Surrender To The Sheikh

DEAR READER LETTER

By Sharon Kendrick

Dear Reader,

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100^th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx

He flung his shirt onto the desert scrub

“Now name your next command.”

“Take it off,” she instructed, enjoying the heady sensation of having such power over this man. This man.

“What?”

“Everything.”

He made his undressing as slow and as deliberate as he could, and Rose was shocked, startled and unbearably aroused. He read the expression in her eyes as the jodhpurs joined the shirt. “You worry that I am too much of a man for you?”

She laughed in soft delight at the arrogant boast. Maybe you worry that I am too much of a woman for you!”

He took one breathless look at her, before coming to lie on top of her.

Rose’s head fell back. “Oh! Khalim!”

“You want me to stop?” he suggested teasingly.

Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…

Surrender to the Sheikh

Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For the debonair Tom Roberts,

the world’s leading authority on Maraban,

and without whom this book would never have been written!

CONTENTS

Cover

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THERE was something about a wedding. Something magical which made everyday cynicism evaporate into thin air. Rose twisted the stem of her champagne glass thoughtfully as they waited for the best man to begin speaking.

She’d noticed it in the church, where even the most hardened pessimists in the congregation had been busy dabbing away at the corners of their eyes—well, the women, certainly. Women who would normally congregate in wine bars, denouncing the entire male sex as unthinking and uncaring, had been sitting through the entire service with wistful smiles softening their faces beneath the wide-brimmed hats.

Why Rose had even shed a tear herself, and she was not a woman given to a public display of emotion!

‘In my country,’ announced the best man, and his jet-black eyes glittered like ebony as they fixed themselves on the bride and groom, ‘we always begin the wedding feast with a toast. That their mutual joy shall never be diminished. And so I ask you to raise your glasses and drink to Sabrina and Guy.’

‘Sabrina and Guy,’ echoed the glittering crowd, and obediently raised their glasses.

Not for the first time, Rose found herself surveying the best man over the top of her glass, along with just about every other female in the room, but then it was hard not to.

He was certainly spectacular—and spectacular in the true sense of the word. But, there again, not many men were fortunate enough to have a real live prince acting as their steward!

His name was Prince Khalim, as Sabrina had informed her excitedly when she’d begun to plan the wedding. A real-life prince with a real-life country of his own—the beautiful Maraban—over which he would one day rule, as his forebears had ruled for centuries. He was an old schoolfriend of Guy’s, Sabrina had shyly confided to Rose—the two men being as close as two men who’d known each other since childhood could be.

Rose had been expecting the prince to be short and squat and rather ugly—but, for once, her expectations had been way off mark. Because Prince Khalim was quite the most perfect man she had ever set eyes on.

He was tall—though perhaps not quite as tall as the groom—and he wore the most amazing clothes that Rose had ever seen. Exotic clothes in sensual fabrics. An exquisite silken tunic coloured in a soft and creamy gold, with loose trousers worn beneath.

Such an outfit could, Rose reasoned, have made some men look as though they were on their way to a fancy-dress party—maybe even a little bit feminine. But the silk whispered tantalisingly against his flesh, and there was no disguising the lean, hard contours of the body which lay beneath. A body which seemed to exude a raw and vibrant masculinity from every pore.

Rose swallowed, the champagne tasting suddenly bitter in her throat. And then swallowed again as those onyx eyes were levelled in her direction and then narrowed, so that only a night-dark gleam could be seen through the thick, black lashes.

And with a slow and predatory smile, he began to move.

He’s coming over, Rose thought, her hands beginning to shake with unfamiliar nerves. He’s coming over here!

The gloriously dressed women and the morning-suited men parted like waves before him as he made an unhurried approach across the ballroom of the Granchester Hotel, his regal bearing evident with every fluid step that he took. There was a dangerous imperiousness about him which made him the focal point of every eye in the ballroom.

