Sheikh's Scandal. Lucy Monroe

impressive accommodation.

      After a surprisingly enjoyable visit with Hasiba—as she insisted on being called—in which the housekeeper managed to convey unspoken but clear reservations toward the future emira of Zeena Sahra, Liyah left for a meeting with the concierge.

      He and his staff expected her input on a finalization of entertainment offerings to make to the sheikh over the next two weeks.

      * * *

      Liyah came out of the royal suite, pleased with the care the chambermaid assigned to the emir’s rooms had taken.

      The vases of purple iris―the official flower of Zeena Sahra―Liyah had ordered were fresh and perfectly arranged. The bowls with floating jasmine on either side of the candelabra on the formal dining table did not have a single brown spot on the creamy white blossoms.

      The beds were all made without a single wrinkle and the prince’s tea service was prepped for his late-afternoon repast.

      She headed for the main elevator. While staff were encouraged to use the service elevator, she was not required to do so. The busiest time of day for housekeeping and maintenance usually coincided with light use on the guest elevators.

      So, as she’d done at her hotel in San Francisco, Liyah opted to use them when she wasn’t carrying towels or pushing a cleaning cart. Something she rarely had to do in her position as lead chambermaid, but not outside the realm of possibility.

      The doors slid open with a quiet whoosh and Liyah’s gaze was snagged by espresso-brown eyes.

      The emir stared back, his expression a strange mixture of surprise and something else she had very little experience interpreting. “Miss Amari?”

      “Emir Sayed.” She dipped her head in acknowledgment of his status. “I was just checking on your suite.”

      “The service has been impeccable.”

      “I’m glad you think so. I’ll be sure and pass your kind words on to your suite’s housekeeping staff.”

      He inclined his head in regal agreement she doubted he was even aware of.

      She waited for him to step out of the elevator, but he did not move. His security detail had exited first with a smooth precision that came off as a deeply ingrained habit, followed by the emir’s administrative assistant and the junior secretary.

      They all waited, as well, for their sheikh to move.

      Only he didn’t.

      He pressed a button and the doors started to close. “Are you coming?” His tone implied impatience.

      Though she didn’t know why. Her brain couldn’t quite grasp what he was doing on the other side of the doorway. If he was going back down again, wouldn’t his security be on the elevator with him?

      One thing she did know: she wasn’t about to commit the faux pas of joining the emir. “Oh, no. I’ll just go to the service elevator.”

      “Do not be ridiculous.” He reached out and grabbed her wrist, drawing shocked gasps from his staff and an imprecation in the Zeena Sahran dialect of Arabic from his personal bodyguard.

      Liyah had little opportunity to take that in as she was pulled inexorably into the elevator through the shrinking gap between the heavy doors.

      They closed behind her on another Arabic curse, this one much louder and accompanied by a shocked and clearly disapproving, “Emir Sayed!”

      “Your Highness?”

      “There is no reason for you to take another elevator.”

      “But your people...shouldn’t you have waited for them?”

      His elegant but strong fingers were still curled around her wrist and he showed no intention of letting her go. “I am not accustomed to being questioned in my actions by a servant.”

      The words were dismissive, his tone arrogant, even cold, but the look in his eyes wasn’t. She’d never heard of brown fire before, but it was there in his gaze right now.

      Hot enough to burn the air right from her lungs.

      Nevertheless, her professional demeanor leaned toward dignified, not subservient. By necessity, she pulled the cool facade she’d perfected early in life around her with comfortable familiarity.

      “And I am not used to being manhandled by hotel guests.” She stared pointedly at his hold on her wrist, expecting him to release her immediately.

      It wasn’t acceptable in the more conservative culture of Zeena Sahra for him to touch any single woman outside his immediate family—and that did not include cousins—much less one that was a complete stranger to him.

      However, his hold remained. “This is hardly manhandling.”

      His thumb rubbed over her pulse point and Liyah had no hope of suppressing her shiver of reaction.

      His heated gaze reflected confusion, as well. “I don’t understand this.”

      He’d spoken in the dialect of his homeland, no doubt believing she wouldn’t know what he was saying. She didn’t disabuse him of the belief.

      She couldn’t. Words were totally beyond her.

      For the first time in her life, she craved touch worse than dark chocolate during that most inconvenient time of the month.

      “You are an addiction,” he accused, his tone easy to interpret even if she hadn’t spoken the Zeena Sahran dialect fluently.

      Suddenly embarrassed, wondering if she’d done something to invite his interest and reveal her own, she pulled against his hold. He let go, but his body moved closer, not farther away, the rustle of his traditional robes the only sound besides their breathing in the quiet elevator.

      With shock she realized there was no subtle sound of pulleys because he’d pushed the stop button.

      She stared up at him, her heart in her throat. “Emir?”

      “Sayed. My name is Sayed.”

      And she wasn’t about to use it. Only she did, whispering, “Sayed,” in an involuntary expulsion of soft sound.

      Satisfaction flared in his dark eyes, a line of color burnishing his cheekbones. For whatever reason, the emir liked hearing his name on her lips.

      He touched the name badge attached to her black suit jacket. “Amari is not your name.”

      “It is.” Her voice came out husky, her throat too tight for normal speech.

      “Not your given name.”

      “Aaliyah,” she offered before her self-protection kicked in.

      “Lovely.” He brushed the name tag again and, though it was solid plastic, she felt the touch as if it had been over bare skin. “Your parents are traditionalists.”

      “Not exactly.” Liyah didn’t consider Hena’s decision to make an independent life for herself and her illegitimate daughter traditional.

      Hena had simply wanted to give Liyah as many connections to the country of her mother’s birth as she could. Hena had also said she’d wanted to speak hope for her daughter’s life every time she used her name, which meant high exalted one.

      It was another example of the deceased woman’s more romantic nature than that of her pragmatic daughter.

      Liyah doubted very much if Gene Chatsfield had anything to do with naming her at all.

      “Your accent is American,” Sayed observed.

      “So is yours.”

      He shrugged. “I was educated in America from the age of thirteen. I did not return to Zeena Sahra to live until I finished graduate school.”

      She knew that. His older brother’s tragic death in a bomb meant for the