At The Sheikh's Command

At the Sheikh’s Command
Kate Walker

MILLS & BOON

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For The Hoods and everyone in the

Writing Round Robin who made

those weeks such fun.

CONTENTS

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 ONE

IT WAS the outriders that Abbie saw first. Big powerful men on big powerful motorbikes, engines purring, chrome and black gleaming in the sunlight. In spite of the heat, their muscled bodies were encased snugly in supple black leather, their heads concealed in helmets. But then of course these men were the bodyguards of a man who ruled a country far away. A desert country where the sun beat down day after day, building to temperatures far higher than the moderate heat of an English summer’s afternoon.

The man who was in the car behind them.

The convoy swept down the drive in a roar of engines, swirling to a halt outside the main door and waiting, bodyguards sitting taut and tense on their machines, unseen eyes clearly darting everywhere, watching, observing. Their job was to protect the occupant of the vehicle that followed them. That big, sleek car with smoked glass windows behind which she could just detect the form of Sheikh Malik bin Rashid Al’Qaim. The car also had a small flag on the bonnet.

The flag of Barakhara.

Abbie drew in a deep breath and felt it tremble all the way into her lungs.

So he was here. It was really happening. This was not a dream. It was absolutely, totally real. And that reality turned it into the biggest nightmare she had ever known. Her grey eyes blurred briefly with tears and she blinked them away hurriedly, pushing trembling hands over the blonde smoothness of her hair as she fought for control.

He was early. They hadn’t been expecting him for another half an hour or so. That was why she was still tidying the room, her white blouse and neat skirt covered by the ridiculous cotton apron, splashed all over with big colourful flowers, borrowed from the housekeeper to keep herself clean.

‘Dad!’ she called, her voice as shaken as her breathing. ‘They’re here.’

But her father was already aware, already heading out of the room, hurrying into the hall, pulling open the big front door. Abbie saw him pause to draw breath for a moment, brush his hands down his sides to ease their dampness and her heart constricted in fear.

If her father, a man who had always seemed able to handle anything, felt nervous then the worries that had kept her awake at night ever since the news had broken were even more justified than she had feared.

‘Good luck!’ she called, knowing he would need more than luck.

The whole family would do everything—anything they could—to help Andy. But when her younger brother’s fate was in the hands of an absolute ruler of a foreign land, the sheikh of an Arabian country… She had no idea at all what he might demand of them.

He might listen to pleas for leniency, they had been told. Then again, he might refuse to do any such thing. No one, it seemed, could predict the way he might jump. But today, after three weeks of careful negotiation and diplomacy, somehow they had prevailed on this man, this sheikh, at least to discuss the matter with them.

And he was the man inside the car.

The man who…

Abbie’s thoughts stopped dead as the uniformed chauffeur now came to the rear car door, opening it smoothly and stepping back, head up, spine stiffened as if at attention. He didn’t actually salute, but his whole stance was one of respect and formality as he held the door so that the occupant of the limousine could emerge.

‘Oh…’

It was all she could manage. The single syllable escaped from her on a long breathy sigh, pushed out on a wave of shock and pure disbelief. If a sleek black panther had uncoiled itself from a sitting position and prowled out of the car and on to the gravel driveway leading to the house, she couldn’t have been more stunned.

Or more afraid.

This man was every bit as big and dark and sleek and powerful as a hunting cat. His long body held a controlled strength that was belied by his easy stride, every lithe movement smooth and relaxed.

But his face was anything but relaxed.

Just looking at his expression sent a cold shiver of dread slipping down Abbie’s spine. It was not a pretty face, nor even one that she could describe as handsome. It was too strongly carved for that, all angles and hollows. High, slanting cheekbones defined the forceful lines of his features, emphasising the lean planes of his cheeks, the power of his jaw. There was an aquiline slash of a nose and under straight black brows were the deepest, darkest eyes that Abbie had ever seen.

