The Sheikh's Pregnancy Proposal

Two

Sarah found a space in the parking lot next door to the historic old building that housed the Zahiri consulate. Situated just over the road from the waterfront, the entire block was dotted with grand Victorian and Edwardian buildings and a series of old warehouses that had been turned into bars and restaurants.

As she stepped out of the car, cold wind gusted in off the sea and spits of rain landed on her skin. Her hair, which she’d spent a good hour coaxing into trailing curls with a hot curling iron, swirled around her face. Turning up the collar of her coat and shivering a little, because the red silk jersey dress was not made for a cold Wellington night, she locked the car and started toward the consulate.

Feeling nervous and self-conscious about all the changes she’d made, especially her new makeup and a pair of black boots with heels a couple of inches higher than she normally wore, she hurried past a group of young men hanging around the covered area outside a bar.

The wind gusted again, making her coat flap open and lifting the flimsy skirt of her dress, revealing more leg than she was accustomed to showing. Her phone chimed as she clutched the lapels of her coat and dragged her hemline down. Ignoring a barrage of crude remarks and a piercing wolf whistle, she retrieved the phone and answered the call.

Graham had arrived early and was already inside on the off chance that he might actually get to meet the elusive Sheikh of Zahir, who was rumored to be in town. Since it was cold and on the verge of raining, he had decided not to hang around outside waiting for her as they had arranged.

Irritated but unsurprised by Graham’s lack of consideration, Sarah walked up the steps to the consulate and strolled into the foyer, which was well lit and warm.

She was greeted by a burly man with a shaved head who was dressed in a beautifully cut suit. He checked her invitation and noted her name on a register. When he handed the invitation back, his gaze was piercing. In New Zealand it was unusual to be scrutinized so thoroughly. She was almost certain he wasn’t just a consulate official. With the sheikh in residence it was more likely that the man was one of the sheikh’s bodyguards. Though a Christian nation, Zahir, a Mediterranean island, was caught between the Middle East and Europe. The elderly sheikh had been kidnapped some years ago and so now was rumored to always travel with an armed escort.

She hung her coat on the rack provided. Ignoring an attack of nerves caused by losing the cozy, protective outer layer that had mostly hidden the red dress, she walked through an elegant hallway and into a crowded reception room. It was a cocktail party and promotional evening aimed at selling Zahir, with its colorful history as a Templar outpost, as a tourist destination. Sarah had expected little black dresses and the rich exotic colors of the East to abound, but crisp business suits and black and gray dresses toned down by jackets created a subdued monochrome against which she stood out like an overbright bird of paradise.

Sarah’s stomach sank. When she had read the pamphlet she hadn’t seen the evening as focused on business, but if she didn’t miss her guess, most of the guests were business types, probably tour operators and travel agents and no doubt a smattering of government officials.

Deciding to brazen it out, she moved to a display concerning the mysterious disappearance of the remains of Camille’s dowry. Hidden by a member of the sheikh’s family at the time of the evacuation during the Second World War, the location of the hiding place had been lost when the family member died in a bombing raid.

A short, balding man in a gray suit also stopped by the display, but seemed more mesmerized by the faint shadowy hollow of her cleavage. Annoyed by his rudeness, she sent him the kind of quelling glance that would have had her pupils scrambling to apply themselves to their study. As he scuttled away, she thought longingly about retrieving her coat and covering up the alluring brightness of the dress, but she refused to cut and run because she was attracting male attention. After all, that had been the whole point.

A waiter offered her a glass of wine. A little desperately, she took a glass and sipped slowly as she moved to a display of Templar weaponry. Instantly riveted by a history she found even more fascinating after immersing herself in Camille’s journal, Sarah read the notes about the Templar band under the command of Sheikh Kadin. Setting her glass down on a nearby table, she stepped closer, irresistibly drawn to the largest weapon—a grim, pitted sword that had clearly seen hard use. A small label indicated the sword had belonged to the sheikh. In that moment she remembered a passage of the journal, which had outlined Camille’s first meeting with Kadin.

“An overlarge warrior with a black, soaked mane, dark eyes narrowed against the wind, a workmanlike blade gripped in his battle-scarred hand.”

The fascination that had gripped Sarah as she’d read Camille’s account came back full force. A small sign warned against touching the displays, but the powerful compulsion to immerse herself in sensation, to touch the sword, far outweighed the officious red wording.

Breath held, her fingertips brushed the gleaming grip where the chasing etched into the bronze was worn smooth by use. The chill of the metal struck through her skin. A split second later, the bracket holding the sword came loose and the heavy weapon toppled, hitting the carpeted floor with a thud.

Mortified, Sarah reached for the sword, hoping to prop it against the display before anyone noticed. Before she could grab it, a large tanned hand closed around the bronze grip. With fluid grace, a tall, broad-shouldered man straightened, the blade in his hand, and her heart slammed once, hard, as her dream world and the present fused.

