The Sheikh's Innocent Bride. Lynne Graham

murmured with glacial cool, ‘Don’t let me hear you address another member of staff in that tone or in that language again.’

      ‘No, of course not, Your Highness,’ the first man framed in dismay, his complexion turning a dull dark red at that cold rebuke.

      Kirsten had stopped breathing when the second male emerged into view, for he was taller, broader and altogether more impressive in stature. Her entire being was wrapped in the sheer challenge of recognition: it was the man on the motorbike. But she could not believe that it could be the same person for he looked so very different, in a formal dark business suit the colour of charcoal: sophisticated, dignified, the ultimate in authority.

      Belatedly she registered the significance of the title the younger man had awarded him and incredulity sentenced her to shaken stillness. The guy she had met on the hill above the farm was the Prince? Prince Shahir—the enormously rich owner of Strathcraig and its ninety-odd-thousand acres? Surely that was impossible? This is my land, he had said, but she had assumed he was joking. How could she have possibly guessed that a young man, casually clad in biker leathers, might be so much more than he seemed?

      Refusing to allow herself to look back at him, she began to reel in the cable of the floor polisher. Her hands were all fingers and thumbs, and clumsy with nerves. She seized a hold on the weighty machine, in preparation for carting it off to a less contentious area, but her perspiring palms failed in their grip and it toppled back on to the ground again, with a noisy clatter that made her wince in despair. She was supposed to be silent and invisible around him, she recalled in steadily mounting frustration. Was she supposed to abandon the polisher and just run?

      ‘Let me help you with that…’

      ‘No!’ Kirsten yelped in horror, when she raised her head to find him standing over her, and she backed away in panic, hauling up the polisher before the lean brown hand he had extended could get anywhere near it. ‘Sorry…’

      Moving as fast as she could with the unwieldy machine, Kirsten hurried away and sped through the first set of fire doors. For a split second Shahir hesitated, a frown of annoyance and surprise at her behaviour pleating his brows, and then he strode after her.

      ‘Kirsten…’ he breathed, before she could reach the next set of fire doors.

      Unnerved by the unfamiliar sound of her name on his lips, Kirsten whirled round. She was breathing heavily, her lovely face pink with the effort of carting the cleaner with her. ‘You’re not supposed to speak to me!’

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Shahir retorted crisply.

      ‘I’m not being ridiculous! What do you want from me? An apology? Right, you’ve got it. I’m sorry I told you off for riding that bike like a maniac. I’m sorry if I interrupted your important meeting…OK, Your—er—Highness?’ And, with that almost pleading completion, Kirsten continued to back away, until she hit the doors with her behind, then twisted round and quickly made her way through them.

      Shahir followed her at speed, and long before she could draw near the next set of doors he spoke and arrested her in her tracks. ‘No—don’t move one further step,’ he murmured, with a quietness that was misleading; every syllable of that warning somehow contrived to bite into her like a whiplash. ‘When I’m speaking to you, you will stand still.’

      Kirsten groaned. ‘But that’s against the rules!’

      Shahir vented an unappreciative laugh. ‘What rules?’

      ‘The household rules. People like me are supposed to vanish when you appear—’

      ‘Not when I’m trying to speak to you,’ Shahir asserted in dry interruption.

      ‘But you’re going to get me into trouble… Nobody knows we’ve even met, and I don’t want to be seen talking to you.’

      ‘That’s not a problem.’ Shahir opened the nearest door and thrust it wide. ‘We’ll talk in here.’

      Kirsten sucked in a steadying breath and walked into an empty meeting room furnished with a polished table and chairs. ‘Why do you want to speak to me?’

      Shahir thought he had never heard a more insane question. Any man between fifteen and fifty would have wanted to speak to her. Her head was bent, her face half turned away from him, her spectacular hair tied back. But nothing could hide the silken shine of that pale hair, the stunning perfection of her profile or the flawless clarity of her complexion. Nor could a dreary overall conceal the fluid, willowy grace of her highly feminine figure.

      But on another level her sheer lack of vanity and her naivety shook him. He had never had to pursue a woman before. Even without his encouragement women gave Shahir a great deal of attention. Many were so enthusiastic that he had to freeze them out with a façade of cold formality. Others were more subtle, but equally obvious in their eagerness to demonstrate their availability to him. If he showed even the smallest interest to the average young woman she would fall over herself to respond to him and roll out the welcome mat.

      ‘Why did you tell no one that we had met?’

      Kirsten focused on his superb leather shoes. ‘I wasn’t supposed to be on the hill.’

      ‘Why not?’

      Kirsten continued to study his feet with fixed attention. She did not know what to say. She did not want to admit that her father policed her every move, and the alternative of lying was anathema to her.

      Her seeming defiance challenged Shahir. ‘I asked a question.’

      A sudden rush of frustrated tears burned the back of Kirsten’s eyes, and she threw her head up, green eyes blazing at his persistence. ‘I wasn’t supposed to be there because my father doesn’t like me going out without his permission. I was also reading a magazine, and he won’t allow anything like that in the house!’

      ‘I apologise. I should not have pried,’ Shahir acknowledged in a tone of regret that he should have embarrassed her. ‘But I was curious.’

      The thickness in her tight throat would not allow her to swallow. The slight rough edge to his rich, dark drawl feathered down her spine as if he had touched her. Obeying a prompting she wasn’t even aware of, she glanced up and was entrapped by brilliant dark golden eyes. ‘I was curious about you too…’

      Shahir tensed, the honest admission challenging his self-discipline. But he knew that it was his fault—for he had crossed the line and brought down a barrier by getting too personal. He was her employer, he reminded himself fiercely. She had accompanied him into a room where they were alone because he was her employer and she trusted him. What sort of a man would take advantage of such a situation? It did not matter that the attraction between them was mutual. It did not matter that the awareness made the blood pound through his veins like a war drum beaten with intent. That was a cruel trick of fate and not to be acted on.

      ‘When we met, you mentioned damage to your father’s field,’ Shahir said with flat determination. ‘I have had the matter investigated.’

      Kirsten simply nodded. That he should have approached her for such a reason made complete sense to her, although she was surprised that he had bothered. She could not take her eyes from his. Never had she been so tense. Her back hurt with the strain of her rigid stance. Her breath was coming in little fast, shallow bursts, her lips were slightly parted, and there was a knot low in her tummy that was tight enough to make her feel uncomfortable. And yet it was a kind of discomfort that was in the strangest way enjoyable.

      ‘It has been established that someone working here at Strathcraig has been biking over that land. He has now been made aware of his mistake and it won’t happen again. My estate manager will call on your father to tell him that the damage will be made good at our expense.’ His deep rich voice had been husky in intonation as Shahir surveyed her with shimmering intensity, for the more she looked at him the more aroused he became, and it took every atom of his will-power to remain businesslike and distant.

      ‘Oh…’ Kirsten framed abstractedly.

      His