To Catch a Sheikh. Teresa Southwick
one more time. Do nothing out of the ordinary. Do not go out of your way to be nice to Penny. Simple courtesy in the work environment. That is all.”
He pulled himself up to his full height. “I am a prince of the royal blood. Benevolence is my responsibility. You yourself instructed me in the necessity of being gracious. I find no reason to apologize for so thoroughly learning the lesson you set before me.”
“I also taught you to respect your elders.” She sniffed. “You’re acting like a strong-willed little boy.”
“On the contrary,” he said. “I don’t see that at all.”
“Of course not. You never do. Or your brothers, either.”
“What do Kamal and Fariq have to do with anything?” he asked.
“The crown prince and minister of oil respectively have nothing whatever to do with our conversation. I was merely stating a fact.”
“The men of the royal family of Hassan have sworn allegiance to country and family,” he said. “We are the protectors of the people of El Zafir. We can’t afford to be wrong.”
“It is a sacred and awesome responsibility,” she agreed. “And I have found a young woman who, I believe, will make an excellent assistant. Someone bright and entertaining who I would like to remain in my employ for a long time to come. I am merely requesting that you do nothing to facilitate her return to the United States.”
“I wouldn’t think of it.”
She frowned at him. “It makes me nervous when you are so agreeable.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she waved him away. “Go tell the king or one of your brothers. They might believe your denials.”
“I am not as agreeable as you might think.” For some reason, he felt compelled to defend himself. Yet it hadn’t come out right at all.
“For the sake of palace peace, I hope so.”
Suppressing a long-suffering sigh, he bowed slightly in deference to her age and family position.
As he left Farrah’s rooms, his thoughts turned to the young American. Bright and entertaining? He wasn’t certain he’d seen that side of Penny Doyle. Perhaps he should talk with her again. Merely to ascertain whether or not he’d underestimated his new assistant. If for no other reason than to get to know her better.
So the business of El Zafir would run smoothly.
Chapter Two
Penny paced back and forth in front of the French doors in her room. Wired by nerves and the small amount of caffeine consumed before the disaster, she couldn’t relax. It was a good thing the suite was so large—lots of space to pace in. If only she could sleep. Oblivion would be preferable to the mental kicking her backside was taking. She alternated between how could she have been so stupid and how could he have let her go on?
Rafiq. A rakish name. It suited him. He was very good-looking. But that didn’t excuse his behavior. He was a prince, a ruler of his country. That excused his behavior. Mortified, she remembered the conversation—her inane prattle. He knew how well a staff member in the royal palace was paid. He’d seen Princess Farrah once or twice. She’d told him he was handsome, for goodness’ sake. But that information he’d pried out of her.
She covered her face with her hands, wishing fatigue could block out the humiliating scene. What a fool she’d made of herself. And he’d let her even after she’d asked him to help her not to do that!
It wasn’t the first time a man had made a fool of her. Last time, the man had taken her money and disappeared. This time, she’d been told to disappear. His exact words—she should take the rest of the day off. To acclimate. Was that El Zafirian for get ready to be drawn and quartered at dawn for the crime of impertinence?
“I almost wish I was dead,” she said to the white walls surrounding her. “But I’d prefer something non-violent and less messy.”
She had to admit that if she breathed her last at dawn, these digs were a fabulous place to spend her final hours. The walls were white, the starkness broken by colorful tapestries hanging in the living room, dining area and bedroom. A low, soft sofa took up one corner of the room that faced a lush, colorful garden. Flowers and greenery abounded below her window. She couldn’t see the ocean, but on the balcony she’d breathed in the fragrance of sea air mixed with the perfume of the flowers. The two blended, creating an intoxicating scent she’d never before experienced.
The bedroom contained a large four-poster bed, matching dresser and armoire—as if she had enough clothes to fill the two pieces of furniture. In the corner was a chair and ottoman covered in white cashmere, or so she’d been told by the maid who’d helped her unpack her meager belongings. What was she doing here? It was a rhetorical question, which fortunately didn’t require an answer. She wouldn’t be around long enough to bother with one. Not after what she’d done—correction—not after she’d been baited and reeled in.
Then the baiter in question—one Rafiq Hassan, Prince of El Zafir—had calmly given her the day off. Wouldn’t it have been simpler to just send her to the airport? Surely he wouldn’t allow her to stay after she’d insulted him.
It didn’t matter that there were no nameplates in his office. That should have been a dead giveaway. Although, she wasn’t especially comfortable with the dead part. Everyone knew the royal family. Why would they need their names on the doors? Lack of sleep could no longer be an excuse for what she’d done. Hands down, she would win ninny of the year or the El Zafirian equivalent. Being new to the country should be considered mitigating circumstances. And he—Rafiq—had set her up. But he was a prince; she was a pauper.
An unexpected knock on the door made her jump. Her heart contracted painfully. Here it comes, she thought. We who are about to die, or be ignominiously deported back to the U.S., salute you.
She opened the door. It was him! For the second time that day she found herself in the unnatural condition of being unable to form words.
“May I come in?” he asked.
“Of course.” She pulled the door wide and stood back, allowing him entrance. After all, this was his place. Place? Oops. Palace. Far different from the average, ordinary, run-of-the-mill man’s place.
He looked at her. “You’ve changed.”
“Not really. I’m the same person I was a while ago. I just don’t have the words—”
He pointed to her pants. “I meant your clothes.”
“Oh.” She followed his glance to her bare feet, jeans and Don’t Mess With Texas T-shirt. When she met his gaze again, she thought it contained a spark of—something she didn’t understand. But she could only think of one word to describe his black eyes. Smoldering.
Her research on the country in general and the royal family in particular had revealed that his last name, Hassan, meant handsome and he certainly lived up to it. His thick black hair was cut short. Subtle waving told her that if it was longer, some serious curling would happen. His face was a composition of high cheekbones, straight nose and square jaw that came dangerously close to male perfection. Broad shoulders and a wide chest fit his tall body. His sinfully expensive navy-blue business suit highlighted lean, masculine strength. Then she remembered her tasteless remark about cowboys being the standard of male appeal in Texas. Prince Rafiq Hassan had just upped the benchmark. She had the heart palpitations, weak knees and sweaty palms to prove it.
“I don’t—”
“Yes?” he prompted.
“What do I call you?” she blurted out. “Your Majesty? Your Highness? Your Worship? The member of the royal family formerly and still known as Prince?”
She was being impertinent, but she couldn’t help it. That’s who she was. Besides, what did she have to lose? She’d already put her foot in her mouth. Even though he should share part of the blame for leading