Another ripple of emotion crossed her face. A trace of what could have been irritation. “That’s very kind, but I assure you I don’t need it.”
“It is no weakness to want a little bit of shade.”
Small tendrils of hair were now stuck to her forehead, a drop of sweat sliding down the elegant column of her neck. Yet she may as well have been standing in an air-conditioned office for all the notice she gave. “It’s only a touch of sun. It doesn’t bother me.”
Isma’il found his gaze drawn to that small drop. To the way it sheened her golden skin. “Forgive me, but you look bothered, Ms. Harkness.”
She frowned. Raising a hand, she absently undid the very top button on her shirt, the drop of sweat sliding further to pool in the hollow of her throat.
An unexpected and extremely unwelcome pulse of physical desire went through him. Hardly appropriate. This was business and important business at that. The issue of Dahar’s oil rights would set the stage for his future rule and getting side tracked by animal lust was not the kind of stage he wanted to set.
Quelling the inconvenient desire, he gestured to the bodyguard standing behind her, who obediently raised the parasol over her head. He had to hold it up quite a way.
She betrayed no relief as her gaze flicked up at the bright pink and blue silk that shaded her, though surely she must have felt it. “That’s very kind,” she said. “But gallantry is wasted on me I’m afraid.”
“It is not gallantry. It is practicality. Women of your delicate complexion are prone to sunstroke and that, I assure you, is not pleasant.”
She eyed him. “I’m from Sydney, your Highness. I know about sunstroke.”
So very cool. So very self-possessed. A natural kind of authority radiating from her that he found both confronting and oddly exciting.
It wasn’t what he’d been expecting. She wasn’t what he’d been expecting. Maybe Harkness Oil wasn’t to be dismissed from the running after all.
“I think you will find that sunstroke in the desert is not at all like sunstroke in Sydney.” He gestured to another bodyguard who stepped up, hand outstretched to carry her briefcase for her.
Her gaze switched to the bodyguard, a faintly hostile look on her face, her hand staying very firmly on the handle. “Thank you, but I prefer to keep my briefcase with me if you don’t mind.” Her tone was cool, but he heard the edge of command in it.
Another challenge.
Isma’il studied her. “Is there a problem?”
“No. I just carry my own bags.”
“Is that a fact? Or perhaps it is that you do not trust my guard?”
Dark lashes, shot with gold in the sunlight, flickered. “Not at all.”
“Then what in particular do you find so offensive about having your bags attended to?”
Her mouth opened. Shut. A very clear flash of annoyance showing briefly in her brown eyes before her expression smoothed. “Nothing, of course.”
“Of course,” he echoed. “Then, if you will be so good as to grant my poor bodyguard the care of your briefcase, please do so. We place a lot of importance on paying the correct respect to guests here in Dahar.” He paused. “But then you are probably already aware of that fact, are you not? I expect all the companies competing for the rights to Dahar’s oil to have done their research, including research about our customs. I suspect Harkness Oil is no different.” Isma’il raised a brow. “Or is it?”
Her jaw firmed at the subtle dig. “Naturally we have done our research, your Highness. Though I wasn’t quite prepared to be tested on it so soon.”
“One must be prepared for everything, Ms. Harkness. Anything—at any time.”
Lily’s mouth, soft and rather lush looking in comparison to the masculine cut of her suit and the guarded look in her eyes, thinned. She looked as if she was about take issue with him. But she didn’t. Instead, she turned and handed her briefcase to the bodyguard hovering at her side. Then she turned back and looked him in the eye. “There. I would certainly not want to offend anyone. Are we happy now?”
A small shot of adrenalin went through him, the hunter’s instinct rousing still further. He smiled. “Ecstatic.”
Lily eyed him again, as if she was the one assessing him not the other way around. Then she gave a small, definite nod as if she’d decided something. “Good. Shall we proceed then?”
Such intriguing behaviour. He’d never encountered a woman who measured him up like an opponent. Like a man measures another man he’s about to fight. It was exhilarating, a breath of fresh air after the suffocating hours spent in his father’s study. In his father’s head.