The few photographs she’d seen of Sheikh Zane Ali Nawari Khan didn’t do him justice. High slashing cheekbones, a blade-like nose and his ruthlessly cropped hair were offset by a pair of brutally blue eyes, the colour of his irises the same true turquoise his mother had once been famous for.
He had clearly inherited all the best genes from both sides of his bloodline—his features a stunning combination of his father’s striking Arabic bone structure and his mother’s almost ethereal Caucasian beauty. In truth, his features would almost be too perfect, but for the scar on his chin—and a bump in the bridge of his nose, which marred the perfect symmetry.
Cat’s lungs contracted.
‘Hello, Dr Smith,’ he said in a deep cultured voice, his English still tinged with the lazy cadence of America’s West Coast. He unfolded his long frame from the chair and walked towards her—and she had the weirdest sensation of being stalked, like a gazelle who’d accidentally wandered into the lion enclosure at London Zoo. She struggled to get her breathing back under control before she passed out at his Gucci-clad feet.
‘My name is Zane Khan,’ he said, stopping only a smidgen outside her personal space.
‘I know who you are, Your Highness,’ she said breathlessly, far too aware of her height disadvantage.
He spoke again in that same clipped, urbane tone. ‘I don’t use the title outside Narabia.’
Blood rushed to her face and flooded past her eardrums. Then a dimple appeared in his left cheek, and her lungs seized again.
Oh, for Pete’s sake, a dimple? Isn’t he devastating enough already?
‘I’m sorry, Your High... I mean, Zane.’ Heat charged to her hairline when his lips quirked.
Oh. My. God. Cat. You did not just call the ruler of Narabia by his first name.
‘Sorry. I’m so sorry. I meant to say Mr Khan.’
She sucked in a fortifying breath and the refreshing scent of citrus soap, overlaid with the spicy hint of a clean cedarwood cologne, filled her nostrils. She shuffled back, and her bottom hit Walmsley’s desk.
He hadn’t moved any closer, but still she could feel that concentrated gaze on every inch of her exposed skin.
‘Are you here about my request for accreditation?’ she asked, feeling impossibly foolish.
Why on earth would he have come all this way, to see her, over something that could be sorted out by one of his minions in the Narabian embassy in London?
‘No, Dr Smith,’ he said. ‘I’m here to offer you a job.’
* * *
Zane had to resist the unprecedented urge to laugh when Catherine Smith’s hazel eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.
She hadn’t expected that. Then again, he hadn’t expected her. The only reason he’d come in person was because he already had a business meeting in Cambridge today with a tech firm who would be helping to bring superfast internet access to Narabia. And because he’d been furious once he’d received the reports from his tech people that someone at Devereaux College had been doing research on Narabia without his express permission.
He hadn’t bothered to read the file they’d emailed to him about the female academic who had asked for accreditation. He’d simply a
ssumed she would be frumpy and middle-aged.
The very last thing he’d expected was to be introduced to someone who couldn’t be much older than a high-school student, with eyes the colour of caramel candy. She looked like a tomboy, dressed in slim-fit jeans, a pair of biker boots and a shapeless sweater that nearly reached her knees. Her wild chestnut hair—barely contained by an elastic band—added to the impression of young, unconventional beauty. But it was her candy-coloured eyes that had really snagged his attention. Wide and slightly slanted, giving them a sleepy, just-out-of-bed quality, her eyes were striking, not least because they were so expressive, every one of her emotions clearly visible.
‘A job doing what?’ she said, her directness surprising him as she eased further back against her boss’s desk.
Looking past her, he directed his gaze at Walmsley. ‘Leave us,’ he said.
The middle-aged academic nodded and shuffled out of the room, well aware his department’s funding was at stake because of this woman’s research.
The woman’s eyes widened even more, and he could see the jump in her pulse rate above the neckline of her bulky sweater.
‘I require someone to write a detailed account of my country’s people, the history of its culture and customs to complete the process of introducing Narabia on the world stage. I understand you have considerable knowledge of the region?’
His PR people had suggested the hagiography. It was all part of the process of finally bringing Narabia out of the shadows and into the light. A process he’d embarked upon five years ago when his father had let go of his iron grip on the throne. It had taken Tariq Khan five years to die from the stroke that had left him a shadow of his former self, during which time Zane had managed to drag the country’s oil industry out of the dark ages, begin a series of infrastructure projects that would eventually bring electricity, water mains and even internet access to the country’s remote landscape. But there was still a very long way to go. And the last thing he needed was for any gossip to get out about his parents’ relationship and the difficult nature of his relationship with the man who had sired him. Because that would become the whole story.
He shrugged, the phantom pain searing his shoulder blades.