Rose felt her throat constrict with a sudden sense of fear coupled with an even more debilitating desire, and for one mad moment she was tempted to turn around and run from the room. An escape to the powder room! But her legs didn’t feel strong enough to carry her, and what would she be running from? she wondered ruefully. Or whom?

And then there was time to think of nothing more, because he had come to a halt in front of her and stood looking down at her, his proud, dark face concealing every emotion other than the one he made no attempt whatsoever to conceal.

Attraction.

Sexual attraction, Rose reminded herself, with a fast-beating heart.

It seemed to emanate from him in almost tangible waves of dark, erotic heat. He wanted to take her to his bed, she recognised faintly, the cruel curve of his mouth and the glint in his black eyes telling her so in no uncertain terms.

‘So,’ he said softly, in a rich, deep voice. ‘Are you aware that you are quite the most beautiful woman at the wedding?’

He sounded so English and it made such an unexpected contrast to those dark, exotic looks, thought Rose. She forced herself to remain steady beneath the dark fire of his stare and shook her head. ‘I disagree,’ she answered coolly—unbelievably coolly, considering that her heart was racing like a speed-train. ‘Don’t you know that the bride is always the most beautiful woman at any wedding?’

He turned his head slightly to look at Sabrina in all her wedding finery, so that Rose was given an unrestricted view of the magnificent jut of his jaw and the aquiline curve of his nose.

The voice softened unexpectedly. ‘Sabrina?’ he murmured. ‘Yes, she is very beautiful.’

And Rose was unprepared for the sudden vicious wave of jealousy which washed over her. Jealous of Sabrina? One of her very best friends? She sucked in a shocked breath.

He turned his head again and once again Rose was caught full-on in the ebony blaze from his eyes. ‘But then so are you—very, very beautiful.’ The mouth quirked very slightly as he registered her unsmiling reaction. ‘What is the matter? Do you not like compliments?’

‘Not from people I barely know!’ Rose heard herself saying, with uncharacteristic abruptness.

Only the merest elevation of a jet eyebrow which matched the thick abundance of his black hair gave any indication that he considered her reply offhand. It was clear that people did not speak to him in this way, as a rule.

He gave an almost regretful smile. ‘Then you should not dress so fetchingly, should you? You should have covered yourself in something which concealed you from head to foot,’ he told her softly, jet eyes moving slowly from the top of her head to the tip of her pink-painted toenails. ‘It is all your own fault.’

Even more uncharacteristically, Rose felt colour begin to seep heatedly into her cheeks. She rarely blushed! In her job she dealt with high-powered strangers every single day of her working life, and none of them had had the power to have her standing like this. Like some starstruck adolescent.

‘Isn’t it?’ he prompted, on a sultry murmur.

Rose blinked. She had dressed up, yes—but it was a wedding, wasn’t it? And every single other woman in the room had gone to town today, just as she had.

A floaty little slip-dress made of sapphire silk-chiffon. The same colour as her eyes, or so the cooing sales assistant had told her. And flirty little sandals with tiny kitten heels. She’d bought those in a stinging pink colour, deliberately not matching her dress. But then matching accessories were so passé—even the saleswoman had agreed with that. No hat. She hated confining her thick blonde hair beneath a hat—particularly on a day as hot as this one. Instead, she had ordered a dewy and flamboyant orchid from the nearby florists, in a paler-colour version of the shoes she wore. She’d pinned it into her hair, but she suspected that very soon it would start wilting.

Just as she would, if this exotic man continued to subject her to such a calculating, yet lazy look of appraisal.

She decided to put a stop to it right then and there, extending her hand and giving him a friendly-but-slightly-distant smile. ‘Rose Thomas,’ she said.

He took the hand in his and then looked down at it, and Rose found her eyes hypnotically drawn in the same direction, shocked by her reaction to what she saw. Her skin looked so very white against the dark olive of his and there seemed to be something compellingly erotic about such a distinctive contrast of flesh.

She tried to pull her hand away, but he held tight onto it, and as she drew her indignant gaze upwards it was to find the black eyes fixed on her mockingly.

‘And do you know who I am, Rose Thomas?’ he questioned silkily.

