Desert Sheikhs: Monarch of the Sands / To Tame a Sheikh / Sheikh Protector. Dana Marton

of her stomach so that she felt all light-headed, and vulnerable. Was this something he did to all women—made them feel all kinds of stuff they weren’t supposed to be feeling—leaving them aching and unsettled and wanting more?

      But Frankie was determined to appear professional. He had seen her being made a fool of by her ex-fiancé—and her pride was hurting because of that. She must show him that she could be strong—that she wasn’t some vulnerable little girl who jumped every time somebody made a loud bang.

      ‘No, not a problem at all,’ she said calmly. ‘I’m very adaptable.’

      ‘Good. Then come and meet the rest of my staff. I’ll introduce you to my bodyguards and they’ll explain a few simple guidelines to you.’ He glanced down at her rain-spattered legs and the shoes which didn’t quite match the plain blue dress. ‘And we’d better organise some clothes for you. You’ll need something appropriate to wear—especially in Khayarzah, where it’s very hot but women cover their legs and their arms at all times. Something which befits a staff member to the sheikh.’

      Frankie looked down at the dress she’d bought specially for this meeting—wondering if he had any idea of all the angst which had gone into choosing the neat garment. ‘You mean there’s something wrong with what I’m wearing?’

      Did he protect her from the truth, or did he give it to her straight? Zahid’s mouth hardened. Hadn’t she already been lied to enough by one man? And she would never learn about life’s harsh realities unless somebody taught her. He looked her straight in the eye. ‘There’s nothing fundamentally wrong with it, Francesca—other than that it’s cheap.’ He gave her a regretful shrug as he reached out to pick up the phone. ‘And I’m afraid I don’t do cheap.’

      CHAPTER SIX

      PLONKING herself down on the bed, Frankie kicked the shoes from her aching feet and fell back against the snowy bank of pillows. It had been a long day. Even longer than yesterday, when she’d travelled back down to Surrey, packed some essentials and locked up the house—ready to embrace her new role as a member of Zahid’s staff. Already, her world seemed to have altered out of all recognition. She’d been given a luxurious room in one of London’s smartest hotels, a list of all the people who worked for the sheikh—as well as his busy schedule for the weeks ahead.

      And today she had been sent off to see a stylist and to acquire the clothes which Zahid had told her were essential for her working trip to his homeland.

      She hadn’t realised that shopping could be so exhausting—but then she didn’t usually buy an entire wardrobe at one fell swoop. The swish store was situated in a side street, not far from the Khayarzah Embassy, and Frankie was put in the hands of an elegant woman who seemed to know exactly the kind of clothes she needed for her forthcoming trip.

      The shopping expedition had been so intensive that she’d missed lunch and by the time she got back to the hotel she was too exhausted to bother with room service. So she ate the chocolate which had been left lying on her pillow and lay down on the bed just to rest her eyes.

      She must have dozed off because before she knew it she was startled out of some bizarre and fitful dream about telephones by an urgent knocking on the door. Reluctantly, Frankie got up off the feathery mattress and padded across the room to answer it. Still yawning, she pulled open the door to find Zahid standing there with a look of unmistakable irritation on his face.

      ‘I’ve been calling and calling you—didn’t you hear me?’

      Still dozy from an unfamiliar daytime nap, she raked her fingers through her tousled hair. ‘No, of course I didn’t—otherwise I’d have answered.’ With difficulty, she stifled another yawn. ‘Sorry—I must have fallen asleep.’

      ‘Clearly.’ Reluctantly, Zahid found his eyes drawn to her. Her cheeks were flushed and her lashes looked like ebony smudges making spiky shadows on her soft cheek. With her hair spilling down untidily over her shoulders, she looked as if she had just been ravished, he thought—with an unwelcome beat of awareness. But she was wearing an old pair of jeans and an oatmeal-coloured sweater he recognised and he frowned. ‘I thought you’d been out shopping?’

      ‘I have. I just got back.’ She saw him looking askance at her jeans and shrugged as his gaze travelled over to the still open doors of her wardrobe, where the new clothes could be seen hanging in a neat line. ‘They seem almost too nice to wear—does that sound stupid?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Especially when I’m just mooching around the hotel room.’

      ‘Well, stop mooching and start getting ready,’ he said coolly. ‘We’re having dinner with my brother in just over an hour.’

      ‘You’re kidding?’

      He sucked in a breath of irritation as he glanced at the rumpled bed directly behind her. ‘No, Francesca, I am not. And just remember that I’m not paying you to lie around …’ Now why had his mind focused on that particular verb? Dragging his gaze away from the ruffled duvet, he narrowed his eyes as he spotted a discarded chocolate wrapper lying on the carpet. ‘Eating chocolate all day and napping! Be ready in an hour,’ he ordered. ‘One of my bodyguards will let you know when we’re ready to go.’

      He slammed the door shut behind him and for a moment Frankie stood staring at it in disbelief. Talk about leaping to the wrong conclusions! He’d made her sound like some decadent couch potato who loved stuffing her face with carbs—when pretty much all she’d eaten all day had been that one, measly chocolate.

      But she enjoyed soaking in a scented bath—and afterwards selecting something silken and suitable from her newly acquired wardrobe. The clothes she had been guided towards were fundamentally modest—there wasn’t a low neck or a miniskirt in sight. Their beauty lay in the quality of the exquisite fabrics as they whispered delicately over her skin. As she slid on her own bra and knickers she thought that they seemed positively dingy in comparison to the quiet opulence of the green silk gown she’d chosen to wear.

      One of Zahid’s enigmatic-looking bodyguards rapped at the door at eight o’clock precisely, and Frankie stepped into the corridor to find Zahid just emerging from his own room. He was wearing a suit of pale grey, which served as a perfect foil for his bronzed and dark colouring. But he stopped dead when he saw her and stood completely still—as if someone had turned him to stone.

      ‘Are you … ready?’ she asked tentatively, wondering if she had committed some awful faux pas that she wasn’t aware of. Was the dress too formal? Her shoes too high? Should she have worn her hair up instead of letting it tumble loosely down her back?

      In answer to her stumbled question Zahid nodded—though he wasn’t really listening to what she’d asked him. Because, against all the odds—she looked beautiful. More beautiful than any woman he had ever seen. Like some princess who had stepped from the pages of one of the old Khayarzah fables his nanny used to read to him as a child.

      Her dark hair was glossy, her blue eyes wide and watchful—and the deep green of her dress emphasised the porcelain paleness of her face and soft curves of her body. What must it be like for her, he wondered, to have blossomed as she had blossomed—to have gone from tomboy to temptress in one seamless step? Was she aware of the power which now lay at her fingertips—the power possessed by every woman who could hold a man in her thrall?

      Yet Simon had been the one to awaken her, he reminded himself grimly. He might have been a duplicitous and money-grubbing creep—but he was responsible for this new, sensual allure of hers. He had been the one who had … who had …

      ‘Is this okay, Zahid?’ Aware that his bright, hard gaze was still fixed on her, Frankie brushed her palms down over the silk skirt of her dress and gave him an anxious look. Why on earth was he scowling at her like that? ‘The dress, I mean?’

      ‘Are you searching for a compliment?’ he queried, more acidly than he had intended—but he was having to quash a reaction to her that he had not intended and did not particularly