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

more than okay and that you look very … agreeable,’ he finished.

      Her smile was uncertain as she looped a big cashmere wrap around her shoulders. Agreeable? Was that supposed to have been a compliment? She wasn’t sure—not when he had managed to make it sound like some sort of growled insult.

      Frankie felt nervous as they went downstairs to the car—a short journey which seemed to involve a lot of high-powered and pre-arranged choreography. Cocooned by a small phalanx of bodyguards, Zahid walked at speed through the lobby—seemingly oblivious to the curious eyes which were darted in his direction—with her tottering on high heels behind him.

      A limousine was waiting outside the hotel—its door already open and engine purring—and as Frankie sat back against the squishy, soft leather seat she wondered how all this could have happened—and so quickly. Why, only last week she’d been showing a couple around a new-build and today she was being whisked through central London in a luxury limousine, with a brooding-looking sheikh sitting beside her.

      She splayed her fingers out over her lap. He seemed uncomfortably close—so that the atmosphere seemed full of his own particular scent. A potent cocktail of raw male mixed with sweet sandalwood and the tang of lemons was now invading her senses. And somehow he was managing to imprint his powerful body onto her subconscious, even though she was pointedly looking out of the car window in an attempt to lessen the impact he was having on her. What on earth was the matter with her? Shouldn’t she have been missing Simon—if only a little bit—instead of fantasising what it might be like if Zahid pulled her into his arms and began to kiss her?

      ‘Where … where are we going?’ she questioned breathlessly. ‘And tell me a bit more about what Tariq is doing these days.’

      Zahid watched with interest as she dug her nails into one silk-covered thigh. Much more of that and she would claw tiny holes into that new dress of hers, he thought. ‘There’s a private members’ club next door to The Ivy—and we’re meeting him there. He lives in England permanently now.’

      ‘Does he? Doing what?’

      ‘He runs the European arm of the family business—but he also has a very successful polo club in the south of England which he bought quite recently.’

      Of course he does, thought Frankie as the car coasted past the shining shop lights which lightened the dark November night and drew to a halt in front of a discreet door. She knew that Tariq was a superb and talented polo player, so it followed that he would have a club of his own. The Al Hakam family never did anything by halves.

      Inside the private members’ club, masses of flowers stood in eye-catching arrangements and a glass lift zoomed them up to a large room which somehow managed to have an intimate feel to it. In one corner, a grand piano was being played softly by an aging crooner who smiled at them as they walked in—and on a nearby table, Frankie recognised a soap-star who was more famous for her chequered love-life than for her work as an actress.

      They were ushered towards a small, private dining room and when they arrived Tariq was already seated at the table. It was the first time that Frankie had ever seen the brothers together—and with their dramatically dark good looks, the family resemblance was startling. But the younger brother was wearing faded jeans and a silk shirt—his shadowed jaw resolutely unshaven—and he had an air of slightly disreputable charm, which was at odds with Zahid’s rather more formal appearance.

      He rose to his feet when he saw them approach and the two men embraced. And then as Tariq let his arms fall away he gave Frankie a smile which she suspected had made many women melt into a puddle at his feet.

      ‘How unusual. It’s not like you to bring a woman with you, Zahid,’ he observed, his voice a honeyed murmur. ‘So who is this little beauty?’

      Zahid glared at his sibling. ‘This is Francesca.’

      ‘Francesca?’ There was a pause as Tariq frowned and then his face suddenly cleared as he made the connection. ‘Frankie? Frankie? I don’t believe it! Is that really you?’

      ‘Yes!’ She smiled back as he gathered her in a bear hug and she realised that Zahid had said pretty much the same thing. Which begged the question of how much she had changed. Did she really look that different? She guessed she did. Yet it was funny how you could be altered so radically on the exterior—and yet inside you felt exactly the same … with all those same nagging doubts and insecurities. ‘Yes, it’s really me!’

      ‘Wow! You look so different. Amazing! All pretty, and grown-up. Good heavens …’ Tariq frowned. ‘You and Zahid, I mean you aren’t—’

      ‘We aren’t anything,’ Zahid snapped, giving his brother another furious glare. ‘Francesca is working for me now.’

      ‘Is she now? That’s quite a bold step.’

      ‘But maybe it’s about time. Such an appointment will show the western world that we do take women seriously. And it will pacify some of the more rebellious females back home in Khayarzah.’

      Tariq laughed. ‘There speaks my brother, the King! How completely ruthless you can be, Zahid.’

      ‘You think so? I prefer to describe myself as a realist.’ Zahid shrugged. ‘And why not capitalise on opportunity when it comes knocking?’

      Frankie bit her lip as she heard herself described as an ‘opportunity’.

      ‘Wine, Frankie?’ asked Tariq.

      ‘I’d better not—’

      ‘Nonsense. If Zahid wants to show the world he’s tolerant and open to the ways of the west, then he should let his pretty guest have a glass of wine even if he doesn’t much care for it himself.’

      She rarely drank but Frankie suddenly found herself longing for a glass. So many emotional missiles had been hurled at her over the last few days and she still felt a little dazed by it all. Her whole pattern of living had crashed and she hadn’t quite got used to the new, rebooted version. She knew that she should be feeling more pain about the end of her relationship with Simon—but the crazy thing was that she didn’t. And that in turn made her feel guilty. She kept questioning her own judgment and every time she did it filled her with a feeling of failure. A drink might help relax her.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said, ignoring the narrow-eyed look which Zahid sent shooting in her direction. ‘I think I will.’

      The meal was a mixture of glamour and grit. Frankie was aware that she was in a high-octane atmosphere and being served some of the best food in the capital. But she felt strangely removed from it all—as if she was an outsider, looking in.

      Maybe that wasn’t so surprising. She was with two members of a royal family and they spent a lot of the evening speaking—and arguing—in their native tongue. Consequently, she found herself sipping at the rich red wine without really noticing and before she knew it she was halfway through a second glass. Her cheeks had begun to burn and Zahid was frowning at her across the table—and suddenly she found herself lost in the judgemental razoring of his gaze. Her tongue snaked out to encircle lips which had suddenly become bone-dry and she could have sworn she saw his eyes darken in response.

      ‘Don’t have anything more to drink, Francesca.’

      She hadn’t been intending to—at least, not until he clipped out that peremptory order. ‘Why, are you rationing me now?’ she questioned. ‘This is only my second glass.’

      Zahid felt irritated. It had been bad enough that his younger brother was stubbornly refusing to listen to reason and take his advice—without Francesca suddenly throwing her inhibitions to the wind. Why the hell had Tariq foisted that wine on her—and why had she let him?

      ‘You’re clearly not used to it. Come on,’ he said abruptly, rising to his feet. ‘It’s time we were going.’

      ‘But I haven’t had any pudding!’ she protested.

      ‘Wasn’t