Traded to the Sheikh
Emma Darcy

CONTENTS

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 ONE

SHEIKH ZAGEO bin Sultan Al Farrahn was not amused. Not only had there been criminal trespassing in the walled grounds of this family property—his mother’s pleasure palace on the legendary spice island of Zanzibar—but also criminal use of the private harbour by a drug-running French yachtsman who was actually offering him a woman to warm his bed in exchange for letting him go.

Did the sleazy low-life think he was speaking to the kind of man who’d indulge in indiscriminate sex?

‘She’s very special,’ the drug-dealer pleaded with all the oiliness of a practised pimp. ‘A genuine strawberry-blonde. Hair like rippling silk, falling to the pit of her back. Beautiful, bright, blue eyes. Lush breasts…’ His hands shaped an hourglass figure. ‘Fantastic legs, long and…’

‘A virgin, as well?’ Zageo cut in mockingly, despising the man for thinking he could trade his whore for his own freedom, for thinking the trade could even be an acceptable possibility.

‘Completely untouched,’ Jacques Arnault instantly replied, a consummate liar, not so much as a flicker of an eyelash nor the twitch of a facial muscle to betray any unease with the question, despite the impossibility of there being anything virginal about a woman who had to be his partner in crime.

‘And where is this precious pearl?’ Zageo drawled, barely holding back his contempt for a man who was prepared to sell flesh to save his own skin.

‘On my yacht. If you get your security people—’ he glanced nervously at the guards who’d caught him ‘—to take me out to it, they can fetch her back to you.’

While he silently sailed away in one hell of a hurry!

Zageo gave him a blast of scepticism. ‘On your yacht? You’ve managed to sail from the Red Sea, down half the east coast of Africa to this island, without being tempted to touch this fabulous jewel of femininity?’

The Frenchman shrugged. ‘Stupid to spoil top merchandise.’

‘And where did you get this top merchandise?’

‘Picked her up from one of the resorts where she was working with a dive team. She agreed to help crew the yacht for free passage to Zanzibar.’ His mouth curved into a cynical smile. ‘A drifting traveller who could go missing indefinitely.’

‘A fool to trust you with her life.’

‘Women are fools. Particularly those with an innocent turn of mind.’

Zageo arched a challenging eyebrow. ‘You take me for a fool, as well?’

‘I’m being completely straight with you,’ came the swift and strongly assertive assurance. ‘You can have her. No problems.’ His gaze flicked around the lavishly rich and exotic Versace furnishings in the huge central atrium which had always served as the most public reception area. ‘With all you have to offer, I doubt you’d even have to force her. Unless you enjoy force, of course,’ he quickly added on second thoughts.

Anger burned. ‘You are breaking another law, monsieur. The slave trade was abolished in Zanzibar over a century ago.’

‘But a man of your standing and influence…who’s to question what you do with a woman no one knows? Even if she runs away from you…’

‘Enough!’ Zageo gestured to his security guards. ‘Put him in a holding room. Have his yacht searched for a woman. If there is one onboard, bring her to me.’

Arnault looked alarmed as two of the guards flanked him to escort him elsewhere. He spoke quickly in anxious protest. ‘You’ll see. She’s everything I said she is. Once you’re satisfied…’

‘Oh, I will be satisfied, monsieur, one way or another,’ Zageo silkily assured him, waving his men to proceed with the execution of his orders.

Zageo doubted the woman existed, certainly not with all the attributes ascribed to her by Jacques Arnault. He suspected the Frenchman had been dangling what he thought would be a tempting sexual fantasy in the hope of getting back to his yacht and somehow ditching the men escorting him. Even though the security guards carried guns, a surprise attack might have won him time to escape.

However, if there was a female accomplice, she had to be brought in and handed over to the appropriate authorities. While she might not have been actively involved in drug-dealing, there was no way she couldn’t know about it and would surely be able to supply useful information.

He relaxed back on the thronelike sofa, reached over the elaborately rolled armrest to pick up the mango cocktail he’d previously set down on the entwined monkeys table, and sipped the refreshing drink slowly as the anger stirred by the Frenchman’s attempt to use sexual currency turned onto Veronique, who had declined the invitation to accompany him on this trip.

‘Your mind will be on business, cheri,’ she had prettily complained. ‘It will not be fun.’

Was the amount of fun to be had the measure of their relationship? His three-month tour of checking the hotel chain he’d established throughout Africa could not be called a hardship on anyone’s agenda—luxurious resorts in exotic locations. How much fun did she need to feel happy and satisfied?

He understood that for the much-in-demand French-Morrocan model, pleasure was inextricably linked with exciting leisure and being taken shopping. He understood that what he provided in this context was the trade-off for having her as his mistress. He had not understood that Veronique was only prepared to give him her company on her own totally self-indulgent terms.

Intolerable!

He had indulged her far too much. It wasn’t enough recompense that the sex was good. It wasn’t enough that Veronique was invariably a splendid ornament on his arm, superbly dressed to complement her dark-skinned exotic beauty. He found it deeply insulting that she had so little respect for his wishes.

His father was right. It was time he ended this too long fascination with women of different cultures and found one of his own kind to marry. He was thirty-five years old and should be thinking of settling down, having a family. He would cut his connection with Veronique and start considering more suitable candidates for a lifelong commitment—well-educated women from other powerful families in Dubai, women whose background ensured they would share his life, not just his bed and his spending power.

None of them would have strawberry-blond hair, blue eyes and fair skin, but such factors were hardly prime requirements for marriage. They weren’t even factors to inspire a lustful dalliance. Right now the idea of trading in sex was particularly abhorrent, and Zageo found himself actually relishing the opportunity to hammer this home to Jacques Arnault’s female yachting companion.

He hoped she did exist.

He hoped his men would find her on board the illicit yacht in the private harbour that served this private palace.

He hoped she actually measured up to the Frenchman’s selling spiel.

It would give him considerable satisfaction to demonstrate that regardless of how attractive her physical assets were, they were worth nothing to him.

Absolutely nothing!

