The Sheikh's Convenient Virgin. Trish Morey
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return to the temp agency. She sighed a wistful sigh. There was no way she could expect to be this lucky again. More likely she’d end up working ten hours a day for a madman in some office where the milk in the fridge lasted longer than the PAs.
Less than two weeks to go—so she’d just have to enjoy this experience while it lasted.
Morgan closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, the scent of frangipani adding a heady sweetness to the air. If she tried hard she could almost imagine she was there, in Nobilah’s home in Jamalbad, the desert-warmed air kissing her skin, the sweet scent of the palace orange grove tugging at her senses.
A shadow moved over her as the sun disappeared behind a cloud—until she remembered there were no clouds today, and there should be no shadow.
She snapped open her eyes with a start to see a man standing over her, a dark statue looming tall and powerful, his features indistinguishable with the wash of light behind. Without seeing his eyes she knew this man was a stranger. Without seeing his eyes she could still feel their impact like an acid burn. He was looking down at her. Staring. Assessing.
Her senses on trembling alert, she swung her legs over the edge of the chair, pushing herself to stand so as to remove at least some of the advantage he had by virtue of his height. But just standing was nowhere near enough. He still stood a full head above her, although at least from this angle she could finally see his eyes.
And immediately regretted the fact.
They burned gold, with scattered flecks like flaming coals, burning all the brighter with the contrast of his dark lashes and arched brows and the darkly shadowed angles of his cheeks and jaw.
Never before had she been confronted with someone so totally, unashamedly masculine. And never before had she felt more like an insect under a microscope. It was impossible not to resent his inspection. At the same time there was something compelling about those golden eyes that wouldn’t let her turn away.
She swallowed, trying to quell the insane rush of sensation that coursed through her.
Attraction.
Desire.
Fear.
All those things rolled into one prickly surge of awareness as he silently continued to watch her.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked at last, when the silence had stretched out much longer than was polite, and it was clear he was not about to break it.
The corners of his mouth turned up, drawing her eyes to his full lips. And to a wide mouth she could tell immediately would be equally at home delivering either pleasure or pain. ‘That is my intention,’ he answered cryptically. But before she could think about a response, Nobilah stirred on the lounger alongside.
‘Tajik! You’re back already. Why didn’t you tell me?’
He turned his attention to the much older woman, releasing the hold on Morgan’s eyes as abruptly as the snapping of chains.
‘The negotiations finished early,’ he said, moving to the older woman’s side and enclosing her in a bear-like hug that swept her off her feet and around in a circle of dark silk. ‘I wanted to surprise you.’
‘You did!’ she said, her age-plumped features creasing in delight. ‘I’m so pleased.’
Morgan watched the reunion, waiting for the perfect time to withdraw. So this was Nobilah’s son, the Sheikh? She’d expected someone older, maybe forty or so, given that Nobilah was in her mid-sixties, but this man looked in his prime. He couldn’t be more than early thirties. But then Nobilah had talked often of him as a child, of her dark haired boy who had grown up wild and untamed in the deserts of Jamalbad only to become a prince when her husband had unexpectedly came to the sheikhdom. Of the boy who had been torn from one life and thrown into another much more demanding and exacting.
As she looked at him now she could see no trace of that wild boy-child. Royalty was everything about him. His composure. His bearing. His sheer presence.
He could have been born to rule.
As if sensing her thoughts, he turned and captured her gaze. ‘So this is your new companion?’ he said, still holding his mother’s hands in his own. ‘So, tell me, is she any good?’
‘Come and meet her,’ his mother scolded, tugging him around. ‘See for yourself.’
Morgan stiffened as he allowed his mother to lead him to the hired help. As if it was necessary. Surely he’d seen enough while he’d been standing over her? And if talking about her in the third person had been intended to make her feel uncomfortable, he’d sure hit the spot. She gave him a glare that should strip paint.
If he noticed her glare of disapproval he gave no hint of it. ‘Morgan Fielding,’ he uttered slowly—so slowly and deliberately, that the sound of her own name rolled through her, a strange, unfamiliar thing.
With an accent that was like a blend of the richest coffee and the darkest chocolate, he made her name sound good enough to eat. No, she corrected herself, catching sight of white teeth flashing between lips that looked too confident, too predatory, he made her name sound good enough to devour. She shivered. Because his eyes echoed the certainty. They looked down at her, their golden depths too knowing, too intent, as if he was reaching to some place deep inside her she hadn’t known existed until now. And instinct warned her this man would do nothing by half measures.
And then he held out one hand, and she had no choice, no matter what her senses screamed to her in warning, but to do likewise.
She felt long fingers enclose her hand, circling around her wrist in a sensual dance of flesh against flesh as he drew her arm weightlessly towards him. With his eyes firmly fixed on hers she felt powerless to resist. Just when she thought he was intending to take her all the way to his lips, he stopped, and with the merest smile nodded slightly. ‘It is indeed…a pleasure.’
Her heart thumping in her chest, it was all she could do to form, let alone hear, her own words. ‘Sheikh Tajik, I’ve heard a lot about you.’
His smile widened, although his eyes remained steady, calculating.
‘You have me at a distinct disadvantage,’ he said. ‘I know next to nothing of you—a failing I intend to rectify at the first opportunity, I assure you.’
Golden eyes told her he meant every word he said, while the gentle stroke of one long finger over her wrist sent tremors of heat reverberating up her arm.
‘Taj,’ Nobilah rebuked with a laugh, breaking the spell. ‘Stop flirting with my companion. Come and tell me all about Paris. I’ll send for tea.’
‘I…I’ll get it,’ Morgan offered, smiling her thanks at Nobilah as she sensed a means of escape. She tugged her hand free and set off for the house, unable to ignore the prickle of heat on her skin, almost as if a pair of golden eyes were burning tracks into her back the whole way.
Nobilah had thought he’d been flirting with her? Why, then, had every word felt like some kind of threat? And why had the touch of his fingers on her flesh felt like some kind of promise?
She shivered again, wanting to shake off the unfamiliar sensations, and let herself into the house via the wide glass doors that led into the casual living areas and through to the kitchen beyond. She had almost crossed the cool tiled floor when she heard the voices—the even, low tones of Kamil and the raised voice of Anton, the chef they’d lured from one of Brisbane’s top hotels for the duration of their stay.
‘I have a contract,’ the chef protested. ‘I will not be sacked!’
Morgan pulled herself up short of the door. Obviously this was not a good time. But why were they sacking Anton? It made no sense. His cooking was three star Michelin standard, his menus superb. And Nobilah had made no secret of the fact that if she could she would like to take him back to Jamalbad with them.
‘Not sacked,’ she heard Kamil reply, his tone soothing yet insistent. ‘The remaining balance owing on