Letter to Reader 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 CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Copyright

Dear Reader,

To me, Harlequin Presents® has always been at the cutting edge of contemporary romance and I’ve loved the uninhibited scope and pleasure of writing about today’s relationships with their complex problems and passions.

Best of all, in these stories, the dream of love we nurse in our hearts can always be fulfilled. It’s a special world we share—the magic of romance—and I hope you love it and enjoy it as much as I do, sharing the lives of others whose dearest wishes do come true.

Happy twenty-fifth birthday to Harlequin Presents!

Emma Darcy

The Sheikh’s Seduction

Emma Darcy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

“MY NAME is Sarah Hillyard. My father trains racehorses in Australia...”

The artless words of a twelve-year-old child.

A child he’d liked and remembered seven years later when he’d come to choosing a trainer in Australia.

Sheikh Tareq al-Khaima shook his head in self-derision. Stupid to have let a sentimental memory influence his judgment. He’d hired Drew Hillyard, entrusted him with the progeny of some of the best bloodlines in the world, and the man had proved to be a cheat and a crook, wasting what he’d been given in favour of sure money, bribe money.

It was an effort to remain civil, sitting beside him in the Members’ Stand at Flemington Racecourse, waiting for the Melbourne Cup to be run. Recognised as one of the great races on the international calendar, The Cup was a prize coveted by trainers and owners. It made reputations. It sealed a horse’s fame. It was the return on an investment.

If Firefly won today, Drew Hillyard might earn himself another chance. If Firefly lost, the trainer could kiss Tareq’s string of thoroughbreds goodbye. The moment of truth was fast approaching. The horses were being boxed, ready for the start of the race.

“He should run well,” Drew Hillyard said reassuringly.

Tareq turned to Sarah’s father. The older man’s brown curly hair was streaked with lustreless grey and cut so short, the ringlets sat tightly against his scalp. His dark eyes were opaque, as though he’d fitted blinds over the windows of his soul. The memory of Drew Hillyard’s daughter flashed into Tareq’s mind—a glorious mop of burnished brown curls framing a fascinating face with eyes so dark and brilliant he’d loved watching them. He didn’t want to even look at her father.

“Yes, he should,” he answered, and returned his gaze to the track. Firefly had been bred from champion stayers. If he’d been trained properly he should eat this race. He should, but Tareq wasn’t banking on it. None of the horses he’d placed in Drew Hillyard’s stables had lived up to their breeding. The initial promise of the first two years had been whittled away by sly corruption.

Susan Hillyard claimed his attention. “Did you place a bet on Firefly, Tareq?”

He looked at her, wondering if she knew the truth. Drew Hillyard’s wife—second wife—was a thin, nervous blonde. With every reason to be nervous, Tareq thought darkly. “I never bet, Mrs. Hillyard. It’s performance that interests me. On every level. I like to see my horses fulfil the promise of their bloodlines.”

“Oh!” she said and retreated, her hands twisting worriedly in her lap.

Sarah’s stepmother.

My father’s marrying again. Since my mother’s made her home here in Ireland now, she’s arranged for me to go to boarding school in England. So she can more easily visit me, she says. I get to go home to my father in the summer break.

A lonely, disillusioned child, her world torn apart by divorce. Tareq wondered what had become of her, where she was. Not here at Flemington. He’d looked for her, curious to see the woman she’d grown into. He was tempted to ask about her but revealing a personal interest went against his grain in this situation. Sarah, the child, was a piece of the past, eleven years gone. Comprehensively gone after today, if Firefly failed.

A roar went up from the crowd, signalling the start of the race. Tareq stood with the rest of the people around him, binoculars lifted to his eyes. The commentator’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers, whipping up excitement. Tareq focused all his attention on the horse that had brought him here, a magnificent stallion who’d be worth his weight in gold if he won.

He was poetry in motion, well positioned for the early part of the race and running with a fluid grace and ease that was exciting to watch. He took the lead at the halfway mark and streaked ahead of the field. Too soon, Tareq thought. Yet he held a gap of three lengths into the last hundred metres. Then he visibly flagged, other horses catching him and sweeping past to the finishing post. Eighth. Respectable enough in a class field of twenty-two horses, people would say. Except Tareq knew better.

“Ran out of puff,” Drew Hillyard said, his weatherbeaten face appropriately mournful with disappointment.

“Yes, he did,” Tareq coldly agreed, knowing full well that a properly trained champion stayer did not run out of puff.

“Want to accompany me down to talk to the jockey?”

“No. I’ll have a word with you after the last race.”

“Fine.”

He and his wife left. Tareq was glad to see the back of them though he’d have to confront them later.

“Do you want me to do it?”

The quiet question came from his oldest friend, Peter Larsen. They’d been through Eton and Oxford together and understood each other as well as any two men could. It was Peter who had investigated Drew Hillyard’s notable failure to make champions of champions. The paper evidence left no doubt as to the reason behind the obvious incompetence. To top it all, Drew Hillyard had even sacrificed a chance at the Melbourne Cup.

Tareq shook his head. Peter had saved him trouble on innumerable occasions but this wasn’t usual business. “I was fool enough to choose him. He’s mine, Peter.”

A nod of understanding.

Drew Hillyard had broken a trust.

That was always personal.

CHAPTER TWO

SARAH helped her little half-sister to bed. Jessie had grown strong enough to move her legs herself but she was tired, her energy spent on all the anticipation, excitement and disappointments of the day. The latter had dragged her spirits right down and there was nothing Sarah could say to cheer her up.

Despite sitting glued to the television for hours before and after the running of the Melbourne Cup, Jessie hadn’t seen the sheikh, whom she’d imagined in flowing white robes. Sarah had suggested he would probably be in a suit. Not a well-received comment. To Jessie’s mind, a sheikh wasn’t a sheikh unless he wore flowing white robes. Either way, the television had failed to put him on display.

And Firefly had lost. After looking as though he might take out The Cup for most of the race, the stallion had faltered with the finishing post in sight. A flood of tears from Jessie. She’d loved Firefly from the moment she’d first clapped eyes on the beautiful colt and she’d desperately wanted him to win.

“Mummy didn’t call,” she now grumbled, adding another disappointment to her list of woes.

Sarah tried to excuse the oversight. “It would be a busy day for her, Jessie, what with having to entertain the sheikh and everything. They’ve probably gone out somewhere.”

Big blue eyes mournfully pleaded the injustice of it all. “It’s not fair. Daddy’s had the sheikh’s horses for four years and this is the first time he’s come to Australia and I didn’t even get to see him.”

Neither did I, Sarah thought ruefully. Though it wasn’t so important to her. Just curiosity to see what he looked like after all these years. Funny how some childhood memories remained vivid and others faded away. She’d never forgotten Tareq al-Khaima, nor his kindness to her over that first lonely Christmas in Ireland with her mother.

