“You think I just desire you?”

“I know you just desire me, Your Highness. You made me brutally aware of your lust from the first moment we met. It knocked you over. So when you got the chance, you paid five million dollars to force me to do what I told you I would never do willingly. But there is nothing you can say or do to make me change my mind about what kind of man you are. I already know what kind you are. I’ve met your kind before.”

“Oh, I doubt that, dear lady,” he said in a tone that sent shivers running up and down her spine. “In that case—” he ground out the words “—you leave me no alternative.”

Charmaine swallowed. “What do you mean? No alternative…?”

“I paid five million dollars for a few short hours of your company tonight. I will donate five hundred million dollars to your precious charity foundation…if you spend a week with me.”

Three Rich Men

Three Australian billionaires;

they can have anything and anyone…

except three beautiful women…

Meet Charles, Rico and Ali, three incredibly wealthy friends all living in Sydney. They meet every Friday night to play poker and exchange news about business and their pleasures—which include the pursuit of Sydney’s most beautiful women.

Up until now, no single woman has ever managed to pin down the elusive, exclusive and eminently eligible bachelors. But that’s all about to change. First Charles, then Rico and finally Ali will fall for three gorgeous girls….

A Rich Man’s Revenge #2349—Charles’s story

Mistress for a Month #2361—Rico’s story

Sold to the Sheikh #2374—Ali’s story

Available only from Mills & Boon

Sold to the Sheikh

Three Rich Men

Miranda Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

HIS eyes had been on her all afternoon. Dark, beautiful eyes. Arrogant eyes. Presumptuous eyes.

Charmaine knew, soon after their introduction, that His Royal Highness, Prince Ali of Dubar, was going to make some kind of pass before the day’s races were over.

From the moment she became aware of the sheikh’s interest in her, Charmaine regretted accepting this particular job. The pleasure of being one of the judges for the ‘Fashion-in-the-Field’ competition during Flemington’s spring racing carnival did not override the displeasure of being pursued by yet another international playboy.

But by the time she’d completed the job she’d been hired for—the final judging on Ladies’ Day had been over by four—Charmaine had a firm handle on her irritation and began looking forward to that moment when her admirer put his mouth where his eyes had been, so to speak. Not literally, of course. The thought of such a man actually kissing her made her shudder. Nothing repelled Charmaine more than overly good-looking, overly wealthy men who thought any female they fancied could be had for the price of a dinner. Or even less.

And this one was more than overly good-looking and overly wealthy. The Arab prince and horse breeder was one of the most handsome men—and undoubtedly one of the richest—Charmaine had ever met. Taller and leaner in her opinion than most Arab princes, he was also clean-shaven and dressed that day not in traditional Arab dress, but a pale grey suit and brilliant white shirt which highlighted his richly olive skin and thick, jet-black hair. His face was as hard and lean as his body, his dark, deeply set eyes bisected by a strong nose that was underlined by a cruelly carved but not unattractive mouth.

He looked unlike any sheikh Charmaine had ever met. And she’d met a few. Supermodels met many of the world’s wealthiest men, both in the course of their careers and their social lives. The rich and famous liked having the bold and the beautiful at their dos.

Being invited to be a special guest of Prince Ali in his private box at the races had not surprised Charmaine. Having the sheikh think what he had obviously been thinking about her all afternoon didn’t surprise her, either. In her experience, billionaire Arab playboys had a tendency to overestimate their own irresistibility, as well as underestimate the morals of some western women. No doubt, in this sheikh’s mind, supermodel equated with superslut.

Charmaine would take great delight in cutting Prince Ali down to size a little. His inflated male ego, she decided as she sensed him watching her again, needed pruning.

She was right. He was watching her, his eyes never leaving her as she made her way back up into the stand, burning their way through her figure-hugging silk dress, stripping her of every stitch and leaving her feeling stark naked and almost bitter over her undeniable physical assets. Not for the first time, Charmaine had a moment of burning resentment over the genes which had combined her father’s height and Nordic fairness with her mother’s large blue eyes and womanly curves to produce a tall, head-turning blonde who’d first rocketed to modelling fame at the tender age of sixteen.

Nine years later, Charmaine’s precocious beauty had blossomed into a more mature but still widely recognisable look with her striking figure and extra-long but perfectly straight fair hair. Hourglass shapes were supposedly out of fashion, but Charmaine’s elegantly elongated version was eagerly sought after by designers, primarily because she could showcase their wares more effectively than her thinner colleagues. She was especially popular with swimwear and lingerie fashion houses and had made a small fortune being photographed in a state of dishabille.

Unfortunately, a side-effect of being seen on billboards and magazine covers in skimpy underwear and hardly there bikinis was that some men presumed her whole body was for sale, not just the image she projected. It was amazing how many wealthy men had thought they could buy her as their trophy girlfriend, or mistress, or even wife. Charmaine found this perversely amusing. Little did they know but she was the last woman on earth they would want in their beds.

The man staring at her at this moment would be severely disappointed if she agreed to whatever of those three intimate alternatives he had in mind. She was actually doing him a favour in rejecting his overtures.

With a small smile hovering on her lips, she lowered herself with an almost perverse pleasure into the seat he’d obviously kept clear for her, right next to his own and close enough for her to smell his expensive cologne and see that his black eyes were framed with the longest lashes she had ever seen on a man.

The rest of the box was empty, not even graced by the granite-faced bodyguard who’d either stood at the back or shadowed the prince everywhere he’d gone so far that afternoon. Clearly the bodyguard had encountered this particular scenario before, and knew to make himself scarce whilst his boss chatted up whatever lady his royal eye had fallen upon.

‘I have been eagerly awaiting your return,’ the prince said in that overly formal manner which only a British private-school education could have instilled in him. ‘You have finished your judging for today?’

‘Yes, thank goodness. I didn’t realise how difficult a task it would be, picking the winner from so many beautifully dressed ladies.’

‘If I had been the judge, there would have been only the one winner. And that is your lovely self.’

Oh, please, she thought wearily. Save it for a more impressed model.

Charmaine didn’t give voice to her irritation. Not yet. Instead, she waited patiently for him to put his foot further into his mouth.

‘I was wondering if you might be free this evening,’ he went on predictably. ‘I would very much like to have your company at dinner.’

What you’d like, my pompous prince, is to have me for dinner. Or afters.

Her eyes turned cold as his continued to smoulder.

‘I’m sorry,’ she returned with an upward tilt of her chin that lifted the brim of her picture hat and gave him a clearer view of her icy blue eyes, ‘but I’m not free tonight.’

Her first refusal did not deter him, as she knew it wouldn’t.

