‘Except for your brother,’ she concurred, remembering the brief conversation she’d had earlier that day with the ruler of Khayarzah. ‘I telephoned the palace and spoke to the King myself—told him that you’re on the mend but that you needed to recuperate. He wanted you flown to Khayarzah, but I said that you would be fine with me.’ She shot him a glance. ‘That was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?’
‘I suppose so,’ he answered moodily, but as usual she had done exactly the right thing. The last thing he needed was the formality of palace life—with all the strictures that came with it. He’d done his level best to escape from the attendant attention which came with being the brother of the King—a role which had been thrust on him when his brother had suddenly inherited the crown. A role which had threatened his freedom—something he had always guarded jealously. Because wasn’t his freedom the only good thing to have emerged from the terrible isolation of his childhood?
He fixed her with a cool and curious stare. ‘You seem to have it all worked out, Izzy.’
‘Well, that’s what you pay me for.’ She glanced in the driving mirror and let a speedy white van overtake them before starting to speak again. ‘Do you want to tell me what happened? About why one of the most careful drivers I know should crash his car?’
Tariq closed his eyes. Wasn’t it frustrating that a split-second decision could impact so dramatically on your life? If he hadn’t been beguiled by a pair of blue eyes and a dynamite body then he wouldn’t be facing the rather grim prospect of being stuck in some remote cottage with his assistant for a week.
‘I went for dinner with a woman,’ he said.
‘No—’ Isobel started to say something and then changed her mind, but Tariq seized on her swallowed words like a cat capturing a mouse.
His thick lashes parted by a fraction. ‘No what, Izzy?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Oh, but it does,’ he answered stubbornly.
‘I was about to say no change there. You having dinner with a woman is hardly remarkable, Tariq. Blonde, was she?’
‘Actually, she was.’ Reluctantly, his lips curved into a smile. Sometimes Izzy was so damned sharp he was surprised she didn’t cut herself. Maybe that was what less attractive women did—they made up for their shortcomings by developing a more sophisticated sense of humour. ‘But she wasn’t all she seemed to be.’
‘Not a transvestite, I hope?’
‘Very funny.’ But despite the smile which her flippant comment produced Tariq was irritated with himself. He had been stressed out, and had intended to relax by playing poker until the small hours. He hadn’t really been in the mood for any kind of liaison, or the effort of chatting someone up. But the woman had been very beautiful, and he’d found himself inviting her for a late dinner. And then she had started to question him. Wanting to know the kind of things which suggested that she might have done more than a little background research on him.
Tariq had some rules which were entirely his own.
He didn’t like being interrogated.
He didn’t trust people who knew too much about him.
And he never slept with a woman on a first date.
At heart, he was a deeply old-fashioned man, with plenty of contradictory values. For him sex had always been laughably easy—yet he didn’t respect a woman who let him too close, too soon. Especially as he had a very short attention span when it came to the opposite sex. He liked the slow burn of anticipation—to prolong the ache of desire until it became unbearable. So when the blonde had made it very clear that she was his for the taking—some primitive sense of prudery had reared its head. Who wanted something which was so easily obtained? With a jaded yawn, he had declined her offer and reached for his jacket.
And that was when the woman’s story had come blurting out. It seemed that it hadn’t been fate which had brought her into his life, but cunning and subterfuge.
‘She was a journalist,’ he bit out. He’d been so angry with himself because he hadn’t seen through her flimsy cover. Furious that he had fallen for one of the oldest tricks of all. He’d stormed out, wondering if he was losing his touch, and for those few seconds when his attention had wandered so had had his powerful sports car. ‘She wanted the inside story on the takeover bid,’ he finished.
Isobel shrugged as her little car took a bend in the road. ‘Well, if you will try and buy into the Premier League, what do you expect? You know the English are crazy about football—and it’s a really big deal if some power-hungry Sheikh adds a major team to his portfolio.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with being hungry for power, Izzy.’
‘Only if it becomes addictive,’ she countered.
‘You think I’m a power junkie?’
‘That’s not for me to say.’
His black eyes narrowed. ‘I notice you didn’t deny it, though.’
‘I’m glad you’re paying attention to what I say, Tariq.’
With a small click of irritation, he attempted, without much success, to stretch his legs. Some lurid looking air-freshener in the shape of a blue daisy hung from the driving mirror and danced infuriatingly in front of the windscreen. Other than the occasional childhood ride on a camel in his homeland, he could never remember enduring such an uncomfortable form of transport as this. Rather longingly, he thought about the dented bonnet of his smooth and gleaming sports car and wondered how long before it would be roadworthy again.
‘Is your cottage as cramped as your car?’ he demanded.
‘You don’t like my car?’
‘Not really. I don’t like second-hand cars which don’t go above fifty.’
‘Then why don’t you give me a pay rise?’ she suggested sweetly. ‘And I’ll buy myself a newer one.’
For a moment Tariq acknowledged the brief flicker of discord which made his pulse quicken. Wasn’t it strange how a little tension between a man and a woman could instantly begin to heat a man’s blood and make him start thinking of …
But the smile left his face as he realised that this was Izzy he was about to start fantasising about. Safe and sensible Izzy. The plain stalwart of his office—and the very last candidate for any erotic thoughts. So how was it that he suddenly found his attention riveted on a pair of slender thighs which were outlined with delectable precision beneath the blue of her denim skirt?
With an effort, he dragged his gaze away and settled back in the seat. ‘I pay you enough already—as well you know,’ he said. ‘How far is it?’
‘Far enough,’ said Isobel softly, ‘for you to close your eyes and sleep.’ And stop annoying me with your infuriating comments.
‘I’m not sleepy.’
‘Sure?’
‘Quite sure,’ he mumbled, but something in her voice was oddly soothing, so he found himself yawning—and seconds later he was fast asleep.
Isobel drove in a silence punctuated only by the low, steady sound of Tariq’s breathing. She tried to concentrate on her driving and on the new green buds which were pushing through the hedgerows—but it wasn’t easy. Her attention kept wandering and she felt oddly light-headed. She kept telling herself it was because her usual routine had been thrown out of kilter—and not because of the disturbing proximity of her boss.
But that wouldn’t have been true. Something had happened to her and she couldn’t work out what it was. Why should she suddenly start feeling self-conscious and peculiar in Tariq’s company? Why couldn’t she seem to stop her eyes from straying to the powerful shafts of his thighs and then drifting