At the Sheikh's Bidding. Chantelle Shaw

but had seemed to understand when she’d gently explained that Daddy had fallen asleep for ever.

      It had been the hardest thing she had ever had to do in her life, and the memory of Kazim’s grave little face as he had sat on her knee still brought tears to her eyes. But, although he had been a little more clingy than usual, he seemed to have accepted the news remarkably well—perhaps because he was too young to comprehend that he was now totally alone in the world.

      But he is not alone, Erin thought fiercely. True, he had no living relatives, but he had her, and she would love him and protect him for as long as he needed her—just as she had promised his father.

      ‘I’ve made some tea.’ Alice’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘If you want to take it up, I’ll keep an eye on Kazim.’

      Erin glanced at the tray. ‘Why have you set out three cups, Alice?’

      ‘Mr Straker has brought someone with him. Gave me quite a turn, actually, when he walked through the front door—for a moment I thought he was Faisal’s ghost.’ The cook gave a self-conscious laugh. ‘I expect it was just a trick of the light. He’s obviously from the Middle East—rather gorgeous; you know, tall, dark and indecently handsome. And his features did remind me of the master,’ she added slowly. ‘Do you think he could be a relative?’

      An inexplicable feeling of unease settled in the pit of Erin’s stomach. ‘Faisal had no family,’ she explained quickly. ‘I don’t know who this man is, but he’s probably one of Faisal’s business associates. I’d better go up and meet them,’ she said, picking up the tray.

      Alice cast a disparaging look at her old clothes. ‘I would suggest you go and change first, but there’s no time. It’s snowing again, and I know Mr Straker is anxious to get back to town before the weather closes in.’

      Erin hurried out of the kitchen, and as she crossed the oak-panelled hall she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and grimaced. Her faded jeans and tee shirt were grubbier than she’d realised, and her hair, which she had secured in a long plait, had worked loose, so that riotous stray curls were framing her face. But it was unlikely that Gordon Straker or his companion would have any interest in her appearance, she told herself as she balanced the tray on one hand and opened the library door—coming to such an abrupt halt that the delicate bone china cups rattled precariously on their saucers.

      A man was standing by the window, staring out over the bleak view of the moors. For a few seconds her heart seemed to stop beating, and she understood what Alice had meant when she’d said she had thought she seen Faisal’s ghost. The stranger’s profile was achingly familiar, as was his silky black hair and olive-gold skin. But then he turned his head—and common sense replaced her wild flight of imagination.

      This man was no spectre, he was very much alive. And his resemblance to Faisal was simply due to his dark colouring and exotic looks, she told herself impatiently. He was wearing a superbly tailored dark grey suit that accentuated his lean, hard body, and Erin was immediately struck by his height, estimating that he must be five or six inches over six feet tall. Impressive broad shoulders indicated an awesome degree of strength and power, but it was his face that trapped her gaze and caused her heart to thud painfully beneath her ribcage.

      His hair was cropped uncompromisingly short, and his eyes were as dark as midnight beneath heavy black brows. His nose was slightly hooked, but that did not detract from the perfection of his sculpted face with its sharply delineated cheekbones and square, determined jaw. He was the epitome of masculine beauty, she thought helplessly, her breath catching in her throat. He was so gorgeous he was almost unreal, as if he had been airbrushed to perfection—but he wasn’t an image from a magazine. He was a flesh-and-blood man, and she was startled by the effect he had on her.

      The man subjected her to a long, cool stare and Erin felt herself blush. ‘Hello, I’ve brought some tea. You’re probably freezing. The central heating system here at Ingledean is antiquated.’

      Black eyebrows winged upwards and her cheeks burned hotter. The man’s resemblance to Faisal could not be denied—but her feelings for Faisal had been based on friendship and affection. Neither he nor any other man had ever evoked this shocking, wildfire sexual desire that was coursing through her veins. She felt unnerved by the stranger’s raw masculinity, and she realised that she was gaping at him. Forcing herself to breathe normally, she walked across to the desk and set down the tray.

      ‘I’m Erin.’ She smiled hesitantly, half extended her hand and waited for him to return the introduction, her smile fading when he made no reply.

      ‘You may pour the tea and then go. Your presence will no longer be necessary,’ he informed her dismissively, in a clipped, haughty tone, before he swung round and resumed his contemplation of the snow that was now swirling outside the window.

      Erin stared at the rigid line of his back, shocked into silence by his arrogance. Just who did he think he was? And how dared he speak to her in that high and mighty manner, as if she was some lowly scullery maid from a Victorian melodrama?

      Shock gave way to anger. She’d spent most of her formative years feeling worthless—until her foster parents had rescued her from a life that had been rapidly going into free-fall and insisted that she was a valued member of society, rather than a nobody from the gutter. But the fragile self-confidence she’d gained while living with John and Anne Black was easily dented, and inside she was still the unloved child and rebellious teenager who had been dumped in a care home after her mother’s final and fatal heroin fix.

      She bit her lip and picked up the teapot, torn between the urge to slink from the room and the temptation to tell the stranger exactly what he could do with the damn tea. But before she could speak the library door swung open, and the spare, grey-haired solicitor she had met once when she had visited London with Faisal hurried into the room.

      ‘Ah, Erin, tea—wonderful.’ Gordon Straker greeted her enthusiastically. His brief smile encompassed both Erin and the man at the window, but the sight of the thickly falling snow caused him to frown, and he glanced at his watch as he sat down and picked up the sheaf of documents on the desk in front of him. ‘Take a seat, both of you, and we’ll begin, shall we?’ he said briskly, oblivious to the stranger’s harsh frown. ‘I won’t keep you long. Faisal’s last will and testament is very straightforward.’

      Zahir remained standing, his eyes narrowing as he watched the maid pull out a chair. He was again aware of the same hollow feeling in his stomach and the uncomfortable tightening sensation in his chest—as if he had been winded—that had gripped him when she had first entered the room.

      She was quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, he acknowledged, irritated by his body’s involuntary reaction to her as sexual awareness flooded through his veins. The perfect symmetry of her face was riveting, and he stared at her, drinking in every detail of her high cheekbones, the wide, clear grey eyes that surveyed him from beneath finely arched hazel brows, her small, straight nose and the mouth that was a fraction too wide, the lips soft and full and infinitely kissable.

      A thick braid of auburn hair fell down her back, almost to her waist, the colour reminding him of the rich red hues of leaves in the fall. Years ago, when he had been a student at Harvard, he had been entranced by the stunning palette of colours that Mother Nature used to herald autumn in New England. Now he felt an overwhelming urge to untie the ribbon that secured the woman’s hair and run his fingers through the mass of rippling red-gold silk.

      His eyes slid lower, skimmed the small, firm breasts outlined beneath her tee shirt, and then moved down to her slender waist, narrow hips and long legs, encased in faded denim. Even at the end of his life Faisal had clearly not lost his discerning eye for gorgeous women if his domestic staff were anything to go by, Zahir thought sardonically. Although he would have expected the household staff to wear some sort of uniform rather than a pair of sexy, tight jeans.

      But why had the solicitor asked this woman—whom he assumed from her appearance to be a member of the household staff—to stay while he discussed Faisal’s private affairs? Could she be a beneficiary in Faisal’s will? She was very lovely,