Heidi Rice - Carrying The Sheikh's Baby

Why on earth would he have come all this way, to see her, over something that could be sorted out by one of his minions in the Narabian embassy in London?

‘No, Dr Smith,’ he said. ‘I’m here to offer you a job.’

Zane had to resist the unprecedented urge to laugh when Catherine Smith’s hazel eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

She hadn’t expected that. Then again, he hadn’t expected her. The only reason he’d come in person was because he already had a business meeting in Cambridge today with a tech firm who would be helping to bring superfast internet access to Narabia. And because he’d been furious once he’d received the reports from his tech people that someone at Devereaux College had been doing research on Narabia without his express permission.

He hadn’t bothered to read the file they’d emailed to him about the female academic who had asked for accreditation. He’d simply assumed she would be frumpy and middle-aged.

The very last thing he’d expected was to be introduced to someone who couldn’t be much older than a high-school student, with eyes the colour of caramel candy. She looked like a tomboy, dressed in slim-fit jeans, a pair of biker boots and a shapeless sweater that nearly reached her knees. Her wild chestnut hair—barely contained by an elastic band—added to the impression of young, unconventional beauty. But it was her candy-coloured eyes that had really snagged his attention. Wide and slightly slanted, giving them a sleepy, just-out-of-bed quality, her eyes were striking, not least because they were so expressive, every one of her emotions clearly visible.

‘A job doing what?’ she said, her directness surprising him as she eased further back against her boss’s desk.

Looking past her, he directed his gaze at Walmsley. ‘Leave us,’ he said.

The middle-aged academic nodded and shuffled out of the room, well aware his department’s funding was at stake because of this woman’s research.

The woman’s eyes widened even more, and he could see the jump in her pulse rate above the neckline of her bulky sweater.

‘I require someone to write a detailed account of my country’s people, the history of its culture and customs to complete the process of introducing Narabia on the world stage. I understand you have considerable knowledge of the region?’

His PR people had suggested the hagiography. It was all part of the process of finally bringing Narabia out of the shadows and into the light. A process he’d embarked upon five years ago when his father had let go of his iron grip on the throne. It had taken Tariq Khan five years to die from the stroke that had left him a shadow of his former self, during which time Zane had managed to drag the country’s oil industry out of the dark ages, begin a series of infrastructure projects that would eventually bring electricity, water mains and even internet access to the country’s remote landscape. But there was still a very long way to go. And the last thing he needed was for any gossip to get out about his parents’ relationship and the difficult nature of his relationship with the man who had sired him. Because that would become the whole story.

He shrugged, the phantom pain searing his shoulder blades.

This woman’s work threatened to throw the book he had planned to commission—stressing the country’s adaptability and new modern outlook—into stark relief if she found out the sordid truth about how he had come to live in Narabia. But shutting her down wasn’t the right response. He had always been a firm believer in challenging problems head-on. ‘Never trust anyone’ had been one of his father’s favourite maxims—and one of the many harsh lessons Zane had learned to embrace wholeheartedly.

‘You want me to write a book on the kingdom?’ She seemed astonished. He wondered why.

‘Yes, it would mean accompanying me to Narabia. You would have three months to complete the project but I understand you’ve already spent over a year doing research on the kingdom?’ Research he needed to ensure hadn’t already uncovered information he wished to conceal.

She moistened her lips, and his gaze was drawn to her mouth. Even though she appeared to wear no lipstick, he became momentarily fixated by the plump bow at the top, glistening in the half-light. The surge of lust was surprising. The women he slept with were usually a great deal more sophisticated than this woman.

‘I’m sorry. I... I can’t accept.’

He dragged his gaze away from her month, annoyed he’d become fixated on it. And annoyed more by her response to his proposal. ‘I assure you the fee is a lucrative one,’ he said.

‘I don’t doubt that,’ she said, although he suspected she had no idea how lucrative the fee he would propose actually was, certainly more than an academic could make in a decade, let alone three months. ‘But I couldn’t possibly write a comprehensive account in that time. I’ve only done preliminary research so far. And I’ve never written something of that magnitude. Are you sure you don’t want a journalist instead?’

No way was he inviting a journalist to pry into his past. That sort of uncontrolled intrusion into his affairs was precisely what this carefully vetted account was supposed to avoid.

Heat pulsed in his groin at her surprising show of defiance. He ruthlessly ignored it. However much he might want to devour that cupid’s bow mouth, he was not in the habit of seducing subordinates—especially not ones who looked about eighteen years old.

‘How old are you, Dr Smith?’ he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

She stiffened and he suspected he’d insulted her with the question. She must be used to people questioning her credentials, which was hardly surprising—she didn’t look old enough to be in college, let alone to hold two PhDs.

‘I’m twenty-four.’

He nodded, relieved. She was young and probably sheltered if she’d managed to gain that much education so quickly, but not that young.

‘Then you are still at the start of your career. This is an opportunity for you to make a name for yourself outside the—’ his gaze drifted over the worn leather textbooks, the musty academic tomes, all dead history to his way of thinking ‘—world of academia. You wanted official accreditation for your research into Narabia...’ Accreditation he would give her once he had final say on the content of her work. ‘This is the only way you will get it.’

He waited for her to absorb the offer, and the threat—that if she didn’t agree to his proposition, any chance of getting official accreditation would be lost.

It didn’t take long for the full import of his position to sink in—her expressive face flushing with something akin to alarm.

‘I could continue my work without the accreditation,’ she said, but her teeth pulled at her bottom lip. The nervous tug sent another annoying jolt to his crotch, but also revealed her statement for what it was—a heroic bluff.

‘You could. But your tenure here would be withdrawn,’ he said, his patience at an end. No matter how attractive or heroic she was, he did not have time to play with her any longer. ‘And I would personally ensure you were not allowed access to any of the materials you need to continue researching my country.’

Her eyebrows shot up her forehead. The flush on her cheeks highlighted the sprinkle of freckles across her nose. ‘Are you... Are you threatening me, Mr Khan?’

Placing his hands into the pockets of his suit trousers, he stepped closer. ‘On the contrary, I’m offering you a chance to validate your work. Narabia is a fascinating and beautiful place—which is about to come out of its chrysalis. And finally fulfil its potential.’

That was the end game here: to turn the country into somewhere that could embrace its cultural heritage without being held back by it.