dead,’ she said. ‘I was sending photo messages to a school friend when the snow started and then they delivered the Christmas tree...’ Her words tailed off. ‘You’ll have to go out to the car and get yours.’
‘I will decide if and when I’m going out to the car,’ he snapped. ‘You do not issue instructions to a sheikh.’
‘I didn’t invite you here,’ she said, her voice low. ‘We’re here together under duress and in extremely bizarre circumstances—and I think it’s going to make an unbearable situation even worse if you then start pulling rank on me.’
He looked as if he was about to come back at her with a sharp response, but seemed to think better of it—because he nodded. ‘Very well. I will go to the car and get my phone.’
He left the room abruptly, and as she heard him going downstairs she felt slightly spooked—a feeling that was only increased when the front door slammed. Everything seemed unnaturally quiet without him—all she could hear was the loud tick of the grandfather clock as it echoed through the house. She stared out of the window to see the sheikh’s shadowy figure making its way towards a car that was now completely covered in white. The snow was still falling, and she found herself thinking that at least he’d had the sense to retrieve his cashmere coat and put it on before going outside.
She could see him brushing a thick layer of snow away from the door, which he was obviously having difficulty opening. She wondered what would happen next. Would crack teams of Jazratan guards descend in a helicopter from the snowy sky, the way they did in films? Doubtfully, she looked up at the fat flakes that were swirling down as thickly as ever. She didn’t know much about planes, but she doubted it would be safe to fly in conditions like this.
Grabbing a sweater from the wardrobe and pulling it on, she went back downstairs to the kitchen and had just put a kettle on the hob when she heard the front door slam, followed by the sound of echoing footsteps. She looked up to see Saladin standing framed in the kitchen doorway and hated the instant rush of relief—and something else—that flooded through her. What was the something else? she wondered. The reassurance of having someone so unashamedly alpha strutting around the place, despite all her protestations that she was fine on her own? Or was the root cause more fundamental—a case of her body responding to him in away she wasn’t used to? A way that scared her.
Despite the warm sweater she’d pulled on, she could feel the puckering of her breasts as she looked at him.
‘Any luck?’ she said.
‘Some. I’ve spoken with my people—and the roads are impassable. We won’t get any help sent out to us tonight.’
Livvy’s hand trembled as she tipped boiling water into the teapot. They were stuck here for the night—just the two of them. So why wasn’t she paralysed with a feeling of dread and fear? Why had her heart started pounding with excitement? She swallowed.
‘Would you like some tea?’
‘Please.’ His voice grew curious. ‘How have you managed to boil water?’
‘Gas hob,’ she said, thinking how domesticated this all sounded. And how the words people spoke rarely reflected what was going on inside their heads. She looked into the gleam of his eyes. ‘Are you hungry? I’ll put some mince pies on a plate,’ she said, in the kind of babbling voice people used when they were trying to fill an awkward silence. ‘And we can go in and sit by the fire.’
‘Here. Let me.’ He took the tray from her, aware that this was something he rarely did. People always carried things for him. They ran his bath for him and laid out his cool silk robes every morning. For diplomatic meetings, all his paperwork was stacked in symmetrical piles awaiting his attention, even down to the gold pen that was always positioned neatly to the left. He didn’t have to deal with the everyday mechanics of normal life, because his life was not normal. Never had been, nor ever could be. Even his response to tragedy could never be like other men’s—for he’d been taught that the sheikh must never show emotion, no matter what he was feeling inside. So that when he had wanted to weep bitter tears over Alya’s coffin, he had known that the face he’d needed to show to his people must be an implacable face.
His mouth hardened as he carried the tea tray to the room where the bare Christmas tree stood silhouetted against the window and watched as she sank down onto the silky rug. And suddenly the sweet wholesomeness of her made all his dark thoughts melt away.
The bulky sweater she was wearing emphasised her tiny frame and the slender legs that were tucked up neatly beneath her. The firelight had turned her titian ponytail into a stream of flaming red, and all he could think about was how much he wanted to see her naked...
So make it happen, he thought—as the pulse at his groin began to throb with anticipation. Just make it happen.
‘WE HAVE A long evening ahead of us, Livvy. Any idea of how you’d like to fill it?’
Livvy eyed Saladin warily as he drawled out his question, thinking that he was suddenly being almost too well behaved, and wondering why. She almost preferred him when he was being bossy and demanding, because that had infuriated her enough to create a natural barrier between them. A barrier behind which she felt safe.
But now?
Now he was being suspiciously compliant. He had drunk the tea she’d given him and eaten an accompanying mince pie—declaring it to be delicious and telling her he intended to take the recipe back for the palace chefs, so that his courtiers and guests could enjoy the English delicacy. He had even dragged a whole pile of logs back from the woodshed and heaped them into the big basket beside the fire.
Despite the thickness of her sweater, a shiver ran down her spine as she watched him. His body was hard and muscular and he moved with the grace of a natural athlete. He handled the logs as if they were no heavier than twigs and somehow made the task look effortless. Livvy was proud of her independence and her insistence on doing the kind of jobs that some of her married school friends turned up their noses at. She never baulked at taking out the rubbish or sweeping the gravel drive. She happily carried logs and weeded the garden whenever she had time, but she couldn’t deny that it felt like an unexpected luxury to be waited on like this. To lean back against the cushioned footstool sipping her tea, watching Saladin Al Mektala sort out the fire for her. He made her feel...pampered, and he made her feel feminine.
She considered his question.
‘We could always play a game,’ she suggested.
‘Good idea.’ His dark eyes assumed the natural glint of the predator. ‘I love playing games.’
Nobody had ever accused Livvy of sophistication, but neither was she stupid. She’d worked for a long time in the testosterone-filled industry of horse racing and had been engaged to a very tricky man. She’d learned the hard way how womanising men flirted and used innuendo. And the only way to keep it in check was to ignore it. So she ignored the flare of light that had made the sheikh’s eyes gleam like glowing coal and subjected him to a look of cool question. ‘Scrabble?’ she asked. ‘Or cards?’
‘Whichever you choose,’ he said. ‘Although I must warn you now that I shall beat you.’
‘Is that supposed to be a challenge I can’t resist?’
‘Let’s see, shall we?’
To Livvy’s fury, his arrogant prediction proved correct. He won every game they played and even beat her at Scrabble—something at which she normally excelled.
Trying not to be a bad sport, she dropped the pen onto the score sheet. ‘So how come you’ve managed to beat me at a word game that isn’t even in your native tongue?’ she said.
‘Because when I was a little boy I had an English tutor who taught me that a rich vocabulary was something within the grasp