‘Perhaps another night, then. I hear you live in Sydney. You may not be aware of the fact, but I am in Sydney every weekend.’

Actually, she hadn’t been aware of much about the prince at all till today. Like a lot of sheikhs, he did not seek publicity. But a Melbourne racehorse-owning couple who were also guests of the prince today had been more than happy to fill her in when he was off presenting a trophy for one of the early races which his family had sponsored. Charmaine now knew he was in his mid-thirties and managed a huge thoroughbred stud in the upper Hunter Valley north-west of Sydney, a job he’d been doing very successfully for the last decade. Apparently, his royal family’s interests in horse-racing spread far and wide and they had similar breeding establishments in Britain and America. Prince Ali, however, was solely in charge of the Australian branch.

She’d also been discreetly informed of his reputation as a ladies’ man and a lover, although she wasn’t sure if that had been a warning or an advertisement for her host’s boudoir skills, a teaser meant to whet her appetite to experience the reality rather than the rumour. If so, his minions had been wasting their time. They’d definitely picked the wrong target today. And so had he.

She couldn’t wait to enlighten him of his mistake.

‘I will be back in Sydney by tomorrow afternoon,’ he went on suavely, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘I play cards with friends in my hotel suite every Friday night and attend the Sydney races every Saturday. To be truthful I rarely travel interstate. I only came to Melbourne this week because I had a horse running in the Cup last Tuesday and another in the Oaks today. Unfortunately, neither of them won.’

‘How sad for you,’ she said without a trace of true sympathy in her voice.

He didn’t seem to notice, however. Perhaps he could not conceive of the possibility that a woman would not hang on his every word, or feel anything but flattery over his obvious interest.

Charmaine almost smiled over the thought that Prince Ali of Dubar was about to have a new experience with the opposite sex. It was called…rejection.

‘Would you be free to go to dinner with me this Saturday night?’ he persisted, as she had known he would. ‘Or do you have further commitments which will keep you down here in Melbourne?’

‘No. I fly back to Sydney tomorrow morning. But I won’t be free to have dinner with you that night, either. Sorry,’ she added blithely.

His frown carried some confusion. ‘You have another engagement?’

‘No,’ came her succinct reply.

His frown deepened. ‘There is a lover who would object to your going out to dinner with me?’ he ventured in his bewilderment. ‘Or a secret patron perhaps?’

Charmaine’s irritation reached new heights, prompted by both his stuffy manner of speech and his presumption that there had to be some man stopping her from going out with him. It could not possibly be that she didn’t find him irresistible and didn’t want to go out with him. What annoyed her most, however, was his last inference that she might already be some wealthy man’s secret mistress.

‘I have no lover, or patron, as you put it,’ she replied curtly. ‘The fact is, your royal highness, I will never be free to go out with a man like you, so please save yourself the trouble and don’t ask again.’

His eyes flared momentarily with shock before going as hard as ebony, his dark brows gathering like clouds before the storm.

‘A man like me,’ he reiterated in clipped tones. ‘Might I ask exactly what you mean by that?’

‘You may ask,’ she answered coolly, ‘but you will not get an answer.’

‘Surely I have a right to know why you have turned me down so rudely.’

Some of the fury that Charmaine had kept bottled up for years bubbled up in her throat and found voice.

’Right?’ she snapped, and was on her feet in a flash. ‘You have no rights where I am concerned. You asked me out. I declined. You asked me again, so I made it quite clear that any further attentions of yours are unwanted. I don’t think that is rude. That is my right, to not be pestered by spoiled and arrogant men who have not had no said to them nearly often enough. My answer is and always will be no, Prince Ali. Hear it and take heed of it, because if you ever make contact with me again, I will have you arrested for stalking!’

She whirled and swept out of the box, swishing her way down the steps and out of the stand. She half expected him to charge after her but he didn’t, for which she was grateful, because she knew if he dared lay a hand on her, she would strike him across his arrogant face. Her hands were gripping her handbag with white-knuckled intensity, but they would have loved any excuse to lash out physically at him. A verbal assault was not nearly enough to soothe her temper.

Charmaine didn’t stop her angry retreat till she had reached the car park, and her car. But even as she climbed in behind the wheel of her rented blue car and started up the engine, she was still shaking inside.

The sight of the sheikh’s stunned face suddenly filled her mind and she groaned. She had gone too far this time. Way too far.

Normally, she said her nos to such men much more politely and tactfully. Something about Prince Ali, however, had brought out the worst in her. She wasn’t sure what. Possibly because he was armed with far too many attractions for most females to resist. Goodness, those eyes!

Charmaine imagined he’d been very successful in seducing then carelessly discarding many silly Australian girls in the past. Such thoughts had her blood heating in her veins again. When she went to reverse out of her spot, she did so recklessly and almost backed into another car. She must have missed it by an inch.

Giving herself a rigorous mental shake, Charmaine forcibly calmed herself before resuming her exit from the car park. The last thing she wanted was to have an accident. She had to be in Fiji on Monday, on a photo shoot for the cover of a sporting magazine.

Stop thinking about the man, she lectured herself as she drove off at a relatively sedate speed. And stop feeling guilty. Men like him don’t have feelings like ordinary people. They have egos, and desires, both of which are well catered for. So he wanted you for a moment today. And he didn’t get what he wanted for once. Big deal! He won’t go to dinner—or to bed—alone tonight. There will be some other foolish female to soothe his ego and satisfy his desires. You don’t have to worry about him. Or even think about him.

But she did think about him, on and off for the next week. Guilt, she supposed. Being so openly rude was not part of her usual public persona. When out and about, she kept her feelings well hidden, covering the darkness within under a cloak of sweetness and light. The way she’d treated the sheikh had been quite uncharacteristic and strangely troubling.

Finally, however, all thought of him was gone, banished from her mind as she got on with her life and her life’s work. Charmaine was on a mission these days, and that mission had no time for men. Certainly not men like Prince Ali of Dubar. She’d finished with that type many years before. More recently, she’d finished with the nicer types as well.

The media would be surprised to know that Charmaine, the Aussie model who’d been voted by more than one glossy rag as one of the sexiest women in the world, now lived a celibate lifestyle. There were no boyfriends or lovers any more. And definitely no secret patrons, she thought sneeringly. The very idea!

Of course, Charmaine had enough business nous to realise that news of her nun-like life would not do her career any good. Being seen as sexy and sexually active was part of her image. So she continued to be snapped by the media at premières and parties on the arms of handsome young men, usually hunky male models who had a sexual secret of their own, namely that they were gay. And she continued to model the most daring of clothes, often without any visible underwear.