It was a strong face—a harsh and imposing face. And it was very definitely an unyielding sort of face. Which wasn’t something that held out any chance of hope for the help that they needed right now. He was younger than she had anticipated too—closer to thirty than the fifty she had somehow expected. Though whether that was good or bad—a point in their favour or against it—she had no way of guessing.

‘I thought he was a sheikh!’ a young voice said from close at hand and looking down, she saw that her youngest brother, George, had come to stand beside her, staring out of the window at the important arrival.

‘He is, love. The Sheikh of Barakhara.’

‘But he’s not wearing the right sort of clothes!’

‘No…’

A faint smile touched Abbie’s mouth, warming and easing a little of the anxiety from her grey eyes. At just twelve, George was still young enough to think in the simplest terms. Their imposing visitor was a sheikh and, as such, he should be wearing the flowing robes that were the traditional dress of men from his country. Instead, this sheikh was dressed in an immaculate steel-grey silk suit, superbly tailored, hugging the width of straight shoulders that had no need of extra padding to make them, or the chest beneath them, look broad and strong. The fine material slid over the powerful muscles of long, long legs, clung to the lean line of his hips, as he moved forward to where her father now stood on the doorstep, waiting to greet him. Under the afternoon sun, hair black as a raven’s wing gleamed glossily sleek and the hand that he lifted to brush it back from his wide forehead had the same smoothly golden bronzed tone as the skin on that devastating face.

‘So he’s not a real sheikh?’

‘Yes—yes, he is, sweetheart. But I think he only wears those robes in his own country.’

‘In the desert—when he’s riding on his camel?’

‘Yes, I expect so.’

Another wider smile curved her lips at her young brother’s innocent questions.

‘So he is a real sheikh—and he can help Andy?’

Abbie’s smile vanished, evaporating rapidly at this reminder of just why the Sheikh was here, and the seriousness of the situation that had brought about his visit.

‘Yes, George. I hope so. I really hope so.’

‘Daddy will talk to him,’ George asserted.

‘Daddy will talk to him,’ Abbie echoed.

But her voice didn’t have the conviction she wished for. Her shadowed eyes were watching the scene beyond the window, seeing the way that the Sheikh strolled towards the door, handsome head held arrogantly high, keen dark eyes scanning his surroundings assessingly.

He held out his hand to her father courteously enough and the clasp seemed firm and sure. But watching James Cavanaugh intently, sensitive to every move, every change of expression, Abbie saw the way the older man almost bowed, instinctively inclining his head in respect for his royal visitor. The gesture worried her. It made her fear that her father had been overawed by this much younger man. She didn’t want to think about the possible implications of that.

They needed her father to be fully in control of the situation. He had to be able to cope, to discuss the matter calmly and confidently. Andy’s future depended on it.

The thought of her brother, only just nineteen, alone and afraid, locked away in one of Barakhara’s darkest, most secure jails made her shiver in fear, her nerves tying themselves into tight, cruel knots in her stomach. Andy had been foolish, stupid, totally irresponsible—but he wasn’t bad. He’d made a mistake—a very serious one, admittedly, but a mistake was all it was. And if he was given a second chance…

He had to be given a second chance! After all, that was why the Sheikh was here.

Surely he wouldn’t have travelled all this way just to tell them that he wasn’t prepared to show her brother any leniency?

Leaning forward a little, she tugged slightly at the fall of the elderly lace curtain that shielded the window, twitching it aside so that she could see more clearly. Then froze as the small movement caught the corner of the Sheikh’s eye, causing him to turn his head sharply, narrowed eyes hunting the source of the distraction. In a heart-stopping second the black, black gaze locked with silver-grey—and held.

‘Oh, help!’ Abbie couldn’t hold back the exclamation of something close to horror.

If she had been a small scurrying mouse that had suddenly looked up and found itself the centre of the concentrated attention of some hunting hawk the shiver of apprehension that raced through her couldn’t have been any more fearful. Abbie felt her throat close on a spasm of pure panic and her nerveless fingers let the curtain drop as she stepped back sharply, dodging out of the firing line of that laser-like scrutiny as quickly as she could.

