The Sheikh's Undoing. Sharon Kendrick

wanted honesty, yes—but he also demanded deference, as and when it suited him.

      He was fair, but he was also a powerful sheikh who had untold wealth at his fingertips—so he could also be highly unreasonable, too.

      And he was sexy. As sexy as any man was ever likely to be. Everyone said so—even Isobel’s more feminist friends, who disapproved of him. But Isobel’s strength was that she simply refused to see it. After that meeting in the library she had trained herself to be immune to his appeal as if she was training for a marathon. Even if she considered herself to be in his league—which she didn’t—she still wouldn’t have been foolish enough to fancy him.

      Because men like Tariq were trouble—too aware of their power over the opposite sex and not afraid to use it. She’d watched as women who fell in love with him were discarded once he’d tired of them. And she knew from her own background how lives could be ruined if passion was allowed to rule the roost. Hadn’t her mother bitterly regretted falling for a charmer like Tariq? Telling her that the brief liaison had affected her whole life?

      No, he was definitely not on Isobel’s wish-list of men. His strong, muscular body and hard, hawkish features didn’t fill her with longing, but with an instinctive wariness which had always served her well.

      Because she wouldn’t have lasted five minutes—let alone five years—if she had lost her heart to the Sheikh.

      She steered the car up a narrow lane and came to a halt outside her beloved little cottage. The March sunshine was clear and pale, illuminating the purple, white and yellow crocuses which were pushing through the earth. She loved this time of year, with all its new beginnings and endless possibilities. Opening the car door a fraction, she could hear birds tweeting their jubilant celebration of springtime—but still Tariq didn’t stir.

      She turned to look at him—at the ebony arcs of his feathered lashes which were the only soft component to make up his formidable face. She had never seen him asleep before, and it was like looking at a very different man. The hard planes and angles of his features threw shadows over his olive skin, and for once his sensual lips were relaxed. Once again she saw an unfamiliar trace of vulnerability etched on his features, and once again she felt that little stab of awareness at her heart.

      He was so still, she thought wonderingly. Remarkably still for a man who rarely stopped. Who drove himself remorselessly in the way that successful men always did. Why, it seemed almost a shame to wake him … and to have him face the reality of his convalescence in her humble home.

      Racking her brain, she thought back to how she’d left the place last weekend, and realised that there was no fresh food or milk. Stuff she would normally have brought down with her from London.

      Reaching out her hand, she touched his shoulder lightly—but his eyelashes moved instantly, the black eyes suspicious and alert as they snapped open.

      For a moment Tariq stayed perfectly still, his memory filtering back in jigsaw pieces. What was he doing sitting in an uncomfortably cramped and strange car, while Izzy frowned down at him, her breathing slightly quickened and her amber eyes dark with concern?

      And then he remembered. She had offered to play nursemaid for the next week—just not the kind of nursemaid which would have been his preference. His mouth hardened as he dispelled an instant fantasy of a woman with creamy curves busting out of a little uniform which ill concealed the black silk stockings beneath. Because Isobel was not that woman. And under the circumstances wasn’t that best?

      ‘We’re here!’ said Isobel brightly, even though her heart had inexplicably started thudding at some dangerous and unknown quality she’d read in his black eyes. ‘Welcome to my home.’