The Desert Sheikh's Defiant Queen. Jane Porter

      But they weren’t in Sarq yet. No, they were heading for the glossy and busy city-state of Dubai.

      A 200-year-old city, once populated by pirates and smugglers, today Dubai was a cosmopolitan melting pot, teeming with more foreigners than locals. The city had blossomed overnight with the discovery of oil and now had so much money that the powers that be kept coming up with the most interesting ways to put it all back into the country and boost tourism. Jesslyn hadn’t quite gotten used to the idea of manmade islands shaped like the world, or the snow ski facility in the desert. There were already plans underway for a huge theme park called Dubailand, along the lines of Disneyland and even an underwater hotel.

      Dubai Creek ran through the middle of the city-state with the business district Deira to the east, and Bur Dubai, the commercial and historic district, to the west.

      But the driver wasn’t going to Deira or Bur Dubai, he was destined for Jumeriah Beach, the playland for the rich, royal and beautiful.

      Despite living in the Emirates for six years Jesslyn had spent very little time at Jumeriah Beach’s posh waterfront resorts. For one, you couldn’t even get into some of the hotels unless you were a hotel guest, and “treating” oneself to a night at the Burj Al Arab, reportedly the most luxurious hotel in the world, wasn’t in the budget, not when rooms started at $1,280. But obviously that wasn’t a problem for a man with Sharif’s wealth.

      “We’re eating here?” she asked Sharif as the car turned into the hotel’s private drive.

      “And staying here. I’ve my own suite reserved for my exclusive use.”

      “That’s nice.”

      He merely smiled at her, the smile of a king who’d become used to having his way.

      As they stepped from the car, Jesslyn felt as if she’d entered a production of Arabian Nights: gilded doors magically opened, overhead lights dimmed, lush green fronds parted.

      The uniformed staff scrambled to assist Sharif, and while Jesslyn knew hotel staff were exceptionally attentive in Dubai, she personally found the attention overwhelming. There were too many people, too much bowing, too much of everything.

      “You’ll have your own suite,” Sharif said. “And the hotel manager has promised to see you there and make sure you’ve everything you need.”

      Jesslyn glanced around. “My luggage—”

      The hotel manager nodded. “It’s already there, ma’am.”

      While Sharif took one elevator, she took another, escorted by the hotel manager and a young woman in a fashionable robe and veil. The hotel manager described the hotel, explained where everything was, including the numerous restaurants and lounges. “You’ll have your own butler,” he added, gesturing to the veiled young woman, “and anything you should need will be taken care of. Also, you will be dining with His Highness in thirty minutes. Meena will escort you to the restaurant where you’ll be joining Sheikh Fehr.”

      Jesslyn barely had time for a quick bath, a change into a simple black skirt topped by a soft silk pearl-gray blouse and a quick brush of her hair before it was time to go.

      She followed the robed woman back to the elevator where they went to a lower level, transferred to a different elevator, which went straight to the restaurant at the very top of the luxurious hotel.

      Jesslyn had to skirt a group of robed men who were in animated discussion. She caught bits and pieces of the conversation—impossible not to as they were talking quite loudly—and discovered their conversation had to do with Sheikh Fehr. Apparently two or more of the men had daughters and each father was quite adamant that it was his daughter who would be marrying King Fehr next September.

      Jesslyn froze and stiffened as though she’d just been doused with a bucket of ice water.

      Was Sharif getting married again? Were plans in the works for another Dubai princess?

      Her head practically throbbed. Jesslyn put a hand to her temple, closed her eyes, wondering all over again just what kind of personal hell she’d agreed to. Tragically, she had no one else to blame for her situation. She’d agreed to this scenario. Had offered herself up.

      Her ridiculous morals and values. Her ridiculous Joan of Arc complex!

      One day she’d wise up. One day she’d put herself first, protect herself first.

      “Headache?” a deep voice murmured at her elbow. Lifting her head, Jesslyn looked up into Sharif’s face.

      The lashes fringing his silver eyes were thick and black. Strong cheekbones jutted above an equally strong jaw.

      “Terrible,” she admitted, but unwilling to tell him that he was the source of her tension.

      “Food will help and they have our table waiting.”

      Sharif signaled to the maître d’ that they were ready, and immediately the host showed them to a prime window table with a view of the entire city where skyscrapers glittered in every direction.

      Sharif ordered several appetizers to be brought right away as well as platters for dinner. “Eat,” Sharif said when the first of the appetizers arrived, pushing the small plates of seasoned meat, fish and assorted flat breads toward her. “You’ll feel better.”

      But eating in front of Sharif was almost impossible. Even though the dishes were superbly prepared, chewing and swallowing required a Herculean effort, and after a few more bites of food Jesslyn gave up.

      Sharif had watched her attempt to eat and now observed her pushing her food around her plate. “Have you developed one of those eating disorders? You never had a problem with food before.”

      Jesslyn was grateful to drop the pretense. “It’s been a long day and a hard day. I thought I’d be on a plane right now and instead …” Her voice drifted off and, looking across the table at Sharif, she gave her head a slight, bemused shake. “It’s hard to take in, hard to accept.”

      Just saying the words filled her with fury and resentment. Sharif could have helped her without insisting she give up her holiday. He could have helped her just because he was in a position to be able to help.

      “You’re upset because I won,” he said, his tone deceptively mild.

      She turned her head, gave him a long, level look. “Is that what this is to you? A competition? Or better yet, a battle where one person must win and the other loses?”

      The edge of his generous mouth curved, and yet his gaze was hard, hot, sharp, and he looked at her so intensely that she felt bolts of electricity shoot through her.

      “You haven’t yet learned that everything in life is a competition?” he drawled, his deep voice pitched low, his tone lazy, almost indulgent. “Life is just one endless battle after another. It’s all about power. It’s nothing but a quest for control.”

      The chemistry between them had always been strong, and even though nearly a decade had passed since she’d last seen him, Jesslyn felt wildly, painfully aware of Sharif.

      “Is that what being a king has taught you?”

      He suddenly leaned forward, close enough that she could see the sparks of fire and ice in his eyes. “It’s what being a man has taught me.”

      She didn’t know if it was his tone or his words but she shifted nervously, strangely self-conscious. Sharif had never made her feel this way before. Anxious. Unsettled. Undone. But then, he’d never been an adversary before and yet somehow it’s what he’d become.

      Winners and losers, she silently repeated as she crossed her legs beneath the table and accidentally touched his knee with her own. Abruptly she drew back, but not before heat washed through her, heat and embarrassment and a painful awareness.

      Their table was too small.

      The dining room was too dark.

      The