Crowned For The Sheikh's Baby: Crowned for the Sheikh's Baby
A home of her own.
The chance to put down roots at last.
‘Will you do that, my dear?’ prompted the Frenchwoman kindly.
Hannah swallowed down the sudden lump which seemed to be clogging up her throat, wondering why she still reacted so stupidly to someone speaking to her with affection.
Because she wasn’t used to it?
Or because she mistrusted it?
Nodding her head, she produced a tentative smile. ‘I would be honoured, Madame Martin,’ she said.
‘Bien.’ Madame Martin gave a brisk nod. ‘Then come with me and I will show you around the suite of His Royal Highness.’
Hannah followed her superior along wide and airy corridors, which overlooked the small, natural harbour outside. Purple bougainvillea rippled softly in the breeze and the sky was the bluest she had ever seen. Every day was the same—picture-book perfect. Or at least, that was how it seemed. It hadn’t rained in paradise for as long as she’d been there and sometimes she could hardly believe she was.
Who would have thought it? Humble Hannah Wilson experiencing life in one of the fanciest resorts in Europe. The rootless orphan who’d never really known anything except making do was now working in a hotel which redefined the word luxury. A place which regularly entertained princes and tycoons, heiresses and film stars. And now a sheikh.
A sheikh for whom she was to work exclusively!
‘You must continue to be unobtrusive,’ Madame Martin was saying. ‘When the Sheikh arrives in his suite, you will quietly enquire what he requires and make sure he gets it. Immediately.’
‘And if he doesn’t actually want...anything?’ Hannah questioned cautiously.
‘Then you will vacate the premises as quickly as possible and await further instruction. You are being moved to a small staff room just along the corridor from his suite. Can I rely on you, Hannah?’
Hannah nodded in agreement because what else could she do? ‘Yes, Madame Martin.’
‘One last thing.’ The Frenchwoman’s voice lowered into a conspiratorial whisper. ‘The Sheikh is known as a man of great, shall we say—appetite.’
‘You mean he likes his food?’ questioned Hannah cautiously.
‘No, I do not mean that.’ An impatient shake of her head barely displaced an immaculate strand of Madame Martin’s hair. ‘I mean that he may have female guests visiting him and, should you find yourself dealing with them, you will treat them as if they were princesses. Which is probably their ambition,’ she finished, with a dry laugh. ‘Is that clear, Hannah?’
‘Yes, madame,’ answered Hannah as they entered the elevator, slotting in the special card which gave access to the exclusive penthouse suite, a journey which took mere seconds before the doors slid open. Hannah saw two bulky men in dark suits standing poker-faced on either side of a large door and she blinked. Could those bulges she could see in their pockets possibly be guns? She guessed they could. Of course the Sheikh would have bodyguards who looked as if they were made of steel and iron, rather than flesh and blood. Whose eyes didn’t even flicker as she stared up at them. A sudden realisation of what she had let herself in for made her spine tingle with apprehension.
‘Voilà! We are here,’ said Madame Martin. ‘Come.’
After a cursory knock, which went unanswered, the door was unlocked and Madame Martin walked straight in. Hannah thought she was prepared for any eventuality...for dancing girls, or some kind of harem. Or maybe a smoke-filled room where some kind of high-stakes card game was taking place.
What she had not been prepared for was the sight which greeted her—of the Sheikh himself. Her eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets and her throat dried to dust. After the kind of build-up she’d been given, Hannah wouldn’t have been surprised to see him lying half-naked on one of the sumptuous velvet sofas, while some gorgeous nubile woman administered to him with warm oils. Or wearing something lavish and ceremonial—golden robes, perhaps—which swished as he walked.
In fact, he was seated at a desk which overlooked one of the resort’s many swimming pools and there wasn’t a golden robe in sight. He was wearing dark trousers and a blue shirt so pale that it was almost white. The shirt had two top buttons undone and the sleeves had been rolled up to reveal his hair-darkened forearms. Hannah noted these things almost automatically—perhaps as a kind of defensive mechanism. As if labelling the most commonplace things about him could protect her from the impact his sudden searing black gaze was having on her.