The warrior.

That seemed the only adequate description. The man was tall enough that her gaze was firmly centered on his jaw. Heart pounding, she tilted her head and stared directly into the amber gleam of eyes that, for a split second, she fully expected to be as passionately focused on her as those of the warrior who had haunted her dream.

Her breath caught in the back of her throat as she recognized the man she had run into the previous day. The curious tension that had invested the dream drew every muscle taut as she took in black hair cut crisp and short, the blade-straight nose and the intriguing scar on his cheekbone. The planes and angles of his face were mouthwateringly clean-cut, although any sense of perfection was lost in the grim line of his jaw and the lash of the scar.

His brows drew together as if he recognized her and was trying to remember from exactly where. A split second later his gaze shuttered and she had to wonder if she’d imagined that moment of intense interest.

Or, on a more practical note, if he was married. As a single woman with years of dating experience, it would not be the first time she had been checked out by a man who then suddenly recalled that he was committed elsewhere.

His gaze dropped to her hands. “Are you all right? For a moment, I thought you might have cut yourself.”

The low, rough timbre of his voice, the cosmopolitan accent, was definitely European, but with a slow cadence that indicated he had spent time in the States. The accent, along with the short cut of his hair and the suit, added to the impression that had been forming, the only one that made sense—he was either an aide to the sheikh or a bodyguard. Given his muscular build, and the fact that he had arrived within seconds of her touching the sword, she would go with the security option.

She dredged up a smile and displayed her palms to show she wasn’t injured. “I’m fine, just a little startled the sword wasn’t secured. Especially since it belonged to Sheikh Kadin.”

For another heart-pounding moment his gaze seemed riveted on her mouth. “You’re right, the Wolf of Zahir would not have been so careless. I’ll have a word with the staff who set up the display.”

She dragged her gaze from the line of his jaw. “Oh no, really...it was completely my fault. I shouldn’t have touched the sword.” Shouldn’t have allowed herself to be distracted by her ancestor’s passionate love story when she needed to apply herself to establishing her own.

With an easy movement, he propped the weapon against the display board. As he did so an angled spotlight above gleamed over his damaged cheekbone, and cast a shadow over the inky curve of his lashes. Suddenly the dream warrior, as riveting as he had been, seemed too cosmetically perfect and lacking in personality. From memory, he had also been oddly compliant. In the way of dreams, he had done exactly what she had wanted, in contrast to this man who looked as seasoned and uncompromising as the Templar Knight who had originally wielded the sword.

To her surprise, instead of moving on, he held out his hand and introduced himself as Gabriel, Gabe for short.

Surprised at the informality and that he seemed to want to keep the conversation going, Sarah briefly gripped his hand as she supplied her name. Tingling warmth shot through her at the rough heat of his palm. “I’m a history teacher.”

She caught the flash of surprise in his expression and her mood dropped like a stone. He was tall, gorgeous, hot—as different from Graham as a dark lion from a tabby cat. Incredibly, he also seemed to be interested in her, and she had just ruined the outward impression of sexy sophistication she’d spent hours creating. If she’d had her wits about her she would have relegated her teaching occupation to some dusty dark hole and claimed an interest in travelling to exotic places.

“I’m guessing since you’re at the exhibition that it’s Templar history?”

Her mood dropped even further when she realized she now had to tell him how boring and prosaic her subjects were. “I specialize in the industrial revolution and the First and Second World Wars.” She let out a resigned breath, convinced they had nothing in common. “What about you?”

“Five years at Harvard. It was useful.”

Hope flared anew. “Harvard. That sounds like law, or business.”

“Business, I’m afraid.”

He sounded almost as apologetic as she had been. Her heart beat faster. Not a bodyguard then, despite the muscle. Perhaps he was one of the sheikh’s financial advisors. She was riveted by the thought that maybe all wasn’t lost.

Just as she was searching for some small talk, two Arabic men in suits joined them. The taller one, carrying a screwdriver, immediately set about refixing the bracket that had held the sword. The other suit, a plump man with a tag that proclaimed he was Tarik ben Abdel, the consulate administration manager, sent her a disapproving glance. He then button-holed Gabe and launched into a tirade in a liquid tongue she recognized as Zahiri.

Gabe cut him off with a flat, soft phrase, although Sarah was distracted from the exchange. Graham had appeared just yards away, head swiveling as if he had finally remembered to search for her. His gaze passed over her then shot back to linger on the hint of cleavage at the V of her dress. When he fished in his pocket for his cell phone and turned away, an irritated look on his face, she realized that, aside from checking out her chest, he had failed to recognize her.

