The Harlot And The Sheikh. Marguerite Kaye

her father. By the time she had finished, her mind was completely focused on the task in hand and not the distracting prince standing behind her watching her every move.

      * * *

      Later that day, with a weary sigh, Rafiq closed the weighty leather-bound tome that was the official Bharym Stud Book, carefully fastening the lock with the heavy gold key. There were now six yearlings overdue to be delivered to their carefully vetted owners. Though Jasim assured him that no mention of the plague had passed his lips, Rafiq knew it was only a matter of time before word got out.

      Only a matter of time too, until the sickness struck his stables again. Watching Stephanie at work this morning, any remaining doubts he had as to her claim to be Richard Darvill’s assistant had dissipated. His Head Groom, Fadil, had also initially been highly sceptical of her abilities. It had not taken her long to prove her mettle though, with her plethora of probing questions, her refusal to accept anything other than extremely detailed answers, and her complete confidence when faced with examining Basilisk, a strapping specimen of a stallion with every bit as lowly an opinion of females as Jasim.

      Rafiq smiled to himself. Naturally, he would remain cautious. Of course, it would be foolish to hope for too much. But there was hope. It had arrived in the delightful and distractingly desirable form of Stephanie Darvill. It was too early for her to have made any meaningful progress, he knew that, but he was anxious to hear her initial thoughts and, yes, there was no harm in admitting, he was eager to enjoy more of her company. These last months had been claustrophobic, exposure to company curtailed by necessity. What he needed was a fresh perspective and an escape, if only for a short interlude.

      Pausing to instruct a servant as to his specific requirements, Rafiq headed for the stables. Stephanie was sitting on a bench in the inner courtyard, shaded by the balcony on the floor above, watching the constant stream of horses being led in and out for exercise in the relative cool of the late afternoon. Her hair had obviously escaped from its pins at some point in the day, and was now carelessly tied back, though the usual tress had escaped to fall over her brow. It was a lighter shade than the rest, almost golden. Her skin in the bright sunlight seemed more olive, though her cheeks were flushed. She wore the same skirt that she had arrived in. Practical perhaps, but it was far too heavy for these conditions, and though her white top looked to be cotton, it was tightly fitted from neck to wrist. No wonder she looked like a wilting flower in dire need of water.