The Desert Sheikh's Defiant Queen. Jane Porter
as more commonly known in the Arabian Gulf, a cool, long, one-piece white dress and the traditional head gear comprised of a gutrah, a white scarflike cloth, and the ogal, the black circular band that held everything together.
He looked so different from when she’d last seen him, and yet he still looked very much the same, from the piercing pewter eyes to his chiseled jaw to his dark, glossy hair.
Confused, Dr. Maddox glanced from one to the other. “You know each other?”
Know? Know? She’d been his, and he’d been hers and their lives had been so intertwined that ending their relationship had ripped her heart to shreds.
“We … we went to school together,” she stammered, cheeks heating as she unsuccessfully tried to avoid his eyes.
But his gaze found hers anyway and held, the corner of his mouth sardonically lifting, challenging her.
They didn’t go to school together.
They weren’t even enrolled in school at the same time. He had been six years older than her, and although he hadn’t dressed the part, he had been a very successful financial analyst in London when they met.
They’d dated for several years, and when she broke it off, she walked away telling herself she would never see him again. And she hadn’t.
That didn’t mean she hadn’t hoped he’d prove her wrong.
Finally he had. But why? What did he want? Because he did want something. Sharif Fehr wouldn’t be in her Sharjah classroom without a very good reason.
“We went to school in England,” she added, striving to sound blasé, trying to hide how deeply his surprise appearance had unnerved her. There were boyfriends in life from whom you parted on good terms and then there were the ones who had changed you forever.
Sharif had changed her forever, and now, despite all the years that had passed, just being in the same room with him made her nerves scream, Danger, danger, danger.
“What a small world,” Dr. Maddox said, looking from one to the other.
“Indeed,” Sharif answered with a slight inclination of his royal head.
Jesslyn squeezed the sponge even tighter, her pulse leaping as she wondered yet again what he was doing here. What did he want?
What could he want with her?
She was still a teacher. She still lived a simple, rather frugal life. She still wore her brown hair at her shoulders in virtually the same style she’d worn nine years ago. And unlike him, she hadn’t ever married, although the man she’d been dating a couple of years ago had proposed. She hadn’t accepted the proposal, though, knowing she didn’t love him enough, not the way she’d loved Sharif.
But then, she’d never loved anybody the same way she’d loved Sharif.
Abruptly turning, she dropped the sponge in the sink, rinsed her hands and used one of the rough paper towels to dry them. “What can I do for you, Sharif?”
“I suppose I’m not needed here anymore,” Dr. Maddox said with a sigh of disappointment. “I’ll head back to my office. Good afternoon, Your Highness.” And with a respectful nod of her head, she left them, gently closing the door behind her.
Jesslyn heard rather than saw her classroom door close, and she drew a quick painful breath realizing they were alone.
Alone with Sharif. After all these years.
“Sit, please,” Sharif said, gesturing for her to sit down at her desk. “There’s no reason for you to stand for me.”
She glanced at her chair but didn’t think her legs could carry her across a room, at least not quite yet. “Would you like a chair?” she asked instead.
“I’m fine,” he answered.
“Then I’ll stand, too.”
His expression never changed. “I’d be more comfortable if you sat. Please.”
It wasn’t a request, though, it was a command, and Jesslyn looked at him, curious as well as surprised. He would never have used such an authoritative tone with her before. He’d never raised his voice or issued commands when she knew him. He’d always been gorgeous, confident, comfortable in his own skin. But he’d never been regal, never formal. He was both now.
Studying him more closely, she realized his face had changed more than she’d initially thought. His face was different. The years had subtly reshaped his features. His cheekbones were more pronounced, his jaw wider, stronger, his chin and brow also more defined.
Not a young man anymore but a man.
And not just any man but one of the most powerful leaders in the Middle East.
“Okay,” she said, her voice suddenly husky, betraying her nervousness, “let me just clean up and I’ll be happy to sit down.”
Turning back to the sink, she quickly tucked the bucket and sponge beneath the sink, wiped the sink down with another paper towel and then threw it away.
“You have to wash the chalkboards yourself?” Sharif asked as she made her way to her desk, stepping carefully around a crate of athletic gear and a stack of books that still needed to be put away in the closet.
“We’re responsible for our own boards.”
“I would have thought the janitor would take care of that.”
“We’re always trying to save money,” Jesslyn answered, kneeling down to pick up a misplaced paperback novel. She’d taught at this school, a small private school in Sharjah for four years now, and her classrooms were always warm, and downright sweltering in May, June and September.
Sharif’s eyes narrowed. “Is that why it’s a hundred degrees in here?”
She grimaced. So he’d noticed. “The air conditioner is on. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to put out as much cool air as warm air.” Taking a seat behind her desk, she prayed she looked more put together than she felt. “Is that why you’re here? To make a list of our school’s needs and then make a contribution?”
“If you help me, I’d be happy to make a contribution.”
There it was, why he was here. He wanted her help. Jesslyn felt a heavy weight in her chest and realized she wasn’t breathing.
Jesslyn forced herself to exhale and then inhale, trying to keep from dissolving into a state of panic. There was no reason to panic. She owed him nothing. Their relationship had ended nearly ten years ago.
Her attempt at cool, calm and collected ended when she caught sight of his expression. He was observing her intently, assessing her from head to toe.
Flushing, she shuffled papers nervously. “What kind of help do you need?”
“The kind you’re good at.” He was walking toward her, very slowly.
She tried to concentrate on what he was saying instead of his proximity, but he was coming too close, moving too quickly. “I’m a teacher, Sharif.”
“Exactly.” He stood over her, tall and imposing.
Had he always been this tall? “It’s been a long time,” she said.
“Nine years.”
“Nine,” she repeated, finding it nearly impossible to tear her gaze from his fiercely handsome features, features that had only grown harder and more beautiful over the years. The handsome prince had become a man. But then, he wasn’t merely a prince anymore. He was Sarq’s king.
With one hand she smoothed her skirt, feeling miserably dowdy, all too aware that her wardrobe and hairstyle were basic, practical, no nonsense. She’d never been a fashionista to start with, and nine years in the classroom had reduced both her wardrobe and her sense of style to nil.
She