‘And when would have been a more convenient time?’ he retorted. ‘When you have consistently refused to be pinned down?’
‘Most people would have taken the hint and cut their losses.’
‘I am a king. I don’t do hints’ came his stony response.
Livvy hesitated. His behaviour confirmed everything she’d ever heard about him. He had been known for his arrogance on the racing circuit—seemingly with good reason—and she was so tempted to tell him to go. But she was running a business—even if it was currently a struggling business—and if she angered Saladin Al Mektala any more than he was already clearly angered, he might just spread a malicious word or two around the place. She could imagine it would be easy for someone like him to drip a little more poison onto her already damaged reputation. And adverse publicity could be death if you worked in the hospitality industry.
Behind him, she could see the falling snow, which had been coming down in bucketloads since before breakfast. Fat flakes were tumbling past like a never-ending slide show. Lawns that earlier had been merely spattered with the stuff now sported a thick white mantle—as if someone had been layering on cotton wool while she hadn’t been looking. If it carried on like this, the lanes would soon be impassable and she’d never get rid of him. And she wanted to get rid of him. She didn’t like him dominating her doorway and exuding all that testosterone and making her think about stuff she hadn’t thought about in a long time. She didn’t like the way he made her feel.
Farther up the drive stood a black four-wheel drive and she wondered if anyone was sitting shivering inside.
‘What about your bodyguards—are they in the car?’ Her gaze swept around the wintry garden. ‘Hiding in the bushes, perhaps—or waiting to jump from a tree?’
‘I don’t have any bodyguards with me.’
So they were all alone.
Livvy’s anxiety increased. Something about his powerful body and brooding features was making her skin prickle with a weird kind of foreboding—and an even more alarming sense of anticipation. For the first time she found herself wishing that she had a dog who would bark at him, rather than a soppy feline mop called Peppa, who was currently stretched out in front of the fire in the drawing room, purring happily.
But she wasn’t going to allow this man to intimidate her. And if she wasn’t intimidated, then it followed that she shouldn’t keep avoiding a meeting with him. Maybe this was the only way he would understand that she meant what she said. If she kept repeating that she wasn’t interested in whatever he was offering, then surely he would have no choice other than to believe her. And to leave her alone.
‘You’d better come in,’ she said as an icy gust brought a flurry of snow into the hall. ‘I can give you thirty minutes but no longer. I’m expecting guests for Christmas and I have a lot to do before they arrive.’
She saw his faintly triumphant smile as he stepped inside and noticed how the elegant proportions of the airy entrance hall seemed to shrink once she had closed the front door on the snowy afternoon. There was something so intensely masculine about him, she thought reluctantly. Something that was both exciting and dangerous—and she forced herself to take a deep breath in an attempt to slow the sudden galloping of her heart. Act as if he’s a guest, she told herself. Put on your best, bright smile and switch on your professional hospitality mode.
‘Why don’t you come into the drawing room?’ she suggested politely. ‘There’s a fire there.’
He nodded and she saw his narrowed gaze take in the high ceilings and the elaborate wooden staircase as he followed her across the hallway. ‘This is a beautiful old house,’ he observed, a note of approval deepening his voice.
‘Thank you,’ she said, automatically slipping into her role as guide. ‘Parts of it date back to the twelfth century. They certainly don’t build them like this anymore—perhaps that’s a good thing, considering the amount of maintenance that’s needed.’ The building’s history was one of the reasons why people travelled to this out-of-the-way spot to hire a room. Because the past defined the present and people hungered after the idea of an elegant past. Or at least, they had—until the rise of several nearby boutique hotels had started offering the kind of competition that was seriously affecting her turnover.
But Livvy couldn’t deny her thrill of pleasure as the sheikh walked into the drawing room, because she was proud of her old family home, despite the fact that it had started to look a little frayed around the edges.
The big fire was banked with apple logs, which scented the air, and although the huge Christmas tree was still bare there weren’t many rooms that could accommodate a tree of that size. At some point later she would have to drag herself up to the dusty attic and haul down the decorations, which had been in the family since the year dot, and go through the ritual of bringing the tree to life. Soon it would be covered in spangles and fairy lights and topped with the ancient little angel she’d once made with her mother. And for a while, Christmas would work its brief and sometimes unbearable magic of merging past and present.
She looked up to find Saladin Al Mektala studying her intently and, once again, a shiver of something inexplicable made her nostalgic sentiments dissolve as she began to study him right back.
He wasn’t dressed like a sheikh. There were no flowing robes or billowing headdress to indicate his desert king status. The dark cashmere overcoat that he was removing—without having been invited to—was worn over dark trousers and a charcoal sweater that hugged his honed torso. He looked disturbingly modern, she thought—even if the flinty glint of his dark eyes made him seem disturbingly primitive. She watched as he hung the cashmere coat over the back of a chair and saw the gleam of melted snow on his black hair as he stepped a little closer to the fire.
‘So,’ she said. ‘You must want something very badly if you’re prepared to travel to the wilds of Derbyshire in order to get it.’
‘Oh, but I do,’ he said silkily. ‘I want you.’
Something in his sultry tone kick-started feelings Livvy had repressed for longer than she cared to remember and for a split second, she found herself imagining what it would feel like to be the object of desire to a man like Saladin Al Mektala. Would those flinty eyes soften before he kissed you? Would a woman feel helpless if she was being held in arms as powerful as his?
She swallowed, surprised by the unexpected path her thoughts had taken her down because she didn’t fall in lust with total strangers. Actually, she didn’t fall in lust at all. She quickly justified her wayward fantasy by reminding herself that he was being deliberately provocative and had made that statement in such a way—as if he was seeking to shock her. ‘You’ll have to be a little more specific than that,’ she said crisply. ‘What do you want me to do?’
His face changed as the provocation left it and she saw a shadow pass over the hawklike features. ‘I have a sick horse,’ he said, his voice tightening. ‘A badly injured stallion. My favourite.’
His distress affected her—how could it fail to do so? But Livvy hardened her heart to his problems, because didn’t she have enough of her own? ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said. ‘But as a king of considerable wealth, no doubt you have the best veterinary surgeons at your disposal. I’m sure they’ll be able to work out some plan of action for your injured horse.’
‘They say not.’
‘Really?’ Linking her fingers together, she looked up at him. ‘What exactly is the problem?’
‘A suspensory ligament,’ he said, ‘which has torn away from the bone.’
Livvy winced. ‘That’s bad.’