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.’
‘I know it’s bad,’ he gritted out. ‘Why the hell do you think I’m here?’
She decided to ignore his rudeness. ‘There are revolutionary new treatments out there today,’ she said placatingly. ‘You can inject stem cells, or you could try shockwave treatment. I’ve heard that’s very good.’
‘You think I haven’t already tried everything? That I haven’t flown out every equine expert to examine him?’ he demanded. ‘And yet everything has failed. The finest specialists in the world have pronounced themselves at a loss.’ There was a pause as he swallowed and his voice became dark and distorted as he spoke. ‘They have told me there is no hope.’
For a moment, Livvy felt a deep sense of pity because she knew how powerful the bond between a man and his horse could be—especially a man whose exalted position meant that he could probably put more trust in animals than in humans. But she also knew that sometimes you had to accept things as they were and not as you wanted them to be. That you couldn’t defeat nature, no matter how much you tried. And that all the money in the world would make no difference to the outcome.
She saw the steely glint in his dark eyes as he looked at her and recognised it as the look of someone who wasn’t intending to give up. Was this what being a king did to a man—made you believe you could shape the world to your own wishes? She sighed. ‘Like I said, I’m very sorry to hear that. But if you’ve been told there’s no hope, then I don’t know how you expect me to help.’
‘Yes, you do, Livvy,’ he said forcefully. ‘You know you do.’
His fervent words challenged her nearly as much as his sudden use of his name.
‘No. I don’t.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t have anything to do with horses anymore. I haven’t done for years. That part of my life is over, and if anyone has told you anything different, then they’re wrong. I’m sorry.’
There was a pause. ‘May I sit down?’
His words startled her as he indicated one of the faded brocade chairs that sat beside the blazing fire—and his sudden change of tactic took her by surprise. And not just surprise. Because if she was being honest, wasn’t there something awfully flattering about a sheikh asking if he could prolong his stay and sit down? Briefly, she wondered if he would let her use his endorsement on her website. ‘The Sheikh of Jazratan loves to relax in front of the old-fashioned fire.’ She met the cold glitter of his eyes. Probably not.
‘If you want,’ she said as she turned on one of the lamps so that the fading afternoon was lit with something other than firelight.
But her heart began to race as he sat down—because it seemed disturbingly intimate to see his muscular body unfold into a chair that suddenly looked insubstantial, and for those endlessly long legs to stretch out in front of him. He looked like a panther who had taken an uncharacteristic moment of relaxation, who had wandered in from the wild into a domestic domain, but all the time you were aware that beneath the sheathed paws lay deadly claws. Was that why her cat suddenly opened its eyes and hissed at him, before jumping up and stalking from the room with her tail held high? Too late she realised she should have said no. She should have made him realise she meant what she said before ejecting him into the snowy afternoon before the light faded.
‘So,’ she said, with a quick glance at her watch. ‘Like I said, I have things I need to do, so maybe you could just cut to the chase?’
‘An ironic choice of words in the circumstances,’ he commented drily. ‘Or perhaps deliberate? Either way, it is unlikely that my stallion will race again, even though he has won nearly every major prize in the racing calendar. In fact, he is in so much pain that the vets have told me that it is cruel to let him continue like this and...’ His voice tailed off.
‘And?’
He leaned his head back against the chair and his eyes narrowed—dark shards that glinted in the firelight. ‘And you have a gift with horses, Livvy,’ he said softly. ‘A rare gift. You can heal them.’
‘Who told you that?
‘My trainer. He described to me a woman who was the best horsewoman he’d ever seen. He said that she was as light as a feather but strong as an ox—but that her real skill lay in her interaction with the animal. He said that the angriest horse in the stables would grow calm whenever she grew close. He said he’d seen her do stuff with horses that defied logic, and astounded all the horse vets.’ His voice deepened as his dark eyes grew watchful. ‘And that they used to call you the horse whisperer.’
It was a long time since Livvy had heard the phrase that had once followed her around like mud on a rainy day at the stables. A phrase that carried its own kind of mystique and made people believe she was some kind of witch. And she wasn’t. She was just an ordinary person who wanted to be left to get on with her life.
She bent to pick up a log so that her face was hidden, and by the time she straightened up she had composed herself enough to face his inquisitive stare and to answer him in a steady
