Traded To The Sheikh. Emma Darcy
sharing his bunk.’
The cyncical deduction evoked a frown that weighed other factors. ‘Curiously the search of Arnault’s yacht indicated separate sleeping quarters.’
‘Perhaps the man snores.’
‘There does not appear to be any love lost between them,’ Abdul pointed out. ‘Arnault is eager to trade Miss Ross for his freedom and…’
‘She jumps overboard rather than be caught with him. As you say, no love lost between them but sex can certainly be used as a currency by both parties.’
‘Then why would Miss Ross not use her very blatant sex appeal to win your favour?’
It was a good question.
In fact, she should have done. It was what Zageo was used to from the women he’d met in western society. For Emily Ross to be an exception to the rule made no sense whatsoever. It was a totally perverse situation for her to look furious at his taking note of her feminine attributes, and to try blocking his appreciation of the perfectly proportioned curves by folding her arms. Women who wanted to win his interest invariably flaunted every charming asset they had. It was the oldest currency in the world for getting where they wanted to be. So why was Emily Ross denying it?
By her own admission she was not an innocent virgin.
Nor was she too young to know the score when it came to dealings between men and women.
Many things about this woman did not add up to a logical answer. The way she had spoken to him—actually daring to challenge him—had verged on disrespect, yet there had been a quick and lively intelligence behind everything she’d said. Those amazingly vivid blue eyes could have played flirtatious games with him, but no, they had burned with the strongly defiant sense of her own individuality, denying him any power over her, showing contempt for his authority.
‘That woman needs to be put in her place,’ Zageo muttered, determined to do it before the night was very much older.
Abdul’s brow furrowed into another frown of uncertainty. He started stroking his beard, a sure sign of some perturbation of mind. ‘If she is Australian…’
‘Yes?’ Zageo prompted impatiently.
‘Perhaps it is because they are from a country which is detached from everywhere else…I have found Australians to be strangely independent in how they think and act. They are not from an authoritarian society and they think they have the right to question anything. In fact, those who have been in our employ at Dubai have bluntly stated we will get a better result if we let them perform in their own way.’
Zageo waved dismissively. ‘You are talking of men. Men who have gained some eminence in their fields.’
‘Yes, but I’m thinking this may be an endemic attitude amongst both men and women from Australia.’
‘You are advising me that this woman may not be in the habit of bowing to any authority?’
Abdul grimaced an apologetic appeal to soften any offence as he explained, ‘I’m saying Miss Ross may not have the mindset to bend to your will. It is merely something to be considered when taking in the whole.’
‘Thank you, Abdul. I will give more thought to the problem of Miss Ross. However, until such time as you have checked the references from her previous employers, we will pursue the course I have laid down. Please ensure that my instructions are followed.’
Abdul bowed his way out.
His aide always understood authority.
To Zageo’s mind it was utterly intolerable for Emily Ross not to bend to his will. At the very least the woman was guilty of trespassing. It was unreasonable of her to keep defying all he stood for.
She had to bend.
He would make her bend!
Emily’s bikini had been taken away while she was relaxing in a luxurious spa bath, enjoying the warm bursts of water on tired, stiff muscles and the aromatic mixture of lavender and sandalwood oils rising out of the bubbles. She’d been invited to wear a wraparound silk robe during the subsequent pampering—a manicure and pedicure while her hair was shampooed and blow-dried. Five star service in these women’s quarters, Emily thought, until it came time to discard the robe and dress for her next meeting with the sheikh.
She was ushered into a sumptuous bedroom where there was only one outfit on offer. It had not come from her waterproof bag. It had not come from the luggage she’d chosen to leave behind on the yacht. It did not belong to her but Emily knew instantly what it represented. Sheikh Zageo bin Sultan Al Farrahn wanted to see how well she fitted the contentious belly-dancing role. Without a doubt this was one of the costumes he’d accused her of owning.
The skirt seemed to be a concoction of chiffon scarves with colours ranging from deep violet, through many shades of blue to turquoise. These layers were attached to a wide hip band encrusted with royal-blue and gold and silver sequins with a border of dangling gold medallions. Violet lycra hipster panties came with the skirt. The cups and straps of the accompanying turquoise bra were also exotically patterned with sequins and beads.
Clearly this was not a cheap dress-up outfit.
It was an intricably fashioned professional costume.
Emily felt a twinge of concern for the woman to whom it did belong. What had happened to her? What was the story behind the storage of these specialty clothes on the yacht?
‘I can’t wear that,’ she protested to Heba, the oldest of the attendants who’d been looking after her. ‘It’s not mine,’ she insisted.
‘I have been instructed it is for you,’ came the inarguable reply. ‘His Excellency, the sheikh, has commanded that you wear it. There is no other choice.’
Emily gritted her teeth. Clearly His Excellency’s word was law in this household. He’d allowed her the leeway of cleaning up and feeling more comfortable, although most probably this indulgence was a premeditated softening up process and Emily was highly suspicious of the motive behind it.
Was the sexual trade-off still being considered?
Had she just been prepared for the sheikh’s bed?
It had been so easy to accept all the pampering but now came the crunch!
She could either dig in her heels and remain naked under the flimsy and all too revealing silk robe—not a good option—or don the belly-dancing costume which was probably less sexually provocative and would definitely leave her less physically accessible.
Given there would be no avoiding facing the sheikh again tonight—he’d have her hauled into his presence if she tried disobeying his instructions—Heba was right. No choice. It had to be the belly-dancing costume.
Emily quelled a flood of futile rebellion and grudgingly accepted the inevitable, thinking that with any luck, these blatantly sexy clothes wouldn’t fit and that would show him she’d been telling the truth.
Naturally the lycra panties proved nothing, stretching to accommodate her derriere. No problem. Annoyingly the skirt sat snugly on the curve of her hips—not too loose, not too tight. Emily eyed the bra balefully as she discarded the silk robe. It looked about right, but hopefully it wouldn’t comfortably reach around her back.
To her intense frustration, the straps were perfectly positioned for her shape, the hooks and eyes met with no trouble at all, and the wired cups designed to uplift breasts and emphasise cleavage made her look so voluptuous it was positively embarrassing. Okay, her breasts were not small, but they weren’t this prominent.
The belly-dancing costume actually made her feel more self-conscious of her body than the swamp-soiled bikini which had been whisked away the moment she’d discarded it to step into the spa bath. The skimpy two-piece had been a far more natural thing for her to wear. It hadn’t been exotic and erotic, aimed at titillating a man’s mind. It had simply