In The Sheikh's Service. Susan Stephens
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of notes into the maître d’s hand and followed the ambassador’s son out of the restaurant.
* * *
Oh, for goodness’ sake! This was ridiculous. Her friend Chrissie wasn’t exactly lacking in the bosom department, but Chrissie wasn’t exactly overabundant, either, Isla fretted as she attempted to squeeze her ample frontage into the microscopic bikini top.
If someone had asked Isla to name the very last thing on earth she liked to do, it would be to make herself look provocative in front of a room full of men—and there was every reason for that, but Chrissie was a good friend and Chrissie had a family emergency tonight.
The past couldn’t reach out and hurt her, Isla told herself firmly, not unless she allowed it to, and tonight it wouldn’t.
Her mother’s death eighteen months ago had left her shaken to the core, and what had happened directly after the funeral could still send her reeling, but tonight was Chrissie’s night, so she would get on with the job—if she could force her breasts into submission. Turning this way and that, she measured the risk factor of her breasts going one way while she went the other. Here was living proof that no one could squeeze a quart into a pint pot. Nor could they make a plain, stocky woman into a sugarplum fairy overnight. She was a down-to-earth mature student in the veterinary sciences department. Far from being the glamorous type, she usually had grime of unspeakable origins beneath her fingernails. On the plus side, the costume was gorgeous. She loved a bit of twinkle, and the bikini was a deep, rich pink, exquisitely decorated with glittering crystal beads and sequins. It would look fantastic on Chrissie, as it would on any woman with a normal figure, but on Isla’s super-sized, top-heavy figure?
It looked like a sparkling bandage wrapped around a bun.
One of the many jobs Isla had taken in order to pay her fees at the university was to lead a class of enthusiastic children in gymnastics at the university gym, but she wore a sports bra for that, not an unfit-for-purpose sequinned bikini. This was the first time she could remember having a flexible body and the ability to use it being both an advantage and a disadvantage. She would never have agreed to do this if Chrissie’s need hadn’t been greater than Isla’s fear of ever making it seem that she was trying to lead a man on. Once upon an ugly time, that accusation had been cruelly levelled at her, and it had left a lingering doubt.
She had to hope the apprehension she was feeling went away once she lost herself in practising her moves for the Christmas concert at the gym.
Get over yourself and get out there—
She swung around at a knock on the door.
‘Five minutes, please,’ a disembodied male voice informed her.
Five minutes? She’d need five hours to make this disaster fly! She took a last look in the mirror and wished her breasts would shrink.
‘I’ll be there,’ she called out, slipping on her high-heeled shoes with agitated fingers. She’d kick the heels off once she got started, but Chrissie had said first impressions were all-important to the audience, and she had no intention of letting Chrissie down.
* * *
There were certain things that came with ruling a country Shazim could do without. Tolerating the offspring of loyal subjects was one of them. Entering a pole-dancing club in order to prevent the ambassador’s son hitting on one of the girls was another. Most clubs ran a strict ‘no-touch’ policy, but the ambassador’s spawn was the type to do as he pleased and then hide behind diplomatic immunity.
As he negotiated the mass of men in the overheated club, he thought about his elder brother, and the strength it had taken him to wear the yoke of duty. There were a lot of things about being a king that held no appeal.
Shazim had not been trained to be a king, but the tragedy in the desert, for which he held himself responsible, had thrust him into the role, opening his eyes to a burden his brother had carried so lightly. Following his brother’s death, Shazim, the reckless brother, had become poacher turned gamekeeper, and there was no way he would allow shame to fall on his people’s heads because of the ambassador’s son.
‘Can I get you something, sir?’
He eyed the girl. Beautiful. Slender. But with a wary gaze beneath her glossy shell. ‘No. Nothing. Thank you.’ Removing the ambassador’s son from the club with the minimum of fuss was his only goal.
‘A seat, sir?’
He glanced at the second girl. Her eyes were as dead as those of the girl currently working the pole. ‘No, thank you.’ He continued to hone in on his target.
His work in London was crucial, and he would not allow some brash, overindulged diplomat’s son to get in the way of it by attracting adverse publicity. Creating a nature reserve where endangered species could breed safely in their natural habitat required specialist knowledge, and he had found all he could need at the nearby university where he was investing millions in research and new buildings in order to bring his late brother’s dream to reality.
Waving his security team away, he took the ambassador’s son by the arm. The man resisted him with a violent shake and a lot of cursing, but then, realising who he was swearing at, he went limp and began to stutter some excuse that Shazim had no interest in hearing. Ushering him away with a not so subtle warning, he sent him back to daddy with a flea in his ear.
He had intended to follow the ambassador’s son out of the club when something made him stop and look around at the stage where another girl was about to start dancing. She was different from the rest, if only because she was smiling. He felt irritated on her behalf when the man next to him commented, ‘She’s sensational. What a rack—’
There was no denying that the girl was attractive. She was full figured and proud of it. Her skin was honey pale and as smooth as silk, but it was her happy face that held him. She seemed lost in thought, but her uplifting aura was enough to hold every man in the club transfixed as she worked her body enthusiastically on the pole.
Leaning back against a pillar, he stayed to watch. She was skilful and sexy, with both flair and talent, but there was nothing vulgar about her. The men around him had stopped leering, and were staring at her more in wonder than in lust. In another setting, she could have put on the same performance for the Mothers’ Union, and would have held them in the palm of her hand.
With the spotlight firmly fixed on her, Isla was determined to put on the best show possible for Chrissie. There had been one brief disturbance. She had been in the middle of a complicated move—one of several she was trying out for the gym’s Christmas display—when someone was thrown out of the club. Chrissie had warned her this could happen, but had also reassured her that security was tight for the girls, so Isla had nothing to worry about.
At the gym Isla was always lost in her routine, but tonight her attention kept wandering, mainly because of the man who had come to lean against a pillar to stare at her. All the men were staring at her, but he was watching with particular intent.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about him. He was exotic-looking and powerfully built, but unthreatening, possibly because he possessed an unusual air of dignity and presence. Tall and dark, he was beautifully dressed. His crisp white shirt provided a striking contrast to his exquisitely tailored dark suit, and links that might have been black diamonds glittered at his cuffs. As he obviously wasn’t going anywhere she continued on with her routine.
She was safely back in her tiny dressing room when the knock came on the door. ‘Yes? Come in...’
She was halfway changed, with her jeans and boots on, and grabbed a robe to throw over her bra. She was expecting a visitor. One of the girls had promised to drop off Chrissie’s schedule for the next week.
‘Oh!’
Shooting out of her seat when she saw the man, she backed instinctively against the wall with fear lapping over her. It was an old fear, but no less severe for being a haunting memory from the past. One, thankfully failed, sexual assault had left Isla with an instinctive fear of men. That it had happened after her mother’s