Because there was nothing commonplace about his face. It was a face in a million, no question about that. An unforgettable face—with those imperiously high cheekbones and his hair which gleamed like sunlit tar. The olive skin of his hawk-like features glowed with health and vitality, and there was an unmistakably arrogant tilt to his proud jaw. But it was the eyes which did it. She’d seen them from a distance, but up close they were unsettling. More than unsettling. Hannah swallowed. Hard and unflickering and blacker than any eyes had the right to be. And they were staring at her. Staring as if she had some smut on her nose, or the dark stain of sweat at her armpits. Hannah shifted uncomfortably beneath the intensity of that gaze, her hands nervously fluttering to brush away imagined dust from her slightly too small dress until she remembered that she wasn’t supposed to be drawing attention to her hips like that.
‘I am extremely sorry to disturb you, Sheikh Al Diya,’ Madame Martin was saying smoothly. ‘But since no one answered my knock, I assumed nobody was here.’
‘I did not hear you knock otherwise I should have sent you away,’ said the Sheikh, an impatient wave of his hand indicating the mountain of paperwork piled in front of him. ‘As you see, I am busy.’
‘Of course, Your Royal Highness. Perhaps you would prefer us to come back at a more suitable time?’
Kulal put his pen down and studied the two women who were standing before him—the too thin French matron and the curvy chambermaid he’d seen hurrying across the patio a couple of days earlier, with an anxious look on her face. What he would prefer was not to have been interrupted in the first place because he was at a very delicate stage of negotiation. But suddenly, the ever-engrossing topic of solar power melted away as he stared at the ponytailed brunette whose fingers were smoothing down her unsightly uniform dress.
Was that an unconscious gesture to draw his attention to the fecundity of her hips and breasts? he wondered. Or was it deliberate? Either way, she had hit the jackpot. No doubt she was aware that her ripe body was designed to send his hormones shooting into disarray and, inconveniently, they were doing just that. He felt his groin tightening as he imagined his tongue trailing a slow path over those magnificent breasts, and for a moment, he cursed the insidious power of Mother Nature—for were they not all puppets in her need to continue the human race? And that was the reason behind his instinct to get the chambermaid horizontal as quickly as possible, before impaling her with his hardness.
He expected her to meet his gaze with a knowing look of challenge, for he had never met a woman who wouldn’t put out for him within the first minutes of meeting. But the humble chambermaid had dropped her gaze to the ground, her cheeks blooming like roses as she studied the Persian rug at her feet with a fierce intensity.
Unusual, conceded Kulal as he leaned back in his chair. Very unusual. ‘Now that you have managed to successfully interrupt my train of thought,’ he said acidly, ‘you might as well tell me why you are here.’
‘I was showing Hannah around your suite, Your Royal Highness.’
Hannah. Kulal ran a slow finger around the circumference of his mouth. An ordinary name yet somehow it pleased him.
‘Because?’ he interrogated.
‘In view of the enormous interest your presence has generated, and after the unfortunate scene in the main restaurant last night, we decided it would be preferable for you to have your own private maid for the duration of your stay,’ said Madame Martin. ‘Especially since His Royal Highness has brought with him only a skeleton staff.’
‘Because I have no wish to burden myself with the cumbersome accruements of the royal court!’ snapped Kulal. ‘You try travelling with an entourage of a thousand and five hundred tons of luggage, like some of my desert neighbours! If I fill the entire hotel complex with my staff, then how the hell is there going to be room for anyone else?’
‘Quite so. And I can only imagine your aversion to such a logistical nightmare, Your Royal Highness,’ replied Madame Martin diplomatically. ‘Which is why one of your aides made the request earlier and why we are assigning you Hannah, who from now on will be exclusively under your command.’
This was language Kulal was used to.
Command.
Exclusivity.
Words of possession and control, which went hand in hand with being a sheikh. But somehow the words had taken on an unexpectedly erotic flavour when applied to the curvy little servant who stood in front of him. He felt his heart miss a beat as he looked at her still-bent head, the straightness of her parting cutting a stark white line through her shiny brown hair. But her shoulders were stiff and if her body language was anything to go by, she certainly wasn’t as honoured by her sudden promotion as perhaps she should have been. And despite the knowledge that fraternising with the staff was a very bad idea, Kulal couldn’t deny that he found such an unusual response curiously exciting.
