His Christmas Conquest. Maisey Yates

presence—but not anymore. She’d had to do a lot of growing up these past few years and her experiences had made her strong. These days she lived an independent life she was proud of—even if currently it felt as if she was clinging on to that independence by her fingernails.

      ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you,’ she said, tipping her head to one side, ‘that it’s polite to wait for someone to answer the first ring, rather than deafening them with a repeated summons?’

      Saladin raised his eyebrows, unable to hide his surprise at her feisty response. It was an untraditional greeting to receive, even here in England where the demands of protocol were less rigid than in his homeland. But even so. His royal presence was usually enough to guarantee total deference, and although he sometimes complained to his advisors that people were never normal around him, he missed deference when it wasn’t there.

      He narrowed his eyes and studied her. ‘Do you know who I am?’

      She laughed. She actually laughed—her shiny ponytail swaying from side to side, like the tail of a chestnut horse.

      ‘I thought that was the kind of question B-list celebrities asked when they were trying to get into the latest seedy nightclub,’ she said.

      Saladin felt a flicker of annoyance and something else. Something that was a little harder to define. He had been warned that she was difficult. That she could be prickly and stubborn—but these were qualities that were usually melted away by the sheer force of his personality and his position in society. And, not to put too fine a point on it, by his impact on the opposite sex, who usually melted like ice in the desert whenever he was around. His instinct was to bite back a withering response to put her in her place, but Livvy Miller had something he badly wanted so that he was forced to adopt a reasonable tone, something that didn’t come easily to him. ‘It was a genuine question,’ he said. ‘I am Saladin Al Mektala.’

      ‘I know who you are.’

      ‘And my office have been trying to contact you.’ He paused. ‘Repeatedly.’

      She smiled, but Saladin noted that the smile did not reach her eyes.

      ‘I know that, too,’ she said. ‘In fact, they’ve been bombarding me with emails and phone calls for the past week. I’ve barely been able to switch on my computer without a new message from [email protected] pinging into my inbox.’

      ‘Yet you chose to ignore them?’

      ‘That is my prerogative, surely?’ She leaned on the doorjamb, her unusual eyes shaded by their forest of lashes. ‘I gave them the same answer every time. I told them I wasn’t interested. If they were unable to accept that, then surely the fault lies with them. My position hasn’t changed.’

      Saladin could barely disguise his growing irritation. ‘But you don’t know what it is they were asking of you.’

      ‘Something to do with a horse. And that was enough for me.’

      She drew herself up to her full height but he still towered over her. He found himself thinking that he could probably lift her up with one hand. When he’d heard about her ability to soothe huge and very temperamental horses, he’d never imagined she could be so...petite.

      ‘Because I don’t have anything to do with horses anymore,’ she finished gravely.

      Dragging his gaze from her slender frame to eyes that were the colour of honey, he fixed her with a questioning look. ‘Why not?’

      She gave a little clicking sound of irritation, but not before he had seen something dark in her eyes. A flash of something uncomfortable that he stored away for future reference.

      ‘That’s really none of your business,’ she said, tilting her chin in a gesture of defiance. ‘I don’t have to offer any kind of explanation for my decisions, particularly to people who turn up unannounced on my doorstep at one of the busiest times of the year.’

      Saladin felt the first flicker of heat. And of challenge. He was not used to resistance, or defiance. In his world, whatever he wanted was his. A click of his fingers or a cool glance was usually enough to guarantee him whatever he desired. Certainly, this kind of opposition was largely unknown to him, and certainly when it came from a woman, because women enjoyed submitting to his will—not opposing it. His response was one of renewed determination, which was quickly followed by the first sweet shimmer of sexual arousal and that surprised him. Because although Olivia Miller was reputed to have a magical touch when it came to horses, she certainly hadn’t applied the same fairy dust to her appearance.

      Saladin’s lips curled. She was one of those women who the English called tomboys—and he didn’t approve, for weren’t women supposed to look like women? Her hair was pale brown, touched by red—a colour named after the great Italian painter Titian and a colour rare enough to be admired—but it was tied back in a functional ponytail, and her freckled face was completely bare of artifice. Why, even her jeans failed to do the only commendable thing that jeans were capable of—they were loose around her bottom instead of clinging to it like syrup. Which made the undeniable stir of lust he was feeling difficult to understand. Because why on earth should he be attracted to someone who sublimated her femininity as much as possible?

      He narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you aware that your attitude could be termed as insolence?’ he questioned softly. ‘And that it is unwise to answer the king of Jazratan in such a way?’

      Again, that defiant tilt of the chin. He wondered if she was aware that such a positioning of her face made her look as if she were inviting him to kiss her.

      ‘I wasn’t intending to be insolent,’ she said, although the message in her eyes told him otherwise. ‘I was simply stating a fact. What I chose to do with my life has nothing to do with you. I owe you no explanation. I am not one of your royal subjects.’

      ‘No, you are not, but you might at least grant me the courtesy of hearing what I have to say,’ he bit out. ‘Or does the word hospitality mean nothing to you? Are you aware that I have travelled many miles in the most inclement weather in order to meet you?’

      Livvy eyed the remaining bunches of mistletoe still waiting to be hung and thought about all the other things that needed to be done before her guests arrived. She wanted to make more cake to fill the house with sweet smells, and there were fires to make up in all the bedrooms. Her to-do list was as long as her arm and this handsome and vaguely intimidating stranger was hindering her. ‘You could have chosen a more convenient time than just before Christmas,’ she said.

      ‘And when would have been a more convenient time?’ he retorted. ‘When you have consistently refused to be pinned down?’

      ‘Most people would have taken the hint and cut their losses.’

      ‘I am a king. I don’t do hints’ came his stony response.

      Livvy hesitated. His behaviour confirmed everything she’d ever heard about him. He had been known for his arrogance on the racing circuit—seemingly with good reason—and she was so tempted to tell him to go. But she was running a business—even if it was currently a struggling business—and if she angered Saladin Al Mektala any more than he was already clearly angered, he might just spread a malicious word or two around the place. She could imagine it would be easy for someone like him to drip a little more poison onto her already damaged reputation. And adverse publicity could be death if you worked in the hospitality industry.

      Behind him, she could see the falling snow, which had been coming down in bucketloads since before breakfast. Fat flakes were tumbling past like a never-ending slide show. Lawns that earlier had been merely spattered with the stuff now sported a thick white mantle—as if someone had been layering on cotton wool while she hadn’t been looking. If it carried on like this, the lanes would soon be impassable and she’d never get rid of him. And she wanted to get rid of him. She didn’t like him dominating her doorway and exuding all that testosterone and making her think about stuff she hadn’t thought about in a long time. She didn’t like the way he made her feel.

      Farther