Never Seduce a Sheikh (International Bad Boys Book 2) (7 page)

But her frown didn’t let up and he knew she was trying to see behind his smile. See what lay beneath it. She shouldn’t. She wouldn’t like what was underneath. No one would.

A brief flash of frustration crossed her face before she glanced away from him, lifting her scarf and wrapping it around her head again. Her movements made the seat shift beneath him, made him slowly aware of how close she sat to him, her thigh nearly pressing against his. The blue of the headscarf brought out the gold in her skin, the darkness of her eyes. So unusual with her blonde brows and gold tipped lashes.

Even in a long-sleeved white shirt, a long pair of utility pants, no skin on show whatsoever, she was beautiful. And despite his best intentions, the slow, lazy heat of desire stretched out inside him.

“What made you change your mind, Sheikh?” Lily asked after a moment.

Irritated with the way his body insisted on reacting around her, Isma’il shifted slightly in his seat. “Last night? Well, isn’t it obvious? As you pointed out to me so eloquently, I need Harkness.”

“You don’t strike me as a man who does what a woman tells him.”

“I do not do what anyone tells me. It is not specific to women.”

“Then, why did you last night?”

“Because my country is more important than my dislike of being told what to do.”

The tight look around her mouth relaxed. Almost became a smile. “That’s very noble of you.”

“It is not nobility. A good ruler should always put his country’s needs ahead of his own.”

“And you see yourself as a good ruler?”

So quick. So sharp. But if she wasn’t careful she was going to cut herself. “I see myself as a better ruler than Khalid ever was.” He studied her. “Tell me, Lily,” he went on, using her first name with a certain amount of deliberation, wanting to unsettle her the way she seemed bent on unsettling him. “Do all your potential business partners get this third degree?”

Her hands went to the waistband of her shirt, pulling at it as if adjusting it. “I was just curious. Men like you don’t change their minds at the drop of a hat like that.”

“And who exactly are men like me?”

“Men who won’t take no for an answer.” For the briefest moment, the poised mask dropped and he caught a glimpse of something burning in her dark eyes. An intense emotion he couldn’t read. And he wanted to ask her what she meant by that, because he had a feeling she wasn’t talking about being a good ruler now. She was talking about something entirely different. But although his instinct was to push for answers, to know more about this fascinating, complex woman, he wouldn’t. Lily Harkness was not why he was here. He was here for his country, for Dahar. And that’s all.

So instead, he said lightly, “Actually, if you remember, I was the one saying no and you were the one not taking that for an answer.”

Gold-tipped lashes fluttered, veiling her gaze. “So you were. I take it all back, then.” She changed the subject after that, but Isma’il couldn’t help feeling that somehow something painful had been touched on. That she’d revealed something she hadn’t meant to reveal.

And try as he might, he knew he wasn’t going to forget it.

*     *     *

It had been
years since Lily had been near a pool. Years since she’d even wanted to think about swimming again. But right now, standing in the tent that had been set aside for her, with the heat of the desert beating down outside, Lily couldn’t imagine anything nicer than throwing herself into a pool of blessedly cool water.

Sadly, the only option for cooling down was the little solar shower that the quiet, robed girl who’d shown her to her tent had pointed out.

In fact, the tent she’d been given for her sole use, while visiting the tribe’s desert camp was surprisingly full of a whole host of mod-cons she hadn’t been expecting. A tiny bathroom for one. A luxurious king-sized bed. A desk complete with satellite phone for internet access, even out here in the middle of nowhere. Luxurious carpets and a few floor cushions for added comfort. The tent walls were made out of a pale, heavy canvas that let light filter through, making them glow.

Lily walked to the entrance as the silent, Bedouin girl moved behind her, unpacking her suitcases. Lily had tried to tell her she’d do it herself, but the girl had been surprisingly insistent. She spoke no English at all and yet managed to convey rather eloquently that she was going unpack Lily’s case no matter whether Lily wanted her to or not. In the end, Lily had left her to it, not wanting to upset her.

Outside in the blistering heat, a group of Bedouin tents had been pitched around a tiny oasis, complete with a couple of palm trees. Camels were tethered nearby and a herd of goats cropped at the rocky ground. Only a few people lingered outside, most having withdrawn into the relative shade of their tents.

Her attention fell on the tent pitched not far from hers, a far larger, grander affair than her own. Well, considering it was the sheikh’s, it probably should be.

A tall figure moved by the entrance and her gaze caught on him. Stayed there. He was in deep conversation with a couple of black robed tribesmen, the liquid sounds of Arabic carrying in the arid air. The tribesmen were clearly listening to what he had to say, but Lily sensed a certain reserve about them. Polite scepticism sat on their weathered features as if they were reserving judgement on something.

Khalid left scars on Dahar . . .

Clearly, what he’d told her on the journey to the camp was true. Isma’il may be their king in name, but they had yet to accept him as their ruler in spirit.

She leaned against the tent pole, watching. Khalid must have been a monster to scar a people so indelibly. But what kind of mark had that left on his son? She knew what it was to have a good father, a man you could trust and believe in. But what would it have been like to have a man like Khalid for a father?

Her gaze shifted once again to the tall man near the tent, his black hair glossy in the sun. The western clothing he wore, a white shirt and sand colored trousers, seemed incongruous next to the robes of the tribesmen. And yet, still somehow he managed to look every inch the king he was. Magnetic, charismatic. Nothing like the monster his father had been reputed to be.

But then, she knew there was something else beneath that charm. She’d sensed it back in the palace, felt it in the car as they’d journeyed here. Something raw and dark and . . .
fascinating
.