CHAPTER TWO

‘I WILL get out of this! I will!’ Emily Ross kept reciting as she struggled through the mangrove swamp.

These mutterings of fierce determination were interspersed with bursts of self-castigation. ‘What a fool I’ve been! A gullible idiot to be taken in by Jacques. I should have just paid the money to fly here. No hassle about arriving in time. All safe and sound…’

Talking blocked out the fear of having made another wrong step, of putting her life in hopeless hazard this time. Yet reason insisted that the Frenchman could not have been trusted to keep his word about anything. The only sure way of staying in Zanzibar and getting to Stone Town to meet Hannah was to jump ship while Jacques was still off in his dinghy doing his drug-running.

So, okay…she’d done the swim from the yacht to shore, dragging all her essentials in a waterproof bag behind her. No shark or fish had attacked. Her feet had not been cut to ribbons by shells or coral or sharp rocks. Now she just had to find her way out of the mangrove swamp that seemed to cover the peninsula she’d swum to.

‘It’s not going to beat me. I will get out of it.’

And she did, finally emerging from the mud and tangled tree roots onto a wide mound of firmer ground which turned out to be an embankment above a small creek. More water! But beyond it was definitely proof of civilisation—what looked like the well kept grounds of some big property. No more swamp. The worst was over.

Emily’s legs shook from sheer exhaustion. Now, with the fear of being swallowed up by the swamp receding and much easier travelling in sight, she felt like collapsing on the bank and weeping with relief at having made it this far. Nevertheless, the need to cling to some self-control persisted. She might be out of the woods but this was still far from the end of her journey.

She sat herself down on the bank and did some deep breathing, hoping to lessen the load of stress—the huge mental, emotional and physical stress attached to her decision not to cling to the relative safety of Jacques Arnault’s yacht, not to remain captive to any further devious plan he might make.

Free…

The thought gathered its own momentum, finding a burst of positive achievement.

Free of him. Free of the swamp. Free to go where I want in my own time.

It helped calm her enough to get on with assessing her current position. A high stone wall ran back into distant darkness on the other side of the creek. It gave rise to the hope it might lead to a public road.

‘If nothing else, it should give me cover until I’m right away from Jacques and his dirty business,’ she muttered, trying to whip up the energy to move again.

Through sheer force of will, Emily drove her mind into forward planning as she heaved herself onto her feet and trudged along the bank of the creek until the stone wall was directly opposite her. Once across this last body of water, she could clean herself up and dress respectably in the skirt and T-shirt she’d placed at the top of the waterproof bag. Wearing a bikini at this time of night was hardly appropriate for meeting local people and sooner or later she had to confront someone in order to ask directions to Stone Town.

Waist-deep in water and hating every second of wading through it, Emily was concentrating on her footing when a commanding voice rang out.

‘Arretez!’

The French verb to stop certainly stopped her!

She almost tripped in sheer shock.

Her heart jerked into a fearful hammering as her gaze whipped up to fix on two men pointing highly menacing rifles at her. They wore white shirts and trousers with black gun-belts, giving them more the appearance of official policemen than drug-running gangsters, but Emily wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing. If they’d caught Jacques and were connecting her to his criminal activities—which the use of French language suggested—she might end up in prison.

One of the men clapped a small mobile telephone to his ear and spoke at speed in what sounded like Arabic. The other motioned her to continue moving to their side of the creek bank. Having a rifle waved at her did not incline Emily towards disobedience. She could only hope these people were representatives of the law on this island and that the law would be reasonable in listening to her.

A giant fig tree on her left had obviously provided an effective hiding place for them to watch for her emergence from the mangroves. She wondered if other patrols were out looking for her. Certainly her appearance was being reported to someone. As she scrambled up their side of the creek bank, one of the men came forward and snatched the waterproof bag out of her grasp.

‘Now hold on a moment! I’ve got my life in there!’ Emily cried in panicky protest.

Having her passport, money and clothes taken from her was a very scary situation. Thinking the men might believe the bag contained contraband, she tried persuading them to check its contents.

‘Look for yourself.’ Her hands flew out in a gesture of open-palmed innocence. ‘It’s just personal stuff.’

No response. The men completely ignored her frantic attempt to communicate with them both in English and in her very limited tourist French. She was grabbed at the elbows and briskly marched across quite an expanse of mown grass to a path which eventually led to a massive three-storey white building.

At least it didn’t look like a prison, Emily thought, desperately trying to calm her wildly leaping apprehension. The many columned verandahs on each level, with their elaborate wrought-iron lace balustrades, gave the impression of British colonial architecture serving some important government purpose.

Maybe a courthouse?

But why on earth would Jacques do his drug-running right under the nose of legal officialdom?

Could it be terribly corrupt officialdom?

This thought frayed her strung-out nerves even further. She was a lone foreign woman, scantily dressed, and her only tool of protection was her passport which she no longer had in her possession. It took all her willpower not to give way to absolute panic when she was escorted up the steps to the front verandah and was faced with horribly intimidating entrance doors.

These were about four metres high, ominously black, intricately carved around the edges, and featuring rows of big pointed brass studs. They were definitely the kind of doors that would deter anyone from gate-crashing a party. As they were slowly swung open Emily instinctively decided that a bowed head and downcast eyes might get her into less trouble in this place.

The first sight she had of the huge foyer was of a gorgeous Tree of Life Persian rug dominating a dark wooden floor. As she was forced forward onto this carpet her side vision picked up the kind of splendid urns one might see in an art museum, which suggested this could be a safe environment.

A burst of hope prodded her into lifting her gaze to check out where she was being taken. Her mind absolutely boggled at the scene rolling out in vivid Technicolor right in front of her. She was being led straight towards a huge central atrium, richly and exotically furnished in the style of a palatial reception area.

A walkway to the rest of the rooms on the ground floor surrounded the two-steps-down sunken floor of this incredible area, which was also overlooked by the balconies which ran around the second and third floors. Above it was a domed roof and from the circumference of the dome hung fantastic chandeliers of multicoloured glass that cascaded down in wonderful shapes and sizes.