‘So how do you feel about working for me, Hannah?’ he questioned softly.
She looked up then and he was surprised by eyes of a startling hue—blue eyes which resembled the colour of the aquamarines his mother used to wear around her throat. Expensive jewels bought by his father in an attempt to compensate for his frequent absences. As if pieces of glass could ever compensate. But his mother had been weak. Weak and manipulative. Prepared to put her own desperate needs above those of her children. Kulal’s mouth hardened as he obliterated the harsh memories and listened to the chambermaid’s response.
‘I am happy to serve you in any way I can, Your Royal Highness,’ she said.
She delivered the words as if she had been coached and maybe she had, for they were dutiful rather than meaningful. A rare flicker of humour lifted Kulal’s lips, but it was gone as quickly as it had arrived. He gave a dismissive nod and picked up his pen. ‘Very well,’ he said as he pulled one of the documents towards him. ‘Just make sure you don’t disturb me. Not in any way. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Your Royal Highness,’ she said, still in that same dutiful voice, and Kulal found himself almost disappointed when she bobbed a clumsy kind of curtsey before backing out of the room as if she couldn’t wait to get away from him.
CHAPTER TWO
DON’T DISTURB ME. That had been the Sheikh’s only instruction when she’d first started working for him, but Hannah wondered how the powerful Kulal Al Diya would react if he knew how much he was disturbing her.
She wished he wouldn’t look at her that way.
She wished he wouldn’t make her feel this way.
Or was it all a figment of her imagination? Was his searing ebony gaze really lingering on her for longer than was necessary, or was that simply wishful thinking on her part? One thing she certainly wasn’t imagining was the aching of her body in response to that look. Whenever he walked into the room, her senses felt as if they’d been brought to life—yet was she really misguided enough to think the sexy desert King would give a second glance at her—plain and inexperienced Hannah Wilson?
Her heart was pounding as she prepared his coffee. After his short-tempered response at their initial meeting she had expected him to be difficult to work for. She’d thought he would be all distant and haughty, as befitted a man of his status. Yet it was funny how sustained contact with someone could make them seem more human—even someone as exulted as a desert king.
She tipped extra sugar cubes into a porcelain bowl because the Sheikh was rather partial to sugar. In fact, as far as she could make out, sweetening his coffee was the closest he got to indulgence. He didn’t drink alcohol, nor smoke those pungent cigars which some of the richer clients puffed on when they were out on the smoking terrace. He even seemed able to go without food for long periods of time—as if fasting came naturally to him. Which might explain the magnificence of his iron-hard body which she had once seen—inadvertently—when he had emerged unexpectedly from the shower.
Even now it made her breathless to remember it. Diamond droplets of water had glittered against his dark skin and Hannah had found herself mesmerised by endlessly muscular legs and narrow hips against which the white towel slung round them had looked woefully inadequate. For a moment, she had been completely flummoxed, unprepared for the sudden rush of heat which had made tiny beads of sweat appear on her heated brow.
‘Oh!’ she remembered exclaiming weakly, clutching onto her feather duster as if it were a life-raft, yet unable to drag her gaze away from his spectacular body.
To his credit, he had seemed as surprised to see her as she was him, a deep frown making his jet-black eyes appear even more laser-like in their intensity than usual. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he had demanded.
‘I work here, Your Royal Highness.’
‘You told me you’d finished for the day.’
Hannah had been so startled by the realisation that he’d actually been listening to her that she’d begun to recount the boringly domestic reason why she’d still been on the premises. ‘I had,’ she’d said quickly. ‘Only I spotted a cobweb, high up on one of the ceilings, and since I thought you’d already left for your helicopter flight—’
‘You decided to destroy the poor spider’s home?’ he’d drawled, his eyes gleaming with what had appeared to be mischief. ‘My, my, what a heartless woman you can be, Hannah.’
