Sheikh Boss, Hot Desert Nights. Susan Stephens

I help you?’ the assistant detailed to apprehend Casey demanded.

      ‘No, thank you,’ Casey replied politely. ‘But I’m pretty sure I can help you.’

      Botoxed brows rose as far as they were able.

      His ears pricked up. He took a step forward and had to curb his impatience to step in. If the woman saw him, whatever project Casey had embarked on would be sunk.

      ‘Actually,’ Casey continued in the same pleasant and confiding tone, ‘I’m conducting a survey for Sheikh Rafik al Rafar bin Haktari on the level of service customers receive in his stores.’ As the woman tensed, she added, ‘The Sheikh does own this boutique, I believe?’

      ‘Together with every other shop in the mall,’ the assistant confirmed, in a voice that not only lacked its former sneer but had gained a wobble.

      ‘Yes, that’s what I thought,’ Casey agreed. ‘You see, I am what’s known in the trade as a Secret Shopper.’

      At this point he thought the assistant in more need of assistance than Casey, and had to admit he was impressed by the end result—which involved Casey making a clean sweep of the store without a penny changing hands.

      ‘Sale or approval,’ she explained to him breezily on her way out.

      He got it now. He would pay for them eventually. Clever? Yes. But ultimately disappointing. It always came down to money in the end. He could only hope that if Casey intended to repeat the exercise she would choose a younger range of clothes for her next rapacious fashion trolley-dash.

      But she had another surprise in store for him.

      ‘I shan’t keep them,’ she confided as they strode together down the brilliantly lit mall.

      ‘So what will you do with them?’ He waved a hovering security guard forward to take the packages.

      ‘Return them, of course.’

      ‘But how does that help your situation?’

      She gave him a look, clearly getting into her stride now. ‘Can I have a little longer to prove my point?’

      ‘As long as there is a point to prove, you can take as long as you like—within reason.’

      Her next stop was a cashpoint machine. Instinctively, he checked around for paparazzi. Sheikh Rafik al Rafar, billionaire tycoon, waiting patiently beside a cashpoint while his companion du jour extracted a measly two hundred dollars— counting it carefully before stowing it safely in her purse— that would make a great headline.

      ‘That should be enough,’ she said, glancing up at him.

      Wisely, he declined to comment, and merely indicated that Casey should lead the way.

      The moment he saw her destination he understood. There was one store of international renown that had managed to transcend labels and had acquired a cachet of its own. It had done this by being a fast follower of the catwalk fashions at a fraction of the cost. And it was to this store that Casey took him now. She bought a small selection of clothes, with a pretty shawl to wear over them, the cheapest of bags, and a cardigan.

      ‘I expect you’d prefer me to cover my arms in some situations,’ she observed thoughtfully.

      Actually, he’d like her to uncover everything, and he only pulled back from those thoughts because some better part of him conceded she was too pure for him to sully. Such a pity— so much unlit fire going to waste in her veins.

      She had bought a pair of trousers too, and he had to admit that pleased him. If she did survive the interview in the city there were still those traditionalists in the interior who looked down on shows of flesh, and he didn’t want anyone looking down on Casey Michaels. Other than him, of course, and then only from his height advantage, he reflected wryly as she unfurled her tiny hand to show him the coins she had left.

      ‘And I’ve still got change,’ she told him triumphantly.

      ‘You’ve done well,’ he admitted, ‘but you should have let me pay.’

      ‘Why?’ Her blue eyes levelled on his.

      ‘Non-taxable expenses?’ he teased her, deadpan.

      ‘You draw expenses?’ she challenged him. No soon had she spoken than she slapped a hand over her mouth, exclaiming how sorry she was, and that it was no business of hers whether or not he paid tax to himself.

      ‘What am I going to do with you?’ He really meant it. But, concluding tiredness had finally caught up with her, and that she was probably dehydrated too, he decided on a change of plan.

      ‘Juice?’ Her voice was trembling. ‘Oh, yes, please—I’m just dying for a drink.’

      ‘Save that sentiment for the desert.’

      She was instantly alert, clearly not so tired as he had thought her. They both knew the promise of a visit to the desert meant she was still in the game. How could she not be? he thought, when he saw her eyes darken.

      * * *

      She shouldn’t undercut him when he spoke. She mustn’t walk too close to him, either. Or assume anything, Casey reprimanded herself as Raffa led the way towards a chi-chi café in the basement of the mall. An opportunity to visit the desert and keep in the running for this job hung by a thread, and so it was more important than ever to show the best of her professional self. She must be all about business from this moment on.

      But how easy was that when nothing compared to wanting Raffa in all the wrong ways…ways that had nothing to do with business at all?

      The combination of apple, mint and celery in the smoothie was delicious, and so was the sight of Casey’s full red lips pursing around the straw.

      ‘Some time during my stay,’ she said, biting her lip as she thought out loud, ‘I’d like to come back to this mall.’

      ‘To do what?’ he said suspiciously.

      ‘To conduct a proper survey.’

      ‘Go on,’ he pressed.

      ‘Well, it seems to me that some of these stores are hardly welcoming…’

      Understatement, he reflected.

      ‘And if you’re serious about increasing footfall significantly as the tourist industry grows, I think your staff would benefit from more training. It would both incentivise them and increase your profits substantially.’

      He was leaning forward, staring into her eyes, finding it harder and harder to remember why it was so important to keep this on a professional footing. ‘You don’t say?’ he mocked gently.

      ‘But I do say,’ she assured him, all confidence and reason in her role of marketing executive. ‘Some of us might not be as rich as others, but our money is just as good. And if lots of us little people spend—’

       ‘Little people?’ In spite of his best efforts, his lips curved. Nothing on earth would convince him to think of Casey as little or insignificant in any way—or, indeed, others like her. Since when had wealth become a measure of the man? ‘It has never been my intention to build an exclusive enclave in A’Qaban, solely for the rich to enjoy.’

      ‘Then why don’t you make use of my expertise in not having lots of money while you can?’ she suggested playfully.

      ‘I might just do that.’

      Her eyes flashed, and then she remembered who he was and looked down. He liked the way she grew in confidence whenever business was under discussion, but would she ever achieve that same degree of poise in her personal life? He hoped so—though perhaps not while she was here in A’Qaban. He could do many things, but he hadn’t yet learned how to rein in his libido, and she could feel it however hard he tried to curb his interest.

      She drained her drink and, with all talk of business over between