habit while at Cambridge.

Opening the menu, she scanned the breakfast selections. “Too bad I don’t like breakfast. There’s a lot to choose from here. Even potatoes.” She winked at Kam.

“You will never forget that incident with the vodka, will you?” He leaned back in his chair with an uneasy smile.

Jerry kicked her under the table, and she said, “Um, consider yourself unforgettable. It’s not a bad thing.”

He visibly relaxed. “Why do you not like breakfast?”

She shrugged. “It’s just such a strange meal. Except for fruit, almost everything is carbohydrates or fried. It’s as though you’re not allowed to eat anything healthy in the morning.”

“Cereals are healthy. Are there not some of your corny crunchies on the menu?” He waved at a passing server.

“I doubt it. At this point we’re just designing the ad campaign. The cereal won’t be on the market for some months.”

“When I traveled to Japan, I ate soup with tea in the morning. It seemed quite healthful.”

“Soup and tea? I’ll have to try that sometime. But for now, I guess I’ll just have a croissant and coffee.” She slid the menu in the direction of the server.

“And you, sir?” the server asked Jerry.

Jerry ordered a full breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast, while Kam, like Selina, ordered a croissant. “And fresh fruit compotes for the lady and me.” He smiled at her as the server left.

She smiled back at Kam. “Thanks. What did you do in Japan?”

“What I am doing here. Opened diplomatic relations, rented an embassy, found markets for our diamonds.” Though he’d lowered his voice, Prince Kam had evidently accepted that Selina was Jerry’s confidante.

“We have a few minutes before our orders arrive, so…” Jerry opened his briefcase and took out a stack of printouts.

“Yes, let us get to business.” Kam looked toward the paperwork. “Are these from your multiple listing service?”

“Yes.” Jerry slid the printouts across the table to Kam. “I weeded out the obviously unsuitable properties, but—”

Jerry broke off when Kam’s gaze left their table to focus on the bridge to the café. He said something in Arabic that sounded vaguely irritable before flipping over the printouts so no information showed. He said, “Let me handle this, all right?”

A brunette with narrow, pale features and a chin-length bob neared, whipping out a small black box from a side pocket of her gray pantsuit. Thrusting it at Kam’s face, she clicked a button. The box began to whir, and Selina guessed it was a tape recorder.

“I’m talking with Prince Kamar ibn-Asad, emissary from Zohra-zbel, labeled by People magazine as the ‘sexy sheik.’ Prince Kamar, are you here in Florida to close a deal involving diamond futures on the world market?” the brunette asked.

“I beg your pardon.” Kam gently moved the box away from his face, pressing the button to stop the recorder. “I am not in the habit of discussing business with women I do not know.”

The brunette stuck out her hand. “Marta Hunter, from the National Devourer magazine.”

“Ms. Hunter, I am not authorized to make a statement for your magazine. Please forgive me.” Kam’s voice was polite, but he barely touched the woman’s hand.

“Our readers have a right to know if your country’s machinations will alter the world diamond market.”

Kam raised his brows. “I am not involved in any machinations, I assure you. I am only eating breakfast with my friends.” His gesture encompassed Selina and Jerry.

“And you are…” Marta Hunter’s avid gaze fixed on Selina.

Remembering the need for security, Selina said with a smile, “I’m just someone who’s eating breakfast.”

Kam grinned and gave her a thumbs-up.

“I smell a story here,” Hunter said.

“I smell tea here.” Although she preferred coffee, Selina picked up her cup and sipped, waiting for the reporter to leave.

The server, laden with filled plates, came to their table. “Shall I set another place?” She eyed Hunter while setting out the breakfasts, including Selina’s coffee.

“No,” Kam said. “This lady was just leaving. Ms. Hunter, are you a guest at this resort? I was told that only guests and employees were allowed on this island. Otherwise, I would not come here.”

The server scrutinized the reporter. “If you aren’t a registered guest, ma’am, I’ll have to call security. They’ll escort you to the ferry.”

Hunter reared back defensively. “I’m a guest here, just like these folks.” From another pocket, she hauled out a card key embellished with the candelabra-shaped resort logo.