As amazing as all this was, Emily’s gaze almost instantly zeroed in on the man who was certainly the focal centrepiece of this totally decadent and fabulous luxury. He rose with majestic dignity from a thronelike sofa which was upholstered in red and gold. His clothes—a long white undertunic and a sleeveless over-robe in royal purple edged in gold braid—seemed to embrace Arabian culture but he didn’t look like an Arab, more aristocratic Spanish. What wasn’t in any doubt was that Emily was faced with the most stunningly beautiful man she had ever seen in her life.

Beautiful…

Strange word to apply to a man yet handsome somehow wasn’t enough. The cast of his features was perfectly boned and balanced as though he was the creation of a mastor sculptor. A thick mane of straight black hair was swept back from his forehead, falling in shaggy layers to below his ears but not to shoulder-length. It was a bold and dramatic frame for a face that comprised brows which kicked up at a wicked angle, lending an emphatic effect to riveting dark eyes; a classically straight nose ending in a flare of nostrils that suggested a passionate temperament; a mouth whose upper lip was rather thin and sharply delineated while the lower lip was full and sensual.

The man fascinated, mesmerised, and although she thought of him as beautiful, there was an innate arrogant maleness to him that kicked a stream of primal fear through her highly agitated bloodstream. He was fabulous but also very foreign, and he was unmistakably assessing her female assets as he strolled forward, apparently for a closer examination.

Because he was at a lower floor level, Emily had the weird sense of catapulting back in time to the days when Zanzibar was the largest slave trading centre of the world, with herself being held captive on a platform for the buyers’ appraisal.

He lifted a hand to seemingly flick a hair back from his forehead as he spoke in Arabic to one of the guards holding her. The scarf she’d tied around her head was suddenly snatched away, the rough movement dislodging the pins which had kept her hair in a twisted coil around her crown. The sheer weight of the untethered mass brought it tumbling down, spilling over her shoulders and down her back.

‘Hey!’ Emily cried in frightened protest, her imagination rioting towards being stripped of her bikini, as well. She was suddenly feeling extremely vulnerable, terrified of what his next command might be.

A burst of fluent French came from the Spaniard/Arab. It was accompanied by a cynical flash of his eyes and finished with a sardonic curl of his mouth. While Emily had picked up a smattering of quite a few languages on her travels, she was not up to comprehending this rush of foreign words and she didn’t care for the expression that went with them, either.

‘Look, I’m not French. Okay?’ she pleaded. ‘Any chance you speak English?’

‘So—’ one black eyebrow lifted in sceptical challenge ‘—you are English?’

‘Well, no actually. I’m Australian. My name is Emily Ross.’ She nodded to the waterproof bag still being held by one of her guards. ‘My passport will prove…’

‘Nothing of pertinent interest, madamoiselle,’ he cut in drily.

Emily took a deep breath, pulling her wits together enough to address the real situation here. ‘Then may I ask what is of pertinent interest to you, monsieur?’

He made an oddly graceful gesture suggesting a rather careless bit of interest he was just as happy to dismiss. ‘Jacques Arnault gave a description of you which I find surprisingly accurate.’ He spoke in a slow drawl, laced with irony, his eyes definitely mocking as he added, ‘This has piqued my curiosity enough to inquire if he spoke more truth than I anticipated.’

‘What did he claim?’ Emily asked, her teeth clenching as she anticipated hearing a string of lies.

‘That you are a virgin.’

A virgin!

Emily shut her eyes as her mind exploded with the shocking implications behind her promised virginity.

It could mean only one thing.

Jacques Arnault…who couldn’t lie straight in bed at night even if he tried, the consummate con artist who’d tricked her into crewing on his yacht, the sneaky drug-runner who had no conscience about anything, whose mind was completely bent on doing whatever served his best interests…had obviously come up with a deal to save his own skin.

She was to be traded off as a sex slave!

‘No!’ she almost spat in fierce indignation, her eyes flying open to glare at the prospective buyer. ‘Absolutely not!’

‘I did not believe it,’ he said with a dismissive shrug, the tone of his voice a very cold contrast to her heat. ‘Since the evidence points to your being a professional belly-dancer, I’m sure you’ve had many patrons.’

‘A professional belly-dancer?’ Emily’s voice climbed incredulously at this further off-the-wall claim.

He gave her an impatient look. ‘Your costumes were found onboard Arnault’s yacht, along with the other luggage you abandoned in fleeing from being associated with the Frenchman’s criminal activities. Avoiding capture.’

Capture!

So Jacques had definitely been nabbed doing his drug-dealing, and his yacht subsequently searched, leading this man to think she’d twigged that the game was up and had taken to the water to escape being caught up in the mess.

‘I was not fleeing from capture tonight, monsieur. I was fleeing from being a captive on that boat since it set sail from the Red Sea.’

‘Jacques Arnault was holding you against your will?’

‘Yes. And any belly-dancing costumes your search turned up do not belong to me, I assure you,’ she stated heatedly, resenting the implied tag of being a professional whore, as well.

The heat in her voice slid right down her entire body as he observed in mocking detail every curve of her femininity; the voluptuous fullness of her breasts, the smallness of her waist, the broad sweep of her hips, the smooth flow and shape of her thighs, calves, ankles…

‘Your physique suggests otherwise, Miss Ross,’ he commented very dryly.

Emily burned. Her arms, released by the guards who were still flanking her, flew up to fold themselves protectively across her chest. Her chin lifted in belligerent pride as she stated, ‘I’m a professional diving instructor. I have a certificate to prove it amongst my papers in the bag your men took from me.’

Her inquisitor smiled, showing a flash of very white teeth, but something about that smile told Emily he was relishing the prospect of tearing her into tasty morsels and chewing on them. ‘It’s my experience that people can be many things,’ he remarked with taunting ease.

‘Yes. Well, you’re not wrong about that,’ she snapped. ‘Jacques Arnault is a prime example. And I think it’s time you told me who you are and what right you have to detain me like this.’

