Loe raamatut: «A Christmas Bride For The King»

CHAPTER ONE

CHARLOTTE MCQUILLAN PACED back and forth in the empty office and looked at her watch for the umpteenth time. The king, Salim Ibn Hafiz Al-Noury—or technically the king when he was crowned in three weeks—had kept her waiting for an hour now.

It was no secret that he was probably the most reluctant king in the world, having deferred his coronation for well over a year. Long after his older brother had been crowned king of neighbouring Jandor.

She might have expected as much from the enfant terrible of the international billionaire playboy scene.

Charlotte knew of Sheikh Salim Ibn Hafiz Al-Noury’s reputation, but only in a peripheral sense. Salacious celebrity gossip magazines were anathema to her, because she’d been the focal point of a celebrity scandal at a very young age, but even she was aware of the sheikh with the outrageous good looks, near mythical virility and his ability to turn anything he touched to gold.

His playboy exploits were matched only by his ruthless reputation and his ability to amass huge wealth and success in the many business spheres he turned his attention to.

Charlotte walked over to a nearby window that looked out over a seemingly unending sea of sand under a painfully blue sky. The sun was a blazing orb and she shivered lightly in the air-conditioning, imagining how merciless that heat must be with no shade. The little taste of it she’d had walking from the plane to the sheikh’s chauffeur-driven car and then into the palace had almost felled her.

With her fair, strawberry-blonde colouring, Charlotte had never been a sun-worshipper. And yet here she was. Because when the opportunity had come up to escape London in the full throes of Christmas countdown she’d jumped at it.

To say it wasn’t her favourite time of the year was an understatement. She loathed Christmas, with all its glittery twinkling lights and forced festive joviality, because this was the time of year when her world had fallen apart and she’d realised that happiness and security were just an illusion that could be ripped away at any moment.

Like the Wizard of Oz, who had appeared from behind his carefully constructed façade to reveal he wasn’t a wizard at all. Far from it.

And yet as she looked out over this alien view that couldn’t be more removed from that London scene, she didn’t feel relieved. She felt a pang. Worse. A yearning.

Because in spite of everything a tiny, traitorous part of her secretly ached for the kind of Christmas celebrated in cheesy movies and on cards depicting happy families and togetherness. The fact that she usually spent her Christmas Day alone, with tears coursing down her face as she watched Miracle On 34th Street or It’s a Wonderful Life for the hundredth time was a shameful secret she would take to her grave.

She made a disgusted sound at herself and turned her back on the view, firmly shoving any such rogue yearnings down deep where they belonged. She distracted herself by taking in the vast expanse of the King’s Royal Office—which, if the correct protocol was being observed, she should never have been allowed into without his presence. She sighed.

She could see that at one time it had been impressive, with its huge floor-to-ceiling murals depicting scenes that looked as if they’d been plucked from a book of Arabian mythology. But now they were badly faded.

Everything Charlotte had seen so far of Tabat and its eponymous capital city had an air of faded glory and neglect. But it had charmed her with its ancient winding streets, clusters of stone buildings and the river that ran all the way from the Tabat Mountains to the sea on the coast of neighbouring Jandor.

The country was rich in natural resources—oil being the most important and lucrative. But its infrastructure was in serious need of modernisation, along with myriad other aspects of the country—education, government, economy... It badly needed a leader prepared to take on the mammoth task of hauling it into the twenty-first century. Its potential was abundant and just waiting to be tapped into.

But, from the little she knew of Sheikh Al-Noury and his reputation, she didn’t hold out much hope for that happening any time soon. He’d made no secret of the fact that his priorities lay with his myriad business empires in the West.

She’d been hired by his brother, King Zafir of Jandor, to advise Salim Al-Noury on international diplomacy and relations in the run-up to his coronation, but in the two weeks since she’d accepted the assignment neither the sheikh nor his people had made any effort to return Charlotte’s calls or provide her with any information.

Charlotte checked her watch again. He was now well over an hour late. Feeling frustrated, and not a little irritated and tired after her journey, she walked over to where she’d put down her document case, prepared to leave and find someone who could direct her to her room. But just as she drew near to the huge doors they swung open abruptly in her face and a man walked in.

One thing was immediately and glaringly apparent. In spite of seeing his picture online, Charlotte was not remotely prepared for Sheikh Salim Ibn Hafiz Al-Noury in the flesh. For the first time in her life she was rendered speechless.

For a start he was taller than she’d expected. Much taller. Well over six feet. And his body matched that height with broad shoulders and a wide chest narrowing down to lean hips and long legs. He was a big man, and she hadn’t expected him to be so physically formidable. The impression was one of sheer force and power.

Messily tousled over-long dark hair framed his exquisitely handsome face, which was liberally stubbled. His eyes were so blue they immediately reminded Charlotte of the vast sky outside—vivid and sharp. His mouth was disconcertingly sensual—a contrast to the hard angles of his body and bone structure.

A loose-fitting white shirt did little to disguise the solid mass of muscle on his chest and a tantalising glimpse of dark hair. It was tucked into very worn jodhpurs that clung to hard and well muscled thighs in a way that could only be described as provocative. Scuffed leather boots hugged his calves.

