late now, she thought, and didn’t have a clue as to what she would do if he said no.
“You would have to work under the jurisdiction of my office,” he said, not looking at her. He seemed to be studying a portrait of an old man on the far wall.
Her heart began to thunder in her chest. Was he really saying yes? “That isn’t a problem.”
“You would not be allowed to meet alone with any man, and you must dress conservatively. Otherwise my reputation will be called into question.”
“I understand. I have no desire to meet alone with any man, and conservative dress is fine with me.”
He looked at her. She tried to read his expression, but couldn’t. What was he thinking? Why had he agreed?
“For the sake of appearances, we will need to be the happy couple,” he told her. “You will take lunch with me each day.”
Her tension eased, and a spark of hope burst to life. She remembered their working lunches in New York. Some of the time had been spent dealing with business, but much of their conversation had been more personal. They’d argued politics, discussed books and music. She remembered the heated debates, the laughter, the teasing. She’d missed those times so much—had Khalil missed them as well?
“I would like that very much,” she said.
“Good. Then we are agreed.”
He smiled at her, a slow satisfied smile of a male who had gotten his way. Some of Dora’s happiness faded. Please, God, don’t let him spoil the moment by trying to make it more. But God was busy, or Khalil had a mind of his own, for her husband cupped her face in his hands and stared down at her.
“I want you,” he told her.
His words were like a slap. She was a fool to think that anything had changed between them. She stiffened and willed herself to move away, but it was already too late. Just the feel of hands against her jaw and cheeks was enough to melt both her bones and her resolve. She was trapped in a web of her own making—desiring a man she both wanted and hated.
“Don’t,” she said, at last jerking free of his gentle touch. “I don’t feel well.”
Khalil grabbed her by her upper arms and hauled her against him. When she was pressed flush against him, he rotated his hips, grinding his erection into her belly.
“Call me names,” he growled. “Fight me, hit me, hate me, refuse me, but do not lie to me.”
She felt her eyes burning with tears and loathed herself for the weakness. “Of course. Lying is your job.”
Instead of getting angry, he smiled. “I thought I was marrying someone sensible, but a bit boring. Instead I find myself with a feisty, sexual wildcat. Do you bite, little kitten of mine? I know you try to scratch, although your claws aren’t sharp enough.”
“I hate you,” she shouted, struggling to get free. “You are nothing but a manhandling piece of pond scum, and I never want to see you again.” His fingers held on tight and he didn’t let her go. Finally she stopped the fruitless attempt to break free and glared at him. “I will never surrender willingly.”
“So many absolutes,” he murmured, lowering his head and brushing her lips with his. “So many promises. How much energy you waste. And here I was hoping you’d be more aggressive in bed.”
She tried to raise her hand to slap him, but he held her arms firmly at her side and laughed. “I assume your temper means that you feel fine?” he asked.
“I’m not sick, I just don’t want to have sex with you.”
He released one arm and slowly pulled up her dress. She knew what he was going to do and told herself to run, for pride’s sake, if nothing else. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t turn away. She could only stare into his eyes as he slipped his hand into her panties, then moved lower until he touched her waiting dampness. She shuddered as he rubbed against her swollen core.
“Who’s the liar now?” he asked, then kissed her.
Dora didn’t answer. Not because she was too busy kissing him back, but because she didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t deny her body’s obvious reaction to his nearness. And later, when they were both naked and his tongue caressed every part of her, she couldn’t quiet her moans of pleasure.
Once again, her husband had been victorious.
Chapter Twelve
Dora paused outside the entrance to the office wing of the palace and smoothed her sweaty hands on her skirt. She’d thrown down the gauntlet, and Khalil had responded. She now had an office of her own, a title and even an assistant. The question was—did she know how to do the job?
She resisted the urge to run back to her lonely quarters and send Khalil a message telling him she’d just been kidding. Because it was a joke. Did she really think she had the training and experience required to act as liaison between the El Baharian government and Fortune 500 companies wanting to set up offices or manufacturing facilities? El Bahar was a peaceful country with a reputation of being the Switzerland of the Middle East so corporations interested in expansion in this part of the world frequently began in El Bahar. She was meddling in a multibillion-dollar arena, and she had absolutely no idea what she’d been thinking.
Except that she’d spent most of her time alone reading business magazines and books, and the common theme she’d come across was the difficulty companies had when expanding internationally. She’d had some experience with that while working for Gerald. He’d been a jerk and more than willing to let her shoulder his responsibilities whenever possible. Was that enough training? She drew in a deep breath and opened the door leading to the suites of offices. She supposed she was about to find out.
The frosted-glass double doors led into a large, plush waiting area decorated with leather sofas and fabulous Impressionist paintings. It took her a second to realize that they were all originals. She found herself wanting to pause in front of the huge canvases, then remembered she was here to work, not admire, and approached the trim middle-aged man sitting behind an oversize desk. He looked up and smiled.
“Good morning, Your Highness. I’m Martin Wingbird. Prince Khalil told me you would be arriving this morning. May I have the honor of showing you to your office?”
The man was perfectly dressed in a tailored suit, and his accent was British. From what Dora had been able to figure out, much of the staff was international. While she was still living in the harem, Fatima had entertained her with stories about wild arguments between the two head chefs, one of whom was French, the other American and a woman. Apparently while they avoided blows, they weren’t above throwing the crockery at each other.
“Thank you, Mr. Wingbird.”
Behind the main reception desk, two corridors jutted out, one going left, the other right. Martin took the left corridor, walking briskly down a long, carpeted hallway. Dora hurried after him as best she could. She’d dressed in a long, straight skirt that came nearly to her ankles. While it was conservative enough to meet any exacting standards, it also prevented her from taking long strides.
They passed several large offices, complete with computers, faxes and copy machines. The desert might be only a half dozen or so miles away, but here in the palace, the staff had long moved into the modern age.
As they approached the end of the corridor, Dora saw two massive doors standing open. Three assistants, two men and a woman, worked in front of two more doors.
“Prince Khalil’s staff is here,” Martin Wingbird said. “And that door on the left leads to your office.”
He introduced the assistants, and she found that the lone female, a beautiful Asian woman named Eva, worked for her.
Dora had to smile. “I’m curious about the staffing arrangements,” she told Martin. “Do I have a woman working for me because no man would dare