He’d been a young man then, immensely wealthy and strikingly handsome. Everyone at her mother’s house parties had wanted to know him. Yet he’d noticed a forlorn child, eaten up with the misery of feeling like the leftover, unwanted baggage from her mother’s first marriage, best out of sight and out of mind. He’d spent time with her, giving her a sense of being a person worth knowing. It was her only good memory from being twelve.

“Maybe there’ll be a photograph of him in the newspaper tomorrow,” she offered as consolation.

“I bet there isn’t.” Jessie stuck to gloom. “There hasn’t been one all week.”

Which had been surprising with the Spring Carnival in full swing and the social pages packed with photographs of visiting celebrities. Either the sheikh was not partying or he was camera-shy for some reason.

“And he’s not coming to Werribee to see his other horses, either. Daddy told me he’d only be at Flemington.”

“Well, the sheikh owns horses all around the world, Jessie.” He’d been buying them in Ireland when she’d met him. “I don’t suppose any particular string of them is special to him.”

She wondered if he remembered her. Unlikely. Too brief a connection, too long ago. It was just one of those coincidences in life that Tareq’s agent had assigned the sheikh’s horses in Australia to her father to train. There’d been nothing personal in the deal.

“He came to see Firefly race,” Jessie argued.

“That’s because the Melbourne Cup is special.” Having settled her half-sister comfortably, Sarah stroked the wispy fair hair away from the woeful little face and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Never mind, love. rm sure your mother will tell you all about the sheikh tomorrow.”

Disgruntled mumbles.

Sarah ignored them as she made sure everything was right for Jessie; the electric wheelchair in the correct position for easy use when she needed to go to the bathroom, the night-light on, a glass of water on the moveable tray. It was amazing the amount of independence the little girl managed now. In fact, Sarah knew she really wasn’t needed here at Werribee anymore. It was time to move on with her own life. Once the Spring Carnival was over, she would broach the matter with Susan.

Having completed her check list, Sarah moved to the door and switched off the overhead light. “Goodnight, Jessie,” she said softly.

“Mummy didn’t call and she promised she would.”

The final petulant comment on a day that had not delivered its promises.

Sarah quietly closed the door on it, privately conceding Jessie had cause to feel let down. Her mother should have called. That had been a real promise, not a wish or a hope. Real promises should be kept.

Sarah grimaced at the thought as she moved along the hall to the twins’ room. It was so hopelessly idealist in this day and age where keeping promises was a matter of convenience. Wasn’t her whole life an illustration of not being able to count on them? It was about time she accepted the real world.

She looked in at the boys. Her seven-year-old half brothers were fast asleep. They looked as innocent as babes, mischief and mayhem cloaked with peaceful repose. The problem with children was they were innocent. They believed in promises. When disillusionment came it hurt. It hurt very badly.

Mummy didn’t call...

The words jogged memories of another Melbourne Cup day. She’d been ten, the same age as Jessie, and left behind at Werribee in the care of the foreman’s wife. Her mother hadn’t called, either. She’d been too busy with Michael Kearney, planning to leave her husband and daughter and go off to Ireland with the promise of becoming the fourth wife of one of the wealthiest men in the horse world.

Her mother had made good on that promise, and when Michael Kearney had chosen wife number five, the divorce settlement had been astronomical. It had certainly helped make the ex-Mrs. Kearney an attractive proposition to an English Lord. Sarah could safely say her mother had never looked back after leaving Werribee. She’d been appalled when her daughter had rejected “the chances” lined up for her, returning to Australia to help with Jessie.

Sarah didn’t regret her decision. It was strange how far away that life in England seemed now. The question was...where to go from here? She wandered into the living room, curled up on the sofa and gave the matter serious consideration.

She’d always loved books. They’d been her escape from loneliness, her friends and companions, doors that opened other worlds for her. She’d had her mind set on getting into some career in publishing. Maybe her degree in English Literature would still hold her in good stead there, though she had no work experience and probably openings at publishing houses were few and far between. Still there was no harm in looking for a position.

Melbourne? Sydney? London?

She instinctively shied from going back to England.

A new life, she thought, one she would make on her own. Though how best to do it kept her mind going around. When the telephone rang it startled her out of a deep reverie. She leapt to pick up the receiver, glancing at her watch simultaneously. Close to nine-thirty.

“The Hillyard Homestead,” she rattled out.

“Sarah... I promised to call Jessie. Is she still waiting?”

Susan’s voice was strained. She didn’t sound herself at all. But at least she hadn’t forgotten her daughter. “No, she was tired,” Sarah answered. “I put her to bed at eight. Do you want me to see if she’s awake?”

“No, I... I just thought of it and...oh, Sarah...” She burst into tears.

“Susan, what’s wrong?”

Deep, shuddering breaths. “I’m sorry...”

“It’s okay. Take it easy,” Sarah soothed, trying to contain her own fast-rising anxiety. “Try to tell me what’s happened.” Please, God! Not another dreadful accident!

“The sheikh...he’s taking all his horses away from your father.”

“Why?” It made no sense. Unless... “Surely not because Firefly didn’t win the cup?”

“No. There’s...there’s more. The past two years...but you know what they’ve been like, Sarah. It was hard for Drew to keep his mind on the job.”

What was she justifying? Had her father mismanaged the training?

“It’ll ruin us,” Susan went on, her voice a wail of despair. “It’ll make other owners uneasy. You know reputation is everything in this business.”

“I don’t understand.” She’d been too busy with Jessie to take an active interest in what was happening with the thoroughbreds in her father’s stables. “What is the sheikh’s complaint?”

“It’s all about...about performance.” She broke into tears again.

“Susan, put Dad on. Let me talk to him,” Sarah urged.

“He’s...he’s drinking. There’s nothing we can do. Nothing...”

Not if you’re drunk. Sarah bit back the retort, knowing it was useless. All the same, her father’s growing habit of hitting the bottle could be at the root of this problem. It was all very well to seek relief from stress but not if it led to shirking responsibilities.

“Tell Jessie I’ll call her tomorrow.”

The phone went dead.

No point in holding the receiver. She put it down. The living room suddenly felt cold. If her father was ruined, if that sent him further along the path of drinking himself into oblivion...what would happen to his and Susan’s marriage? What would happen to the children? It was always the innocent ones who were overlooked.

Sarah shivered.

Did Tareq al-Khaima realise what effect today’s decision would have? Did he care? How bad was the situation?

Sarah shook her head helplessly. She had no idea to what extent her father had failed in giving the sheikh satisfaction.

But she did know the circumstances behind his failure.

Tareq had been sympathetic to her once. If he remembered her...if she could get him to listen...

It was worth a try.

