Kitabı oku: «Traded To The Sheikh», sayfa 2

CHAPTER THREE

ZAGEO glanced over the contents of the waterproof bag, now emptied onto a side table in his private sitting room and divided into categories for his perusal. He picked up the passport. If it was a genuine document, Emily Ross was an Australian citizen, born in Cairns. Her date of birth placed her as currently twenty-eight years old.

‘You have looked up this place…Cairns?’ he asked his highly reliable aide-de-camp, Abdul Haji.

‘A city on the east coast of far north Queensland, which is the second largest state in Australia,’ Abdul informed, once again proving his efficiency in supplying whatever Zageo did or might require. ‘The paper certifying Miss Ross as a diving instructor,’ he went on, gesturing to a sheaf of documents on the table, ‘is attached to various references by employers who have apparently used her services, catering for tourists at The Great Barrier Reef. They are not immediately checkable because of the different time zone, but in a few hours…’

Zageo picked up the papers. The certificate was dated six years ago so Emily Ross had apparently been plying this profession since she was twenty-two. ‘The resort on the Red Sea where Arnault supposedly picked up this woman…’

‘Is renowned for its diving around magnificent coral reefs,’ Abdul instantly slid in. ‘However, it also employs belly-dancers for nightly entertainment.’

Zageo flashed him a sardonic smile. ‘We will soon see if that picture fits.’ He waved to the meagre bundle of clothes. ‘This appears to be survival kit only.’

‘One can easily replenish lost clothes by purchasing them very cheaply at the markets.’

Zageo picked up a small bundle of American dollars and flicked through them to check their value. ‘There’s not much cash money here.’

‘True. No doubt Miss Ross was counting on using her credit card.’

Which was also laid out on the table—a Visa card, acceptable currency in most hotels. All the same, transactions and movements could be traced from a credit card, which didn’t exactly tally with criminal activities.

‘Surely there should be more ready cash if she is involved in the drug-running,’ Zageo observed.

Abdul shrugged. ‘We have no direct evidence of her complicity. I am inclined to believe she did make a deal with Arnault—free passage to wherever she wanted to go in return for crewing on his yacht…’

‘And 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 been an off-the-peg garment for swimming.

However, there was no point in asking for it back.

Heba had her orders and clearly disobeying the sheikh was unthinkable.

Emily argued to herself that although she might feel caught up in a scene from The Arabian Nights, it couldn’t be true, not in today’s world. Even Heba was now using a very modern slimline mobile phone, undoubtedly reporting the state of play.

This forcing her to wear the belly-dancing costume had to be a pressure tactic, wanting her to feel more exposed, more vulnerable in the next interview about her activities. It couldn’t have anything to do with a sexual trade-off. Not really.

Two security guards and a bearded man whom they clearly regarded as a higher authority arrived to escort her elsewhere. The women’s quarters were on the second floor. Emily expected to be taken all the way down to the opulent atrium but she was led to a door on the first floor, which instantly evoked a wild wave of apprehension. At least the hugely open atrium had been like a public arena, overlooked by anyone on the ground or upper floors. She hoped, quite desperately, that some kind of official office was behind this door.

It wasn’t.

The bearded man ushered her into what was undoubtedly a private sitting room, richly furnished and sensually seductive with its many cushioned couches surrounding a low circular table which held a tempting display of food and drink. It was occupied by only one person who instantly proceeded to dismiss her usher.

‘Thank you, Abdul.’

The bearded man backed out of the room and closed the door, leaving Emily absolutely alone with a sheikh who apparently believed the only law that had to be respected was his own!

He strolled forward, intent on gaining an unencumbered view of her from head to foot—front view, side view and back view—in the costume he’d chosen for her to wear. Emily gritted her teeth and stood as still as a statue, determined not to betray her inner quaking and hoping that with her head held high, she looked as though she disdained any interpretation he took from how well the skirt and bra fitted her.

He moved behind her. Her spine crawled with an awareness of how close he was. Within an arm’s reach. And he did not move on. His out-of-sight stillness played havoc with her pulse, making her temples throb with acute anxiety. What was he doing? What was he thinking? Was she imagining it or had he touched her hair, sliding fingers around a tress, lifting it away from the rest?

‘You must fetch a very high price…as a dancer.’

The comment was spoken slowly, consideringly, his voice thick with a sensuality that raised goose-bumps all over her skin.

Emily swallowed hard to work some moisture into a very dry mouth. Her inner agitation had bolted beyond any control. Remaining still was beyond her. She swung around, catching sight of a swathe of her hair sliding out between the thumb and fingers of a hand that had been raised to his mouth. Or nose. The idea of him taking the intimate liberty of tasting it, smelling it, created total havoc in Emily’s mind.

