The Desert King's Bejewelled Bride. Sabrina Philips
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stalking another pursuit you consider a royal right, along with blackmail, Kaliq?’ she bit out, not bothering to stop walking.
‘Just keeping an eye on what’s mine.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ She stopped then, but didn’t turn around, trying to ignore the way the endless expanse of cool morning air seemed to have grown claustrophobic with the throb of sexual awareness.
‘You are my employee now, are you not? Since you have a tendency for not knowing what’s good for you, I thought I’d make sure you didn’t do anything stupid. It seems it was a precaution worth taking.’
‘Then you’re mistaken. I never go back on my word. Nor do I consider leaving early for an assignment to be stupid, do you?’
‘My mistake indeed,’ he whispered slowly as he came up behind her. ‘I should have guessed that you were dying to start peeling off your clothes.’
‘You didn’t mention that I would be required to remove any clothes. I would appreciate it if you could clarify what is required of me, if my duties are not to be as I was initially informed.’
‘I think you know perfectly well what is required of you.’
She swung round then. The slanted smile on his face read that he was keeping score and it was one-nil to him.
‘I agreed to model some old jewels. Assuming that is what you mean, I think we understand each other.’
She saw a nerve work at his jaw and visualised a score board depicting one-all.
‘You make it sound as if what I ask you to do makes a difference to your answer, Tamara. I hardly think you need to pretend your standards are so exacting.’
God, he really was from the Dark Ages! It wasn’t as if she posed for page three, for goodness’ sake—she’d never been photographed in anything less than what most people wore to the supermarket in summer, and usually a lot more. But then he was trying to get her, wasn’t he?
‘I wasn’t pretending any such thing,’ she answered coolly. ‘What you ask of me simply makes a difference to how much I charge.’
‘And how much do you charge, Tamara, for say—one night?’
Tamara glowered at him. ‘Sex may be written into the contract of every other one of your female employees, Kaliq, but it is not in mine.’
‘What makes you think it needs to be written in,’ he purred, ‘when you know it goes without saying?’
Tamara felt a wave of heat rush over her, which threatened to drag her mind back to the place it had been in the early hours of the morning, but she tore herself away from his mesmerising look of intent, turned on her heel and began to walk down the street.
‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’
‘To catch my train.’
‘Then clearly, Tamara, you are not charging enough.’ Kaliq reached out and caught hold of her arm, spinning her round to face him.
‘Public transport may be an alien concept to you, Your Highness—’ Tamara shook out of his grip as she motioned towards the costly vehicle on the opposite side of the street ‘—but I can assure you it is a perfectly adequate means of travel.’
‘But why have adequate, Tamara, when you can have the best?’ He drawled, ‘My private jet is waiting.’
‘As is my charter flight and city accommodation.’
Kaliq looked utterly exasperated. ‘You think it is safe for a young woman to travel and stay alone in Qwasir?’
‘If it wasn’t, I would imagine the crown prince would have bigger concerns than hanging around here just to make sure he had someone to wear a necklace four days from now.’
Kaliq’s eyes darkened. ‘It is a fact of life that our cultures are different, Tamara.’
Tamara nodded and reached for the handle of her case once more. ‘You would do well to remember it. See you there.’
‘I’m afraid not, Tamara.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘It means I require you in one piece for what I have in mind. Travelling in my transport and staying in my palace have just been added to the list of what is required of you. Now, get in the car.’
CHAPTER FOUR
AS TAMARA sank back into the obscenely comfortable seat and looked out at the mushroom-like clouds below, she told herself she was glad. After all, having to put up with his prehistoric demands for the duration of this assignment was one of the reasons why she’d agreed to it. For what could be more cathartic than to return home a week from now, knowing for certain that she could never have endured him?
She ought to be glad that he was making it so easy for her—that he was giving her every opportunity to harden her heart, to adopt the ice-cool, businesslike demeanour that Henry had described as customary in every other model he knew. Yet nothing about this felt easy.
Maybe it was because she hadn’t expected him to act in that cool manner himself. From the minute they had set foot on his private jet, he had positioned himself at the opposite end of the flight deck and immersed himself in a briefcase full of paperwork as if she were nothing more than a piece of excess baggage which didn’t fit in the hold. The few times he had looked up he had glanced straight through her, as if she had ceased to exist.
But then that was how he worked, wasn’t it? Oh, yes, her every mile-high whim would be catered for by his staff, but the minute she fell in line with his plans she ceased to matter to him. Because nothing mattered to him except his precious crown, she thought wretchedly. Until now she had been in danger of forgetting that.
Of forgetting that night.
Tamara squinted out at the view, the clouds becoming less dense and the yellow-brown hue of the desert landscape below just starting to become visible. The sight made her ball up the thin jumper she had been wearing and place it between her head and the window, pretending she wanted to sleep. The reality was she simply wanted to block out the view. To block out the memories.
It had been at the end of her stay in Qwasir—though leaving was something she had not allowed herself to contemplate— when the two of them and his aide had ridden across that desert at dusk. Kaliq had been insistent that she experience the annual masked festival in the tiny mountain village near the royal palace. She suspected she would have nodded in wide-eyed awe at whatever he’d suggested, but knowing that for one night no one would be able to recognise him as the crown prince had particularly delighted her. Perhaps because she’d grown tired of dodging the press whenever she was with him—ten times worse than the intrusion she had experienced on the few occasions a year she spent time with her mother. Perhaps because she’d wanted to forget exactly who he was.
For in Tamara’s eyes, his title had seemed detached from him, like a middle name rarely used. To her, he was the man who’d taught by example to defy what was expected, who’d made her recognise that she had been short-sighted, ungrateful even, to have been disappointed with her experiences in life so far, and who had encouraged her to pursue her dreams the way no one else ever had. Almost more startling, he’d made her want to venture into territory that—unlike everyone else her age—she had never wanted to sample before. She’d wanted him physically. To explore him—have him explore her. And, though he’d insisted it was necessary that they travel with an aide, the smouldering look in his eyes had seemed to say that the feeling was mutual.
So when, after a night of drinking the dark, spicy local drink and dancing anonymously amongst the jovial crowds, they’d left in the early hours of the morning with his aide nowhere in sight, Tamara’s heart thrilled at the thought of being alone with him. Had he engineered it on purpose? She’d felt sure that he had. Though she didn’t know what that meant in the long-term, it didn’t seem to matter. Because,