Desert Jewels. Annie West

Чтение книги онлайн.

      SHARON KENDRICK started storytelling at the age of eleven and has never really stopped. She likes to write fast-paced, feel-good romances with heroes who are so sexy they’ll make your toes curl! Born in west London, she now lives in the beautiful city of Winchester—where she can see the cathedral from her window (but only if she stands on tiptoe). She has two children, Celia and Patrick, and her passions include music, books, cooking and eating—and drifting off into wonderful day-dreams while she works out new plots!

      Visit Sharon at www.sharonkendrick.com.

CHAPTER ONE

      THE sound of the telephone woke her, but Isobel didn’t need to see the name flashing on the screen to know who was ringing. Who else would call her at this time of night but the man who thought he had the right to do pretty much whatever he wanted? And frequently did.

      Tariq, the so-called ‘Playboy Prince’. Or Prince Tariq Kadar al Hakam, Sheikh of Khayarzah—to give him his full and rather impressive title. And the boss if not exactly from hell then certainly from some equally dark and complicated place.

      She glanced at the clock. Four in the morning was early even by his standards. Yawning, she picked up the phone, wondering what the hell he had been up to this time.

      Had some new story about him emerged, as it so often did, sparked by gossip about his latest audacious takeover bid? Or had he simply got himself tied up with a new blonde—they were always blonde—and wanted Isobel to juggle his early morning meetings for him? Would he walk into the office later on with yesterday’s growth darkening his strong jaw and a smug smile curving the edges of his sensual lips? And the scent of someone’s perfume still lingering on his skin…

      It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened, that was for sure. With a frown, Isobel recalled some of his more famous sexual conquests, before reminding herself that she was employed as his personal assistant—not his moral guardian.

      Friends sometimes asked whether she ever tired of having a boss who demanded so much of her. Or whether she was tempted to tell him exactly what she thought of his outrageously chauvinistic behaviour—and the answer was yes. Sometimes. But the generous amount of money he paid her soon put a stop to her disapproval. Because money like that provided security—the kind of security which you could never get from another person. Isobel knew that better than anyone. Hadn’t her mother taught her that the most important lesson a woman could learn was to be completely independent of men? Men could just walk away whenever they wanted…and because they could, they frequently did.

      She answered the call. ‘Hello?’

      ‘I-Isobel?’

      Her senses were instantly alerted when she heard the deep voice of her employer—because there was something very different about it. Either he was in some kind of post-coital daze or something was wrong. Because he sounded…weird.

      She’d never heard Tariq hesitate before. Never heard him as anything other than the confident and charismatic Prince—the darling of London’s casinos and international gossip columns. The man most women couldn’t resist, even when—as seemed inevitable—he was destined to break their heart into tiny little pieces.

      ‘Tariq?’ Isobel’s voice took on a sudden note of urgency. ‘Is something wrong?’

      From amid a painful throbbing, which felt as if a thousand hammers were beating against his skull, Tariq registered the familiar voice of his assistant. His first brush with reality after what seemed like hours of chaos and confusion. Almost imperceptibly he let out a low sigh of relief as his lashes parted by a fraction. Izzy was his anchor. Izzy would sort this out for him. A ceiling swam into view, and quickly he shut his eyes against its harsh brightness.

      ‘Accident,’ he mumbled.

      ‘Accident?’ Isobel sat up in bed, her heart thundering as she heard the unmistakable twist of pain in his voice. ‘What kind of accident? Tariq, where are you? What’s happened?’

      ‘I…’

      ‘Tariq?’ Isobel could hear someone indignantly telling him that he shouldn’t be using his phone, and then a rustling noise before a woman’s voice came on the line.

      ‘Hello?’ the strange voice said. ‘Who is this, please?’

      Isobel felt fear begin to whisper over her as she recognised the sound of officialdom, and it took an almighty effort just to stop her voice from shaking. ‘M-my name is Isobel Mulholland and I work for Sheikh al Hakam—would you please tell me what’s going on?’

      There was a pause before the woman spoke again. ‘This is one of the staff nurses at the Accident and Emergency department of St Mark’s hospital in Chislehurst. I’m afraid that the Sheikh has been involved in a car crash—’

      ‘Is he okay?’ Isobel interrupted.

      ‘I’m afraid I can’t give out any more information at the moment.’

      Hearing inflexible resistance in the woman’s voice, Isobel swung her legs over the side of the bed. ‘I’m on my way,’ she said grimly, and cut the connection.

      Pulling on a pair of jeans, she grabbed the first warm sweater which came to hand and then, after shoving her still-bare feet into sheepskin boots, took the elevator down to the underground car park of her small London apartment.

      Thank heavens for sat-nav, she thought as she tapped in the name of the hospital and waited for a map to appear on the screen. She peered at it. It seemed that Chislehurst was on the edge of the Kent countryside—less than an hour from here, СКАЧАТЬ