Maisey Yates - His Christmas Conquest - The Sheikh's Christmas Conquest / A Christmas Vow of Seduction / Claiming His Christmas Consequence

‘Yes, you do, Livvy,’ he said forcefully. ‘You know you do.’

His fervent words challenged her nearly as much as his sudden use of his name.

‘No. I don’t.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t have anything to do with horses anymore. I haven’t done for years. That part of my life is over, and if anyone has told you anything different, then they’re wrong. I’m sorry.’

There was a pause. ‘May I sit down?’

His words startled her as he indicated one of the faded brocade chairs that sat beside the blazing fire—and his sudden change of tactic took her by surprise. And not just surprise. Because if she was being honest, wasn’t there something awfully flattering about a sheikh asking if he could prolong his stay and sit down? Briefly, she wondered if he would let her use his endorsement on her website. ‘The Sheikh of Jazratan loves to relax in front of the old-fashioned fire.’ She met the cold glitter of his eyes. Probably not.

‘If you want,’ she said as she turned on one of the lamps so that the fading afternoon was lit with something other than firelight.

But her heart began to race as he sat down—because it seemed disturbingly intimate to see his muscular body unfold into a chair that suddenly looked insubstantial, and for those endlessly long legs to stretch out in front of him. He looked like a panther who had taken an uncharacteristic moment of relaxation, who had wandered in from the wild into a domestic domain, but all the time you were aware that beneath the sheathed paws lay deadly claws. Was that why her cat suddenly opened its eyes and hissed at him, before jumping up and stalking from the room with her tail held high? Too late she realised she should have said no. She should have made him realise she meant what she said before ejecting him into the snowy afternoon before the light faded.

‘So,’ she said, with a quick glance at her watch. ‘Like I said, I have things I need to do, so maybe you could just cut to the chase?’

‘An ironic choice of words in the circumstances,’ he commented drily. ‘Or perhaps deliberate? Either way, it is unlikely that my stallion will race again, even though he has won nearly every major prize in the racing calendar. In fact, he is in so much pain that the vets have told me that it is cruel to let him continue like this and...’ His voice tailed off.

‘And?’

He leaned his head back against the chair and his eyes narrowed—dark shards that glinted in the firelight. ‘And you have a gift with horses, Livvy,’ he said softly. ‘A rare gift. You can heal them.’

‘Who told you that?

‘My trainer. He described to me a woman who was the best horsewoman he’d ever seen. He said that she was as light as a feather but strong as an ox—but that her real skill lay in her interaction with the animal. He said that the angriest horse in the stables would grow calm whenever she grew close. He said he’d seen her do stuff with horses that defied logic, and astounded all the horse vets.’ His voice deepened as his dark eyes grew watchful. ‘And that they used to call you the horse whisperer.’

It was a long time since Livvy had heard the phrase that had once followed her around like mud on a rainy day at the stables. A phrase that carried its own kind of mystique and made people believe she was some kind of witch. And she wasn’t. She was just an ordinary person who wanted to be left to get on with her life.

She bent to pick up a log so that her face was hidden, and by the time she straightened up she had composed herself enough to face his inquisitive stare and to answer him in a steady voice.

‘That’s all hocus-pocus,’ she said. ‘Nothing but an old wives’ tale and people believing what they want to believe. I just got lucky, that’s all. The law of probability says that the horses I helped “heal” would have got better on their own anyway.’

‘But I know that sometimes nature can contradict the laws of probability,’ he contradicted softly. ‘Didn’t one of your most famous poets say something on those lines?’

‘I don’t read poetry,’ she said flatly.

‘Maybe you should.’

Her smile was tight. ‘Just like I don’t take advice from strangers.’

His eyes glittered. ‘Then, come and work for me and we’ll be strangers no longer.’

With a jerky movement she threw another log onto the grate and it sparked into life with a whoosh of flames. Had he deliberately decided to use charm—knowing how effective it could be on someone who was awkward around men? She knew about his reputation but, even if she hadn’t, you needed only to look at him to realise that he could have a woman eating out of his hand as easily as you could get a stroppy horse to munch on a sugar cube.

‘Look,’ she said, trying to sound less abrasive, because he was probably one of those men who responded best to a woman when she was cooing at him. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you, but I haven’t got a magic wand I can wave to make your horse better. And although I’m obviously flattered that you should have thought of me, I’m just not interested in your offer.’

Saladin felt a flicker of frustration. She didn’t sound flattered at all. What was the matter with her? Didn’t she realise that accepting this job would carry a huge financial reward—not to mention the kudos of being employed by the royal house of Al Mektala?

He had done his research. He knew that this ancient house she’d inherited was written up in all the guidebooks as somewhere worth visiting and that she ran it as some kind of bed and breakfast business. But the place was going to rack and ruin—anyone could see that. Old houses like this drank money as greedily as the desert sands soaked up water, and it was clear to him that she didn’t have a lot of cash to splash about. The brocade chair on which he sat had a spring that was sticking into his buttocks, and the walls beside the fireplace could have done with a coat of paint. His eyes narrowed. Couldn’t she see he was offering her the opportunity to earn the kind of sum that would enable her to give the place a complete facelift?

And what about her, with her tomboy clothes and freckled face? She had turned her back on the riding world that had once been her life. She had hidden herself away in the middle of nowhere, serving up cooked breakfasts to the random punters who came to stay. What kind of a life was that for a woman who was nearly thirty? In his own country, a woman was married with at least two children by the age of twenty-five, because it was the custom to marry young. He thought of Alya and a spear of pain lanced through his heart. He remembered dreams crushed and the heavy sense of blame, and he cursed the nature of his thoughts and pushed them away as he looked into Olivia Miller’s stubborn face.

‘You might not have a magic wand, but I would like you to try. What is it that you say? Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And I think you will discover that the financial rewards I’m offering will be beyond your wildest dreams.’ He tilted the corners of his mouth in a brief smile. ‘And surely you don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth?’

She didn’t respond to his attempt at humour, she just continued to stare at him, only now there was a distinct flicker of annoyance in her amber eyes. Saladin felt another rush of sexual attraction, because women didn’t often glare at him like that and he was finding her truculence a surprising turn-on. Because no woman had ever refused him anything.

‘How many ways do I have to say no before you’ll believe I mean it?’ she said.

‘And how long will it take you to realise that I am a very persistent man who is used to getting what I want?’

‘Persist away—you won’t change my mind.’

And suddenly Saladin did what he’d told himself he was only going to do as a last resort, which he seemed now to have reached. He leaned back, his eyes not leaving her face. ‘So is this how you are intending to spend the rest of your life, Livvy?’ he questioned softly. ‘Hiding yourself away in the middle of nowhere and neglecting a talent that few possess—and all because some man once left you standing at the altar?’