The Sheikh Who Loved Her: Ruling Sheikh, Unruly Mistress / Surrender to the Playboy Sheikh / Her Desert Dream

‘Distracted?’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘No … I was just planning tonight’s meal.’

‘Do you like the uniform?’ Mac enquired as she fiddled with it.

‘Yes, I do.’ She met his gaze, determined not to be put off her stroke. She didn’t wear the uniform with the same flair as, say, Fiona, but at least it made her feel anonymous and safe. ‘I feel … like I belong,’ she added as an afterthought, undoing her apron now they’d finished clearing up.

She had turned away to hang her apron on the peg behind the door and so she didn’t see Mac frown.

Then Tom came back to have another go at persuading Mac to go with him into town.

‘I’ll leave Omar here should you need anything.’

‘No, take him too,’ Lucy told Mac, thinking the invisible presence of a bodyguard she might stumble across at any moment almost as alarming as having Omar’s boss scrutinise her every move. ‘There are people on call at the chalet company if I need anything.’

‘In that case, see you later, Lucy.’

‘My pleasure,’ she added to an already empty room. If she had needed a reality check on how vital she was to Mac’s existence, she just got it.

As the front door shut behind the men she sank down on the nearest chair. She was trembling. She felt as if she’d run a marathon. She had. She had just completed the most important race of her life—to keep her job, though she wasn’t foolish enough to think that couldn’t change at any moment if Mac changed his mind.

She had to get back to work. Dreaming didn’t clean floors—plus she had some eggs to beat for tonight’s meal before covering them and leaving them in the fridge …

Staring round the gleaming kitchen as she cracked eggs in a bowl on autopilot, Lucy mulled over what she had learned about her guests. Aside from an overload of testosterone in the chalet, there were a lot of heavy gold rings in evidence engraved with family crests. Theo didn’t wear one, but Tom’s crest, along with Sheridan’s and William’s, marked them out as members of the British aristocracy. That was simple enough to work out, but what was she supposed to make of the fierce lion and the scimitar engraved on Mac’s ring?

The vision of an awe-inspiring desert landscape came to mind. But where had the green eyes come from? And such eyes … eyes that spoke of billowing Bedouin tents and the pearly light of dawn on the oasis as lovers woke and stretched their pliant limbs before making love again and again and again …

It took remarkably little imagination to take the hunk in jeans and place him in flowing robes. Hmm. Whisk suspended. As the picture drew clearer the whisk picked up pace again. The silk sheets on their Bedouin cushions would cling tenaciously to Mac’s powerful limbs, hinting at the brute strength underneath. But the sheets were covering him.

So she’d throw them off.

‘Are you going to beat that egg to death?’

She nearly hit the ceiling as Mac stopped her hand. She hadn’t realised he’d come back.

‘What has that poor egg done to you?’ He held her gaze in the most disturbing fashion.

‘I was just surprised when you came back.’

‘Is there a curfew in operation?’

‘Sorry.’ Her brain was addled. Mac in cool black performance gear, ready for the snow, was even more alarming than Mac in jeans. And he was still holding on to her hand.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ he said, releasing her. ‘I’m not checking up on you.’

Then why was he here? Lucy nursed her hand. Mac’s touch was warm, firm and commanding—and he’d let go of her far too fast for her daydreams and not nearly fast enough for here and now.

‘So, what are you up to?’ he said, staring into her eyes.

She gazed around, desperate for an answer. ‘Something for tonight … cake.’

‘Cake?’ Mac prompted, staring pointedly at the array of cakes already laid out on the table.

‘Isn’t Tom waiting for you?’ Lucy said hopefully.

‘And if he is?’

‘Could you pass me the cake tin, please?’

He held it out. She took hold of it, but he didn’t let go, so now she was joined to Mac by an inflexible ring of tin.

‘Lucy?’

She blinked and returned to her customary kitchen-confident self. ‘If you’d like a piece of the cake I’ve already made, just sit down, and I’ll—’

‘Serve me?’ Mac suggested wickedly, releasing the tin.

‘I’ll cut the cake,’ Lucy said primly, reaching for a knife.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ Mac told her, and with one last mocking stare, he left the room.

Mac might have left the room, but he hadn’t left her thoughts. He was very much part of them and doing things to her that were almost certainly forbidden by law in several countries. How not to long for that? Running through a list of ingredients for the next meal didn’t come close.

CHAPTER FOUR

LUCY spent the next hour in her small attic room, pacing up and down. If only plain girls could be born with a lust bypass, she reflected, pausing by the mirror to view her unchanged reflection, it would make life and rejection so much easier for her. Of course, she knew her relationship with Mac was purely professional, and she’d only known him five minutes, but it would have been nice if, only for a few moments of that time, the frisson she felt could have been a two-way connection. The best thing now was to have a long soak and try to forget him. But she couldn’t, because she had somewhere to be and there were jobs to do first—beds to turn down, bathrooms to clean, towels to check, fires to bank up …

She was running late by the time she finished all her remaining tasks and she still had to get ready—number one on the list was a quick bath, and then she’d have to run all the way to the club where her friends would be waiting for her.

Interest laced with concern for Lucy had developed into hot, shameless lust. Razi had to have her. She was beautiful, unaffected and available—and as soon as he had given her a chance to clear up the chalet and set up for the morning he was going to have her.

His impatience was easy to explain—apart from the ache in his groin the clock was ticking. He had never felt the weight of duty more. He embraced the responsibilities coming his way with enthusiasm, but was under no illusion as to the effect they would have on his lifestyle. A traditional marriage—even if not to his cousin Leila—was on the cards. He owed it to his country. But before then …

‘Preoccupied, Razi?’ Tom asked him discreetly.

‘You know,’ he said offhandedly. They were sitting in a noisy bar and he was already itching to move on. The drinks weren’t cold enough and the nibbles tasted of cardboard after Lucy’s delicacies.

Next time she could serve them on her naked body and he’d lick the champagne she spilled off her belly.

‘We can move on if you like,’ Tom suggested.

‘Sorry, Tom. Didn’t mean to ignore you—things on my mind.’

‘Oh, no.’ Tom sighed theatrically and passed a hand across his eyes. ‘Let me guess.’

‘Don’t,’ he said sharply. For some reason he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone, even Tom, making sport of Lucy. ‘Don’t even go there, Tom. Let’s just move on.’

Muffled up in a super-sized ski jacket, a long scarf, a woolly hat with a bobble on top and a thick pair of gloves, Lucy hurried along the empty streets towards the club. The streets were deserted because everyone was already cosy and warm inside one of the many restaurants and bars by this time of night. It was a world of muffled music and the occasional blast of noise and laughter as a door opened briefly.

She was feeling guilty as she scudded along, knowing her brothers would have loved an event like the one she was due to take part in, while she felt shy at the prospect of entering a crowded club where everyone would know each other. She only hoped she could find her colleagues straight away when she arrived—and that Mac and co didn’t decide to go there too. She shivered at the thought of it and almost lost her nerve and turned around.