The girl on the dock. Of course!
‘Your Majesty!’
She seemed equally surprised, and for a few moments they just stared at each other. Her long, honey-gold hair was still damp from the rain where her oilskins had failed to protect her. Bundled up loosely on top of her head, the messy arrangement boasted an unusual ornament in the shape of a pencil, which she’d just stabbed into it as she catapulted away from the dressing table to stand in front of him, in what he guessed was the best expression of innocence she could muster. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Writing you a note,’ she said with the frankness he remembered from all those years ago. ‘I suppose I don’t have to now,’ she added.
‘A note?’ he queried.
‘A request to meet with you—to talk,’ she explained.
The bright blue eyes were completely steady on his. Her gaze was as direct as ever.
‘Hello, by the way,’ she added, as if finally realising that this meeting was a bombshell for both of them.
‘Do you generally wear a pencil in your hair?’ he asked as her cheeks blazed red.
‘It’s useful for writing notes on how to fix boilers,’ she said.
He waved away the guard and steward as they entered the room to see what all the fuss was about. ‘Welcome on board the Sapphire, Miss Dillinger.’
Her look said clearly, I’m not a guest, and if it hadn’t been for these wretched sheets, I wouldn’t be here at all.
* * *
Electricity didn’t just crackle in the air, it was bouncing back and forth between them. She was so shocked at seeing Sheikh Khalid again, and in flowing robes that made him look more intimidating than ever, she couldn’t think straight. What annoyed her most of all was the fact that he’d thrown her to the point where she was quivering like a doe on heat, rather than standing her ground in front of him like a hard-working professional.
It was time to get real. This was not the tough guy in jeans who invaded her dreams most nights, but an all-powerful king in whose water-borne kingdom she was currently—well, if not a prisoner, at the very least, vulnerable, which was not a condition she ever flirted with. No one could call his brutal attraction charm. However divinely warm, clean and sexy the Sheikh might appear, he was in reality a granite-faced titan without a single decent bone in his body. He’d turned a blind eye when she’d begged him for help. So whatever her body thought of his blistering masculinity, Millie Dillinger remained unimpressed.
But...
Calm down and think. This was almost certainly the only chance she’d ever get to ask him about that night. Being as different from the women he must be used to as it was possible to be, with her no-make-up face and her long hair piled carelessly on top of her head—not to mention the pencil garnish—she doubted she was in any immediate danger.
‘When will you have finished your work?’ he asked with an edge of impatience, confirming her conclusion that she was not his ravishment of choice.
‘I have finished, Your Majesty. Please call the laundry if you need anything more.’
‘I’ll be sure to tell my housekeeper what you advise,’ he commented with withering amusement.
Fortunately, she’d always been able to take a joke, though the thought that he might have a sense of humour only made it worse. If he was actually human, how had he allowed her mother to die? Whatever he’d done or not done on that night, it had changed the course of Millie’s life, and had tragically ended her mother’s. She had to dip her head so he couldn’t see her angry eyes.
They came from different worlds, Millie concluded. In her world, people were answerable for their actions, but in his, not so much.
* * *
This was no milksop princess with a desire to please him, Khalid concluded, but a very angry woman, who was different and intriguing. She made him want to fist that thick gold hair and draw back her head so he could taste her neck. The girlish figure was long gone and had been replaced by curves in all the right places. Her features were pale from lack of sun, but her complexion was flawless. ‘We will talk,’ he promised as his senses sharpened. ‘And sooner rather than later.’
‘We must,’ she returned fiercely, clenching her fists, which were held stiffly at her side.
She’d had years to ponder what had happened that night, so her anger was excusable. The death of her mother was bad enough, but believing he was involved in some sort of cover-up must be a festering wound. It was a reasonable supposition, he conceded.
‘It must have been hard for you to return to the Sapphire.’
‘Ghosts?’ she suggested with a level look.
‘Memories,’ he countered.
‘Life goes on,’ she said flatly.
‘As it must,’ he agreed.
‘Forgive me, Your Majesty, but if you don’t have time to meet with me now, I have work to do on shore.’
She was dismissing him? he wondered with amusement.
‘We’re very busy at the laundry,’ she excused, no doubt realising she had overstepped the mark.
On the contrary, he thought her a breath of fresh air. It would be all too easy for him to slip into the belief that because everyone else bowed the knee, Millie Dillinger would, or that other people’s deference made him special in some way. A dose of Millie medicine was exactly what he needed. ‘I will see you in my study in ten minutes’ time.’
She seemed surprised and didn’t answer right away. ‘My time is also valuable, Ms Dillinger. My guard will escort you,’ he explained, ‘and my PA will call the laundry to explain your delay.’
‘But—’
‘Miss Francine is an intelligent woman,’ he interrupted. ‘She’ll understand.’
Millie’s frown deepened.
‘Ten minutes,’ he repeated before he left the room.
* * *
Millie wasn’t sure she had breathed properly for the entirety of that interview. Sheikh Khalid was so much more than she remembered. She needed a big, wide space, and absolute silence to get used to it. And the guard didn’t give her any time. He quick-marched her out of the sumptuous suite, and didn’t pause until they stood in front of an impressive gleaming teak door. The entrance to the hawk’s eyrie, Millie presumed. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she sucked in a deep, steadying breath, and prepared for round two.
At some silent signal, the guard deemed it appropriate to open the door. Standing back, he allowed her to enter. Sheikh Khalid was seated at the far end of his study behind a sleek modern desk where he appeared to be signing some documents. He didn’t look up as she walked in. The scratch of his pen was a stark reminder that this was his territory, his kingdom, where things ran to his schedule, and she would have to wait until His Majesty was ready to receive her.
Forget pride. Any opportunity to interview a potential witness from that night had to be seized. She glanced around with interest. Order predominated. There was no clutter, no family photographs to soften the ambience—a fact that filled her with unreasonable relief—there was just a bank of tech and the desk piled high with official-looking documents.
Shouldn’t he invite her to sit?
This might be the private space of a very private man, but Sheikh Khalid had invited her to come here. What about the so-called