And Hannah had blushed even more. She had gone the colour of a beetroot or one of those dark ‘heritage’ tomatoes which room service kept always sending up whenever the Sheikh asked for a salad. Because she wasn’t used to being teased—and she certainly wasn’t used to being teased by a half-naked man, with an implied level of intimacy which was completely outside her comfort zone. Maybe that was why she’d blurted out the first stupid thing which had come into her head and said it with a fierceness which had seemed to take him by surprise.
‘I would never kill a spider. They have just as much right to be here as we do.’
There had been a pause. ‘Then I must be careful what I accuse you of in the future,’ had been the Sheikh’s slow and thoughtful response.
Even now Hannah’s cheeks went pink when she remembered it. Did he say things like that just to get a rise out of her? Sometimes she suspected he did—until she forced herself to remember the reality of her situation. As if someone like Kulal Al Diya would have the inclination to tease the lowliest of hotel workers when she knew for a fact that a famous American singer with an instantly recognisable name had called him yesterday afternoon. Hannah had almost dropped the phone when she’d answered it. Briefly, she’d thought about how much this particular woman’s autograph would raise if you auctioned it on the Internet—before handing the phone over to the black-eyed desert King. The Sheikh had shut the door of his bedroom to take the call in private...and Hannah had been unprepared for the sudden rush of envy she had experienced.
And that was when she’d started wondering what it would be like to have a man like Kulal Al Diya as your lover. Imagining what it would be like to wake up in those powerful arms while his black eyes raked over you. Or how it would feel to have those long fingers slowly stroking skin which was growing heated even as she thought about it.
Just stop it, Hannah. Had that cheesy film she’d watched on her day off kick-started such crazy fantasies? Or was it because she’d been sitting there with nothing but a bumper carton of popcorn for company, surrounded by couples who were making out? With an impatient click of her lips, Hannah straightened an embroidered silk cushion. For some people, this would have been the job from heaven but it was rapidly turning into the job from hell—and all because she couldn’t stop obsessing about a hotel guest in a totally unprofessional way. Had she chosen someone completely out of reach because that was safe?
Or was it talking to her sister the other night which had made Hannah feel more of a loser in love than usual? Tamsyn had sent a photo of herself about to go out for the evening, her red hair cascading down her back like a fiery waterfall, her big green eyes fringed with spectacular black lashes. And hadn’t Hannah felt a little resentful—wondering how it was that, despite Tamsyn’s dire financial situation and lack of regular employment, she could still manage to look like a film star and go out and have a good time?
‘Are you ever going to serve that coffee, Hannah? Or are you just going to stand there muttering to yourself all morning?’
The richly accented voice breaking into her thoughts made Hannah jump and she turned to see the Sheikh sauntering into the room, with all the unleashed power of a hand-reared leopard. She watched as he sat down. It had taken a bit of adjustment to get used to his western taste in clothing because she hadn’t realised that sheikhs wore jeans...especially not spray-on faded ones which made him look like a poster star for the brand. Her fingers tightened around the coffee cup, but not nearly as much as her breasts were tightening beneath the snug fit of her uniform dress. Had she been talking out loud?
Was he aware she’d been having stupid fantasies about him?
Of course he wasn’t—he might be a famously good negotiator, but he wasn’t that clever!
‘Certainly, Your Royal Highness,’ she said efficiently as she carried the cup over to his desk, where he was looking at some exotic-looking map. He liked looking at maps, and on one memorable occasion had pointed out a mountain range on the north-eastern side of his country, describing the snowy peaks in a way which had made Hannah feel all dreamy. He’d told her about Mount Taljan, which was the highest and most beautiful mountain in all of Zahristan, casually mentioning that he’d scaled it when he was just seventeen years old.
He looked up as she put the cup down in front of him, his black eyes raking over her like glowing coals and, as usual, she was momentarily flustered by the intensity of that gaze.
‘Is...is there anything else I can get you, Your Royal Highness?’ she questioned politely.