He was staying at the Como Hotel. She remembered her father mentioning it. If she went there as early as possible tomorrow morning...

Anything was worth a try to stave off disaster.

CHAPTER THREE

SARAH glanced anxiously at her watch. The drive into the city had taken over two hours. The morning was slipping away from her. It was almost eight o’clock and she was still locked in Melbourne traffic. A sleepless night and a heavy weight of worry wasn’t doing much for her judgment on which were the faster transit lanes, either.

She’d left Werribee as early as she could but not as early as she would have liked. It had taken time to instruct one of the stable hands in the house routine so he could look after the children until the foreman’s wife could come. It wasn’t the best arrangement but this was an emergency situation.

Her main fear was the possibility she was already too late to make any difference to Tareq’s decision. He may have acted yesterday, lining up another trainer to take his horses. Or he could be at Flemington right now, discussing business. The Spring Carnival wasn’t over yet. It was Oaks Day tomorrow. Many owners gathered with trainers at the racetrack at dawn each morning, watching the form of favoured horses.

On top of which, even if Tareq was at his hotel, there was no guarantee he would see her. Or talk to her. Let alone listen to what she had to say. All Sarah could do was hope and pray for a chance to change his mind before his decision became irreversible.

When she finally reached the Como Hotel, she did a double take. Despite its being in South Yarra, outside the main city area, she had expected a big, plush, ostentatiously luxurious establishment, the kind of place one automatically associated with oil-wealthy sheikhs. The Como was relatively small, almost boutique size. Sarah hoped it meant Tareq was more approachable.

She found a parking station just off Chapel Street, left the jeep there, and walked back to the hotel.

The moment she entered it, the decor screamed class—quiet, exclusive class—marble floors, black leather sofas, floral arrangements worthy of being called exquisite modern art. It might not be ostentatious luxury but it was just as intimidating to anyone who didn’t belong to the privileged people.

Sarah could feel herself bridling against its effect and mentally adopted a shield of untouchability to carry her through gaining entry to Tareq’s presence. She knew from experience with her mother’s high-strata world that her appearance would not be a critical factor. The dark brown corduroy jeans and fawn skivvy would pass muster anywhere these days. The wind had undoubtedly tossed her unruly curls but that didn’t matter. Neither did the fact she wore no make-up. “Being natural” could be just as fashionable as designer clothes.

The concierge directed her to the reception area, around to the left and down a flight of steps, privacy from the street effectively established. One elegant freestanding desk was apparently enough to serve the guests. The woman behind it smiled invitingly. Sarah willed her to be obliging, too.

“I’ve come to call on Sheikh Tareq al-Khaima. Is he in?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Whom should I say is calling?”

“If you’ll just give me his suite number...”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. That’s against our security rules. I can call up to his suite for you. What name should I give?”

Security. Of course. This place was probably as tight as Fort Knox—no unwanted visitors allowed past the steel doors of the elevator. “Sarah Hillyard,” she stated flatly, resigning herself to the inevitable. If Tareq didn’t want to see her, she couldn’t force him to.

Her nerves knotted as the call was made and the message passed on. There seemed to be a long hesitation before an answer was given. Sarah’s tension eased slightly when the receptionist smiled at her, indicating no problem.

“He’s sending Mr. Larsen down to fetch you. It should only be a minute or two, Miss Hillyard.”

“Fetch me?”

“There’s a special key for the executive floor. The elevator won’t take you up without it.”

“Oh! Thank you.”

Relief poured through her. Past the first hurdle. Though Mr. Larsen, whoever he was, might prove to be another barrier. She wondered how big Tareq’s entourage was. He wouldn’t have come alone to Australia and might well have taken over the whole hotel. Such information hadn’t been of interest to her until now and it was too late to ask her father or Susan for more facts.

When the steel doors opened, a tall, fair-haired man, impeccably dressed in a silver-grey suit, emerged from the elevator. His face was thin and austere; high cheekbones, long nose, small mouth, and very light eyes. He looked to be in his early thirties and carried an air of lofty authority. He inspected Sarah as though measuring an adversary; a swift, acute appraisal that left her highly rattled.

One eyebrow was slightly raised. “Miss Hillyard?”

“Yes. Mr. Larsen?”

He gave a slight nod and waved her into the elevator. No smile. His eyes were a silver grey like his suit. Very cold. He didn’t speak as he used a key to set the compartment in motion, nor did he acknowledge her in any way as they rode upwards. Sarah felt comprehensively shut out from this man’s consciousness.

Fighting another rise of tension, she inquired, “Have you been with Sheikh Tareq al-Khaima for a long time, Mr. Larsen?”

He looked directly at her, his mouth curling slightly. “You could say that.”

Oxford accent. Upper-class English. “Are you a friend or do you work for the sheikh?” she asked, needing to place him.

“I’m his trouble-shooter. Are you trouble, Miss Hillyard?”

A hatchet man, she thought. “Am I seeing him or you?”

“The sheikh will see you personally.”

The man’s superior manner provoked her. “Then I hope I’m trouble, Mr. Larsen.”

“Brave words, Miss Hillyard.”

And probably foolish. Getting anyone close to Tareq offside was hardly good politics.

Mr. Larsen turned away, though not before Sarah saw a flicker of amusement in the light grey eyes. A chill ran down her spine. This man’s amusement would undoubtedly be aroused by the anticipation of seeing someone cut to pieces. It did not augur well for her meeting with Tareq. But at least she was seeing him, which gave her a chance at persuasion.

Sarah clung to that reassurance. The elevator stopped. Mr. Larsen led her along a corridor, stopping at a door on which he knocked before using a key to open it. Poker-faced once more, he ushered Sarah into a suite full of light.

The blinds had been lifted from two huge picture windows, allowing a spectacular view over the city. Tareq stood at the window. Although his back was turned to her and he was anonymously clothed in a navy blue suit, Sarah had no doubt who it was. The thick black hair, dark olive skin, his height and build, brought an instant wave of familiarity, despite the passage of years between their meetings. Yet Sarah was just as instantly aware of something different.

She remembered him as carrying an air of easy self-assurance, confident of who he was and what he wanted from life. To a child who felt no security about anything, it had seemed quite wonderful to be like that. Now she sensed something more, a dominant authority that didn’t bend.

Perhaps it was in the square set of his shoulders, the straightness of his back, the quality of stillness telegraphing not only total command of himself, but command of the situation. Even the plain dark suit implied he needed no trappings to impress himself on anyone. He didn’t have to do anything. He certainly didn’t have to turn to her need to appeal to him.

Her formidable escort had followed her into the suite and shut the door behind them. He waited, as she did, for Tareq to acknowledge their presence. Waiting for the entertainment to begin, Sarah thought, and wondered if she should take the initiative and greet Tareq. The silence seemed to hum with negative vibrations, choking off any facile words.