But even so she felt the burn of his gaze hot on her skin, the sense of shock and bewilderment lingering as the net curtain fell back into place, shielding her once again from those sharp, assessing eyes.

Dear God, please let these negotiations be over and done with soon, she prayed silently. For no logical reason whatsoever, she was suddenly assailed by the feeling that she would not be safe while this man was in the house.

She just wanted him to go—be on his way—and out of her life for good.

And yet…she admitted as she stepped back as far out of sight as possible.

And yet she had never seen a man like him in her life. In spite of her fears, she knew that she would find it impossible to erase the image of his stunning features that was etched onto her mind.

If only they could have met some other time, in some other way.

Who the devil was that?

Sheikh Malik bin Rashid Al’Qaim wasn’t a man easily distracted from his purpose. If an issue demanded his attention, it got it—wholeheartedly. And the subject he had to discuss with James Cavanaugh was one that needed wholesale concentration. But, just for a moment, the sudden flash of movement, the twitch of a net curtain over to his left had caught his eye. He had turned…

And found himself transfixed, his gaze caught and held by the blonde who was staring at him in open curiosity from the ground floor window.

A stunning blonde. Tall and slim, with sleek, smooth hair and a figure shapely enough to distract his attention even further just for a moment. Even the ridiculously old-fashioned and unflattering cotton apron wrapped around her and tied tightly at her slender waist couldn’t disguise the very sensual appeal of the feminine curves it covered.

Curves he would like a closer look at. Very much closer.

But even as the thought crossed his mind the blonde’s eyes widened in something like embarrassment and she stepped back hastily, letting the lace curtain drop between them once again, concealing her from him.

No matter.

Malik crushed down the sudden twist of disappointment, the murmur of protest from senses that had been woken by the swift glimpse of the unknown blonde. He had more important matters on his mind. The woman—clearly a maid or some other home help that the Cavanaughs employed—would keep.

‘Would you care for something to drink—some refreshment after your journey?’

Swiftly Malik turned his attention back to what James Cavanaugh—Sir James Cavanaugh, he reminded himself—was saying.

‘That would be very welcome,’ he acknowledged and allowed himself to be escorted into the cool shade of the big oak-panelled hall, their footsteps echoing on the ornately tiled floor, his bodyguards following behind him.

He would much rather state his business and get the whole thing out into the open so that they each knew where they stood, he reflected as he followed the older man through a door on the left and into a large bay-windowed room. A room that had obviously once been elegant and luxurious, but which now showed every sign of the sort of neglect and decay into shabbiness that came from a lack of ready cash to put things right.

He had spotted these indications of disrepair everywhere on the approach to this house. The ornate wrought iron gates had not had a coat of paint in years and were rusting and falling into decay, the fountain in the courtyard was coated in green moss and the flower beds were obviously unweeded and uncultivated.

The house itself might be huge and elegant, showing the way that this family had once held power and status in English society, but clearly the upkeep of their stately home was now beyond the means of the very limited income they possessed.

Which would make his task easier, he decided, watching his host fuss over his comfort in a way that did little to conceal the way that James was clearly a bundle of nerves. They would have little choice but to accept the offer he was here to make, and be grateful for it.

Malik just wished they didn’t have to go though this pantomime of welcome and polite small talk first. The friendliness his host was now displaying would vanish soon enough. James Cavanaugh was not going to like what he had to say—not one little bit.

But if James wanted to see his son again this side of young Andrew’s fortieth birthday then he would have no alternative but to agree to the conditions he was being offered.

Whether his daughter would go along with them was quite another matter.

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS like waiting for the countdown to an explosion, Abbie told herself as she headed up the stairs to change, moving as quietly as possible past the library in the hope of hearing what was being said behind the closed door. But the only sound that came through the thick wood was the muffled murmur of voices, too blurred to make out any words, let alone decide how things were going.

