Sold To The Sheikh. Miranda Lee

Charmaine was forced to keep smiling when in fact she’d rather have been screaming, preferably at the man whose black eyes remained locked onto hers, his superior air evoking in her a burning desire to tell him that no man would ever own even a small piece of her, not even her time!

      But, of course, that wish was to remain unrequited. No way could she turn down a five-million-dollar windfall for a cause that meant more than her silly pride. On top of that, no way in the wide world would Charmaine let this arrogant devil see how rattled and angry she was. To show anger was to show she cared. She resolved then and there to remain impeccably polite to him next Saturday night. There would be no further outbursts of temper. No rude remarks. No attempts to cut him down to size.

      Given this was her intention, she really could not afford to stay standing where she was any longer. The way he kept looking at her was not conducive to ongoing politeness.

      Lord knows how I’m going to control myself when I’m alone with him, Charmaine worried as she made her way—to further clapping—off the catwalk.

      ‘I still can’t believe it,’ Rico said to her after he’d wrapped up the auction and clicked off the microphone. ‘Good old Ali, bidding five mil just to have dinner with you. The man must have more money than sense. No offence meant, Charmaine. But even you must agree that was over-the-top.’

      Charmaine frowned at Rico’s familiar remarks before realising that of course he had to be well acquainted with the prince as well, not just Renée.

      ‘You sound as if you’re really old friends,’ came her careful comment. As much as she despised herself for it, she couldn’t help being curious about the man who’d just paid five million dollars to have dinner with her.

      ‘We are,’ Rico admitted. ‘Been playing cards together every Friday night for nearly six years now. Been partners in a few racehorses over the years as well. Ali’s a great bloke. You’ll like him.’

      Charmaine’s top lip curled before she could stop it. But then she decided not to be a total hypocrite. There was only so far she was prepared to carry pretence, and in private was not one of them.

      ‘The prince and I have met once before,’ she confessed curtly. ‘I didn’t like him then and I don’t like him now.’

      Rico looked startled. ‘You’ve met before? Where?’

      ‘At the Melbourne Cup carnival last year. I was one of the fashion judges there on Ladies’ Day. To put it bluntly, your royal friend hit on me.’

      ’And?’

      ‘What do you mean, and? And nothing! I told you. I didn’t like him.’

      ‘That surprises me. Women usually do.’

      ‘Maybe that’s why I didn’t like him,’ she snapped. ‘Look, it’s immaterial whether I like him or not. He’s bought my company over dinner for a few hours and I’ll honour that. But if you’re talking to your Arab friend, then I suggest you warn him that paying five million dollars gives him no more privileges—or rights—than he had by paying for my lunch the last time. Yes, tell him that, Rico. Oh, and tell him I will be at the By Candlelight restaurant promptly at seven next Saturday night, but he is not to attempt to contact me before that. I would be very annoyed if my private and unlisted phone number somehow found its way into his royal highness’s hands. Comprenez-vous?’

      ‘I get the picture. I just wonder if you do.’

      ‘Meaning?’

      ‘Meaning Ali is not given to flights of fancy. After what you’ve just told me, I suspect he came here tonight specifically to bid for that dinner with you, money being no object. Which leads me to believe that he must be somewhat smitten with you. If so, then I doubt your supposed disliking him at first sight will prove to be any more than a minor hurdle.’

      Charmaine bristled. ‘Is that some kind of warning?’

      ‘I suppose so. Look, if you really don’t like him, then watch yourself. Ali is not a man to be toyed with.’

      ‘I have never toyed with him.’

      ‘Come, now, Charmaine. I saw the way you were smiling down at him just now and that was not the smile of an uninterested woman.’

      Heat zoomed into Charmaine’s cheeks. ‘You don’t understand. I was just…just…’

      ‘Taunting him?’

      She shrugged irritably. ‘In a way.’

      ‘Don’t,’ came his sharp rebuke. ‘That’s not the way to behave with a man like Ali. Such behaviour could make him…dangerous.’

      Her eyes widened. ‘Dangerous? In what way?’

      Rico shook his head. ‘Look, I’ll speak to him. Make sure he understands how the land lies. I’m sure he’ll respect your wishes if he believes you’re genuinely not interested. You are definitely not interested?’

      ‘Oh, please. Spare me from having to deal with a spoiled sheikh who harbours Hollywood fantasies over his irresistibility to women.’

      ‘Maybe he has cause to harbour them.’

      She could not contain a scornful laugh. ‘The only thing Prince Ali of Dubar has going for him with me is the size of his wallet. And then only if he opens it for the foundation. You tell him that, Rico. Now I really must go and take off this infernal dress!’

      A famous saying came to Rico’s mind as he watched Charmaine flounce off, her glamorous drop earrings swinging sexily around her shoulders and her long fair hair swishing back and forth across her nearly naked back.

      ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’

      CHAPTER THREE

      SHORTLY before six on the following Saturday afternoon, Charmaine climbed out from behind the wheel of her nondescript white sedan, collected her overnight bag from the back seat, handed the car keys to the valet parking attendant and proceeded into the arcade-style foyer of the Regency Hotel, all without having to tolerate the harassing presence of the paparazzi.

      Experience had taught the supermodel several ways to avoid them. If possible, she arrived early for publicised events, often in disguise. Unfortunately, her dinner date tonight with the sheikh was now a well-publicised event, courtesy of one pesky female journalist who’d been at the auction and written it up the following day, the main focus of her article being the astonishing amount paid by Prince Ali of Dubar for a dinner date with our Charmaine. Typically, the find-a-sexual-angle journo made it all sound impossibly romantic.

      Charmaine had quickly regretted announcing at the auction when and where the dinner would take place. That had been a mistake. But no way was she going to contact the prince and change the arrangements. She did, however, contact the owner of the Regency again and was assured by Mr Richmond that no Press would bother either her or his most esteemed guest from Dubar over dinner. He promised heightened security at both the hotel entrance and complete privacy in the restaurant.

      Charmaine expressed her gratitude but still booked a room in the hotel so that she could arrive early and dress there, as well as stay the night. That way she could slip out the following morning in her own good time.

      Now here she was, blessedly anonymous as she walked up to the reception desk in her nondescript brown wig and wraparound sunglasses, not having had to tolerate cameras being shoved in her face and having questions shouted at her. What a relief! She might have lost her cool if there’d been reporters and photographers hanging around the hotel. It had been a very long week and her nerves were on a knife-edge today.

      Charmaine glanced at her watch as she rode the lift up to the second floor. Less than an hour to go. But time enough for her to get ready. She’d washed and blow-dried her hair earlier that afternoon. And done her nails. All she had left to do was change her clothes and put on some make-up and earrings. None of those preparations would take much time. Charmaine had decided to dress down for this occasion.

      If