Kam grimaced. “Can’t you get rid of her?” he asked the server, who paled.

“You’re in a difficult position,” Selina said to the server, mentally chastising Kam for again mistreating staff. “Sorry.”

“Just our luck,” Jerry said. “Well, I guess the cat’s out of the bag, Kam. We might as well come clean.”

Selina stared at her grandfather. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Kam’s brown eyes widen. The server fled.

“Yep,” Jerry said. “She’ll get us dead to rights.”

Kam exchanged an uneasy glance with Selina, who sensed that one of her grandfather’s surprises was about to be unveiled.

“Ms. Hunter, my granddaughter, Selina, and Prince Kamar have been corresponding via e-mail for some months.”

Marta’s eyes bugged out, and she clicked on the tape recorder. “Keep talking! Keep talking!”

“There’s not much more to say.” Jerry picked up his fork. “You must understand that negotiations between our families are of a very sensitive nature. We’re willing to give you an exclusive if you respect our privacy until arrangements are concluded.”

Selina gaped at Kam.

Kam gaped back. What on earth was the old man implying? That he, a prince of the House of Zohra-zbel, courted Selina Carrington?

She was a pretty enough woman, but before heaven, she was trouble on a plate. Though he’d dreamed about her gorgeous neck last night, she was exactly the kind of female he’d never consider as a wife. He shuddered to imagine Selina and her smart mouth at a state dinner.

Truly, he didn’t intend to wed at all, at least not until his royal duties required it. He knew that at some point in his life—hopefully in the distant future—his father, the king, would arrange for Kamar’s marriage to a suitable girl. She would be a virgin of good family, of course, and the union would bring political advantage or riches to the House of Zohra-zbel, the royal family of the Diamond Mountain.

Selina was beautiful and smart, but she was a nobody. Not marriage material. Never.

“An exclusive? What terms?” Marta asked Jerome Carrington.

Carrington gestured expansively. “You leave us alone until after the wedding, and you get the whole story before anyone else.”

The reporter’s cold green eyes narrowed. “How do I know you’ll keep the bargain?”

Kamar found his voice. “You don’t.”

“Without some assurances, no deal. As far as I’m concerned, the two of you are fair game.” Marta dug into her pocket and took out a cell phone.

“That’s enough.” Kamar stood. “My friends, I am sorry. Let us go back to our suites and I’ll make other arrangements to meet later today.”

“The suites? You’re in the suites?” Marta flipped the phone open and began punching buttons.

Kamar sighed. “Add the breakfast to my bill,” he said to the server.

As he left The Greenhouse, escorting the Carringtons, he could hear the pesky reporter talking on the phone to her superiors.

When they got outside, he exploded. “What in The Almighty’s holy name was that about?”

“Don’t yell at my grandfather,” Selina snapped. “He had a good reason for saying what he did. Um, you did, didn’t you?”

She turned to Jerome, who put a finger to his lips. “Not here, and not now. Kamar, can you find us someplace private to talk? Not our rooms. That woman knows where we’re staying.”

Chapter Four

What Jerome Carrington had said to the reporter kindled Kamar’s desire to corner the old man and find out what silly game he was playing.

If the story got out, Kamar would face a lot of trouble at home. His father had warned him time and again against sullying the family’s reputation. When People magazine had named Kamar the “sexy sheik,” his father threatened to relegate him to a boring desk job if he brought further dishonor on their house through his relationships with American women.

Kamar’s bad temper about this morning’s matter led him to rent a yacht from the resort so he and the Carringtons could find some privacy.

The rental was met with unconcealed glee by the resort manager, one Merry Montrose. Kamar couldn’t fathom why. Surely none of the proceeds of the rental would make their way to Ms. Montrose’s pocket. Nevertheless, she reacted to the news that he intended to take the Carringtons on a boat ride as though he’d guaranteed that his country would supply the resort’s jewelry shop with free diamonds forever.