Tarik, with a last disapproving glance at her, marched away, the second suit trailing behind. She noticed that the sword was once again affixed to the display.

Sarah was suddenly blazingly aware that the tall dark man hadn’t left as she had expected him to and that he was studying her with an enigmatic expression, as if he’d logged the exchange with Graham.

Still mortified at the fuss she’d created, she rushed to apologize. “I read the sign. I know I shouldn’t have touched the sword, that artifacts can be vulnerable to skin oils and salts—”

“Tarik wasn’t worried that the sword might be damaged. It survived the Third Crusade, so a fall onto soft carpet is hardly likely to cause harm. He was more concerned about the tradition that goes with the sword.”

Understanding dawned. If there had been a pre-eminent symbol of manhood in the Middle Ages, it had been the sword, and this had been a Templar sword. “Of course, the Templar vow of chastity.”

Amusement gleamed in his gaze. “And a superstition that a woman’s touch would somehow disable a warrior’s potency in battle.”

A curious warmth hummed through her as she realized that, as nerve-racking as the exchange had started out, she was actually enjoying talking to the most dangerously attractive man she had ever met. “Sounds more like a convenient way of shifting blame for a lackluster performance on the battlefield.”

“Possibly.” Gabe’s mouth kicked up at one corner, softening the line of his jaw and revealing the slightest hint of an indentation. “But, back then, on Zahir, if a woman handled a man’s sword, it was also viewed as a declaration of intent.”

Breath held, Sarah found herself waiting for the dimple to be more fully realized. “What if she was simply curious?”

His gaze locked with hers and a tension far more acute than any she had experienced in her dream flared to life. “Then the warrior might demand a forfeit. Although most of the Templars that landed on Zahir eventually gave up their vows.”

“Including the sheikh, who married.”

The cooling of his expression as she mentioned marriage was like a dash of cold water. For the second time she wondered if he was married. Disappointment cascaded through her at the thought. A glance at his left hand confirmed there was no ring, although that meant nothing. He could be married, with children, and never wear a ring.

A faint buzz emanated from his jacket pocket. With a frown that sent a dart of pleasure through her, because it conveyed that he didn’t want to be interrupted, he excused himself and half turned away to take the call.

Unsettled and on edge because she was clearly developing an unhealthy fascination for a complete stranger, Sarah remembered her glass of wine. As she took a steadying sip, her cell phone chimed. Setting the glass back down, she rummaged in her handbag and found the phone and another text from Graham. Although there was nothing romantic or even polite about the words. Where are you?

Annoyed at his blunt irritation, the cavalier way he hadn’t bothered to meet her as they had arranged, Sarah punched the delete key. She might be a victim of the love game, but she would not be a doormat. Temper on a slow simmer, she shoved the phone back in her handbag.

Gabe terminated his call. “Are you with someone? I noticed you came in alone.”

Suddenly the tension was thick enough to cut, although she couldn’t invest the knowledge that he had noticed her entrance with too much importance. She was the only person dressed in red in a sea of black and gray; of course he had noticed her. “Uh, I was supposed to meet someone...”

“A man.”

She crushed the urge to say she wasn’t meeting another man; that would have been a lie. “Yes.”

He nodded, his expression remote, but she was left with the unmistakable impression that if she had said she was alone the evening might have taken a more exciting turn than she could ever expect with Graham.

His expression suddenly neutral, Gabe checked his watch. “If you’ll excuse me. I have a call to make.”

Sarah squashed a plunging sense of disappointment. As he walked away, she forced herself to look around for Graham.

She spotted him across the room involved in an animated discussion with a man wearing a business suit and a kaffiyeh, the traditional Arabic headdress. She studied the Arab man, who she assumed must be the sheikh. She had read a lot about Zahir, but most of it had been history, since Zahir was a small, peaceful country that didn’t normally make the news. She knew that the sheikh was on the elderly side, and that he had married a New Zealander, a woman who had originally come from Wellington, which explained Zahir’s close ties with her country.

She strolled closer just as the man with the kaffiyeh moved away and finally managed to make eye contact with Graham.

The blankness of his expression changed to incredulity. “You.”

Not for the first time Sarah looked at Graham and wondered how such a pleasantly handsome man could inspire little more in her than annoyance. “That’s right, your date.”

He shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “If you’d told me you were going to change your appearance—”

Her jaw locked at Graham’s unflattering response, as if the act of putting on a dress, a little extra makeup and messing with her hair was some kind of disguise. “This is how I look.”

He stared at her mouth, making her wonder if she’d been a little too heavy on the berry lip gloss. “Not usually. If you had, we might have hit it off a little better.”

Sarah realized there was one very good reason she had never been able to really like Graham. Not only was he self-centered with a roving eye, he had a nasty streak. She had been looking for a prince and, as usual, had ended up dating a frog. “How about I make it easy for us both. From now on don’t call and don’t come around to my mother’s house for dinner. A clean break would suit me.”