Emily was steaming with the need to challenge him, having been put so much on the spot herself. The idea of bowed head and downcast eyes was long gone. She kept a very direct gaze on his, refusing to back down from her demands.

‘You were caught trespassing on property that belongs to my family and you are closely linked to a man who was engaged in criminal activity on this same property,’ he clipped out as though her complaint was completely untenable—a total waste of time and breath.

‘You have no evidence that I was engaged in criminal activity,’ Emily swiftly defended.

He rolled his eyes derisively.

‘I swear to you I wasn’t,’ she insisted. ‘In fact, the costumes you found probably belong to the woman who posed as Jacques Arnault’s wife when I was tricked into becoming the only crew member on his yacht.’

‘Tricked, Miss Ross?’

‘I needed to get to Zanzibar. Jacques said he was sailing for Madagascar and would drop me off here if I helped…’

‘With his drug-running?’

‘No. With sailing the yacht,’ she cried in exasperation. ‘I didn’t know about the drug angle until after I woke up onboard and at sea, having been drugged myself.’

‘So…’He paused, his expression one of weighing up her account of the situation. He lifted a hand to stroke his chin as though in thoughtful consideration. But there was something simmering in his eyes that sent a warning tingle through Emily’s taut nerves as he concluded, ‘…you claim to be an innocent victim.’

‘I am an innocent victim,’ Emily pounced, swiftly asserting, ‘The deal was for me to be company for his wife as well as being another crew-member for the duration of the trip.’

One wickedly derisive eyebrow arched. ‘Where is the wife?’

Emily heaved a fretful sigh. Probably her story did sound unbelievable but it was the truth. She had nothing else to offer. ‘I don’t know. She was gone when I woke up the morning after I’d gone onboard.’

‘Gone,’ he repeated, as though underlining how convenient that was. ‘Without taking her belly-dancing costumes with her?’ he added pointedly.

Emily frantically cast around for a reason that might be credible. ‘Maybe she had to abandon them to get away from Jacques. I left quite a lot of my things behind on the yacht…’

‘In your bid to escape.’

‘Yes.’

‘To escape what, Miss Ross?’ he asked silkily. ‘You must admit Arnault has kept to the bargain you made with him, bringing you to Zanzibar, as agreed.’

‘Not to the public harbour at Stone Town, monsieur.’

‘This private harbour is along the way. He was on course to Stone Town.’

‘I couldn’t trust him to take me there. After doing his business at this location, he might have set sail for Madagascar, keeping me on as his crew.’

‘So you chose to commit yourself to a formidable swim in unknown waters, then brave facing a mangrove swamp in the darkness. This is the act of a desperate person, Miss Ross.’

‘A determined person,’ she corrected, though she was beginning to feel deeply desperate in the face of this prolonged cross-examination.

‘The kind of desperate person who will do anything to avoid facing prison,’ he went on with an air of ruthless logic. ‘A guilty person…’

‘I haven’t done anything wrong!’ she yelled, cracking under the pressure of his disbelief in her testimony. ‘I promised my sister I’d be in Stone Town for her and I wasn’t sure Jacques would take me there.’

‘Your sister. Who is your sister?’

‘Who are you?’ she whipped back, so frustrated by his incessant questioning of her position, the urge to attack his completely dismissed caution. ‘My sister and I have important private business. I’m not going to tell a stranger what it is.’

Her defiant stance earned a glance that told her she was being utterly ridiculous in his opinion, but Emily didn’t care. She wanted some answers, too.

‘You are addressing Sheikh Zageo bin Sultan Al Farrahn,’ he stated loftily.

A sheikh! Or was it a Sultan? He’d spoken both titles and either one made instant sense of this amazing place. But did he have any jurisdiction here?

‘I thought Sultan rule was long gone from Zanzibar and the island is now under the government of Tanzania,’ she threw back at him.

‘While it has become part of Tanzania, Zanzibar maintains its own government,’ he sharply corrected her. ‘And I command considerable respect and influence here. Instead of fighting me, Miss Ross, you would do well in these circumstances to seek my favour.’

‘And what does seeking your favour entail?’

Fiery contempt blazed from her eyes. Her nerves were wound up so tightly, she felt like a compressed spring about to explode from its compression. If he dared suggest a sexual favour…if he dared even lower his gaze to survey her curves again…Emily knew she’d completely lose it and start fighting like a feral cat.

Fortunately she was not dealing with a stupid man. ‘Perhaps you need time to consider your position, Miss Ross,’ he said in a reasoning tone. ‘Time to appreciate the importance of giving appropriate information so you can be helped.’

Emily’s mind slid from attack mode and groped towards wondering if she’d taken a self-defeating angle throughout this interview.

Her questioner lifted his arms into a wide, open-handed gesture. ‘Let us continue this conversation when you are feeling more comfortable. A warm bath, a change of clothes, some refreshment…’

She almost sagged at the heavenly thought.

‘I’ll have my men escort you to the women’s quarters.’

Right at this moment, Emily didn’t care if the women’s quarters was a harem full of wives and concubines. It would be good to be amongst females again, great to sink into a warm bath and get cleaned up, and a huge relief to be dressed in clothes that provided some sense of protection from the far too male gaze of Sheikh Zageo bin Sultan Al Farrahn.

CHAPTER THREE

ZAGEO glanced over the contents of the waterproof bag, now emptied onto a side table in his private sitting room and divided into categories for his perusal. He picked up the passport. If it was a genuine document, Emily Ross was an Australian citizen, born in Cairns. Her date of birth placed her as currently twenty-eight years old.

‘You have looked up this place…Cairns?’ he asked his highly reliable aide-de-camp, Abdul Haji.

