To Catch a Sheikh. Teresa Southwick

      Rafiq. A rakish name. It suited him.

      He was very good-looking. His face was a composition of high cheekbones, straight nose and square jaw that came dangerously close to male perfection. Broad shoulders and a wide chest fit his tall body. His sinfully expensive suit highlighted lean, masculine strength.

      She’s always thought Texas cowboys were the standard of male appeal. Prince Rafiq Hassan just upped the benchmark. She had the heart palpitations, weak knees and sweaty palms to prove it.

      “May I come in?” he asked.

      “Of course.” She pulled the door wide and stood back, allowing him entrance.

      He looked at her. “You’ve changed your clothes.”

      She followed his glance to her bare feet, jeans and Don’t Mess With Texas T-shirt. When she met his gaze again, it contained a spark of…something she didn’t understand. And she could only think of one word to describe his black eyes.

      Smoldering.

      To Catch a Sheikh

      Teresa Southwick

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To Susan Mallery, many thanks for your invaluable assistance and patient encouragement.

      TERESA SOUTHWICK

      lives in Southern California with her hero husband who is more than happy to share with her the male point of view. An avid fan of romance novels, she is delighted to be living out her dream of writing for Silhouette Books. Teresa has also written historical romances under the same name.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter One

      Penelope Colleen Doyle didn’t believe in fairy tales. She put no faith in the idea that kissing a frog would create a handsome prince. In fact, the only guys she kissed stayed frogs—or worse—turned into toads. But walking through the royal palace of El Zafir certainly made her want to believe.

      “Are we almost there?”

      She posed the question to her dark-eyed, olive-skinned guide.

      “Yes, miss,” he said in a softly accented voice. He glanced over his shoulder. “We are nearly there.”

      She’d forgotten his name. Normally, she had an excellent memory, but nothing about this situation was normal. This was El Zafir—the land of magic, enchantment and romance. She was in the royal palace, with perfectly shined marble hallways, graceful arched doorways and rooms filled with priceless furnishings. But as she put one sensible, low-heeled shoe in front of the other, she had the most absurd desire to leave a trail of cracker crumbs. Just in case she needed to retrace her steps through the maze that was the royal palace.

      It was the royal palace, for goodness’ sake! But even the panic-induced adrenaline rush produced by that thought couldn’t pick up the slack when a body hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours. Crossing numerous time zones tended to take the starch out of a girl. At this moment, she felt as if she’d walked every step of the way from the U.S. of A.

      They rounded a corner and stopped before impressive mahogany double doors. The ceiling was so high, the awesome barrier reminded her of a scene from the King Kong movie where the humongous gates were supposed to keep out the giant ape. She was no ape and at five feet one and a half inches, certainly no giant.

      “This is the business wing of the palace,” her guide explained.

      “Is there a map I could use to get my bearings?” she asked. “Something with an X that says you are here and a general layout of the rest of the palace?”

      “No, miss.”

      The man didn’t crack a smile, not even the barest flicker. If no one in this small but up-and-coming, oil-rich country had a sense of humor, it was going to be a long two years.

      He pushed open the right door, revealing a carpeted hall forming a T at the end. Berber carpet if her limited knowledge of fine furnishings could be trusted.

      “Follow me, miss.”

      “Okay.”

      Like it would occur to her to strike out on her own. She could be lost for days. They’d have to send a search party to look for her. Was there search and rescue in El Zafir?

      Her guide walked past several doors, then turned to his right and went through an open door into an office. The room was bigger than her apartment back home. Granted, her apartment was small. But this was awfully Texas-sized for an office.

      He held out his hand, indicating the leather love seat against the wall. “Sit. You’ll receive instruction regarding your duties presently.”

      “From Princess Farrah Hassan?”

      “No.”

      Then from whom, she wanted to ask, looking around for a clue. She wouldn’t have to guess if the doors had nameplates. You’d think a wealthy nation could find a couple bucks for that.

      Without further explanation, her guide turned and left the room. She looked around again, and her jangled nerves kicked up quite a ruckus. Apparently the butterflies in her stomach didn’t need it, but the rest of her could certainly use a blast of caffeine.

      She didn’t see coffee but everything else about the place was pretty darned intimidating. In front of her stood a U-shaped cherry-wood desk, polished to such a shine she could use it for a mirror to do her hair. Although twisting her waist-length hair into a knot at the back of her head was a simple matter and didn’t require visual aids. The desk held a computer with printer, scanner and fax machine. Behind it, next to the wall, was a copier. She wondered if all the offices were as well equipped. Or did everyone in the business wing use these machines? If this was the tech center, it made sense that this was where her job orientation would take place.

      Then she noticed a closed door to her right. Maybe there was coffee behind it. She could knock and poke her head in to ask. Nope. She’d been ordered to wait and wait she would. With a weary sigh, she sat on the love seat. A second later she sighed for a very different reason. Never in her life had she felt such supple softness. Who knew leather wasn’t cold and could feel so fabulously luxurious? She settled in to wait for orders and struggled to keep her eyes open.

      Rafiq Hassan, Prince of El Zafir, Minister of Domestic and Foreign Affairs, opened his office door to confer with his secretary. The empty desk reminded him he had no secretary. First thing that morning the efficient young man had been appropriated by his father, King Gamil. His aunt Farrah had promised to send a replacement. Glancing to his left, he saw a young woman sitting on the couch. Sitting was too active a word. Slumped would be more to the point. Was this his substitute?

      He walked over and looked down at her. She was dressed in a shapeless khaki dress that covered her from the neck to below her knees, leaving visible her very shapely ankles. Low-heeled shoes covered her feet. She could have been a child except that