Charmaine kept her public profile high, and her image extremely sexy. She earned more money that way. And money was the name of the game these days. It took millions, she’d found out since she started up the Friends of Kids with Cancer foundation, to fund cancer research, as well as make the lives of children already suffering from cancer more bearable, not to mention their poor families’ lives. Millions and millions!

Sometimes, Charmaine surrendered to depression over the enormity of the mission she’d set herself. Could she really make a difference? But most of the time she was filled with the most dogged determination. She would do anything she could to raise money for her own very personal cause and crusade.

Anything at all!

CHAPTER ONE

OCTOBER, the second month of spring in Sydney, eleven months later…

‘I have to admire your courage, Charmaine,’ Renée said as she glanced up from where she’d been studying the lunch menu. ‘Have you thought about what kind of man the highest bidder for your dinner-date-with-Charmaine prize next Saturday night could be?’

‘A very rich man, hopefully,’ Charmaine replied with a flash of pearly white teeth. ‘My total target for the banquet and auction is ten million dollars.’

‘He could be a right sleazebag, you know,’ Renée warned. ‘Or an obsessed fan.’

Charmaine smiled again over at Renée, who was not only the owner of the modelling agency she was currently contracted to, but a nice person, too. Even nicer now that she was happily married and expecting.

As much as Charmaine was cynical when it came to rich and handsome men, she had to concede that it looked as if Renée had found a one-off in Rico Mandretti. Who would have thought that the playboy king of cable-TV cooking shows would turn out to be good husband and father material?

But he had. When Charmaine met the A Passion for Pasta star in person for the first time the other night, he hadn’t flirted with her one bit. A good sign. Not that she could be absolutely sure of Mr Mandretti’s loyalty and sincerity, she supposed. She and Renée did not mix socially so she didn’t know Renée and Rico as a couple at all. Her own relationship with Renée, though friendly, was strictly business. Charmaine never confided her personal secrets or innermost feelings to the woman.

‘I don’t care what kind of man he is,’ Charmaine said truthfully, ‘as long as he pays a good price for the privilege. You don’t have to worry about my safety, Renée, though it’s sweet of you to care. It is clearly stipulated on the auction programme that the dinner date is to be held the following Saturday night in the By Candlelight restaurant in the Regency Hotel, which is a public place. If there’s even a hint of trouble, I’ll be out of there like a shot.’

Renée had no doubt she would be, too. Charmaine was one tough cookie. Much tougher than the image she projected on the catwalk and in photographs. There, she was all soft sex kitten, her looks and manner creating an unusual combination of sensuality and innocence which always fascinated men and rarely alienated women.

Renée had often tried to analyse what exactly it was about Charmaine’s looks which managed this miracle. Where did that air of innocence come from? Perhaps from her fresh, flawless complexion or maybe her long, straight fair hair which fell in a simple curtain to her waist. Certainly not from her full, pouty mouth, almost too voluptuous figure or her come-to-bed blue eyes.

The contradictory nature of Charmaine’s beauty was as elusive as her inner self.

Renée suspected that no one in the modelling industry knew the real Charmaine, certainly not the male models she occasionally dated. Renée knew for a fact that those particular pretty boys were just handbags to Charmaine, sexy accessories for public consumption. Real boyfriends they definitely were not.

Actually, in the time she’d known Charmaine, she’d never known her to have a real boyfriend. More than likely, the girl didn’t have time for personal relationships these days, what with her career and her charity work. But Rico—typical testosterone-based man that he was—did not agree. He believed she’d more likely been burned by some man in the past and was going through a cynical phase. Rico had difficulty with the idea of any woman not really wanting a man in her life.

Maybe he was right. And maybe not. Renée was not about to risk her professional relationship with Charmaine by asking her questions about her sex life. She’d been over the moon when Australia’s most successful model signed up with her agency eighteen months back.

Previously, Charmaine had employed a personal agent-manager, but he’d been fired after fiddling his expenses. If there was one thing that girl was ruthless about, it was her money. She demanded to be well paid and she didn’t give an unnecessary cent away.

A good percentage of the money she earned, Renée suspected, went to Charmaine’s beloved Friends of Kids with Cancer foundation, which she’d personally started up not long before she’d joined Renée’s modelling agency. Charmaine’s little sister had died of leukaemia the year before, and the tragedy had affected the girl greatly. After a couple of months’ sabbatical from modelling to grieve the loss, she’d come out fighting to do something to help other such kids. Hence, the foundation.

When Charmaine was on the fund-raising war-path, no one was safe. She harassed everyone she met for monetary donations or their time. She’d even coerced Renée into talking Rico into being the compère at the auction on Saturday night. Renée was thankfully absolved from taking part herself because she was seven months pregnant. With twins! But she would be attending, of course.

Actually, Renée was looking forward to that evening. Charles and Dominique would be there, which meant she and Dominique could talk babies. Even Ali had promised to make an appearance, though not for the dinner, just for the auction. He hadn’t been going to set his rich Arab foot in the door till Renée showed him the glossy brochure Charmaine had put together that listed all the items to be auctioned and explained where all the money raised would be going.

His change of mind had still surprised everyone at cards last Friday night; Ali kept his public appearances to a minimum because of security reasons. Perhaps the venue sold him on coming. The Regency Hotel had a reputation for keeping its famous and wealthy clientele very safe indeed.

‘By the way, I managed to fill my table at last,’ she told Charmaine. ‘Another of my card-playing friends agreed to come. Did I mention to you I play poker with a high-rolling crowd every Friday night, in the presidential suite at the Regency Hotel no less?’

‘No, you’ve never mentioned that. How interesting. You own racehorses as well, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Racing is a passion with me, I admit. So is poker. I’m a mad gambler. Anyway, you’ll also be pleased to know that these other mad gamblers I play poker with are all filthy rich. Charles Brandon is one of them. You know, the brewery magnate?’

‘Oh, yes, I met him at a recent première party at Fox Studios. He has a stunner of a wife, doesn’t he?’

‘That’s the one. Dominique’s her name. They’re good for a few grand at the auction. Both have hearts of gold. Can’t say quite the same about my number-four poker-playing partner, but he can be generous on occasion. He’s—’

‘Are you ready to order, ladies?’ the waitress interrupted.

‘Just give us a moment,’ Charmaine said, and the waitress hurried off to attend to another table. The restaurant they were having lunch at was situated on one of the renovated wharves at Wooloomooloo, right on the harbour. Only a stone’s throw from the city centre, it was very trendy and very popular, particularly at lunch time on a splendid spring day.

