Everything depended on him signing the contract. If he turned her away before giving her a chance, she’d never forgive herself.
Despite what he thought, Rosannawasprofessional.
More to the point, she had to make this work for Marian, who’d supported her since she’d arrived in England, heartsore and distressed. Marian was relying on her now and Rosanna couldn’t let her down.
Even if there was still a tiny part of Rosanna that recoiled from the idea of Salim being with another woman.
How crazy was that? It was herjobto match him with the perfect wife.
She didn’t know him, not really. Didn’t even have the right to call him anything other than Your Majesty.
He didn’t want her. He’d made that clear.
She told herself she felt unsettled only because of the peculiar circumstances. She was still adjusting to the reality of who he was. And to the self-knowledge he had forced on her in Scotland. That there was a side to herself she hadn’t known. A live-for-the-moment hedonist willing to find bliss with a total stranger.
Rosanna firmed her lips and forced her mind back to her research this morning. She’d gleaned all she could about Salim and Dhalkur.
But while there was a lot written about the country and the previous sheikh, Salim had managed for the most part to keep under the radar of the world’s press. Even though he’d spent a good part of the last couple of years overseas, she found no photos of him socialising. No paparazzi shots of him partying. Just the occasional mention in financial circles of him pursuing business interests in a number of quarters.
As if his behaviour in Scotland wasn’t the norm for him either.
Wishful thinking, she chided herself. Just because he wasn’t seen flaunting a series of lovers didn’t mean he was into sexual abstinence.
He doesn’t kiss like a man who’s celibate.
Rosanna frowned. She shouldn’t be thinking of her client like that. Not when it made her feel hot and bothered.
The trouble was, she found it difficult to think of Salim as her client.
Even last night when he’d made it clear this wasn’t some outlandish scheme to spend time with her, she’d found it hard to get beyond remembering the pair of them together. The magnificent, hard heat of his tall frame, the softness of his lips, the knowing, coaxing, breath-stealing rightness of his kiss.
The footman knocked on a door, opened it and suddenly here she was again, entering the gracious, book-lined study.
Once more Salim sat at his desk. This time he didn’t wear a western suit but a long robe and head scarf that she knew was called akeffiyah. It was a reminder that he was a sheikh who ruled a realm that was totally foreign to her.
The man she’d thought she’d known didn’t exist. He’d been an illusion.
The story of her life, twice now drawn to men who weren’t at all what she’d thought.
Yet her gaze lingered on the hard, beautiful lines of his face. His olive skin seemed darker against the stark white clothes, his spare features so compelling she found it impossible not to stare.
Abruptly he looked up from the papers before him. His eyes pinioned hers and heat fizzed in her blood.
Just like that.
With no more than a look.
Despite her stern lectures not to fantasise about him any more. Despite her determination to cut free of the madness she’d felt on that one, solitary night.
Feeling that stirring in her blood, knowing it for weakness, evoked a deep-seated anger. At herself. And at this man who, however unwittingly, still dazzled her into unwary, unwanted thoughts.
Setting her jaw, still holding his gaze, Rosanna sank into a deep curtsey.
The door closed on the footman as Rosanna MacIain caught his gaze and a frisson of awareness feathered his nape. And backbone. And belly.
Salim set his jaw as she dipped into a curtsey so low it spoke of utter obeisance. Except her bright eyes belied that, glittering and steely as they held his.
It was provocation of the purest kind and something in him—the part that wasn’t a sensible, busy ruler trying to focus on the wellbeing of his people—leapt in response.