Married for the Sheikh's Duty(9)

No, not even Aslam, she was sure, would have resorted to blackmailing the sheikh, of all men in the world. A twisting knot in her stomach gave her pause.

No, this crazy, out-of-control impulsive behavior was more like her mother. Every time Amalia had brought up the issue of her visiting Aslam in Khaleej, her mother had gone into one of her tantrums.

To give in to that urge and kiss him like that, to tangle recklessly with a man like the sheikh even in the most harmless way, this was a side of herself she’d never known.

Not her. Never trustworthy, reliable, calm in the storm Amalia.

But given that she’d learned what a hard man the sheikh was, she had taken the best option available to her, even though blackmail firmly put her on the other side of the law. If she had walked out at that moment, not that he’d been willing to let her go, she had no doubt that he wouldn’t have wasted another minute on her or Aslam’s case.

When it came to being his fiancée, she decided, looking through her meager collection of clothes, it was best to take a pragmatic, Amalia-esque approach to that, too. She would consider it the most difficult job she’d ever worked and he the most aggravating boss ever. That would define the boundaries, put all the checks in line. She had never put a toe out of line with a colleague or a boss ever, and if she thought of the sheikh that way, too, she’d be able to keep a professional distance.

She’d never done anything to jeopardize her career. Even when there had been a chance to build something. This had to be the same.

A professional fiancée, yep, that was what she had to be. Give a good grade performance and expect a raise. Well, in this case, a release.

Feeling a little more in control of herself, she did a few squats and lunges to get blood flowing. Being cooped up inside, even if she was being treated like a special guest, didn’t suit her.

She finished her shower and dressed in another long-sleeved, navy blue Henley top and a long skirt, wrapped a thick colorful scarf she had bought in one of the street markets around her neck and chest and touched her mouth with lip gloss. Since the dark blue top and black pencil skirt made her look far too monochromatic, she pulled out the gold-plated jangling bracelets that Massi had given her for Christmas and wore them on her right hand. Her gold-plated watch went perfectly well with the bracelets.

A consummate professional with just a little personal flair, she felt sufficiently armored.

The welcoming table as she entered her suite with a gold-tinted tissue box, a hairbrush with a detailed design on the frame and a gleaming bronze hand mirror that looked like it was at least a hundred years old, had hit Amalia with a sudden bout of nostalgia.

It was an old Khaleej custom. A memory of her mother maintaining a table like that in her bedroom for years after they had left Khaleej came rushing at Amalia. Any doubts she had faced the last two days about contacting her father and telling him her whereabouts cleared away. Her mother had grieved over him and her love for so long, never being whole again.

And he hadn’t even asked after her since Amalia had been here.

Hardening her heart, Amalia walked out into the corridor. Instantly, the guard followed her.

They walked away from the main palace and the administrative wing, through an open courtyard and a tiled path amidst a beautifully manicured garden. And with each step they took away from the palace, Amalia saw the shift in the architecture, the subtle differences even in the surroundings.

The abode they came to finally seemed to spring out of the ground.

There were no pretentious gold-plated carvings, or heavy, outdated pieces of furniture here. It was as if she walked from an older Sintar to a new Sintar.

Now, as the guard led her toward where the sheikh waited, Amalia felt that same feeling again. Stained glass and arches, the typical elements of Khaleejian architecture, were all there but used with a modern, almost whimsical touch.

As if the architect had wanted to free himself from the constraints of tradition and yet found himself integrating them in his design anyway. What it ended up being was a flawless blend of tradition and modernity, married by impeccable design and taste.

They rounded a bend and came toward a huge, beautiful aqua-blue tiled indoor swimming pool, the bottom of which was a mosaic tile pattern that looked like a Persian rug. Moroccan-style lamps dotted the perimeter of the pool.

With a sense of wonder, Amalia realized the pool was the heart of this building, or the home.

The inner courtyard was surrounded by richly carved wood on multiple levels and hanging plants. There were cozy nooks and crannies everywhere, with built-in seating areas comfortably accessorized with pillows, carpets and planters.

