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Sheikh Boss, Hot Desert Nights

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2019
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Okay, she was most definitely awake now.

Scampering into the bedroom, she pounced on her knapsack and plucked out her sensible knickers. Teaming those with her sensible bra—the one that didn’t show beneath the shirt she’d bought, she chose dark trousers and a red cardigan rather than a jacket.

High heels, of course…

With trousers?

Discarding the trousers, she tugged on the skirt.

No good. Pale legs.

Throwing it off, she grabbed the trousers again.

Shirt, trousers, high heels…

Shirt, trousers, desert boots…

Definitely high heels.

Spinning in front of the full-length mirror, she viewed herself as critically as a two-and-a-half-second spin would allow.

Whatever the day ahead held, she was ready for it.

There was no time for make-up, and her hair was a candy-floss explosion she just bound in a band as she raced to the door. Her hand stalled halfway to the handle. Back up. What about the survey she’d prepared?

And some of the duty free scent she’d bought on the plane.

Squirt everywhere; sneeze. Finished.

Ready.

Two seconds to tuck the survey under her arm in a professional manner, and tip her chin at a businesslike angle. And still two minutes left on the ten-minute deadline.

She opened the door. ‘Oh, hell!’

‘Hello, yourself…’


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