Pregnant By The Desert King. Susan Stephens

A lot more than was wise. Why had this extraordinary-looking man landed in the middle of an ordinary day? Time to take a tougher line. ‘You sat me down, force-fed me coffee, so now you have to pay for the pleasure of my company with information.’

      ‘You think?’ Few women had ever made him laugh as Lucy did. Being so irreverent and funny was part of her charm. ‘You won’t get round me,’ he warned when she pulled a mock-disappointed face.

      ‘Why not?’ she complained in the same style. ‘Is what you do for a living classified information? Maybe you’re a secret agent,’ she speculated with a lift of her finely drawn brow.

      ‘And maybe I’m a man drinking coffee in a café and minding his own business as best he can...’

      ‘How boring. I prefer my version.’

      ‘I’m in security,’ he admitted finally. This was the truth. One of his many companies was responsible for the safety of some of the most prominent people on the planet. As the ruler of a country it was in his interest to hire the best.

      ‘Aha.’ Sitting back, Lucy appeared to relax. ‘Now it makes sense.’

      ‘What does?’

      ‘Your evasiveness,’ she explained. ‘I’m guessing you handle security for one of the those big fat potentates on their big fat superyachts.’ She angled her chin towards the window, beyond which a line of imposing vessels loomed like huge white ghosts against the steel-grey sky. ‘What’s it like working for the super-rich, mystery man?’

      Her naivety was irresistible, but her innocence compelled him to tell the truth. ‘Actually, I’m one of them.’

      ‘A big, fat potentate?’ she exclaimed, frowning in a way that made him laugh.

      ‘I thought it was the yachts you thought big and fat.’

      ‘You’re being serious, aren’t you?’ she said in a very different tone.

      ‘Your expression does my ego no good at all,’ he admitted.

      ‘Well, this changes things,’ she said, ‘and I can’t help the way I look.’

      ‘Having money changes your opinion of me?’

      She hummed and frowned again. ‘I don’t have an opinion about you yet,’ she admitted honestly. ‘I don’t know you well enough.’

      He would be the first to admit he was touchy about money. His late uncle had plundered the Qalalan treasury, leaving it empty when Tadj inherited the throne. Tadj had built up a bankrupt country brick by brick. Even then, when everything was back on an even keel, a family to whose daughter he’d been engaged since his birth turned up to demand he marry the girl right away. It had cost him a king’s ransom to sort that out. The experience had left him with a horror of state marriages, together with the distinct impression that a mistress was far preferable to a wife. He had to marry one day to provide Qalala with an heir as the constitution demanded, but not yet, and his thoughts regarding taking a mistress in the interim had just taken on a new and vigorous lease of life.

       CHAPTER TWO

      ‘IF YOU’VE MADE so much money out of the security business...’ What was coming next, he wondered as Lucy gave him one of her wide-eyed cheeky, teasing looks. ‘Can I ask you for a loan?’

      He knew this was a joke, but bridled anyway at the possibility that she might be like all the rest. ‘Ten pounds until pay day?’ she pressed blithely, but she couldn’t hold back the laughter, and, sitting back, she said, ‘You should see your face.’

      He adopted a stern look. ‘You’ll get away with that this time.’

      ‘You mean there’ll be a next time?’ Quick as a whip, he thought as she added, ‘That’s assuming rather a lot, isn’t it? How do you know I’ll want to see you again?’

      His groin tightened as he told her, ‘Educated guess.’

      Resting her chin on her hand, she stared at him in a way that made him wish he were clothed in flowing robes rather that snug-fitting jeans.

      ‘Surely, you can run to a miserly ten pounds?’ she pressed.

      He reached for his wallet.

      ‘Don’t you dare,’ she said.

      ‘Can’t I pay the bill for the extra coffee?’

      ‘Touché,’ she said. ‘Just bear this in mind, Mr Security Man. I don’t want your money. I don’t want anyone’s money. I’m doing fine as I am. Here—let me contribute. Save your money for your next coffee-shop adventure.’

      ‘I doubt there’ll be one.’

      ‘Too much of a security risk for you to keep taking up with strangers?’ she suggested.

      ‘Something like that.’ He stared at her intently, but there was no sign that she’d recognised him.

      ‘I guess you have to be careful in the security business.’

      ‘My involvement is in the security of a country,’ he explained.

      ‘Big stuff,’ she said.

      ‘You could say that.’ He grinned.

      ‘You must be pretty powerful. And yet you look so normal.’

      He tried hard not to laugh. ‘Why thank you.’

      ‘Well, this has all been very nice.’ She sighed as she gathered up her things. ‘But now it’s time for me to go. Some of us have to work,’ she added.

      ‘Let me walk you back—where do you work?’ He wasn’t ready to let her go.

      ‘At Miss Francine’s laundry,’ she said with a touch of defiance.

      He got it. Some of the rich yachties could be real snobs. If he turned out to be one of them, she’d rather know now. ‘The laundry on the marina?’ he prompted, having noticed the bustling establishment on his walk.

      ‘Yes.’ She pulled another of her comic faces. ‘We’ve moved on from banging out dirt with stones at the stream.’

      ‘Uh-huh. So, what’s your job at the laundry?’

      ‘Ironing and finishing.’

      ‘You any good?’

      ‘You bet I am.’

      His lips twitched and then she laughed. It must have dawned on them both at the same moment that two strangers could share a table and chat over coffee, without things getting heavy.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ she said with a graceful flutter of her slender hands. ‘I didn’t mean to bite your head off. It’s just that some visitors to King’s Dock are snobby idiots and I wanted to be sure you weren’t one of them.’

      ‘I’d never have guessed,’ he said dryly.

      ‘So long as you’re not a trust-fund yachtie with nothing better to do than spend your inherited money, I guess I’m okay with that.’

      ‘Touchy about money?’ he probed as they navigated their way out through the crowded café.

      ‘Every sensible person cares about money,’ she said.

      ‘Well, I can reassure you on that score. Everything I’ve got I’ve earned. All I inherited was debt.’

      ‘There must be something else wrong with you,’ she said as they reached the door. ‘No one’s perfect.’

      ‘Feel free to examine my faults,’ he invited.

      ‘Not likely! So, who left the debt?’ she asked with her hand on the door. ‘A close relative?’

      ‘My uncle.’ As he spoke and took over