Teresa Southwick - To Catch a Sheikh

He was very good-looking. 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 suit highlighted lean, masculine strength.

She’s always thought Texas cowboys were the standard of male appeal. Prince Rafiq Hassan just upped the benchmark. She had the heart palpitations, weak knees and sweaty palms to prove it.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“Of course.” She pulled the door wide and stood back, allowing him entrance.

He looked at her. “You’ve changed your clothes.”

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

Smoldering.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Susan Mallery, many thanks for your invaluable assistance and patient encouragement.

lives in Southern California with her hero husband who is more than happy to share with her the male point of view. An avid fan of romance novels, she is delighted to be living out her dream of writing for Silhouette Books. Teresa has also written historical romances under the same name.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Penelope Colleen Doyle didn’t believe in fairy tales. She put no faith in the idea that kissing a frog would create a handsome prince. In fact, the only guys she kissed stayed frogs—or worse—turned into toads. But walking through the royal palace of El Zafir certainly made her want to believe.

“Are we almost there?”

She posed the question to her dark-eyed, olive-skinned guide.

“Yes, miss,” he said in a softly accented voice. He glanced over his shoulder. “We are nearly there.”

She’d forgotten his name. Normally, she had an excellent memory, but nothing about this situation was normal. This was El Zafir—the land of magic, enchantment and romance. She was in the royal palace, with perfectly shined marble hallways, graceful arched doorways and rooms filled with priceless furnishings. But as she put one sensible, low-heeled shoe in front of the other, she had the most absurd desire to leave a trail of cracker crumbs. Just in case she needed to retrace her steps through the maze that was the royal palace.

It was the royal palace, for goodness’ sake! But even the panic-induced adrenaline rush produced by that thought couldn’t pick up the slack when a body hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours. Crossing numerous time zones tended to take the starch out of a girl. At this moment, she felt as if she’d walked every step of the way from the U.S. of A.

They rounded a corner and stopped before impressive mahogany double doors. The ceiling was so high, the awesome barrier reminded her of a scene from the King Kong movie where the humongous gates were supposed to keep out the giant ape. She was no ape and at five feet one and a half inches, certainly no giant.

“This is the business wing of the palace,” her guide explained.

“Is there a map I could use to get my bearings?” she asked. “Something with an X that says you are here and a general layout of the rest of the palace?”

“No, miss.”

The man didn’t crack a smile, not even the barest flicker. If no one in this small but up-and-coming, oil-rich country had a sense of humor, it was going to be a long two years.

He pushed open the right door, revealing a carpeted hall forming a T at the end. Berber carpet if her limited knowledge of fine furnishings could be trusted.

“Follow me, miss.”

“Okay.”

Like it would occur to her to strike out on her own. She could be lost for days. They’d have to send a search party to look for her. Was there search and rescue in El Zafir?

Her guide walked past several doors, then turned to his right and went through an open door into an office. The room was bigger than her apartment back home. Granted, her apartment was small. But this was awfully Texas-sized for an office.

He held out his hand, indicating the leather love seat against the wall. “Sit. You’ll receive instruction regarding your duties presently.”

“From Princess Farrah Hassan?”

“No.”

Then from whom, she wanted to ask, looking around for a clue. She wouldn’t have to guess if the doors had nameplates. You’d think a wealthy nation could find a couple bucks for that.

Without further explanation, her guide turned and left the room. She looked around again, and her jangled nerves kicked up quite a ruckus. Apparently the butterflies in her stomach didn’t need it, but the rest of her could certainly use a blast of caffeine.

She didn’t see coffee but everything else about the place was pretty darned intimidating. In front of her stood a U-shaped cherry-wood desk, polished to such a shine she could use it for a mirror to do her hair. Although twisting her waist-length hair into a knot at the back of her head was a simple matter and didn’t require visual aids. The desk held a computer with printer, scanner and fax machine. Behind it, next to the wall, was a copier. She wondered if all the offices were as well equipped. Or did everyone in the business wing use these machines? If this was the tech center, it made sense that this was where her job orientation would take place.

Then she noticed a closed door to her right. Maybe there was coffee behind it. She could knock and poke her head in to ask. Nope. She’d been ordered to wait and wait she would. With a weary sigh, she sat on the love seat. A second later she sighed for a very different reason. Never in her life had she felt such supple softness. Who knew leather wasn’t cold and could feel so fabulously luxurious? She settled in to wait for orders and struggled to keep her eyes open.

