The Sheikh Who Loved Her: Ruling Sheikh, Unruly Mistress / Surrender to the Playboy Sheikh / Her Desert Dream

CHAPTER TWO

RAZI took in the trail of collapsed canapés on the floor, and yet more crushed in the girl’s hands. Being ever the gentleman, Tom was being careful to hide his thoughts, but it was clear to him that the blushing, flustered girl currently hopping from foot to foot in front of him wasn’t up to the job. She had gone to pieces like her canapés, spilling expensive champagne all over the floor as well as over William Montefiori’s jeans.

‘It’s nothing,’ William murmured, with relaxed charm, easing away from the promise of more disaster. ‘I’ll go and change.’

Razi was not so forgiving. His thumb was already caressing the speed dial to his personal chef.

‘Allow me,’ his friend Theo cut in with a predictably wolfish smile. Removing the cloth from the girl’s hands, Theo proceeded to hold her troubled stare as he dabbed ineffectually at the puddle of champagne.

‘For goodness’ sake—’ Razi’s whiplash tone prompted Tom to snatch the cloth from Theo and repair the damage as quickly as he could. Razi doubted either of them had ever held a cleaning cloth in their life and wouldn’t be doing so now if they hadn’t some intention of getting into the girl’s knickers. As for the girl, she was too badly shaken up to do anything—shaken up by what, exactly, he’d find out later.

‘Lucy,’ Tom repeated discreetly in his ear. ‘Lucy Tennant, our chef and chalet girl.’

‘Lucy …’ His friends faded into the background. The girl was visibly trembling. He saw how young she was then and flashed a reprimanding glance at Theo. The girl was not only unused to such an imbalance of female hormones and testosterone she was terrified of losing her job.

‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’

In her favour, her voice was musical, her stare direct, but that was no excuse for ineptitude. He employed the best across his organisation; only the best.

‘Lucy won the chalet girl of the year award,’ Tom broke in helpfully.

‘Thank you, Tom,’ he murmured in a voice that clearly said, Not now. Tom’s soft heart was one thing, but he was conscious of how slender a thread his leisure time hung on and how soon this last ski-break indulgence would end. When he looked at the girl he was working out how much incompetence he was prepared to put up with before he ordered in his own staff and they took over.

‘And you are?’ she asked tentatively, her cheeks pinking up as she made a last stab at maintaining the formalities.

He looked at Tom for inspiration.

‘Mac?’ Tom suggested with a shrug.

‘Mac,’ the girl repeated shyly.

Their gazes remained locked and her grip was warm and firm as they shook hands, though she removed her hand from his faster than he would have liked. The report he’d received about her said she was self-possessed, calm, intelligent, organised, multilingual and a cordon bleu chef. The last two he had no proof of yet—strike the rest.

Then she surprised him.

‘Once again, I apologise,’ she said, almost literally shaking herself round. ‘I hope the accident won’t spoil your enjoyment of the meal I have prepared.’

‘Not at all,’ Tom chipped in, falling silent when Razi shot him a warning stare.

But something did smell good. ‘What’s on the menu?’ he demanded.

She brightened and immediately proved to be one of those people who could deliver a menu and make the palate sing with greedy anticipation.

‘Freshly made French onion soup topped with a slice of Parmesan baguette, followed by crispy duck breast in a fruit reduction, with a chocolate torte and cinder-toffee ice cream to follow.’

‘I say,’ Tom exclaimed, while his other friends sighed happily, prepared to forgive her anything now. Even Razi was inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt. If Lucy could deliver what she’d promised she could stay with his blessing too.

‘Tom,’ he said, still staring deep into Lucy’s complex turquoise gaze, ‘would you kindly ring the chalet company?’ In spite of Lucy’s calm, sweet voice, tumultuous thoughts were still boiling behind her eyes. With his last words that tumult had turned to panic. She was certain he would not give her another chance, and she looked utterly devastated. It was then he came to a decision that surprised even him. ‘Would you tell them we don’t need any more staff hanging round? But we’d like Lucy to stay—Abu and Omar can handle anything else we require.’

She slumped with relief, but then another thought must have occurred to her because the panic was back.

‘You’ll be quite safe with us,’ he promised dryly as she took a jerky step away from him. ‘We’re here to ski.’ His lips tugged. ‘You’ll hardly see us.’

She swallowed deep. ‘That’s what I thought,’ she said awkwardly, her cheeks blooming a deeper shade of scarlet.

You may go, he might have said at this point, had they been in the old palace on the Isla de Sinnebar, but this was both a different and more complex situation. Lucy worked for him and yet this situation demanded more of them both. The intimacy of a chalet was very different from life in a palace. She’d put her own stamp on the chalet, he noticed—personal touches. There were fresh flowers on the table, and fruit that looked as if it had been picked that morning. Cakes and biscuits, still warm from the oven, tempted with their delicious aroma, and there were books and a couple of decks of cards. He liked being spoiled—what man didn’t? She had done everything she could think of to make them welcome. Certainly, she could stay.