Isma’il spoke to the tribesmen a few moments more before one of them gave him a brisk nod, obviously taking their leave. As the black-robed men walked away, Isma’il’s head turned her way, almost as if he’d sensed her watching him. Blue eyes held hers and she felt the prickle of that strange electricity move over her skin.

She knew she should look away, but something inside her wouldn’t let her. He stirred her competitive instincts, made her want to measure herself against him. Challenge him. Like when she’d been racing in the pool against a stronger, faster opponent. It had never daunted her. It just made her want to swim faster, push herself harder. Win.

He began to stride over the sand towards her tent.

She felt her breath catch, a weird surge of adrenalin sweeping through her.

“I hope everything is to your liking, Ms. Harkness?” Isma’il asked as he approached. “It is probably not what you are used to. Things are a little more primitive out here in the desert.”

Lily tried to calm her suddenly racing heartbeat. “Why do I get the impression that you view me as some kind of spoiled princess?”

“I am not sure.” His smile was very white. “Are you a spoiled princess?”

Ah yes, the charm. The witty banter. She was starting to recognize it as a distraction technique, though distracting her from what she had no idea. “You know I’m not. So why do you keep asking after my welfare?”

His expression remained bland. “You are a guest. And as you know, hospitality and the welfare of guests are of the utmost importance to Daharans.”

A tight little kernel of frustration knotted inside her, his response unsatisfactory in a way she couldn’t put her finger on. “You really are the consummate politician aren’t you?”

“Naturally. I am the ruler of a country. I have to be.”

“But they don’t think so.” She tipped her head in the direction of the tribesmen. “They seemed a little reticent.”

“You were watching me?”

No, she wouldn’t blush. “I was interested to see how you interact with them.”

“Ah.” His tone seemed to indicate he didn’t believe that for a second. “You are correct. They are wary of me.”

She glanced up at him. “What exactly did Khalid do to them?”

His expression hardened. “He sold off their land. Limited their grazing rights. Some families were imprisoned and tortured.”

Horror feathered over her skin. “But why? What did they do to deserve that?”

Isma’il didn’t move but once again she felt that crackling, dangerous tension charge the air around them. “That is not a subject I wish to discuss.” He said it mildly enough, but she knew a warning when she heard it.

Briefly, she debated pushing him for answers, because the more she knew about the tribes, the better she could respond when it came to meeting with them. But she suspected that pushing him now would not only be futile, it would also probably only serve to antagonize him further. Not a good idea, when she’d only just managed to claw back the ground she’d lost last night.

“Fair enough,” she said. “So when are we meeting with the chiefs? A time-frame would be good as I’ve got a few things to prepare.”

The tension in his posture eased, a flicker of a smile curving his mouth. “You are always in a rush, Lily. The official meeting does not start until tomorrow.”

The sound of her name in his lilting accent felt vaguely disturbing. She preferred ‘Ms. Harkness.’ It reminded her of who she was—a businesswoman, CEO of a multinational oil company. Someone strong and in charge, not weak and vulnerable.

“You’re just like a lily,” Dan murmured. “All white and graceful.” His hand on her throat. Touching . . .

The memory ambushed her and for a moment all she could see was the darkness of the room where Dan had cornered her, feel the hard press of his fingers, smell the beer on his breath. She tried not to choke on the memory, forcing it away. She would not fall prey to it as she had back in the palace. Would not let Dan have power over her. Not here. Not anymore.

“Are you all right?” Isma’il’s voice near her ear, stripped of the usual veneer of lazy amusement.

Lily looked up to find him standing close. Very close. Still in the grip of memory, she nearly took half a step back, catching herself at the last minute. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You went pale.”

Damn Dan. “It’s nothing. You were saying the meeting isn’t till tomorrow?”

His dark eyes seemed strangely intense in the muted light of the sun burning through the tent’s awning above. “No. Traditions of hospitality must be maintained and as such, the tribes have organised a welcome banquet for us tonight.”

“I see.” She couldn’t seem to shake the physical awareness of him. Beneath the heat of the sun and dry scent of the sand, she could smell him. A hot, spicy, masculine scent that made a part of her want to just stand there and inhale, get rid of the sour beer odor that still filled her nostrils. But yet, another part couldn’t stand the thought of his closeness, or the way that closeness seemed to affect her.

She half turned away, looking into the dim recesses of the tent. “And are there any particular cultural aspects I need to be aware of?”

If he noticed her unease he gave no sign, but his disturbingly perceptive gaze ran over her as if looking for something. “The banquets tend to go on a long time and you will be expected to try all the dishes. You don’t have to finish everything, but tasting each one is considered polite. There will also be music and dancing, and as guest of honor, your reactions will be watched.” He paused. “Enjoyment is not mandatory, but staying the course of the whole evening shows respect to the hosts.”

“It’ll be a late night then?”

“Probably. Also . . . ” Another pause. “The chiefs are rather more blunt here than those you met last night at the palace.”

Oh, fantastic. So there would be more questions about her husband and family, or rather lack of husband and family. Perhaps comments about why she remained unmarried. Disapproval. Still, she’d handled it the night before, she could handle it again.

“I’m sure I can manage.”

“I am sure you can. You will also need to dress appropriately.”

“Oh?” She raised a brow. “Not a cocktail frock then?”

Amusement glimmered in his eyes. “Not this time. Something a little more traditional is required here.”

“Traditional?”

“Tribal dress. Robes and a headscarf. I took the liberty of bringing along a selection for you to choose from.”

The idea irritated her—she’d bet anything the other male CEOs wouldn’t have had to don traditional male tribal dress in order to impress the tribes. “I suppose this is necessary?”

“No, but it will be noted and appreciated, and seen as a mark of respect if you do.”