‘A city on the east coast of far north Queensland, which is the second largest state in Australia,’ Abdul informed, once again proving his efficiency in supplying whatever Zageo did or might require. ‘The paper certifying Miss Ross as a diving instructor,’ he went on, gesturing to a sheaf of documents on the table, ‘is attached to various references by employers who have apparently used her services, catering for tourists at The Great Barrier Reef. They are not immediately checkable because of the different time zone, but in a few hours…’

Zageo picked up the papers. The certificate was dated six years ago so Emily Ross had apparently been plying this profession since she was twenty-two. ‘The resort on the Red Sea where Arnault supposedly picked up this woman…’

‘Is renowned for its diving around magnificent coral reefs,’ Abdul instantly slid in. ‘However, it also employs belly-dancers for nightly entertainment.’

Zageo flashed him a sardonic smile. ‘We will soon see if that picture fits.’ He waved to the meagre bundle of clothes. ‘This appears to be survival kit only.’

‘One can easily replenish lost clothes by purchasing them very cheaply at the markets.’

Zageo picked up a small bundle of American dollars and flicked through them to check their value. ‘There’s not much cash money here.’

‘True. No doubt Miss Ross was counting on using her credit card.’

Which was also laid out on the table—a Visa card, acceptable currency in most hotels. All the same, transactions and movements could be traced from a credit card, which didn’t exactly tally with criminal activities.

‘Surely there should be more ready cash if she is involved in the drug-running,’ Zageo observed.

Abdul shrugged. ‘We have no direct evidence of her complicity. I am inclined to believe she did make a deal with Arnault—free passage to wherever she wanted to go in return for crewing on his yacht…’

‘And sharing his bunk.’

The cyncical deduction evoked a frown that weighed other factors. ‘Curiously the search of Arnault’s yacht indicated separate sleeping quarters.’

‘Perhaps the man snores.’

‘There does not appear to be any love lost between them,’ Abdul pointed out. ‘Arnault is eager to trade Miss Ross for his freedom and…’

‘She jumps overboard rather than be caught with him. As you say, no love lost between them but sex can certainly be used as a currency by both parties.’

‘Then why would Miss Ross not use her very blatant sex appeal to win your favour?’

It was a good question.

In fact, she should have done. It was what Zageo was used to from the women he’d met in western society. For Emily Ross to be an exception to the rule made no sense whatsoever. It was a totally perverse situation for her to look furious at his taking note of her feminine attributes, and to try blocking his appreciation of the perfectly proportioned curves by folding her arms. Women who wanted to win his interest invariably flaunted every charming asset they had. It was the oldest currency in the world for getting where they wanted to be. So why was Emily Ross denying it?

By her own admission she was not an innocent virgin.

Nor was she too young to know the score when it came to dealings between men and women.

Many things about this woman did not add up to a logical answer. The way she had spoken to him—actually daring to challenge him—had verged on disrespect, yet there had been a quick and lively intelligence behind everything she’d said. Those amazingly vivid blue eyes could have played flirtatious games with him, but no, they had burned with the strongly defiant sense of her own individuality, denying him any power over her, showing contempt for his authority.

‘That woman needs to be put in her place,’ Zageo muttered, determined to do it before the night was very much older.

Abdul’s brow furrowed into another frown of uncertainty. He started stroking his beard, a sure sign of some perturbation of mind. ‘If she is Australian…’

‘Yes?’ Zageo prompted impatiently.

‘Perhaps it is because they are from a country which is detached from everywhere else…I have found Australians to be strangely independent in how they think and act. They are not from an authoritarian society and they think they have the right to question anything. In fact, those who have been in our employ at Dubai have bluntly stated we will get a better result if we let them perform in their own way.’

Zageo waved dismissively. ‘You are talking of men. Men who have gained some eminence in their fields.’

‘Yes, but I’m thinking this may be an endemic attitude amongst both men and women from Australia.’

‘You are advising me that this woman may not be in the habit of bowing to any authority?’

Abdul grimaced an apologetic appeal to soften any offence as he explained, ‘I’m saying Miss Ross may not have the mindset to bend to your will. It is merely something to be considered when taking in the whole.’

‘Thank you, Abdul. I will give more thought to the problem of Miss Ross. However, until such time as you have checked the references from her previous employers, we will pursue the course I have laid down. Please ensure that my instructions are followed.’

Abdul bowed his way out.

His aide always understood authority.

To Zageo’s mind it was utterly intolerable for Emily Ross not to bend to his will. At the very least the woman was guilty of trespassing. It was unreasonable of her to keep defying all he stood for.

She had to bend.

He would make her bend!

Emily’s bikini had been taken away while she was relaxing in a luxurious spa bath, enjoying the warm bursts of water on tired, stiff muscles and the aromatic mixture of lavender and sandalwood oils rising out of the bubbles. She’d been invited to wear a wraparound silk robe during the subsequent pampering—a manicure and pedicure while her hair was shampooed and blow-dried. Five star service in these women’s quarters, Emily thought, until it came time to discard the robe and dress for her next meeting with the sheikh.

She was ushered into a sumptuous bedroom where there was only one outfit on offer. It had not come from her waterproof bag. It had not come from the luggage she’d chosen to leave behind on the yacht. It did not belong to her but Emily knew instantly what it represented. Sheikh Zageo bin Sultan Al Farrahn wanted to see how well she fitted the contentious belly-dancing role. Without a doubt this was one of the costumes he’d accused her of owning.

The skirt seemed to be a concoction of chiffon scarves with colours ranging from deep violet, through many shades of blue to turquoise. These layers were attached to a wide hip band encrusted with royal-blue and gold and silver sequins with a border of dangling gold medallions. Violet lycra hipster panties came with the skirt. The cups and straps of the accompanying turquoise bra were also exotically patterned with sequins and beads.

Clearly this was not a cheap dress-up outfit.

It was an intricably fashioned professional costume.

Emily felt a twinge of concern for the woman to whom it did belong. What had happened to her? What was the story behind the storage of these specialty clothes on the yacht?

‘I can’t wear that,’ she protested to Heba, the oldest of the attendants who’d been looking after her. ‘It’s not mine,’ she insisted.

‘I have been instructed it is for you,’ came the inarguable reply. ‘His Excellency, the sheikh, has commanded that you wear it. There is no other choice.’

