Susan Stephens - In The Sheikh's Service

DEDICATION Thanks to the late Penny Jordan, and to Lucy Mukerjee, my first editor at Mills & Boon, for believing in me.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

EXTRACT Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.

COPYRIGHT Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.

CHAPTER ONE

A POLE-DANCING CLUB across from the Michelin-starred restaurant where he was dining with his ambassador was an unhappy coincidence. He should have known what to expect when his people booked the ambassador’s favourite table for dinner. This was Soho, London, England, where strip clubs coexisted happily with top-end eateries, but the ambassador was an old friend, and Shazim had fallen in with the old man’s wish to try something new. The downside was that the ambassador’s son had come along too.

Sitting still seemed beyond the edgy thirty-something. Girls dancing in the club across the road had grabbed his attention. It wasn’t just the guy’s blatant lack of good manners Shazim found appalling, but something more nagging at his senses. Whatever happened, he would not allow the ambassador’s son to harass the girls.

‘Have you finished eating?’ The ambassador’s son stared imploringly at him. ‘Can we look in across the road?’

He was like a puppy on a leash. Shazim had to grab a glass to steady it as he lurched away from the table in his hurry to leave the restaurant.

Shazim caught up with him at the door. His security guys hovered. With a look, he ordered his men to stand down.

‘Aren’t you a bit old for this?’ He angled his chin towards the rose-tinted windows of the club, where shadowy forms were undulating back and forth.

By this time the ambassador had joined them, and there was real danger of a scene. ‘Go with him, Shazim,’ the ambassador begged. ‘See that he doesn’t get into trouble, will you? Please? For me?’

Tasking one of his team to escort the elder statesman home, he thrust a bundle of notes into the maître d’s hand and followed the ambassador’s son out of the restaurant.

* * *

Oh, for goodness’ sake! This was ridiculous. Her friend Chrissie wasn’t exactly lacking in the bosom department, but Chrissie wasn’t exactly overabundant, either, Isla fretted as she attempted to squeeze her ample frontage into the microscopic bikini top.

If someone had asked Isla to name the very last thing on earth she liked to do, it would be to make herself look provocative in front of a room full of men—and there was every reason for that, but Chrissie was a good friend and Chrissie had a family emergency tonight.

The past couldn’t reach out and hurt her, Isla told herself firmly, not unless she allowed it to, and tonight it wouldn’t.

Her mother’s death eighteen months ago had left her shaken to the core, and what had happened directly after the funeral could still send her reeling, but tonight was Chrissie’s night, so she would get on with the job—if she could force her breasts into submission. Turning this way and that, she measured the risk factor of her breasts going one way while she went the other. Here was living proof that no one could squeeze a quart into a pint pot. Nor could they make a plain, stocky woman into a sugarplum fairy overnight. She was a down-to-earth mature student in the veterinary sciences department. Far from being the glamorous type, she usually had grime of unspeakable origins beneath her fingernails. On the plus side, the costume was gorgeous. She loved a bit of twinkle, and the bikini was a deep, rich pink, exquisitely decorated with glittering crystal beads and sequins. It would look fantastic on Chrissie, as it would on any woman with a normal figure, but on Isla’s super-sized, top-heavy figure?

It looked like a sparkling bandage wrapped around a bun.

One of the many jobs Isla had taken in order to pay her fees at the university was to lead a class of enthusiastic children in gymnastics at the university gym, but she wore a sports bra for that, not an unfit-for-purpose sequinned bikini. This was the first time she could remember having a flexible body and the ability to use it being both an advantage and a disadvantage. She would never have agreed to do this if Chrissie’s need hadn’t been greater than Isla’s fear of ever making it seem that she was trying to lead a man on. Once upon an ugly time, that accusation had been cruelly levelled at her, and it had left a lingering doubt.

She had to hope the apprehension she was feeling went away once she lost herself in practising her moves for the Christmas concert at the gym.

Get over yourself and get out there—

She swung around at a knock on the door.

‘Five minutes, please,’ a disembodied male voice informed her.

Five minutes? She’d need five hours to make this disaster fly! She took a last look in the mirror and wished her breasts would shrink.

‘I’ll be there,’ she called out, slipping on her high-heeled shoes with agitated fingers. She’d kick the heels off once she got started, but Chrissie had said first impressions were all-important to the audience, and she had no intention of letting Chrissie down.

* * *

There were certain things that came with ruling a country Shazim could do without. Tolerating the offspring of loyal subjects was one of them. Entering a pole-dancing club in order to prevent the ambassador’s son hitting on one of the girls was another. Most clubs ran a strict ‘no-touch’ policy, but the ambassador’s spawn was the type to do as he pleased and then hide behind diplomatic immunity.

As he negotiated the mass of men in the overheated club, he thought about his elder brother, and the strength it had taken him to wear the yoke of duty. There were a lot of things about being a king that held no appeal.

Shazim had not been trained to be a king, but the tragedy in the desert, for which he held himself responsible, had thrust him into the role, opening his eyes to a burden his brother had carried so lightly. Following his brother’s death, Shazim, the reckless brother, had become poacher turned gamekeeper, and there was no way he would allow shame to fall on his people’s heads because of the ambassador’s son.