In The Sheikh's Service. Susan Stephens

her, but then he curved the suspicion of a smile as if his affront at her rebellion had turned to grudging admiration. ‘You do have tiny feet,’ he allowed, ‘and a lot of very long hair to fit comfortably beneath the hat.’ He paused a moment, while she got used to the idea that he had given her a pretty thorough once-over, and was remembering her long hair from the club last night, as it was currently screwed up in a work-appropriate do on top of her head. ‘Though the high-vis’ jacket will keep you warm if it’s raining when you come out here again.’

      And he cared.

      She shuddered in a breath as he took the sides of the jacket in both hands and settled it properly on her shoulders. It was as if he were touching her naked skin, rather than the heavy waterproof jacket. He was so careful with her, and yet his touch was firm and sure.

      ‘You are tiny,’ he said.

      She frowned a little at that. No one in their right mind would call her tiny. Though, compared to him...

      Her cheeks flushed red as he stood back. His gaze lingered on her face, and for a moment she didn’t know what to say or do. She sucked in a swift breath as he reached out to brush some damp straggles of hair from her face. She had not expected that and, for once in her life, found herself wishing she were beautiful. Usually she didn’t care one way or the other about her looks, or lack of them, but for once it would have been nice to have a man brush wet hair from her face because he wanted to take a better look at her, rather than simply keeping her hair out of her eyes. If she had been beautiful, maybe she could have progressed a fantasy into a moment of pure romance: the chance meeting, love at first sight, and with a man who wouldn’t be rough with her—

      ‘That’s it,’ he said with finality.

      His sharp tone brought her back to reality. Checking the fastening on the jacket, she raised the hood, ready to step out into the rain.

      ‘Excellent,’ he approved in a tone that suggested he had also sprung back into work mode.

      She had definitely overstayed her welcome. But as she hurried to the door she managed to trip over a table—or would have done if he hadn’t reached out whip-fast to catch her. She rested for a moment, startled in his arms, and only realised when he settled her back on her feet that she hadn’t felt threatened by him at all.

       CHAPTER THREE

      A GREY DAY in London had taken on a rosy hue, thanks to the unexpected reappearance of a woman who had intrigued him from the first moment he saw her. From pole-dancer to barista was quite a journey. Whether the rush of blood to Isla’s cheeks was awareness of him and how close they were standing, or pique that she had only been doing as his office had requested, delivering coffee, when he had ordered her off site for a breach of Health and Safety regs—

      Health and Safety regs?

      Was that why his hands had expertly skimmed her body? He already knew what lay beneath the bulky safety jacket. Her fuller figure was his ideal. The temptation to back her against the door and strip her down to last night’s curves was overwhelming—fortunately, there wasn’t time and he had more sense. The one thing that did amuse him was the thought that if Isla had known who he was, he doubted it would have made a jot of difference. This was not a woman to be wooed with status and wealth. She liked you or she didn’t. And right now, she didn’t.

      ‘Do you mind?’ she said, pushing him away.

      That in itself was an intriguing first for him. For such a self-possessed woman—and he had to remind himself that this was the same woman who had conducted herself with such dignity in the undignified surroundings of the club—she was surprisingly jumpy, acting almost like an innocent now that they were one to one.

      Yes. He’d stopped her falling; Isla allowed with an appropriate amount of gratitude as she brushed herself down. But, let’s not get carried away. He couldn’t hold onto her until her bones turned to jelly, and she had no more sense in her head than a moth flying into a flame. She flashed a warning stare—and had to acknowledge that he was a gentleman, as he’d let her go. And fate had dealt him a more than generous hand. Douse any other man in a rainstorm, and they would look like a drowned rat. Douse this man and he still looked spectacular. His thick black hair glistened with raindrops, while her hair was plastered to her face—and she probably had panda eyes from knuckling rainwater out of them.

      ‘Here, Isla...take it.’

      She stared at the money in his hand.

      ‘It’s the least I can do,’ he insisted, thrusting a wad of notes towards her.

      ‘There’s no need for that. I’m just doing my job.’

      The job you want to keep?

      ‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ she added. ‘If you would like to leave some money at the end of the week for everyone at the café to share, that would be great.’

      What was she doing? Could she afford to turn down such a generous tip?

      No. Absolutely not, but something felt wrong about accepting such a large tip from a man she hardly knew—and particularly from this man. It was too much, and after last night at the club when she suspected he had doubled Chrissie’s pay, she couldn’t take any more from him.

      Cut him some slack, Isla’s inner voice intoned wearily. No doubt everyone who works for the fabulously wealthy Sheikh has more money than they know what to do with.

      Maybe. But that wasn’t the point. A small show of gratitude was acceptable, but flashing a twenty? She wasn’t comfortable with that.

      ‘Thanks anyway...’ She shot him a thin smile and left it at that before braving the icy wind with the memory of his fleeting touches branded onto her mind.

      Knocking mud off her boots, she walked with relief into the steamy heat of the busy café. It was good to be back on familiar ground. She felt safe from conflicting feelings here. The customers liked her and she liked them. Charlie said she invited confidences with her easy manner. The truth was Isla needed company as much as anyone else. Since losing her mother and paying off all their debts, she had lived alone in one room above a shop, and she loved the contrast of her busy life at the café. All that company and chat, with breakfast thrown in? What was not to love?

      Customers that shook her up, like the man from the building site?

      She should forget him. He’d probably be gone by tomorrow.

      Forget him?

      Maybe not, but she would do her best to keep her mind on the job.

      The aromatic air inside the café made Isla’s mouth water. Charlie was a good cook and he fed his staff well. No wonder she was smiling, when she had such a great day to look forward to. Once she finished her shift here, she was due at the university gym. Gymnastics had been one of Isla’s childhood passions in the days before her father walked out and her mother got sick, and now she was grateful to make money out of her skill. She worked every hour she could to fulfil her mother’s dying wish and make her proud.

      ‘My shift is nearly over,’ Chrissie carolled happily as she joined Isla at the counter.

      ‘Mine too,’ Isla said with a grin.

      After the gymnastics classes she could look forward to a long, peaceful evening. That might involve wearing every jumper she possessed with her feet drawn up as close as she dared to her three-bar electric fire, but at least she had a home to go to. A quick glance at Charlie to let him know that she was back was repaid by a hard stare. Understandably. She’d been gone a long time. But once Charlie took in her new outfit, he began to smile. Charlie wasn’t the only one. She was so wet, and it was so hot in the café that her clothes were starting to steam. Tipping Charlie a wry look, she explained what had kept her so long. ‘I’m to be the Sheikh’s team’s regular gofer. I think they’re going to need lots of coffee while they’re here.’

      Charlie was pleased to hear it. ‘Well done for encouraging business.’