Defiant in the Desert (15 page)

Peace.

She thought about the strange flash of vulnerability she’d seen on his face and an idea began to form in her mind.

‘I have a little cottage in the countryside,’ she said slowly, looking straight into a pair of black and disbelieving eyes. ‘You could come and stay there for a week, if you like. My mother used to be a nurse, and I picked up some basic first aid from her. I could keep my eye on you, Tariq.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘W
HERE
THE
HELL
are you going, Izzy?’

For a moment Isobel didn’t answer Tariq’s growled question as she turned the small car into a narrow country lane edged with budding hedgerows. Why couldn’t he just settle down and relax—and be grateful she’d managed to get him out of the hospital? Maybe even sit back and appreciate the beauty of the spring day instead of haranguing her all the time?

It wasn’t until she was bowling along at a steady pace that she risked a quick glance and saw the still-dreadful pallor of his face, which showed no signs of shifting. He was in
pain,
she reminded herself—and besides, he was a man who rarely expressed gratitude.

Already she’d had to bite back her words several times that morning. They had left by a staff exit at the back of the hospital, and although he had initially refused to travel in a wheelchair she had persuaded him that it would help elude any waiting press. Which of course, it had. The photographers were looking for the muscular stride of a powerful sheikh—not a man being pushed along by a woman. She remembered her mother telling her that nobody ever looked at people in wheelchairs—how society was often too busy to care about those who were not able-bodied. And it seemed that her mother was right.

‘You know very well where I’m going,’ she answered calmly. ‘To my cottage in the country, where you are going to recuperate after your crash. That was the agreement we made with the doctor before he would agree to discharge you. Remember?’

He made a small sound of displeasure beneath his breath. His head was throbbing, his throat felt as dry as parchment, and now Izzy was being infuriatingly
stubborn.
‘That’s the doctor you were flirting with so outrageously?’ he questioned coolly.

Isobel’s eyes narrowed as she acknowledged her boss’s accusation. In truth, she’d been so worried about
him
that she’d barely given a thought to the crinkly-eyed consultant. But even if she
had
fallen in love at first sight and decided to slip the doctor her phone number—well, it was none of Tariq’s business. Wasn’t she doing enough for him already, without him attempting to police her private life for her?

‘And what if I was?’ she retorted.

He shrugged. ‘I would have thought that extremely unprofessional behaviour on his part.’

‘I hardly think that you’re in any position to pass judgement on flirting,’ she murmured.

Tariq drummed his fingers against one tense thigh. It was not the response he’d been expecting. A firm assertion that the doctor had been wasting his time would have been infinitely more desirable. Isobel was resolutely single, and that was the way he liked it. It meant that she could devote herself to
his
needs and be there whenever
he
wanted her.

‘I thought you only told him all that stuff about taking me to your cottage to get him off my back,’ he objected.

‘But that would have been dishonest.’

‘Do you always have to be so damned
moral?
’

‘One of us has to have morals.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Is that supposed to be a criticism?’

‘No, Tariq,’ she answered calmly. ‘It’s merely an observation.’

He stared at her set profile and inexplicably began to notice the way the pale spring sunshine was picking out the lights in her hair, turning it a glowing shade of amber. Had the doctor also noticed its subtle fire? he wondered. Would that explain his behaviour? ‘I don’t know why you’re dragging me out to the back of beyond,’ he said, ‘when I can rest perfectly well at home.’

‘In central London?’ She gave a dry laugh. ‘With the press baying at your door like hounds and all your ex-girlfriends lining up to offer to come and mop your brow for you? I don’t think so. You’ll be much safer at my cottage. Anyway, it’s a done deal. I’ve informed the office that you’ll be incommunicado for a week, and that all calls are to come through me. Fiona in the PR office is perfectly capable of running things until we get back. I’ve had your housekeeper pack a week’s worth of clothes, which are being couriered down. And I haven’t told anybody about your exact whereabouts.’

‘My brother—’

‘Except for your brother,’ she concurred, remembering the brief conversation she’d had earlier that day with the ruler of Khayarzah. ‘I telephoned the palace and spoke to the King myself—told him that you’re on the mend but that you needed to recuperate. He wanted you flown to Khayarzah, but I said that you would be fine with me.’ She shot him a glance. ‘That was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?’

