The Desert Sheikh's Defiant Queen. Jane Porter
room beyond.
The bath was a Roman bath with sunken tub and endless white marble. A delicately painted dome arched over the airy room, capping high walls with high narrow windows that drew in early-morning and late-afternoon sun but didn’t sacrifice privacy.
“I will help you?” Mehta asked, gesturing to Jesslyn.
The huge sunken tub had already been filled, and steam rose from the surface. “I can manage,” Jesslyn answered, thinking the whole help thing had gone far enough. Turning, she spotted a white robe on a small iron stool, and she picked it up, held it against her. “I’ll take the bath and then put this on and then I’ll come out, okay?”
Mehta smiled. “Okay.”
Once the bathroom door was shut, Jesslyn dropped her clothes and slid into the tub’s hot water with an appreciative sigh. She hadn’t wanted to take the bath, but now that she was here, chin-deep in water scented with a tantalizing vanilla and spice oil, she couldn’t imagine not bathing.
The little bathroom in her apartment had a tiny tub, but the water never got properly hot and then turned cold halfway before the tub was even filled. Soaking in this deep tub was pure decadence. Closing her eyes, Jesslyn just floated, content, absolutely content—
“Massage now, Teacher Fine. Okay?”
Mehta’s voice suddenly pierced Jesslyn’s dream state and her eyes flew open. Mehta was leaning over the tub smiling at her. “Okay?”
Jesslyn sat up abruptly, drawing her knees to her chest. “I don’t need a massage.”
“Nice massage before dinner.”
Spotting a large woman, Jesslyn shook her head. “The bath is perfect. The bath is lovely. I’ll just get dressed.”
“Dinner with His Highness,” Mehta said.
“Yes, yes, I know, but—”
“Massage before dinner with His Highness.”
Oh, for Pete’s sake! Enough with this dinner-with-His-Highness. It was just Sharif. She’d had hundreds of meals with Sharif. It was ridiculous to go through all of this just because she’d be joining him to eat.
“No.” Jesslyn hugged her knees tighter. “I really—” she broke off as the masseuse behind Mehta scooped up the robe and came marching toward her.
Mehta and the masseuse waited expectantly.
Jesslyn looked up at them, water trickling down her chest and back. She honestly didn’t know if she should laugh or cry. Coming here, she thought Sharif would be the problem, but Sharif was no problem, not compared to her baby-faced attendant with the biggest dimpled smile in the world.
“Anything for the king,” she said from between gritted teeth as she stood up in the bath and was wrapped in the robe.
Mehta smiled, her deep dimples growing bigger, deeper.
But of course Mehta smiled. Mehta was having a great time. She’d managed in less than a day to turn Jesslyn into a living Barbie doll.
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