The blues of the water and the greens of the plants created a beautiful slice of paradise, a private paradise, she realized with a sudden dismay.

This was the sheikh’s personal space. The contrast between the hard man she’d met the other day and the cozy atmosphere of this space, made it difficult to marry the two. But she’d be willing to bet that she was the only woman who had ever been allowed in here.

The guard slipped away.

It took all of her determination to see Aslam released to put one foot in front of the other and continue toward where the man himself waited.

He was wearing a full-sleeved, collarless shirt in a rich brown, which made his skin gleam like burnished gold. Dark blue jeans hugged his lean hips in an entirely too sexy way. Dressed down like that, he should have passed for an average man, an approachable man. But as she had already realized, the clothes or his position didn’t make the man.

On the contrary, the simple clothes only accentuated the power radiating from him. Seeing him after two days, in which she had concocted a hundred different theories, all of which reduced the potent masculinity of the man to a thousandth degree, Amalia felt a fresh surge of amazement at her own daring. She must have been truly crazy to have tangled with this man and to have kissed him, to have pressed her body against the rock-hard contours of his...

He looked up and their eyes met.

Her gaze went straight to his mouth, her mind instantly supplying the taste and heat of his kiss. He had a soft mouth, the lower lip skating between hardness and passion. Both aspects controlled his life, Amalia decided with a perceptive leap.

Wasn’t that what had shocked Khaleej and the world over? That the sheikh, who was supposed to rule his political life and his administration with ruthless control had such a wild, uninhibited, almost salacious private life.

Why had he kissed her like that? The question was beating a little drum inside her head. Had it been a case of proving a point, like he’d said? Or because she’d been conveniently present and men like that couldn’t resist?

One kiss that lasted maybe a few minutes and she already felt as if he owned a little part of her. As though all he needed to do was look at her and she’d be reduced to a mass of sensations and feelings.

The way her lips were trembling, she knew he was looking at her mouth. And remembering the kiss, too.

Forcing herself to raise her gaze to his, she willed her body to cool down. There was not simply desire in his gaze, if it was present at all.

No, there was something more. A calculating assessment, as if he was taking her measure again. Of course, the man didn’t lose his head over one kiss, like she’d been doing for two days. He probably hadn’t even given her a thought considering what a busy man he was. For him, it had been a power play in that moment, a tactic to bring her into line. And she’d fallen into that kiss as if it was a lifeline.

Hands fisted by her sides, she didn’t know how long she waited like that, staring at him across the pool that separated them.

“If you are thinking of jumping in the pool to cool down, I warn you, the water is very cold.”

She looked to the calm blue surface jealously. “You have an indoor pool and it’s not heated?”

He shrugged, raising those powerful shoulders. “This wing is not connected to any power line. It runs on a solar generator. The pool is not heated because I like a cool dip at the end of a hot day.”

The wet gleam of his raven-dark hair told Amalia he’d done just that. Suddenly, the images of his leanly honed body stroking through the blue water, powerful thighs eating away the laps, made heat flush through her.

A drop of sweat ran down her back. The intense appraisal from his eyes, the hard glint of amusement, she wished she could make her gaze inscrutable as he did. “No air-conditioning? It must be hot as a furnace in the summer, then.”

“The house was designed to take full advantage of the prevailing winds in Sintar, which flow from the north and the west, to keep the air stream circulating throughout the entire house most of the year. That and the pool together, I do not miss air-conditioning.”

“And if you do, it’s a short walk to the palace you own. It’s not like you don’t have options.”

He smiled, showing his teeth. The man even had perfect teeth. “Yes, something like that. What do you think of the house? You’re my first official guest. Well, other than Mirah.”

Instantly, an image of a gorgeous, golden-skinned beauty coiled tight around Amalia’s throat. “Mirah?”

“My sister. But she prefers all the amenities and little luxuries that electricity provides so she was not impressed. She complains that her hair gets frizzy without a hair straightener every time I ask her to sleep here.”