‘Enough about the auction, Renée,’ Charmaine said firmly. ‘Back to the business at hand. Food. Shall we be bad and order something fattening for once?’ She picked up the menu and started perusing it avidly. ‘Gosh, this is all so tempting! It’s been months since I had a hamburger. I hear the designer hamburgers here are out of this world. Ooh, and look, there’s mango cheesecake on the dessert list. I have a penchant for cheesecake. Damn it, I’m definitely ordering that. With cream,’ she finished up defiantly.

Renée laughed. She knew first-hand that models rarely ate anything really fattening, not even the naturally curvy variety like Charmaine. ‘You can, if you like,’ she said, ‘but not me. I’ve already put on eight kilos with this pregnancy, and I’m told I could double that if I go full term.’

‘Do you know what sex the babies are?’ Charmaine asked.

Renée beamed as she always did when asked about her precious twins. ‘I do indeed. A boy and a girl. Aren’t I just the luckiest woman in the world?’

Till she’d married Rico, Renée had thought she’d never have children. But with her husband’s love and support and the best IVF team in Australia, she was now, at the ripe old age of thirty-six, expecting not just one baby, but two! Rico was over the moon and Renée was ecstatic. Everything had gone very well so far and, other than the occasional spot of heartburn and backache, she felt as fit as a fiddle.

Charmaine smiled at her. ‘I imagine you just might be. Although my mum is a pretty lucky lady. There again, she’s married to my dad, so perhaps I’m biased.’

Renée absorbed this piece of information with some surprise. Charmaine never talked about her family. For some reason, Renée had assumed she was estranged from them these days. Clearly, she was mistaken. Maybe they’d just lost touch a bit. Charmaine’s life was a hectic one, what with the demands on her time for her career, and now her charity work.

Renée knew from earlier Press articles about Charmaine that her parents were country folk who ran a cotton farm out west of the Great Divide, pretty well in the middle of nowhere. Their nearest town only had one garage, one hotel and one general store. From the time she was fifteen, Charmaine had used to work behind the counter of that store at the weekend, and during lulls—which was probably most of the time—filled in her time reading magazines about models and dreaming of one day being one herself. At fifteen and a half, she’d entered her photograph into a teen magazine’s cover-girl competition, and won. By sixteen she was strutting her stuff on the catwalk in Sydney during Australia’s fashion week.

Renée had been a model herself back then and recalled how peeved all the other older models were when this inexperienced teenage upstart carrying far too many curves had upstaged them. But she’d been an instant hit, especially with the designers. On Charmaine’s tall yet shapely figure, all clothes looked fabulous, and so sexy. When Charmaine had to go home for a while with a nasty case of glandular fever the other models had breathed a sigh of relief. But she’d returned to Sydney the following year and taken up right where she left off.

By then eighteen, a slightly slimmer but more mature-looking Charmaine had been simply stunning. Ravishing was how she was described by the fashion Press. Ravishing and ready to rule the modelling world. She hadn’t quite done that, but she was soon right up there with the best of them, and Renée’s agency now had a piece of that success.

‘Do you take after your mother or your father?’ Renée asked, her curiosity aroused.

‘Both, in looks. But neither in character. Mum’s a sweetie and Dad’s an old softie. I might act soft and sweet, but underneath I’m a total bitch,’ she said, then laughed. ‘But then, you already know that, don’t you?’

‘Not at all,’ Renée replied, astounded. ‘You play hardball in business matters but that’s not the same. I’ve met plenty of total bitches in my life and trust me, Charmaine, you are certainly not one of them. A total bitch wouldn’t work so hard for charity for starters, I can tell you.’

‘Aah, but that’s my only Achilles heel,’ Charmaine said, looking sad and wistful for a moment. ‘Kids with cancer. Poor little mites. I can bear it when life is unspeakably cruel and unfair to adults. But not children. They do not deserve that fate. Not when they’ve done nothing to cause it.’

She swallowed, then gritted her teeth.

You’re not going to cry, are you? Crying never achieves a thing. Crying is for babies, and the broken-hearted. You’re hardly a baby, and your heart isn’t broken any more, Charmaine. It’s been super-glued back together and nothing will ever break it again.

She reached for the complimentary glass of water that sat on the café table and sipped it till she had herself totally under control. Then she put the glass down and smiled at the woman opposite her, who had a worried frown on her lovely face.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I get emotional when I talk about kids with cancer.’

‘There’s no need to be sorry. I think what you feel is very admirable. I can understand it entirely.’

Charmaine refrained from laughing at this statement. How could Renée possibly understand? No one could understand who hadn’t been through it themselves. Watched a child suffer and die. A sweet, innocent little child.

But she probably meant well.

How old was Renée? Charmaine wondered. Early thirties? Older? Must be a bit older, though she still looked marvellous. Some women glowed when they were pregnant. Others looked drawn and dreary. Renée was clearly the glowing kind.

The waitress materialised at their table again.

‘Ready to order yet, ladies?’ she asked chirpily.

‘Absolutely,’ Charmaine replied and ordered the Caribbean-style beef-burger with fries and salad, mango cheesecake with cream, and a cappuccino.

When Renée stared at her, she laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t eat any dinner tonight and I’ll punish myself in the gym tomorrow.’ As she always did. Every single day.

But then her whole life was now a punishment, wasn’t it? For her sins, especially that one really wicked sin, the one she could never forgive herself for, the one she would never forget.

‘You’ll have to if you hope to fit into that dress you’re planning to wear on Saturday night,’ Renée pointed out. ‘As it is, it looks as if you’ve been sewn into it.’

‘Oh, darn, you’re right. I’d momentarily forgotten about that.’ She sighed and looked up at the patiently waiting waitress. ‘Could I change my order to something less fattening, like a lettuce leaf au naturel?’

The waitress grinned. ‘I’m so glad you have to watch what you eat, too. If I thought you could look the way you do without suffering even a little, it would kill me.’

‘Then do not despair,’ Charmaine said drily. ‘I suffer more than a little. I suffer a lot every single day.’ And then some! ‘OK, give me the fish of the day, grilled, with a side salad. No dressing. No dessert. And black coffee to follow. How’s that?’ she asked Renée.

Renée laughed. ‘Perfect. I’ll have the same.’

CHAPTER TWO

THE ballroom at the Regency Hotel was a popular Sydney venue for top-drawer functions. Its spectacular Versailles-inspired walls had borne witness to many society balls, awards nights, fashion extravaganzas, product launches, company Christmas parties and, yes, quite a few charity benefits. Its ornate, high-domed ceilings and huge chandeliers had looked down upon the rich and famous on many occasions as they gathered in their finery to celebrate or support whatever cause had brought them together.

