side of the entry. Heavily armed guards. Not surprising. When a soon-to-be-king was involved, enemies were sure to follow. She’d initially been considered a possible threat, apparent when they rifled through her leather purse looking for concealed weapons before she’d entered the limo. She highly doubted she could do much damage with a tube of lipstick and a nail file.
Madison suddenly detected the sound of a raised voice, though she couldn’t make out what that voice might be saying. Even if she could, she probably wouldn’t understand most of the Arabic words. Yet there was no mistaking someone was angry, and she’d bet her last bottle of merlot she knew the identity of that someone.
Zain Mehdi reportedly didn’t know the meaning of restraint, evidenced by his questionable activities. The notorious sheikh had left his country some seven years ago and taken up residence in the States. He’d often disappeared for months at a time, only to surface with some starlet or supermodel on his arm, earning him the title “Phantom Prince of Arabia.”
That behavior hadn’t necessarily shocked Madison. Many years ago, she’d met him at a dinner party she’d attended with her parents in Milan. Back then, he’d been an incurable sixteen-year-old flirt. Not that he’d flirted with her, or that he would even remember her at all, a gawky preteen with no confidence. A girl who’d been content to blend into the background, very much like her mother.
She didn’t do the blending-in thing these days. She intended to be front and center, and if she managed to succeed at this assignment, that would prove to be another huge feather in her professional cap.
When the doors opened wide, Madison came to her feet, adjusted her white linen jacket and held her breath in hopes that she wouldn’t be dismissed. “Well?” she asked when Deeb didn’t immediately speak.
“The emir will see you now,” he said, his tone somewhat wary. “But he is not happy about it.”
As long as she had the opportunity to win him over, Madison didn’t give a horse’s patoot about the prince’s current mood. “Fair enough.”
Deeb opened the door and followed her inside the well-appointed office. But she didn’t have the time—or the inclination—to study the room further. The six-foot-plus man leaning back against the massive desk, arms folded across his chest, his intense gaze contrasting with his casual stance, now captured her complete attention. Publicity photos—or her distant memories—definitely didn’t do Zain Mehdi justice.
With his perfectly symmetrical features, golden skin and deep brown eyes framed by ridiculously long black lashes, he could easily be pegged as a Hollywood star preparing to play the role of a Middle Eastern monarch. Yet he’d forgone the royal robes for a white tailored shirt rolled up at the sleeves and a pair of dark slacks. He also wore an expression that said he viewed her as an intruder.
Madison tamped down her nerves, shored up her frame and faked a calm facade. “Good evening, Your Highness. I’m Madison Foster.”
He studied her offered hand but ignored the gesture. “I know who you are. You are the daughter of Anson Foster, a member of the diplomatic corps and a longtime acquaintance of my father’s.”
At least he remembered her father, even if he probably didn’t remember her. “My sincerest condolences on your loss, Your Highness. I’m sure the king’s sudden passing came as quite a shock.”
He shifted his weight slightly, a sure sign of discomfort. “Not as shocking as learning of his death two weeks after the fact.”
“The emir was traveling when his father passed,” Deeb added from behind Madison.
The sheikh sent his assistant a quelling look. “That will be all, Deeb. Ms. Foster and I will continue this conversation in private.”
Madison glanced over her shoulder to see Deeb nodding before he said, “As you wish, Emir.”
As soon as the right-hand man left the room, the sheikh strolled around the desk, dropped down into the leather chair and gestured toward the opposing chair. “Be seated.”
Say please, Madison wanted to toss out. Instead, she slid into the chair, set her bag at her feet and made a mental note to work on his manners. “Now that we’ve established you know who I am, do you understand why I’m here?”
He leaned back and streaked a palm over his shadowed jaw. “You are here at my brother’s request, not mine. According to Rafiq, you are one of the best political consultants in this country. If your reputation holds true.”
If his reputation held true, she had her work cut out for her. “I’ve worked alongside political strategists in successfully assisting high-profile figures with public perception.”
“And why do you believe I would need your assistance with that?”
Okay, she’d draw him a picture, but it wouldn’t be pretty. “For starters, you haven’t been back to Bajul in years. Second, I know there’s concern that you won’t be welcomed with open arms when you do return to assume your position as king. And last, there is the issue with the women.”
He had the gall to give her a devil-may-care grin. “You cannot believe everything you hear, Ms. Foster.”
“True, but many people believe what they read. Therefore, it’s imperative we convey that you’re focused on being an effective leader like your father.”
His smile disappeared out of sight. “Then I am to assume you wish to mold me into the image of my father.”
She found the comment to be extremely telling. “No. I want to help you build a more favorable image of yourself.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
Very carefully. “By reintroducing you to your people through a series of public appearances and social events.”
He inclined his head and studied her straight-on. “You intend to invite the entire country to a cocktail party?”
She could now add sarcastic along with sexy to his list of attributes. “The social events would be private. I’ll include only those in your close circle of friends and your family, as well as members of the governing council. Possibly a few foreign dignitaries and politicians and perhaps some investors.”
He grabbed a pen from the desktop and began to turn it over and over. “Go on.”
At least he seemed mildly interested. “As far as the public appearances are concerned, I have a lot of experience with speech writing,” she said. “I’d be happy to assist you with that.”
He frowned. “I have a graduate degree in economics from Oxford and I am fluent in five languages, Ms. Foster. What makes you think I cannot compose my own speeches in an articulate manner?”
Nothing like stepping on his royal pride. “I’m sure you’re quite capable, Your Highness, which is why I said I’d assist you. What you say and how you say it will be extremely important in winning over the masses.”
He tossed the pen aside and released a gruff sigh. “I have no reason to engage in political maneuvering. In the event you haven’t heard, my position is already secure. I was chosen to be king, and my word is the law. I am the law.”
“True, but when people are