‘You’re making a big mistake about me,’ she cried, struggling to find some defence to how he was making her feel.

‘That was meant as a compliment, Miss Ross,’ he answered, his mouth still curved in a look of sensual pleasure. ‘There is no need for you to bristle.’

He didn’t have the right to touch her without her permission. Emily wanted to say so but she sensed he would only laugh at the objection. Right now he had the power to do anything he wanted with her. All she could do was try to change his view of who and what she was.

‘It sounded as though you thought I was a…a call-girl,’ she protested.

His smile tilted with irony. ‘I think it more a case of your choosing whom you’ll take as a lover…as it suits you.’

Emily wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that, either. She had the weird sensation of being silently enticed to choose him as her next lover. Or was he setting a test—a trap—for her?

‘Come—’ he waved her forward to one of the couches close to the circular table ‘—you must be hungry after the rigours of your escape from Jacques Arnault.’

Her stomach was empty—so empty it kept convulsing with nervous energy. ‘Does this mean you believe I was escaping from him and not involved in the drug-running?’ she asked, not yet ready to take a step in any direction.

He swept her an open-handed, graceful gesture. ‘Until we reach a time and place of complete enlightenment, I would prefer you to consider yourself more my guest than my prisoner.’

‘You mean you are actually checking me out,’ Emily pursued the point, hoping for some sense of relief from his false assumptions about her.

‘Different time zones do not permit that process at the moment but rest assured nothing will be taken for granted. In the meantime…’

‘I am hungry,’ she admitted, thinking she’d feel safer sitting down, safer keeping her mouth busy with eating if she could make her stomach cooperate with an intake of food.

Again he waved her forward. ‘Please…seat yourself comfortably, relax, and help yourself to whatever you’d like.’

No way in the world could she ever relax in this man’s company, but putting a table between them seemed like a good defensive move. ‘Thank you,’ she said, forcing her feet to walk slowly, waiting for him to indicate where he would sit so she could settle as far away from him as possible.

Apparently he wanted to be face-to-face with her so she didn’t have to manoeuvre for a position opposite to his. He took it himself. Nevertheless, there was still a disturbing sense of intimacy, just in their being seated at the same table. The couches around it were curved, linking with each other so there was no real sense of separation.

‘What would you like to drink?’ he asked, as though she truly were a guest. ‘You have a choice of mango, pineapple and hibiscus juices, coconut milk…’

‘Hibiscus juice?’ She’d heard of the flower but hadn’t known a drink could be made from it.

‘Sweet, light and refreshing.’ He reached for a jug of hand-painted pottery depicting a red hibiscus. ‘Want to try it?’

‘No, thanks. I’ve always loved mango.’ Which she was long familiar with since it was such a prolific fruit tree around her home city of Cairns.

His dark eyes danced with mocking amusement over her suspicious refusal of the hibiscus jug. ‘Where has your adventurous spirit gone, Miss Ross?’

The light taunt goaded her into shooting some straight truth right back at him. ‘I feel like having some familiar comfort right now, Your Excellency.’

He picked up another pottery jug and poured mango juice into a beautiful crystal goblet. ‘The familiar is safe,’ he observed, a glittering challenge in his eyes as he replaced the jug and watched her pick up the goblet. ‘A woman who plays safe would never have boarded Arnault’s yacht. She would have taken a far more conventional, more protected route to Zanzibar.’

Emily fervently wished she had. Never more so than now. Dealing with this sheikh and his attitude towards her was undermining her self-confidence. She didn’t know how to even set about getting out of this. Telling the truth didn’t seem to be winning her anything, but what else could she do?

‘I’ve crewed on yachts many times around the Australian coast. I was looking for a way to save the cost of plane fares.’

‘You took a risk with a stranger.’

‘I thought I could handle it.’

‘And when you woke up and found there was no wife…how did you handle it then, Miss Ross?’

‘Oh, then it came down to the rules of survival at sea. We needed each other to sail the yacht so agreements had to be reached and kept. Jacques only tried to cross the line once.’ Her eyes hardened with the contempt she felt for the Frenchman. ‘I think he found it too painful to repeat that particular error in judgment.’

The sheikh’s mouth twitched into a sardonic little smile. ‘Perhaps this contributed to Arnault’s belief you were a virgin, Miss Ross, fighting for your virtue.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘One doesn’t have to be a virgin to not want a scumbag sharing your bed.’

‘A scumbag…’

‘The lowest of the low,’ she drily explained.

‘Ah!’ One eyebrow arched in wicked challenge. ‘And what of the highest of the high, Miss Ross? Where does your measure start for a man to be accepted into your bed?’

The highest of the high…

Emily’s heart catapulted around her chest.

