Back foot?
Forget that, Britt concluded as the imposing figure standing silhouetted against the light by the window turned to face her. The man was dressed conventionally in a dark, beautifully tailored business suit, when somehow she had imagined her visitor would be wearing flowing robes. This man needed no props to appear exotic. His proud, dark face, the thick black hair, which he wore carelessly swept back, and his watchful eyes were all the exotic ingredients required to complete a stunning picture. Far from the bristly nerd, he was heart-stoppingly good-looking, and it took all she’d got to keep her feet marching steadily across the room towards him.
‘Ms Skavanga?’
The deep, faintly accented voice ran shivers through every part of her. It was the voice of a master, a lover, a man who expected nothing less than to be obeyed.
Oh, get over it, Britt told herself impatiently. It was the voice of a man and he was tall, dark and handsome. So what? She had a company to run.
‘Britt Skavanga,’ she said firmly, advancing to meet him with her hand outstretched. ‘I’m sorry, you have me at a disadvantage,’ she added, explaining that all she had been told was that His Majesty Sheikh Sharif al Kareshi would be sending his most trusted aide.
‘For these preliminary discussions that is correct,’ he said, taking hold of her hand in a grip that was controlled yet deadly.
His touch stunned her. It might have been disappointingly brief, but it was as if it held some electrical charge that shot fire through her veins.
She wanted him.
Just like that she wanted him?
She was a highly sexed woman, but she had never experienced such an instant, strong attraction to any man before.
‘So,’ she said, lifting her chin as she made a determined effort to pitch her voice at a level suitable for the importance of the business to be carried out between them, ‘what may I call you?’
‘Emir,’ he replied, more aloof than ever.
‘Just Emir?’ she said.
‘It’s enough.’ He shrugged, discarding her wild fantasy about him at a stroke.
‘Shall we make a start?’ He looked her up and down with all the cool detachment of a buyer weighing up a mare brought to market. ‘Have you had some sort of accident, Ms Skavanga?’
‘Please, call me Britt.’ She had completely forgotten about the tyre until he brought it up, and now all she could think was what a wreck she must look. She clearly wasn’t making an impression as an on-top-of-things businesswoman, that was for sure.
‘Would you like to take a moment?’ Emir enquired as she smoothed her hair self-consciously.
‘No, thank you,’ she said, matching his cool. She wasn’t about to hand over the initiative this early in the game. ‘I’ve kept you waiting long enough. A tyre blew on my way to the office,’ she explained.
‘And you changed it?’
She frowned. ‘Why wouldn’t I? I didn’t want to waste time changing my clothes.’
‘Thank you for the consideration.’ Emir dipped his head in a small bow, allowing her to admire his thick, wavy hair, though his ironic expression suggested that Emir believed a woman’s place was somewhere fragrant and sheltered where she could bake and quake until her hunter returned.
Was he married?
She glanced at his ring-free hands, and remembered to thank him when he pulled out a chair. She couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. She was used to fending for herself, though it was nice to meet a gentleman, even if she suspected that beneath his velvet charm Emir was ruthless and would use every setback she experienced to his advantage.
No problem. She wasn’t about to give him an inch.
‘Please,’ she said, indicating a place that put the wide expanse of the boardroom table between them.
He had the grace of a big cat, she registered as he sat down. Emir was dark and mysterious compared to the blond giants in Skavanga she was used to. He was big and exuded power like some soft-pawed predator.
She had to be on guard at all times or he would win this game before she even knew it had been lost. Business was all that mattered now—though it was hard to concentrate when the flow of energy between them had grown.
Chemistry, she mused. And no wonder when Emir radiated danger. The dark business suit moulded his athletic frame to perfection, while the crisp white shirt set off his bronzed skin, and a grey silk tie provided a reassuring sober touch—to those who might be fooled. She wasn’t one of them. Emir might as well have been dressed in flowing robes with an unsheathed scimitar at his side, for seductive exoticism flowed from him.