‘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 politeness of Princes? She’d explained that she was busy too. Ten minutes, he’d said. Did he time-keep to the second? That wasn’t a bad thing, Millie counselled herself, because if Sheikh Khalid was so meticulous, he could hardly deny what he remembered of that night.
‘My apologies,’ he said at last, straightening up to fix her with his hawk-like stare. ‘Millie,’ he added softly.
His husky tone could have been a caress to her senses if she hadn’t ruthlessly banished such nonsense in her thinking. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘We meet again.’
One ebony brow quirked, challenging her resistance to his blistering appeal. Their stares only had to connect for her body to respond with enthusiasm. Determinedly, she took an objective view. This study, this impersonal workspace, was deceiving. Designed to keep visitors at bay. She wasn’t fooled. This was no cold, remote man who chose not to reveal his inner self, but a smouldering volcano, who surrounded himself with a sea of ice.
‘You’ve been patient,’ he commented with monumental understatement.
‘For eight years,’ she agreed.
They both knew that wasn’t what he’d meant, and as they stared at each other across the desk she thought they were like two combatants facing each other across a ring.
‘ARE YOU SURE you wouldn’t like to sit down?’ the man she knew so well, and yet not at all, invited.
Sitting so he could tower over her was the last thing she wanted to do. ‘If you’re standing, I’m standing too,’ she said as he left the desk. This seemed to amuse him. And he still towered over her. So be it. She had no intention of allowing His Majesty to win every point, even if her pulse was racing out of control.
‘Forgive me for keeping you,’ he added with a penetrating look. ‘I have a lot of work.’
‘So I see,’ she replied calmly.
He studied her face. She studied him. Anything to take her mind off those mesmerising and all-seeing eyes. His headdress was called a keffiyeh. It moved fluidly as he moved, before falling back into place. She could try to be as objective as she liked, but when he angled his stubble-shaded chin to stare down at her, the lure of those eyes was irresistible, and as much as she wanted to hate him, the woman inside her wanted him more.
‘And now I’m all yours,’ he declared with the faintest of smiles.
She doubted that, and, for the sake of retaining her sanity, returned to studying his stylish robes. The keffiyeh was held in place by a rope-like agal made of tightly plaited gold thread that gave it the appearance of a crown. It could barely contain his wild hair, which was just as thick and black as she remembered, both from that night long ago, and from her forbidden dreams, when she had often run her fingers through those springing waves. Each time she woke when that happened, she was consumed by guilt.
How could she consider touching a member of the despised Khalifa family?
Just the thought made her angry. Yet here she was, standing in front of this same man with her body yearning for his touch.
‘I don’t have much time, Ms Dillinger,’ he informed her sharply.
‘And neither do I,’ she replied, lifting her chin.
Calm. She must remain calm, Millie thought as his eyes drilled into hers. After Saif’s profligate reign, she could understand that Sheikh Khalid was in a race against time to both put things right, and keep things right in his country. But that didn’t mean she had to cut him too much slack.
‘It’s been a long time, Millie,’ he said as if they were the best of friends. Of course, he had no reason to resent her. She’d kept out of his life, and got on with her own. ‘You’ve done well,’ he remarked. ‘Engineering, isn’t it?’
That shocked her. How much did he know about her?
The Sheikh of Khalifa would make it his business to know everything about the people he encountered, she reasoned. ‘Marine engineering,’ she confirmed in a tone that didn’t invite further questions.
‘You haven’t strayed far from King’s Dock.’
‘Why would I?’ snapped out of her before she had worked out whether he was stating a fact or asking a question. Either way, how and where she lived was none of his business. ‘I owe Miss Francine a debt of gratitude I can never hope to repay. And I love her,’ she added with some challenge in her tone.
Instead of taking offence, something mellowed in the Sheikh’s eyes and, turning, he asked, ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Yes, please.’ She hadn’t realised how dry her throat had become, and was half expecting him to suggest she get it herself, or, failing that,