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Australia
In Bed with a Sheikh
The Sheikh’s Seduction
The Sheikh’s Revenge
Traded to The Sheikh
Emma Darcy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

The Sheikh’s Seduction

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Sheikh’s Revenge

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Traded to The Sheikh

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Endpages

Copyright

The Sheikh’s Seduction

CHAPTER ONE

“MY NAME IS Sarah Hillyard. My father trains racehorses in Australia…”

The artless words of a twelve-year-old child.

A child he’d liked and remembered seven years later when he’d come to choosing a trainer in Australia.

Sheikh Tareq al-Khaima shook his head in self-derision. Stupid to have let a sentimental memory influence his judgment. He’d hired Drew Hillyard, entrusted him with the progeny of some of the best bloodlines in the world, and the man had proved to be a cheat and a crook, wasting what he’d been given in favour of sure money, bribe money.

It was an effort to remain civil, sitting beside him in the Members’ Stand at Flemington Racecourse, waiting for the Melbourne Cup to be run. Recognised as one of the great races on the international calendar, The Cup was a prize coveted by trainers and owners. It made reputations. It sealed a horse’s fame. It was the return on an investment.

If Firefly won today, Drew Hillyard might earn himself another chance. If Firefly lost, the trainer could kiss Tareq’s string of thoroughbreds goodbye. The moment of truth was fast approaching. The horses were being boxed, ready for the start of the race.

“He should run well,” Drew Hillyard said reassuringly.

Tareq turned to Sarah’s father. The older man’s brown curly hair was streaked with lustreless grey and cut so short, the ringlets sat tightly against his scalp. His dark eyes were opaque, as though he’d fitted blinds over the windows of his soul. The memory of Drew Hillyard’s daughter flashed into Tareq’s mind-a glorious mop of burnished brown curls framing a fascinating face with eyes so dark and brilliant he’d loved watching them. He didn’t want to even look at her father.

“Yes, he should,” he answered, and returned his gaze to the track. Firefly had been bred from champion stayers. If he’d been trained properly he should eat this race. He should, but Tareq wasn’t banking on it. None of the horses he’d placed in Drew Hillyard’s stables had lived up to their breeding. The initial promise of the first two years had been whittled away by sly corruption.

Susan Hillyard claimed his attention. “Did you place a bet on Firefly, Tareq?”

He looked at her, wondering if she knew the truth. Drew Hillyard’s wife—second wife—was a thin, nervous blonde. With every reason to be nervous, Tareq thought darkly. “I never bet, Mrs. Hillyard. It’s performance that interests me. On every level. I like to see my horses fulfil the promise of their bloodlines.”

“Oh!” she said and retreated, her hands twisting worriedly in her lap.

Sarah’s stepmother.

My father’s marrying again. Since my mother’s made her home here in Ireland now, she’s arranged for me to go to boarding school in England. So she can more easily visit me, she says. I get to go home to my father in the summer break.

A lonely, disillusioned child, her world torn apart by divorce. Tareq wondered what had become of her, where she was. Not here at Flemington. He’d looked for her, curious to see the woman she’d grown into. He was tempted to ask about her but revealing a personal interest went against his grain in this situation. Sarah, the child, was a piece of the past, eleven years gone. Comprehensively gone after today, if Firefly failed.

A roar went up from the crowd, signalling the start of the race. Tareq stood with the rest of the people around him, binoculars lifted to his eyes. The commentator’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers, whipping up excitement. Tareq focused all his attention on the horse that had brought him here, a magnificent stallion who’d be worth his weight in gold if he won.

He was poetry in motion, well positioned for the early part of the race and running with a fluid grace and ease that was exciting to watch. He took the lead at the halfway mark and streaked ahead of the field. Too soon, Tareq thought. Yet he held a gap of three lengths into the last hundred metres. Then he visibly flagged, other horses catching him and sweeping past to the finishing post. Eighth. Respectable enough in a class field of twenty-two horses, people would say. Except Tareq knew better.

“Ran out of puff,” Drew Hillyard said, his weatherbeaten face appropriately mournful with disappointment.

“Yes, he did,” Tareq coldly agreed, knowing full well that a properly trained champion stayer did not run out of puff.

“Want to accompany me down to talk to the jockey?”

“No. I’ll have a word with you after the last race.”

“Fine.”

He and his wife left. Tareq was glad to see the back of them though he’d have to confront them later.

“Do you want me to do it?”

The quiet question came from his oldest friend, Peter Larsen. They’d been through Eton and Oxford together and understood each other as well as any two men could. It was Peter who had investigated Drew Hillyard’s notable failure to make champions of champions. The paper evidence left no doubt as to the reason behind the obvious incompetence. To top it all, Drew Hillyard had even sacrificed a chance at the Melbourne Cup.

