man sitting there with firelight illuminating his hawklike face and in that moment she actually hated him. How dare he bring up something so painful just so he could get what he wanted? Didn’t he care about hurting people’s feelings and trampling all over them—or was he simply a master of manipulation? Didn’t he realise that such a public humiliation had dealt her self-confidence a blow from which it had taken a long time to recover? And maybe it had never completely recovered. It had still been powerful enough to make her want to leave her old life behind and start a new one. To leave the horses she’d once adored and to view all subsequent advances from men with suspicion.
She would like to take a run at him and shake him. To batter her fists against that hard, broad chest and tell him that he was an uncaring beast. But she suspected her rage would be wasted on such a powerful man, and mightn’t he regard such a strong response as some petty kind of victory?
‘My abandoned marriage has nothing to do with my reasons for not wanting to work for you,’ she said, with a coolness she’d cultivated to cope with all the questions she’d had to deal with afterwards. And she’d needed it. She remembered the badly disguised glee in the voices of the women—those wafer-thin blondes who couldn’t understand why Rupert de Vries had proposed to someone as unremarkable as her in the first place. He didn’t say why? You mean you honestly had no idea? No. She’d honestly had no idea. What woman would ever subject herself to that kind of public ridicule if she’d had any inkling the groom was going to do a runner?
She glared into Saladin’s glittering dark eyes. ‘Though the fact that you even asked the question is another mark against you.’
His dark brows knitted together. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about the fact that you’ve obviously been delving into my private life, which isn’t making me feel very favourable towards you. No person likes to feel they’re being spied on, and you’re not doing a very good job of selling yourself as a prospective employer.’
‘I don’t usually have to sell myself,’ he replied, with a coolness that matched hers. ‘And surely you can understand why I always investigate people I’m planning to employ.’
‘When are you going to accept that you won’t be employing me?’
He opened his mouth and then shut it, turning to look around the room, his gaze coming to rest on the faded velvet curtains, as if he’d only just noticed that the sun had bleached them and that moths had been attacking some of the lining.
Had he noticed?
‘So is your bed and breakfast business thriving?’ he questioned casually.
It was quite clear what he was getting at and suddenly Livvy wanted to prove him wrong. So just show him, she thought—though it didn’t occur to her until afterwards that she wasn’t obliged to show him anything. She wondered if it was pride that made her want to elevate her image from jilted bride to that of budding entrepreneur, even though it wasn’t exactly true.
‘Indeed it is. It’s been a very popular destination,’ she said. ‘Historic houses like this have a wide appeal to the general public and people can’t get enough of them. Speaking of which...’ Pointedly, she looked at her watch. ‘Your half hour is almost up.’
‘But it must be hard work?’ he persisted.
She met the mocking question in his black eyes. ‘Of course it is. Cooking up to eight different breakfasts to order and making up beds with clean linen most days is not for the faint-hearted. But I’ve never been afraid of hard work. You don’t get anything for nothing in this life.’ She paused, her smile growing tight. ‘Although I suppose someone like you might be the exception to the rule.’
Not showing any sign of moving, he surveyed her steadily. ‘And why might that be?’
‘Well, you’re a sheikh, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘You’re one of the richest men in the world. You own a string of prizewinning racehorses and a palace—for all I know, you might own hundreds of palaces. You have your own plane, I imagine.’
‘And?’
‘And you’ve probably never had to lift a finger to acquire the kind of wealth you take for granted. You’ve probably had everything handed to you on a plate.’
There was silence as Saladin felt a flicker of exasperation. It was an accusation levelled at most people born to royal status, but never usually voiced in his presence because usually people didn’t dare. Yes, he was unimaginably rich—but did she think that he had grown up in a bubble? That he’d never had to fight for his country and his people? That he’d never known heartbreak, or stared into the dark abyss of real loss? Once again, Alya’s beautiful and perfect face swam into his memory, but he pushed it aside as he met the Englishwoman’s quizzical gaze.
‘Materially I do not deny that I have plenty,’ he said. ‘But what about you? You’re not exactly on the breadline, are you, Livvy? This place is hardly your average house. You, too, have known privilege.’
Livvy wished he would move away from her, because his presence was making her feel distinctly uncomfortable. As if her plaid shirt had suddenly become too small and her breasts were straining against the tightening buttons. As if those watchful eyes could somehow see through her clothes to the plain and functional underwear that lay beneath.
‘It’s a rare Georgian house,’ she agreed, her fingers playing with the top button of her shirt. ‘And I’m lucky to live here. It’s been in my family for many years.’
‘But the maintenance costs must be high,’ he mused.
‘Astronomical,’ she agreed. ‘Which is why I open the house to paying guests.’
He was glancing up at the ceiling now. Had he noticed the ugly damp stain then, or did the firelight successfully hide it? His gaze was lowered and redirected to her face, where once again it seemed to burn its way over her skin.
‘So how’s business, Livvy—generally?’
Her smile was bland. ‘Business is good.’
‘Your guests don’t mind the fact that the paint is peeling, or that the plaster is crumbling on that far wall?’
‘I doubt it. People come looking for history, not pristine paintwork—you can find that almost anywhere in some of the cheaper hotel chains.’
‘You know, I could offer you a lot of money,’ he observed, after a moment or two. ‘Enough to pay for the kind of work this place is crying out for. I could throw in a little extra if you like—so that you could afford the holiday you look as if you need.’
Livvy stiffened. Was he implying that she looked washed out? Almost without her thinking, her fingers crept up to her hairline to brush away a stray strand that must have escaped from her ponytail. It was true she hadn’t had a holiday in ages. And it was also true that her debts continued to grow, no matter how many new bookings she took. Sometimes she felt like Canute trying to turn back the tide, and now she couldn’t remember how Canute had actually coped. Had he just admitted defeat and given up?
She wished Saladin would stop looking at her like that—his black eyes capturing her in their dark and hypnotic spotlight. She wasn’t a vain woman by any definition of the word, but she would have taken a bit more trouble with her appearance if she’d known that a desert sheikh was going to come calling. Suddenly her scalp felt itchy and her face hot, and her shirt still felt as if it had shrunk in the wash.
‘Is that your answer to everything?’ she questioned. ‘To write a cheque and to hell with anything else?’
He shrugged. ‘Why wouldn’t it be—when I have the capability to do exactly that, and money talks louder than anything else?’
‘You cynic,’ she breathed.
‘I’m not denying that.’ He gave a soft laugh. ‘Or maybe you’re just naive. Money talks, Livvy—it talks louder than anything