She could tell which was her father’s voice and which their visitor’s but that was all. The rich, accented tones of the Sheikh’s words carried even if their meaning didn’t—and it appeared that he was doing all the talking.

Which seemed terribly ominous, she admitted, the thought draining all the strength from her legs so that she had to force herself to keep moving, holding on to the carved wooden banister for support. Had her father run out of things to say already? Or had the Sheikh rejected every suggestion put to him and was now laying down the terms on which he would help them?

Or, worse, was he making it plain that he had no mercy to offer? That her brother must serve out the sentence that had been passed on him, without any hope of remission?

‘Oh, Andy!’

Bitter tears of despair burned in Abbie’s eyes and, as she reached the half-landing, she sagged against the wall, covering her face with her hands.

Her brother had been a delicate child. He suffered badly from asthma and had often been in hospital or just sick at home. As a result he’d missed a lot of schooling so that he was young for his age and very naive. The trip to Barakhara had been his first experience of being abroad on his own. Now he was locked in some foreign prison and in the single brief phone call they had had from him, arranged with a lot of difficulty by the British Ambassador, he had quite obviously been terrified, begging them to get him out—to let him come home.

Frantic diplomatic efforts had followed and the Sheikh’s visit was the result of that. It was their only chance. It couldn’t fail. It just couldn’t!

The sound of movement in the room below jolted her upright in haste. Someone was coming to the door—opening it.

Her father appeared in the hall below. He paused, looked back at the man inside.

The Sheikh, Abbie reminded herself. The man of power who held the future happiness of their family in the palm of his hand.

In the palm of his arrogant hand, a spark of defiance added, recalling the way that the man had turned to look at her in the moment of his arrival. The assessing way those dark eyes had scanned her.

‘I’m sorry, but I must take this call.’

It was her father who spoke, his voice floating up to where she stood.

‘I won’t be long…’

He hurried off in the direction of the kitchen and Abbie watched him go. From her position here, higher up on the landing, even her father’s powerful figure looked shortened, smaller somehow and reduced. The sight of him wrenched at Abbie’s heart, making her bite her lip hard against the distress that threatened to choke her.

‘Oh, Andy…’ she began again, then caught herself up sharply.

It wasn’t all Andy’s fault! Okay, so her brother had been silly—downright stupid—but surely what he’d done hadn’t been all that bad! Other boys his age had done as much, worse even! In England, pocketing some items from the archaeological dig he was working on would just be petty theft—wouldn’t it? So what right did this sheikh have to lock her brother up and throw away the key?

Anger made her heart swell. A sense of bitter injustice made it beat at twice the speed as before, sending the blood coursing through her veins so fast that it made her head spin.

Who did he think he was? How dared he…?

She hadn’t even realised that she was moving until she found herself halfway down the stairs again—heading in the direction of the hallway and the room her father had just left. She didn’t know what was going to happen, had no idea what she was going to say. She only knew that she was going to say something.

The library door was still partly open, just as her father had left it. There was nothing there to make her stop, or even pause to think. The impetus that had taken her down the stairs had built up into almost a run, taking the last couple of steps two at a time, and sending her hurtling into the room before she had a chance for second thoughts.

Or before she had a chance to think of anything to say.

So there she was, suddenly face to face with the man—the sheikh—who had come to make demands of her family. Who was, in most respects, holding her younger brother to ransom, and was now letting them know just how they would have to pay.

Here she was, face to gorgeous face…

Oh, no, heaven help her, she didn’t want to think of how stunning he was close up. How devastatingly dark and sexy. Just seeing him scrambled her thoughts until she had to fight against the urge to say something that was the complete opposite of the anger that had brought her in here.

He was lounging comfortably at his ease, damn him, in one of the big, well worn, soft leather armchairs that flanked the big open fireplace. His handsome head leaned comfortably against the studded leather back, soft blue-black hair brushing equally soft chestnut leather. His long, long legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, revealing superbly crafted handmade boots. One hand held a teacup, the finest bone china looking absurdly small and delicate, impossibly white, against the burnished bronze strength of his broad palm, the powerful fingers of the other hand resting negligently on the arm of his chair, totally relaxed.