Tareq shook his head. Peter had saved him trouble on innumerable occasions but this wasn’t usual business. “I was fool enough to choose him. He’s mine, Peter.”

A nod of understanding.

Drew Hillyard had broken a trust.

That was always personal.

CHAPTER TWO

SARAH HELPED HER little half-sister to bed. Jessie had grown strong enough to move her legs herself but she was tired, her energy spent on all the anticipation, excitement and disappointments of the day. The latter had dragged her spirits right down and there was nothing Sarah could say to cheer her up.

Despite sitting glued to the television for hours before and after the running of the Melbourne Cup, Jessie hadn’t seen the sheikh, whom she’d imagined in flowing white robes. Sarah had suggested he would probably be in a suit. Not a well-received comment. To Jessie’s mind, a sheikh wasn’t a sheikh unless he wore flowing white robes. Either way, the television had failed to put him on display.

And Firefly had lost. After looking as though he might take out The Cup for most of the race, the stallion had faltered with the finishing post in sight. A flood of tears from Jessie. She’d loved Firefly from the moment she’d first clapped eyes on the beautiful colt and she’d desperately wanted him to win.

“Mummy didn’t call,” she now grumbled, adding another disappointment to her list of woes.

Sarah tried to excuse the oversight. “It would be a busy day for her, Jessie, what with having to entertain the sheikh and everything. They’ve probably gone out somewhere.”

Big blue eyes mournfully pleaded the injustice of it all. “It’s not fair. Daddy’s had the sheikh’s horses for four years and this is the first time he’s come to Australia and I didn’t even get to see him.”

Neither did I, Sarah thought ruefully. Though it wasn’t so important to her. Just curiosity to see what he looked like after all these years. Funny how some childhood memories remained vivid and others faded away. She’d never forgotten Tareq al-Khaima, nor his kindness to her over that first lonely Christmas in Ireland with her mother.

He’d been a young man then, immensely wealthy and strikingly handsome. Everyone at her mother’s house parties had wanted to know him. Yet he’d noticed a forlorn child, eaten up with the misery of feeling like the leftover, unwanted baggage from her mother’s first marriage, best out of sight and out of mind. He’d spent time with her, giving her a sense of being a person worth knowing. It was her only good memory from being twelve.

“Maybe there’ll be a photograph of him in the newspaper tomorrow,” she offered as consolation.

“I bet there isn’t.” Jessie stuck to gloom. “There hasn’t been one all week.”

Which had been surprising with the Spring Carnival in full swing and the social pages packed with photographs of visiting celebrities. Either the sheikh was not partying or he was camera-shy for some reason.

“And he’s not coming to Werribee to see his other horses, either. Daddy told me he’d only be at Flemington.”

“Well, the sheikh owns horses all around the world, Jessie.” He’d been buying them in Ireland when she’d met him. “I don’t suppose any particular string of them is special to him.”

She wondered if he remembered her. Unlikely. Too brief a connection, too long ago. It was just one of those coincidences in life that Tareq’s agent had assigned the sheikh’s horses in Australia to her father to train. There’d been nothing personal in the deal.

“He came to see Firefly race,” Jessie argued.

“That’s because the Melbourne Cup is special.” Having settled her half-sister comfortably, Sarah stroked the wispy fair hair away from the woeful little face and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Never mind, love. I’m sure your mother will tell you all about the sheikh tomorrow.”

Disgruntled mumbles.

Sarah ignored them as she made sure everything was right for Jessie; the electric wheelchair in the correct position for easy use when she needed to go to the bathroom, the night-light on, a glass of water on the moveable tray. It was amazing the amount of independence the little girl managed now. In fact, Sarah knew she really wasn’t needed here at Werribee anymore. It was time to move on with her own life. Once the Spring Carnival was over, she would broach the matter with Susan.

Having completed her check list, Sarah moved to the door and switched off the overhead light. “Goodnight, Jessie,” she said softly.

“Mummy didn’t call and she promised she would.”

The final petulant comment on a day that had not delivered its promises.

Sarah quietly closed the door on it, privately conceding Jessie had cause to feel let down. Her mother should have called. That had been a real promise, not a wish or a hope. Real promises should be kept.

Sarah grimaced at the thought as she moved along the hall to the twins’ room. It was so hopelessly idealist in this day and age where keeping promises was a matter of convenience. Wasn’t her whole life an illustration of not being able to count on them? It was about time she accepted the real world.

