Teresa Southwick - To Catch a Sheikh

She shrugged. “Maybe. But I was determined to get a degree.”

“And you did—in early childhood education and business. My aunt tells me you interned for Sam Prescott in Dallas.”

“Yes. The Prescotts have been very good to me. In fact Sam is the one who suggested I might think about working in El Zafir.”

Because she’d planned to start her own preschool. And she’d foolishly given away her seed money. But as comfortable as Rafiq made her feel, she still didn’t think he would want to hear about all that. Or maybe it was more that she didn’t want to confess how stupid she’d been. Taken in by a handsome man. She’d vowed never again to be suckered by a good-looking game player.

He was staring at her and the intensity of his gaze made her wonder if he could see all the way to her soul. She hoped not. He wouldn’t want someone so gullible working for him.

“I have known Sam Prescott since we were boys. Is there a particular reason that earning a lot of money is important to you?” he asked.

Because a promise was a promise. The vow she’d made a long time ago meant everything to her. But he wouldn’t want to hear about that. He was a businessman. “It’s my dream to open a preschool, possibly in a corporate environment. That way it could be subsidized by the company.”

“Why?”

“As a businessman yourself, I should think that would be obvious. Corporate sponsorship would increase the success ratio—”

“No. I meant why a preschool?”

“Oh. Well. I like children.” She met his gaze and was surprised he didn’t look bored. In fact, he gave a good imitation of being interested, which gave her the courage to continue. “I think that’s hereditary. My mother loved teaching elementary school. Before I was old enough to go to school, she struggled with the cost of child care. She always said a mother shouldn’t have to choose between a safe place for her child at the expense of a stimulating environment.”

“A preschool would do both?”

“Yes. As long as women are part of the workforce, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon, quality care for children will be an issue.”

“In my country as well.”

“Really?”

Rafiq watched as she made herself comfortable on the sofa. She scooted back and, though it was low, her short legs didn’t allow her feet to touch. Small feet, he noted and bare so he could see her red-painted toe-nails. Strangely unexpected—and appealing. She tucked her legs to the side and rested her elbow on the back of the furniture. Her golden hair was no longer pulled severely back from her oval face and secured in a bun at her nape. The waist-length strands cascaded around her like a silky sunshine curtain, begging a man to run his fingers through it.

He’d struggled with his reaction to her ever since she’d opened the door to him. Oddly enough, the shapeless khaki dress she’d worn earlier had been distraction enough. But jeans outlined her small waist and slender legs. As body types went, she was the complete opposite of the women who caught his eye. Speaking of eyes, hers regarded him through huge glasses. Obviously, she expected him to continue the conversation. And he would. As soon as he remembered what they’d been discussing.

“I didn’t think many women worked outside the home in El Zafir,” she said.

Ah, he thought. Preschools. “More and more educated women are choosing careers in this country. We’ve overlooked this great natural resource and vital addition to our workforce far too long.”

“Then child care becomes a problem.”

“Exactly.”

“I would still like to know why your brother specifically requested a homely nanny for his children.”

How could he get her to forget that particular question? His gaze settled on her mouth. Earlier, when she’d talked so much, he hadn’t noticed how very lush and full her lips were. He had a sudden inclination to taste her. That might make her forget about homely nannies. But he forced the thought away. She was his temporary assistant. Nothing more. And he would do well to remember that and forget how curvy she looked in her jeans.

He was her employer. And she was hardly more than a child. He was twenty-nine years old, but she made him feel ancient.

“I need to go.” He stood up. “About work.”

“Yes?”

She stood also. So small. Her head barely came to his shoulder. He felt a sudden strange burst of protectiveness for her. The same as he would feel for a child, he amended. This surprising reaction was merely the result of being with much taller women. None of them had ever evoked this reaction of wanting to stand between her and whatever storms life would blow into her path.

Penny had been hurt. Because his aunt had revealed that to him, he’d recognized the disillusionment in the depths of her eyes when she’d talked about her dream. Rage flared inside him. Again he wanted to make the jackal who had taken advantage of this innocent pay for his unforgivable sin.

“What about work?” she asked.

“Yes, work.”

“What time do you want me to report to the office?”

“Nine.”

She smiled. “At least there won’t be commuter traffic.”

“No.” He cleared his throat. “About your attire—”

“Your aunt already filled me in on that. No pants in public. She said in this country a woman covers her arms, and skirts must be worn well below the knee.”

“Yes.”

He should be relieved that she was aware. But he found himself strangely heavyhearted that jeans were inappropriate and Penny was aware of it.

“Tomorrow then,” she said.

“Yes. Tomorrow.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

As was he. Far more than he should.

