The Sheikh's Convenient Virgin. Trish Morey

the house via the wide glass doors that led into the casual living areas and through to the kitchen beyond. She had almost crossed the cool tiled floor when she heard the voices—the even, low tones of Kamil and the raised voice of Anton, the chef they’d lured from one of Brisbane’s top hotels for the duration of their stay.

      ‘I have a contract,’ the chef protested. ‘I will not be sacked!’

      Morgan pulled herself up short of the door. Obviously this was not a good time. But why were they sacking Anton? It made no sense. His cooking was three star Michelin standard, his menus superb. And Nobilah had made no secret of the fact that if she could she would like to take him back to Jamalbad with them.

      ‘Not sacked,’ she heard Kamil reply, his tone soothing yet insistent. ‘The remaining balance owing on your contract will be paid in a lump sum, together with a generous bonus for any inconvenience.’

      Anton grunted his displeasure and Morgan tuned out. She was turning to leave—right now was probably not the best time to ask for tea—when she heard the words, ‘We leave for Jamalbad at first light tomorrow. All you need do is prepare a light breakfast and then you are free to go. You will have the day to clear your things before the house is closed up.’

      They were leaving? Tomorrow? So that was why they wouldn’t need a chef any longer. And if they didn’t need a chef…

      She stood there, drinking in the knowledge that her services were about to be terminated prematurely, and the clatter of pans coming from the kitchen as Anton grudgingly came to terms with the news echoed her mood.

      She’d thought she still had two weeks of being Nobilah’s companion. Now she had less than twenty-four hours. Damn. Working nine to five in some office hellhole was going to seem very ordinary after this assignment.

      ‘Miss Fielding?’

      Morgan blinked and swung around to see Kamil watching her from the kitchen door, a frown creasing his brow. Mentally she prepared herself, waiting for the axe to fall. Kamil had been the one to hire her. If her services were about to be terminated, he might as well get it over with right now. But he just stared right back at her.

      ‘Was there something you wanted?’

      She hesitated, still expecting him to take advantage of finding her outside the kitchen to deliver the news of her own dismissal. But when he failed to speak again, Morgan could put it off no longer. She nodded, feeling awkward. ‘Nobilah requested tea.’

      He looked at her oddly, his expression a mix of concern and something that looked like pity. Then he simply glanced over his shoulder. ‘Anton, tea for Nobilah, if you please.’ He turned back to Morgan. ‘Was there anything else?’

      You tell me, she was tempted to say. ‘No,’ she whispered instead. ‘Just the tea.’

      ‘In that case, please excuse me. I have much to arrange. Anton will have the tea ready for you in just a moment.’ He nodded and turned to leave, but all of a sudden she couldn’t let him go—not without knowing for sure.

      ‘Kamil…’

      He halted and swivelled back round. ‘Yes?’

      ‘I…I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help but overhear. You’re leaving for Jamalbad? Tomorrow?’

      He inclined his head. ‘That is true.’

      ‘The entire household, including Nobilah?’

      ‘Again, this is true.’

      ‘Oh,’ she whispered. ‘I see.’

      Kamil hesitated a moment, and once more she caught almost a look of pity in his features—but in a blink it was gone, his usual mask of efficiency returned.

      ‘If that is all…?’

      ‘Of course,’ she said, letting him withdraw. He would have plenty to do to organise the family’s early departure without her getting in his way.

      Why had he looked at her that way? she wondered as she carried the tray from the kitchen. Unless Kamil had assumed she might be expecting a generous bonus for the early termination of her contract too?

      He needn’t be worried on that score. Anton had been with them for the best part of two months, and was a top-flight chef, while she’d been Nobilah’s companion for little more than a week. Under the circumstances she’d be more than happy to have her contract paid out.

      She slowed as she crossed the terrace, her pulse starting to beat irregularly as she took in the sight of Nobilah with her son. They were walking side by side along the stone flagging that lined the large, Italian-inspired pool. Tajik dwarfed his mother, a petite woman for all her curves, rendered all the more petite by the man walking alongside her and whose elegance could not be disguised by the abaya she wore, its fabric swirling about her like poetry as she walked.

      And then there was Tajik. Tall and broad-shouldered and hard, as if he’d been carved from stone and breathed into life by the kiss of the gods. His pale blue sweater could not mask a firm chest and flat abdomen; his dark trousers could not disguise lean hips and long legs.

      As she watched, he angled his face towards his mother, and Morgan found herself reacquainted with the determined angles of his jaw, the strong line of his nose. Everything about the man said power, even the fire-flecked golden eyes and the passionate slash of his mouth.

      What did his return today have to do with the family’s sudden departure? It couldn’t be coincidental. There’d been no hint of a possible early return to Jamalbad before now.

      Not that there was anything she could do about it. With a sigh she pushed herself off the deck, heading for the pool area while the pair were still strolling around the far end of the pool. Screened by trees, she’d take the opportunity of leaving the tea on the table and make herself scarce while mother and son enjoyed their reunion. She had no desire to lock horns—or gazes, for that matter—with Sheikh Tajik again, not when he had such a disconcerting ability to get under her skin.

      Morgan gave a wry smile as she reached the table. If she had to find a bright side to the early end to this assignment, she guessed being saved any further contact with Sheik Tajik would probably fit the bill. That would be some consolation at least.

      He’d known the second she’d emerged from the house. He’d felt her presence like a sigh of satisfaction. She’d taken a long time, much longer than it took to collect a mere pot of tea, and he’d wondered if he’d actually scared her off completely. After all, she’d almost bolted for the sanctuary of the house the second Nobilah had mentioned the word “tea”.

      He’d waited with unexpected enthusiasm for her to rejoin them while he’d gone over the plans to leave with his mother, until finally Morgan had reappeared, but even then she’d hesitated, like some quaking virgin on her way to her wedding feast—knowing but not really comprehending what was in store for her.

      He allowed himself a smile at the parallel as his mother headed back to the house to check with Kamil on progress.

      Morgan was perfect. Up close he could see she was both good-looking enough for everyone to believe he’d chosen her as his bride for just that reason alone, and meek enough not to complicate his plans. She was exactly what he needed to quash Qasim’s lust for the throne.

      He watched her place the tray on the table, her cream linen trousers moulding to her neat backside as she bent down, emphasising the flare of her hips and firing off a primitive spike of need in his loins that took him both by surprise and delight. Oh, no, he thought as he circled the pool towards her, appreciating the neat waist between those feminine curves, it would be no hardship playing Qasim at his own game. Not with such an appetizing partner in crime.

      The object of his attention straightened and set off without a backward glance. He smiled to himself. She was kidding herself if she thought she could escape that easily.

      ‘Miss Fielding,’ he called. ‘You will be joining me for tea.’ It wasn’t a question.

      She