Seeing she was still uncomfortable after her bad start, he asked her discreetly, ‘Would you like me to call Omar and Abu to help you?’

‘Oh, no,’ she exclaimed, her eyes widening with a genuine desire to please that turned up the heat from hot to scorching. While he was admiring pearl-white teeth he could so easily imagine nipping him in passion she was glancing across the large, open-plan sitting room to her much smaller kitchen area. ‘I don’t mean to be difficult,’ she explained, ‘but my cooking space is very small—’

‘And you prefer to do things your way?’ he suggested, inhaling her wildflower scent. It was a surprise to be so attracted to such subtle charm, but then novelty was the most valuable currency of all to men who had everything.

‘I love my work, and I’m not very good at having people interfere.’

‘Really?’ A smile creased his face. ‘Than I shall be sure to keep everyone away from you.’

‘You’re teasing me,’ she said uncertainly.

‘Am I?’

She blushed deeply. ‘I’m sorry for what happened just now—’

‘Forget it—start again,’ he encouraged, enjoying the sight of her blue eyes blazing as she assured him she would. ‘You’ve got five hungry men to feed.’

Her eyes flickered as she glanced at his friends. Her expression said she had forgotten them.

He could hardly blame her for that, when so had he.

She started by preparing a fresh tray of canapés—something fast and delicious—and was stunned when Mac joined her at the stove. The space was small and he took up most of it. He was cool and she was hot. She picked up the tray and gripped it tightly so he couldn’t see her hands were shaking.

‘Don’t bother warming them up.’

‘It will only take a minute and I promise you they’ll taste better.’ Confident where her food was concerned, she only wished that confidence could stretch into her everyday life—if it had she might even have been able to hold the stare of a man to whom disagreement was clearly something new, and humour his constant companion. ‘I’ll just flash them under the grill,’ she told him in her most professional voice. ‘Excuse me, please.’

He stood back.

But he was too quick for her and stole one off the tray, biting into it with relish.

‘These get better when they’re warm?’ he demanded with surprise.

‘Yes, they do taste better warm,’ she assured him, growing enough in confidence to block his route to the grill before he could eat the rest. The desire to please him was dangerously strong. The sight of his sweeping ebony brows rising in genuine appreciation for her food was like receiving an award ten times over. Plus she was relieved. She had a suspicion that if she failed to please Mac his authority over the other men would leave her with an empty chalet.

‘So, tell me how you made them,’ he demanded, aiming that disturbingly intense green gaze into her eyes.

‘You want the recipe?’

His face creased in a devastating smile. ‘I’ll get one of my chefs to make them for me.’

Of course. She should have known that. Nothing in her life could have prepared her for this, Lucy realised. Mac was no ordinary guest and however friendly he might appear it was time to rein back and put everything on a professional footing. ‘Tiny circles of toasted Bruschetta topped with goat’s cheese,’ she recited firmly, clinging to her one area of expertise, ‘finished with a slice of fresh fig and a drizzle of honey. And I promise you they’re even better when they’re heated up,’ she said, gaining in confidence.

‘Aren’t most things?’ he murmured close to her ear before moving away.

She needed a moment. She couldn’t play these games. In a few words Mac had succeeded in turning her body into liquid fire. He was a playboy and she was an unsophisticated cook—she had none of the know-how. She never flirted with guests, and that short bout with Mac had left her reeling. That he was a player, she had no doubt. That he was playing with her, she had no doubt either. Women were a game for men like Mac, and he was way out of her league. The only way she could survive the week with her self-respect intact was to stick religiously to what she knew—which was cooking.

He had only been here five minutes and he was already suffering from a painful bout of sexual frustration made worse by noticing small things about Lucy—such as she was very tidy, very precise and very contained; the latter was in itself a challenge.

He shouldn’t be noticing her at all, he told himself sternly, trying to pay attention to a conversation between his friends about stocks and bonds that would normally have held him riveted. For some reason, watching Lucy loading a clean china platter with perfectly warmed canapés prior to handing them round was far more interesting—possibly because her hands were small-boned and pale, and yet her fingers were flexible and strong, and the thought of those hands touching him was … intriguing.

He liked her. He snapped a response when one of his friends tried to draw him into their conversation, and then she caught him looking at her and coloured up. He liked that too.

It was a relief when Lucy redeemed herself with an excellent meal. Her lush curves pleased him and he didn’t want to replace her with some fashionably thin creature whose only goal was to get a trophy lover in her bed. Where was the challenge in that?