It was only then, belatedly, that Charlotte registered the very earthy and surprisingly sensual smell of horseflesh and something else—male sweat. To her utter horror she realised that she was reacting to him as if she’d taken complete leave of her senses.

He frowned. ‘Mrs McQuillan?’

She nodded, only vaguely registering that he’d got her title wrong.

‘You were leaving?’

His deep and intriguingly accented voice reverberated through her nerve-endings in a very distracting way.

Charlotte finally broke herself out of the disturbing inertia that was rendering her insensible. What on earth was wrong with her? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen a handsome man before. She tried to ignore the fact that she’d just made such an intense inspection of the man and shelved her unfortunate reaction to him until she could study it in private, later.

She looked him in the eye. ‘I’ve been waiting here for over an hour, Your Majesty, I thought you weren’t coming.’

Those remarkable eyes flashed with what looked like censure. ‘I’m not king yet.’

He looked down, and Charlotte became conscious of her rigid grasp on her case. She forced herself to relax.

He met her eye again. ‘Were you offered any refreshment?’

Charlotte shook her head. King—no, Sheikh Al-Noury walked back to the doorway and shouted for someone. A young boy in a long tunic and turban appeared—the same one who had shown her into the office—looking pathetically eager to please. He looked terrified, however, after the stream of rapid Arabic Sheikh Al-Noury subjected him to, and then he ran.

When Charlotte registered what he’d said she stepped forward saying heatedly, ‘That was uncalled for! How was he to know to offer me anything when he only looks about twelve? Someone senior should have been here to meet me. Where are your staff?’

Sheikh Al-Noury turned around slowly. He arched a brow and leant against the doorframe, crossing his arms. Totally nonchalant and unfazed by her outburst. ‘You speak Arabic?’

Charlotte nodded jerkily. ‘Among numerous other languages. But that’s not the point—’

He straightened from the door. ‘I’m sorry. I would have been here to meet you but I got delayed at the stables, taking delivery of a new thoroughbred—a present from Sheikh Nadim Al Saqr of Merkazad. He was skittish after the journey so it took a while to settle him.’

Sheikh Al-Noury had crossed the expanse of the Royal Office before Charlotte could get her thoughts in order. The fact that his apology hadn’t sounded remotely sincere was something that got lost in a haze as she found herself once again momentarily mesmerised by his sheer athletic grace. He moved like no other man she’d ever seen—all coiled muscle and barely restrained sexual magnetism. It was an assault on her senses.

He looked over his shoulder from where he was pouring dark golden liquid into a bulbous glass. ‘Can I get you anything?’

Charlotte’s throat suddenly felt as dry as the surrounding desert and she said, ‘Just water, please, if you have it.’

He came back towards her, holding out a glass of iced water, and once again Charlotte was struck by his sheer physicality. She reached for the glass and their fingers touched. A raw jolt of electricity shot up her arm, making her accept it jerkily. She immediately raised it to her mouth to give herself something to do, feeling as if she was floundering. She didn’t like it.

Sheikh Al-Noury indicated the chair from which she’d only just picked up her bag, intending to leave.

‘Please, take a seat, Mrs McQuillan.’

He walked around to the other side of his desk and sat down, lifting his feet carelessly onto the desk-top and crossing them at the ankle. Charlotte’s eyes grew wide at this less than respectful pose, and she forgot his offer to take a seat. Right now all he was missing was a half-naked showgirl sitting in his lap.

He swirled the drink in his glass and took a sip before looking at her and raising a brow. ‘I presume from the expression on your face that I’m about to get my first lesson in diplomacy and etiquette?’

Charlotte dragged her horrified gaze away from the very battered soles of his boots. There were dark stains that looked and smelt suspiciously like animal waste, and as her gaze clashed with that painfully blue one she said frigidly, ‘It is generally considered an insult of varying proportions to expose the soles of your feet to a guest anywhere in the world.’

The man did nothing for a long moment, and then he just shrugged minutely. ‘Well, we are in this part of the world now—and, believe me, we have far more inventive ways of insulting people. Nevertheless, I will endeavour to refrain from insulting my etiquette advisor.’

He lifted his legs, which only drew Charlotte’s attention to his thighs again, and then they were hidden from view under his desk. She felt the strangest twist in her belly. Almost a pang of regret. It angered her to be behaving so oddly.

That anger made her say through gritted teeth, ‘I am much more than an “etiquette advisor”, Sheikh Al-Noury. I am an expert in international relations and diplomacy, with a master’s degree in Middle Eastern Relations. I speak seven languages and I’ve just completed a successful assignment with King Alix Saint Croix, ensuring his smooth transition back onto the world stage after regaining his throne...’

Charlotte stopped and took a breath, slightly aghast at how much had just tumbled from her mouth.

Sheikh Al-Noury barely moved a muscle from his louche pose as he said, ‘Mrs McQuillan—’

‘And it’s not Mrs McQuillan,’ Charlotte snapped, feeling as if she was fraying from the inside out while this man remained utterly nonchalant. ‘It’s Miss.’