‘I suppose so,’ he answered moodily, but as usual she had done exactly the right thing. The last thing he needed was the formality of palace life—with all the strictures that came with it. He’d done his level best to escape from the attendant attention which came with being the brother of the King—a role which had been thrust on him when his brother had suddenly inherited the crown. A role which had threatened his freedom—something he had always guarded jealously. Because wasn’t his freedom the only good thing to have emerged from the terrible isolation of his childhood?

He fixed her with a cool and curious stare. ‘You seem to have it all worked out, Izzy.’

‘Well, that’s what you pay me for.’ She glanced in the driving mirror and let a speedy white van overtake them before starting to speak again. ‘Do you want to tell me what happened? About why one of the most careful drivers I know should crash his car?’

Tariq closed his eyes. Wasn’t it frustrating that a split-second decision could impact so dramatically on your life? If he hadn’t been beguiled by a pair of blue eyes and a dynamite body then he wouldn’t be facing the rather grim prospect of being stuck in some remote cottage with his assistant for a week.

‘I went for dinner with a woman,’ he said.

‘No—’ Isobel started to say something and then changed her mind, but Tariq seized on her swallowed words like a cat capturing a mouse.

His thick lashes parted by a fraction. ‘No what, Izzy?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Oh, but it does,’ he answered stubbornly.

‘I was about to say no change there. You having dinner with a woman is hardly remarkable, Tariq. Blonde, was she?’

‘Actually, she was.’ Reluctantly, his lips curved into a smile. Sometimes Izzy was so damned sharp he was surprised she didn’t cut herself. Maybe that was what less attractive women did—they made up for their shortcomings by developing a more sophisticated sense of humour. ‘But she wasn’t all she seemed to be.’

‘Not a transvestite, I hope?’

‘Very funny.’ But despite the smile which her flippant comment produced Tariq was irritated with himself. He had been stressed out, and had intended to relax by playing poker until the small hours. He hadn’t really been in the mood for any kind of liaison, or the effort of chatting someone up. But the woman had been very beautiful, and he’d found himself inviting her for a late dinner. And then she had started to question him. Wanting to know the kind of things which suggested that she might have done more than a little background research on him.

Tariq had some rules which were entirely his own.

He didn’t like being interrogated.

He didn’t trust people who knew too much about him.

And he never slept with a woman on a first date.

At heart, he was a deeply old-fashioned man, with plenty of contradictory values. For him sex had always been laughably easy—yet he didn’t respect a woman who let him too close, too soon. Especially as he had a very short attention span when it came to the opposite sex. He liked the slow burn of anticipation—to prolong the ache of desire until it became unbearable. So when the blonde had made it very clear that she was his for the taking—some primitive sense of prudery had reared its head. Who wanted something which was so easily obtained? With a jaded yawn, he had declined her offer and reached for his jacket.

And that was when the woman’s story had come blurting out. It seemed that it hadn’t been fate which had brought her into his life, but cunning and subterfuge.

‘She was a journalist,’ he bit out. He’d been so angry with himself because he hadn’t seen through her flimsy cover. Furious that he had fallen for one of the oldest tricks of all. He’d stormed out, wondering if he was losing his touch, and for those few seconds when his attention had wandered so had his powerful sports car. ‘She wanted the inside story on the takeover bid,’ he finished.

Isobel shrugged as her little car took a bend in the road. ‘Well, if you
will
try and buy into the Premier League, what do you expect? You know the English are crazy about football—and it’s a really big deal if some power-hungry Sheikh adds a major team to his portfolio.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with being hungry for power, Izzy.’

‘Only if it becomes addictive,’ she countered.

‘You think I’m a power junkie?’

‘That’s not for me to say.’

His black eyes narrowed. ‘I notice you didn’t deny it, though.’

‘I’m glad you’re paying attention to what I say, Tariq.’

With a small click of irritation, he attempted, without much success, to stretch his legs. Some lurid looking air-freshener in the shape of a blue daisy hung from the driving mirror and danced infuriatingly in front of the windscreen. Other than the occasional childhood ride on a camel in his homeland, he could never remember enduring such an uncomfortable form of transport as this. Rather longingly, he thought about the dented bonnet of his smooth and gleaming sports car and wondered how long before it would be roadworthy again.

