Desert Sheikhs: Monarch of the Sands / To Tame a Sheikh / Sheikh Protector. Dana Marton
not supposed to mention it to anyone—it’s an infringement on their privacy and they get little enough of that as it is.’
Simon’s smile was tight. ‘Let’s not drift too far from reality, shall we? I don’t need lessons in protocol from my secretary.’ He gave her knee a quick squeeze. ‘Even if she does also happen to be my fiancée!’
She gave him a weak, answering smile but Frankie’s heart was pounding as they entered the restaurant and she felt an overpowering feeling of relief when she realised that Zahid wasn’t there. Maybe he’d changed his mind about coming, she thought hopefully as they were led to their table. Decided that something more important—or someone very beautiful—had come up. Any minute now and the maître d’ would discreetly slide up to their table and tell them that he had been unavoidably detained, and …
‘Hello, Francesca.’
She’d been so deep in thought that she hadn’t noticed the sheikh enter the room until his silken and faintly accented voice broke into her thoughts. She looked up and there he was, standing in front of their table like some dark god—with Simon springing to his feet as if his long-lost brother had just appeared and for one awful moment Frankie thought that he was actually going to try to embrace the sheikh.
But Zahid pre-empted any inappropriate familiarity by extending a cool hand in greeting and an even cooler smile. ‘You must be Simon.’
‘And you must be Zahid. Frankie’s told me all about you.’
‘Has she really?’ Dark eyes were briefly glittered in her direction as Frankie attempted to clamber to her feet, but a careless wave of his hand indicated that she should remain seated.
‘Of course I haven’t,’ said Frankie. ‘And please won’t you sit down, Zahid?’ she added on a whisper. ‘Everyone’s staring at us.’
It was true. Even the eyes of the more studiedly cool diners seemed to be drawn irresistibly to the tall man in the impeccably cut suit, whose two burly-looking companions had been seated rather ostentatiously at a table right by the door. Frankie sighed. Even if it hadn’t been for his bodyguards, he just oozed power, wealth and a potent sexual charisma which had all the women in the restaurant responding to him. She could see a blonde who’d been shoehorned into a silver dress and who seemed to be wearing most of Fort Knox around her neck was now flashing him a sticky, vermilion-lip-sticked smile.
But Zahid seemed oblivious to the restrained excitement his presence was causing. Instead, he sat down with his back to the room, and as two waiters fussed round them with the kind of speed she wasn’t used to Frankie realised that this was the first time she’d actually been out in public with him—and that this must be what it was like all the time. The flattery and deference. His every wish anticipated and granted. No wonder his manner could be so assured and so … so … arrogant.
Having refused wine himself, Zahid ordered champagne for a clearly eager Simon and then leaned back in his chair—looking, thought Frankie indignantly, as if he were interviewing them for some sort of job!
‘I gather congratulations are in order, Simon,’ he murmured. ‘You are indeed a lucky man.’
Simon took a mouthful of champagne, followed by an appreciative glance at the label on the bottle. ‘Aren’t I just? Although naturally, there were lots of raised eyebrows when we first announced it!’
Zahid slowly curled his fingers over the starched linen surface of the tablecloth. ‘Really?’ he questioned coolly.
Simon leaned across the table towards him, in a man-to-man kind of way. ‘Well, lots of my friends were surprised to begin with,’ he confided.
Frankie squirmed. She could guess what was coming and although she didn’t usually mind Simon’s justifiable boasts about the dramatic effect he’d had on her appearance, something in her rebelled at having Zahid hear them. ‘Zahid isn’t interested,’ she said quickly.
‘Oh, but Zahid is,’ corrected the sheikh archly. ‘In fact, he’s absolutely fascinated. Do continue, Simon.’
Simon gave a disarming shrug. ‘Well, Frankie isn’t my usual type. In fact, she won’t mind me saying that she looked a bit of a geek when she came to work for me, didn’t you, darling?’ He shrugged like a man who had found a winning lottery ticket scrunched up on the pavement. ‘So I told her to grow her hair, to lose the glasses and wear a few clothes that might show off her body—and suddenly it’s “Good Morning, Cinderella!”.’ He raked the flop of blond hair off his forehead and glittered her the kind of smile which had once made her go weak at the knees. ‘And just look at her now!’
Zahid turned his head, taking in the slump of Francesca’s shoulders and the look of acute embarrassment on her face. And even though he had been amazed and surprised by her new look, he would not have dreamed of speaking of it in such a way. He certainly would not have boasted about it as if he had been preparing a horse for its first important race. A slow tide of rage began to build up inside him. What kind of a man had she harnessed her destiny to—who would humiliate her in such a way? Some pretty-pretty blond boy who was drinking champagne as if it were cordial!
‘Why, you flaunt her as if she were a new toy,’ he observed softly.
‘And a very cuddly toy she is, too,’ said Simon.
Frankie knew Zahid well enough to know when he was angry and he was very angry now. Surely Simon wasn’t blind to the nerve which was flickering at his temple, or the way he had started flexing and unflexing his long fingers on the starchy linen tablecloth. Why wouldn’t he shut up? Her eyes were beseeching him to stop being indiscreet but he didn’t even notice her—instead he seemed transfixed by his royal dining companion.
‘Shall we … order?’ she questioned hurriedly.
‘Yeah, let’s.’ Simon scanned the menu with the avaricious scrutiny of someone who knew they wouldn’t be paying the bill. ‘I’ll have the foie gras, followed by the duck à l’orange.’
Across the table, Zahid’s black eyes met hers and she thought she read in them a mixture of mockery and contempt. She felt like squirming in her seat—or trying to explain that Simon wasn’t always like this—but instead she just offered the sheikh a polite smile.
‘Francesca?’ he questioned sardonically.
She wasn’t in the least bit hungry, but she could hardly sit there with an empty plate while her fiancé ate his way through a gourmet feast. ‘Oh, a salad—and then the fish please.’
‘I’ll have the same,’ said Zahid, snapping shut his leather menu and handing it back to the maître d’. ‘I’m assuming you’ll drink wine, Simon?’
‘Love to!’ Simon beamed. ‘Frankie can drive, can’t you, darling?’
‘Of course I can.’
The drinks and first courses were brought and after he’d seen off most of his foie gras, Simon, now further emboldened by more wine, pushed back his lock of blond hair and smiled at Zahid.
‘I’m still not entirely sure how you happen to be such a good friend of the family, Zahid,’ he said. ‘Something to do with your fathers being friends, isn’t it?’
Zahid nodded. There was no earthly reason not to try to engage in conversation with the man—even though something about him was setting his teeth on edge. He glanced over at Francesca, who was picking uninterestedly at a plate of salad, and he found his eyes lingering with reluctant fascination on the creamy swell of her breasts, which was emphasised by the silky black dress she wore.
Swallowing down the sudden stir of lust, he looked at Simon. ‘Our fathers were indeed friends—they met at university and maintained that connection throughout their lives. You know that Francesca’s father was a geologist?’
‘Well, I never met him, of course,’ said Simon. ‘He sounds as if he was brilliant.’ He smirked. ‘Though more than a bit batty—a