The Desert Sheikh's Defiant Queen: The Sheikh's Chosen Queen / The Desert King's Pregnant Bride

“No bath before dinner?”

Jesslyn set the book down. “I don’t take a bath before every meal, Mehta.”

“No bath.”

“No.”

Mehta’s dark brows pulled. “No dinner?”

“No, I will have dinner. I’m meeting Sheikh Fehr for dinner at seven. We are meeting to discuss business—”

“Dinner with His Highness.”

“Right.” Jesslyn smiled with relief. Finally. They were both on the same page. “Dinner,” she said. “At seven.”

Mehta held up her wrist, tapped her wrist as though there was a watch there. “Half past five. Dinner seven. Bath now.”

Jesslyn sighed heavily. She really didn’t want to argue about a bath with a young member of Sharif’s palace staff. She’d only just arrived and she was going to be here all summer. And from the sound of things she was going to need someone on her side.

“A bath sounds lovely,” she answered with forced cheer as she reluctantly moved all the books off her lap and chair so she could stand. “But I’m not finished with these,” she added. “I’ll want to read them later.”

Mehta was delighted. “Yes, Teacher Fine. Now come.”

Jesslyn hadn’t seen the bedroom before, but following Mehta down the columned hall into the bedroom, she discovered that the bedroom with its spacious antique bed was just as lovely, and even more feminine, than the sunken living room.

The antique bed reminded Jesslyn of a Russian ballet with dramatic floor-to-ceiling pink and rose silk and satin curtains that could be untied and draped around the bed to provide intimacy and seclusion. The bed, built like an oversize daybed, had neither headboard nor footboard but high sides softened with pillows to match the silk panels.

A short silver vase teeming with fragrant pink rosebuds sat on a side table, and Jesslyn bent over to breathe in the heady sweet perfume. It wasn’t easy to grow roses in the blistering heat of the desert, which made these all the more precious.

“Your bath,” Mehta said, standing in yet another doorway gesturing to a room beyond.

The bath was a Roman bath with sunken tub and endless white marble. A delicately painted dome arched over the airy room, capping high walls with high narrow windows that drew in early-morning and late-afternoon sun but didn’t sacrifice privacy.

“I will help you?” Mehta asked, gesturing to Jesslyn.

The huge sunken tub had already been filled, and steam rose from the surface. “I can manage,” Jesslyn answered, thinking the whole help thing had gone far enough. Turning, she spotted a white robe on a small iron stool, and she picked it up, held it against her. “I’ll take the bath and then put this on and then I’ll come out, okay?”

Mehta smiled. “Okay.”

Once the bathroom door was shut, Jesslyn dropped her clothes and slid into the tub’s hot water with an appreciative sigh. She hadn’t wanted to take the bath, but now that she was here, chin-deep in water scented with a tantalizing vanilla and spice oil, she couldn’t imagine not bathing.

The little bathroom in her apartment had a tiny tub, but the water never got properly hot and then turned cold halfway before the tub was even filled. Soaking in this deep tub was pure decadence. Closing her eyes, Jesslyn just floated, content, absolutely content—

“Massage now, Teacher Fine. Okay?”

Mehta’s voice suddenly pierced Jesslyn’s dream state and her eyes flew open. Mehta was leaning over the tub smiling at her. “Okay?”

Jesslyn sat up abruptly, drawing her knees to her chest. “I don’t need a massage.”

“Nice massage before dinner.”

Spotting a large woman, Jesslyn shook her head. “The bath is perfect. The bath is lovely. I’ll just get dressed.”

“Dinner with His Highness,” Mehta said.

“Yes, yes, I know, but—”

“Massage before dinner with His Highness.”

Oh, for Pete’s sake! Enough with this dinner-with-His-Highness. It was just Sharif. She’d had hundreds of meals with Sharif. It was ridiculous to go through all of this just because she’d be joining him to eat.

“No.” Jesslyn hugged her knees tighter. “I really—” she broke off as the masseuse behind Mehta scooped up the robe and came marching toward her.

Mehta and the masseuse waited expectantly.

Jesslyn looked up at them, water trickling down her chest and back. She honestly didn’t know if she should laugh or cry. Coming here, she thought Sharif would be the problem, but Sharif was no problem, not compared to her baby-faced attendant with the biggest dimpled smile in the world.

“Anything for the king,” she said from between gritted teeth as she stood up in the bath and was wrapped in the robe.

Mehta smiled, her deep dimples growing bigger, deeper.

But of course Mehta smiled. Mehta was having a great time. She’d managed in less than a day to turn Jesslyn into a living Barbie doll.

CHAPTER SIX

JESSLYN’S heart thudded as she stood in the doorway of the royal courtyard. She couldn’t take another step, painfully self-conscious in the open-shoulder silk blouse Mehta had insisted she wear after going through all of Jesslyn’s clothes. The black silk was sheer and heavily embroidered with silver, the top draping off her shoulders and then dipping low.

It was a splurge top she’d bought for the Australia trip, a dressy fun top she’d imagined wearing in Cairns or Port Douglas for a special dinner out. Instead she wore it tonight for dinner with Sharif, the top paired with slim black satin trousers and high heels.

“Where did Miss Heaton go?” Sharif’s deep voice sounded from the opposite end of the courtyard, and Jesslyn searched the shadowy walled garden lit only by moonlight and the odd torch.

“I’m not sure,” she answered nervously, taking another step into the courtyard, feeling the chunky, black wood bead necklace sliding across her bare skin. “This wasn’t my idea,” she added defensively, pressing the big glossy wood beads to her sternum, wishing the beads covered more of her as her top left far too much bare. She shouldn’t have allowed Mehta to dress her. She should have finally, firmly, put her foot down.

Sharif moved from the shadows into the light. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

Instead of his traditional robes, he wore Western clothes, tailored black trousers and a long-sleeved white dress shirt open at the throat.

She’d never seen him like this, either. In London they’d never dressed up, never gone to very expensive or trendy restaurants. Instead their lives were simple and low-key and yet so full of happiness.

“This isn’t my idea of business attire,” she added nervously, shoulders lifting at the warm caress of the evening breeze. “But Mehta doesn’t listen to me. Not about anything.”

“Ah, yes, Teacher Fine,” he remarked moving leisurely toward her as the torches jumped and flickered in the breeze. “And you do look very fine.”

She touched one bare shoulder, aware that her top’s black silk was so sheer her skin and the curve of her breast could be seen. The fact that the silk had been bordered in silver ribbon and embroidered with fanciful silver designs did little to comfort her. The top had merely seemed playful when she’d planned to wear it on holiday. Now it felt far too daring, provocative and sexual and it mortified her.

She wasn’t trying to seduce Sharif. She wasn’t trying to do anything but fulfill her promise to him. All she wanted to do was help his children and then return to Sharjah in eight weeks for the new school year.

“Would you like a cocktail, a glass of wine or champagne?” he asked.