She looked in at the boys. Her seven-year-old half-brothers were fast asleep. They looked as innocent as babes, mischief and mayhem cloaked with peaceful repose. The problem with children was they were innocent. They believed in promises. When disillusionment came it hurt. It hurt very badly.

Mummy didn’t call…

The words jogged memories of another Melbourne Cup day. She’d been ten, the same age as Jessie, and left behind at Werribee in the care of the foreman’s wife. Her mother hadn’t called, either. She’d been too busy with Michael Kearney, planning to leave her husband and daughter and go off to Ireland with the promise of becoming the fourth wife of one of the wealthiest men in the horse world.

Her mother had made good on that promise, and when Michael Kearney had chosen wife number five, the divorce settlement had been astronomical. It had certainly helped make the ex-Mrs. Kearney an attractive proposition to an English Lord. Sarah could safely say her mother had never looked back after leaving Werribee. She’d been appalled when her daughter had rejected “the chances” lined up for her, returning to Australia to help with Jessie.

Sarah didn’t regret her decision. It was strange how far away that life in England seemed now. The question was…where to go from here? She wandered into the living room, curled up on the sofa and gave the matter serious consideration.

She’d always loved books. They’d been her escape from loneliness, her friends and companions, doors that opened other worlds for her. She’d had her mind set on getting into some career in publishing. Maybe her degree in English Literature would still hold her in good stead there, though she had no work experience and probably openings at publishing houses were few and far between. Still there was no harm in looking for a position.

Melbourne? Sydney? London?

She instinctively shied from going back to England.

A new life, she thought, one she would make on her own. Though how best to do it kept her mind going around. When the telephone rang it startled her out of a deep reverie. She leapt to pick up the receiver, glancing at her watch simultaneously. Close to nine-thirty.

“The Hillyard Homestead,” she rattled out.

“Sarah…I promised to call Jessie. Is she still waiting?”

Susan’s voice was strained. She didn’t sound herself at all. But at least she hadn’t forgotten her daughter. “No, she was tired,” Sarah answered. “I put her to bed at eight. Do you want me to see if she’s awake?”

“No, I…I just thought of it and…oh, Sarah…” She burst into tears.

“Susan, what’s wrong?”

Deep, shuddering breaths. “I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay. Take it easy,” Sarah soothed, trying to contain her own fast-rising anxiety. “Try to tell me what’s happened.” Please, God! Not another dreadful accident!

“The sheikh…he’s taking all his horses away from your father.”

“Why?” It made no sense. Unless…“Surely not because Firefly didn’t win the cup?”

“No. There’s…there’s more. The past two years…but you know what they’ve been like, Sarah. It was hard for Drew to keep his mind on the job.”

What was she justifying? Had her father mismanaged the training?

“It’ll ruin us,” Susan went on, her voice a wail of despair. “It’ll make other owners uneasy. You know reputation is everything in this business.”

“I don’t understand.” She’d been too busy with Jessie to take an active interest in what was happening with the thoroughbreds in her father’s stables. “What is the sheikh’s complaint?”

“It’s all about…about performance.” She broke into tears again.

“Susan, put Dad on. Let me talk to him,” Sarah urged.

“He’s…he’s drinking. There’s nothing we can do. Nothing…”

Not if you’re drunk. Sarah bit back the retort, knowing it was useless. All the same, her father’s growing habit of hitting the bottle could be at the root of this problem. It was all very well to seek relief from stress but not if it led to shirking responsibilities.

“Tell Jessie I’ll call her tomorrow.”

The phone went dead.

No point in holding the receiver. She put it down. The living room suddenly felt cold. If her father was ruined, if that sent him further along the path of drinking himself into oblivion…what would happen to his and Susan’s marriage? What would happen to the children? It was always the innocent ones who were overlooked.

Sarah shivered.

Did Tareq al-Khaima realise what effect today’s decision would have? Did he care? How bad was the situation?

Sarah shook her head helplessly. She had no idea to what extent her father had failed in giving the sheikh satisfaction.

But she did know the circumstances behind his failure.

Tareq had been sympathetic to her once. If he remembered her…if she could get him to listen…

It was worth a try.

He was staying at the Como Hotel. She remembered her father mentioning it. If she went there as early as possible tomorrow morning…

Anything was worth a try to stave off disaster.

CHAPTER THREE

SARAH GLANCED ANXIOUSLY at her watch. The drive into the city had taken over two hours. The morning was slipping away from her. It was almost eight o’clock and she was still locked in Melbourne traffic. A sleepless night and a heavy weight of worry wasn’t doing much for her judgment on which were the faster transit lanes, either.