Emily gritted her teeth. Clearly His Excellency’s word was law in this household. He’d allowed her the leeway of cleaning up and feeling more comfortable, although most probably this indulgence was a premeditated softening up process and Emily was highly suspicious of the motive behind it.

Was the sexual trade-off still being considered?

Had she just been prepared for the sheikh’s bed?

It had been so easy to accept all the pampering but now came the crunch!

She could either dig in her heels and remain naked under the flimsy and all too revealing silk robe—not a good option—or don the belly-dancing costume which was probably less sexually provocative and would definitely leave her less physically accessible.

Given there would be no avoiding facing the sheikh again tonight—he’d have her hauled into his presence if she tried disobeying his instructions—Heba was right. No choice. It had to be the belly-dancing costume.

Emily quelled a flood of futile rebellion and grudgingly accepted the inevitable, thinking that with any luck, these blatantly sexy clothes wouldn’t fit and that would show him she’d been telling the truth.

Naturally the lycra panties proved nothing, stretching to accommodate her derriere. No problem. Annoyingly the skirt sat snugly on the curve of her hips—not too loose, not too tight. Emily eyed the bra balefully as she discarded the silk robe. It looked about right, but hopefully it wouldn’t comfortably reach around her back.

To her intense frustration, the straps were perfectly positioned for her shape, the hooks and eyes met with no trouble at all, and the wired cups designed to uplift breasts and emphasise cleavage made her look so voluptuous it was positively embarrassing. Okay, her breasts were not small, but they weren’t this prominent.

The belly-dancing costume actually made her feel more self-conscious of her body than the swamp-soiled bikini which had been whisked away the moment she’d discarded it to step into the spa bath. The skimpy two-piece had been a far more natural thing for her to wear. It hadn’t been exotic and erotic, aimed at titillating a man’s mind. It had simply been an off-the-peg garment for swimming.

However, there was no point in asking for it back.

Heba had her orders and clearly disobeying the sheikh was unthinkable.

Emily argued to herself that although she might feel caught up in a scene from The Arabian Nights, it couldn’t be true, not in today’s world. Even Heba was now using a very modern slimline mobile phone, undoubtedly reporting the state of play.

This forcing her to wear the belly-dancing costume had to be a pressure tactic, wanting her to feel more exposed, more vulnerable in the next interview about her activities. It couldn’t have anything to do with a sexual trade-off. Not really.

Two security guards and a bearded man whom they clearly regarded as a higher authority arrived to escort her elsewhere. The women’s quarters were on the second floor. Emily expected to be taken all the way down to the opulent atrium but she was led to a door on the first floor, which instantly evoked a wild wave of apprehension. At least the hugely open atrium had been like a public arena, overlooked by anyone on the ground or upper floors. She hoped, quite desperately, that some kind of official office was behind this door.

It wasn’t.

The bearded man ushered her into what was undoubtedly a private sitting room, richly furnished and sensually seductive with its many cushioned couches surrounding a low circular table which held a tempting display of food and drink. It was occupied by only one person who instantly proceeded to dismiss her usher.

‘Thank you, Abdul.’

The bearded man backed out of the room and closed the door, leaving Emily absolutely alone with a sheikh who apparently believed the only law that had to be respected was his own!

He strolled forward, intent on gaining an unencumbered view of her from head to foot—front view, side view and back view—in the costume he’d chosen for her to wear. Emily gritted her teeth and stood as still as a statue, determined not to betray her inner quaking and hoping that with her head held high, she looked as though she disdained any interpretation he took from how well the skirt and bra fitted her.

He moved behind her. Her spine crawled with an awareness of how close he was. Within an arm’s reach. And he did not move on. His out-of-sight stillness played havoc with her pulse, making her temples throb with acute anxiety. What was he doing? What was he thinking? Was she imagining it or had he touched her hair, sliding fingers around a tress, lifting it away from the rest?

‘You must fetch a very high price…as a dancer.’

The comment was spoken slowly, consideringly, his voice thick with a sensuality that raised goose-bumps all over her skin.

Emily swallowed hard to work some moisture into a very dry mouth. Her inner agitation had bolted beyond any control. Remaining still was beyond her. She swung around, catching sight of a swathe of her hair sliding out between the thumb and fingers of a hand that had been raised to his mouth. Or nose. The idea of him taking the intimate liberty of tasting it, smelling it, created total havoc in Emily’s mind.

‘You’re making a big mistake about me,’ she cried, struggling to find some defence to how he was making her feel.

‘That was meant as a compliment, Miss Ross,’ he answered, his mouth still curved in a look of sensual pleasure. ‘There is no need for you to bristle.’

He didn’t have the right to touch her without her permission. Emily wanted to say so but she sensed he would only laugh at the objection. Right now he had the power to do anything he wanted with her. All she could do was try to change his view of who and what she was.

‘It sounded as though you thought I was a…a call-girl,’ she protested.

His smile tilted with irony. ‘I think it more a case of your choosing whom you’ll take as a lover…as it suits you.’

Emily wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that, either. She had the weird sensation of being silently enticed to choose him as her next lover. Or was he setting a test—a trap—for her?

‘Come—’ he waved her forward to one of the couches close to the circular table ‘—you must be hungry after the rigours of your escape from Jacques Arnault.’

Her stomach was empty—so empty it kept convulsing with nervous energy. ‘Does this mean you believe I was escaping from him and not involved in the drug-running?’ she asked, not yet ready to take a step in any direction.

He swept her an open-handed, graceful gesture. ‘Until we reach a time and place of complete enlightenment, I would prefer you to consider yourself more my guest than my prisoner.’

‘You mean you are actually checking me out,’ Emily pursued the point, hoping for some sense of relief from his false assumptions about her.

‘Different time zones do not permit that process at the moment but rest assured nothing will be taken for granted. In the meantime…’

‘I am hungry,’ she admitted, thinking she’d feel safer sitting down, safer keeping her mouth busy with eating if she could make her stomach cooperate with an intake of food.

Again he waved her forward. ‘Please…seat yourself comfortably, relax, and help yourself to whatever you’d like.’

