Christmas Bride For The Sheikh. Carol Marinelli
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and Flo debated whether to grab it or to go and order first.
But then she saw him.
Sheikh Prince Hazin al-Razim.
He wore a suit that was as black and superbly cut as his hair. His tie was loosened and he was so stunning that he actually stopped Flo in her tracks.
How the hell did a person even begin to approach that? she pondered, thinking of her suggestion to Maggie to approach casually. And then she thought of Maggie alone in a cabin with him for two hours!
Had she been the one alone with him on a yacht, they would not have been talking!
Hazin was as utterly gorgeous as that.
He wasn’t banned from bringing in his phone, of course.
In fact, he was checking it and Flo could tell he was getting ready to leave.
* * *
Indeed, Hazin was about to go.
He was supposed to have met his older brother an hour ago and hadn’t been looking forward to it in the least. He did not need another lecture on taming his ways, but Ilyas had been insistent that they meet.
And then hadn’t bothered to show.
They were not close. In fact, thanks to their upbringings, Hazin and Ilyas were practically strangers. They had been segregated as children and when Hazin had proven rather a handful he had been sent to be schooled in London.
Ilyas wore the robe in the relationship and Hazin the suit.
Ilyas would be King.
Hazin simply did not care for any of that and did all he could not to return home, for there was no welcome waiting, just lectures on his behaviour that had been on repeat from as far back as Hazin could remember. As well as that, he loathed how his father ran the country, for it was in the same way in which King Ahmed parented—no empathy and with disdain for those he was charged to care for.
To Hazin’s eyes, Ilyas was as staid and cold as his father.
There was no message on his phone to explain his brother’s lateness, and looking up Hazin glanced around the place.
He was sick of Dion’s and the empty, painted people.
But then he saw her.
Or rather he heard the barman laugh at something and looked to its source.
She was ordering a glass of wine and a sparkling water and as she waited for her drinks she turned to look around. Her china-blue eyes met his.
‘Hi,’ she said.
He gave a very slight nod, but he didn’t find her forwardness particularly fetching. She was gorgeous, that was a given, but Hazin was more than used to women making a move on him and the gloss had long since worn off.
Flo could sense his disinterest and that he was about to leave; she wondered what she should say and how best to introduce herself. She glanced towards the main door and wished Maggie would arrive, but there was no sign of her. ‘I’m waiting for a friend.’
Hazin said nothing, for it had nothing to do with him.
‘She’s late,’ Flo pushed.
Hazin accompanied his tight smile with a put-down. ‘And I’m leaving.’
He had no interest in offering to keep her company. He was tired of being chatted up just for his Royal title and the empty sex that followed.
These days, he practically had to pat them down first to check for cameras anyway.
Then he watched as she stifled a yawn.
It was not the response Hazin was used to. Usually they hung on his every word.
Yes, he was jaded.
‘Excuse me,’ Flo said. ‘I just came from work...’
She was tired and yet also energised in the magnetic presence of Hazin, and unsure whether to tell him who her friend was and that Maggie would soon be arriving, but then he asked a question.
‘What do you do for work?’
‘I’m a midwife.’
He pulled such a horrified face that it made her laugh.
And then Hazin became curious.
‘I haven’t seen you here before...’ Hazin said, because he would have remembered if he had.
She wasn’t just pretty, she was animated and a shade different from the rest, he thought.
‘No, I used to come here quite a lot but I’ve banned myself,’ Flo said, and took a sip of her wine.
‘Why?’
‘I’m not telling you.’ She smiled.
Oh, hurry up, Maggie, she thought, because he was utterly, recklessly stunning and now that he was talking to her she could peek shamelessly without looking odd.
He had smoky grey eyes and his skin was a burnt caramel. As for his mouth, she couldn’t not watch it when he spoke, and those plump lips needed to be kissed.
She should have gone out more, Flo thought, for she felt like a convent schoolgirl set free.
‘Do you want to get a table?’ Hazin offered, because all of a sudden he wasn’t that jaded and was very much up for being used.
Well, a table would be perfect actually, Flo thought. It meant he wouldn’t be leaving and Maggie would get here to find them both sitting and talking, like sensible adults.
Only right now Flo didn’t want to be sensible, and she was suddenly nervous about going and sitting down.
There was a crackle of awareness between them, stronger than she had ever known.
‘I doubt we’d get a table...’ she said, terrified of her own lack of resistance to him, and then pulled a little face behind his back as he had a word with the bar.
‘Done.’
But they didn’t get a table.
Hazin and his glass of water were worthy of a booth.
He was so broad shouldered that the people parted like the Red Sea for him and she should have walked a smooth path behind, except her thighs felt like they were made of rubber.
‘After you,’ he said, and she slid into a velvet-lined seat and let out a tense breath of relief when he took the seat opposite, instead of sliding in beside her.
‘I’m Hazin.’
She noticed he did not offer his title.
This man did not need a title to have her feeling weak from the waist down.
He thought that perhaps, if she hadn’t been coming to Dion’s for a while, she might not know who he was. It was a refreshing thought—to lose the burden of it for a night.
‘You?’ he asked.
‘Flo,’ she said. ‘Florence.’
‘Like that old nurse?’
‘Florence Nightingale?’ she checked, and he nodded. ‘Well, she wasn’t old in her day,’ Flo corrected him. ‘Do you perhaps mean that nurse from olden times?’
‘I do.’
She smiled.
Hazin was well schooled but English was his second language and occasionally he slipped. Anyway, language and its intricacies could hardly be expected to be at the forefront of his mind when in the presence of such loveliness.
He liked her matter-of-fact correction that had come with a smile. Hazin had been raised to know any deviation from perfection would not be tolerated.
Yes he was wild, but whether it was a misspelt birthday card to his father, a torrid fling,