His expression took on a shifty cast. “What about the journal? You said I could look at it.”

“That was all you really wanted, wasn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”

No, because what he really wanted was to find the lost dowry and cash in on it. Sarah drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. The first two men in her life had dumped her for other women; that she could accept. Graham preferring a book and the possibility of cold hard cash over her was the proverbial last straw. “Forget the journal. It’s a private, family document. Hell would freeze solid before I’d give it to you.”

Feeling angry and hurt, hating the fact that she had lost her temper but relieved she had finally finished with Graham, Sarah spun on her heel then froze as she spotted Gabe talking with an elderly lady. He was close enough that he had probably heard some of her conversation with Graham. His gaze locked with hers, sharp and uncomplicatedly male, and for a moment the room full of people ceased to exist. Then a waiter strolled past with a tray filled with glasses, breaking the spell.

Her stomach clenched on a sharp jab of feminine intuition, that despite knowing she had a date, after he had made his call, Gabe had come looking for her. When he’d seen her talking with Graham, he’d stopped far enough away to allow her privacy—to allow her a choice—but close enough to keep an eye on her.

Graham didn’t find her attractive, but she was suddenly acutely aware that Gabe did. Talking to him at the sword display had been easy; there had been nothing at stake. Instinctively, she knew a second conversation meant a whole lot more. It meant she would have to make a decision. Suddenly the whole concept of abandoning her rule about no sex before commitment seemed full of holes when what she really wanted was love, not sex.

Feeling utterly out of her depth, her chest tight, she dragged her gaze away and made a beeline for the ladies’ room and the chance to regroup.

Pushing the door open, she stepped into a pretty tiled bathroom. Her reflection bounced back at her, tousled hair and smoky eyes, sleek dress and black boots. Her cheeks flushed as she registered what Gabe was seeing. Graham was right. She barely recognized herself. The woman who stared back at her looked exotic and assured. Experienced.

She wondered if all Gabe saw was the outer package and the possibility of a night of no-strings passion. What if, like Graham, Gabe wouldn’t be attracted to who she really was?

She found her lipstick and reapplied it, her fingers shaking very slightly. The knowledge that Gabe was attracted to her, that the improvement she had made to her appearance had worked, was unsettling. She hadn’t expected such an instant response.

She should be buoyed by her success. Instead, she felt on edge and, for want of a better word, vulnerable. Maybe it was because in her mind Gabe had become linked with the dream that had been the catalyst for all of this change. She knew almost nothing about him, but in the moment he had picked up the sword, he had made an indelible impression; he had symbolized what she wanted.

She stopped dead as the final piece of the puzzle of her dysfunction with men dropped neatly into place. She drew a deep breath. She felt like quietly banging her head against the nearest wall, but that would not be a good idea with all the security personnel roaming around. The reason she had not been intimate with anyone, even her fiancés, was because, hidden beneath the logic and practicality and years of academia, she was an idealist. Worse, she was a romantic.

Maybe all the years of burying her head in history books had changed her in some fundamental way because it was now blindingly clear why an ordinary, everyday kind of guy with a nine-to-five job had never been quite enough. Somehow, despite common sense, in her heart of hearts, she had wanted the kind of seasoned, bedrock strength and stirring romanticism that it was difficult to find in the twenty-first century.

She had wanted a knight.

When she stepped back into the reception room, despite giving herself a good talking-to about the dangers of projecting crazy romantic fantasies onto a man she barely knew, she found herself instantly looking for Gabe. When she couldn’t find him, disappointment gripped her. In an adjacent room the lecture on Zahir was beginning. She strolled inside and saw him at the back, in conversation with a well-known government official.

The jolt in her stomach, the relief and the tingling heat that flooded her, should have been warning enough. In the space of an hour she had somehow fallen into a heady infatuation with a virtual stranger, but after years of emotional limbo the blood racing through her veins, the crazy cocktail of emotions, was addictive. Just as she debated what to do—brazenly approach Gabe or wimp out completely and ignore the intense emotions—an elegant young woman walked up to Gabe and flung her arms around him.

Numb with disappointment, Sarah turned on her heel, walked into the foyer and began searching for her coat. She was fiercely glad she hadn’t approached Gabe, because he appeared to have a girlfriend, or, more probably, a wife.

Frowning, she flipped through the rack of coats again and pulled out a coat which looked like hers, but which wasn’t. Someone had obviously left in a hurry and taken her coat by mistake. As much as she needed a coat, she drew the line at helping herself to one she knew wasn’t hers. Besides, she still had her small telescopic umbrella, which fit in her handbag. In the wind, it probably wouldn’t last long, but it was better than nothing.