Tonight’s cause was one which never failed to touch even the most hard-hearted. Kids with cancer. Charmaine knew that for a fact. And she’d exploited it shamelessly as she’d put together this, her first charity banquet and auction.

But it had been one hell of a lot of work, taking up every spare moment of her time for the last six months. Her social life—what there was of it these days—had suffered accordingly. Even her career had suffered, with her refusing any assignments that would take her overseas for more than a few days.

But it was all worth it to see the fantastic turn-out tonight. Every table filled, and all by people who could well afford the hefty thousand-dollar price tag on each ticket. For which they would get a moderately nice sit-down dinner which probably cost less than fifty dollars a head to produce.

Not that the Friends of Kids with Cancer foundation had to pay anything at all for the catering. The relatively new owner of the Regency Hotel had been persuaded to donate the three hundred dinners required, plus all the drinks and the ballroom itself. Charmaine had discovered that Max Richmond’s brother had died of cancer when quite a young man, an unfortunate tragedy which she’d been quick to capitalise on.

Ah, yes, there wasn’t anything she wouldn’t stoop to to raise money to reach tonight’s ten-million-dollar target, including going without food of any appreciable kind both yesterday and today so that she could fit into the dress she was wearing as co-host of tonight’s auction, a dress that almost defied description.

Wicked was the word that sprang to mind.

How she came to be wearing this particular dress was intriguing. She’d gone to see the head of Campbell Jewels at her home, as she’d personally visited all of the CEOs of Sydney’s top companies, begging and bulldozing them for donations for her auction. Most accommodated her in some way. Celeste Campbell had been very amenable, donating a lovely selection of jewellery. She’d also had that no-nonsense, straight-down-the-line manner that Charmaine admired in a woman. Charmaine had warmed to her immediately, and vice versa.

When Celeste found out the charity auction was being held in the Regency ballroom, she’d related to Charmaine the story of another auction that had been held there a decade earlier, not long before Charmaine herself had first come to Sydney. Apparently there’d been a sit-down banquet, like tonight, followed by the auction of the famed black opal called the Heart of Fire, which was now in the Australian Museum.

Charmaine had been startled to learn that during the course of the evening there’d been an attempted robbery and a shooting. Charmaine had been fascinated by the woman’s story, then totally blown away when Celeste showed her the dress she’d worn that night. It was one of the most provocative evening gowns Charmaine had ever seen.

When Celeste proclaimed she was too old to wear such a dress these days, Charmaine had swiftly jumped in and asked if she could borrow it to wear to the charity auction. She’d known straight away that it was just the thing to get some rich fool to bid a ridiculous price for a dinner date with her. Celeste Campbell had refused—and given her the gown instead! Charmaine had been thrilled.

And now here she was, wearing it, but not feeling quite so confident, or so cocky. Her stomach was doing more somersaults than it had on her very first modelling assignment. Yet she was never nervous these days, no matter how much flesh she was flaunting.

Not that Celeste Campbell’s dress showed all that much bare flesh. Its wickedness was far more subtle than that.

There was nothing at all risqué about its basic full-length strapless style, except perhaps that her breasts were having difficulty being confined in the tightly boned bodice, which was two sizes too small for her. Even that little problem was hidden to some degree by the layer of sheer chiffon stretched over the satin underdress, the chiffon reaching high up around the neck and running tightly down her arms to her wrists.

It was the skin tone of both the satin material and the chiffon, plus the selected beading on the front and back of the gown that was wicked, because it created the illusion of her wearing not a ballgown, but a very skimpy and exotic costume. From even a short distance, the skin-coloured material took on the appearance of bare flesh, with just the shimmering pattern made by the gold beads standing out.

At a glance, front-on, it looked as though the beads were stuck to her nude body in the shape of a bikini. Side-on, where there were no beads, she looked naked. Viewed from the back, the sight was possibly even more provocative, with nothing but skin-coloured chiffon to her waist, a triangular smattering of beads across her behind and a split up the middle back seam to the very top of her thighs. At least the split meant she could walk with her usual long-legged stride instead of tottering around.

Because walk she had to do, right out onto the catwalk that had been put together for the fashion parade conducted earlier during the dinner. The long, well-lit walkway jutted out from the middle of the stage, bisecting the ballroom and giving the occupants of all the tables a top view, especially the ones seated close by. In rehearsal the other night Charmaine had told Rico she would parade out there whilst he auctioned off her dinner-date prize, an idea that hadn’t seemed all that bold at the time, possibly because she’d been wearing jeans.

This outrageous dress, however, had sent her usual boldness packing. Charmaine had been bothered by it all evening. Fortunately, during the dinner she hadn’t eaten, she’d been sitting down. Seated, the dress was quite modest.

But she was no longer seated. She was up on the ballroom stage, peering through the heavy, wine-coloured stage curtain at the huge crowd down below and trying to control this alien fear that she was about to make the most shameless display of herself.

What on earth was wrong with her? She wasn’t usually like this. Usually, she didn’t give a damn how little she wore or if people stared at her, especially the men.

A scornful anger quickly replaced these highly uncharacteristic qualms. Let them think what they liked. She really didn’t care as long as one of them coughed up with a big fat cheque for her foundation.

Feeling marginally better, she glanced at her slender gold wrist-watch and was thinking it was high time for Rico to make an appearance to begin the auction when a very male whistle split the air behind her. She whirled and the man himself was standing there, smiling a wry smile.

‘That is some dress, Charmaine. Are you sure you won’t be arrested for wearing it?’

‘I’ve worn less,’ she retorted, nervous tension making her snappy.

‘Yes, but in this case more is worse.’

‘Do try not to leer, Rico.’

‘I never leer.’

‘No,’ she conceded with a sigh. ‘No, you don’t. Sorry. Actually, you’re much nicer than I thought you’d be, for someone who’s so darned good-looking.’ Which he was. Tall, dark and handsome. But not the kind of tall, dark and handsome that she’d once found irresistible. Big and macho were not her preference. She’d always preferred the leaner, more elegant kind of man.

‘Thank you,’ Rico replied. ‘I think.’ Straightening his bow-tie, he scooped in a deep breath. ‘So! Shall we get this show on the road?’

Again, nerves rushed in, making her want to turn tail and run. Which in turn brought forth a redeeming rush of defiance. ‘Too right,’ she said. ‘It’s time to make those poor kids some serious bucks.’

‘Amen to that!’ Rico agreed.

