Ruling Sheikh, Unruly Mistress. Susan Stephens

relationship with Mac was purely professional, and she’d only known him five minutes, but it would have been nice if, only for a few moments of that time, the frisson she felt could have been a two-way connection. The best thing now was to have a long soak and try to forget him. But she couldn’t, because she had somewhere to be and there were jobs to do first—beds to turn down, bathrooms to clean, towels to check, fires to bank up…

      She was running late by the time she finished all her remaining tasks and she still had to get ready—number one on the list was a quick bath, and then she’d have to run all the way to the club where her friends would be waiting for her.

      Interest laced with concern for Lucy had developed into hot, shameless lust. Razi had to have her. She was beautiful, unaffected and available—and as soon as he had given her a chance to clear up the chalet and set up for the morning he was going to have her.

      His impatience was easy to explain—apart from the ache in his groin the clock was ticking. He had never felt the weight of duty more. He embraced the responsibilities coming his way with enthusiasm, but was under no illusion as to the effect they would have on his lifestyle. A traditional marriage—even if not to his cousin Leila—was on the cards. He owed it to his country. But before then…

      ‘Preoccupied, Razi?’ Tom asked him discreetly.

      ‘You know,’ he said offhandedly. They were sitting in a noisy bar and he was already itching to move on. The drinks weren’t cold enough and the nibbles tasted of cardboard after Lucy’s delicacies.

      Next time she could serve them on her naked body and he’d lick the champagne she spilled off her belly.

      ‘We can move on if you like,’ Tom suggested.

      ‘Sorry, Tom. Didn’t mean to ignore you—things on my mind.’

      ‘Oh, no.’ Tom sighed theatrically and passed a hand across his eyes. ‘Let me guess.’

      ‘Don’t,’ he said sharply. For some reason he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone, even Tom, making sport of Lucy. ‘Don’t even go there, Tom. Let’s just move on.’

      Muffled up in a super-sized ski jacket, a long scarf, a woolly hat with a bobble on top and a thick pair of gloves, Lucy hurried along the empty streets towards the club. The streets were deserted because everyone was already cosy and warm inside one of the many restaurants and bars by this time of night. It was a world of muffled music and the occasional blast of noise and laughter as a door opened briefly.

      She was feeling guilty as she scudded along, knowing her brothers would have loved an event like the one she was due to take part in, while she felt shy at the prospect of entering a crowded club where everyone would know each other. She only hoped she could find her colleagues straight away when she arrived—and that Mac and co didn’t decide to go there too. She shivered at the thought of it and almost lost her nerve and turned around.

      Her enthusiasm for the event shrank even more when a member of a rival chalet company barred her way at the entrance. ‘Here’s the runner up,’ he announced to his friends, who all started laughing. She hurried past, but her confidence had taken a dive. It got worse when she saw all her colleagues waiting for her and looking so hopeful.

      ‘Ready?’ they chorused.

      ‘As I’ll ever be,’ Lucy confirmed, wondering why she had agreed to sing in the first place. Being a good choir girl hardly qualified her for the annual karaoke competition between the rival chalet companies, and the moment she entered the makeshift dressing room, which doubled as the ladies’ restroom, she knew she’d made a big mistake. She didn’t have the personality for something like this.

      ‘Make-up?’ one of the girls prompted, waking her out of the terror stupor. They were stripping off her coat and scarf, and one of them plucked the hat from her head.

      ‘I don’t have any make-up.’

      ‘You don’t?’ The girls looked at each other in alarm.

      ‘I’ve never bought any.’

      Alarm was replaced by incredulity.

      ‘I’m not very good with it.’

      ‘Not surprising if you never tried,’ one girl said with an encouraging smile, stepping forward. ‘No worries—we’ll do it for you.’

      ‘Oh, no, thank you—but if I wear make up, I’ll look awful.’ I look bad enough already, Lucy thought, gazing in despair at her reflection. Compared to the other girls she was a real plain Jane.

      ‘You couldn’t possibly look awful,’ one of the other girls said kindly.

      ‘I only took off my apron five minutes ago.’

      ‘So imagine the transformation.’

      They were all so eager to help. How could she let them down? She dragged her confidence cloak tightly round her. ‘Okay, I suppose we’d better get on with it.’

      Hasty words, Lucy realised as one of them produced a costume for her to wear with a flourish, carolling, ‘Ta da!’

      ‘No,’ she said firmly. Singing was one thing, but she was going to wear her sensible off-duty clothes, which comprised jeans and a pale blue fleece.

      The girls looked at each other and then, recognising the straw that might well break the camel’s back, they gave in.

      ‘Just tell me when I have to sing and I’ll be fine.’ Or she might be, if her upper lip didn’t feel as if it were superglued to her teeth.

      ‘Here, have a drink of water,’ one of her colleagues said as Lucy licked to no effect with a bone-dry tongue.

      Then they all went silent as the contestant from the opposing chalet company began to sing.

      ‘He’s got a great voice,’ Lucy commented, swallowing hard.

      ‘And he’s hot,’ one of the girls added.

      Better to know she didn’t stand a chance before she headed for the makeshift stage, Lucy reasoned. ‘I’m going to give it everything I’ve got.’ She smiled bravely as a pile of make-up bags hit the counter.

      Then the girls took over, transforming her while she could only watch helplessly. One of them brushed out her hair and curled it with a heated wand, while another made up her face.

      ‘Relax—I do this as a living when I’m not doing the ski season,’ one girl assured Lucy as she applied a brown stripe beneath Lucy’s cheekbones, a white one above and a blob of red on the apple of her cheek.

      Now she looked like a painted doll with exaggerated colouring. She should never have let this happen.

      Lucy closed her eyes, resigned to her fate, so it was a surprise when she opened them to find that once the stripes had been blended in she didn’t look half bad. Her skin looked even, radiant, and her face sculpted. The make-up was like a mask, Lucy realised with relief—a mask to hide behind. Careful work on her eyes and lips had turned her into someone she hardly recognised and Mac would certainly never recognise her if he decided to come in for a drink. ‘I had no idea,’ she murmured, leaning forward.

      ‘No time for that,’ the girls insisted as she continued to stare into the mirror, amazed at her reflection. Taking hold of her on either side, they ushered her outside.

      One last glance confirmed the surprising fact that, left loose, her hair didn’t look half bad either. Thanks to the styling wand it hung in thick waves almost to her waist. She had never worn her hair like this before, because her mother said long hair was untidy, and, of course, in a professional kitchen her hair was always covered. Make-up? She pressed her rouged lips together anxiously—she’d never get used to it, but at least the girls looked pleased.

      ‘You look amazing,’ one of them assured her and they all agreed.

      ‘Amazingly silly?’

      ‘No!’

      ‘Have