Desert Jewels. Annie West

And if that was the case then she’d probably passed it. Because she genuinely didn’t care about money. She had enough for her needs and that was plenty. What had her mother always told her? Don’t aim too high; just high enough.

      ‘I just wanted to know if it was as beautiful as…’ Her words tailed off. As if he could possibly be interested!

      But he was looking at her curiously, as if he was interested.

      ‘As beautiful as what?’

      She swallowed. ‘As the way you described it. You once told me all about Khayarzah. You were very…passionate about it. You said the sand was like fine gold and the rivers like streams of silver. You probably don’t remember.’

      Tariq stared at her, as if he was trying to place her, but shook his head.

      ‘No, I don’t remember,’ he admitted, and then, as he glanced up to see a determined-looking blonde making her way towards them, he took Isobel’s elbow. ‘So why don’t you refresh my memory for me?’ And he led her away to a quieter section of the room.

      And that was that. An unexpected meeting between two people who had both felt like outsiders within the privileged walls of an English public school. What was more it seemed that Tariq happened to have a need, and that Isobel could be just the person to answer that need. He was looking for someone to be his assistant. Someone he could talk to without her being fazed by who he was and what he represented. Someone he could trust.

      The salary he was offering made it madness for her even to consider refusing, so Isobel accepted his offer and quickly realised that no job description in the world could have prepared her for working for him.

      He wanted honesty, yes—but he also demanded deference, as and when it suited him.

      He was fair, but he was also a powerful sheikh who had untold wealth at his fingertips—so he could also be highly unreasonable, too.

      And he was sexy. As sexy as any man was ever likely to be. Everyone said so—even Isobel’s more feminist friends, who disapproved of him. But Isobel’s strength was that she simply refused to see it. After that meeting in the library she had trained herself to be immune to his appeal as if she was training for a marathon. Even if she considered herself to be in his league—which she didn’t—she still wouldn’t have been foolish enough to fancy him.

      Because men like Tariq were trouble—too aware of their power over the opposite sex and not afraid to use it. She’d watched as women who fell in love with him were discarded once he’d tired of them. And she knew from her own background how lives could be ruined if passion was allowed to rule the roost. Hadn’t her mother bitterly regretted falling for a charmer like Tariq? Telling her that the brief liaison had affected her whole life?

      No, he was definitely not on Isobel’s wish-list of men. His strong, muscular body and hard, hawkish features didn’t fill her with longing, but with an instinctive wariness which had always served her well.

      Because she wouldn’t have lasted five minutes—let alone five years—if she had lost her heart to the Sheikh.

      She steered the car up a narrow lane and came to a halt outside her beloved little cottage. The March sunshine was clear and pale, illuminating the purple, white and yellow crocuses which were pushing through the earth. She loved this time of year, with all its new beginnings and endless possibilities. Opening the car door a fraction, she could hear birds tweeting their jubilant celebration of springtime—but still Tariq didn’t stir.

      She turned to look at him—at the ebony arcs of his feathered lashes which were the only soft component to make up his formidable face. She had never seen him asleep before, and it was like looking at a very different man. The hard planes and angles of his features threw shadows over his olive skin, and for once his sensual lips were relaxed. Once again she saw an unfamiliar trace of vulnerability etched on his features, and once again she felt that little stab of awareness at her heart.

      He was so still, she thought wonderingly. Remarkably still for a man who rarely stopped. Who drove himself remorselessly in the way that successful men always did. Why, it seemed almost a shame to wake him…and to have him face the reality of his convalescence in her humble home.

      Racking her brain, she thought back to how she’d left the place last weekend, and realised that there was no fresh food or milk. Stuff she would normally have brought down with her from London.

      Reaching out her hand, she touched his shoulder lightly—but his eyelashes moved instantly, the black eyes suspicious and alert as they snapped open.

      For a moment Tariq stayed perfectly still, his memory filtering back in jigsaw pieces. What was he doing sitting in an uncomfortably cramped and strange car, while Izzy frowned down at him, her breathing slightly quickened and her amber eyes dark with concern?

      And then he remembered. She had offered to play nursemaid for the next week—just not the kind of nursemaid which would have been his preference. His mouth hardened as he dispelled an instant fantasy of a woman with creamy curves busting out of a little uniform which ill concealed the black silk stockings beneath. Because Isobel was not that woman. And under the circumstances wasn’t that best?

      ‘We’re here!’ said Isobel brightly, even though her heart had inexplicably started thudding at some dangerous and unknown quality she’d read in his black eyes. ‘Welcome to my home.’

CHAPTER THREE

      ‘CAREFUL,’ warned Isobel.

      ‘Please don’t state the obvious,’ Tariq snapped, as he bent his head to avoid the low front door.

      ‘I was only trying to help,’ she protested, as he walked straight past her.

      Stepping into the cluttered sitting room was no better, and Tariq quickly discovered that the abundance of overhanging beams was nothing short of a health hazard. ‘I’ve already had one knock to the head, and I don’t particularly want another,’ he growled. ‘Why is your damned ceiling so low?’

      ‘Because men didn’t stand at over six feet when these houses were built!’ she retorted, thinking that he had to be the most ungrateful man ever to have drawn breath. Here she was, putting herself out by giving him house-space for a week, and all he could do was come out with a litany of complaints.

      But some of her exasperation dissolved as she closed the front door, so that the two of them were enclosed in a room which up until that moment she had always thought of as a safe and cosy sanctuary. But not any more. Suddenly it didn’t seem safe at all…

      She felt hot blood begin to flood through her veins—because the reality of having Tariq standing here was having a bizarre effect on her senses. Had the dimensions magically shrunk? Or was it just his towering physique which dwarfed everything else around him?

      Even in jeans and the soft swathing of a grey cashmere sweater he seemed to exude a charisma which drew the eye like nothing else. His faded jeans were stretched over powerful thighs and the sweater hinted at honed muscle beneath. Somehow he managed to make her cottage look like a prop from Toytown, and the thick and solid walls suddenly seemed insubstantial. Come to think of it, didn’t she feel a little insubstantial herself?

      She remembered that uncomfortable feeling of awareness which had come over her in the hospital—when she’d looked down at him and something inside her had melted. It was as if in that moment she had suddenly given herself permission to see him as other women saw him—and the impact of that had rocked her. And now it was rocking her all over again. Something about the way he was standing there was making her heart slam hard against her ribcage, and an aching feeling began to tug at her belly.

      Isobel swallowed, willing this temporary madness to subside. Because acknowledging Tariq’s charisma was the last thing she needed right now. Arrogant playboys were not number one on her list of emotional requirements. And even if they were…as if he would ever look