Then Lucy mentioned cheese and everyone groaned. She flushed with embarrassment and both the desire to defend her and the pressure in his groin increased.

‘My apologies for feeding you too much—’

‘Too well,’ he corrected her.

Her swift intake of breath brought on another surge of interest from parts of him that were now refusing to be ignored.

Her face brightened. ‘Then shall we eat French-style tomorrow?’ she suggested, full of innocent delight to think her menu had gone down so well. ‘I mean, cheese before pudding,’ she said, visibly paling as he stared at her. ‘If that’s all right with you …?’

His lips quirked, but he kept a commendably straight face. ‘We’re in your hands,’ he assured her, matching her stare for stare.

Her cheeks were flaming. What was happening? Her life had been straightforward up to tonight. She worked in the background cooking and never connected with a guest. Not that she was connecting with Mac—she didn’t flatter herself to that extent. But it was impossible to ignore him—impossible to forget what she’d seen when she’d been on her knees in front of him at eye level with his crotch. Now he was suggesting he was in her hands … How was her imagination supposed to deal with that?

It was no use wishing that she were better looking, or more sophisticated, or that the right words might sometimes come smoothly to her lips. But just because she was quiet and good and plain, didn’t mean she lacked outrageous thoughts. Those thoughts ranged a lot further than serving Mac cheese.

She refocused as Tom left the table. ‘You’re an excellent chef, Lucy.’

‘Thank you. Whatever you prepare for us, and in whichever order you choose to serve it.’ Tom went on, ‘I, for one, shall certainly relish every mouthful—’

‘As shall we all,’ Mac cut across him sharply in a tone that startled her. He stepped in front of her, shielding her from the other men. ‘There will be three types of canapés tomorrow,’ she promised hectically, desperate to return to safer ground. ‘And none of them broken.’

The men laughed, and to Lucy’s relief Mac relaxed too. She laughed along with them, but her laughter sounded strained. Mac was still close by and her body insisted on reacting violently to him. Her nipples were erect, and another, far more intimate part of her was swelling so insistently a man like Mac, so sexual and knowing, must surely know …

She was so wrapped up in these thoughts she barely noticed the other men thanking her, and one by one, leaving her alone with Mac.

‘Three types of canapés, and some really good cheese? That sounds good to me,’ Mac commented approvingly.

His voice pierced her trance. Now the meal was over her confidence was stripped away. ‘It’s not a problem,’ she said, hoping Mac would leave her to it as she glanced at the deserted dinner table. ‘Just let me know what else you’d like and I’m sure I can handle it.’ She was thinking of recipes—he was clearly not.

‘I’m sure you can,’ he agreed, resting back against the wall.

CHAPTER THREE

DID Mac have to be so attractive when he smiled that lazy smile with his green eyes glinting? She was the last person on earth who knew how to deal with a man like that, Lucy told herself sensibly as she served the men lunch the next day. It wasn’t just Mac’s fierce looks, which set him apart in a world of bland, but the sexual energy he exuded. If she got too close to that she’d get scorched. She only had to glance in the mirror to know he wouldn’t be attracted to her.

‘Do you want me to help you clear the table?’

‘No,’ she exclaimed, feeling awakward. Mac’s smile was confident and sexy as he leaned back against the wall.

She was in a hurry to finish cleaning up. She had a date tonight. The honour of the chalet company was at stake. Her colleagues swore this was something only she could do for them.

‘Do you have some special routine you follow?’ Mac said, breaking into these thoughts. ‘Lucy?’

‘Rinse and stack?’ she said hopefully, glancing at the dishwasher. She could do with some help.

Mac’s lips pressed down in wry approval. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’

She was still open-mouthed when one of his friends poked his head round the door.

There was a moment of complete stillness as he took in the scene and then spoke to Mac. ‘We thought we might take a walk into town.’

Lucy breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Fine,’ Mac said, without breaking eye contact with her for a moment. ‘You go right ahead.’

He was staying with her?

He wanted to stay with Lucy. He wanted to know why she was in such a hurry, and why, when she had just served another fantastic meal, she was still lacking in confidence. Lucy wasn’t good at her job, she was outstanding—so why the angst?

‘Don’t you want to go into town?’ she hinted.

‘I’m in no hurry.’

He didn’t have to give Lucy a reason for staying in a chalet he owned. If he had he might have said he didn’t want her bolting while he was gone. The last thing he wanted was to have to replace her with some sex-starved Seasonnaire. But that was only part of the truth. The novelty of a quiet, self-effacing girl attracted him. She tried so hard, and had overcome the problems quickly and efficiently. He wanted her to grow in self-belief. He wanted to hear this quiet girl scream with pleasure when she lost control in bed.