It was a moment of truth. She could feign ignorance, it was true. But wouldn’t a man like this have been up against pretence and insincerity for most of his life?

‘Of course I know who you are!’ she told him crisply. ‘This is the only wedding I’ve ever been to where a real-life prince has been acting as best man—and I imagine it’s the same for most of the other people here, too!’

He smiled, and as she saw the slight relaxation of his body Rose took the opportunity to remove her hand from his.

Khalim felt the stealthy beat of desire as she resisted him. ‘What’s the matter?’ He gave her an expression of mock-reproach. ‘Don’t you like me touching you, Rose Thomas?’

‘Do you normally go around touching women you’ve only just met?’ she demanded incredulously. ‘Is that a favour which your title confers on you?’

The beat increased as he acknowledged her fire. Resistance was so rarely put in the way of his wishes that it had the effect of increasing them tenfold. He saw the clear blue brilliance of her eyes. No, a hundredfold, he thought and felt his throat thicken.

He gave a shrug. A little-boy look—the black eyes briefly appealing. It was a look that had always worked very well at his English boarding-school, especially with women. ‘You took my hand,’ he protested. ‘You know you did!’

Rose forced a laugh. This was ridiculous! They were sparring over nothing more than a handshake! And Khalim was Guy’s friend. Sabrina’s friend. She owed it to them to show him a little more courtesy than this. ‘Sorry.’ She smiled. ‘I’m a little overwrought.’

‘Is it a man?’ he shot out, and before she had time to think about the implications she shook her head.

‘What an extraordinary conclusion to jump to!’ she protested, but the admonishment made no difference.

‘What, then?’ he persisted.

‘Work, actually,’ she said.

‘Work?’ he demanded, as though she had just said a foreign word.

But then maybe to him it was a foreign word. A man like Prince Khalim had probably never had to lift his hand in work. ‘Just a busy week.’ She shrugged. ‘A busy month—a busy year!’ She sipped the last of her champagne and gave him a look of question. ‘I’m getting myself another one of these—how about you?’

Khalim sucked in a breath of disapproval. How he hated the liberated way of women sometimes! It was not a woman’s place to offer a man drinks, and he very nearly told her so, but the fire in her eyes told him that she would simply stalk off if he dared to. And he wanted her far too much to risk that…

‘I rarely drink,’ he said coolly.

‘Good heavens!’ said Rose flippantly. ‘How does your body get hydrated, then? By intravenous infusion?’

The black eyes narrowed. People didn’t make fun of him. Women never teased him unless invited to, by him. And never outside the setting of the bedroom. For a moment, he considered stalking away from her. But only for a moment. The bright lure of her flaxen hair made him waver as he imagined unpicking it, having it tumble down over his chest—its contrast as marked as when he had pressed his fingers against her soft white skin, just minutes ago.

‘Alcohol,’ he elaborated tersely.

‘Well, I’m sure they run to a few soft drinks,’ said Rose. ‘But it doesn’t matter. I’m going to, anyway. It was nice talking to you, Pr—’

‘No!’ He caught hold of her wrist, enjoying the purely instinctive dilating of her blue eyes in response to his action, the way her lips fell open into an inviting little ‘O’. He imagined the sweet pleasures a mouth like that could work on a man, and had to suppress a shudder of desire. ‘Not Prince anything,’ he corrected softly. ‘I am Khalim. To you.’

She opened her mouth to say something sarcastic, like, Am I supposed to be flattered?—but the ridiculous thing was that she was flattered. Absurdly flattered to be told to use his first name. She told herself not to be so stupid, but it didn’t seem to work.

‘Let me go,’ she said breathlessly, but she thrilled at the touch of his skin once more.

‘Very well.’ He smiled, but this time it was the smile of a man who knew that he had the ability to enslave a woman. ‘But only if you agree to come and find me once the music starts, and then we shall dance.’

‘Sorry. I never run after a man.’

He could feel the rapid thundering of her pulse beneath his fingertips. ‘So you won’t?’

