The Chatsfield Collection Books 1-8. Annie West

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      Gray hair shot with silver, his blue eyes were still clear, his six-foot-one frame just slightly stooped. Garbed in a perfectly tailored Pierre Cardin suit, his shoes no doubt handmade, he looked like a man who would fit right in with the fabulously wealthy people his hotel catered to.

      Gene smiled and said something to the head of desk reception. And all the air expelled from Liyah’s lungs in a single whoosh.

      She’d seen that smile in the mirror her whole life. His lips were thinner, but the wide smile above a slightly pointed chin? That was so familiar it made her heart ache.

      His eyes were blue, hers were green—but their shape was the same. That hadn’t been obvious in the publicity shots she’d seen of him.

      She’d gotten her mother’s honey-colored skin, oval face, small nose and arched brows, not to mention Hena’s black hair and five-foot-five stature. Their mother-daughter connection had been obvious to anyone who saw them together.

      Liyah had never considered she might also share physical traits with her father.

      The resemblance wasn’t overly noticeable by any means, but that smile? Undeniably like hers.

      This man was her father.

      Hit with the profundity of the moment, Liyah’s knees went to jelly and she had to put her hand against the wall for stability.

      Unaware of her father’s moderate financial support and way too aware of the Amari rejection of any connection, Liyah had spent her life knowing of only one person in her family.

      Hena Amari.

      Her mom was the only Amari who had ever recognized Liyah as a member of that family. A family who had cast her out for her disgrace.

      And since her mom’s death, Liyah had been alone. In that moment, she realized that if this man accepted her—even into the periphery of his life—she wouldn’t be alone any longer.

      Her father’s face changed, the smile shifting to something a lot tenser than the expression he’d worn only seconds before. He stood a little straighter, his entire demeanor more alert.

      Liyah’s gaze followed his, and for the second time in as many minutes she went weak in the knees.

      Surrounded by an impressive entourage and dressed in the traditional garb of a Zeena Sahran sheikh stood the most beautiful man Liyah had ever seen. Known for his macho pursuits and outlook, despite his supreme political diplomacy, the emir wouldn’t appreciate the description, she was sure.

      But regardless of...or maybe because of his over-six-foot height, square jaw and neatly trimmed, close-cropped facial hair, the sheikh’s masculine looks carried a beauty she’d never before encountered.

      No picture she’d ever seen did him justice. Two-dimensional imagery could never catch the reality of Sheikh Sayed bin Falah al Zeena’s presence. Not his gorgeous looks or the leashed power that crackled in the air around him like electricity.

      Nothing about the unadorned black abaya worn over Armani, burgundy keffiyeh on his head and black triple-stranded egal holding it in place expressed anything but conservative control. The Zeena Sahran color of royalty of the keffiyeh and three strands of the egal, rather than the usual two, subtly indicated his status as emir.

      Wearing the traditional robe over a tailored designer suit with the head scarf implied supreme civilization. And yet, to her at least, it was obvious the blood of desert warriors ran in his veins.

      The first melech of Zeena Sahra had won independence for his tribe—which later became the founding people of the emirate of Zeena Sahra—through bloody battles western history books often glossed over.

      Inexplicably and undeniably drawn to the powerful man, Liyah’s feet carried her forward without her conscious thought or volition. It was only when she stood mere feet from the royal sheikh that Liyah came to an abrupt, embarrassed stop.

      It was too late, though.

      Sheikh Sayed’s espresso-brown gaze fell on her and remained, inquiry evident in the slight quirking of his brows.

      Considered unflappable by all who knew her, Liyah couldn’t think of a single coherent thing to say, not even a simple welcome before moving on.

      No, she stood there, her body reacting to his presence in a way her mother had always warned Liyah about but she had never actually experienced.

      Part of her knew that he was surrounded by the people traveling with him, the Chatsfield Hotel staff and even her father, but Liyah could only see the emir. Discussion around them was nothing more than mumbling to her ears.

      The signature scent of the Chatsfield—a mix of cedarwood, leather, white rose and a hint of lavender—faded and all she could smell was the emir’s spicy cologne blending with his undeniable masculine scent.

      Her nipples drew tight for no discernible reason, her heart rate increasing like it only did after a particularly challenging workout and her breath came in small gasps she did her best to mask with shallow inhales.

      His expression did not detectably change, but something in the depths of his dark gaze told her she was not the only one affected.

      “Sheikh al Zeena, this is Amari, our chambermaid floor supervisor in charge of the harem floor and your suite,” the head of desk reception stepped in smoothly to say.

      Being referred to by her last name was something Liyah was used to; meeting a crown prince was not.

      However, her brain finally came back online and she managed to curl her right hand over her left fist and press them over her left breast. Bowing her head, she leaned slightly forward in a modified bow. “Emir. It is my pleasure to serve you and your companions.”

      * * *

      Sayed had a wholly unacceptable and unprecedented reaction to the lovely chambermaid’s words and actions.

      His sex stirred, images of exactly how he would like her to serve him flashing through his mind in an erotic slide show of fantasies he was not aware of even having.

      The rose wash over her cheeks and vulnerable, almost hungry expression in her green eyes told him those desires could be met, increasing his unexpected viscerally sexual reaction tenfold. Hidden by the fall of his abaya, his rapidly engorging flesh ached with unfamiliar need.

      Sayed’s status as a soon-to-be-married man, not to mention melech of his country, dictated he push the images aside and ignore his body’s physical response, however. No matter how difficult he found doing so.

      “Thank you, Miss Amari,” Sayed said, his tone imperious by necessity to hide his reaction to her. He indicated the woman assigned to tend his domestic needs. “This is Abdullah-Hasiba. She will let you know of any requirements we may have. Should you have any questions, they can be taken directly to her, as well.”

      Miss Amari’s beautiful green gaze chilled and her full lips firmed slightly, but nothing else in her demeanor indicated a reaction to his clear dismissal.

      “Thank you, Your Highness.” Dipping her head again in the tradition of his people, she then turned to his servant. “I look forward to working with you Miz Abdullah-Hasiba.”

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