The forty-foot craft boasted a galley, sleeping accommodations for three and a crew of two: one to pilot the boat and the other to manage the passengers’ food and beverage needs. After the yacht was provisioned, Kamar gave the galley crew member the afternoon off. He didn’t want anyone to overhear the conversation he planned to have with Jerome. Kamar assumed that Selina would handle the galley chores while the men talked.

At twelve-thirty, Selina minced aboard, ungainly in the same ridiculous sandals she’d worn that morning. Their heels fully three inches high, the white platforms forced her to clutch her grandfather’s elbow as she tottered. Jerome carried a briefcase in his other hand.

The rest of Selina’s ensemble consisted of a lime-green bikini with a halter top and high-cut panties, only partially covered by a loosely crocheted white tunic that fell to the middle of her hips. The lime-green emphasized her pearlescent skin and absolutely unbelievable legs.

A white canvas beach hat flopped over her face and shoulders, protecting them from the sun. Unfortunately, the hat also concealed her sexy, swan-like neck, the sight of which was the only thing that could compensate him for an afternoon he dreaded.

Sure that the Carringtons were setting him up, Kamar gritted his teeth and swore that he would not be enticed into a liaison he didn’t choose, even with bait as delectable as Selina.

As the Carringtons settled themselves into deck chairs, the pilot cast off the ropes tying the yacht to the dock. He climbed a short ladder to the flying bridge, and a few moments later the boat’s engines rumbled to life. The yacht began to back out of its slip.

Selina took off her white tunic, exposing lithe curves, then reached into a carry-all and took out a tube of sunscreen. Opening the tube, she squeezed a dollop into her palms, rubbed them together and began smearing the cream onto her belly.

Kamar swallowed and looked away. On the wharf, an angular figure in a gray pantsuit rushed toward the slip while pulling a little camera from a pocket. Stopping at the end of the dock, Marta Hunter began snapping pictures.

Scowling, Kamar stationed himself between Selina and the reporter, then turned his back toward land. He might suspect the Carringtons of ulterior motives, but they were still his guests. He refused to subject them to publicity in a sleazy rag like the National Devourer.

“The woman won’t leave us alone,” he grumbled.

“You poor thing. Being known as the sexy sheik must be such a burden.” With a brilliant smile, Selina joined him at the rail.

He told himself he wouldn’t be affected by her proximity, her lime-green bikini or her smile. Or the knowledge that her seductive neck was now only a few inches away from his lips.

She continued, “Why don’t we head below and see if this tub has something to eat? That way the mighty Hunter can’t spy on us so easily.”

“A fine idea,” Kamar said grudgingly. He went to the galley, a space enclosed by walls at the side, but open to the stern. The front of the galley led, he knew, to a small sleeping area and a toilet.

Selina followed.

Oh, no. He’d be trapped with her in the tiny galley. He didn’t want to think about the possibilities.

Her grandfather also came in, and Kamar released a relieved breath. He needed a chaperon when around Selina.

Why did the most gorgeous girls have to be so utterly wrong? And why did he have to be so susceptible to their charms?

Selina knelt at his feet and glanced up at him, her lovely neck arching. He closed his eyes and thought about his father, the honor of his family and that boring desk job.

When he looked at her again, she’d found a small, cube-shaped refrigerator tucked beneath the counter. “Ooh, look, Grandpa Jerry. There’s iced tea, bottled water, juice and wine. You want iced tea, right?” Straightening, she poured for her grandfather, who took his glass to the deck.

Kamar smiled. Selina might be a mouthy American girl, but she knew her place: the kitchen. “What would you like?” he asked her.

“Um, a bottle of water, I think. The sun is very dehydrating.” She reached into the refrigerator at the same time Kamar bent to help, and their bodies collided in the small space.

The galley’s closeness intensified her scent. She smelled like sunscreen, perfume and the ocean breeze, and her slim body felt like paradise pressed against his, her skin satiny and slick. He dropped the heavy plastic bottle. It crashed onto her toes, left bare by her idiotic sandals.

She yelped, and he winced. What was it about this girl that turned him into a blithering idiot? First the potatoes, now his clumsiness with the water.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Leaning against the counter, she wiggled her toes. The bottle rolled away. “I don’t think anything’s broken.”