She’d left Werribee as early as she could but not as early as she would have liked. It had taken time to instruct one of the stable hands in the house routine so he could look after the children until the foreman’s wife could come. It wasn’t the best arrangement but this was an emergency situation.

Her main fear was the possibility she was already too late to make any difference to Tareq’s decision. He may have acted yesterday, lining up another trainer to take his horses. Or he could be at Flemington right now, discussing business. The Spring Carnival wasn’t over yet. It was Oaks Day tomorrow. Many owners gathered with trainers at the racetrack at dawn each morning, watching the form of favoured horses.

On top of which, even if Tareq was at his hotel, there was no guarantee he would see her. Or talk to her. Let alone listen to what she had to say. All Sarah could do was hope and pray for a chance to change his mind before his decision became irreversible.

When she finally reached the Como Hotel, she did a double take. Despite its being in South Yarra, outside the main city area, she had expected a big, plush, ostentatiously luxurious establishment, the kind of place one automatically associated with oil-wealthy sheikhs. The Como was relatively small, almost boutique size. Sarah hoped it meant Tareq was more approachable.

She found a parking station just off Chapel Street, left the jeep there, and walked back to the hotel.

The moment she entered it, the decor screamed class—quiet, exclusive class—marble floors, black leather sofas, floral arrangements worthy of being called exquisite modern art. It might not be ostentatious luxury but it was just as intimidating to anyone who didn’t belong to the privileged people.

Sarah could feel herself bridling against its effect and mentally adopted a shield of untouchability to carry her through gaining entry to Tareq’s presence. She knew from experience with her mother’s high-strata world that her appearance would not be a critical factor. The dark brown corduroy jeans and fawn skivvy would pass muster anywhere these days. The wind had undoubtedly tossed her unruly curls but that didn’t matter. Neither did the fact she wore no make-up. “Being natural” could be just as fashionable as designer clothes.

The concierge directed her to the reception area, around to the left and down a flight of steps, privacy from the street effectively established. One elegant freestanding desk was apparently enough to serve the guests. The woman behind it smiled invitingly. Sarah willed her to be obliging, too.

“I’ve come to call on Sheikh Tareq al-Khaima. Is he in?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Whom should I say is calling?”

“If you’ll just give me his suite number…”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. That’s against our security rules. I can call up to his suite for you. What name should I give?”

Security. Of course. This place was probably as tight as Fort Knox—no unwanted visitors allowed past the steel doors of the elevator. “Sarah Hillyard,” she stated flatly, resigning herself to the inevitable. If Tareq didn’t want to see her, she couldn’t force him to.

Her nerves knotted as the call was made and the message passed on. There seemed to be a long hesitation before an answer was given. Sarah’s tension eased slightly when the receptionist smiled at her, indicating no problem.

“He’s sending Mr. Larsen down to fetch you. It should only be a minute or two, Miss Hillyard.”

“Fetch me?”

“There’s a special key for the executive floor. The elevator won’t take you up without it.”

“Oh! Thank you.”

Relief poured through her. Past the first hurdle. Though Mr. Larsen, whoever he was, might prove to be another barrier. She wondered how big Tareq’s entourage was. He wouldn’t have come alone to Australia and might well have taken over the whole hotel. Such information hadn’t been of interest to her until now and it was too late to ask her father or Susan for more facts.

When the steel doors opened, a tall, fair-haired man, impeccably dressed in a silver-grey suit, emerged from the elevator. His face was thin and austere; high cheekbones, long nose, small mouth, and very light eyes. He looked to be in his early thirties and carried an air of lofty authority. He inspected Sarah as though measuring an adversary; a swift, acute appraisal that left her highly rattled.

One eyebrow was slightly raised. “Miss Hillyard?”

“Yes. Mr. Larsen?”

He gave a slight nod and waved her into the elevator. No smile. His eyes were a silver grey like his suit. Very cold. He didn’t speak as he used a key to set the compartment in motion, nor did he acknowledge her in any way as they rode upwards. Sarah felt comprehensively shut out from this man’s consciousness.

Fighting another rise of tension, she inquired, “Have you been with Sheikh Tareq al-Khaima for a long time, Mr. Larsen?”

He looked directly at her, his mouth curling slightly. “You could say that.”

Oxford accent. Upper-class English. “Are you a friend or do you work for the sheikh?” she asked, needing to place him.

“I’m his trouble-shooter. Are you trouble, Miss Hillyard?”

A hatchet man, she thought. “Am I seeing him or you?”

“The sheikh will see you personally.”

The man’s superior manner provoked her. “Then I hope I’m trouble, Mr. Larsen.”

“Brave words, Miss Hillyard.”

