Traded To The Sheikh

Abdul grimaced an apologetic appeal to soften any offence as he explained, ‘I’m saying Miss Ross may not have the mindset to bend to your will. It is merely something to be considered when taking in the whole.’

‘Thank you, Abdul. I will give more thought to the problem of Miss Ross. However, until such time as you have checked the references from her previous employers, we will pursue the course I have laid down. Please ensure that my instructions are followed.’

Abdul bowed his way out.

His aide always understood authority.

To Zageo’s mind it was utterly intolerable for Emily Ross not to bend to his will. At the very least the woman was guilty of trespassing. It was unreasonable of her to keep defying all he stood for.

She had to bend.

He would make her bend!

Emily’s bikini had been taken away while she was relaxing in a luxurious spa bath, enjoying the warm bursts of water on tired, stiff muscles and the aromatic mixture of lavender and sandalwood oils rising out of the bubbles. She’d been invited to wear a wraparound silk robe during the subsequent pampering—a manicure and pedicure while her hair was shampooed and blow-dried. Five star service in these women’s quarters, Emily thought, until it came time to discard the robe and dress for her next meeting with the sheikh.

She was ushered into a sumptuous bedroom where there was only one outfit on offer. It had not come from her waterproof bag. It had not come from the luggage she’d chosen to leave behind on the yacht. It did not belong to her but Emily knew instantly what it represented. Sheikh Zageo bin Sultan Al Farrahn wanted to see how well she fitted the contentious belly-dancing role. Without a doubt this was one of the costumes he’d accused her of owning.

The skirt seemed to be a concoction of chiffon scarves with colours ranging from deep violet, through many shades of blue to turquoise. These layers were attached to a wide hip band encrusted with royal-blue and gold and silver sequins with a border of dangling gold medallions. Violet lycra hipster panties came with the skirt. The cups and straps of the accompanying turquoise bra were also exotically patterned with sequins and beads.

Clearly this was not a cheap dress-up outfit.

It was an intricably fashioned professional costume.

Emily felt a twinge of concern for the woman to whom it did belong. What had happened to her? What was the story behind the storage of these specialty clothes on the yacht?

‘I can’t wear that,’ she protested to Heba, the oldest of the attendants who’d been looking after her. ‘It’s not mine,’ she insisted.

‘I have been instructed it is for you,’ came the inarguable reply. ‘His Excellency, the sheikh, has commanded that you wear it. There is no other choice.’

Emily gritted her teeth. Clearly His Excellency’s word was law in this household. He’d allowed her the leeway of cleaning up and feeling more comfortable, although most probably this indulgence was a premeditated softening up process and Emily was highly suspicious of the motive behind it.

Was the sexual trade-off still being considered?

Had she just been prepared for the sheikh’s bed?

It had been so easy to accept all the pampering but now came the crunch!

She could either dig in her heels and remain naked under the flimsy and all too revealing silk robe—not a good option—or don the belly-dancing costume which was probably less sexually provocative and would definitely leave her less physically accessible.

Given there would be no avoiding facing the sheikh again tonight—he’d have her hauled into his presence if she tried disobeying his instructions—Heba was right. No choice. It had to be the belly-dancing costume.

Emily quelled a flood of futile rebellion and grudgingly accepted the inevitable, thinking that with any luck, these blatantly sexy clothes wouldn’t fit and that would show him she’d been telling the truth.

Naturally the lycra panties proved nothing, stretching to accommodate her derriere. No problem. Annoyingly the skirt sat snugly on the curve of her hips—not too loose, not too tight. Emily eyed the bra balefully as she discarded the silk robe. It looked about right, but hopefully it wouldn’t comfortably reach around her back.

To her intense frustration, the straps were perfectly positioned for her shape, the hooks and eyes met with no trouble at all, and the wired cups designed to uplift breasts and emphasise cleavage made her look so voluptuous it was positively embarrassing. Okay, her breasts were not small, but they weren’t this prominent.

The belly-dancing costume actually made her feel more self-conscious of her body than the swamp-soiled bikini which had been whisked away the moment she’d discarded it to step into the spa bath. The skimpy two-piece had been a far more natural thing for her to wear. It hadn’t been exotic and erotic, aimed at titillating a man’s mind. It had simply been an off-the-peg garment for swimming.

