The Desert Prince's Proposal. Nicola Marsh

food, but had a sneaking suspicion that tonight everything would taste like chaff under Sam’s disconcerting gaze.

      Once the waiter disappeared Sam leaned back in his chair, the simple action drawing his shirt across his chest, and she struggled not to stare at the sheer breadth of it. It was probably as tanned as the rest of him, if the tantalising V of flesh where the collar lay open at his throat was any indication.

      ‘I’m interested in hearing about your business. Can you tell me more about it?’

      Bria smiled, inwardly chalking up another brownie point to Sam. Guys weren’t usually interested in hearing about her, especially her business. Some neanderthal had once told her he found women talking about business emasculating; needless to say she hadn’t lasted to the main course on that date.

      Clasping her hands in her lap to stop from fiddling with the cutlery, she said, ‘I started up my architectural firm a while back. Motive is my pride and joy. Before that I attended the University of Sydney, completed my degree in architecture, was lucky enough to serve a year under one of Australia’s top designers, then branched out on my own.’

      She omitted the part about endless arguments with her dad or the countless hours she’d spent trying to convince him she hadn’t needed the backing of Kurt Green, Australia’s answer to Bill Gates.

      Though, there was a difference. Bill worked for his money whereas her arrogant, lazy father had never lifted a finger a day in his life, other than to point it at her and accuse her of being a failure once he’d realised she wouldn’t submit to his control.

      ‘That’s very impressive. You must have quite a reputation to be invited as guest speaker at a conference?’

      If he only knew.

      Sure she had a reputation, as a ballsy, driven workaholic who could turn a dump into a palace. She’d designed some of the biggest, most eye-catching projects in Australia, and had been catapulted to the top of the architectural heap so fast her head still spun.

      However, being at the top came at a price, and the long, lonely hours between midnight and six a.m. weren’t so great no matter how many times she lay in bed reliving her business success in her head.

      She shrugged, not surprised to find her fingers tugging at the edges of the tablecloth. She always fiddled when she was nervous or uncomfortable, and in the face of Sam’s obvious admiration she was definitely uncomfortable.

      ‘I’ve been lucky. I’ve designed some fairly well-known projects, and Motive is growing all the time. Not boasting, or anything, but it’s bordering on becoming quite famous in this country because of it.’

      ‘We make our own luck,’ he said, staring at her intently as the waiter returned, filled their glasses with pricey champagne and left as unobtrusively as he’d arrived.

      Though she couldn’t fathom the curiosity in his eyes, she agreed one hundred percent about the luck thing.

      She might have been born into the richest family in Australia, but she’d shunned that life when old enough to escape her father’s clutches, had made her own way in the world, built her own company, and was still her own woman.

      Picking up her flute, she raised it in his direction. ‘To luck.’

      ‘To luck,’ he said, clinking glasses with her ever so softly, his warm, melted-treacle gaze in stark contrast to the icy bite of champagne bubbles sliding down her suddenly constricted throat.

      With an extremely handsome guy staring at her with ill-concealed fascination, she felt extremely lucky indeed.

      Bria kicked off her stilettos as soon as she entered her room and, padding across to the king-sized bed, flopped back onto the plump pillows.

      She was exhausted.

      Not a totally foreign feeling, considering she felt this way most nights after the gruelling hours she kept and the way she pushed herself at work, but tonight was different.

      Her weariness had nothing to do with work—it had been the furthest thing from her mind for most of the evening—and had everything to do with the suave man who’d held her captivated for most of it.

      Sam was something else.

      From the top of his thick, black hair to the soles of his polished designer shoes, he’d held her enthralled. He’d said all the right things, done all the right things, and she’d found herself hanging on his every word towards the end of dinner.

      Not that he’d said terribly much. Instead he’d steered the conversation away from himself and had focussed it solely on her. She would’ve normally found such secrecy troubling, and intense scrutiny unnerving, yet when he’d stared at her with that melt-me gaze she’d quite happily blabbed away until she’d stuffed food into her mouth to shut up.

      When Sam had talked he’d had a distinct way of speaking, a polite, almost formal intonation that leant weight to his words, and she’d wished several times during the course of the evening that they could spend more time together. It had been a long while since any guy had captured her attention so thoroughly, and she wanted to know more.

      Groaning, she closed her eyes and flung her arm across them.

      Well, she’d got her wish.

      Before they’d parted at the lifts in the foyer Sam had said what a lovely time he’d had, and he would really like to spend tomorrow with her before conducting his business and flying out of the country.

      She should’ve said no.

      She should’ve mumbled some excuse about preparing her speech for Sunday.

      She should’ve turned frigid like she had when any guy had come near her since Ellis.

      Instead, she’d smiled and blushed and nodded and made a complete fool of herself.

      What was she thinking?

      ‘You weren’t,’ she mumbled, wondering if she could plead a headache tomorrow morning, knowing that would be the wimp’s way out.

      Since when had she ever done wimpy?

      Determined to ignore the niggle of misgiving that she’d just made an impulsive decision with her heart rather than her head, she logged on to her emails, eager to bury herself in business and forget her fascination with Sam and their impending date.

      Scanning through the usual requests for quotes, her gaze focussed on one bearing the heading ‘Welcome to Adhara’. Her best friend Eloise had been whisked away to live in the tiny desert country since her marriage to royalty, and had been begging her to visit ever since.

      However, this email wasn’t another of Lou’s badgering missives. Instead, it had come from Ned Wilson, her biggest client in Australia—the media mogul who had a thing for Middle Eastern architecture, and who’d been hounding her every step to turn his Sydney-harbour mansion into a replica of something out of Arabian Nights.

      Her finger slipped off the laptop’s mouse as she read the email. Ned wanted his mansion to be authentic, had discovered the only mosaics he’d consider having in his home, and had booked her a trip to Adhara.

      Shaking her head in disbelief, she reread the email. It wasn’t a request, it was an order, and considering Ned Wilson could make or break careers—and had done so quite publicly in the past—it looked like she had little choice.

      She hated any guy thinking he could control her, yet, with the promise of Ned’s renovated mansion sending her reputation through the glass ceiling, she’d swallow her pride for once and do what he wanted. Architecture was predominantly male-oriented and she battled for recognition with every job.

      Taking a few calming breaths before she fired off a response, Bria checked out the information Ned had attached to the email. Though she hated his high-handedness in organising this trip without asking, she couldn’t help but be fascinated by the sweeping desert sands, the white-washed buildings and the quaint market places.

      She’d always