Jane Porter - The Desert Sheikh's Defiant Queen - The Sheikh's Chosen Queen / The Desert King's Pregnant Bride

Jesslyn barely had time for a quick bath, a change into a simple black skirt topped by a soft silk pearl-gray blouse and a quick brush of her hair before it was time to go.

She followed the robed woman back to the elevator where they went to a lower level, transferred to a different elevator, which went straight to the restaurant at the very top of the luxurious hotel.

Jesslyn had to skirt a group of robed men who were in animated discussion. She caught bits and pieces of the conversation—impossible not to as they were talking quite loudly—and discovered their conversation had to do with Sheikh Fehr. Apparently two or more of the men had daughters and each father was quite adamant that it was his daughter who would be marrying King Fehr next September.

Jesslyn froze and stiffened as though she’d just been doused with a bucket of ice water.

Was Sharif getting married again? Were plans in the works for another Dubai princess?

Her head practically throbbed. Jesslyn put a hand to her temple, closed her eyes, wondering all over again just what kind of personal hell she’d agreed to. Tragically, she had no one else to blame for her situation. She’d agreed to this scenario. Had offered herself up.

Her ridiculous morals and values. Her ridiculous Joan of Arc complex!

One day she’d wise up. One day she’d put herself first, protect herself first.

“Headache?” a deep voice murmured at her elbow. Lifting her head, Jesslyn looked up into Sharif’s face.

The lashes fringing his silver eyes were thick and black. Strong cheekbones jutted above an equally strong jaw.

“Terrible,” she admitted, but unwilling to tell him that he was the source of her tension.

“Food will help and they have our table waiting.”

Sharif signaled to the maître d’ that they were ready, and immediately the host showed them to a prime window table with a view of the entire city where skyscrapers glittered in every direction.

Sharif ordered several appetizers to be brought right away as well as platters for dinner. “Eat,” Sharif said when the first of the appetizers arrived, pushing the small plates of seasoned meat, fish and assorted flat breads toward her. “You’ll feel better.”

But eating in front of Sharif was almost impossible. Even though the dishes were superbly prepared, chewing and swallowing required a Herculean effort, and after a few more bites of food Jesslyn gave up.

Sharif had watched her attempt to eat and now observed her pushing her food around her plate. “Have you developed one of those eating disorders? You never had a problem with food before.”

Jesslyn was grateful to drop the pretense. “It’s been a long day and a hard day. I thought I’d be on a plane right now and instead …” Her voice drifted off and, looking across the table at Sharif, she gave her head a slight, bemused shake. “It’s hard to take in, hard to accept.”

Just saying the words filled her with fury and resentment. Sharif could have helped her without insisting she give up her holiday. He could have helped her just because he was in a position to be able to help.

“You’re upset because I won,” he said, his tone deceptively mild.

She turned her head, gave him a long, level look. “Is that what this is to you? A competition? Or better yet, a battle where one person must win and the other loses?”

The edge of his generous mouth curved, and yet his gaze was hard, hot, sharp, and he looked at her so intensely that she felt bolts of electricity shoot through her.

“You haven’t yet learned that everything in life is a competition?” he drawled, his deep voice pitched low, his tone lazy, almost indulgent. “Life is just one endless battle after another. It’s all about power. It’s nothing but a quest for control.”

The chemistry between them had always been strong, and even though nearly a decade had passed since she’d last seen him, Jesslyn felt wildly, painfully aware of Sharif.

“Is that what being a king has taught you?”

He suddenly leaned forward, close enough that she could see the sparks of fire and ice in his eyes. “It’s what being a man has taught me.”

She didn’t know if it was his tone or his words but she shifted nervously, strangely self-conscious. Sharif had never made her feel this way before. Anxious. Unsettled. Undone. But then, he’d never been an adversary before and yet somehow it’s what he’d become.

Winners and losers, she silently repeated as she crossed her legs beneath the table and accidentally touched his knee with her own. Abruptly she drew back, but not before heat washed through her, heat and embarrassment and a painful awareness.

Their table was too small.

The dining room was too dark.

The atmosphere too charged.

Fortunately just then more food arrived, plates and platters and bowls. Jesslyn thought the food would be a distraction and Sharif would now eat and she’d have a moment to gather her composure. But Sharif threw her all over again with his command.

“You’ll serve,” he said with such authority that she immediately gritted her teeth.

“Has something happened to your hands?” she flashed, unable to control her burst of temper and defiance.

“You know it’s the custom for the woman to serve the man.”

“If she has a relationship with or to him. But I am not yours. I don’t belong to you—”

“But you do work for me,” he interjected softly. “And as one that is now in my employ, it would be proper for you to serve me.”

Her chin jerked up and she stared at him in mute fury. He was enjoying this, she thought. He enjoyed having power over her. “Why exactly did you come looking for me today?”

“I needed your help.”

But it wasn’t just that. It was more than that. She knew it was more because this wasn’t the Sharif she’d known. This wasn’t a man she’d want to know. “For what?”

He sighed. “You already know this. My children need a tutor. I want you to be their tutor—”

“Then don’t treat me like a second-class citizen,” she interrupted. “I agreed to teach your children this summer but that doesn’t make me your servant or part of the royal staff, and it doesn’t mean I’ll wait on you or any other member of the royal family.”

He held her gaze, his own silver eyes glittering with heat and an emotion she couldn’t discern. “Did I upset you by not saying please?”

It was all she could do not to dump her glass of water over his arrogant head as she bit back one angry retort after another. Battling to control her temper, she looked away, out the window to the sparkling lights of the city as it curved to meet the dark sea. A helicopter buzzed past the window on its way to the hotel’s landing pad.

“You upset me,” she said at length, “by asking me to do something you would have never asked me to do ten years ago.” She drew an unsteady breath. “Ten years ago you would have served me.”

“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.