And probably foolish. Getting anyone close to Tareq offside was hardly good politics.

Mr. Larsen turned away, though not before Sarah saw a flicker of amusement in the light grey eyes. A chill ran down her spine. This man’s amusement would undoubtedly be aroused by the anticipation of seeing someone cut to pieces. It did not augur well for her meeting with Tareq. But at least she was seeing him, which gave her a chance at persuasion.

Sarah clung to that reassurance. The elevator stopped. Mr. Larsen led her along a corridor, stopping at a door on which he knocked before using a key to open it. Poker-faced once more, he ushered Sarah into a suite full of light.

The blinds had been lifted from two huge picture windows, allowing a spectacular view over the city. Tareq stood at the window. Although his back was turned to her and he was anonymously clothed in a navy blue suit, Sarah had no doubt who it was. The thick black hair, dark olive skin, his height and build, brought an instant wave of familiarity, despite the passage of years between their meetings. Yet Sarah was just as instantly aware of something different.

She remembered him as carrying an air of easy selfassur-ance, confident of who he was and what he wanted from life. To a child who felt no security about anything, it had seemed quite wonderful to be like that. Now she sensed something more, a dominant authority that didn’t bend.

Perhaps it was in the square set of his shoulders, the straightness of his back, the quality of stillness telegraphing not only total command of himself, but command of the situation. Even the plain dark suit implied he needed no trappings to impress himself on anyone. He didn’t have to do anything. He certainly didn’t have to turn to her need to appeal to him.

Her formidable escort had followed her into the suite and shut the door behind them. He waited, as she did, for Tareq to acknowledge their presence. Waiting for the entertainment to begin, Sarah thought, and wondered if she should take the initiative and greet Tareq. The silence seemed to hum with negative vibrations, choking off any facile words.

“Did your father send you, Sarah?”

The quiet question had a hard edge to it. Without moving, without so much as a glance at her, Tareq had spoken, and Sarah suddenly realised he was standing in judgment. she sensed his back would remain turned to her if her answer complied with whatever dark train of thought was in his mind. She didn’t know what he expected to hear. The truth was all she could offer.

“No. It was my own idea to come to you. If you remember, we met in Ireland when…”

“I remember. Did your father agree to your coming here?”

Sarah took a deep breath. Tareq al-Khaima was not about to be swayed by reminiscences. He was directing this encounter and she had no choice but to toe his line.

“I haven’t even spoken to my father. Nor seen him,” she answered. “I was at Werribee yesterday, looking after the children. Susan, his wife, phoned last night. She was terribly distressed…”

“So you’ve come to intercede for him,” he cut in, unsoftened.

“For all of them, Tareq. It doesn’t just affect my father.”

“What do you intend to offer me to balance what he’s done?”

“Offer?” The concept hadn’t occurred to her. No way could she compensate for whatever had been lost. ‘I…I’m sorry. I have no means to pay you back for…for my father’s mismanagement.”

“Mismanagement!”

Her heart leapt as he swung around. The vivid blue blaze of his eyes shot electric tingles through her brain, paralysing her thought processes. Her whole body felt caught in a magnetic field. Her stomach contracted. Goose bumps broke out on her skin. She couldn’t even breathe. Never in her life had she felt such power coming from anyone. She was helpless to do anything but stare back at him. His gaze literally transfixed her.

The initial bolts of anger transmuted into laser beams. It felt as though he was peeling back the years, remembering how she’d been at twelve, then piling them on again, rebuilding the woman she was now, studying her, seeing if she measured up to whatever he thought she should be.

Sarah struggled to reclaim her mind. He had changed. The shock of such blue eyes—an inherited gene from His English mother—against his dark complexion still held fascination but she saw no kindness in them, nothing to encourage hope. His strikingly handsome face had matured into harder, sharper lines, his softer youthfulness discarded. She knew him to be thirty-four, yet he had the look of a man who wielded power at any level and commanded respect for it. He was armoured, in every sense.

His mouth suddenly curved in a half-smile. “How can dark chocolate shine so brightly?”

They were the teasing words he’d used about her eyes the morning he’d invited her to ride with him on her stepfather’s estate in Ireland, she on a pony, he on a thoroughbred stallion. Sarah floundered in a wash of memories. She had no reply to the remark, any more than she’d had then.

“You haven’t learnt any artifice, Sarah?” he asked.

The abrupt change to a more personal line of conversation confused her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

The half-smile took on a cynical twist. “You’re a grown woman, yet I still see the child. The same rioting brown curls. The same appealing face, bare of make-up. Clothes that are nothing more than clothes. Perhaps that was intentional. Artifice in lack of artifice.”