No way in the world could she ever relax in this man’s company, but putting a table between them seemed like a good defensive move. ‘Thank you,’ she said, forcing her feet to walk slowly, waiting for him to indicate where he would sit so she could settle as far away from him as possible.

Apparently he wanted to be face-to-face with her so she didn’t have to manoeuvre for a position opposite to his. He took it himself. Nevertheless, there was still a disturbing sense of intimacy, just in their being seated at the same table. The couches around it were curved, linking with each other so there was no real sense of separation.

‘What would you like to drink?’ he asked, as though she truly were a guest. ‘You have a choice of mango, pineapple and hibiscus juices, coconut milk…’

‘Hibiscus juice?’ She’d heard of the flower but hadn’t known a drink could be made from it.

‘Sweet, light and refreshing.’ He reached for a jug of hand-painted pottery depicting a red hibiscus. ‘Want to try it?’

‘No, thanks. I’ve always loved mango.’ Which she was long familiar with since it was such a prolific fruit tree around her home city of Cairns.

His dark eyes danced with mocking amusement over her suspicious refusal of the hibiscus jug. ‘Where has your adventurous spirit gone, Miss Ross?’

The light taunt goaded her into shooting some straight truth right back at him. ‘I feel like having some familiar comfort right now, Your Excellency.’

He picked up another pottery jug and poured mango juice into a beautiful crystal goblet. ‘The familiar is safe,’ he observed, a glittering challenge in his eyes as he replaced the jug and watched her pick up the goblet. ‘A woman who plays safe would never have boarded Arnault’s yacht. She would have taken a far more conventional, more protected route to Zanzibar.’

Emily fervently wished she had. Never more so than now. Dealing with this sheikh and his attitude towards her was undermining her self-confidence. She didn’t know how to even set about getting out of this. Telling the truth didn’t seem to be winning her anything, but what else could she do?

‘I’ve crewed on yachts many times around the Australian coast. I was looking for a way to save the cost of plane fares.’

‘You took a risk with a stranger.’

‘I thought I could handle it.’

‘And when you woke up and found there was no wife…how did you handle it then, Miss Ross?’

‘Oh, then it came down to the rules of survival at sea. We needed each other to sail the yacht so agreements had to be reached and kept. Jacques only tried to cross the line once.’ Her eyes hardened with the contempt she felt for the Frenchman. ‘I think he found it too painful to repeat that particular error in judgment.’

The sheikh’s mouth twitched into a sardonic little smile. ‘Perhaps this contributed to Arnault’s belief you were a virgin, Miss Ross, fighting for your virtue.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘One doesn’t have to be a virgin to not want a scumbag sharing your bed.’

‘A scumbag…’

‘The lowest of the low,’ she drily explained.

‘Ah!’ One eyebrow arched in wicked challenge. ‘And what of the highest of the high, Miss Ross? Where does your measure start for a man to be accepted into your bed?’

The highest of the high…

Emily’s heart catapulted around her chest.

He was speaking of himself. Had to be. Which made this question far too dangerous to answer. If he actually did want to be accepted into her bed…the speculative look in his eyes was making her toes curl.

Emily quickly reached out to pick up some tasty tidbit from the table to stuff in her mouth.

Eating was safe.

Speaking was dangerous.

She was suddenly heart-thumpingly sure that a desire for sexual satisfaction was more on Sheikh Zageo bin Sultan Al Farrahn’s mind than a desire for truth, and what he wanted from her was capitulation, vindicating everything he thought about her.

No way.

Never, she thought fiercely.

But what if he kept her here until she did give him the satisfaction he expected from her? She might never get to Stone Town for the meeting with her sister!

CHAPTER FOUR

ZAGEO watched Emily Ross eat. The consumption of an array of finger food was done with such single-minded focus, she could well have been absolutely alone in the room. He rated no visible attention whatsoever.

In any other woman’s company he would find this behaviour unforgivably rude. In fact, he couldn’t recall such a situation ever happening before. Emily Ross was proving to be an intriguing enigma on many levels, and perversely enough, her constantly challenging attitude was exciting more than just an intellectual interest in her. Mind-games with a woman were always sexy.

He suspected if he made some comment about her concentration on the food, she would lift those incredibly vivid blue eyes and state very reasonably, ‘You invited me to help myself. Do you now have some problem with me doing it?’

What reply could he make to that without sounding unreasonable?

The plain truth was he felt peeved by her refusal to show more awareness of him. It pricked his male ego. But he could wait. Time was on his side. Let her satisfy this hunger. If she was using it as an evasive tactic, it would come to an end soon enough and she’d be forced to acknowledge him again.

Besides, the Frenchman had not been wrong in his assessment of this woman’s physical attractions. She was intensely watchable. Her hair alone was a visual delight—not just one block of colour but an intriguing meld of many variations in shades of blond and copper. The description of ‘strawberry-blonde’ had suggested red hair and pale skin, but there was more of an overall warm glow in Emily Ross’s colouring. Her skin did not have the fairness that freckled. It was lightly tanned to a golden-honey shade.

Copper and gold, he thought. A woman of the sun with eyes the colour of a clear, sun-kissed sky. But her body belonged to Mother Earth, the fullness of her breasts and the width of her hips promising an easy fertility and a natural ability to nurture that Zageo was finding extremely appealing.

Perhaps it was the contrast to Veronique’s chic model thinness that had him so…fascinated…by this woman’s more opulent femininity. The lavish untamed hair denied any skilful styling by a fashionable hairdresser. The lavish flesh of her body—not fat, just well covered, superbly covered—allowed no bones to protrude anywhere, and would undoubtedly provide a soft cushioning for anyone lying with her—man or child.

She was a creature of nature, not the creation of diet and designer wear, and Zageo found himself wanting to lie with her, wanting to sink into her softness and wanting to feel her heat envelop him and suck him in to the deepest part of her where secrets melted and intimacy reigned. That was when she would surrender to him. Utterly and completely.

