Teresa Southwick - To Catch a Sheikh

An unexpected knock on the door made her jump. Her heart contracted painfully. Here it comes, she thought. We who are about to die, or be ignominiously deported back to the U.S., salute you.

She opened the door. It was him! For the second time that day she found herself in the unnatural condition of being unable to form words.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“Of course.” She pulled the door wide and stood back, allowing him entrance. After all, this was his place. Place? Oops. Palace. Far different from the average, ordinary, run-of-the-mill man’s place.

He looked at her. “You’ve changed.”

“Not really. I’m the same person I was a while ago. I just don’t have the words—”

He pointed to her pants. “I meant your clothes.”

“Oh.” She followed his glance to her bare feet, jeans and Don’t Mess With Texas T-shirt. When she met his gaze again, she thought it contained a spark of—something she didn’t understand. But she could only think of one word to describe his black eyes. Smoldering.

Her research on the country in general and the royal family in particular had revealed that his last name, Hassan, meant handsome and he certainly lived up to it. His thick black hair was cut short. Subtle waving told her that if it was longer, some serious curling would happen. His face was a composition of high cheekbones, straight nose and square jaw that came dangerously close to male perfection. Broad shoulders and a wide chest fit his tall body. His sinfully expensive navy-blue business suit highlighted lean, masculine strength. Then she remembered her tasteless remark about cowboys being the standard of male appeal in Texas. Prince Rafiq Hassan had just upped the benchmark. She had the heart palpitations, weak knees and sweaty palms to prove it.

“I don’t—”

“Yes?” he prompted.

“What do I call you?” she blurted out. “Your Majesty? Your Highness? Your Worship? The member of the royal family formerly and still known as Prince?”

She was being impertinent, but she couldn’t help it. That’s who she was. Besides, what did she have to lose? She’d already put her foot in her mouth. Even though he should share part of the blame for leading her on, he was probably there to tell her she was fired. From here she had nowhere to go but the airport.

“You may call me Your Highness, Prince Rafiq Hassan, Minister of Foreign and Domestic Affairs, the bountiful and benevolent.”

She felt like reaching for her scratch pad to write down the lengthy form of address when she noticed that his wonderful firm lips were curving up at the corners. “You’re joking,” she accused.

“Yes.”

“Oh, thank goodness.”

“What?”

“You do have a sense of humor.”

“Of course. Why would you doubt it?” He shrugged and extended one hand in a self-effacing gesture.

There was a Band-Aid on his index finger, sporting a cartoon character. It was a sign. He was more than a pompous, arrogant baiter of unsuspecting women.

“At our first meeting you never cracked a smile,” she reminded him.

“That is why I’m here.”

“To show me you can smile?”

“No. To…start again.”

For half a second, she’d thought he was going to apologize for leading her on, making her appear foolish.

She looked up at him, way up, then adjusted her glasses more securely on her nose. “I figured you were here to can me.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, terminate me.” She shook her head. “Bad choice of words.”

“Why?”

“I was wondering if I’d be drawn and quartered in the city square at dawn.”

“Actually, the idea of beheading came up.”

She gasped. “No!”

“Yes. Then the merits of cutting out your tongue.”

She backed up a step before noticing his smile. A full-on, showing-his-great-teeth, go-for-broke, steal-her-heart grin. “You’re teasing me.”

“Yes.” He slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks, upsetting the sleek line at the bottom of the matching jacket. “By ‘can’ and ‘terminate’ you meant revoke your employment.”

“Right. Fire me.” Although the way he looked could give a whole new meaning to the word. He was what the girls back home called a “hottie.”

“I’m not here to do that.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Although you must admit that if you’d told me right away who you are, there wouldn’t be a large coffee stain on the carpet in your office.”

“I don’t have to admit anything,” he said. “I am the prince.”

“Of course.” And exactly the reason she decided against taking him to task for leading her on. Besides, it looked as if she was getting a reprieve. Bearding the lion in his den, so to speak, probably wasn’t the wisest course. “And a prince is the master of all he surveys.”

“Something like that,” he said, a sparkle in his eyes betraying that he was amused.

“If you’re not here to admit anything, then why are you here?”

“To welcome you—properly—to El Zafir.”

“Thank you—” She tipped her head to the side and said, “You still haven’t told me what to call you.”

“Prince Rafiq in public. In private, when we are working, my given name is appropriate.”

Rafiq. The name raised shivers on her arms that scurried over her chest and abdomen. He wasn’t like anyone she’d ever met. Just his name conjured up visions of mystery and magic, enchantment and romance. For the first time, she believed what the travel posters had claimed about his country.

“Prince Rafiq,” she said, testing the name.

“Since it has fallen to me to train you—”

“But I’m supposed to work for Princess Farrah.”

