Sold To The Sheikh

She shrugged irritably. ‘In a way.’

‘Don’t,’ came his sharp rebuke. ‘That’s not the way to behave with a man like Ali. Such behaviour could make him…dangerous.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Dangerous? In what way?’

Rico shook his head. ‘Look, I’ll speak to him. Make sure he understands how the land lies. I’m sure he’ll respect your wishes if he believes you’re genuinely not interested. You are definitely not interested?’

‘Oh, please. Spare me from having to deal with a spoiled sheikh who harbours Hollywood fantasies over his irresistibility to women.’

‘Maybe he has cause to harbour them.’

She could not contain a scornful laugh. ‘The only thing Prince Ali of Dubar has going for him with me is the size of his wallet. And then only if he opens it for the foundation. You tell him that, Rico. Now I really must go and take off this infernal dress!’

A famous saying came to Rico’s mind as he watched Charmaine flounce off, her glamorous drop earrings swinging sexily around her shoulders and her long fair hair swishing back and forth across her nearly naked back.

‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’

CHAPTER THREE

SHORTLY before six on the following Saturday afternoon, Charmaine climbed out from behind the wheel of her nondescript white sedan, collected her overnight bag from the back seat, handed the car keys to the valet parking attendant and proceeded into the arcade-style foyer of the Regency Hotel, all without having to tolerate the harassing presence of the paparazzi.

Experience had taught the supermodel several ways to avoid them. If possible, she arrived early for publicised events, often in disguise. Unfortunately, her dinner date tonight with the sheikh was now a well-publicised event, courtesy of one pesky female journalist who’d been at the auction and written it up the following day, the main focus of her article being the astonishing amount paid by Prince Ali of Dubar for a dinner date with our Charmaine. Typically, the find-a-sexual-angle journo made it all sound impossibly romantic.

Charmaine had quickly regretted announcing at the auction when and where the dinner would take place. That had been a mistake. But no way was she going to contact the prince and change the arrangements. She did, however, contact the owner of the Regency again and was assured by Mr Richmond that no Press would bother either her or his most esteemed guest from Dubar over dinner. He promised heightened security at both the hotel entrance and complete privacy in the restaurant.

Charmaine expressed her gratitude but still booked a room in the hotel so that she could arrive early and dress there, as well as stay the night. That way she could slip out the following morning in her own good time.

Now here she was, blessedly anonymous as she walked up to the reception desk in her nondescript brown wig and wraparound sunglasses, not having had to tolerate cameras being shoved in her face and having questions shouted at her. What a relief! She might have lost her cool if there’d been reporters and photographers hanging around the hotel. It had been a very long week and her nerves were on a knife-edge today.

Charmaine glanced at her watch as she rode the lift up to the second floor. Less than an hour to go. But time enough for her to get ready. She’d washed and blow-dried her hair earlier that afternoon. And done her nails. All she had left to do was change her clothes and put on some make-up and earrings. None of those preparations would take much time. Charmaine had decided to dress down for this occasion.

If the sheikh thought she’d show up in something reminiscent of last Saturday night then he was in for a surprise. There would be no flesh on show tonight. Nothing for those predatory eyes to feast upon.

At precisely five minutes to seven, she was again in the lift, her stone-washed jeans now replaced by loose-fitting black crêpe evening trousers and a bronze silk Chinese-style tunic top that skimmed her figure and minimised its hourglass curves. Her hair was brushed straight back from her face and fell in a dead straight curtain to her waist. Her face had hardly any make-up at all. Just a fine layer of foundation, a touch of blue eyeshadow, a few strokes of mascara and some shiny bronze lipstick that matched the colour of her nails. Small diamond studs winked at her ear-lobes, in marked contrast to the sexy shoulder-length drops she’d worn for the auction.

The irony was that with a natural beauty like Charmaine, often less was more. But she was unaware of this fact. Being used to wearing much more make-up, especially for photo shoots and her work on the catwalk, she thought she looked as plain as she could. If only she knew how breathtakingly beautiful—and intriguingly innocent—she looked as she emerged on the mezzanine floor and made her way down the marble-floored corridor to the By Candlelight restaurant.

The maître d’, a tall bald-headed man with a thin moustache and intelligent grey eyes, smiled at her from behind his podium-style station.

‘Mademoiselle Charmaine,’ he said with a French accent, which might or might not have been genuine. The number of maître d’s in Sydney restaurants with French accents seemed excessive in Charmaine’s opinion. ‘Such a delight to have you in our restaurant tonight. His highness has already arrived. I will take you straight to him.’