The silky voice was nearly as mesmeric as the silky question. ‘You’ll have to come and find me!’ she told him recklessly.

He let her go, taking care to conceal his giddy sense of elation. ‘Oh, I will,’ he said quietly. ‘Be very sure of that.’ And he watched her go, an idea forming in his mind.

He would make her wait. Make her think that he had changed his mind about dancing. For he knew enough of women to know that his supposed indifference would fan the desire she undoubtedly felt for him. He would tease her with it. Play with her. He knew only too well that anticipation increased the appetite, and thus satisfied the hunger all the more. And Rose Thomas would sigh with thankful pleasure in his arms afterwards.

On still-shaking legs, Rose headed for the bar, hoping that the bewilderment she felt did not show on her face. She did not fall for men like Khalim. She liked subtle, sophisticated and complex men. And while she recognised that he had a keen intelligence—there was also something fundamentally dangerous about this black-eyed stranger in his exotic robes.

Inside, she was jelly. Jelly. Her hands were trembling by the time she reached the corner of the ballroom where a white-jacketed man tended an assortment of cocktails and champagne.

She could see Sabrina at the far end of the room, a vision in white as she giggled with one of her bridesmaids—Guy’s youngest niece.

‘Champagne, madam?’ smiled the bartender. ‘Or a Sea Breeze, perhaps?’

Rose opened her mouth to agree to the former, but changed her mind at the last minute. Because something told her she would need her all her wits about her. And alcohol might just weaken an already weakened guard.

‘Just a fizzy water, please,’ she said softly.

‘Too much of a good thing?’ came a voice of dry amusement, and she looked up to find Guy Masters smiling down at her.

Rose liked Sabrina’s new husband enormously. He was outrageously handsome, outrageously rich and he loved Sabrina with an intensity which made Rose wistful, and determined that she would never settle for second-best.

Rose had met Sabrina when she had gone in search of a rare book, and Sabrina had helpfully scoured all the index-files until Rose had found what she’d been looking for. It had been the day after Sabrina had become engaged to Guy, and she had excitedly shown off her ring to Rose—a plain and simple but utterly magnificent diamond.

Sabrina hadn’t really known anyone in London, other than Guy’s friends, and the two women had been of similar age and similar interests.

‘Or are you driving?’ questioned Guy, still looking at her glass of mineral water.

‘Er, no,’ she said, in a faint voice. ‘I just want to keep a clear head about me.’

‘Quite wise,’ remarked Guy, and he lowered his voice by a fraction. ‘Since my old friend Khalim seems to have set his sights on you.’

‘He…he does?’ And then thought how obscenely starstruck that sounded. She cleared her throat and fixed a smile onto her lips. ‘Not really. We just had a chat, that’s all.’

‘A chat?’ asked Guy, now sounding even more amused. ‘Khalim exchanging small talk? Now, that’ll be a first!’

‘Wonderful wedding!’ said Rose valiantly, with an urgent need to change the subject. ‘Sabrina looks absolutely stunning.

At the mention of his new wife’s name, Guy’s face softened into a look of tenderness, the intentions of his schoolfriend instantly forgotten. ‘Doesn’t she?’ he asked indulgently, and then a slight note of impatience entered his voice. ‘Between you and me, I just wish we could forget the damned dancing and just leave!’

Rose smiled. ‘And deny your wife her wedding day! I think you can wait a little longer, don’t you, Guy? After all, you’ve been living together for well over a year now!’

‘Yeah,’ sighed Guy. ‘But this is the first time it will have been, well, legal…’ He looked down into Rose’s face. ‘Why, you’re blushing!’ he observed incredulously. ‘I’m sorry, Rose—I certainly didn’t mean to embarrass you—’

‘No, you weren’t. Honestly,’ Rose assured him hastily. She wasn’t going to point out that it was a pair of glittering jet eyes being lanced provocatively in her direction which had the heat singing remorselessly in her veins. In a way, she wished that maybe Guy and Sabrina would leave. And then she could leave, too. And she wouldn’t have to dance with Khalim and put herself in what was clearly becoming apparent would be a very vulnerable position indeed.

