The Desert Sheikh's Defiant Queen: The Sheikh's Chosen Queen / The Desert King's Pregnant Bride. Jane Porter
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the bathroom door was shut, Jesslyn dropped her clothes and slid into the tub’s hot water with an appreciative sigh. She hadn’t wanted to take the bath, but now that she was here, chin-deep in water scented with a tantalizing vanilla and spice oil, she couldn’t imagine not bathing.
The little bathroom in her apartment had a tiny tub, but the water never got properly hot and then turned cold halfway before the tub was even filled. Soaking in this deep tub was pure decadence. Closing her eyes, Jesslyn just floated, content, absolutely content—
“Massage now, Teacher Fine. Okay?”
Mehta’s voice suddenly pierced Jesslyn’s dream state and her eyes flew open. Mehta was leaning over the tub smiling at her. “Okay?”
Jesslyn sat up abruptly, drawing her knees to her chest. “I don’t need a massage.”
“Nice massage before dinner.”
Spotting a large woman, Jesslyn shook her head. “The bath is perfect. The bath is lovely. I’ll just get dressed.”
“Dinner with His Highness,” Mehta said.
“Yes, yes, I know, but—”
“Massage before dinner with His Highness.”
Oh, for Pete’s sake! Enough with this dinner-with-His-Highness. It was just Sharif. She’d had hundreds of meals with Sharif. It was ridiculous to go through all of this just because she’d be joining him to eat.
“No.” Jesslyn hugged her knees tighter. “I really—” she broke off as the masseuse behind Mehta scooped up the robe and came marching toward her.
Mehta and the masseuse waited expectantly.
Jesslyn looked up at them, water trickling down her chest and back. She honestly didn’t know if she should laugh or cry. Coming here, she thought Sharif would be the problem, but Sharif was no problem, not compared to her baby-faced attendant with the biggest dimpled smile in the world.
“Anything for the king,” she said from between gritted teeth as she stood up in the bath and was wrapped in the robe.
Mehta smiled, her deep dimples growing bigger, deeper.
But of course Mehta smiled. Mehta was having a great time. She’d managed in less than a day to turn Jesslyn into a living Barbie doll.
CHAPTER SIX
JESSLYN’S heart thudded as she stood in the doorway of the royal courtyard. She couldn’t take another step, painfully self-conscious in the open-shoulder silk blouse Mehta had insisted she wear after going through all of Jesslyn’s clothes. The black silk was sheer and heavily embroidered with silver, the top draping off her shoulders and then dipping low.
It was a splurge top she’d bought for the Australia trip, a dressy fun top she’d imagined wearing in Cairns or Port Douglas for a special dinner out. Instead she wore it tonight for dinner with Sharif, the top paired with slim black satin trousers and high heels.
“Where did Miss Heaton go?” Sharif’s deep voice sounded from the opposite end of the courtyard, and Jesslyn searched the shadowy walled garden lit only by moonlight and the odd torch.
“I’m not sure,” she answered nervously, taking another step into the courtyard, feeling the chunky, black wood bead necklace sliding across her bare skin. “This wasn’t my idea,” she added defensively, pressing the big glossy wood beads to her sternum, wishing the beads covered more of her as her top left far too much bare. She shouldn’t have allowed Mehta to dress her. She should have finally, firmly, put her foot down.
Sharif moved from the shadows into the light. “I’ve never seen you like this.”
Instead of his traditional robes, he wore Western clothes, tailored black trousers and a long-sleeved white dress shirt open at the throat.
She’d never seen him like this, either. In London they’d never dressed up, never gone to very expensive or trendy restaurants. Instead their lives were simple and low-key and yet so full of happiness.
“This isn’t my idea of business attire,” she added nervously, shoulders lifting at the warm caress of the evening breeze. “But Mehta doesn’t listen to me. Not about anything.”
“Ah, yes, Teacher Fine,” he remarked moving leisurely toward her as the torches jumped and flickered in the breeze. “And you do look very fine.”
She touched one bare shoulder, aware that her top’s black silk was so sheer her skin and the curve of her breast could be seen. The fact that the silk had been bordered in silver ribbon and embroidered with fanciful silver designs did little to comfort her. The top had merely seemed playful when she’d planned to wear it on holiday. Now it felt far too daring, provocative and sexual and it mortified her.
She wasn’t trying to seduce Sharif. She wasn’t trying to do anything but fulfill her promise to him. All she wanted to do was help his children and then return to Sharjah in eight weeks for the new school year.
“Would you like a cocktail, a glass of wine or champagne?” he asked.
She fidgeted with the black beads. “No, thank you. I don’t really drink. I know a lot of the expats in the Emirates do, but since most people don’t drink …” Her voice trailed off as she looked up into his face, her train of thought disappearing as she got lost in his eyes, eyes that tonight looked like the pewter gray of the precious Tahitian pearl.
“How is life in Sharjah as an expat?” he asked, his head tilting to one side, his lips curving lazily, and yet the cool, sardonic smile only made the spark in his eyes hotter.
“Good. I’m happy there. It’s become my home.” She tried to smile, but found it impossible when Sharif was looking at her like that.
Looking at her as though she was the most interesting thing in the world.
But she knew what she was and she knew what she wasn’t, and this—all of this—was a huge mistake. She should never have come to dinner dressed this way.
A lock of her dark hair fell forward, and reaching up, she shyly pushed it back from her brow. Mehta had done her hair, as well, brushing and backcombing the crown, before sweeping most of it away from her face and pinning it at the back of her head with small jeweled hairpins that left some hair loose in soft dark curls.
Looking in the mirror at her reflection earlier, Jesslyn had nearly fainted. It wasn’t that she didn’t look beautiful, but the hairstyle and the blouse and the dark eyeliner and pale glossy lips all whispered sex. Seduction. Pleasure.
She’d tried to take the jeweled hairpins out, but Mehta had shocked her by bursting into tears. “No Teacher Fine, no,” she’d wept and Jesslyn had been so stunned and so uncomfortable she’d left her hair and makeup alone.
Jesslyn tried to smile but couldn’t quite pull it off. “Sharif, I really feel awkward. This outfit, this hair—” She lifted a hand, gesturing to her head, hating how her hand shook like a nervous schoolgirl’s. “This isn’t me. It isn’t right. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, that’s really not necessary. But I do agree with you. Something’s not right.” Sharif folded his arms across his chest, his features firming in lines of concentration as he slowly walked around her, studying her from head to toe.
Then, turning away, he called a quiet command and one of Sharif’s uniformed butlers appeared. Sharif spoke quickly, two or three abrupt sentences that Jesslyn couldn’t follow. She spoke basic Arabic, but he wasn’t speaking a dialect she understood.
She looked at Sharif questioningly as the butler disappeared. Sharif simply looked at her, his expression unreadable. “This shall be an interesting evening,” he said at length, allowing himself the smallest hint of a smile.
His smile filled her with fresh trepidation. She didn’t want an interesting evening. She wanted a safe evening, a predictable evening, an evening