Jane Porter - The Desert Sheikh's Defiant Queen

“We were in London then,” he answered.

Her lips lifted in a hard bitter smile. “And you weren’t the sheikh.” Her head turned and she met his gaze once more. “Isn’t that right? This is back to your new philosophy on winning and losing and everything in life being a battle for control.”

Sharif reached for the tongs on one of the platters and served himself a generous portion of the lamb and then a scoop of the seafood-laced rice. “There,” he said, pushing the bowl of rice toward her. “Consider that a victory. You’ve won that round.”

Jesslyn blinked, her chest hot with bitter emotion. Where had the old Sharif gone, the one who’d once been so kind, so relaxed, so thoughtful?

Shifting in her seat, she accidentally bumped into his leg again beneath the table, his body big, hard, warm, and she nearly ran. She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t sit here and play nice, not when she remembered how it’d been between them, how he’d once been with her.

She realized that for her the attraction hadn’t gone. The old desire hadn’t died, and Sharif of ten years ago flashed through her mind—long hair, faded tattered jeans, beach flip-flops on his feet.

As if he knew what she was thinking he said, “I’m not a heartless ogre. I’m not cruel. I care very much about duty, family, responsibility.”

Words he would never have used ten years before, at least not like that. From the first time she’d met him, he’d been concerned about his family, concerned about peoples’ feelings. He would never have run roughshod over anyone.

Painful memories returned, memories of them as they’d once been—arm in arm walking through Hyde Park, laughing, talking, oblivious to the prince’s security detail tailing them everywhere.

Back then Sharif had lived as though he wasn’t royal, as though he had only himself to answer to.

He was wrong. And they both knew that. But they could pretend, and they did. For the two and a half years they were together, they pretended….

With an effort she swallowed around the funny lump in her throat. “Now tell me about your girls, their school, everything. Why are you so concerned about them? What is it you want me to do?”

He made a rough sound. “Give me a miracle.”

She frowned, not understanding. “What does that mean?”

Sharif didn’t immediately answer. Instead he toyed with his spoon, his gaze fixed on a distant point across the restaurant. “I don’t actually know what the problem is,” he said after a moment. “The girls apparently had considerable problems this year at school, problems I wasn’t aware of until they returned home for the summer. The headmistress sent word that it had been a difficult year and she wasn’t sure she could have them back, at least, not all of them.”

He set the spoon down, pushed it away, his eyes shadowed. “I don’t want the girls split up. They’ve already lost their mother. They shouldn’t lose each other.”

Jesslyn nodded slightly. She totally agreed with him on that. “Did the headmistress give any specifics about the ‘difficult’ year? Were the girls struggling academically or was it something else?”

“I’ve looked at their end-of-year marks and they are down across the board, but it’s their conduct marks that trouble me. My daughters aren’t spoiled princesses. They’re good girls. Polite children. And yet it seems the school … the teachers … have come to view them as troubled.”

“Troubled?”

He took a quick rough breath, as though the entire subject was so painful he could barely endure it. “The youngest had the worst marks. She essentially failed everything. She’s the one the school isn’t sure should return.”

Jesslyn waved off the waiter who was trying to refill her water. “Perhaps it isn’t the right school for the girls.”

“They’ve been there for nearly two years.”

“Not every school is right for every child.”

“My wife attended the same school. It was her desire they go there.”

“How old are your children?”

“Takia is five, Saba is six and Jinan, the eldest, is seven,” Sharif answered.

“They’re babies!”

“My wife went away to boarding school early, too.”

Jesslyn had also gone to boarding school in England, but she’d never enjoyed it, never felt happy about the long school term and the all-too-brief summer and winter holidays. She’d also been terribly homesick at first, but she’d adapted. But then again, she’d been quite a bit older, almost nine when she’d first gone away. And she hadn’t been grieving the loss of a mother, either.

“Maybe they’re too young,” she said carefully. “Or maybe it’s too much, too soon after the loss of their mother.”

Sharif nodded, jaw flexing. “If that were the case they would be happy now that they’re home. But they’re not. They’re still quite withdrawn. It’s as if they’ve become someone else’s children.”

“Maybe it’s not an academic issue at all.”

“I wondered the same thing myself, so I invited a doctor, a specialist in children’s mental health issues, to come meet them, spend the day with them, and the doctor said that children go through different adjustment periods and that eventually they’ll be fine.”

Jesslyn heard the tension and frustration in Sharif’s voice. He genuinely cared about his girls. He wanted to help them. He just didn’t know how.

He said as much when he continued speaking. “That’s why I’ve come to you. You were always so good with children, even back when you’d just started your teacher training in London. I thought that if anyone could help them, it’d be you.”

“Sharif, you know I’m not a therapist, I’m a teacher.”

“Yes, and I need you to teach them. Takia can’t return with her sisters if she doesn’t make up missed and failed coursework, and the other two are struggling in several subjects. You’re to teach all of them. They will attend lessons with you every day. I’ve converted the palace library into a classroom and purchased all the necessary textbooks.”

“I haven’t taught children as young as yours in years,” she reminded him. “My specialty is older children, middle schoolers and high school students, and the curriculum is American based, not UK—”

“That’s fine. I’ve bought teacher’s editions, and should you find you require something else, materials, computers, an assistant to help you, just let me know and it’s yours.”

Why did his reassurance not make her feel better? Why did that niggle of doubt within her just grow? Was it because elementary education wasn’t her area, or because she was afraid of failing when it came to teaching Sharif’s children?

“Sharif, I just want to make sure you understand that in this instance, I am not the best teacher for the job. I spend my days teaching literature, grammar, social studies to eleven-through-fourteen-year-olds. I don’t teach how to read but how to interpret literary themes, how to deconstruct plot structure, character and conflict.” Swallowing quickly she looked up into his eyes. “There are a thousand teachers in Europe more qualified than me—”

“But none more suitable,” he answered, leaning forward to touch the back of her hand.

It was a light touch and yet the brush of his fingers across her skin made her breath catch and her belly knot. His touch was still familiar, achingly familiar. For years he had no place in her heart, her mind or her life, and yet in less than twelve hours he’d changed all that.

“What makes me so suitable?” she asked, her voice suddenly husky, colored with emotions and desire she hadn’t even known she still could feel. Immediately she fought back, reminding herself, he isn’t yours anymore. And you’re not his.