Never Seduce a Sheikh(20)
“My government was impressed by you last night. And not just because you are an astute businesswoman, Ms. Harkness. They were also impressed by your beauty.”
Her jaw tightened. “My looks or otherwise should have no bearing on the deal.”
“No, they should not. But they do, and to pretend otherwise would be naïve.” He walked over to her. “You should use the fact that you are female to your advantage, in other words.”
“There is no advantage in being female, Sheikh,” Lily said. “Especially when you keep telling me it’s a hindrance.”
“It is only a hindrance if you let it become one.”
She snorted, turning away to the mirror that sat on the dresser. “So, what? You want me to flirt and charm again? Or would the dumb blonde look be more appropriate?”
He studied her face in the mirror as she fiddled around with the scarf. “That is not what I meant and you know it.”
“Tell me what you do mean then, Sheikh.”
He came closer, standing behind her, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “The chiefs respect strength, but they also admire beauty. You already have a sharp, incisive business mind and this will surprise them. Even more so, if they are already taken off-guard by your beauty and charm.”
Her gaze flickered to his then away again, her hands fussing with the scarf as she tried winding around her head. She didn’t say anything.
“Why do you find that idea so uncomfortable?” he asked softly.
“Being a woman in the oil industry isn’t easy and playing on the fact that you’re female only makes it worse.” This time her gaze in the mirror held his and there was no flinching away. “It makes you a target. And I am not a target.”
Isma’il went still at the look in her eyes. “That sounds like the voice of experience. Have you been made a target before, Lily?”
Her mouth went tight. “No,” she said flatly, in a tone that brooked no argument. “I have not.”
A tense silence fell.
She finally looked away from him again, fingers fumbling with the silk, and he thought about pressing the issue, asking her for more, because she was definitely holding something back, he was certain of it.
But to do so now would hardly be fair, when she had a tent full of tribal chiefs to confront.
Instead he said quietly, “You know business. You know competition. Surely using any advantage you have over the rest of the field is part of that?”
She paused, the scarf held awkwardly in her hands. “You sound almost as if you want me to get the deal?”
“Perhaps I do.” He took a step closer. “Here, let me tie that.”
Lily’s posture tensed and for a minute he thought she might refuse. But then her hands dropped away. “Be my guest.”
Isma’il reached for the silk, beginning to wind it around her head. His fingers brushed her hair and it felt even softer than her scarf. She remained utterly still, but he could sense the tension in her, her back rigid. Yet she didn’t pull away like she had in the palace.
Her gaze in the mirror was level. A challenging look.
A crackling electricity sparked as his fingers brushed her hair yet again and he felt desire stir, gripping on tight. He wanted to push his fingers through the cool strands, stroke the vulnerable nape of her neck.
Unbidden, the words of his minister the night before caught in his memory.
She would make a fine sheikha, your Highness . . .
For a second, all he could see was their reflection in the mirror. How she stood in front of him, so tall in her golden robes, regal as a queen. A physical match for him in every way.
Yes, she would make a fine sheikha. But not for him.
Lily Harkness would never be the type of woman he could have for a wife. She was too challenging, too strong. She stirred the darkness. Made it hungry.
A darkness that could never be allowed to rise again.
Isma’il tied her headscarf, made himself stand back from her.
“Come Ms. Harkness,” he said softly. “We have a banquet to attend.”
Chapter Five
Lily sat cross-legged at the low table that stretched the length of the tent, trying to pay attention to the black-robed chief, who sat on one side of her, all the while, bitterly conscious of the man who sat on the other.
The Sheikh of Dahar.
She could still feel his hands in her hair, fingers moving lightly as he’d tied the scarf around her head. She’d held herself so still, not wanting to betray for even a second the way her heart had hammered inside her chest. Or how her breathing had quickened. And all because he’d stood close, making her achingly aware, all of a sudden. Aware of herself as a woman and of him as a man.
The chief next to her had begun talking in halting English, the only one in the tent full of men who could, and she barely understood him, but nevertheless tried her best, focusing her attention on his voice amongst the hubbub of general conversation, the sound of Arabic liquid in the air.