A Christmas Bride For The King. Эбби Грин

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      A loose-fitting white shirt did little to disguise the solid mass of muscle on his chest and a tantalising glimpse of dark hair. It was tucked into very worn jodhpurs that clung to hard and well muscled thighs in a way that could only be described as provocative. Scuffed leather boots hugged his calves.

      It was only then, belatedly, that Charlotte registered the very earthy and surprisingly sensual smell of horseflesh and something else—male sweat. To her utter horror she realised that she was reacting to him as if she’d taken complete leave of her senses.

      He frowned. ‘Mrs McQuillan?’

      She nodded, only vaguely registering that he’d got her title wrong.

      ‘You were leaving?’

      His deep and intriguingly accented voice reverberated through her nerve-endings in a very distracting way.

      Charlotte finally broke herself out of the disturbing inertia that was rendering her insensible. What on earth was wrong with her? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen a handsome man before. She tried to ignore the fact that she’d just made such an intense inspection of the man and shelved her unfortunate reaction to him until she could study it in private, later.

      She looked him in the eye. ‘I’ve been waiting here for over an hour, Your Majesty, I thought you weren’t coming.’

      Those remarkable eyes flashed with what looked like censure. ‘I’m not king yet.’

      He looked down, and Charlotte became conscious of her rigid grasp on her case. She forced herself to relax.

      He met her eye again. ‘Were you offered any refreshment?’

      Charlotte shook her head. King—no, Sheikh Al-Noury walked back to the doorway and shouted for someone. A young boy in a long tunic and turban appeared—the same one who had shown her into the office—looking pathetically eager to please. He looked terrified, however, after the stream of rapid Arabic Sheikh Al-Noury subjected him to, and then he ran.

      When Charlotte registered what he’d said she stepped forward saying heatedly, ‘That was uncalled for! How was he to know to offer me anything when he only looks about twelve? Someone senior should have been here to meet me. Where are your staff?’

      Sheikh Al-Noury turned around slowly. He arched a brow and leant against the doorframe, crossing his arms. Totally nonchalant and unfazed by her outburst. ‘You speak Arabic?’

      Charlotte nodded jerkily. ‘Among numerous other languages. But that’s not the point—’

      He straightened from the door. ‘I’m sorry. I would have been here to meet you but I got delayed at the stables, taking delivery of a new thoroughbred—a present from Sheikh Nadim Al Saqr of Merkazad. He was skittish after the journey so it took a while to settle him.’

      Sheikh Al-Noury had crossed the expanse of the Royal Office before Charlotte could get her thoughts in order. The fact that his apology hadn’t sounded remotely sincere was something that got lost in a haze as she found herself once again momentarily mesmerised by his sheer athletic grace. He moved like no other man she’d ever seen—all coiled muscle and barely restrained sexual magnetism. It was an assault on her senses.

      He looked over his shoulder from where he was pouring dark golden liquid into a bulbous glass. ‘Can I get you anything?’

      Charlotte’s throat suddenly felt as dry as the surrounding desert and she said, ‘Just water, please, if you have it.’

      He came back towards her, holding out a glass of iced water, and once again Charlotte was struck by his sheer physicality. She reached for the glass and their fingers touched. A raw jolt of electricity shot up her arm, making her accept it jerkily. She immediately raised it to her mouth to give herself something to do, feeling as if she was floundering. She didn’t like it.

      Sheikh Al-Noury indicated the chair from which she’d only just picked up her bag, intending to leave.

      ‘Please, take a seat, Mrs McQuillan.’

      He walked around to the other side of his desk and sat down, lifting his feet carelessly onto the desk-top and crossing them at the ankle. Charlotte’s eyes grew wide at this less than respectful pose, and she forgot his offer to take a seat. Right now all he was missing was a half-naked showgirl sitting in his lap.

      He swirled the drink in his glass and took a sip before looking at her and raising a brow. ‘I presume from the expression on your face that I’m about to get my first lesson in diplomacy and etiquette?’

      Charlotte dragged her horrified gaze away from the very battered soles of his boots. There were dark stains that looked and smelt suspiciously like animal waste, and as her gaze clashed with that painfully blue one she said frigidly, ‘It is generally considered an insult of varying proportions to expose the soles of your feet to a guest anywhere in the world.’

      The man did nothing for a long moment, and then he just shrugged minutely. ‘Well, we are in this part of the world now—and, believe me, we have far more inventive ways of insulting people. Nevertheless, I will endeavour to refrain from insulting my etiquette advisor.’

      He lifted his legs, which only drew Charlotte’s attention to his thighs again, and then they were hidden from view under his desk. She felt the strangest twist in her belly. Almost a pang of regret. It angered her to be behaving so oddly.

      That anger made her say through gritted teeth, ‘I am much more than an “etiquette advisor”, Sheikh Al-Noury. I am an expert in international relations and diplomacy, with a master’s degree in Middle Eastern Relations. I speak seven languages and I’ve just completed a successful assignment with King Alix Saint Croix, ensuring his smooth transition back onto the world stage after regaining his throne...’

      Charlotte stopped and took a breath, slightly aghast at how much had just tumbled from her mouth.

      Sheikh Al-Noury barely moved a muscle from his louche pose as he said, ‘Mrs McQuillan—’

      ‘And it’s not Mrs McQuillan,’ Charlotte snapped, feeling as if she was fraying from the inside out while this man remained utterly nonchalant. ‘It’s Miss.’

      The sheikh’s bright gaze dropped down over her upper body and back up, making Charlotte feel hot all over and yet as if she’d suddenly been found wanting. He’d obviously come to some unflattering conclusion about her single status.

      He looked at her and said, with an almost infinitesimal twitching at the corner of his sensual mouth, ‘Quite. Forgive me for the error. I’m afraid I’d just assumed...’ He sat up straighter then, and pointed to the chair on the other side of his desk. ‘Please, sit down, Miss McQuillan. You’re making me nervous, looming over me like that.’

      Charlotte doubted anything would make this man remotely nervous, and to her disgust felt perilously close to wanting to stamp her foot and storm out. Did he have to make her feel like an admonishing parent? And why should that be pricking at her insides like a hot poker?

      Charlotte’s habitual cool head was irritatingly elusive. She’d never been so aware of herself. She knew that she presented a slightly conservative front, but in her business it was paramount to appear at all times elegant and refined. Giving no cause for possible offence or provocation.

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