To Catch a Sheikh

“I never knew him. It was always only my mother and me. She died when I was young.”

He looked very grave. “Mine did as well. Aunt Farrah filled the void when my mother was gone.”

“You’re lucky. I didn’t have anyone to fill the emptiness. The small nest egg she managed to leave me didn’t take away the pain when she was gone. I was raised in an orphanage.”

“I see.”

She found his matter-of-fact response strangely appropriate. “I’m sorry” was a meaningless, conditioned response and brought little comfort. “At eighteen, the state says you’re an adult and on your own.”

“The state is wrong,” he answered. “Such an age is still a child.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. But I was determined to get a degree.”

“And you did—in early childhood education and business. My aunt tells me you interned for Sam Prescott in Dallas.”

“Yes. The Prescotts have been very good to me. In fact Sam is the one who suggested I might think about working in El Zafir.”

Because she’d planned to start her own preschool. And she’d foolishly given away her seed money. But as comfortable as Rafiq made her feel, she still didn’t think he would want to hear about all that. Or maybe it was more that she didn’t want to confess how stupid she’d been. Taken in by a handsome man. She’d vowed never again to be suckered by a good-looking game player.

He was staring at her and the intensity of his gaze made her wonder if he could see all the way to her soul. She hoped not. He wouldn’t want someone so gullible working for him.

“I have known Sam Prescott since we were boys. Is there a particular reason that earning a lot of money is important to you?” he asked.

Because a promise was a promise. The vow she’d made a long time ago meant everything to her. But he wouldn’t want to hear about that. He was a businessman. “It’s my dream to open a preschool, possibly in a corporate environment. That way it could be subsidized by the company.”

“Why?”

“As a businessman yourself, I should think that would be obvious. Corporate sponsorship would increase the success ratio—”

“No. I meant why a preschool?”

“Oh. Well. I like children.” She met his gaze and was surprised he didn’t look bored. In fact, he gave a good imitation of being interested, which gave her the courage to continue. “I think that’s hereditary. My mother loved teaching elementary school. Before I was old enough to go to school, she struggled with the cost of child care. She always said a mother shouldn’t have to choose between a safe place for her child at the expense of a stimulating environment.”

“A preschool would do both?”

“Yes. As long as women are part of the workforce, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon, quality care for children will be an issue.”

“In my country as well.”

“Really?”

Rafiq watched as she made herself comfortable on the sofa. She scooted back and, though it was low, her short legs didn’t allow her feet to touch. Small feet, he noted and bare so he could see her red-painted toe-nails. Strangely unexpected—and appealing. She tucked her legs to the side and rested her elbow on the back of the furniture. Her golden hair was no longer pulled severely back from her oval face and secured in a bun at her nape. The waist-length strands cascaded around her like a silky sunshine curtain, begging a man to run his fingers through it.

He’d struggled with his reaction to her ever since she’d opened the door to him. Oddly enough, the shapeless khaki dress she’d worn earlier had been distraction enough. But jeans outlined her small waist and slender legs. As body types went, she was the complete opposite of the women who caught his eye. Speaking of eyes, hers regarded him through huge glasses. Obviously, she expected him to continue the conversation. And he would. As soon as he remembered what they’d been discussing.

“I didn’t think many women worked outside the home in El Zafir,” she said.

Ah, he thought. Preschools. “More and more educated women are choosing careers in this country. We’ve overlooked this great natural resource and vital addition to our workforce far too long.”

“Then child care becomes a problem.”

“Exactly.”

“I would still like to know why your brother specifically requested a homely nanny for his children.”

How could he get her to forget that particular question? His gaze settled on her mouth. Earlier, when she’d talked so much, he hadn’t noticed how very lush and full her lips were. He had a sudden inclination to taste her. That might make her forget about homely nannies. But he forced the thought away. She was his temporary assistant. Nothing more. And he would do well to remember that and forget how curvy she looked in her jeans.

He was her employer. And she was hardly more than a child. He was twenty-nine years old, but she made him feel ancient.

“I need to go.” He stood up. “About work.”

“Yes?”

She stood also. So small. Her head barely came to his shoulder. He felt a sudden strange burst of protectiveness for her. The same as he would feel for a child, he amended. This surprising reaction was merely the result of being with much taller women. None of them had ever evoked this reaction of wanting to stand between her and whatever storms life would blow into her path.

Penny had been hurt. Because his aunt had revealed that to him, he’d recognized the disillusionment in the depths of her eyes when she’d talked about her dream. Rage flared inside him. Again he wanted to make the jackal who had taken advantage of this innocent pay for his unforgivable sin.

“What about work?” she asked.

“Yes, work.”

“What time do you want me to report to the office?”

“Nine.”

She smiled. “At least there won’t be commuter traffic.”

“No.” He cleared his throat. “About your attire—”

“Your aunt already filled me in on that. No pants in public. She said in this country a woman covers her arms, and skirts must be worn well below the knee.”

“Yes.”

He should be relieved that she was aware. But he found himself strangely heavyhearted that jeans were inappropriate and Penny was aware of it.

“Tomorrow then,” she said.

“Yes. Tomorrow.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

As was he. Far more than he should.

Chapter Three

Penny closed the door to her suite and set off to dine with the Hassans. Other than feeling like Dorothy making her way to the Emerald City or a wide-eyed whacked-out character from a fractured fairy tale, she was looking forward to it. Really and truly. Eating with the royal family. Every last one. All in one place. All at the same time.

Yeah. And any minute now she would flap her wings and fly like a fairy godmother.