The auction started off well, at that point the target of ten million looking within easy reach. But the economic times were tough and around halfway the bids began to lag. No matter how much Rico cajoled, by the time the auction had only two prizes left, the amount raised was just under seven million. Charmaine sighed her disappointment. The island holiday Rico was about to offer might make fifty grand. But that would still leave a shortfall of nearly three million. Even if she went out onto the catwalk stark naked, no man here was going to bid that much just to have dinner with her.

‘We’re not even going to make seven million,’ she groaned after Rico sold the holiday for a paltry thirty thousand.

‘No, it doesn’t look like it,’ Rico replied quietly, having placed his hands over the microphone. ‘Perhaps you should have got yourself a real auctioneer.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve been marvellous. It’s not you. It’s the times. People are getting tight. We’ve really done quite well. My hopes were too high. Come on, let’s see what we can get for my pathetic prize.’

‘Now who’s being ridiculous? A dinner date with you is anything but a pathetic prize, Charmaine.’

‘Flatterer. Just get on with it. I want to get this torment over and done with.’ A telling comment, but true. She’d never felt this reluctant to sell herself.

‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, on to the last prize of the evening,’ Rico began again, reviving that Italian accent which seemed to come and go at will. ‘Our lovely hostess, Charmaine, one of Australia’s top supermodels, is offering a dinner date with herself right here in the Regency’s own fabulous By Candlelight restaurant, to be taken next Saturday night. This is a fabulous prize to end this evening with and one which I’m sure will command a top offer.’

He flashed Charmaine an encouraging smile then muttered, ‘Off you go, sweetheart,’ under his breath. ‘Strut your stuff.’

Charmaine rolled her eyes at him, but off she went, undulating her way down the catwalk, doing her best to smile through gritted teeth, well aware that all eyes in that ballroom were glued to her body. Not that she could see much. The footlights that bathed her in light threw the rest of the ballroom into relative darkness. She could see silhouetted shapes but no details, no actual eyes.

Yet she could feel them stripping her in a way that she had never felt before. It had to be because of this darned dress. What else could it be?

‘Might I remind you that Charmaine was recently voted the sexiest woman in Australia by a national magazine?’ Rico raved on. ‘You can see for yourself that that tag is no exaggeration. I would imagine having a private dinner with such a stunning creature would be some man’s dream come true. So come along, gentlemen, make your bids for this once-in-a-lifetime privilege!’

Charmaine almost winced with embarrassment. Dear heavens, now she felt as though she was on the auction block of some white slaver, and that it was her body being sold, not just a few hours of her companionship.

But what the heck, she reminded herself, if the foundation ended up with a good wad of money? Still, she thanked the lord that she’d banned the Press from this do. The last thing she could stand at this moment would be being besieged with camera flashes, not to mention the prospect of seeing photographs of herself in this dress splashed all across the Sunday papers tomorrow morning, accompanied by some trashy story.

With the comfort of that last thought, she plastered a more sultry smile on her face and sashayed sexily down to the end of the catwalk, where she stood motionless for a few moments, her hands on her hips in a saucy attitude. Then slowly, seductively, she turned, the audience gasping at the sight of her back view.

Her eyes connected with Rico’s and he grinned a rather lascivious grin. ‘Don’t be coy, now,’ he urged the audience. ‘If I were a single man myself, I would put my hat in the ring, I can tell you. But I’m out of the market, as my lovely wife right there will attest.’

He nodded down towards a table on Charmaine’s immediate left. She automatically glanced down, then froze.

Later that night, long after this ghastly moment was well behind her, Charmaine would be grateful she hadn’t been moving at the time, for she would surely have stumbled. Maybe even fallen. As it was, she still felt as if the floor had opened up under her.

At least now she knew why she’d been feeling so aware of male eyes on her. Because this pair of eyes had been hiding amongst the others.

Dark, beautiful eyes. Hard eyes. Dangerous eyes.

Prince Ali of Dubar, sitting right there at Renée’s table, looking dashing and debonair in a black dinner suit and gazing up at her with a coolly arrogant air.

Shock galvanised Charmaine’s brain as well as her body, several blank moments passing before she regained her composure and could even try to put two and two together. What on earth was this man doing sitting at Renée’s table? Surely they couldn’t be friends!

This unlikely possibility had barely surfaced before things which had seemed unimportant or irrelevant at the time flashed back into her mind. The prince himself, mentioning last year that he spent every weekend in Sydney going to the races and playing cards with friends. And then Renée the other day at lunch, talking about the high-rollers she played poker with every Friday night in this very hotel, in one of the presidential suites.

Who else could afford a presidential suite but a president, or a rock-star, or an oil-rich sheikh? The worst possible scenario of that little trio, of course, was the sheikh, especially one whom she’d derided and belittled and rejected and who was here tonight for one thing and one thing only. To make her eat her words that she would never go to dinner with a man like him.

Prince Ali of Dubar was undoubtedly going to be the highest bidder for the dinner date with her. Why else would he have come? He hadn’t bid for anything else so far tonight. She would have noticed if he had, a spotlight always briefly being shone on the successful bidder after an item was knocked down to them.

No, it would not be some total stranger sitting opposite her at dinner next Saturday night. It would be this man, whose pride she had severely dented last year. Now it was his turn to humiliate her, by forcing her to dine with him for several hours and endure not only his company, but also his none-too-subtle coveting of her body.

The impact of this realisation sent bile rising in Charmaine’s throat. Pride demanded she would not submit herself to such a mortifying situation. But pride also demanded she conduct herself with her usual self-contained, I’m-not-afraid-of-anything-or-any-man demeanour. After all, even if the sheikh was the successful bidder—and every cell in her brain shouted to her that he would be—what could he really do to her in a public restaurant, across the table? Proposition her once more? Try to seduce her with his charm?

This last idea was laughable.

No. Let him have his pathetic little moment of triumph.

Quite deliberately, she smiled straight at him, challenging him boldly with her eyes and her mouth.

Come on, sucker. Make your bid. See if I care.

His dark eyes narrowed a little at her smile, then slowly raked over her from head to toe, as though assessing if she was worth bidding for. For a split-second, Charmaine worried that he might not bid. Maybe he’d come to dent her pride that way.

But even as she was besieged by a thousand ambivalent emotions over this possibility, his royal mouth opened.

‘Five million dollars,’ he said firmly, and she gasped. She couldn’t help it. Neither could the rest of the people there.

Even Rico sucked in sharply. ‘Wow! That is some bid. Ladies and gentlemen, Prince Ali of Dubar has bid five million dollars for the privilege of a dinner date with our lovely Charmaine. Somehow, I don’t think there will be any better offers, but if there is some intrepid gentleman out there willing to top his royal highness’s offer, will he speak up now or forever hold his peace?’