Unlike Abbie, who was fizzing with rage, bristling with defiance.

‘You can’t do this!’

The words burst from her before she had time to consider them or even try to decide if she would be wiser to hold them back. And she didn’t know whether to feel a sense of near panic or intense satisfaction as she saw the way that his head went even further back, forceful jaw tightening, gleaming jet-black eyes narrowing sharply as he looked up into her face.

‘I beg your pardon?’

It was a shock to realise that these were the first words she had ever heard him speak clearly. She had been intensely aware of him, of his presence in the house, ever since that moment that he had stepped out of his car and into the sunlit courtyard. It was as if he had always been in her life, not just newly arrived in her experience.

‘What did you say?’

The rich, dark, lyrically accented voice had sharpened, developing a razor’s edge that made her wince inside to hear it. And there was a new tension in the long muscular body that no longer lounged easily in the chair but had developed the tightness of a coiled spring, like that hunting cat she had imagined earlier waiting and watching for just the right moment to pounce.

He hadn’t actually moved but still there was enough of a threat of danger in him, in the tautly drawn jaw, the sharply narrowed eyes, that made her insides quail at the thought of that coldly reined-in anger turned on her. And yet somehow the new sense of risk added a sharper edge to the harsh male beauty of his face, the brilliance of those glittering jet eyes.

But not enough to curb her tongue.

‘You can’t do this! You can’t treat people this way!’

‘And what way would that be?’

‘You know only too well!’

‘I think not.’

To her nervous horror, he was leaning forward to replace the cup and its saucer on the table, uncoiling his long body with a slow and indolent grace as he got to his feet. Standing at his full height, he towered over her, big and overpowering, sending her throat into a spasm of shock and freezing her runaway tongue into silence. She swallowed hard and fought for the control not to turn and run straight for the door—fast!

‘I don’t believe I know what you’re accusing me of—or why,’ he went on, the beautiful voice shockingly soft and warm. Deceptively so because there was no way that the tone of his words matched the fierce, cold assessment to which those black, black eyes were subjecting her. ‘So perhaps you’d like to explain.’

He’d wanted to meet the sexy blonde from the moment he’d seen her watching him from the window, Malik reminded himself. In fact, he’d agreed to James Cavanaugh’s suggestion of tea largely in the hope that the maid would be the one who would bring it. He’d been disappointed when James himself was the one to go and fetch the tray. But then his host had been called away to an important phone call and now here was the blonde, appearing unexpectedly in the library without warning.

He would have sworn that, in the moment their eyes had met earlier, he had seen the same sudden flare of interest, of attraction, that he had felt for her. In fact, he had been so sure of it that he had been content to wait, believing it was only a matter of time before they came together. And her sudden appearance seemed to have proved him right.

She was even more stunning close up than he had imagined from the quick glimpse he had had of her through the window. She was tall, with rich, full breasts, a neat waist and curving hips. That ridiculous apron with its multicoloured flower print should have made her look anything but glamorous but the way it fastened around the slenderness of her waist emphasised the swell of her breasts, the flare of her hips. A real woman, unlike the almost boyish figures of so many of the females he had seen around London.

The sudden clutch of sexual hunger he experienced, just looking at her, was so primitive it was shocking. It was a long time since his rather jaded appetite had been stirred so strongly.

But her mood was not at all as he had anticipated. This hissing, spitting cat had little in common with the image of a warm, willing temptress he had built in his mind, letting himself consider that perhaps this trip to England might not be the boring diplomatic duty and family responsibility it had promised to be.

Instead he was faced with an aggressive, fiery creature who had marched up to him in a way that no woman in Barakhara would ever dare to do, confronting him with her hands on her hips and a blaze in her cool grey eyes.

‘I don’t need to explain! You know why you’re here!’

‘My business here is with Sir James—’

The attempt to squash her, silence her, failed as she drew in a sharp breath, then launched into a further attack, dismissing his intervention with an audacious wave of her hand.