“Let me check.” He knelt in the small space, telling himself he wouldn’t be ensnared by Selina Carrington. She wasn’t so special.

She let the counter take her weight, so he could pick up her foot to examine it. He’d never before been fascinated by a woman’s toes, but hers were polished in an appealing, shiny orange that reminded him of the citrus candy that street vendors sold in Zohra-zbel.

Lime green and orange. Everything she wore made him think of eating. Devouring her.

There was a tiny white flower painted on Selina’s biggest toenail. It was enchanting.

He kissed it.

She gasped.

Remembering himself and the situation, he stopped himself from licking up the arch to her ankle and said, “You seem all right to me,” as brusquely as he could. He reached for the water bottle and stood, twisting off the cap for her. He took a bottle of juice for himself and went on deck. Before he sat, he tugged off his polo shirt and used it to mop the sweat off his forehead.

Selina stayed behind, clutching the water, then rolled the cool bottle along her cheek. No one had ever kissed her foot before, and she didn’t know what to make of it. She’d heard from other women about the various forms that lovemaking took, but no one had mentioned toe kissing. She’d read about that in racier magazines, but it wasn’t something that she had ever contemplated doing or having done to her.

The entire concept seemed yucky. Dirty. Gross.

But when Kam did it…a sensual heat flared through her body. She closed her eyes, reliving the moment.

He’d held her foot in his big, brown hand. Kissed it.

She’d judged him as arrogant, but did an arrogant man kiss a woman’s foot?

Stop it, she told herself. People magazine says that Kam is one of the sexiest men in the world. He kissed your toe because it’s sexy, not because he likes you, and not because he’s Mr. Humility.

She went outside, where Grandpa Jerry and Kam occupied the deck chairs, talking. He’d set his cell phone on a nearby table. Selina eyed it, then dragged another chair forward and joined them, placing her untanned self in the shade of an umbrella.

“It’s the perfect cover story.” Grandpa Jerry leaned back into his deck chair and sipped iced tea.

“What’s perfect about it?” Kam frowned, his eyebrows forming a dark bar.

“The reporter will want to chase Selina, not you and me,” Jerry said. “While we’re talking, she can distract the press by pretending to choose a dress and order flowers.”

“Gee, thanks, Grandpa Jerry.”

“Sellie, you have nearly two weeks off. I checked with your boss.” Jerry shook a finger at her. “You don’t have to be back in the office until a week from next Monday. You can take an afternoon or two to look at some catalogs.”

Selina scrutinized Jerry, who’d put her into an untenable position. Last night, she’d promised that she’d be nice to Prince Kamar, but at the time she hadn’t known what “being nice” would entail. If she didn’t cooperate, Jerry would think she was reneging. He’d guilt trip her all the way to Timbuktu and Kalamazoo.

“Okay, I’ll pretend to be his girlfriend—under one condition.” She pointed her water bottle at Kam. “You have to be nicer to people.”

“Me? I am perfectly nice to people. Everyone loves me.”

“You are not perfectly nice to people, and people don’t love you. I saw you with that bartender last night.”

“She was quite negligent.” Kamar sipped juice.

“She was not negligent, and you were an arrogant buffoon.”

“Selina!” Jerome looked scandalized.

Ignoring her grandfather, she went on. “I won’t be the girlfriend or fiancée, or whatever, of an arrogant buffoon.”

“You are calling a prince of the Zohra-zbel an arrogant buffoon?” His unibrow was now punctuated by two deep furrows above his nose.

“If you’re a prince of the Zohra-z-whatever, then yes, I guess I am.”

He sat back, clearly bewildered. “I am an arrogant buffoon? No other woman has told me that.”

“Maybe you never made a spectacle of yourself the way you did last night,” Selina said, “but I doubt it.”

“Me? A spectacle? How was I a spectacle?” He twirled the stem of his Matrix-style sunglasses.

Selina grinned. “How were you not a spectacle?”

“The bartender was a complete twit.” Kam’s stuffy British accent had become more pronounced.

“A twit? Did you actually call her a twit?” Selina laughed.

“Yes. As in nitwit.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.