Kulal leaned back in his chair to study her, knowing if he did so for long enough then her cheeks would inevitably take on that rosy hue he found so entrancing. And then she would squirm with embarrassment until he put her out of her misery and dismissed her. His lips curved into a reflective smile. He knew she was attracted to him—which came as no great surprise; what was surprising was her total lack of attempt to capture his interest, especially given her rare proximity to his royal presence. In his own country, the majority of his personal servants were male and, in the west, few women would have been given the unfettered access which Hannah had been granted.
Yet there had been no change to her outward appearance, which would have been usual. No subtle lick of lipstick, or an application of mascara to make those extraordinary aquamarine eyes look even bigger. Nor copious amounts of perfume applied to wrist or cleavage, intended to beguile his nostrils with the scent of her femininity. His eyes narrowed. And wasn’t her lack of artifice refreshing—coupled with a naivety which was rarely found in the world he inhabited?
He dropped a sugar cube into his coffee, and then a second before taking a sip. ‘Excellent,’ he murmured.
Hannah beamed with satisfaction. ‘I trust everything else is to your satisfaction, Your Royal Highness?’
He glowered. ‘Why do the staff here keep saying that same thing over and over again?’
She wriggled her shoulders a little awkwardly. ‘It’s the Granchester’s promise, Your Royal Highness. They like us to reinforce the group’s core message.’
‘Well, I’ve got the core message loud and clear so don’t bother saying it to me again, understand?’
She pursed her lips together. ‘Yes, Your Royal Highness.’
Kulal took another sip of coffee. He’d been awake until the early hours, fine-tuning the announcement which he planned to make to the world very soon—a dramatic development about cheaper solar power, which would inevitably stir up envy among his competitors. His time here on Sardinia was almost over and tomorrow he would return to Zahristan and the inevitable affairs of state which had been piling up in his absence. But before that happened, there was the little matter of an invitation to a party on the other side of the island, a party he could have easily given a miss, were it not being thrown by one of his oldest friends.
He stifled a sigh because he was in no mood for entertainment and not just because he could do with a good night’s sleep. Parties were predictable and tedious. The same boring small-talk and disingenuous asides. And the more elevated your status, the more predictable they became. He scowled, for his recent break-up would only exacerbate the rush to pair him off with someone new. People spent far too much time contemplating his marital status and it was none of their damned business. Sometimes he thought he should put the world straight by openly stating his intention to defer marriage for as long as possible, but why fuel speculation?
He thought about the women who would doubtless be in attendance because his friend Salvatore believed that a vacancy in a man’s bed should be filled as quickly as possible. And Salvatore had connections to some of the most desirable women in the world. The kind of women most men drooled about, with their gym-honed bodies and diamonds which some adoring daddy had probably bestowed on them for their eighteenth birthday. Women who would slip him little pieces of paper with their cell phone number written above a line of kisses.
Kulal yawned, because the idea of being hit on was failing to heat his blood and he allowed his gaze to return to the chambermaid who was self-consciously straightening cushions. As she straightened up, her cheeks automatically flared when she noticed her gaze on him and he could not resist a slow smile. When was the last time he’d seen a woman blush like that?
‘You don’t say very much, do you?’ he observed.
‘My role here is to attend to your needs, Your Royal Highness, not to converse,’ she said primly.
‘You’re English?’
She surveyed him with a suspicious blinking of her eyes. ‘I am, Your Royal Highness.’
‘So what brings you to Sardinia?’
She hesitated, as if she was surprised he was asking. She should be, he thought wryly—because he was pretty surprised himself.
‘I usually work for the Granchester in London,’ she explained falteringly. ‘Which is one of the finest hotels—’
‘Yes. There’s no need for any more corporate-speak,’ he said sardonically. ‘I know the chain well. And the owner, as it happens.’
Her eyes widened. ‘You know Zac Constantinides?’ she questioned breathlessly.
‘I do. I’m currently doing some business with his cousin—Xan. He was here at the conference earlier in the week. You didn’t realise? No. You probably didn’t. He likes to keep a low profile.’ His mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘He’s lucky he’s able to.’
Hannah frowned. Xan Constantinides. The name rang a bell. Had her sister mentioned it, or had she imagined that? ‘Yes, Your Royal Highness,’ she said, which was her default answer when she couldn’t think of anything else to say.