Wasit a coincidence?
For a second he pondered the possibility she’d inveigled her way here under false pretences, then dismissed it. She’d never have got past his eagle-eyed staff.
‘Good evening, Ms MacIain.’ He took his time over her name, letting his tongue linger over the syllables as he watched her reaction.
There. He’d been right. Behind the shock, a blast of heat in those bright pewter eyes.
Intriguing how much he liked having that effect on her. Perhaps because his reaction to her that first night had been unprecedented. He’d attended Alistair’s party to finalise a commercial deal. Not to be seduced by a temptress with silvery eyes and an allure he felt like a runnel of molten metal pouring through his veins.
Salim sat back and gestured her forward. ‘You intrigue me. Who were you expecting to find in the sheikh’s private study, if not me?’
She stepped closer, not with the easy poise he recalled from the party, nor the grace of her curtsey, but with short, staccato steps as if she didn’t trust her balance.
‘You’re the Sheikh of Dhalkur? Really?’
Salim frowned. She had to ask? It didn’t say much for her professionalism.
‘YouareMs Rosanna MacIain, representing Ms Marian Best of London?’
He’d had his doubts about this project since it was mooted by his advisors. But in the circumstances it seemed the easiest way of dealing with at least one pressing obligation, giving him time to concentrate on the others.
‘Yes. Yes, I am.’ She stopped before his desk and straightened her shoulders, her hands disappearing behind her back as she stood to attention.
‘Then I’d expect you to know who your client is.’ Salim shoved his chair back and rose. ‘Is this a joke?’
Hiring a matchmaker was incredibly old-fashioned, even for Dhalkur. How did he know she hadn’t come here under false pretences? He’d had experience of women finding innovative ways to invade his personal space.
Yet from the horrified look on her face, that wasn’t likely. Besides, Alastair had given the company a glowing reference and so had the staff who had checked its suitability.
The firm was renowned for its phenomenal success rate and discretion. If word spread that he was actively seeking a wife, half of Dhalkur’s aristocratic families would push forward their daughters and the other half would argue their merits—a sure recipe for dissension.
‘I apologise... Your Majesty.’
Salim felt that breathy catch in her voice as she said his title. It was like the brush of phantom fingertips across bare skin. Like the glide of her fingers tracing his cheek and jaw, then sliding down his neck to the place where his throat tightened. He frowned, surprised to find his imagination so wayward, his response toherso strong.
‘It’s entirely my fault,’ she said, shuffling her feet wider and lifting her chin. ‘The circumstances that prevented Ms Best coming in person meant I was briefed at the very last moment. I spent the flight reviewing potential candidates and not—’
‘Researching your employer.’
She inclined her head.
Salim frowned. ‘It’s not an auspicious start.’ He raised a hand when she opened her mouth to interrupt. ‘I expect the best service. Discreet. Professional. Exceptional.’
‘And you’ll have it. Believe me, Your Majesty, we are committed one hundred percent to meeting your requirements, whatever you desire.’
A tingle of static sparked at his nape and raced down his backbone.
Whatever you desire.
It reminded him forcefully of what he’d desired the night they met. A desire that was unsatisfied because of the urgent news that had come out of Dhalkur, making an immediate return home necessary.
Why had Rosanna MacIain chosen that particular word?
Was it a Freudian slip? Proof that she too still felt the attraction between them?
But a king didn’t dally with the hired help.
He could imagine his stern father rolling over in his grave at the thought. Those old-fashioned elders who bayed at Salim to take a bride and secure the succession would be horrified. Not at their sheikh feeling lust. But at him prioritising a foreign mistress over finding a suitable queen as soon as possible.