Zageo relished the thought of Emily Ross’s ultimate submission as he watched her eat. He was inclined to believe the Frenchman had not managed to get that satisfaction from her. Arnault’s sexual frustration would have primed his readiness to try selling her on, demonstrating a total lack of perception about Zageo’s character and the woman’s. Emily Ross was of the mettle to play her own game by her own rules.

Nevertheless, Zageo had no doubt she could be bought, just like everyone else.

It was always a matter of striking the right trade.

The challenge was in finding out what buttons to press for the door of opportunity to open.

‘Where were you aiming to meet your sister in Stone Town?’ he asked.

Important private business—if Emily Ross had spoken the truth about her motive for coming to Zanzibar—invariably provided leverage.

Emily chewed over that question as she finished a tasty egg and asparagus tartlet and sipped some more mango juice. She didn’t like the past tense he’d used, suggesting she wasn’t going to be allowed to keep her appointment with Hannah.

Her gaze targeted his, projecting very direct intent. ‘I still aim to meet her. She’s counting on my meeting her. I left the yacht and swam for it because I didn’t want to let my sister down.’

‘Is she in trouble?’

The quick injection of concern almost tripped Emily into spilling her own worries about Hannah’s situation. Caution clamped onto her tongue before it ran loose with information that was better kept private. Being an Australian, she was in the habit of assuming the world around her was safe unless it was proved otherwise. She had just been learning—the hard way—that she trusted too easily. Blithely believing that most people were of goodwill could land her in very nasty places.

‘It’s just a family meeting. I said I’d come. She’ll be expecting me,’ Emily stated, trying to sound matter-of-fact rather than anxious.

‘Miss Ross, if I am to believe you were not in league with Arnault and his drug-running…’He paused to give emphasis to his line of argument. ‘If I am to believe in your determination to meet your sister in Stone Town…there must be a designated place—be it hotel, shop, or private residence—and a name that can be checked there, giving credence to your story.’

Okay, she could see there was a credibility gap here that had to be crossed or her guest/prisoner status would remain as long as the sheikh cared to keep it in place. On the other hand, from the way he’d been eyeing her over, Emily had the distinctly uneasy feeling that not even credibility would earn her release from his custody. Still, she had to offer some proof that she was on a completely separate mission to Jacques Arnault’s.

‘The Salamander Inn. I don’t know if Hannah has booked ahead. Unlikely, I’d think, since she was unsure of when she’d make it to Zanzibar. But that’s our meeting place.’

‘The Salamander Inn is a boutique hotel. It offers the best and coincidentally the most expensive accommodation of all the hotels on this island. I know this.’ He smiled with an arrogance that somehow implied she’d just been very stupid. ‘I own it.’

Oh, great! The chance of escaping from this man anywhere on Zanzibar looked increasingly dim!

‘Fine!’ she said on an exasperated sigh. ‘Then you can easily check if Hannah has arrived or not.’

‘Her full name?’

‘Hannah Coleman.’

‘Not Ross?’

‘Coleman is her married name.’

‘So your sister is not likely to book under the family name of Ross?’

‘Hardly. Ross is my married name.’

That information ripped him out of his languid pose against the heaps of satin cushions on his couch. His body jerked forward, his loose robes suddenly pasted to a tautly muscled physique that seemed to bristle with assault readiness. Yet he spoke with a soft silky contempt which crawled straight under Emily’s skin, priming her into retaliation mode.

‘Where is your husband, Madame Ross?’

‘His ashes were thrown to a breeze out at sea…as he’d once said he’d prefer to being buried,’ Emily grated out, hanging firmly to being matter-of-fact so that she wasn’t embarrassed by one of the waves of grief which could still sweep up and overwhelm her when she thought of Brian’s death.

They’d been school sweethearts, rarely parted during all the years they’d spent sharing almost everything in each other’s company. Then to have him taken from her so abruptly…being left behind…alone…cheated of a future together…No, no, no, don’t go there, Emily!

She concentrated on watching her antagonist digest the news of her widowhood, the withdrawal of all expression from his face, the slow emergence of more sympathetic inquiry in his dynamic dark eyes.

‘How long ago?’ he asked quietly.

‘About two years.’

‘He was young?’

‘Two years older than me.’

‘How did he die?’

‘Brian was with a rescue team during a cyclone.’ She grimaced. ‘He died trying to save an old lady’s pet dog. A panel of flying roof hit him.’

‘A brave man then,’ came the thoughtful observation.

She managed an ironic smile. ‘I don’t think fear ever had any influence on Brian’s actions. He just did whatever he set out to do. We used to go adventuring a lot, working our way around Australia.’

‘You do not have children?’

She shook her head. ‘We weren’t ready to settle down with a family. In fact, we were getting ready to set off on a world trip…’

‘When the cyclone happened,’ he finished for her.

‘Yes,’ she muttered, frowning at the realisation that she’d spoken more of Brian in the past two minutes than in the entire two years since her departure from Australia.

You have to move on, she’d told herself, and move on she had, a long slow trip across Asia, more or less going wherever the wind blew her on her travels, not wanting to face making any long-term decisions about her life—a life without the man who’d always coloured it.

She’d attached herself to other groups of people from time to time, working with them, listening to their experiences, soaking up interesting pieces of information, but what was highly personal and private to her had remained in her own head and heart.

So why had she opened up to this man?

Her mind zapped back the answer in no time flat.

Because he was getting to her in a highly primitive male/female way and she’d instinctively brought up the one man she’d loved as a shield against these unwelcome feelings. Her marriage to Brian was a defence against other things, as well, like the idea she was a belly-dancer with indulgent sugar-daddies on the side.

She was, in fact, a perfectly respectable widow who hadn’t even been tempted into a sexual dalliance by the many gorgeous eye-candy guys who’d offered to share their beds and bodies while they were ships passing on their separate journeys. Sex without emotional involvement hadn’t appealed, and it didn’t appeal now, either, she fiercely told herself, willing her body to stop responding in this embarrassingly animal fashion to a very foreign sheikh who wanted to treat her as a whore.

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