Sheikh's Forbidden Conquest. Chantelle Shaw

to respond to the worsening weather conditions had compromised the safety of his crew.

      Her mind flew back to the incident the coastguard helicopter had attended two days ago and the young boy they had been unable to save. ‘Not every rescue can be successful,’ the coastguard station commander had reminded Lexi at the debriefing afterwards. ‘Part of the job is to accept that you can’t save everyone.’

      Lexi’s RAF commanding officer of the Medical Emergency Rescue Team in Afghanistan had said the same thing. Many of the things she had seen, the terrible injuries received by soldiers caught in landmine explosions and sniper fire, had been harrowing, but if she had gone to pieces she wouldn’t have been able to do her job. The same was true working for the coastguard rescue. Her common sense told her she must not allow one tragedy to haunt her, but in her heart she had taken the failure to save the boy hard.

      The tragedy two days ago and the incident today could have been avoided if the yacht’s skipper in each case had acted more responsibly, she thought grimly. She was tempted to tell the man standing in front of her what she thought of him, but something about him made her swallow her angry words. Despite his dishevelled appearance and the large purple swelling above his right eye, he had an aura of power about him that set him apart from other men.

      He was looking at Lexi in a way that no man had looked at her for a long time. Too long—the treacherous thought slid into her head. She tried to push it away but a picture flashed into her mind of the man’s strong, tanned hands on her body, dark against pale, hard muscle pressed against soft yielding flesh.

      Shocked by her wayward imagination, she narrowed her eyes to hide her thoughts as she studied him. He was sinfully attractive, with exotic olive-gold skin and over-long, thick black hair that curled at his nape and fell forward onto his brow so that he raked it back with an impatient flick of his hand. Lexi’s gaze was drawn to his dark brown eyes—liquid pools of chocolate fringed by ridiculously long, silky lashes and set beneath heavy black brows. The gleam in his eyes unsettled her, and the blatantly sensual curve of his lips made her wonder how it would feel if he pressed his mouth against hers.

      She shook her head, trying to break free from the disturbing effect he had on her, praying he hadn’t noticed that she had been staring at him. She did not understand her reaction to him. It had been a long time since she had looked at a man and felt a quiver in her belly. Too long, she acknowledged ruefully.

      ‘You should have waited for the weather to improve, instead of putting your life and the lives of your crew at risk.’ She spoke sharply, desperate to hide her confusing awareness of the yacht’s skipper. ‘Your behaviour was irresponsible. Offshore sailing is not for inexperienced sailors.’

      The man arrogantly threw back his head, drawing Lexi’s attention to his broad shoulders. She assessed him to be several inches over six feet tall.

      ‘I’m not a fool,’ he said curtly. ‘Of course I checked the marine forecast and I was aware of the storm. The White Hawk could easily have run ahead of the bad weather, but we must have hit something in the water that ripped the keel from the hull and resulted in the yacht capsizing.’

      He broke off abruptly. Following the direction of his gaze, Lexi saw two men hurrying towards them. The helipad was strictly out of bounds to the public but, as she stepped forward to ask the men to leave, they halted in front of the White Hawk’s skipper and, to Lexi’s astonishment, bowed to him. She had learned enough Arabic during her tours of duty in the Middle East to recognise the language they spoke. After a brief conversation with the men, the skipper swung away from Lexi without giving her another glance and strode across the helipad, followed by his two companions.

      ‘A word of thanks for saving his life would have been nice,’ she said disgustedly, not caring if her words carried across the helipad to him. She glanced at the coastguard paramedic. ‘Did you see how those men bowed to him as if they were his servants? He actually clicked his fingers for them to follow him! Who the hell does he think he is?’

      Chris gave her an amused look. ‘I take it from the way you ripped into him that you didn’t recognise him? That was His Royal Highness, Sultan Kadir Al Sulaimar of Zenhab, and I’m guessing that the men who came to collect him are his servants. Not only is he a Sultan, he was the skipper of the Zenhab Team Valiant who won the America’s Cup in the summer.’ He grinned at Lexi’s startled expression. ‘I got the feeling that he didn’t take kindly to you calling him an inexperienced sailor.’

      ‘I still think he was irresponsible to have sailed when he knew that a storm was coming,’ Lexi argued. ‘But I guess he couldn’t have known his yacht’s keel would fail,’ she conceded reluctantly. She knew enough about sailing to be aware that catastrophic keel failure was uncommon but not unheard of, and it was the main cause of yachts capsizing quickly, giving the crew little warning or time to radio for assistance.

      She winced as she remembered how she had accused the man of being an inexperienced sailor. Now that she thought about it, he had seemed vaguely familiar, she mused as she climbed into the helicopter cockpit and prepared to take off from the helipad. During the summer there had been extensive news coverage of the famous America’s Cup yacht race held in San Francisco, when the Zenhabian Team Valiant had beaten Team USA to win the prestigious trophy. Sultan Kadir Al Sulaimar had been interviewed on live television by an overexcited female presenter who had clearly been overwhelmed by his exotic looks and undeniable charm.

      Lexi told herself that it wasn’t surprising that she had failed to recognise the Sultan when he had been battered, bruised and dripping wet after being rescued from his sinking yacht. To her annoyance, she could not stop thinking about him. At the end of her shift she went back to the old coastguard cottage that had been her home for the past year but, instead of finishing packing up her belongings ready to move out, she wasted an hour looking up Sultan Kadir Al Sulaimar on her laptop.

      She had no trouble finding pictures of him, mostly taken at social events in Europe. He was invariably accompanied by a beautiful woman. Blonde, brunette or redhead, it seemed that the Sultan had no particular preference but, from the dizzying number of different women he was photographed with, it appeared that he liked variety. According to the press reports, he was a playboy with a personal fortune estimated to be in the billions. He owned a luxury chalet in St Moritz, penthouses in New York and London’s Mayfair and an English country estate where he kept racehorses.

      There was some information about the country he ruled. Zenhab was an independent Arab kingdom in the Arabian Sea. Kadir had succeeded his father, Sultan Khalif Al Sulaimar, who was credited with establishing peace in Zenhab after years of fighting between rival tribal groups. But while the previous Sultan had rarely travelled abroad or courted the attention of the world’s media, his son was frequently spotted by the paparazzi at nightclubs in Paris, or at Ascot, where he owned a private box and entertained celebrities and members of the British royal family, or driving his attention-grabbing scarlet sports car around Belgravia.

      In short, the spoiled Sultan was the absolute antithesis of the kind of man Lexi admired. When she had served in Afghanistan, she had met men who were brave and loyal and utterly dedicated to carrying out the missions they had been assigned even though their lives were often at risk.

      The memory of how the Sultan had looked at her with a predatory gleam in his eyes slid into her mind and her stomach muscles clenched. Sexual attraction followed its own rules and ignored common sense, she thought ruefully. Or maybe it was just her body reminding her that it was perfectly normal for a twenty-nine-year-old woman to feel sexual desire.

      It was over a year since she had broken up with Steven— or, to be more precise, since he’d informed her in a text message hours before their engagement party that he couldn’t marry her because he had a girlfriend and a baby daughter who he had failed to mention when he and Lexi had grown close while they had been stationed together at Camp Bastion. Rejection hurt as much at twenty-eight as it had when she had been eighteen or eight, Lexi had discovered. She had dealt with Steven’s betrayal the same way she had dealt with all the disappointments in her life, by pretending that she did not give a damn and hiding her feelings from a world that had proved too often that people were unreliable.