‘Your business here is to decide Andy’s—Andrew’s—fate!’ she flung at him. ‘I don’t know who you think you are, dicing with people’s lives like that! Just what gives you the right…’

‘The law gives me the right,’ Malik broke in on her with a snap. ‘The law of—Barakhara. The same law that young Andrew chose to flout when he decided to pocket some of the items he found at that archaeological dig he was working on.’

Andy, his mind had noted, grabbing at the single word and working on the meaning behind it. She’d changed it pretty hastily to Andrew, but Andy was what she’d said at first, before she’d corrected herself.

And Andy meant a familiarity, a closeness that was more than servant to a member of the family she worked for.

‘A few paltry items!’ she scorned. ‘What? A coin or two? A fossil? And for that you’d lock him up for life!’

‘A few paltry religious items,’ Malik corrected coldly. ‘Items of deep significance to the history of Barakhara and its rulers. Items that in just the last century would have meant death for any non-Barakharanian to touch…’

He watched the colour ebb from her face with grim satisfaction. The ashen shade of her cheeks told him all he needed to know.

‘You didn’t know that?’

She could only shake her head, sending the pale gold of her hair flying as she did so.

Andy. Malik’s mind went back to the word in the way that he might worry at a sore tooth with his tongue. Andy…So what was the relationship between these two? Did they have something going between them? Was Andy perhaps her lover? The sting of jealousy that thought brought was as jagged as it was unexpected, making him move sharply, uncomfortably.

‘So he omitted to tell you the full facts about why he was arrested?’

Or was it the father who had done that? Was it the truth of the matter that James Cavanaugh—Sir James Cavanaugh— didn’t want the world to know just what his stupid elder son had been up to?

Malik’s mouth curled in distaste. The Honourable Andrew Cavanaugh was what the son called himself—what he had insisted on being called, Jalil had said. And the Honourable Andrew Cavanaugh lived in a house like this, with maids to clean and fetch and carry for him, and still he stole to line his own pockets. There was little that was honourable about that.

‘So now perhaps you’ll admit that I have a reason for what I’m doing. That I am not quite the spawn of the devil you think me?’

‘I…’

She didn’t seem able to find an answer for him. Her soft pink lips opened, but no words would come out. And clouds of confusion dulled the silvery grey of her eyes.

Suddenly Malik felt a sense of rage at the fate that had brought him here, the job he had to do. Why couldn’t Jalil do his own dirty work?

There were times when he wished he could just let his young fool of a half-brother go to damnation in his own way. But if Jalil fell, then the whole of his country would go to rack and ruin too, and he had sworn an oath to his mother—Jalil’s mother too—that he would never let that happen. A vow made within the family was sacrosanct, and he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t keep it—no matter what it took.

He had hoped that a little dalliance with the blonde maid would at least provide some entertainment, some relaxation after the delicate negotiations he was going to have to handle. But from the stubborn, mulish expression on her face, he was going to have to work harder at winning her over than he had ever thought.

The unwanted and uncomfortable thought suddenly hit him that if she knew the son—this Andy—so well, then maybe she was close to the daughter as well.

That was a complication he could do without. He had seen no sign yet of the Gail that Jalil had talked about, but if she and this girl were friends…

‘No—he didn’t tell me,’ she managed now, stumbling over the words faintly and a raw colour washed those pale cheeks, betraying her embarrassment…

And making her look damnably sexy. It might be mortification that had put the blush on her skin but it made her look as if she had just got out of bed after a long, passionate session of sexual indulgence. It might have been the way that she had bitten down hard on her lower lip that had made it so pink, with all the blood rushing to the surface, but in his mind he knew that her mouth would look like that when she had been kissed senseless, taken to ecstasy and beyond.

‘What’s your name?’ he demanded suddenly, his voice rough with the effort of trying to distract himself from the heated blood that seemed to be pooling low in his body, hardening and tightening so that it was a struggle to think straight—to think at all.