To Catch a Sheikh

She covered her face with her hands, wishing fatigue could block out the humiliating scene. What a fool she’d made of herself. And he’d let her even after she’d asked him to help her not to do that!

It wasn’t the first time a man had made a fool of her. Last time, the man had taken her money and disappeared. This time, she’d been told to disappear. His exact words—she should take the rest of the day off. To acclimate. Was that El Zafirian for get ready to be drawn and quartered at dawn for the crime of impertinence?

“I almost wish I was dead,” she said to the white walls surrounding her. “But I’d prefer something non-violent and less messy.”

She had to admit that if she breathed her last at dawn, these digs were a fabulous place to spend her final hours. The walls were white, the starkness broken by colorful tapestries hanging in the living room, dining area and bedroom. A low, soft sofa took up one corner of the room that faced a lush, colorful garden. Flowers and greenery abounded below her window. She couldn’t see the ocean, but on the balcony she’d breathed in the fragrance of sea air mixed with the perfume of the flowers. The two blended, creating an intoxicating scent she’d never before experienced.

The bedroom contained a large four-poster bed, matching dresser and armoire—as if she had enough clothes to fill the two pieces of furniture. In the corner was a chair and ottoman covered in white cashmere, or so she’d been told by the maid who’d helped her unpack her meager belongings. What was she doing here? It was a rhetorical question, which fortunately didn’t require an answer. She wouldn’t be around long enough to bother with one. Not after what she’d done—correction—not after she’d been baited and reeled in.

Then the baiter in question—one Rafiq Hassan, Prince of El Zafir—had calmly given her the day off. Wouldn’t it have been simpler to just send her to the airport? Surely he wouldn’t allow her to stay after she’d insulted him.

It didn’t matter that there were no nameplates in his office. That should have been a dead giveaway. Although, she wasn’t especially comfortable with the dead part. Everyone knew the royal family. Why would they need their names on the doors? Lack of sleep could no longer be an excuse for what she’d done. Hands down, she would win ninny of the year or the El Zafirian equivalent. Being new to the country should be considered mitigating circumstances. And he—Rafiq—had set her up. But he was a prince; she was a pauper.

An unexpected knock on the door made her jump. Her heart contracted painfully. Here it comes, she thought. We who are about to die, or be ignominiously deported back to the U.S., salute you.

She opened the door. It was him! For the second time that day she found herself in the unnatural condition of being unable to form words.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“Of course.” She pulled the door wide and stood back, allowing him entrance. After all, this was his place. Place? Oops. Palace. Far different from the average, ordinary, run-of-the-mill man’s place.

He looked at her. “You’ve changed.”

“Not really. I’m the same person I was a while ago. I just don’t have the words—”

He pointed to her pants. “I meant your clothes.”

“Oh.” She followed his glance to her bare feet, jeans and Don’t Mess With Texas T-shirt. When she met his gaze again, she thought it contained a spark of—something she didn’t understand. But she could only think of one word to describe his black eyes. Smoldering.

Her research on the country in general and the royal family in particular had revealed that his last name, Hassan, meant handsome and he certainly lived up to it. His thick black hair was cut short. Subtle waving told her that if it was longer, some serious curling would happen. His face was a composition of high cheekbones, straight nose and square jaw that came dangerously close to male perfection. Broad shoulders and a wide chest fit his tall body. His sinfully expensive navy-blue business suit highlighted lean, masculine strength. Then she remembered her tasteless remark about cowboys being the standard of male appeal in Texas. Prince Rafiq Hassan had just upped the benchmark. She had the heart palpitations, weak knees and sweaty palms to prove it.

“I don’t—”

“Yes?” he prompted.

“What do I call you?” she blurted out. “Your Majesty? Your Highness? Your Worship? The member of the royal family formerly and still known as Prince?”

She was being impertinent, but she couldn’t help it. That’s who she was. Besides, what did she have to lose? She’d already put her foot in her mouth. Even though he should share part of the blame for leading her on, he was probably there to tell her she was fired. From here she had nowhere to go but the airport.

“You may call me Your Highness, Prince Rafiq Hassan, Minister of Foreign and Domestic Affairs, the bountiful and benevolent.”

She felt like reaching for her scratch pad to write down the lengthy form of address when she noticed that his wonderful firm lips were curving up at the corners. “You’re joking,” she accused.

“Yes.”

“Oh, thank goodness.”

“What?”

“You do have a sense of humor.”

“Of course. Why would you doubt it?” He shrugged and extended one hand in a self-effacing gesture.

There was a Band-Aid on his index finger, sporting a cartoon character. It was a sign. He was more than a pompous, arrogant baiter of unsuspecting women.

“At our first meeting you never cracked a smile,” she reminded him.

“That is why I’m here.”

“To show me you can smile?”

“No. To…start again.”

For half a second, she’d thought he was going to apologize for leading her on, making her appear foolish.

She looked up at him, way up, then adjusted her glasses more securely on her nose. “I figured you were here to can me.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, terminate me.” She shook her head. “Bad choice of words.”

“Why?”

“I was wondering if I’d be drawn and quartered in the city square at dawn.”

“Actually, the idea of beheading came up.”

She gasped. “No!”

“Yes. Then the merits of cutting out your tongue.”

She backed up a step before noticing his smile. A full-on, showing-his-great-teeth, go-for-broke, steal-her-heart grin. “You’re teasing me.”

“Yes.” He slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks, upsetting the sleek line at the bottom of the matching jacket. “By ‘can’ and ‘terminate’ you meant revoke your employment.”

“Right. Fire me.” Although the way he looked could give a whole new meaning to the word. He was what the girls back home called a “hottie.”

“I’m not here to do that.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Although you must admit that if you’d told me right away who you are, there wouldn’t be a large coffee stain on the carpet in your office.”

“I don’t have to admit anything,” he said. “I am the prince.”

“Of course.” And exactly the reason she decided against taking him to task for leading her on. Besides, it looked as if she was getting a reprieve. Bearding the lion in his den, so to speak, probably wasn’t the wisest course. “And a prince is the master of all he surveys.”

“Something like that,” he said, a sparkle in his eyes betraying that he was amused.

“If you’re not here to admit anything, then why are you here?”