A Christmas Bride For The King. Эбби Грин

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       CHAPTER TWO

      CHARLOTTE WATCHED THE door close on the most infuriating man she’d ever met, not to mention the most disturbing, and she had to quell a childish urge to hurl something at the door behind him. Instead she kicked off her shoes and paced back and forth on the sumptuous silken rugs.

      She fumed. She was used to dealing with clients who thought they knew everything about international relations and diplomacy until something blew up in their faces, and then suddenly Charlotte became their most valuable asset. But she’d never encountered such downright...antipathy before.

      She was patently unwelcome—and she could call him Salim but he wouldn’t deign to call her Charlotte. She thought about that for a moment and felt a frisson run down her spine at the thought of his tongue wrapping itself around her name. That little frisson was humiliating, because it was glaringly obvious that he didn’t view her as female—more as an asexual irritation.

      Sheikh Al-Noury was affecting her in a way that she hadn’t experienced before, because she was good at keeping people at a distance and yet from the first moment they’d met he’d slid under her skin with disconcerting ease.

      Charlotte shucked off her jacket and undid the bow at her neck and her top button. Then, spying her bags in the bedroom near the dressing room, she set about unpacking. She found herself dwelling on the animosity the sheikh had demonstrated towards his mother. She didn’t like the way it resonated within her, reminding her of her own fractured relationship with her mother, brought on by years of careless parenting after a bitter divorce.

      But she diverted her mind away from wondering too much about anything personal to do with the sheikh. It wasn’t her business. And the last thing she wanted to think about was her own pitiful family history.

      After taking a refreshing shower in the lavish bathroom, Charlotte changed into stretchy pants and a soft long-sleeved top. Just as her stomach rumbled she heard a knock on the door. Her gut clenched as she imagined it might be him, but when she opened the door there was a young girl, with a trolley full of food and wine in an ice bucket on the other side.

      She admonished herself; he’d hardly be delivering her dinner.

      Charlotte stood back to let the girl in and watched as she silently laid the dining table for one and set out the food. Tantalising scents filled the air and her stomach rumbled louder. The girl scurried out again, too shy to return Charlotte’s smile.

      Charlotte sat down to explore what she’d been given. Balls of rice mixed with herbs. Lamb infused with spices and scented rice. Flat bread with hummus. It looked delicious and she found that she was ravenous.

      She ate as dusk fell outside, not noticing it had got dark until she stood up and went to the window with her wine glass in her hand, feeling a little more settled after an unsettling day.

      She opened the French doors and was surprised to find that it was much cooler than she’d expected—and then she chastised herself: basic geography, of course it got cold in the desert at night. She fetched a cashmere wrap and then went back outside, sitting on a seat, relishing the peace.

      The thought of the vast expanse of empty desert surrounding her made a thrum of excitement pulse in her blood. She’d always found this part of the world fascinating, hence her choice of master’s degree. The stars were so low and bright in the dark sky she imagined she could reach out and pluck one into her hand.

      Tabat intrigued her.

      And so does its enigmatic ruler, whispered a voice.

      Charlotte scowled and took a sip of wine, telling herself that Sheikh Al-Noury—Salim—didn’t intrigue her at all. He was thoroughly charmless and clearly reluctant to change his hedonistic existence before becoming king.

      He didn’t intrigue her because she knew his type all too well. As the only child of two high-profile parents, who had used her as an unwitting pawn in their bitter divorce and custody battle, she recognised the traits of a selfish person who was here under sufferance. After all, when her father had lost in the custody battle with her mother he’d always let it be known that her visits with him had been something he’d done purely out of legal obligation, not because he really cared for her, so she was in far too familiar territory.

      However, she wouldn’t let her own personal feelings intrude on her professional life. She’d worked too hard to separate herself from her parents and that time. She’d even changed her name, vowing to live a life much different from theirs, which was smack at the centre of the public eye.

      She’d built an independent life and a reputation based on her intellect—not her name or the infamy associated with it. She had a strong desire never to be at the mercy of anyone else again, to the point that she’d instinctively avoided intimate relationships, too afraid of letting someone close enough to devastate her world as her parents had.

      Diverting her mind away from her past, she assured herself that all she had to do was make sure the sheikh didn’t cause an international scandal in the run-up to his coronation, which was due to take place in three weeks. And then, once the man had been crowned king, Charlotte could walk away and hopefully never see him again.

      So why did she find her mind wandering back to him now? Wondering where he was in this vast and largely empty palace?

      Then she cursed her naivety as a wave of embarrassment made her feel hot. He had surely not denied himself the pleasures of a mistress. A man like that? He’d left his life of excess in Europe and the States, to return to take up his rightful place, but he’d hardly have denied himself his base comforts, and sex and women were one of his most well-documented pastimes. And only the most beautiful women at that—albeit never for long.

      Charlotte shook her head and stood up, returning to her suite. She told herself firmly that she couldn’t care less if Sheikh Salim was entertaining a harem of mistresses right now as long as he was discreet about it.

      The fact that it took her ages to fall asleep in the huge bed, only for her dreams to be populated by a mysteriously masked and robed man on a huge stallion cantering across vast desert sands, was a pure coincidence. And not disturbing in the slightest.

      Not even when she had to concede when she woke the following morning that he hadn’t really been mysterious at all. Not with those blue eyes.

      A week later

      ‘Sire, we are so grateful that you are here, finally. There is so much work to do in two weeks! And then, once you are king—’

      Salim turned around abruptly from where he’d been trying to tune out his chief aide, stopping the man’s words. They caused a sensation not unlike panic in his chest and Salim did not panic.

      His aide—an old man who had known his grandfather—looked at him expectantly. Salim said tightly, ‘Do whatever it is that you deem necessary, Rafa. You know more about this place than me, after all.’

      The slightest flare of something in those old eyes was the only hint that his aide was not impressed that it had taken Salim so long to take up his role, or that he’d spent most of the last week out of Tabat.

      Salim told himself that part of his motivation for leaving Tabat СКАЧАТЬ