However, there was no point in asking for it back.

Heba had her orders and clearly disobeying the sheikh was unthinkable.

Emily argued to herself that although she might feel caught up in a scene from The Arabian Nights, it couldn’t be true, not in today’s world. Even Heba was now using a very modern slimline mobile phone, undoubtedly reporting the state of play.

This forcing her to wear the belly-dancing costume had to be a pressure tactic, wanting her to feel more exposed, more vulnerable in the next interview about her activities. It couldn’t have anything to do with a sexual trade-off. Not really.

Two security guards and a bearded man whom they clearly regarded as a higher authority arrived to escort her elsewhere. The women’s quarters were on the second floor. Emily expected to be taken all the way down to the opulent atrium but she was led to a door on the first floor, which instantly evoked a wild wave of apprehension. At least the hugely open atrium had been like a public arena, overlooked by anyone on the ground or upper floors. She hoped, quite desperately, that some kind of official office was behind this door.

It wasn’t.

The bearded man ushered her into what was undoubtedly a private sitting room, richly furnished and sensually seductive with its many cushioned couches surrounding a low circular table which held a tempting display of food and drink. It was occupied by only one person who instantly proceeded to dismiss her usher.

‘Thank you, Abdul.’

The bearded man backed out of the room and closed the door, leaving Emily absolutely alone with a sheikh who apparently believed the only law that had to be respected was his own!

He strolled forward, intent on gaining an unencumbered view of her from head to foot—front view, side view and back view—in the costume he’d chosen for her to wear. Emily gritted her teeth and stood as still as a statue, determined not to betray her inner quaking and hoping that with her head held high, she looked as though she disdained any interpretation he took from how well the skirt and bra fitted her.

He moved behind her. Her spine crawled with an awareness of how close he was. Within an arm’s reach. And he did not move on. His out-of-sight stillness played havoc with her pulse, making her temples throb with acute anxiety. What was he doing? What was he thinking? Was she imagining it or had he touched her hair, sliding fingers around a tress, lifting it away from the rest?

‘You must fetch a very high price…as a dancer.’

The comment was spoken slowly, consideringly, his voice thick with a sensuality that raised goose-bumps all over her skin.

Emily swallowed hard to work some moisture into a very dry mouth. Her inner agitation had bolted beyond any control. Remaining still was beyond her. She swung around, catching sight of a swathe of her hair sliding out between the thumb and fingers of a hand that had been raised to his mouth. Or nose. The idea of him taking the intimate liberty of tasting it, smelling it, created total havoc in Emily’s mind.

‘You’re making a big mistake about me,’ she cried, struggling to find some defence to how he was making her feel.

‘That was meant as a compliment, Miss Ross,’ he answered, his mouth still curved in a look of sensual pleasure. ‘There is no need for you to bristle.’

He didn’t have the right to touch her without her permission. Emily wanted to say so but she sensed he would only laugh at the objection. Right now he had the power to do anything he wanted with her. All she could do was try to change his view of who and what she was.

‘It sounded as though you thought I was a…a call-girl,’ she protested.

His smile tilted with irony. ‘I think it more a case of your choosing whom you’ll take as a lover…as it suits you.’

Emily wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that, either. She had the weird sensation of being silently enticed to choose him as her next lover. Or was he setting a test—a trap—for her?

‘Come—’ he waved her forward to one of the couches close to the circular table ‘—you must be hungry after the rigours of your escape from Jacques Arnault.’

Her stomach was empty—so empty it kept convulsing with nervous energy. ‘Does this mean you believe I was escaping from him and not involved in the drug-running?’ she asked, not yet ready to take a step in any direction.

He swept her an open-handed, graceful gesture. ‘Until we reach a time and place of complete enlightenment, I would prefer you to consider yourself more my guest than my prisoner.’

‘You mean you are actually checking me out,’ Emily pursued the point, hoping for some sense of relief from his false assumptions about her.

‘Different time zones do not permit that process at the moment but rest assured nothing will be taken for granted. In the meantime…’