Australia: In Bed with a Sheikh!. Emma Darcy

own which was still set against him. Nevertheless, word of their togetherness would be relayed to his uncle and mixed messages would not put an effective block on the canny old man’s political manoeuvrings.

      It would have been so much simpler if they’d become lovers by now. Then staying at the embassy, which was his usual practice, would have established the relationship in the eyes of the staff, thereby making it very quickly known. As it was, taking up residence in the Oval Suite at the Willard-Continental was almost as good. It implied a desire for privacy in which to enjoy a new intimacy. Though he was fast coming to the conclusion there might never be physical intimacy with Sarah.

      He’d really muddied his slate over that stupid business at Silver Springs. Letting Dionne Van Housen play with a flirtation had served as a distraction from his frustration, but it had cost him dearly, turning him into a lesser man in Sarah’s eyes. An unlikeable man. And while he admired her high standards of integrity, they drew a line he found he couldn’t cross. Not with an easy conscience.

      Tareq shook his head self-mockingly. It was crazy, trying to live up to what she wanted him to be, yet he was doing it as best he could. The funny part was, it gave him a real buzz to win a smile from her, to feel warmth seeping past her guard. He liked being with her even if it was only company and conversation. He liked the purity of her thinking, the directness of her honesty. In that way, she was still the child he’d remembered.

      Which put him into even more conflict.

      The urge to look after her quarrelled with the constant desire to reach out and take her, make her his for as long as it worked for them. Yet as much as he told himself he’d be good for her, he couldn’t quite dismiss the possibility he might end up hurting her. Badly. And hurting Sarah would be like hurting a child.

      Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep.

      If she equated sex with a promise of love…a promise of commitment…

      He couldn’t lie to her.

      Which left what…being honourable?

      Tareq was grimacing at this unpalatable line of logic when Sarah made her entrance to the sitting room. Her appearance brought his pacing to an abrupt halt. It blotted out everything else on his mind. It shot a bolt of fire to his loins. It flipped his heart.

      She looked utterly, stunningly beautiful, a picture of style and elegance, and so gut-wrenchingly sexy Tareq didn’t trust himself to move. One step towards her and he’d be hauling her off to bed like a caveman.

      “Will I do?” she asked, slowly pirouetting to give him the full effect of her outfit.

      A long tunic made of some soft, clinging fabric moulded every line and curve of her figure like a second skin. The high round neckline and long sleeves accentuated the effect of a total body covering stretched around her flesh to faithfully outline her femininity. It was overwhelmingly sensual yet undeniably modest. Youthful.

      The green floral pattern on a background of pure white had the fresh appeal of spring, and this was highlighted by a single white silk flower, perched on one shoulder, close to the curve of her throat. No jewellery to diminish the effect.

      The tunic was slit on both sides to mid-thigh, and she wore long white satin trousers underneath it, giving an Eastern flavour to the outfit, making it even more alluring.

      “Well?” she prompted, her eyes uncertain, seeking approval.

      Her vulnerability pierced his heart. His plans—everything he’d thought in coming to some solution that would suit him—suddenly seemed terribly wrong. There was no clear course except…to protect her. Even from himself.

      He took a deep breath, banking down the fire within. She was waiting for an answer. He should let her go…out of his too complicated life…yet deep inside him screamed a need to keep her with him.

      “Perfect!” he declared—a perfect torment of seductive innocence.

      “I know it’s right for me,” she said artlessly. “I loved it from the moment I tried it on when I went shopping in Naples. But is it right for tonight?”

      She would stand out like a spring flower amongst hothouse roses, Tareq thought, and the imagery instantly inspired the only course for him to take…if he was to keep her in his life…a bit longer anyway…long enough to make sense of everything.

      “Perfect!” he repeated, smiling reassurance as he walked towards her. “You look so very lovely, I consider it an honour to be escorting you tonight.”

      She flushed at the compliment, pleasure warming her eyes.

      He lifted one of her hands to his lips and bestowed a soft kiss of homage. Gallantry was not dead. Tareq had just resurrected it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

       London

      14th December

      Dear Jessie,

      It hasn’t snowed here yet but the weather people are forecasting a white Christmas in England. It’s bitterly cold outside, much colder than Washington and New York. Lucky for us, Tareq’s house in Eaton Place has good central heating. I do miss the sun, though. I guess I was spoiled by the two weeks we had in Florida.

      SARAH STARED AT the words on the computer monitor screen and was struck by the sheer inanity of bumbling on about the weather. It was what people did to evade touching on anything more sensitive. It filled in space that couldn’t be filled with anything else. Certainly not the truth. Impossible to confide the truth to a ten-year-old child.

      The acute sense of loneliness that she’d hoped to allay by writing to Jessie became more acute. She was hopelessly in love with Tareq al-Khaima and there was no one she could talk to about how she felt, no one she could turn to for advice. Certainly not her mother.

      The day after arriving in London she’d telephoned Marchington Hall to ask that the clothes she’d left there in storage be sent to her. Amongst them were her good cashmere cape and some classic woollens that never went out of fashion.

      “What number did you say in Eaton Place?” her mother had queried.

      Sarah had repeated it and the Countess of Marchington had gloatingly pounced. “I know that address. It’s Tareq al-Khaima’s residence. What are you doing there, Sarah?”

      There was no point in denial. Her mother was like a ferret when it came to finding out what she wanted to know about noteworthy people. “I met up with Tareq in Australia and he invited me to travel with him. I’m his guest at the moment,” Sarah had rattled out, trying to make it all sound blithely innocent.

      “What a clever girl you are! Do try to hang on to him, darling. He’s fabulously wealthy. And so gorgeous!”

      The avid note in her voice had been enough to turn Sarah off saying anything more. Everything within her recoiled from having what she felt tarnished by her mother’s values. She’d swiftly ended the call, though she suspected her mother would now plot a meeting to check out the possibilities. That had to be blocked at all costs. It would be hideously embarrassing and humiliating.

      Sarah gritted her teeth against a rise of bitterness and forced her mind back to the letter.

      Washington…the word leapt out at her from the screen. She’d sent Jessie postcards of the White House, Arlington Cemetery, the Ford Theater where President Lincoln had been shot, the Air and Space Museum which had housed so many marvels from the first plane flown by the Wright Brothers to the Apollo space capsule carrying models of the astronauts; all the places she had visited during the day when Tareq was busy with meetings. But the nights…

      It had been both daunting and exciting accompanying Tareq to the dinners and parties where his VIP status was awesomely in evidence. He was courted by politicians, lobbyists, diplomats, not to mention their wives who were very solicitous of his pleasure. No one mentioned horses