She’d never had this much scrutiny from anyone, but with her calm head on she could understand that Mac would want to be sure she could hold things together for the week—though he could ring head office and have her replaced at once if he wasn’t satisfied with her work. Would that be too easy for him? He didn’t look like a man who embraced easy.

Dragging her thoughts from Mac, Lucy turned with relief to rinsing plates. But he was still there in her head. Mac with his glossy black hair and fabulous emerald eyes—Mac steeped in pure, potent power—Mac who unnerved her—deliciously. Unnerved her? She was completely out of sync.

‘Lucy?’

‘Yes?’ Her guilty gaze flew to Mac’s face.

‘You seem … distracted?’ he probed.

‘Distracted?’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘No … I was just planning tonight’s meal.’

‘Do you like the uniform?’ Mac enquired as she fiddled with it.

‘Yes, I do.’ She met his gaze, determined not to be put off her stroke. She didn’t wear the uniform with the same flair as, say, Fiona, but at least it made her feel anonymous and safe. ‘I feel … like I belong,’ she added as an afterthought, undoing her apron now they’d finished clearing up.

She had turned away to hang her apron on the peg behind the door and so she didn’t see Mac frown.

Then Tom came back to have another go at persuading Mac to go with him into town.

‘I’ll leave Omar here should you need anything.’

‘No, take him too,’ Lucy told Mac, thinking the invisible presence of a bodyguard she might stumble across at any moment almost as alarming as having Omar’s boss scrutinise her every move. ‘There are people on call at the chalet company if I need anything.’

‘In that case, see you later, Lucy.’

‘My pleasure,’ she added to an already empty room. If she had needed a reality check on how vital she was to Mac’s existence, she just got it.

As the front door shut behind the men she sank down on the nearest chair. She was trembling. She felt as if she’d run a marathon. She had. She had just completed the most important race of her life—to keep her job, though she wasn’t foolish enough to think that couldn’t change at any moment if Mac changed his mind.

She had to get back to work. Dreaming didn’t clean floors—plus she had some eggs to beat for tonight’s meal before covering them and leaving them in the fridge …

Staring round the gleaming kitchen as she cracked eggs in a bowl on autopilot, Lucy mulled over what she had learned about her guests. Aside from an overload of testosterone in the chalet, there were a lot of heavy gold rings in evidence engraved with family crests. Theo didn’t wear one, but Tom’s crest, along with Sheridan’s and William’s, marked them out as members of the British aristocracy. That was simple enough to work out, but what was she supposed to make of the fierce lion and the scimitar engraved on Mac’s ring?

The vision of an awe-inspiring desert landscape came to mind. But where had the green eyes come from? And such eyes … eyes that spoke of billowing Bedouin tents and the pearly light of dawn on the oasis as lovers woke and stretched their pliant limbs before making love again and again and again …

It took remarkably little imagination to take the hunk in jeans and place him in flowing robes. Hmm. Whisk suspended. As the picture drew clearer the whisk picked up pace again. The silk sheets on their Bedouin cushions would cling tenaciously to Mac’s powerful limbs, hinting at the brute strength underneath. But the sheets were covering him.

So she’d throw them off.

‘Are you going to beat that egg to death?’

She nearly hit the ceiling as Mac stopped her hand. She hadn’t realised he’d come back.

‘What has that poor egg done to you?’ He held her gaze in the most disturbing fashion.

‘I was just surprised when you came back.’

‘Is there a curfew in operation?’

‘Sorry.’ Her brain was addled. Mac in cool black performance gear, ready for the snow, was even more alarming than Mac in jeans. And he was still holding on to her hand.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ he said, releasing her. ‘I’m not checking up on you.’

Then why was he here? Lucy nursed her hand. Mac’s touch was warm, firm and commanding—and he’d let go of her far too fast for her daydreams and not nearly fast enough for here and now.

‘So, what are you up to?’ he said, staring into her eyes.

She gazed around, desperate for an answer. ‘Something for tonight … cake.’

‘Cake?’ Mac prompted, staring pointedly at the array of cakes already laid out on the table.

‘Isn’t Tom waiting for you?’ Lucy said hopefully.

‘And if he is?’

‘Could you pass me the cake tin, please?’

He held it out. She took hold of it, but he didn’t let go, so now she was joined to Mac by an inflexible ring of tin.

‘Lucy?’

She blinked and returned to her customary kitchen-confident self. ‘If you’d like a piece of the cake I’ve already made, just sit down, and I’ll—’

‘Serve me?’ Mac suggested wickedly, releasing the tin.

‘I’ll cut the cake,’ Lucy said primly, reaching for a knife.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ Mac told her, and with one last mocking stare, he left the room.

Mac might have left the room, but he hadn’t left her thoughts. He was very much part of them and doing things to her that were almost certainly forbidden by law in several countries. How not to long for that? Running through a list of ingredients for the next meal didn’t come close.