Charmaine dutifully followed in his wake as he made his way past the mostly empty tables towards the back of the restaurant. Considering the relatively early hour of their ‘date’, Charmaine was surprised that the prince had already arrived. She would have thought that royalty would always be a little late for engagements of the social kind.

But of course this wasn’t a social occasion, she reminded herself ruefully. It was one of vengeance. Naturally, his royal highness wouldn’t want to miss a moment of her humiliation.

This last realisation rescued her from any inner resentment at being here at all and sent a small smile playing around her lips. If the sheikh thought he could belittle her tonight, then he was in for more than one surprise. He had no idea what he was dealing with. No idea at all!

The alcove she was taken to was totally and utterly private, a small square-shaped room tucked away in a discreet corner. There was an open archway leading into it, but even this was flanked by huge potted palms that added to its sense of privacy. The walls of the alcove—and even the ceiling—were painted black, the darkness only minimally alleviated by several low-voltage recessed lights. There was no furniture except for the table, which was round and intimately sized, and covered with the same white linen tablecloth as the tables she’d just passed. The wine-coloured candle that graced the glass centrepiece on the table was low, perhaps because the people who normally sought to eat here wanted nothing to spoil their view of each other’s face and eyes.

This area had undoubtedly been designed with lovers in mind, a real love-nest for those who wanted to keep prying eyes away whilst they banqueted on the best food and wine and whispered sweet nothings to each other. Tycoons would dine here with their mistresses, and celebrities with their latest live-in lovers.

Charmaine doubted this table would have borne witness to too many dinners like the one that would be served on its elegance surface tonight. Though possibly it was the diners more than the dinner who would be different.

When she’d first walked towards the dimly lit alcove, Charmaine could hardly see the sheikh sitting on the far side of the table, his dark clothes and dark colouring making him melt into the black-walled background. But, once she had passed under the archway and her eyes grew accustomed to the dimmer light, he emerged from the shadow, first his face, and then the rest of him.

Still no traditional Arab dress for him, she noted. He looked like a typical Western playboy, dressed expensively but rather casually in an exquisite black lounge suit and a black silk collarless shirt.

Did her heart beat a little faster at the sight of his handsome elegance? Or was her adrenalin surge simply the result of their next face-to-face confrontation finally being at hand?

Soldiers on the verge of going into battle would feel like this, she reasoned. There would always be a type of excitement alongside the fear.

Fear? Now, that was an odd thought. She had nothing to fear from this man.

Or did she?

Rico had said something about his being dangerous. And Rico was no fool. What kind of danger was he talking about? OK, so her date tonight was an Arab sheikh with perhaps more primitive ways in treating women he fancied than most men of the Western world. And yes, he still fancied her, despite what she was wearing tonight. His eyes were like hot coals on her face and body.

So much for her dressing down for the occasion, came the irritable thought. If anything, he seemed to desire her even more without her curves being on display.

But surely, that was all he could realistically do. Desire her. As private as this alcove was, it was hardly conducive to his ravishing her during tonight’s dinner date, especially without her consent. One little scream and people would come running.

No, she had nothing to fear about this evening, except her own silly behaviour. Just keep your temper, she lectured herself. And your cool. Then, in three hours’ time, you can leave and never see this infernal man ever again.

His rising from his chair as she approached the table startled her. She hadn’t expected such a gentlemanly gesture from him.

‘Good evening, Charmaine,’ he said with a slight nod of his head of perfectly groomed black hair. Quite wavy on top, it was. And thick and clean and shining. The kind of hair that would be a joy to touch.

Charmaine was taken aback by this most alien thought. She never found joy any more in touching any part of any man. And here she was, thinking about running her fingers through this man’s hair. The very idea!

‘You look…lovely,’ he added, that dark, desire-filled gaze of his never leaving her face.

Charmaine was grateful that the maître d’ chose that moment to pull out her chair so she could occupy herself sitting down rather than answering the sheikh. He sat down also, but his eyes stayed glued to her with merciless intent.

The maître d’ made a production of picking up her linen serviette, shaking it out of its creative folds then placing it across her lap before making his way round the table and doing the same for the sheikh.

‘Your personal waiter for this evening will be along shortly, Your Highness,’ he said with a deferential bow towards the prince before hurrying off, leaving them temporarily alone.

For the life of her, Charmaine could not think of a thing to say. She was still rattled by wanting to touch the sheikh’s hair. A few seconds of awkward silence ticked away and she longed for their waiter to appear.