You don’t have to dance with him, she reminded herself sternly. It wasn’t a royal command. Well, of course it was, she realised with a slight edge of disbelief. But even if it was, she was not one of Khalim’s subjects and London was not part of his kingdom! She could just give him a small, tight smile and tell him that she wasn’t really in the mood for dancing.

Couldn’t she?

But in the event she didn’t have to. Because Khalim came nowhere near her. She found herself observing him obsessively, while doing her level best not to appear to be doing so.

He stood out from the crowd of fabulously dressed guests, and not by virtue of his own glorious and unconventional attire. No, it went much deeper than that. Rose had never met anyone of royal blood before, and of course she had heard the expression of regal bearing—but up until now she realised that she hadn’t really known what it had meant.

There was some innate grace about the way he carried himself. Some fundamental and rare elegance in the way he moved. She had never seen anything like it. People noiselessly slipped from his path. Women stared at him with looks of undisguised and rapacious hunger on their faces.

Did he notice? Rose wondered. His proud, handsome face did not seem to register any emotion at all. But maybe he was used to it. Why, he had only had to lay his hand autocratically on her wrist to have her virtually melting at his feet.

The meal was served and Rose found herself seated with a banker on one side of her, and an oceanographer on the other. Both men seemed amusing and intelligent and the oceanographer was handsome in the rugged kind of way which denoted a healthy, outdoor lifestyle. He flirted outrageously with Rose, and even an hour ago she might have been receptive enough to respond.

But the only man who burnt a searing image on her subconscious sat at the top table, picking at his food with the kind of indifference which suggested that conventional hunger was not uppermost in his mind.

At that moment, Khalim looked up and glittered a black look in her direction—a look which sent a shiver tiptoeing down her spine. Quickly, she put her fork down and pushed the plate away.

‘So what do you do, Rose?’ asked the oceanographer.

She turned to look at him with a smile. ‘I’m a head-hunter.’

‘Really?’ He grinned. ‘I guess you earn lots of money, then!’

Which was what people always said! ‘I wish I did!’

The waitress leaned over, a look of concern on her face. ‘Is everything all right with the salmon, miss?’

Rose nodded, looking guiltily at the untouched plate. ‘It’s fine! I’m just not very hungry, that’s all!’

The waitress had the kind of build which suggested that no plate of hers was ever returned unless completely clean. ‘Someone in the kitchen just said that we shouldn’t bother offering the top table any pudding—so much food has come back from there as well! Maybe you should be sitting with them!’ she joked.

‘Maybe!’ laughed Rose politely, half of her thankful that she was nowhere near Khalim, while the other part of her wished desperately to be within his exciting and yet dangerous proximity. She risked another look, seeing how the diamond lights of the chandeliers emphasised the creamy-gold silk of the robes he wore and the raven gleam of his black hair.

Valiantly she forced a few raspberries down her throat, but even the plump and succulent fruit failed to tempt her. And then at last it was time for the cutting of the cake, and the speeches.

Rose could barely take in a word of the best man’s speech—she was so mesmerised by his dark, proud face. Her eyes feasted on his features—the hard, bright eyes and the stern expression which made her feel she’d won the lottery when it softened into affection. His mouth was a contrast of lush, sensual curves, but the upper lip had a hard, almost cruel streak. She shivered. Be warned, she thought.

Guy’s speech had every woman in the room all misty-eyed with emotion as he gazed down in open adoration at Sabrina and spoke of his love for her.

And then the band struck up and people drifted onto the dance-floor and Rose’s heart was in her mouth as she remembered Khalim’s intention to dance with her.

But he did not come near her, just returned to his seat and sat there imperiously, his gaze drifting over her from time to time, the black eyes luminous with sensual promise.

Rose allowed herself to dance with whoever asked her, but her heart wasn’t in it. She moved mechanically as the oceanographer took her in his arms, stiffening with rejection when he tried to pull her a little closer.