He was speaking of himself. Had to be. Which made this question far too dangerous to answer. If he actually did want to be accepted into her bed…the speculative look in his eyes was making her toes curl.

Emily quickly reached out to pick up some tasty tidbit from the table to stuff in her mouth.

Eating was safe.

Speaking was dangerous.

She was suddenly heart-thumpingly sure that a desire for sexual satisfaction was more on Sheikh Zageo bin Sultan Al Farrahn’s mind than a desire for truth, and what he wanted from her was capitulation, vindicating everything he thought about her.

No way.

Never, she thought fiercely.

But what if he kept her here until she did give him the satisfaction he expected from her? She might never get to Stone Town for the meeting with her sister!

CHAPTER FOUR

ZAGEO watched Emily Ross eat. The consumption of an array of finger food was done with such single-minded focus, she could well have been absolutely alone in the room. He rated no visible attention whatsoever.

In any other woman’s company he would find this behaviour unforgivably rude. In fact, he couldn’t recall such a situation ever happening before. Emily Ross was proving to be an intriguing enigma on many levels, and perversely enough, her constantly challenging attitude was exciting more than just an intellectual interest in her. Mind-games with a woman were always sexy.

He suspected if he made some comment about her concentration on the food, she would lift those incredibly vivid blue eyes and state very reasonably, ‘You invited me to help myself. Do you now have some problem with me doing it?’

What reply could he make to that without sounding unreasonable?

The plain truth was he felt peeved by her refusal to show more awareness of him. It pricked his male ego. But he could wait. Time was on his side. Let her satisfy this hunger. If she was using it as an evasive tactic, it would come to an end soon enough and she’d be forced to acknowledge him again.

Besides, the Frenchman had not been wrong in his assessment of this woman’s physical attractions. She was intensely watchable. Her hair alone was a visual delight—not just one block of colour but an intriguing meld of many variations in shades of blond and copper. The description of ‘strawberry-blonde’ had suggested red hair and pale skin, but there was more of an overall warm glow in Emily Ross’s colouring. Her skin did not have the fairness that freckled. It was lightly tanned to a golden-honey shade.

Copper and gold, he thought. A woman of the sun with eyes the colour of a clear, sun-kissed sky. But her body belonged to Mother Earth, the fullness of her breasts and the width of her hips promising an easy fertility and a natural ability to nurture that Zageo was finding extremely appealing.

Perhaps it was the contrast to Veronique’s chic model thinness that had him so…fascinated…by this woman’s more opulent femininity. The lavish untamed hair denied any skilful styling by a fashionable hairdresser. The lavish flesh of her body—not fat, just well covered, superbly covered—allowed no bones to protrude anywhere, and would undoubtedly provide a soft cushioning for anyone lying with her—man or child.

She was a creature of nature, not the creation of diet and designer wear, and Zageo found himself wanting to lie with her, wanting to sink into her softness and wanting to feel her heat envelop him and suck him in to the deepest part of her where secrets melted and intimacy reigned. That was when she would surrender to him. Utterly and completely.

Zageo relished the thought of Emily Ross’s ultimate submission as he watched her eat. He was inclined to believe the Frenchman had not managed to get that satisfaction from her. Arnault’s sexual frustration would have primed his readiness to try selling her on, demonstrating a total lack of perception about Zageo’s character and the woman’s. Emily Ross was of the mettle to play her own game by her own rules.

Nevertheless, Zageo had no doubt she could be bought, just like everyone else.

It was always a matter of striking the right trade.

The challenge was in finding out what buttons to press for the door of opportunity to open.

‘Where were you aiming to meet your sister in Stone Town?’ he asked.

Important private business—if Emily Ross had spoken the truth about her motive for coming to Zanzibar—invariably provided leverage.

Emily chewed over that question as she finished a tasty egg and asparagus tartlet and sipped some more mango juice. She didn’t like the past tense he’d used, suggesting she wasn’t going to be allowed to keep her appointment with Hannah.

Her gaze targeted his, projecting very direct intent. ‘I still aim to meet her. She’s counting on my meeting her. I left the yacht and swam for it because I didn’t want to let my sister down.’

‘Is she in trouble?’

The quick injection of concern almost tripped Emily into spilling her own worries about Hannah’s situation. Caution clamped onto her tongue before it ran loose with information that was better kept private. Being an Australian, she was in the habit of assuming the world around her was safe unless it was proved otherwise. She had just been learning—the hard way—that she trusted too easily. Blithely believing that most people were of goodwill could land her in very nasty places.

‘It’s just a family meeting. I said I’d come. She’ll be expecting me,’ Emily stated, trying to sound matter-of-fact rather than anxious.

‘Miss Ross, if I am to believe you were not in league with Arnault and his drug-running…’He paused to give emphasis to his line of argument. ‘If I am to believe in your determination to meet your sister in Stone Town…there must be a designated place—be it hotel, shop, or private residence—and a name that can be checked there, giving credence to your story.’

