Undressed by the Boss (Mills & Boon By Request) (12 page)

Raffa was a king amongst men, and one who didn’t need a title to prove it, but still she feared for his safety and tensed as the air horn blew and the game restarted.

How could she relax, knowing Raffa was in danger? Her apology, difficult though that would be, was the least of her fears. Watching the riders heading for each other at full tilt, whilst swinging their mallets like deadly weapons, made her flinch each time one of them came close to Raffa.

Minutes passed while hooves thundered a tattoo on the sunbaked ground. Perhaps the most frightening thing of all was that she could sense what Raffa meant to do. It was as if they were on the same wavelength, thinking the same thoughts. She was no horse rider, but what he planned seemed utter madness to her.

Riding at full stretch, he leaned over the neck of his pony and with infinite precision swung his mallet to secure another goal. Realising she was biting her knuckles, Casey made herself sit back. This was the time to relax, while the teams changed ends—which they did after every goal.

How she wished for a world in which she and the ruler of A’Qaban were not at odds, Casey reflected, aching with tension as the air horn sounded. Raffa had a handicap of ten, which was the highest possible ranking in the game, and she had read that only one man in the world could match him. For all that, she was still gripped by a prescient dread that something would go wrong today. She must feel that way, Casey reasoned, because Raffa would never back down, however tough a fight became.

Thankfully, half time arrived without incident, though Casey shrank back in her chair as everyone from the marquee hurried outside. The end of the half was the cue for spectators to either head over to the paddock, where the polo players were gathered, or onto the field to stamp the divots down. Casey chose the latter, selecting a small patch of ground in front of the marquee on which to exercise her frustration at drawing so many wrong conclusions where Raffa was concerned.

The tip-tap of iron on the paved yard alerted her to fresh ponies being led round by the stable lads. A bell rang, signalling it was time for the riders to mount up and for everyone else to clear the field. As she watched the teams prepare, Casey offered up a silent plea that Raffa would remain unharmed in the second half. He sprang into the saddle, ignoring the attempt
of a beautiful young girl to hold his stirrup for him, preferring to adjust his own equipment, Casey noticed with relief.

And there was rather a lot of equipment to adjust, Casey also noticed, beginning to wish she hadn’t looked.

Raffa flashed a glance her way, emphasising how closely tuned they were. It was a disturbing moment for Casey, as well as a reminder to keep her head clear of questionable thoughts for the remaining three chukkas.

Raffa was gone in a rattle of hooves, leaving Casey too agitated to watch the second half from her seat in the shade. She approached the fence bordering the field of play and leaned over it. She didn’t like failure any more than Raffa, she accepted, flinching back as Raffa thundered past to steal a ball, but were they too far apart in the things that mattered for them ever to work successfully together?

In Raffa’s world, she concluded, money talked. Whereas in her world it paid bills. He had thrown colossal sums of money at the auction while she had been hoping for some small personal gesture, she realised now.

She couldn’t knock him, what he’d done was great, but she had always been a romantic dreamer. But why should Raffa change any more than she could change her own frigid ways?

Casey was still mulling this over when she heard a shout. Starting back in alarm, she realised Raffa’s horse was galloping straight for her—and it was him shouting at her to get out of the way.

Raffa was almost flat on his horse’s neck as he pressed it to the limit, but as the drumming hooves beat a deadly tattoo Casey’s legs remained wooden and unresponsive. Raffa was trying to ride another man off the field, she saw in horror.

No, the other man’s horse was out of control, and Raffa was trying to push it off course because it was bolting straight for her.

Shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, Raffa and the other polo player bore down on her. She was certain they were going to ride straight over her when Raffa swerved at the last minute,
somehow avoiding a collision with the fence. The other rider didn’t possess half his skill, and she screamed soundlessly as horse, rider and fence hurtled towards her.

C
ASEY
barely registered what happened next. One moment she was watching the impending disaster play out, feet refusing to budge and brain refusing to compute what was happening, and the next she was high off the ground and safe in Raffa’s arms. ‘You saved my life,’ she managed weakly as he settled her on the saddle in front of him.