“Did your father send you, Sarah?”

The quiet question had a hard edge to it. Without moving, without so much as a glance at her, Tareq had spoken, and Sarah suddenly realised he was standing in judgment. She sensed his back would remain turned to her if her answer complied with whatever dark train of thought was in his mind. She didn’t know what he expected to hear. The truth was all she could offer.

“No. It was my own idea to come to you. If you remember, we met in Ireland when...”

“I remember. Did your father agree to your coming here?”

Sarah took a deep breath. Tareq al-Khaima was not about to be swayed by reminiscences. He was directing this encounter and she had no choice but to toe his line.

“I haven’t even spoken to my father. Nor seen him,” she answered. “I was at Werribee yesterday, looking after the children. Susan, his wife, phoned last night. She was terribly distressed...”

“So you’ve come to intercede for him,” he cut in, unsoftened.

“For all of them, Tareq. It doesn’t just affect my father.”

“What do you intend to offer me to balance what he’s done?”

“Offer?” The concept hadn’t occurred to her. No way could she compensate for whatever had been lost. ‘I...I’m sorry. I have no means to pay you back for...for my father’s mismanagement.”

“Mismanagement!”

Her heart leapt as he swung around. The vivid blue blaze of his eyes shot electric tingles through her brain, paralysing her thought processes. Her whole body felt caught in a magnetic field. Her stomach contracted. Goose bumps broke out on her skin. She couldn’t even breathe. Never in her life had she felt such power coming from anyone. She was helpless to do anything but stare back at him. His gaze literally transfixed her.

The initial bolts of anger transmuted into laser beams. It felt as though he was peeling back the years, remembering how she’d been at twelve, then piling them on again, rebuilding the woman she was now, studying her, seeing if she measured up to whatever he thought she should be.

Sarah struggled to reclaim her mind. He had changed. The shock of such blue eyes—an inherited gene from his English mother—against his dark complexion still held fascination but she saw no kindness in them, nothing to encourage hope. His strikingly handsome face had matured into harder, sharper lines, his softer youthfulness discarded. She knew him to be thirty-four, yet he had the look of a man who wielded power at any level and commanded respect for it. He was armoured, in every sense.

His mouth suddenly curved in a half-smile. “How can dark chocolate shine so brightly?”

They were the teasing words he’d used about her eyes the morning he’d invited her to ride with him on her stepfather’s estate in Ireland, she on a pony, he on a thoroughbred stallion. Sarah floundered in a wash of memories. She had no reply to the remark, any more than she’d had then.

“You haven’t learnt any artifice, Sarah?” he asked.

The abrupt change to a more personal line of conversation confused her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

The half-smile took on a cynical twist. “You’re a grown woman, yet I still see the child. The same rioting brown curls. The same appealing face, bare of make-up. Clothes that are nothing more than clothes. Perhaps that was intentional. Artifice in lack of artifice.”

She blushed at his dissection of her appearance and hated herself for letting him make her feel gauche. “Look! This isn’t about me,” she implored.

“The messenger always carries many messages,” he stated, his eyes mocking her assertion. “You’re a beautiful young woman. Beautiful women usually know and use their power.”

His gaze dropped to her breasts, making Sarah acutely conscious of the stretch fabric of her skivvy hugging their fullness. Then he seemed to mentally measure her waist, the wide leather belt she wore undoubtedly aiding his calculation. The curve of her hips and the length of her legs were inspected, as well, much to Sarah’s growing embarrassment.

His appraisal of her feminine power increased her awareness of the strong sexual charisma which, at twelve, she’d been too young to recognise in him. It was certainly affecting her now, so much so it prompted the realisation he was probably used to women throwing themselves at him. Wealth alone was considered an aphrodisiac. With his looks...

An awful thought occurred to her. When Tareq had asked what she intended to offer him, had he imagined a proposition involving sexual favours? Was he summing up her desirability in case she took that line of persuasion?

Sarah almost died of mortification. She wouldn’t even know how to go about it. Men hadn’t featured largely in her life, none in any intimate sense. As for Tareq...she was losing all her bearings with him.

. “The question is...how grown up are you?” he mused, the glitter of speculation in his eyes discomforting Sarah even further.

“I’m twenty-three,” she replied, fervently wishing everything could be more normal between them. She remembered feeling safe with Tareq all those years ago. She didn’t feel safe now.

“I know how old you are, Sarah. Your age doesn’t answer my questions.”

“I told you...this isn’t about me.”

“Yes, it is. It’s very much about you. How long have you been at Werribee?”

Was this a chance to start explaining? “Two years,” she answered, and it was as though she’d slapped him in the face.

She physically felt his withdrawal from her. There was the merest flicker in his eyes, a barely visible tightening of his jawline, no other outward sign. He remained absolutely still, yet she felt every thread of connection with her being ruthlessly cut.

“So...you’ve been assisting your father,” he said coldly.

Sarah realised he’d just cloaked her with her father’s sins, whatever they were. “Not with the horses. I’ve had nothing to do with them,” she rushed out. “I’ve been helping with Jessie. She’s ten years old, Tareq. My little half-sister. And she’s a paraplegic.”

A muscle in his cheek contracted.

Sarah plunged on, wanting him to understand the background. “Two years ago, Susan was terribly ill, being treated for breast cancer. Then Jessie was injured and Susan couldn’t cope. There were the boys, too...”

“Boys?”

“My half-brothers. Twins. They’re seven now but they were only five when I came back to Werribee to help.”

“You were asked to do so?”

“No. Susan wrote about Jessie.”

“Where were you then?”

“London. I’d just finished my finals at university.”

“And you dropped everything to help them?”

He made it sound incredibly self-sacrificing but it wasn’t. “I’ve always loved Jessie. How could I not come when she had to face never walking again?”

He frowned. “You stayed with her...all this time.”

“I was needed.” It was the simple truth.

His eyes bored into hers and she felt the reconnection. It was a weird sensation, as sharp and quick as a switch being thrown, making her nerves leap and jangle, an invasion she had no control over.

“The child belongs to its mother, Sarah,” he said quietly. “She is not the answer to your loneliness.”

Her heart pumped a tide of heat up her neck and into her cheeks; burning, humiliating heat. He knew too much about her. He was plucking at her most vulnerable chords. It had felt good to be needed. And wanted.

Her reluctance to cut herself off from those feelings had influenced her choice to stay in her father’s home longer than was strictly necessary, but she did realise it was time to move on. Though this latest disaster confused the issue.

“I can’t desert them now. Don’t you see?” she pleaded. “My father will be ruined if you take your horses away. What will happen to the children?”

“It is not your responsibility,” he retorted harshly. “Your father brought this outcome upon himself.”