Okay, she could see there was a credibility gap here that had to be crossed or her guest/prisoner status would remain as long as the sheikh cared to keep it in place. On the other hand, from the way he’d been eyeing her over, Emily had the distinctly uneasy feeling that not even credibility would earn her release from his custody. Still, she had to offer some proof that she was on a completely separate mission to Jacques Arnault’s.

‘The Salamander Inn. I don’t know if Hannah has booked ahead. Unlikely, I’d think, since she was unsure of when she’d make it to Zanzibar. But that’s our meeting place.’

‘The Salamander Inn is a boutique hotel. It offers the best and coincidentally the most expensive accommodation of all the hotels on this island. I know this.’ He smiled with an arrogance that somehow implied she’d just been very stupid. ‘I own it.’

Oh, great! The chance of escaping from this man anywhere on Zanzibar looked increasingly dim!

‘Fine!’ she said on an exasperated sigh. ‘Then you can easily check if Hannah has arrived or not.’

‘Her full name?’

‘Hannah Coleman.’

‘Not Ross?’

‘Coleman is her married name.’

‘So your sister is not likely to book under the family name of Ross?’

‘Hardly. Ross is my married name.’

That information ripped him out of his languid pose against the heaps of satin cushions on his couch. His body jerked forward, his loose robes suddenly pasted to a tautly muscled physique that seemed to bristle with assault readiness. Yet he spoke with a soft silky contempt which crawled straight under Emily’s skin, priming her into retaliation mode.

‘Where is your husband, Madame Ross?’

‘His ashes were thrown to a breeze out at sea…as he’d once said he’d prefer to being buried,’ Emily grated out, hanging firmly to being matter-of-fact so that she wasn’t embarrassed by one of the waves of grief which could still sweep up and overwhelm her when she thought of Brian’s death.

They’d been school sweethearts, rarely parted during all the years they’d spent sharing almost everything in each other’s company. Then to have him taken from her so abruptly…being left behind…alone…cheated of a future together…No, no, no, don’t go there, Emily!

She concentrated on watching her antagonist digest the news of her widowhood, the withdrawal of all expression from his face, the slow emergence of more sympathetic inquiry in his dynamic dark eyes.

‘How long ago?’ he asked quietly.

‘About two years.’

‘He was young?’

‘Two years older than me.’

‘How did he die?’

‘Brian was with a rescue team during a cyclone.’ She grimaced. ‘He died trying to save an old lady’s pet dog. A panel of flying roof hit him.’

‘A brave man then,’ came the thoughtful observation.

She managed an ironic smile. ‘I don’t think fear ever had any influence on Brian’s actions. He just did whatever he set out to do. We used to go adventuring a lot, working our way around Australia.’

‘You do not have children?’

She shook her head. ‘We weren’t ready to settle down with a family. In fact, we were getting ready to set off on a world trip…’

‘When the cyclone happened,’ he finished for her.

‘Yes,’ she muttered, frowning at the realisation that she’d spoken more of Brian in the past two minutes than in the entire two years since her departure from Australia.

You have to move on, she’d told herself, and move on she had, a long slow trip across Asia, more or less going wherever the wind blew her on her travels, not wanting to face making any long-term decisions about her life—a life without the man who’d always coloured it.

She’d attached herself to other groups of people from time to time, working with them, listening to their experiences, soaking up interesting pieces of information, but what was highly personal and private to her had remained in her own head and heart.

So why had she opened up to this man?

Her mind zapped back the answer in no time flat.

Because he was getting to her in a highly primitive male/female way and she’d instinctively brought up the one man she’d loved as a shield against these unwelcome feelings. Her marriage to Brian was a defence against other things, as well, like the idea she was a belly-dancer with indulgent sugar-daddies on the side.

She was, in fact, a perfectly respectable widow who hadn’t even been tempted into a sexual dalliance by the many gorgeous eye-candy guys who’d offered to share their beds and bodies while they were ships passing on their separate journeys. Sex without emotional involvement hadn’t appealed, and it didn’t appeal now, either, she fiercely told herself, willing her body to stop responding in this embarrassingly animal fashion to a very foreign sheikh who wanted to treat her as a whore.

Having worked up a head of defensive steam, Emily lifted her gaze to the man in the ruling seat and noted that his disturbingly handsome head was cocked to one side as though viewing her from an angle he hadn’t considered before, and the heart-thumping power of those brilliant dark eyes was thankfully narrowed into thoughtful slits.

‘So what is your marital status?’ she bluntly demanded.

His head snapped upright, eyes opening wide with a flash of astonishment at her temerity. ‘I beg your pardon?’