Grim-faced, Raffa remained silent as he tightened his grip around her waist.

Strength gone, she folded into him. ‘Is the other horse okay?’

‘And the rider,’ he informed her tersely. ‘The fence didn’t make it.’

She turned her head. The sight of Raffa’s strong white teeth gritted behind his face guard brought back every second of the drama in heart-stopping slow motion—the fierce cry from his throat and the blaze of his eyes as he raced to sweep her out of danger.

‘Thank you …’ It was so inadequate.

‘Please try to remain still until I have you checked over.’ Raffa urged his polo pony towards the first aid tent. ‘You little fool,’ he murmured in a low-pitched voice stretched tight with tension. ‘Why did you put yourself in danger?’

Because I was watching you, worrying about you … caring about you …

She knew Raffa didn’t expect an answer—not that she was
incapable of giving him one. She could do more than rest against him like a newborn baby, with all her strength gone and no will of her own.

Shock, Casey registered groggily, willing it to pass quickly.

‘I get you out of the sun only for you to decide it’s time to hug a fence. Can’t I leave you alone for a minute?’

Once again, no answer was required, Casey registered as Raffa’s rough cheek accidentally brushed her face. She sensed he held himself responsible for the accident, and was going to remain in this severe mood for some time. ‘It wasn’t your fault. It was all my fault.’

‘We’ll discuss your part in this later.’

‘Did we win?’

‘We survived,’ he said dryly. Reining in by the first aid tent, he tossed the reins to a waiting stable lad. Swinging down from the saddle, he reached up. ‘Come,’ he said in a suddenly much kinder voice, ‘lean on me …’

He lowered her with infinite care, but as she reached the ground her knees buckled. ‘Watch out!’ Raffa exclaimed, catching hold of her.

‘Sorry …’ She was still faint with shock—but not so faint she didn’t know when the ruler of A’Qaban had swung her into his arms and was carrying her safely the rest of the way.

The nurse pronounced Casey fit and well; Raffa pronounced her fate.

‘As I can’t leave you alone for a minute,’ he said, ‘I’m going to keep you with me while you’re in A’Qaban.’

It was all she had ever wanted to hear, but Raffa made it sound like a punishment. Still, when you were confidently expecting an airline ticket home, anything else was a reprieve, Casey reminded herself, brushing her clothes down as they left the first aid tent together.

‘I’ll be travelling into the interior after the trophy for this match has been awarded.’

As she exclaimed with pleasure he dampened her enthusiasm. ‘I can make no allowances for the accident, Casey. You do understand that, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ she said tensely.

‘The interior of A’Qaban is dangerous territory where shocks are commonplace—’

‘I understand.’ More dangerous than a polo field?

‘Your powers of recovery from this are crucial. If an accident happens in the desert you can’t waste time, you must think immediately: what next?’

That was exactly what she
was
thinking.

‘So, are you up for it?’

‘You won’t be disappointed. I’ll do everything you expect me to and more.’

‘But …?’ Raffa’s eyes narrowed, sensing there was something else she wanted to say.

Casey drew a deep breath. ‘But I came to apologise … for last night. I read the papers this morning, and—’

‘That’s something I don’t want to discuss with you,’ Raffa said, frowning.

‘But—’

‘No buts. My decisions aren’t up for discussion. You’re still in the running for this job. That’s all you should care about. But only if you can concentrate and be ready to leave your hotel within the hour.’

‘I will be,’ she said steadily.

Raffa arrived at the hotel in a rugged Jeep with no outriders and no bodyguards in attendance—at least none she could see. Casey was waiting on the steps, as instructed, dressed as a storm trooper once more, though not feeling so odd as when she had arrived at A’Qaban airport, because this time she was dressed in a way Raffa approved of for the desert. She had made one change—replacing her ugly hat with the lightweight shawl she’d bought at the auction, wrapping it around her head and
shoulders in the A’Qabani fashion. It was a sensible choice, because it gave her the option of drawing it over her nose and mouth if the air grew dusty.