Rafiq Hassan, Prince of El Zafir, Minister of Domestic and Foreign Affairs, opened his office door to confer with his secretary. The empty desk reminded him he had no secretary. First thing that morning the efficient young man had been appropriated by his father, King Gamil. His aunt Farrah had promised to send a replacement. Glancing to his left, he saw a young woman sitting on the couch. Sitting was too active a word. Slumped would be more to the point. Was this his substitute?

He walked over and looked down at her. She was dressed in a shapeless khaki dress that covered her from the neck to below her knees, leaving visible her very shapely ankles. Low-heeled shoes covered her feet. She could have been a child except that there was the suggestion of a bosom filling out the bodice of the unflattering garment. She was quite small, he noticed. Unfortunately, the ugly, black-rimmed glasses on her oval face were not.

At the moment she didn’t need the spectacles, because her eyes were closed. He was reminded of the American story, the one of Goldilocks that he’d read to his niece and nephew. Her hair was golden, and she was sound asleep. Did that make him one of the three bears? His two brothers, Fariq and Kamal, would no doubt be less than flattered at being compared to American bears. Besides, Rafiq had been told he was the family charmer. How bearish could he be?

He bent at the waist and said, “Excuse me?”

Long, lush lashes fluttered. Did they look long and lush because the ugly glasses magnified them? Did objects behind the thick lenses appear larger? When she lifted her eyelids, he wondered that again as very big blue eyes were revealed.

“Hmm?”

“Miss?”

“Hi.” She blinked several times and sat up straight, looking around as if she were disoriented. Then she met his gaze. “Guess I’m not in Kansas anymore.”

“True.”

Before she covered her yawn with a delicate hand, he noted that her teeth were straight and white.

“It’s an American expression from the movie The Wizard of Oz—when Dorothy realizes that she’s very far from home.”

“I’m aware of it.” He knew the story—the quest of the characters to find home, brain, courage and heart. The last he could relate to very well. “So you’re American?” he asked, a purely rhetorical question since her accent clearly placed her.

“Yes,” she said. “Just off the plane from Texas.”

“I have heard of it.”

She smiled. “I’d be surprised if you hadn’t. You work here, too?”

“Yes.”

“This must be one busy office if there’s enough work for two assistants.”

Assistant? She thought he was an assistant? He opened his mouth to set her straight when she slid to the edge of the love seat and stretched, arching her back so that her suggestion of a bosom became rounded breasts straining against the buttons of her dress. No thick magnifying lenses there, and the objects were most impressive.

“Could you point me in the direction of the coffeepot?” she asked.

“I can ring for some,” he said absently, his gaze preoccupied.

“That would be great. I’ll be forever in your debt.”

Rafiq went to the desk and picked up the phone. “Coffee, please. Very strong.”

“Bless you.”

When he looked at her again, she was peering intently at him through the hideous lenses of her glasses, not unlike the way he’d been looking upon her.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just—”

“Tell me.”

“No.” She shook her head. “You’ll think I’m weird. If we’re going to be working together, weird isn’t exactly the best foot to put forward.”

“I promise not to think that.” Now he was curious. “Why did you have that look on your face? Do I have a wart on my nose? A smudge on my face? You find me strange looking?”

“Oh, no. You’re very handsome.” She ducked her head, obviously flustered. “I mean if the rest of the men in this country are anything like you—” Her cheeks flushed a delightful pink. “I’m sorry. I hope you don’t mind my saying that. It’s just— I had no idea. In my research on El Zafir, I didn’t see anything about— I’m sorry. But you did ask.”

“Yes, I did.” Her flustered manner told him she hadn’t planned to say that. The compliment was honest, ingenuous and charmingly innocent. He very nearly forgave her for mistaking him for an assistant.

“Where I come from, cowboys are the masculine standard. Most women wouldn’t think of office staff as macho. But most women haven’t been to El Zafir.”

He couldn’t decide whether to be flattered or insulted and made a mental note to make discreet inquiries about Texas cowboys. He also revoked his momentary weakness regarding forgiveness. But strangely enough, he wanted her to go on. “So you’re an assistant?”

She nodded, then took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. He expected to see black makeup, mascara or raccoon eyes as women had told him it was called when it ran. But, there was none. She wore no cosmetics. Still, her skin was flawless—smooth and quite soft-looking.