“Did he? Did he?” she cried, and plunged into a passionate defence. “Was it his fault his wife got cancer? Was it his fault Jessie was crippled? There were astronomical medical bills and the house had to be renovated to accommodate a handicapped child, a special suite built on with all the aids for Jessie to learn to be independent, a special van bought to transport her. There were so many adjustments to be made, and the continual cost of physiotherapy, masseurs... Do you wonder that my father was distracted from doing his job properly?”

Sarah was out of breath from the frantic outpouring of words. Her eyes clung to Tareq’s, begging understanding. If he could see through her so easily, couldn’t he see this, too?

Or did he see an ongoing problem?

“But things are better now,” she hastily declared. “Susan’s been cleared of the cancer. She’s fine. No trace of secondaries. And Jessie has made fantastic progress. It’s amazing how much she’s learnt to do for herself. The boys have become good at helping her, too. So you see...my father no longer has so many worries on his mind. He could concentrate on the training if you’ll just give him another chance.”

Her plea seemed to be falling on deaf ears. There was no visible reaction to it on Tareq’s face, no trace of sympathy. She needed some response, some hint of whether he was reconsidering his stance or not.

His brick wall silence tore at her nerves. It went on for an agonising length of time. Sarah fought against a mounting sense of defeat. Was there anything more she could say that might touch him?

“Leave us, Peter.”

The quiet command startled her into jerking her head around. She’d forgotten the presence of Mr. Larsen behind her. He was still there, a witness to everything that had been said. His gaze was locked on Tareq, the chilling light eyes slightly narrowed, as though trying to discern the reason behind the command, or perhaps sending a silent warning that a witness was a wise precaution against trouble.

Whatever he thought, he left without a word, not even glancing at Sarah. The door clicked shut after him, emphasising the continued silence and making Sarah intensely aware she was alone with Tareq. She spun her attention back to him, fighting a rush of inner agitation. Her heart beat chaotically as he started walking towards her.

“You fight very eloquently on your father’s behalf,” he said, though he didn’t look impressed. “I find that quite remarkable since he didn’t fight for you. He gave you up, freeing himself to marry again without any encumbrances and have this family you care so much about.”

“Whatever my father’s shortcomings, the children are innocent,” she argued, inwardly quailing as Tareq came closer and closer. “It’s more for their sake that I’m asking you to reconsider your decision.”

He stopped so close she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. His eyes burned into hers with mesmerising intensity. “And if I don’t reconsider, you are willing to give them more devoted service. More of your time,” he said, stroking her cheek with feather-light fingertips as though seeking to get under her skin and feel all she was.

Sarah’s legs turned to jelly. His nearness was overpowering, his touch insidiously weakening both her mind and body. She’d never experienced anything like it in her life. Movement was beyond her. She could hardly think.

He raked back some curls and tucked them behind her ear, his eyes simmering into hers, holding them captive to his will. “I like your giving heart, Sarah. It’s a rare thing in today’s world.”

She swallowed hard, trying to rid herself of the constriction in her throat. “Can’t you give, too, Tareq?”

“Perhaps.”

“You were once kind to me,” she pleaded.

“And I’ll be kind to you again, though you may not appreciate the form it comes in.”

“What do you mean?”

“A bargain, Sarah. You want me to give your father another chance. I want something in return.”

She literally quaked. He was still fiddling with her hair, winding curls around his fingers, tying her to him. It took all her willpower to force out the words, “What is it you want?”

“For the length of time it takes for your father to prove he can be trusted to do his best by my horses, you will stay with me. Let us say...you will be a hostage to his conscientious efforts to redeem himself.”

Dear God! He did mean to tie her to him! Sarah tried to rally her wits out of their state of shock. “You mean...like a prisoner.”

“No need to be so grim. You can be my travelling companion...my social secretary...”

Euphemisms for current mistress? Or was her imagination running riot, along with her hormones?

“Staying with me should not be a hardship,” he assured her. “I’ll pay you a generous salary for your devoted service.”

“Like what?” Sarah’s mind was spinning, unable to decide what was real or unreal. How devoted was the service to be?

“What did your father pay you for all the hours you gave to his family?”

She flushed. “It’s my family, too.”

“Two years of unpaid labour, Sarah? Two years of putting your life on hold with nothing to show at the end of it?”

“Is there a price on love, Tareq?”

“Oh, yes.” A taunting twist of his mouth mocked her naivety. “There’s always a price. You’ve been paying it. And you’d pay more. So make up your mind as to where it’s best paid, Sarah. You continue to give yourself to your family with potential ruin on their doorstep, or you give yourself to me, securing the second chance you’ve been pleading for.”

“Why does it have to be this way?” she cried. Why did he want her with him?

“It’s a question of trust,” he answered, a relentless beat in his voice. “I don’t trust your father. He betrayed the confidence I placed in him. If you trust him to come good on another chance, you have nothing to fear from this bargain and a lot to gain.”

That was the crux of it. Testing her trust in the trust she was asking him to give. She saw the hard ruthlessness in his eyes and knew there was no mercy in him. If he didn’t get the performance he wanted, he would extract compensation, one way or another.

Her mind was in chaos. What if her father didn’t pull himself together and apply himself to fulfilling Tareq’s expectations? On the other hand, having stared ruin in the face, surely the prospect of being handed another chance would sober him up. Sarah didn‘t—couldn’t—place much store in his caring for what might happen to her, but his love for his other children had always been much in evidence.

And the plain truth was, they didn’t need her so much as they needed each other. She’d only ever been an extra, waiting in the wings to be called on. Now that Jessie was capable of managing herself, there was no real reason to stay. The best she could do for them was to give them the chance Tareq was offering.

His hand slid from her hair and travelled around her jawline to cup her chin. “Tit for tat, Sarah. I risk my horses. You risk yourself. Is it a deal?”

A two-way gamble. Put like that, his proposition was understandable. Reasonable. But it was difficult to hang on to reason, swamped as she was by the sexual current coursing from the touch of his hand, sensitising her skin and making a mash of her insides. She didn’t feel safe with him.

Yet without him, Jessie and the twins wouldn’t be safe. Innocent victims. As she had been. Sarah couldn’t let that happen. She stared into the diamond-hard blue eyes of Tareq al-Khaima and willed him to be honourable.

“All right. I’ll do it,” she said decisively.

The flash of satisfaction she saw curled her stomach.

Could she trust him to keep his word?

There was no guarantee.

Only risk.

CHAPTER FOUR

TAREQ was not slow in acting on Sarah’s decision. There was no time given for second thoughts. He moved straight to the telephone, leaving Sarah to listen as he set up his side of the bargain.

“Peter, call Drew Hillyard. Tell him his daughter, Sarah, is here with me. Due to her special pleading, I am inclined to change my decision and leave my horses with him.”