Charmaine winced at Rico’s words, which were reminiscent of a wedding ceremony. Rather ironic, given this was as far from a romantic encounter as one could get. His royal highness just wanted the opportunity to make her eat humble pie, and he was willing to spend an exorbitant amount of money to do so.

‘No more offers? In that case…sold to His Royal Highness, Prince Ali of Dubar!’ Rico brought the gavel down on the rostrum with a loud thump that reverberated right through Charmaine.

Everyone in the ballroom started clapping, more so when the red arrow on the huge target metre displayed at the side of the stage was lifted by its attendant to twelve million dollars. Charmaine was forced to keep smiling when in fact she’d rather have been screaming, preferably at the man whose black eyes remained locked onto hers, his superior air evoking in her a burning desire to tell him that no man would ever own even a small piece of her, not even her time!

But, of course, that wish was to remain unrequited. No way could she turn down a five-million-dollar windfall for a cause that meant more than her silly pride. On top of that, no way in the wide world would Charmaine let this arrogant devil see how rattled and angry she was. To show anger was to show she cared. She resolved then and there to remain impeccably polite to him next Saturday night. There would be no further outbursts of temper. No rude remarks. No attempts to cut him down to size.

Given this was her intention, she really could not afford to stay standing where she was any longer. The way he kept looking at her was not conducive to ongoing politeness.

Lord knows how I’m going to control myself when I’m alone with him, Charmaine worried as she made her way—to further clapping—off the catwalk.

‘I still can’t believe it,’ Rico said to her after he’d wrapped up the auction and clicked off the microphone. ‘Good old Ali, bidding five mil just to have dinner with you. The man must have more money than sense. No offence meant, Charmaine. But even you must agree that was over-the-top.’

Charmaine frowned at Rico’s familiar remarks before realising that of course he had to be well acquainted with the prince as well, not just Renée.

‘You sound as if you’re really old friends,’ came her careful comment. As much as she despised herself for it, she couldn’t help being curious about the man who’d just paid five million dollars to have dinner with her.

‘We are,’ Rico admitted. ‘Been playing cards together every Friday night for nearly six years now. Been partners in a few racehorses over the years as well. Ali’s a great bloke. You’ll like him.’

Charmaine’s top lip curled before she could stop it. But then she decided not to be a total hypocrite. There was only so far she was prepared to carry pretence, and in private was not one of them.

‘The prince and I have met once before,’ she confessed curtly. ‘I didn’t like him then and I don’t like him now.’

Rico looked startled. ‘You’ve met before? Where?’

‘At the Melbourne Cup carnival last year. I was one of the fashion judges there on Ladies’ Day. To put it bluntly, your royal friend hit on me.’

’And?’

‘What do you mean, and? And nothing! I told you. I didn’t like him.’

‘That surprises me. Women usually do.’

‘Maybe that’s why I didn’t like him,’ she snapped. ‘Look, it’s immaterial whether I like him or not. He’s bought my company over dinner for a few hours and I’ll honour that. But if you’re talking to your Arab friend, then I suggest you warn him that paying five million dollars gives him no more privileges—or rights—than he had by paying for my lunch the last time. Yes, tell him that, Rico. Oh, and tell him I will be at the By Candlelight restaurant promptly at seven next Saturday night, but he is not to attempt to contact me before that. I would be very annoyed if my private and unlisted phone number somehow found its way into his royal highness’s hands. Comprenez-vous?’

‘I get the picture. I just wonder if you do.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning Ali is not given to flights of fancy. After what you’ve just told me, I suspect he came here tonight specifically to bid for that dinner with you, money being no object. Which leads me to believe that he must be somewhat smitten with you. If so, then I doubt your supposed disliking him at first sight will prove to be any more than a minor hurdle.’

Charmaine bristled. ‘Is that some kind of warning?’

‘I suppose so. Look, if you really don’t like him, then watch yourself. Ali is not a man to be toyed with.’

‘I have never toyed with him.’

‘Come, now, Charmaine. I saw the way you were smiling down at him just now and that was not the smile of an uninterested woman.’

Heat zoomed into Charmaine’s cheeks. ‘You don’t understand. I was just…just…’

‘Taunting him?’

She shrugged irritably. ‘In a way.’

‘Don’t,’ came his sharp rebuke. ‘That’s not the way to behave with a man like Ali. Such behaviour could make him…dangerous.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Dangerous? In what way?’

Rico shook his head. ‘Look, I’ll speak to him. Make sure he understands how the land lies. I’m sure he’ll respect your wishes if he believes you’re genuinely not interested. You are definitely not interested?’

‘Oh, please. Spare me from having to deal with a spoiled sheikh who harbours Hollywood fantasies over his irresistibility to women.’

‘Maybe he has cause to harbour them.’

She could not contain a scornful laugh. ‘The only thing Prince Ali of Dubar has going for him with me is the size of his wallet. And then only if he opens it for the foundation. You tell him that, Rico. Now I really must go and take off this infernal dress!’

A famous saying came to Rico’s mind as he watched Charmaine flounce off, her glamorous drop earrings swinging sexily around her shoulders and her long fair hair swishing back and forth across her nearly naked back.

‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’

CHAPTER THREE

SHORTLY before six on the following Saturday afternoon, Charmaine climbed out from behind the wheel of her nondescript white sedan, collected her overnight bag from the back seat, handed the car keys to the valet parking attendant and proceeded into the arcade-style foyer of the Regency Hotel, all without having to tolerate the harassing presence of the paparazzi.

Experience had taught the supermodel several ways to avoid them. If possible, she arrived early for publicised events, often in disguise. Unfortunately, her dinner date tonight with the sheikh was now a well-publicised event, courtesy of one pesky female journalist who’d been at the auction and written it up the following day, the main focus of her article being the astonishing amount paid by Prince Ali of Dubar for a dinner date with our Charmaine. Typically, the find-a-sexual-angle journo made it all sound impossibly romantic.

Charmaine had quickly regretted announcing at the auction when and where the dinner would take place. That had been a mistake. But no way was she going to contact the prince and change the arrangements. She did, however, contact the owner of the Regency again and was assured by Mr Richmond that no Press would bother either her or his most esteemed guest from Dubar over dinner. He promised heightened security at both the hotel entrance and complete privacy in the restaurant.

Charmaine expressed her gratitude but still booked a room in the hotel so that she could arrive early and dress there, as well as stay the night. That way she could slip out the following morning in her own good time.