The sheikh’s bright gaze dropped down over her upper body and back up, making Charlotte feel hot all over and yet as if she’d suddenly been found wanting. He’d obviously come to some unflattering conclusion about her single status.

He looked at her and said, with an almost infinitesimal twitching at the corner of his sensual mouth, ‘Quite. Forgive me for the error. I’m afraid I’d just assumed...’ He sat up straighter then, and pointed to the chair on the other side of his desk. ‘Please, sit down, Miss McQuillan. You’re making me nervous, looming over me like that.’

Charlotte doubted anything would make this man remotely nervous, and to her disgust felt perilously close to wanting to stamp her foot and storm out. Did he have to make her feel like an admonishing parent? And why should that be pricking at her insides like a hot poker?

Charlotte’s habitual cool head was irritatingly elusive. She’d never been so aware of herself. She knew that she presented a slightly conservative front, but in her business it was paramount to appear at all times elegant and refined. Giving no cause for possible offence or provocation.

She reluctantly did as he’d bade and sat down, aware of her skirt feeling tight and the top button of her shirt digging into her throat. Clothes that had never felt restrictive before, now felt shrink-wrapped to her body.

He put the glass down on the desk and said, ‘Look, your credentials are not in doubt. King Alix of Isle Saint Croix rang me himself to sing your praises. But the fact is that I did not look for your expertise. My brother hired you in spite of my protests. I would have told you before not to bother coming, but I’m afraid I got caught up in ensuring my business concerns are attended to in my absence. However, I will be more than happy to ensure your return to the UK immediately, and of course you will receive full payment in recompense.’

This man’s casual disregard for who and what she was made Charlotte’s hackles rise. As did his arrogant assumption that she would be so easily dismissed.

She pointed out with faux sweetness, ‘As it was your brother who hired me, then I’m afraid he is the only one who has the power to terminate this contract.’

Sheikh Al-Noury immediately scowled, but it only enhanced the wickedly beautiful symmetry of his features. His gaze narrowed on her and she stopped herself from fidgeting.

‘Are you seriously telling me that you would prefer to stay here in this landlocked sandpit of a country, in a city that is routinely plunged into darkness when the archaic electricity infrastructure fails, rather than be at home amongst your first-world comforts enjoying all of the festivities of the season? My coronation is due to take place a couple of days before Christmas, Miss McQuillan, and if you stay I can’t guarantee that you’ll make it home in time. You might not be married, but I’m sure there’s someone who is expecting your...company.’

It took Charlotte a few precious seconds to assimilate everything he was saying, but what caught at her gut was the way he’d hesitated over the word company, as if he’d had to find a diplomatic—ha!—way of suggesting that there might be someone waiting for her.

Next she registered his obvious disdain for his inherited kingdom—this landlocked sandpit of a country. True, there was something pitilessly unrelenting about the sea of sand on all sides of this ancient city, but Charlotte had felt a quickening of something deep in her soul—an urge to go out and explore, knowing from her research and studies of this region that it hid treasures not immediately apparent.

Collecting her wits, she said coolly, ‘I’m not in the habit of reneging on agreements, Sheikh Al-Noury, and it would be unprofessional in the extreme for me to walk away at this early stage. As for your kind concern about my missing Christmas, I can assure you that I have no particular desire or need to return in time for the holiday. In fact, it suits me perfectly well to be here right now.’

Salim looked at the woman on the other side of his desk—more than a little taken aback. He was used to issuing an order, or, in this case a very polite suggestion—and having it obeyed. But she was not walking out of his office as he’d fully intended—who wouldn’t take pay for nothing?—instead she was sitting opposite him as straight and upright as a haughty ballet dancer, staring at him with eyes the kind of green he’d only ever seen in Scotland, on one of those ethereally misty days. Distracting. Irritating.

She wasn’t remotely his type, so why was he noticing her eyes? Salim preferred his women a lot more deshabillée, accessible and amenable. Everything about her, from her shining cap of neatly bobbed shoulder-length hair to her pristine dark grey suit and light grey blouse, screamed control and order—constraints Salim had rebelled against for so long now that he couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t wanted to upset the status quo.

And yet...much to his irritation...he couldn’t help noticing the fact that her surprisingly lush mouth was at odds with her cool demeanour, making him wonder what other lushness might be hiding under her oh-so-prim and neat exterior.

His gaze dropped to the bow at her throat and he imagined tugging on one silken length—would her whole shirt fall open? As he watched, the silky material moved more rapidly over her chest, as if she was breathing quickly, and when Salim glanced up again her cheeks had a slight telltale flush.

He was well inured to the signs of attraction in women, but it was patently evident that this woman didn’t welcome it. Which was a total novelty.

When he caught her eye again he almost felt the blast of ice along with an accusatory light. She definitely didn’t like being attracted to him.

This intrigued him more than he cared to admit—as did her assertion that she didn’t mind missing Christmas. But he curbed the impulse to ask her why. He avoided asking women searching questions.