This apparently evoked some expostulation from his trouble-shooter. Whatever was said made no difference to Tareq. He calmly resumed speaking.

“I’m sure you’ll think of a way to put an effective stop to that. Just get Hillyard here, Peter. As soon as possible. We’ll hear him out first, then move to break the link. From both sides.”

Another pause. Sarah wondered what link they were talking about.

“Sarah has agreed to act as surety. She’ll be coming with me when I fly out tonight. You’ll have to stay behind and wrap this up, Peter.”

Tonight! Sarah moved shakily to an armchair and sat down, dizzied by the speed at which her life was about to change. She stared out the window at the view of the city. Where would she be this time tomorrow?

“Tell Hillyard to bring his wife with him. Best to get everything settled in one hit.”

The receiver clicked down.

“Sarah, have you eaten anything this morning?”

She turned blankly to the man who would direct everything she did from now on. He frowned at her, picked up the telephone again and proceeded to order a selection of croissants, muffins, and a platter of cheese and fruit. Having finished with room service, he considered her thoughtfully.

“You’re not going faint on me, are you, Sarah?” he asked. “You’ve stood up bravely so far.”

Brave words, Miss Hillyard... She wondered what Peter Larsen thought of her now. Trouble. Definitely trouble. For some reason the thought gave her satisfaction.

A spark of pride made her answer, “I’m not getting cold feet if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“Good!” He moved purposefully to the kitchenette beyond the dining suite. “Coffee or tea?”

Surprised at his intention to serve her, she asked, “Shouldn’t I be doing that?”

He laughed, a soft ripple of private amusement. “I’m being kind. Which do you prefer?”

No point in arguing. “Coffee, thank you. With milk.”

She watched him make it and bring it to her, noting he seemed more relaxed. Her own tension had eased, whether from the release of having carried through her purpose, or from the weird sense of having her fate taken out of her hands, she didn’t know. Maybe she was suffering some aftermath from the shock of hard decision-making. Whatever the reason, she felt oddly detached, even when Tareq came close, placing her coffee on the low table in front of her and settling on the sofa nearby.

“You said we’d be flying out tonight. Where are we going?” she asked, trying to get some bearings on what would be her new life.

“The U.S.”

She’d never been there. It might have been an exciting prospect under normal circumstances, but she seemed to be anaesthetised to all feeling at the moment. Shock, she decided. She’d been bombarded by the unexpected and driven to accept it. Recovery time was obviously needed.

She sipped her coffee. Tareq watched her, not with the high-powered intensity she had found so disturbing. It was more a clinical observation. It didn’t touch her inner self. Since he appeared disposed to answer questions, she tried to think of what she needed to ask.

“Will I get to say goodbye to the children?” Already they seemed distant to her. It was as though she had stepped from one world into another.

“Yes,” he assured her. “All going well at the meeting with your father, you and I will proceed to Werribee.”

“I drove here in a jeep,” she remembered.

“Your stepmother can drive it home. You will come with me in my car. There’ll be time for you to pack your belongings and take your leave of Jessie and the twins.”

“While you wait for me.”

“Yes.”

A hostage isn’t allowed to roam free, she thought. I’m tied to him. So why aren’t I feeling a sense of bondage?

Because it doesn’t feel real. Not even this conversation seems real. Sooner or later reality will kick in again and then I’ll feel it. In the meantime, talking filled the emptiness.

“Jessie wants to meet you,” she prattled on. Strange irony. Was Tareq a benefactor or a curse? “She watched for you yesterday, hoping to see you featured on television, but you weren’t. She was very disappointed.”

“Then I’ll make up for the disappointment by meeting her this afternoon,” he said smoothly.

“You’ve got the wrong clothes on,” she told him. “A sheikh is supposed to wear sheikh clothes.”

He smiled. “I’m afraid I don’t have them with me. Will the person do?”

The smile made him even more magnetically handsome. “I’m sure Jessie will be impressed.” As she herself had been at twelve...impressed and flattered to be given his attention. Perhaps he was always kind to children. They made it easy. They didn’t question so much.

Her mind flitted forward, away from the past and on to the future. “I guess I’m to have Peter Larsen’s ticket on the plane tonight.”

He shook his head. “There are no tickets, Sarah. I have my own plane.”

Of course. A private luxury jet, no doubt. She was moving up in the world. Like her mother. Only to a higher strata again. That should amuse her but it didn’t. “Will we be accompanied by many people?”

“I prefer to travel lightly. Only Peter came with me on this trip.”

Which meant she would be alone on the plane with Tareq. Though not quite alone. There would have to be a pilot, a steward, perhaps a co-pilot for such a long flight. Whatever...there would be no getting lost in a crowd. Was she to be his closest associate?

“Peter Larsen implied he’d known you a long time.”

“Since school days at Eton.”

So Mr. Larsen was very upper-class English. Sarah wondered if he knew her second stepfather. “I presume you trust him,” she said a little cynically.

“Yes. He’s never given me reason not to.”

A question of trust...

“How long do you expect it to take...for my father to prove himself to you?”

He eyed her speculatively. “Did you watch the running of the Melbourne Cup yesterday, Sarah?”

“Yes. On television.”

“Then you must have seen with your own eyes that Firefly did not run the distance he should have been trained for.”

She frowned, remembering how the horse had tired. “I thought the jockey had misjudged his run.”

“No, it was more than that. The horse wasn’t up to the distance and he should have been.”

Firefly...

A suspicion wormed into Sarah’s mind.

Jessie still loved the horse...but what did her father feel about it?

“I’ll have Firefly entered in the Melbourne Cup next year,” Tareq went on. “If he runs as well as he should...”

“You can’t expect him to win!” Sarah cried in alarm, a rush of agitation smashing the odd numbness that had claimed her. “No one can guarantee a winner in the Melbourne Cup. The favourites hardly ever win.”

“I agree,” Tareq answered calmly. “As long as it’s a fine effort for the distance I’ll be satisfied.”

A year of her life. Then her fate—the fate of her family—hung on Firefly’s performance. Dear God! She had to talk to her father, make sure he understood. If he had some prejudice against the horse, he had to bury it or they would never get to the other side of this bargain.

A knock on the door.

Tareq rose to answer it. The timing was fortunate. Sarah struggled to contain a surge of panic. She had to remain calm, confident. Tareq was far too perceptive. He would pounce on any hint of a problem with Firefly, and if he pursued the truth and found out what had been hushed up, he might decide he had no grounds for even the tenuous trust Sarah had pleaded for.

It was room service arriving. The ordered food was set out on the coffee table. Tareq tipped the waiter and saw him out. “Try to eat, Sarah. We have a long day ahead of us,” came the sensible advice.