She sat down and was just beginning to seriously hope that Guy and Sabrina would depart for their honeymoon, so that she could leave as well, when Khalim appeared in front of her, the black eyes narrowed in mocking question.

‘So,’ he said softly. ‘I have taken you at your word and come to find you.’ The black eyes glittered. ‘Though you made yourself very easy to find, Rose—you sweet, blushing flower. Now—’ his voice dipped in sultry question ‘—shall we dance?’

Her cheeks were stinging at the implication that she had just been sitting there, waiting for him—but then, hadn’t she?

‘Is that supposed to be an invitation I can’t resist?’ she shot back at him.

A smile hovered at the edges of his mouth. ‘No, Rose,’ he purred. ‘It is a royal command.’

She opened her mouth to object, but by then it was too late, because he had taken her hand with arrogant assurance and was leading her onto the dance-floor.

‘Come,’ he said quietly.

She moved into his arms as though her whole life had been a dress rehearsal for that moment. He placed his hands at the slim indentation of her waist, and Rose’s fingers drifted with a kind of irresistible inevitability to his shoulders. She breathed in the faint scent of sandalwood about him, its soft muskiness invading her senses with its sweet perfume.

Rose considered herself a modern, independent woman, but a minute in Khalim’s embrace was enough to transform her into a woman who felt as helpless as a kitten.

Khalim felt the slow unfurling of desire as he moved his hands down to rest on the slender swell of her hips. ‘You dance beautifully, Rose,’ he murmured.

‘S-so do you,’ she managed breathlessly, gloriously aware of the hard, lean body which moved with such innate grace beneath the silken robes. ‘L-lovely wedding, wasn’t it?’ she commented, and said a silent prayer that her sanity would return. And soon!

He didn’t reply for a moment. ‘All women like weddings,’ he mused eventually.

She thought she heard deliberate provocation and lifted her head to stare him straight in the eyes, the bright sapphire of her gaze clashing irrevocably with glittering jet. ‘Meaning that men don’t, I suppose?’

He raised a mocking brow and thought how bright her hair, and how white her soft skin, against which the soft curves of her lips were a deep, rich pink. Like the roses which bloomed in the gardens of his father’s palace and scented the night air with their perfume. His pulse quickened. ‘Do you always jump to conclusions, I wonder?’

‘But you meant me to,’ she parried. ‘It was a remark designed to inflame, wasn’t it?’

He shook his head, his desire increased by her feisty opposition. ‘It was simply an observation,’ he demurred. ‘Nota…how-do-you-say?’ He frowned, as if in deep concentration. ‘Ah, yes—a sexist comment!’

Rose leaned away from him a little, and felt the almost imperceptible tightening of his hands on her hips, as though he couldn’t bear to let her go. ‘You can’t pretend to be stumbling over the language with me, Khalim!’ she said crisply, trying to ignore the thundering of her heart beneath her breast, ‘when I happen to know that you went to school in England and are as fluent as I am!’

She was very fiery, he thought with a sudden longing. ‘And what else do you know about me, Rose Thomas?’ he mused.

Briefly she considered affecting total ignorance. This was a man with an ego, that was for sure! Yet how often did people speak their minds to a man with his power and his presence?

‘I know that you are the heir to a mountain kingdom—’

‘Maraban,’ he elaborated softly, and his voice deepened with affectionate pride.

Something imprecise shimmered over her skin at the way he said that single word and a sense of hazy recognition made her shiver. ‘Maraban,’ she repeated wonderingly, until she realised that she was in danger of sounding starstruck again.

‘What else?’ he prompted, intrigued by that dreamy look which had softened her features when she had said the name of the land of his birth. And then his mouth hardened. Maraban was an oil-rich country—and didn’t fabulous wealth always produce enthusiasm in the greedy hearts of most Westerners?

She wondered what had caused the fleetingly judgemental look which had hardened his face into a stern mask. She snapped out of her reverie to deliver a few home truths.