Kristi Gold - The Return of the Sheikh

Madison entered the dining room

wearing a slim black skirt that came right above her knees, conservative heels and a simple white blouse. But Sheikh Zain knew better. That professional, prim and proper persona only served to conceal the daring beneath her cool exterior. He’d wager his kingdom that she had on a pair of brightly colored panties.

A richly detailed fantasy assaulted him, one that involved sitting beside her and running his hand up the inside of her thigh and—

“Where would you like me?”

He thought of several answers, none of them appropriate. “Are you referring to the seating arrangements, or do you have something else in mind?”

KRISTI GOLDhas a fondness for beaches, baseball and bridal reality shows. She firmly believes that love has remarkable, healing powers and feels very fortunate to be able to weave stories of love and commitment. As a bestselling author, a National Readers’ Choice Award winner and a Romance Writers of America three-time RITA ®Award finalist, Kristi has learned that although accolades are wonderful, the most cherished rewards come from networking with readers. She can be reached through her website at www.kristigold.com or through Facebook.

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The moment Madison Foster exited the black stretch limo, a security detail converged upon her, signaling the extreme importance of her prospective client. The light mist turned to rain as she crossed the parking lot. One massive guard was on her right, a somewhat smaller man at her left, while two other imposing goons dressed in dark suits led the way toward the Los Angeles highrise. A few feet from the service entrance, she heard a series of shouts and camera shutters, but she didn’t dare look back. Making that fatal error could land her on the cover of some seedy tabloid with a headline that read The Playboy Prince’s Latest Paramour. And a disheveled presumed paramour at that. She could already feel the effects of the humidity on her unruly hair as curls began to form at her nape beneath the low ponytail. So much for the sleek, professional look. So much for the farce that it never rained in sunny Southern California.

When the guards opened the heavy metal door and ushered her inside, Madison stepped carefully onto the damp tile surface as if walking on black ice. Couldn’t they see she was wearing three-inch heels? Clearly they didn’t care, she realized as they navigated the mazelike hallway at a rapid clip. Fortunately they guided her into a carpeted corridor before she took a tumble and wounded her pride, or worse. They soon reached a secluded elevator at the end of the passage where one man keyed in a code on the pad next to the door.

Like a well-oiled human machine, they moved inside the car. Madison felt as if she were surrounded by a contingent of stoic man-crows. They kept their eyes trained straight ahead, not one affording her even a casual glance, much less a kind word, on the trip to the top floor.

The elevator came to a smooth stop a few moments later where the doors slid open to a gentleman dressed in a gray silk suit, his sparse scalp and wire-rimmed glasses giving him a somewhat scholarly appearance. As soon as Madison exited the car, he offered his hand and a hesitant smile. “Welcome, Miss Foster. I’m Mr. Deeb, His Highness’s personal assistant.”

Madison wasn’t pleased with the “Miss” reference, but for the sake of decorum, she shook his hand and returned his smile without issuing a protest. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Deeb.”

“And I you.” He then stepped aside and made a sweeping gesture to his right. “Come with me, please.”

With the guards bringing up the rear like good little soldiers, they traveled down the penthouse’s black marble vestibule beneath soaring, two-story ceilings. As a diplomat’s daughter and political consultant, she’d been exposed to her share of opulence, but she wasn’t so jaded she couldn’t appreciate good taste. A bank of tall windows revealing the Hollywood Hills drew her attention before her focus fell on the polished steel staircase winding upward to the second story. The clean lines and contemporary furnishings were straight out of a designer’s dream, but not at all what she’d expected. She’d envisioned jewels and gold and statues befitting of royalty, not a bachelor pad. An extremely wealthy bachelor’s pad nonetheless. Only the best would do for Sheikh Zain ibn Aahil Jamar Mehdi, the crown prince of Bajul, who’d recently and unexpectedly become the imminent king, the reason why she’d been summoned—to restore the tarnished reputation of the man with many names. In less than a month.

After they passed beneath the staircase and took an immediate right, Madison regarded Mr. Deeb, who also seemed bent on sprinting to the finish line. “I’m surprised the prince was willing to meet with me this late in the evening.”

Deeb tugged at his tie but failed to look at her. “Prince Rafiq determined the time.”

Rafiq Mehdi, Prince Zain’s brother, had been the one who’d hired her, so that made sense. Yet she found Deeb’s odd demeanor somewhat disturbing. “His Highness is expecting me, isn’t he?”

They stopped before double mahogany doors at the end of the hall where Deeb turned to face her. “When Prince Rafiq called to say you were coming, I assumed he had spoken to his brother about the matter, but I am not certain.”

If Rafiq hadn’t told his brother about the plan, Madison could be tossed out before her damp clothes had time to dry. “Then you’re not sure if he even knows I’m here, much less why I’m here?”

Blatantly ignoring Madison’s question, Deeb pointed to a small alcove containing two peacock-patterned club chairs. “If you wish to be seated, I will come for you when the emir is prepared to see you.”

Provided the man actually decided to see her.

After the assistant executed an about-face and disappeared through the doors, Madison claimed a chair, smoothed a palm over her navy pencil skirt and prepared to wait. She surveyed the guards lined up along the walls with two positioned on either side of the entry. Heavily armed guards. Not surprising. When a soon-to-be-king was involved, enemies were sure to follow. She’d initially been considered a possible threat, apparent when they rifled through her leather purse looking for concealed weapons before she’d entered the limo. She highly doubted she could do much damage with a tube of lipstick and a nail file.

Madison suddenly detected the sound of a raised voice, though she couldn’t make out what that voice might be saying. Even if she could, she probably wouldn’t understand most of the Arabic words. Yet there was no mistaking someone was angry, and she’d bet her last bottle of merlot she knew the identity of that someone.