She had absolutely no appetite. Her stomach was in turmoil. Nevertheless, eating precluded any dangerous conversation so she started with the fruit which was relatively easy to slide down her throat. Melon, strawberries, fresh pineapple...she picked and nibbled, using up time.

Satisfied she was well occupied, Tareq moved back to the telephone on the desk and made a series of calls. Sarah didn’t listen to what was spoken. Her thoughts were too loud, clamouring over each other. What if she didn’t get the opportunity to be alone with her father? Would Tareq tell him what the test of his training was to be?

Suddenly there were many it’s and buts. Sarah fretted over them until it struck her that her father might actually prefer to be rid of Tareq’s horses, however crazy it was in a professional sense. Although he had held on to them after Jessie’s accident, being paid for their training, he might have had no heart in their doing well. Maybe even taking some dark satisfaction out of making sure they didn’t.

Yet surely that was at odds with a trainer’s character... the drive to win, to get the best results, to chalk up enviable records. On the other hand, it could explain her father’s drinking bouts. She had put them down to stress, though perhaps she had mistaken the cause of stress...a mind divided against itself.

It seemed stupid to have had Firefly not running the distance, with his owner—a man as astute and as knowledgeable about horses as Tareq—watching his failure to perform. Yet... weren’t there people who wanted to be caught, wanted whatever they were doing to end?

She should have waited to discuss the issue with her father. She should have...

Her heart jumped at another knock on the door.

Her father?

She leapt to her feet, spinning around to face...Peter Larsen...as Tareq admitted him to the suite. The two men stood murmuring to each other. With a muddle of anxiety running rampant in Sarah, the question shot from her lips.

“Did my father agree to the meeting?”

It startled both men into turning to her. Her heart kicked into a gallop. She concentrated on Peter Larsen. He was responsible for making the arrangements. His sharply inquisitive gaze told her nothing. He seemed more interested in pegging her into a newly revised slot than answering her question.

“Why wouldn’t he agree, Sarah?”

It was Tareq who spoke, drawing her attention to him, and once again the power of the man came at her full bore, his eyes like electric probes, making her whole body quiver inside. How was she going to cope with this man when he could affect her like this? He’d caught her so off-guard she was hopelessly stumped for an answer. Her frantic mind finally seized on one.

“Pride. You fired him yesterday. He might be angry about me interceding on his business. I didn’t think about him so much as...”

“He’s here. In Peter’s suite,” Tareq stated, removing her uncertainty. His face took on a ruthless cast as he added, “If he doesn’t agree to my terms, I’ll be a very surprised man. Don’t concern yourself with contingency plans, Sarah.”

He was set on the bargain. He wanted it to happen. He would make it happen. She could see it in his eyes. And she had the prickly feeling it had nothing to do with horses anymore. It had to do with her.

“Tell the Hillyards I’m on my way, Peter,” he said. nodding to the man who needed no other signal to do the sheikh’s bidding. “Sarah, it’s best you wait here while we settle this business with your father.”

She tore her gaze from him and stared at the door closing behind Peter Larsen, wanting to snatch him back, wanting the orders altered.

“Have you changed your mind?” Tareq asked quietly.

She flashed him an anguished took. “I want to be in on the discussion with my father. I might have done wrong...”

“Then it’s up to him to say so. You have done your part. The choice is now his.”

Cool, clear reason. Yet she sensed the fire of purpose in Tareq and knew instinctively it wouldn’t be deterred by anything. Tentacles of fear started weaving through her, clutching at her heart and mind. What had she set in motion? Where would it end?

“Speak now if you prefer not to go through with this, Sarah. I won’t take it kindly if you try to back out after I’ve made a settlement with your father.”

She took a deep, deep breath.

The equation was the same.

The future security of the children was at stake.

“As you said, it’s up to my father. If he agrees, my agreement stands.”

Again the flash of satisfaction in his eyes, curling her stomach.

“This may take some time. Please be at ease here. Use whatever facilities you like. Treat the suite as your own.”

He left her to stew over what was transpiring between the two parties.

It was over an hour before he came back, an hour of agitated pacing, of sick turmoil, of swinging through so many emotions, Sarah felt like a limp rag when he reentered the suite. She could tell nothing from his expression. It was guarded, controlled, yet he carried an aura of success.

“Well?” she challenged, on painful tenterhooks as to the outcome.

“I believe we’ve come to a clear and mutual understanding. Your father will continue training my horses. He and your stepmother would like to speak to you, Sarah. If you’ll come now...”

It was done.

Really done.

The next year of her life belonged to Tareq al-Khaima. He might not be dressed in traditional clothes but Sarah had no doubt he was a sheikh through and through, born to rule, used to dictating his own terms, determined that his will be carried out.

The only question left was...what was his will where she was concerned? Her soul trembled at the thought of finding out that reality.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE stretch limousine heightened Sarah’s awareness of what life with Tareq was going to be like. She sat beside him on a lushly cushioned, blue velvet seat, every luxury at hand—cocktail bar, television, radio, telephone—and tinted windows around them, forming a cocoon of privacy from the ordinary world. Even the chauffeur, having been given directions to the Hillyard farm at Werribee, was removed from them by a glass partition.

Tareq dominated her space, dominated her thoughts, dominated her every sense.

Her gaze was pulled again and again to the hands resting on his thighs; long-fingered, brown-skinned, elegantly formed yet suggesting a tensile strength capable of catching and holding anything they wanted to. The future of her family was in those hands now, and she was within very personal reach of them any time he chose to make physical contact.

Her nostrils kept picking up the subtle scent of some male cologne. She hadn’t noticed it in the hotel but in the close confines of the car, it intruded enough for her to try to define it, thinking it might define the man. Like the navy suit he wore, it was classy, understated, yet tantalising in suggesting something primitive overlaid with especially tailored sophistication.

Her ears were constantly alert for any movement from him, a shift towards her, a recomposure of himself. He seemed to have mastered the art of utter stillness, which made Sarah extremely conscious of her own little outbreaks of nervous fidgeting.

He hadn’t touched her since he’d drawn her into consenting to the bargain. He didn’t need to. He knew she was now tied to him by honour and integrity. She could feel his touch on her heart and mind and soul.

In her mouth was the sweet-bitter taste of what he had drawn from her father on her behalf, whether by threat or persuasion or simple instruction, she didn’t know. Susan’s tearful gratitude she could accept as a natural response, but her father’s halting speech had been a raw exposure of hidden hurts, intensely embarrassing.

It had touched on feelings they had never talked about, never acknowledged, and because nothing of that ilk bad ever been said between them before, Sarah had difficulty in deciphering what was sincere or simply forced out of the situation. She couldn’t help thinking of the Christmas in Ireland where she’d spilled too much to Tareq...a kind stranger she’d never expected to meet again...a man who was acutely, dangerously perceptive.