Now here she was, blessedly anonymous as she walked up to the reception desk in her nondescript brown wig and wraparound sunglasses, not having had to tolerate cameras being shoved in her face and having questions shouted at her. What a relief! She might have lost her cool if there’d been reporters and photographers hanging around the hotel. It had been a very long week and her nerves were on a knife-edge today.

Charmaine glanced at her watch as she rode the lift up to the second floor. Less than an hour to go. But time enough for her to get ready. She’d washed and blow-dried her hair earlier that afternoon. And done her nails. All she had left to do was change her clothes and put on some make-up and earrings. None of those preparations would take much time. Charmaine had decided to dress down for this occasion.

If the sheikh thought she’d show up in something reminiscent of last Saturday night then he was in for a surprise. There would be no flesh on show tonight. Nothing for those predatory eyes to feast upon.

At precisely five minutes to seven, she was again in the lift, her stone-washed jeans now replaced by loose-fitting black crêpe evening trousers and a bronze silk Chinese-style tunic top that skimmed her figure and minimised its hourglass curves. Her hair was brushed straight back from her face and fell in a dead straight curtain to her waist. Her face had hardly any make-up at all. Just a fine layer of foundation, a touch of blue eyeshadow, a few strokes of mascara and some shiny bronze lipstick that matched the colour of her nails. Small diamond studs winked at her ear-lobes, in marked contrast to the sexy shoulder-length drops she’d worn for the auction.

The irony was that with a natural beauty like Charmaine, often less was more. But she was unaware of this fact. Being used to wearing much more make-up, especially for photo shoots and her work on the catwalk, she thought she looked as plain as she could. If only she knew how breathtakingly beautiful—and intriguingly innocent—she looked as she emerged on the mezzanine floor and made her way down the marble-floored corridor to the By Candlelight restaurant.

The maître d’, a tall bald-headed man with a thin moustache and intelligent grey eyes, smiled at her from behind his podium-style station.

‘Mademoiselle Charmaine,’ he said with a French accent, which might or might not have been genuine. The number of maître d’s in Sydney restaurants with French accents seemed excessive in Charmaine’s opinion. ‘Such a delight to have you in our restaurant tonight. His highness has already arrived. I will take you straight to him.’

Charmaine dutifully followed in his wake as he made his way past the mostly empty tables towards the back of the restaurant. Considering the relatively early hour of their ‘date’, Charmaine was surprised that the prince had already arrived. She would have thought that royalty would always be a little late for engagements of the social kind.

But of course this wasn’t a social occasion, she reminded herself ruefully. It was one of vengeance. Naturally, his royal highness wouldn’t want to miss a moment of her humiliation.

This last realisation rescued her from any inner resentment at being here at all and sent a small smile playing around her lips. If the sheikh thought he could belittle her tonight, then he was in for more than one surprise. He had no idea what he was dealing with. No idea at all!

The alcove she was taken to was totally and utterly private, a small square-shaped room tucked away in a discreet corner. There was an open archway leading into it, but even this was flanked by huge potted palms that added to its sense of privacy. The walls of the alcove—and even the ceiling—were painted black, the darkness only minimally alleviated by several low-voltage recessed lights. There was no furniture except for the table, which was round and intimately sized, and covered with the same white linen tablecloth as the tables she’d just passed. The wine-coloured candle that graced the glass centrepiece on the table was low, perhaps because the people who normally sought to eat here wanted nothing to spoil their view of each other’s face and eyes.

This area had undoubtedly been designed with lovers in mind, a real love-nest for those who wanted to keep prying eyes away whilst they banqueted on the best food and wine and whispered sweet nothings to each other. Tycoons would dine here with their mistresses, and celebrities with their latest live-in lovers.

Charmaine doubted this table would have borne witness to too many dinners like the one that would be served on its elegance surface tonight. Though possibly it was the diners more than the dinner who would be different.

When she’d first walked towards the dimly lit alcove, Charmaine could hardly see the sheikh sitting on the far side of the table, his dark clothes and dark colouring making him melt into the black-walled background. But, once she had passed under the archway and her eyes grew accustomed to the dimmer light, he emerged from the shadow, first his face, and then the rest of him.

Still no traditional Arab dress for him, she noted. He looked like a typical Western playboy, dressed expensively but rather casually in an exquisite black lounge suit and a black silk collarless shirt.

Did her heart beat a little faster at the sight of his handsome elegance? Or was her adrenalin surge simply the result of their next face-to-face confrontation finally being at hand?

Soldiers on the verge of going into battle would feel like this, she reasoned. There would always be a type of excitement alongside the fear.

Fear? Now, that was an odd thought. She had nothing to fear from this man.

Or did she?

Rico had said something about his being dangerous. And Rico was no fool. What kind of danger was he talking about? OK, so her date tonight was an Arab sheikh with perhaps more primitive ways in treating women he fancied than most men of the Western world. And yes, he still fancied her, despite what she was wearing tonight. His eyes were like hot coals on her face and body.

So much for her dressing down for the occasion, came the irritable thought. If anything, he seemed to desire her even more without her curves being on display.

But surely, that was all he could realistically do. Desire her. As private as this alcove was, it was hardly conducive to his ravishing her during tonight’s dinner date, especially without her consent. One little scream and people would come running.

No, she had nothing to fear about this evening, except her own silly behaviour. Just keep your temper, she lectured herself. And your cool. Then, in three hours’ time, you can leave and never see this infernal man ever again.

His rising from his chair as she approached the table startled her. She hadn’t expected such a gentlemanly gesture from him.

‘Good evening, Charmaine,’ he said with a slight nod of his head of perfectly groomed black hair. Quite wavy on top, it was. And thick and clean and shining. The kind of hair that would be a joy to touch.

Charmaine was taken aback by this most alien thought. She never found joy any more in touching any part of any man. And here she was, thinking about running her fingers through this man’s hair. The very idea!

‘You look…lovely,’ he added, that dark, desire-filled gaze of his never leaving her face.

Charmaine was grateful that the maître d’ chose that moment to pull out her chair so she could occupy herself sitting down rather than answering the sheikh. He sat down also, but his eyes stayed glued to her with merciless intent.

The maître d’ made a production of picking up her linen serviette, shaking it out of its creative folds then placing it across her lap before making his way round the table and doing the same for the sheikh.

‘Your personal waiter for this evening will be along shortly, Your Highness,’ he said with a deferential bow towards the prince before hurrying off, leaving them temporarily alone.

For the life of her, Charmaine could not think of a thing to say. She was still rattled by wanting to touch the sheikh’s hair. A few seconds of awkward silence ticked away and she longed for their waiter to appear.

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