Sold To The Sheikh. Miranda Lee

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СКАЧАТЬ I just wonder if you do.’

      ‘Meaning?’

      ‘Meaning Ali is not given to flights of fancy. After what you’ve just told me, I suspect he came here tonight specifically to bid for that dinner with you, money being no object. Which leads me to believe that he must be somewhat smitten with you. If so, then I doubt your supposed disliking him at first sight will prove to be any more than a minor hurdle.’

      Charmaine bristled. ‘Is that some kind of warning?’

      ‘I suppose so. Look, if you really don’t like him, then watch yourself. Ali is not a man to be toyed with.’

      ‘I have never toyed with him.’

      ‘Come, now, Charmaine. I saw the way you were smiling down at him just now and that was not the smile of an uninterested woman.’

      Heat zoomed into Charmaine’s cheeks. ‘You don’t understand. I was just…just…’

      ‘Taunting him?’

      She shrugged irritably. ‘In a way.’

      ‘Don’t,’ came his sharp rebuke. ‘That’s not the way to behave with a man like Ali. Such behaviour could make him…dangerous.’

      Her eyes widened. ‘Dangerous? In what way?’

      Rico shook his head. ‘Look, I’ll speak to him. Make sure he understands how the land lies. I’m sure he’ll respect your wishes if he believes you’re genuinely not interested. You are definitely not interested?’

      ‘Oh, please. Spare me from having to deal with a spoiled sheikh who harbours Hollywood fantasies over his irresistibility to women.’

      ‘Maybe he has cause to harbour them.’

      She could not contain a scornful laugh. ‘The only thing Prince Ali of Dubar has going for him with me is the size of his wallet. And then only if he opens it for the foundation. You tell him that, Rico. Now I really must go and take off this infernal dress!’

      A famous saying came to Rico’s mind as he watched Charmaine flounce off, her glamorous drop earrings swinging sexily around her shoulders and her long fair hair swishing back and forth across her nearly naked back.

      ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’

      CHAPTER THREE

      SHORTLY before six on the following Saturday afternoon, Charmaine climbed out from behind the wheel of her nondescript white sedan, collected her overnight bag from the back seat, handed the car keys to the valet parking attendant and proceeded into the arcade-style foyer of the Regency Hotel, all without having to tolerate the harassing presence of the paparazzi.

      Experience had taught the supermodel several ways to avoid them. If possible, she arrived early for publicised events, often in disguise. Unfortunately, her dinner date tonight with the sheikh was now a well-publicised event, courtesy of one pesky female journalist who’d been at the auction and written it up the following day, the main focus of her article being the astonishing amount paid by Prince Ali of Dubar for a dinner date with our Charmaine. Typically, the find-a-sexual-angle journo made it all sound impossibly romantic.

      Charmaine had quickly regretted announcing at the auction when and where the dinner would take place. That had been a mistake. But no way was she going to contact the prince and change the arrangements. She did, however, contact the owner of the Regency again and was assured by Mr Richmond that no Press would bother either her or his most esteemed guest from Dubar over dinner. He promised heightened security at both the hotel entrance and complete privacy in the restaurant.

      Charmaine expressed her gratitude but still booked a room in the hotel so that she could arrive early and dress there, as well as stay the night. That way she could slip out the following morning in her own good time.

      Now here she was, blessedly anonymous as she walked up to the reception desk in her nondescript brown wig and wraparound sunglasses, not having had to tolerate cameras being shoved in her face and having questions shouted at her. What a relief! She might have lost her cool if there’d been reporters and photographers hanging around the hotel. It had been a very long week and her nerves were on a knife-edge today.

      Charmaine glanced at her watch as she rode the lift up to the second floor. Less than an hour to go. But time enough for her to get ready. She’d washed and blow-dried her hair earlier that afternoon. And done her nails. All she had left to do was change her clothes and put on some make-up and earrings. None of those preparations would take much time. Charmaine had decided to dress down for this occasion.

      If the sheikh thought she’d show up in something reminiscent of last Saturday night then he was in for a surprise. There would be no flesh on show tonight. Nothing for those predatory eyes to feast upon.

      At precisely five minutes to seven, she was again in the lift, her stone-washed jeans now replaced by loose-fitting black crêpe evening trousers and a bronze silk Chinese-style tunic top that skimmed her figure and minimised its hourglass curves. Her hair was brushed straight back from her face and fell in a dead straight curtain to her waist. Her face had hardly any make-up at all. Just a fine layer of foundation, a touch of blue eyeshadow, a few strokes of mascara and some shiny bronze lipstick that matched the colour of her nails. Small diamond studs winked at her ear-lobes, in marked contrast to the sexy shoulder-length drops she’d worn for the auction.

      The irony was that with a natural beauty like Charmaine, often less was more. But she was unaware of this fact. Being used to wearing much more make-up, especially for photo shoots and her work on the catwalk, she thought she looked as plain as she could. If only she knew how breathtakingly beautiful—and intriguingly innocent—she looked as she emerged on the mezzanine floor and made her way down the marble-floored corridor to the By Candlelight restaurant.

      The maître d’, a tall bald-headed man with a thin moustache and intelligent grey eyes, smiled at her from behind his podium-style station.

      ‘Mademoiselle Charmaine,’ he said with a French accent, which might or might not have been genuine. The number of maître d’s in Sydney restaurants with French accents seemed excessive in Charmaine’s opinion. ‘Such a delight to have you in our restaurant tonight. His highness has already arrived. I will take you straight to him.’

      Charmaine dutifully followed in his wake as he made his way past the mostly empty tables towards the back of the restaurant. Considering the relatively early hour of their ‘date’, Charmaine was surprised that the prince had already arrived. She would have thought that royalty would always be a little late for engagements of the social kind.

      But of course this wasn’t a social occasion, she reminded herself ruefully. It was one of vengeance. Naturally, his royal highness wouldn’t want to miss a moment of her humiliation.

      This last realisation rescued her from any inner resentment at being here at all and sent a small smile playing around her lips. If the sheikh thought he could belittle her tonight, then he was in for more than one surprise. He had no idea what he was dealing with. No idea at all!

      The alcove she was taken to was totally and utterly private, a small square-shaped room tucked away in a discreet corner. There was an open archway leading into it, but even this was flanked by huge potted palms that added to its sense of privacy. The walls of the alcove—and even the ceiling—were painted black, the darkness only minimally alleviated by several low-voltage СКАЧАТЬ