“Did you tell my father to say those things to me?” she blurted out, wanting to know how pervasive Tareq’s influence had been in that last painful scene at the hotel.

Out of the corner of her eyes she saw his head turn towards her. Sarah had to summon up her courage to look directly at him, needing to maintain a protective shield around herself while she held his gaze.

“What things, Sarah?” he asked, the powerful blue eyes scanning for cracks in her hastily erected defences.

“About not letting me down again.”

“You think he didn’t carry any guilt over abandoning you to your mother’s whims when you were twelve?”

“Did you make him feel guilty, Tareq?”

A slight shrug. “Perhaps I tapped at his conscience in explaining why you felt you could approach me personally... the past connection between us.”

“You must have laid it on thick,” she accused.

He was completely unabashed. “Sometimes it’s very beneficial, very sobering, for people to be faced with the consequences of the decisions they make.”

There was a hard glint of ruthlessness in his eyes.

Her father had certainly been sobered up by the time she’d walked into Peter Larsen’s suite. His alcoholic bender the night before had left him looking drawn and haggard, his eyes red-rimmed, but he’d spoken with convincing determination about making good on this second chance. Having accepted Tareq’s terms, whatever they were, he could hardly do anything else. He’d undoubtedly been made to face that his career in training was on the line.

It was the second part of his speech she questioned. He’d moved straight on to expressing—openly expressing—his regret in failing her as a father; his realisation that he’d selfishly accepted her ongoing assistance to his family, thinking only of their need instead of seeing she was putting her own life on hold; his hope that her new position with Tareq al-Khaima would be a door to a lot of opportunities for her; and finally, his fervent vow to live up to her good faith in him and be there for her if she ever called him in need.

They had to be lines fed to him by Tareq. Under duress. Although it was possible her father had taken them to heart. Either way, it was too late for a real rapprochement between them. Tareq was taking her away.

“I didn’t have much evidence of his caring for you, Sarah,” Tareq remarked, reading her thoughts with disquietening ease. His mouth quirked. “And what good is a hostage without a strong value of caring? I thought it worthwhile to add an appropriate load of guilt.”

Questions answered.

Sickened by his logic even as she recognised its truth, Sarah dropped her gaze and turned her face to the side window. They were out of the city and travelling through the countryside to the place she thought of as home. Except it had ceased being her home eleven years ago when her status had changed to occasional visitor. More recently she’d been the live-in family help. But she didn’t belong there. She didn’t belong anywhere.

Which had probably made it easy for Tareq to claim her with no one to protest, no one to fight for her. She was on her own. But that didn’t mean she was a pushover for anything he wanted. Her hands curled into determined fists. If he made unreasonable demands on her she would fight him.

Without looking at him, she asked, “What are the duties of a travelling companion?”

“To travel with me.” His tone was lightly amused.

Her nails dug into her palms. “Nothing else?”

“Oh, I daresay we’ll come to various little accommodations.”

“Like what?”

“You can unclench your hands. I’ve never taken an unwilling woman to bed with me.”

Smarting at his knowingness, she flashed him a furious glance. “It’s all very well for you, sitting in your control box.”

He laughed, his eyes dancing, teasing, enjoying his control. “Are you a virgin, Sarah?”

“That’s none of your business!” she cried, futilely willing the rush of hot blood to her face to recede.

“Just curious. You’re so uptight...”

“There’ve been plenty of men interested in me.”

“Was the interest returned?”

She thought of the “precious” young men her mother had lined up as “catches” for her before she’d left London. Compared to Tareq al-Khaima they were bloodless boys. She was swimming with a shark in these waters. Which raised the question of how many willing women he’d gobbled up along the way.

“Let’s talk about you,” she said defiantly.

“By all means. What do you want to know?”

“No doubt you’ve had quite a love-life.”

“A little correction there. I don’t think love has ever entered into it. Desire, certainly. Satisfaction, yes. Mutual pleasure definitely attained...”

“All right!” she cut him off, disturbed by the images running through her mind. “Let’s say sex-life.”

“Ah, yes. Well, I can’t deny having had considerable experience.”

The smile lurking on his mouth was tauntingly sensual. Sarah could feel her blood heating up again. She had no difficulty in believing he was a very sexy man when he put his mind to it. If he put his mind to it with her...but it would be madness to succumb even if she did wonder what it might be like with him. Where could it lead? He was a sheikh, tied to a culture that was very foreign to her.

“Won’t it put other women off, having me tagging along with you everywhere?” she commented archly, wondering if he’d looked down the track to see the consequences of his decision.

“Not at all. You’d be surprised,” he said cynically. He was right. Even marriages didn’t stop some people from going after what they wanted.

“What about your family? It could give them the wrong impression.”

His mouth curled with some private satisfaction. “They will think what I tell them to think. Where my family is concerned, it suits me very well to have you with me, Sarah.”

His ruthless streak was showing again. This time it piqued her curiosity. “Why?” she asked, wondering if he was at odds with them.

He weighed the question, his eyes regarding her speculatively. Eventually he said, “My background is similar to yours...a broken marriage, my mother returning to England, the agreement that I be educated there at Eton and Oxford. It got me out of the way for my father’s second wife and the family they had together.”

No wonder he had been sympathetic to the child she had been, cut adrift between two worlds and not really belonging to either. He really had understood and possibly empathised with her sense of apartness, her loneliness, the feeling of being a shuttlecock in an adult game that sought only personal gratification.

“The difference is...the complication is...I’m my father’s eldest son, despite my mixed heritage,” he said sardonically. “The sheikhdom had to pass to me when he died.”

“Did you want it?”

A flash of ruthless possessiveness in his eyes. “I was entitled to it.”

And no one was going to take that away from him, Sarah interpreted.

“Though the truth is...I am not in tune with my people. For years now, my uncle has ruled in my absence while I maintain a diplomatic role. It has suited us both very well. But circumstances change. My oldest half-brother will soon marry the daughter of a very powerful family. Ahmed and Aisha make a formidable coupling. If they work against me, it could stir some political instability. My uncle is pressing for me to marry a woman of his choice to cement my position.”

Sarah inwardly recoiled against the concept of an arranged marriage although she knew it was done and accepted in eastern cultures. For Tareq, it would seem the most sensible decision to make.

“You don’t want that?” she queried.

A flash of steely pride. “No one dictates my life anymore, Sarah.”

She could well believe it!

“Naturally I will be attending my half-brother’s wedding. And you’ll be with me. It neatly disposes of any machinations my uncle might have in mind.”

So Tareq had a purpose for her. Sarah could see it was very convenient for him to have a woman on tap who’d agreed to stay with him for a year. No possibility of a refusal to accompany him. No running away, no matter how sticky the situation.

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