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

Her attempt at cool, calm and collected ended when she caught sight of his expression. He was observing her intently, assessing her from head to toe.

Flushing, she shuffled papers nervously. “What kind of help do you need?”

“The kind you’re good at.” He was walking toward her, very slowly.

She tried to concentrate on what he was saying instead of his proximity, but he was coming too close, moving too quickly. “I’m a teacher, Sharif.”

“Exactly.” He stood over her, tall and imposing.

Had he always been this tall? “It’s been a long time,” she said.

“Nine years.”

“Nine,” she repeated, finding it nearly impossible to tear her gaze from his fiercely handsome features, features that had only grown harder and more beautiful over the years. The handsome prince had become a man. But then, he wasn’t merely a prince anymore. He was Sarq’s king.

With one hand she smoothed her skirt, feeling miserably dowdy, all too aware that her wardrobe and hairstyle were basic, practical, no nonsense. She’d never been a fashionista to start with, and nine years in the classroom had reduced both her wardrobe and her sense of style to nil.

She forced her lips into a professional smile. “After nine years, what could I possibly do to help you?”

“Teach,” he answered simply.

She felt a funny flicker of emotion, an emotion that fell somewhere between unreasonable fury and tears. “That’s right. I’m a teacher and you’re a king.”

Sharif’s gray eyes held hers, his expression enigmatic. “You could have been my queen.”

“You were never serious, Sharif.”

A spark flared in his eyes, and explosive tension whipped the room. “Neither were you.”

And just like that they were adversaries, on opposite sides of an insurmountable wall.

“Unfair and untrue,” she said through gritted teeth, anger making her chest too hot and tight. “There was no room for me—” She broke off, unable and unwilling to continue. It was history, so long ago it shouldn’t matter. The fact that they were even discussing events of nine years ago struck her as tragic, especially as she had someone else in her life, someone who mattered a great deal to her. “So what really brings you here, King Fehr?”

His jaw hardened and his narrowed gaze ruthlessly swept her, head to toe. “I’ve told you. You do. I’ve come to offer you a job.”

He was serious, then. This was about a job. Teaching.

Heat rushed through her, heat that left her deeply shaken. Swallowing, she looked up at him, her smile so hard it felt brittle even to her. “I have a job.”

“Apparently not a very good one,” he answered, indicating the old chalkboards and battered room fixtures.

She wouldn’t stoop to his level, wouldn’t let herself be ridiculed, bullied or criticized. “It’s one I like very much, thank you.”

“Would you feel better if I told you the position is just for the summer?”

Her chin tilted even more defiantly. “No.”

“Why not?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she didn’t have to answer to him, she didn’t owe him anything. But that was a pointless exercise. It wasn’t even the past holding her back, it was the future. She had plans for the summer, a wonderful eight and a half weeks of gorgeous, lovely travel—two weeks to beaches in Australia’s Queensland, ski slopes in New Zealand, and lots of museum and theater excursions highlighted by great food in Sydney, Melbourne and Auckland. “Because … no.”

“You’d be back here before school started in September,” Sharif persisted, his tone so cool and smooth and relentless that goose bumps peppered her flesh.

“You remind me of my students when they’re not listening.”

He just smiled, grimly. “You haven’t even considered the proposal.”

“There’s nothing to consider,” she countered, amazed at his arrogance. “I’ve plans that can’t be changed. Not even for you.”

She saw his eyes narrow at her tone. She hadn’t meant to be sarcastic, but there was a definite edge in her voice, an edge due to her discomfort. She didn’t like the way he was towering over her desk, issuing dictates as though he were in his palace instead of her classroom, didn’t like the way he pushed, didn’t like his disregard for her, her feelings or her interests. “I appreciate you thinking of me, and I thank you for the invitation, King Fehr, but the answer is no.”

“I’ll pay you twice your salary—”

“Stop!” Her voice rang out as she slapped a heavy textbook down on her desk. The book thudded loudly, echoing in the classroom. “This isn’t about money. I don’t care about money. I don’t care if you were to pay me two thousand dollars a day! I’m not interested. Not interested. Understand?”

Silence descended, a silence that felt positively deafening.

But it wasn’t her fault she lost her temper, she reminded herself. He wasn’t listening. “I’m going on holiday,” she added, squaring her shoulders, refusing to be intimidated, even as her gaze clashed with his. Their relationship ended years ago, and there was no reason to start anything again— professionally or personally. “I leave tonight.”

His features hardened, his expression so flinty his cheekbones and jaw looked as though they’d been chiseled from stone. “You can go on holiday next summer. I need you.”

Jesslyn couldn’t stifle a hysterical laugh. “You need me? Oh, that’s a good one, King Fehr. Very funny indeed.”

He wasn’t laughing. His brows flattened over glittering gray eyes. “Give me one good reason why you won’t even consider the position.”

“I can give you three,” she answered, impatiently stacking the teacher editions on her desk, one on top of the other. “I’ve just finished a year of teaching and need a break. I’ve planned a wonderful holiday traveling in Australia and New Zealand and everything’s paid for. And last, and perhaps most important, having once been your girlfriend I’ve no desire to be—”

Jesslyn wasn’t able to finish the rest, drowned out by the blare of the school fire alarm.

It was a loud, piercing sound, and for a moment Jesslyn stood transfixed. Normally she’d snag her attendance book and swiftly march the students out, but there were no young charges to lead to safety.

The door to the classroom flew open and two hulking men appeared, dressed in dark clothes, their weapons cocked and ready. One of them spoke quickly, loudly to Sharif who just nodded and looked back at Jesslyn.

“Happen often?” he shouted over the deafening blare.

“No,” she shouted back, reaching for her purse, briefcase and blazer, momentarily taken aback by the quick action of Sharif’s security detail, but not totally surprised as Sharif had security even when they lived in London.

“I imagine it’s a false alarm,” she added distractedly. “One of those end-of-year student pranks the graduating seniors like to pull. But we still have to leave until the fire inspector gives us the okay to return.”

She’d just lifted her blazer from the back of her chair when the ceiling sprinklers came on, drenching the classroom in a torrent of warm water.

Sharif grabbed her briefcase and purse from her desk. “Let’s go.”

The hallway connecting the classrooms was slick with water, and as they dashed down the hall they could hear sirens in the distance and a lot of yelling in Arabic.

By the time they reached the front steps of the main administrative building, the fire trucks were pulling into the parking lot and the rest of Sharif’s security team, another half-dozen men, were on full alert.

As his men spotted Sharif they moved toward him, but Sharif quickly checked their progress.