“There’s been a change of plan. My father has appropriated my secretary and my aunt—”

“Princess Farrah?”

He nodded. “My father’s sister. She has given you to me.”

The shivers, which had barely disappeared, kicked up again at the suggestion that she’d been given to him. Lordy, why did her mind have to go there? It wasn’t really such a stretch. This was an exotic country with a different history and culture. Myths of women being swept off their feet and literally carried away by mesmerizing men had been widely romanticized in movies and books. Feminists might object, but Penny had the feeling if any of them took one look at Rafiq, bras would go up in flames and not because anyone was protesting.

“So I’m to work with you?”

He nodded. “If you wish I can arrange for chocolate to be brought. We can do the bonding thing.”

“You really are different from other men,” she blurted out.

Good Lord! She couldn’t believe she’d said that. It was completely inappropriate. Granted she’d said something similar when she’d thought he was an assistant like herself. But now she knew who he was. Besides that, it was flirtatious. She’d never been a flirt. Partly because she’d never had the time. Partly because her nature didn’t lean toward flirting. But her remark had come dangerously close. Was it something in the air of exotic El Zafir? Something in the water? Or was it a mysterious something in the man that unleashed her inner flirt?

“Different?” he asked. He didn’t look shocked or offended, merely curious.

“Where I come from, there are talk shows dedicated to the fact that most men don’t listen, let alone remember,” she explained.

“Perhaps cowboys leave something to be desired as the masculine standard in your country?”

He really had listened, she thought, as heat surged into her cheeks. “Maybe listening and remembering are highly overrated skills.”

He smiled. Were his teeth really white enough to be featured in an ad for dental bleaching? Or did they just look that way because his skin was so very tanned?

“With all due respect,” he said, “I have yet to meet a woman who prefers a man to ignore her.”

She couldn’t help wondering how much research he’d done on women. Quite a bit according to what she’d read about the royal family. She’d seen articles in the tabloids detailing the romantic exploits of Prince Rafiq. She’d even seen his picture, which made her feel all the more ridiculous for not recognizing him. But in person, the flesh-and-blood hunk bore no resemblance to the one-dimensional Don Juan she’d seen in the papers.

How many women had he been involved with? Ten? Twenty? A hundred? And how many cowboys had she been with? Zero. Zilch. Nada. So who was better qualified to judge?

“Okay. You get points for listening and remembering,” she agreed.

“Thank you.” He looked around her suite. “I trust the accommodations are satisfactory?”

“Oh, yes.” She followed his gaze. “This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”

“As compared to Texas?”

“As compared to anywhere. Even the hotel where I met your aunt.”

“It is more spartan than the New York hotel she prefers.”

Penny nodded. “But there’s something to be said for simplicity. Sometimes less is more.”

“I know precisely what you mean.” He met her gaze and his own darkened. His irises were blacker than midnight—smoldering.

There was that word again. It took the air from her lungs. But didn’t fire do that, steal oxygen? Where was an extinguisher when you really needed one?

“Tell me about yourself, Penny.”

The question surprised her. She wasn’t sure why, except that it seemed odd for a member of the ruling family to care about someone like her. The hired help. Then she remembered the cartoon Band-Aid. He must have interacted with his brother’s children and forgotten it was on his finger. She took courage from that. He was a flesh-and-blood man who put his pants on one leg at a time.

Speaking of legs, he’d been standing for a really long time. “Would you like to sit down?”

He only hesitated a moment before saying, “Yes. Thank you.” With athletic, catlike grace he sat on the sofa then indicated the space beside him. “Please.”

She did as he requested, but left an appropriate distance between them. “So what would you like to know about me?”

“Why did you leave your country and take a job halfway around the world in El Zafir?”

There were so many reasons. “Your country is very progressive.”

He nodded. “We’re working hard to make it so. What else?”

It was as if he could read her mind. “I believe we’ve already established that a position in the palace pays well,” she said, smiling.

He grinned in return. “Yes, I believe we did. Is money important to you?”

“Only someone who’s never needed it would ask that question.”

“Is that a yes?” He lifted one dark eyebrow.

“It is.”

“Tell me why.”

“You don’t really want to know.”

“On the contrary.”

“Money is important to me because my mother worked very hard for it.”

“Your father?”

“I never knew him. It was always only my mother and me. She died when I was young.”

He looked very grave. “Mine did as well. Aunt Farrah filled the void when my mother was gone.”

“You’re lucky. I didn’t have anyone to fill the emptiness. The small nest egg she managed to leave me didn’t take away the pain when she was gone. I was raised in an orphanage.”

“I see.”

She found his matter-of-fact response strangely appropriate. “I’m sorry” was a meaningless, conditioned response and brought little comfort. “At eighteen, the state says you’re an adult and on your own.”

“The state is wrong,” he answered. “Such an age is still a child.”