Penny closed the door to her suite and set off to dine with the Hassans. Other than feeling like Dorothy making her way to the Emerald City or a wide-eyed whacked-out character from a fractured fairy tale, she was looking forward to it. Really and truly. Eating with the royal family. Every last one. All in one place. All at the same time.

Yeah. And any minute now she would flap her wings and fly like a fairy godmother.

On the upside, after a week in El Zafir she was a bit more comfortable making her way through the palace without a compass or a clear view of the North Star. No, she knew her way to the royal dining room, and it was all she could do not to take off in the opposite direction. But how far could she get on legs that shook like tree limbs in a hurricane? If the invitation had come from anyone but Princess Farrah…

She would have refused? Yeah, like that was going to happen. Her common sense told her it wasn’t smart to bite the hand that feeds you. Retreat was not an option. Besides, she liked and respected the princess.

If only she wasn’t so nervous.

Descending the stairway, Penny held the polished mahogany railing. Each marble step had Berber carpet in the center. At the bottom, she walked to her left and pushed open one of the double doors into the dining room. Over and over she repeated to herself, “I will not talk too much.”

She poked her head inside to get her bearings before everyone showed up. Her heart nearly stopped as she saw the royal family already there. She quickly counted heads. Yup—all of them. Was she late? She hated being late. She despised walking into a room where everyone could look at her when she arrived. At least no one was sitting at the table yet. Table, ha. It was long—really long. An airport runway—without landing lights and covered by a lovely tablecloth.

Penny shook her wrist, then looked at her watch. She’d given herself enough time to be ten minutes early and catch her breath waiting for everyone else to walk in. But no. Just her luck to dine with the only royal family on the planet more punctual than herself. She loathed lateness. And nerves. It was the reason she’d had such a disastrous first meeting with Rafiq. Nerves and lateness, she had learned the hard way, were a recipe for disaster.

The butterflies in her stomach began a rousing rendition of the cancan as she noted the sheer number of people present. She’d met them all, one at a time. But all this royalty gathered together in one room was enough to give her a case of hives. How did someone like her deal with royals in droves? Very carefully, she thought, stifling a giggle that could turn hysterical at the drop of a hat, crown or, God forbid, coffee cup.

Like a magnet picking up metal, her gaze homed in on her boss. He was talking with his brothers and suddenly smiled. In an instant, the serious, aloof, authoritative man she’d become familiar with disappeared. The expression changed him from handsome to hubba-hubba gorgeous in zero point two seconds. Her legs started shaking again, but for a very different reason. She found she was much more comfortable with her boss, the prince, than this man who smiled or, oddly enough, the one who teased about cutting out her tongue.

Rafiq.

He’d told her to address him by his given name in private. Was there a rule about how many people constituted public? Did it matter that this was his family? Should she call him Prince Rafiq or lose the title? She would seriously consider selling her soul for just a drop of social confidence.

Glancing down, she sighed at her long-sleeved, high-necked black knit dress skimming the tops of her ankles. She recalled the teenaged salesclerk at the store where she’d purchased it telling her you could never go wrong with black. Her first mistake had been believing a teenager with pink hair. Penny had gone so very wrong. But then, she didn’t have the budget to go right.

“Ah, Penny.” Princess Farrah, in a dark green silk dress with matching heels and diamonds at her ears and neck, came forward to greet her.

“Good evening, Your Highness.” Penny looked around. “I hope I’m not late. You said seven—”

“You are perfect, my dear. Isn’t she, Gamil?” she said to the king.

Two steps away, the distinguished ruler turned at her words. He joined them and bowed slightly from the waist. “Miss Doyle. I’m very pleased you could join us for dinner this evening.”

“You are most kind to include me.” She looked around at everyone. The princess had told her it would be an intimate dinner with the family. Meeting the woman’s friendly gaze, Penny asked before she could stop herself, “Do you dress like this for dinner every night?”

The princess laughed. “Three or four times a week. The other nights one or more of us has an official government function requiring black tie and formal wear.”

“This isn’t formal?” she asked, hating that her voice sounded more like a squeak.

“Good heavens, no,” the princess answered.

Penny had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. They were probably laughing at her—or would be soon. Her less than stylish attire made her stand out like the ugly duckling at a gathering of swans.

“So for the royal family this is casual?”

“I suppose you could say that,” the king answered.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be impertinent,” Penny apologized, although he didn’t look mad. “It’s just that I have no frame of reference for this. What I meant to say is, it was most gracious of Your Highness to extend the invitation,” she finished. “And I can see where your sons get their good looks,” she added. One could never go wrong with a compliment.

He laughed, then gave her a courtly bow. “Farrah is right. You are indeed a breath of fresh air. And a shameless flatterer.”

“On the contrary, Your Highness. Flattery implies a lack of sincerity, and I assure you I speak the absolute truth,” she said, unable to stop her gaze from straying to Rafiq.