Married For The Sheikh's Duty

She pushed her feet into the pumps. One hand went to her stomach as if to shoo away the butterflies rioting in there, and one went to her hair. She expelled a sigh of relief when she realized her tight ponytail had stayed put. Once she made sure all of her person was intact—she needed that assurance—she raised her gaze.

Between one rushing heartbeat and the next, she became aware that the man’s utter dominance, over everything in the room, even over the very air she was struggling to breathe, was bred into his bones. His power clung to his skin, not his clothes or to this room or the throne.

It was centuries of legacy, she realized, a sheen of sweat covering her forehead now. He looked like a king because he was a bloody king. Or to use the right terminology, His Royal Highness, Sheikh Zayn Al-Ghamdi of Khaleej. Brilliant statesman, inventive playboy that Celebrity Spy! claimed liked fast cars, fast technology and fast women.

Her first instinct was to mumble an apology and run from the room. The element of surprise was on her side and if she just went back through the unending corridor, back to the waiting area, she could lose herself and slither out of the palace.

Poised on the balls of her feet, Amalia forced herself to calm down and reconsider.

This was the sheikh, the man with all the power, the man who was responsible—fine, indirectly—for Aslam being wrongfully imprisoned. What were the chances that she would ever get an audience with him again?

No way could she tuck her tail between her legs and run away just because the man had to be the most dominating presence she’d ever felt.

Her breath seesawed through her chest as he stood up from the recliner, prowled the width of the room and then stood, leaning against an immense white oak desk. A sitting area to the right had a chaise longue.

Although lounging seemed like too still an activity for him.

The energy of the man, his sheer presence, filled the room and pressed at her from all sides, as if to demand acknowledgement and acquiescence.

A shining silver tea set on the side table made her aware of her parched throat.

As if she’d voiced her request out loud, he moved to the silver service, poured a drink—mint and lemon sherbet—into a tall silver tumbler and walked over to her.

That sense of being overwhelmingly pressed on a sensory level amplified. He had a sandalwood scent. And he gave off heat like there was a furnace inside him. Or was that she who was feeling the heat when really he was giving off none?

Sensations she didn’t like and couldn’t control continued to pour through her and Amalia just stood there, shuddering inwardly in the wake of them.

Where was the super-stalwart Amalia that Massi depended on? Where was the woman who’d been dubbed “the calm in the storm” by colleagues and coworkers?

“Drink. Strangers to the country forget that even when they do not sweat, the heat is still unrelenting.”

His command was supercilious, arrogant, exaggeratedly patient. Better if he thought her brain had short-circuited because of the heat than because of the sheer masculinity of the man.

“I’m not a stranger.”

His gaze swept over her. “You do not look like a woman from my country.”

She took the tumbler and drank the sherbet without pause. The liquid was a cool, refreshing breeze against her throat. Even her head felt better. Lowering the glass from her mouth, Amalia wondered if the man’s theory had credit.

Really, she’d been meandering for almost twenty minutes. Was it a stretch that she had lost her composure because of the heat? Armed with that defense, she extended the glass back to him. “Thanks, I needed that.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t take the glass she offered. He didn’t speak, either.

Slowly, Amalia raised her gaze and looked at him. Really looked at what had to be the most aggressively masculine specimen on the planet.

And promptly realized all her theories about heat and dehydration messing with her composure were just those: theories with a hefty dose of self-delusion.

Tall windows above and behind her cast just the right amount of golden light onto his face as if they, too, had been beat into submission by the will of this man.

A single brow rose imperiously, his gaze very much on her face. A gesture filled with a dark sarcasm. Was it because she had given the glass back to him, as if he was a servant? Was his sense of consequence so big that he was insulted by her innocent gesture?

He had short, thick, curving eyelashes that shaded his expression—a tactic she was sure he used to intimidate people. Light turned the brown of his eyes into a hundred golden hues, the eyes of a predatory cat.

Square jaw, rough with bristles, sat below high cheekbones and a straight nose that lent his features a hardness she didn’t like. His mouth was wide and thin-lipped. A mouth given to passion; the strange thought sent a shiver down her spine.

Amalia was tall, only two inches short of six feet. He topped over her easily by four or five inches. His neck was the same glistening tone as his face—a dark golden, as if he had been cast from one of those ancient metals that Khaleejians had used several centuries ago. Her father had had a small knife whose handle gleamed like his skin tone.

He propped a finger under her chin and lifted it up. All of her being seemed to concentrate on that small patch of skin. “Your appraisal is very thorough after being so flustered.”

Heat poured through Amalia’s cheeks. “I wasn’t flustered.”

“No?” The brow-rise again. “A lot of women lose their composure when they see me.”

“Second of all,” she continued, “you look like a man who needs to be met square in the eye, Your Highness.”

Amusement filtered through the implacability in his eyes. “That is a bold statement to make. Tell me your name.”

“Ms. Christensen.”

“Did your parents not give you a first name?”

She didn’t want to tell him her name, which was the weirdest thing Amalia had ever felt.

He waited and the silence grew. “Amalia Christensen. I was dehydrated. Now I’ve found my bearings again.”

Taking the coward’s way, Amalia stepped back from the sheer presence of the man and made a meandering path through the room.

A haunting memory of listening to one of her father’s stories of ancient history of Khaleej gripped her. A traditionally designed curved dagger, almost the size of her lower arm, hung against a beige-colored rug on the wall, its metallic hilt gleaming in the afternoon light. She ran reverent fingers over the handle.

Yet, she couldn’t leave the infuriating presence of the man behind. It was like trying to ignore a lion that was sitting two feet away from you and eyeing you for his next meal. Neither could she curb the rising panic that the longer she took to explain herself, the harder it was going to be to convince him to help Aslam.

The scent and heat of him rubbed up against her senses.

“This is a fifteenth-century khanjar, isn’t it?” she said, just to puncture the building tension around them. “Men used to wear them on their belts. It was a sign of status, a sign of prowess.”

“Among other things, yes,” he said drily, and a fresh wave of warmth washed over her.

“A sign of their macho-ness, in modern words,” she added, tongue-in-cheek.

It seemed they didn’t even have to look at each other for that almost tangible quality to build up around them. Was it just awareness of each other? Attraction? Or was it her fear of the consequences of her pretense that was making her heart ratchet in her chest so violently?

“Decorative pieces now.”

His surprised gaze rested on her face but Amalia looked straight ahead. She couldn’t rid herself of the lingering sensation in her gut.

“You’ve studied the history of Khaleej in preparation for this interview?” he said, a thread of something in his tone. “I have to admit to both surprise and admiration for that. Having a knowledge of Khaleej and its customs is a huge point in your favor.”

Interview? For a position with him?