Swinging out of the driver’s seat, he took hold of her backpack. He too was dressed in survival gear, though his clothes looked considerably more worn than hers.

‘Sun cream?’ he rapped.

‘Of course.’

‘I see you’re wearing my
atija;
that’s a sensible precaution.’

‘Your …?’

‘Atija
means gift,’ he explained, opening the door of the Jeep for her. ‘The shawl was my personal gift to the auction. Now, get in.’

She was still fingering the fine material as she absorbed what Raffa had said. Her shawl was his gift to the auction … his small,
thoughtful
gift to the auction. On top of all the fabulous jewels he had donated, he had given something he liked, something that was representative of the traditional craft of his country. It was everything she had hoped he might do; everything she had so firmly believed he hadn’t done.

‘Come on,’ he said impatiently, bouncing her into action, ‘The people of the desert don’t wait for anyone—they obey nature’s rules, rather than man’s.’

‘Are you Bedouin?’ she asked as she climbed into the Jeep.

‘My mother was a Bedouin princess.’

And that conjured up the most wonderful images. She longed to know more, but there was a reserve in Raffa’s voice that told her to leave it. If Raffa didn’t want to discuss his parents with her, she respected that.

‘There’s a first aid kit here, and water here.’ He pointed them out to her when they were both safely strapped in. ‘And we have a radio as well as a satellite phone, should we need them. There’s also a tracking device on the Jeep, so that we know where we are and my people know too.’

A frisson of fear mixed with Casey’s excitement. Her fantasies
were left behind as she faced the realities of the desert. Raffa was warning her that they were going into dangerous terrain where anything could happen. She had prepared well. She had even taken a first aid course before leaving England. She knew how to handle a radio and was ready for anything.

Except for riding on horseback.

‘You’re joking!’ Casey exclaimed when Raffa drew up after an hour of driving.

‘I never joke,’ Raffa informed her. ‘Or at least I don’t employ humour out here, where jokes cost lives.’

A’Qabani handlers were standing by a horse transporter, while two horses were tethered in the shade. The real road had petered out, and in front of them lay miles of unseen desert. Casey gazed down the dusty trail, hardly able to believe she was about to embark on her first real expedition on horseback. When she turned back to Raffa he was winding yards of black cloth around his head.

‘We call it a
howlis,’
he explained, throwing the ties over his shoulder.

He looked amazing, with just a slit for his expressive black eyes.

‘The closest word you have to describe it would be a turban. It keeps the sun off my face and the dust out of my eyes, nose, ears and mouth.’

And makes you look stunning along the way, Casey thought, nodding sagely. This was not a turban. A turban was respectable headgear. This was a wild man’s bandanna-cum-scarf that made Raffa look like a brigand. His expression was hidden, which she didn’t like, but his eyes—those she did like. They might have been amused as he stared at, or then again not. She could decide. Her throat dried as she watched him stride towards the horses, and then she saw the men bring out a mule loaded with provisions and her mouth dried a little more. This was going to be some expedition.

Excited as she was, she felt a tremble of alarm. What did it
mean, this trek into the desert? She was prepared in the practical sense, but in another, far more personal sense, was she ready for this? Was she ready for the untamed desert with an untamed man? What did she really think was going to happen when she was out there with Raffa, miles away from anyone, and from convention and civilisation?

She was terrified, but excited too. She was ready to face most challenges, and Raffa was the biggest challenge of all. He was so much more complex than his forward publicity had suggested. He was also the most rampantly masculine man she had ever encountered, and yet he was so strongly principled she felt safe with him; safer than she had ever felt with a man before. He was a protector and would keep her safe. Virginally safe? She pressed her lips together and sighed; that was an unknown.

‘Are you coming?’ he called, before she could get herself worked up about it.

Raffa was holding her mount and looking her way. She had no idea what he was thinking.

That element of the uncertain, the unknown, that she had always been groping towards, was hers for the taking—if she had the courage. And actually, right at this moment, she was more frightened of the sweet-looking little pony Raffa was patting than Raffa. The last time she had been on a saddle was on a donkey at the beach when she had been a very little girl.