The Sheikh's Innocent Bride. Lynne Graham

amusement. ‘I’m as healthy as a carthorse—but I suppose I shouldn’t tell you that because it’s not very feminine to say so!’

      Shahir studied her exquisite face for several taut moments before veiling his gaze. He removed a business card from his jacket and crossed the room to extend it to her. ‘If you should ever be in a situation where you need help of any kind, I can be reached at this number.’

      Mastering her surprise, she accepted the gilded card from his lean brown fingers. He wasn’t flirting with her. His tone and expression were serious and above reproach. The sudden awareness that she was longing for him to flirt with her, touch her and kiss her, shook her rigid. Ashamed of a craving that now felt more wrong than ever after what he had just said, she crammed the card into the pocket of her overall. Hot tears were prickling at the back of her eyes because she suddenly felt unbearably sad.

      ‘Thanks…’ she managed tightly, and went back to cleaning windows without another word or look.

      Early the following week she was cycling home when the rear tyre of her bike went flat. She had no pump with her, and groaned out loud when it started to rain heavily. Even though she wheeled the bike at as fast a pace as she could contrive she was still soaked through to the skin within minutes.

      When a big car drew up beside her and the window went down, she peered at it in bewilderment.

      ‘I’ll give you a lift.’ It was Shahir, his lean strong face firm with determination.

      It bothered her that she could not think of him as Prince Shahir, and discomfiture made her reluctant to get into his limousine. His chauffeur, however, had already received his instructions from his employer, and the bike was removed from her hold and wedged without further ado into the vehicle’s large boot.

      ‘Honestly—you shouldn’t have stopped. I could’ve walked home fine… I’m so wet I’ll make a mess of your car…’ Kirsten was gabbling nervously as she climbed into the rear of the sumptuous car. But she fell suddenly silent and flushed to the roots of her dripping hair when she realised that Shahir was not travelling alone.

      ‘Pamela Anstruther,’ the dainty brunette seated beside him said chattily. ‘And you’re…?’

      ‘Kirsten Ross, ‘ Kirsten filled in shyly, well aware of who the other woman was.

      After all, Pamela’s ancestors, the Drummonds, had built Strathcraig and lived there for a couple of hundred years. Unfortunately for Pamela, however, her father’s debts had forced the sale of the estate while she was still a child, and the family had moved down to London.

      ‘You’re very wet. Take this…’ Shahir passed Kirsten a pristine white handkerchief in a graceful gesture. Wet, her hair was the colour of gunmetal, and accentuated the dramatic symmetry of her oval face.

      Kirsten pushed a sodden strand of hair off her cool brow and dabbed awkwardly at her rain-washed face. Only then did she dare to steal a glance at him, doing so with as much guilt as though it was a forbidden act.