At the Sheikh's Bidding(2)

A man was standing by the window, staring out over  the bleak view of   the moors. For a few seconds her heart seemed to stop  beating, and she   understood what Alice had meant when she'd said she  had thought she   seen Faisal's ghost. The stranger's profile was achingly  familiar, as   was his silky black hair and olive-gold skin. But then he  turned his   head-and common sense replaced her wild flight of  imagination.

This man was no spectre, he was very much alive. And  his resemblance to   Faisal was simply due to his dark colouring and  exotic looks, she  told  herself impatiently. He was wearing a superbly  tailored dark grey  suit  that accentuated his lean, hard body, and Erin  was immediately  struck  by his height, estimating that he must be five or  six inches  over six  feet tall. Impressive broad shoulders indicated an  awesome  degree of  strength and power, but it was his face that trapped  her  gaze and  caused her heart to thud painfully beneath her ribcage.

His  hair was cropped uncompromisingly short, and his eyes were as dark   as  midnight beneath heavy black brows. His nose was slightly hooked,   but  that did not detract from the perfection of his sculpted face with   its  sharply delineated cheekbones and square, determined jaw. He was   the  epitome of masculine beauty, she thought helplessly, her breath   catching  in her throat. He was so gorgeous he was almost unreal, as if   he had  been airbrushed to perfection-but he wasn't an image from a   magazine. He  was a flesh-and-blood man, and she was startled by the   effect he had on  her.                       
       
           



       

The man subjected her to a long, cool stare and Erin felt  herself   blush. ‘Hello, I've brought some tea. You're probably freezing.  The   central heating system here at Ingledean is antiquated.'

Black  eyebrows winged upwards and her cheeks burned hotter. The man's    resemblance to Faisal could not be denied-but her feelings for Faisal    had been based on friendship and affection. Neither he nor any other  man   had ever evoked this shocking, wildfire sexual desire that was   coursing  through her veins. She felt unnerved by the stranger's raw   masculinity,  and she realised that she was gaping at him. Forcing   herself to breathe  normally, she walked across to the desk and set down   the tray.

‘I'm  Erin.' She smiled hesitantly, half extended her hand and waited   for him  to return the introduction, her smile fading when he made no   reply.

‘You  may pour the tea and then go. Your presence will no longer be    necessary,' he informed her dismissively, in a clipped, haughty tone,    before he swung round and resumed his contemplation of the snow that was    now swirling outside the window.

Erin stared at the rigid line  of his back, shocked into silence by his   arrogance. Just who did he  think he was? And how dared he speak to her   in that high and mighty  manner, as if she was some lowly scullery  maid  from a Victorian  melodrama?

Shock gave way to anger. She'd spent most of her  formative years   feeling worthless-until her foster parents had rescued  her from a life   that had been rapidly going into free-fall and insisted  that she was a   valued member of society, rather than a nobody from the  gutter. But  the  fragile self-confidence she'd gained while living with  John and  Anne  Black was easily dented, and inside she was still the  unloved  child and  rebellious teenager who had been dumped in a care home  after  her  mother's final and fatal heroin fix.


She bit her  lip and picked up the teapot, torn between the urge to   slink from the  room and the temptation to tell the stranger exactly   what he could do  with the damn tea. But before she could speak the   library door swung  open, and the spare, grey-haired solicitor she had   met once when she had  visited London with Faisal hurried into the room.

‘Ah, Erin,  tea-wonderful.' Gordon Straker greeted her enthusiastically.   His brief  smile encompassed both Erin and the man at the window, but   the sight of  the thickly falling snow caused him to frown, and he   glanced at his  watch as he sat down and picked up the sheaf of   documents on the desk in  front of him. ‘Take a seat, both of you, and   we'll begin, shall we?' he  said briskly, oblivious to the stranger's   harsh frown. ‘I won't keep  you long. Faisal's last will and testament   is very straightforward.'

Zahir  remained standing, his eyes narrowing as he watched the maid pull   out a  chair. He was again aware of the same hollow feeling in his   stomach and  the uncomfortable tightening sensation in his chest-as if   he had been  winded-that had gripped him when she had first entered the   room.

She  was quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, he    acknowledged, irritated by his body's involuntary reaction to her as    sexual awareness flooded through his veins. The perfect symmetry of her    face was riveting, and he stared at her, drinking in every detail of   her  high cheekbones, the wide, clear grey eyes that surveyed him from    beneath finely arched hazel brows, her small, straight nose and the    mouth that was a fraction too wide, the lips soft and full and    infinitely kissable.

A thick braid of auburn hair fell down her  back, almost to her waist,   the colour reminding him of the rich red hues  of leaves in the fall.   Years ago, when he had been a student at  Harvard, he had been entranced   by the stunning palette of colours that  Mother Nature used to herald   autumn in New England. Now he felt an  overwhelming urge to untie the   ribbon that secured the woman's hair and  run his fingers through the   mass of rippling red-gold silk.

His  eyes slid lower, skimmed the small, firm breasts outlined beneath   her  tee shirt, and then moved down to her slender waist, narrow hips   and  long legs, encased in faded denim. Even at the end of his life   Faisal  had clearly not lost his discerning eye for gorgeous women if   his  domestic staff were anything to go by, Zahir thought sardonically.    Although he would have expected the household staff to wear some sort   of  uniform rather than a pair of sexy, tight jeans.

But why had the  solicitor asked this woman-whom he assumed from her   appearance to be a  member of the household staff-to stay while he   discussed Faisal's  private affairs? Could she be a beneficiary in   Faisal's will? She was  very lovely, and Faisal had been alone … But the   idea that his brother had  bequeathed her some token payment for favours   rendered was curiously  unpalatable, and he silently cursed his   overactive imagination.                       
       
           



       

His  gaze locked with hers, and for a second something flared between   them,  some indefinable chemistry that clearly shocked her as it shocked   him.  But almost instantly the flash of awareness in her eyes dulled   and was  replaced with confusion. The silence in the room was broken by   the  solicitor's discreet cough. The sound reminded Zahir that he was   not  here to eye up members of the domestic staff. Smothering a curse,   he  strode over to the desk, seized a chair and sat down, at the same   time  as the maid subsided into the seat next to him.

Gordon Straker  cleared his throat and began to read. ‘I, Faisal bin   Kahlid al Muntassir  leave my entire estate, including Ingledean House   and all its contents,  to my wife.'

From the corner of her eye Erin saw the unknown man  jerk even more   upright in his chair, and his voice was sharp with  impatience when he   spoke. ‘I understand that my sister-in-law died three  years ago. This   will is invalid. There must be another updated one,' he  snapped   haughtily.


Gordon Straker glanced at him steadily  over the wire rims of his   spectacles and said, in a wintry tone, ‘I  assure you that this is the   most recent will. My client asked me to draw  it up ten months ago.' The   solicitor hesitated, his gaze moving between  the two shocked faces   staring at him across the desk. Comprehension  slowly dawned, and he   shook his head.