Dana Marton - Desert Sheikhs - Monarch of the Sands / To Tame a Sheikh / Sheikh Protector

Especially this garden, she thought as she looked around and breathed in the damp, autumnal air. How she loved this garden—and how she would miss it when she moved into the town house which Simon had his eye on, where they all had nothing but a small, paved ‘easy-care’ patio area.

The misty atmosphere of the November day had created diamonds on the cobwebs and fallen leaves lay like scattered toffee wrappers on the wet grass. Taking out her pair of secateurs, she began to snip at some of the hips and berry laden branches and soon her basket was half-full. She would cram them in that big copper pot and the dark green foliage and scarlet berries would contrast against it quite perfectly and brighten up the kitchen.

The sound of a powerful engine disturbed her thoughts and, turning round, she saw Zahid’s sports car growling its way up the drive before coming to a halt next to her own, rather beaten-up old car.

Frankie watched as he got out—and once again she was reminded of his chameleon-like capacity. Today’s look was casual and expensive and very, very compelling. Faded blue jeans clung to his powerful legs and beneath his leather jacket she could see a dark cashmere sweater, which echoed the coal-black of his hair. She let her gaze linger on his stern expression and her heart gave a curious little flutter before her fingers curled tightly around the secateurs she was holding. What kind of a disloyal and horrible woman was she, if the sight of a man who wasn’t her fiancé should fill her with an overwhelming sense of excitement? What was the matter with her?

Putting her basket down, she went across the damp grass to meet him, her smile feeling forced. ‘Hello, Zahid.’

‘Francesca.’ He looked down at her, thinking how young and innocent she looked today. And much more like the Francesca he knew of old, with that big old raincoat and a pair of wellington boots which had seen better days. But the dark, mist-sprinkled hair still hung in a silken fall over her shoulders and her eyes were still that newly discovered shade of blue. And she was no longer young, he thought grimly. Nor innocent. He felt an odd twist of his heart and a sense of anger building inside him, but he forced himself to control it. ‘Has Simon recovered after the other night?’

‘Yes, he was fine. Had a bit of a headache the next day. He says to say thank you for dinner—and hopes he wasn’t out of order.’

Black eyes bored into her. ‘Does he always drink that much?’

‘Of course he doesn’t!’ She saw the look of censure on his face and wondered why he had to be so judgemental—had he never had a few drinks too many? She supposed he hadn’t—for none of the Al Hakam family drank alcohol, did they? ‘He was probably just nervous, meeting you. You must be used to that, Zahid—it’s not every day that someone like Simon gets to have dinner with a real-live sheikh.’

‘Maybe not—but it was naïve and inappropriate behaviour in the circumstances. Especially for a man of— how old is he, Francesca?’

‘He’s twenty-eight—he’s hardly about to start drawing his pension!’ Frankie frowned when he gave no answering smile. ‘Have you come here today just to talk about Simon?’

‘Actually, yes. I have.’

She stared at him. ‘Well, if we’re talking inappropriate—then wanting to discuss my fiancé with me behind his back surely falls into that category? Okay, so he got a little drunk —big deal! These things happen sometimes—they probably happen in Khayarzah, if you only knew it!’

‘But nobody there would dare to get drunk in front of the king!’ Zahid snapped, before drawing in a deep breath, reminding himself that he had come here today with a purpose. Not a particularly palatable one, it was true—but he needed to muster up every diplomatic atom in his body if he was to limit the emotional damage his discovery was going to have on Francesca. ‘Shall we take a walk around the garden?’

At this, she smiled. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to go inside, into the warmth? I’ve made you a cake.’

He felt the unfamiliar stab of guilt. She’d spent the morning making him a cake—just like old times. While he had spent the morning accruing information which would …

‘No cake, thank you.’ He saw the brief look of hurt which flitted over her pale face and forced himself to breathe out a platitude. ‘I’m sorry if you went to any trouble.’

‘Not even your favourite lemon?’

‘Francesca—’ He paused, reluctant to open the can of grotesquely wriggling worms he was in possession of. ‘Tell me how you met Simon.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ Couldn’t he let this go? ‘Does it really matter?’

‘Yes.’ His gaze was steady. ‘It matters a lot.’

She stared at him, remembering about what he’d said the other day. Something about it being his ‘duty’ to meet Simon. And if that was the case, then wasn’t he taking duty a little too far? ‘Is this another quasi-paternal question?’ she questioned.

Paternal? Zahid winced. God help him but he didn’t feel in the least bit paternal at the moment—not when those wide-spaced eyes looked so blue and so deep that he felt he might be able to dive into them. ‘Just answer the question,’ he said unevenly.

She sighed, giving into the inevitable—sensing that he wouldn’t give her any peace until she provided him with the information he wanted. ‘I met him when he came to the house after my father died.’

Zahid nodded. ‘So he knew your father? He came to pay his respects?’

Francesca bit her lip because the next piece of information had never sat very easily with her—even when Simon had explained that people in the business world needed to be outgoing in order to keep themselves afloat.

‘Not really,’ she said slowly. ‘He’d read about his death in the papers and so he came … he came …’

‘He came to see whether you needed to sell the house?’

Frankie flushed under the black glare of his fierce scrutiny. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Like some low-life lawyer chasing an ambulance, touting for business?’ The words were out before he could stop them.

Frankie froze. ‘Don’t you dare judge him! How would you know what it’s like, Zahid? You’re a sheikh and even when your country was broke, you still lived in a palace and had servants all over the place—while Simon has had to fight to make his way in the world!’

‘My heart bleeds for him.’

Something about the way he said it made a queer kind of frustration bubble up inside her and for a moment Frankie actually took an angry step towards him, until he halted her with a voice like ice.

‘I think you forget yourself!’ he snapped. ‘I allow you the kind of leeway which I wouldn’t tolerate from anyone else, Francesca—but there really are limits.’

‘What, so you think you can stand there and insult my fiancé and I’m just expected to take it?’

His eyes lanced her a piercing question. ‘You aren’t even interested why I’ve brought the subject up?’

Something in the way he asked it unsettled her enough to hide behind defiance. ‘To cause trouble?’

‘Funnily enough, my schedule is usually too tight to indulge myself with random acts of interference—especially towards people I care about. I want you to tell me what happened next—after Simon came to see you that first time.’

Frankie was tempted not to reply—or to change the subject completely. But if she had nothing to hide, then why should she shy away from his questioning, no matter how intrusive it seemed? ‘I told him that I didn’t really want to sell the house unless it was absolutely necessary, and that I needed a job.’