‘Is your cottage as cramped as your car?’ he demanded.

‘You don’t like my car?’

‘Not really. I don’t like second-hand cars which don’t go above fifty.’

‘Then why don’t you give me a pay raise?’ she suggested sweetly. ‘And I’ll buy myself a newer one.’

For a moment Tariq acknowledged the brief flicker of discord which made his pulse quicken. Wasn’t it strange how a little tension between a man and a woman could instantly begin to heat a man’s blood and make him start thinking of...

But the smile left his face as he realised that this was
Izzy
he was about to start fantasising about. Safe and sensible Izzy. The plain stalwart of his office—and the very last candidate for any erotic thoughts. So how was it that he suddenly found his attention riveted on a pair of slender thighs which were outlined with delectable precision beneath the blue of her denim skirt?

With an effort, he dragged his gaze away and settled back in the seat. ‘I pay you enough already—as well you know,’ he said. ‘How far is it?’

‘Far enough,’ said Isobel softly, ‘for you to close your eyes and sleep.’
And stop annoying me with your infuriating comments.

‘I’m not sleepy.’

‘Sure?’

‘Quite sure,’ he mumbled, but something in her voice was oddly soothing, so he found himself yawning—and seconds later he was fast asleep.

Isobel drove in a silence punctuated only by the low, steady sound of Tariq’s breathing. She tried to concentrate on her driving and on the new green buds which were pushing through the hedgerows—but it wasn’t easy. Her attention kept wandering and she felt oddly light-headed. She kept telling herself it was because her usual routine had been thrown out of kilter—and not because of the disturbing proximity of her boss.

But that wouldn’t have been true. Something had happened to her and she couldn’t work out what it was. Why should she suddenly start feeling self-conscious and
peculiar
in Tariq’s company? Why couldn’t she seem to stop her eyes from straying to the powerful shafts of his thighs and then drifting upwards to the narrow jut of his hips?

She shook her head. She’d been alone with Tariq many, many times before. She had shared train, plane and car journeys with him on various business trips. But never like this. Not in such cramped and humble confines, with him fast asleep beside her, his legs spread out in front of him. Almost as if they were any normal couple, just driving along.

Impatiently, she shook her head.

Normal?
That was the last adjective which could ever be applied to Tariq. He was a royal sheikh from the ancient House of Khayarzah and one of the wealthiest men on the planet.

Sometimes it still seemed incredible to Isobel that someone like her should have ended up working so closely for such a powerful man. She could tell that people were often surprised when she told them what she did for a living. That he who could have anyone should have chosen her. What did
she
have that a thousand more well-connected women didn’t have? That was what everyone always wanted to know.

Deep down, she suspected it was because he trusted her in a way that he trusted few people. And why did he trust her? Hard to say. Probably because she had met him when he was young—at school—before the true extent of his power and position had really sunk in. Before he’d realised the influence he wielded.

She’d been just ten at the time—a solitary and rather serious child. Her mother, Anna, had been the school nurse at one of England’s most prestigious boarding schools—a job she’d been lucky to get since it provided a place to live as well as a steady income. Anna was a single mother and her daughter Isobel illegitimate. Times had changed, and not having a father no longer carried any stigma, but it certainly had back then—back in the day.

Isobel had borne the brunt of it, of course. She remembered the way she’d always flinched with embarrassment whenever the question had been asked:
What does your father do?
There had been a thousand ways she had sought to answer without giving away the shaming fact that she
didn’t actually know.

As a consequence, she’d always felt slightly
less than
—a feeling which hadn’t been helped by growing up surrounded by some of the wealthiest children in the world. She’d been educated among them, but she had never really been one of them—those pampered products of the privileged classes.

But Tariq had been different from all the other pupils. His olive skin and black eyes had made him stand out like a handful of sparkling jewels thrown down onto a sheet of plain white paper. Sent to the west to be educated by his father, he had excelled in everything he’d done. He’d swum and ridden and played tennis—and he spoke five languages with native fluency.