so fabulously luxurious? She settled in to wait for orders and struggled to keep her eyes open.
Rafiq Hassan, Prince of El Zafir, Minister of Domestic and Foreign Affairs, opened his office door to confer with his secretary. The empty desk reminded him he had no secretary. First thing that morning the efficient young man had been appropriated by his father, King Gamil. His aunt Farrah had promised to send a replacement. Glancing to his left, he saw a young woman sitting on the couch. Sitting was too active a word. Slumped would be more to the point. Was this his substitute?
He walked over and looked down at her. She was dressed in a shapeless khaki dress that covered her from the neck to below her knees, leaving visible her very shapely ankles. Low-heeled shoes covered her feet. She could have been a child except that there was the suggestion of a bosom filling out the bodice of the unflattering garment. She was quite small, he noticed. Unfortunately, the ugly, black-rimmed glasses on her oval face were not.
At the moment she didn’t need the spectacles, because her eyes were closed. He was reminded of the American story, the one of Goldilocks that he’d read to his niece and nephew. Her hair was golden, and she was sound asleep. Did that make him one of the three bears? His two brothers, Fariq and Kamal, would no doubt be less than flattered at being compared to American bears. Besides, Rafiq had been told he was the family charmer. How bearish could he be?
He bent at the waist and said, “Excuse me?”
Long, lush lashes fluttered. Did they look long and lush because the ugly glasses magnified them? Did objects behind the thick lenses appear larger? When she lifted her eyelids, he wondered that again as very big blue eyes were revealed.
“Hmm?”
“Miss?”
“Hi.” She blinked several times and sat up straight, looking around as if she were disoriented. Then she met his gaze. “Guess I’m not in Kansas anymore.”
“True.”
Before she covered her yawn with a delicate hand, he noted that her teeth were straight and white.
“It’s an American expression from the movie The Wizard of Oz—when Dorothy realizes that she’s very far from home.”
“I’m aware of it.” He knew the story—the quest of the characters to find home, brain, courage and heart. The last he could relate to very well. “So you’re American?” he asked, a purely rhetorical question since her accent clearly placed her.
“Yes,” she said. “Just off the plane from Texas.”
“I have heard of it.”
She smiled. “I’d be surprised if you hadn’t. You work here, too?”
“Yes.”
“This must be one busy office if there’s enough work for two assistants.”
Assistant? She thought he was an assistant? He opened his mouth to set her straight when she slid to the edge of the love seat and stretched, arching her back so that her suggestion of a bosom became rounded breasts straining against the buttons of her dress. No thick magnifying lenses there, and the objects were most impressive.
“Could you point me in the direction of the coffeepot?” she asked.
“I can ring for some,” he said absently, his gaze preoccupied.
“That would be great. I’ll be forever in your debt.”
Rafiq went to the desk and picked up the phone. “Coffee, please. Very strong.”
“Bless you.”
When he looked at her again, she was peering intently at him through the hideous lenses of her glasses, not unlike the way he’d been looking upon her.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just—”
“Tell me.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You’ll think I’m weird. If we’re going to be working together, weird isn’t exactly the best foot to put forward.”
“I promise not to think that.” Now he was curious. “Why did you have that look on your face? Do I have a wart on my nose? A smudge on my face? You find me strange looking?”
“Oh, no. You’re very handsome.” She ducked her head, obviously flustered. “I mean if the rest of the men in this country are anything like you—” Her cheeks flushed a delightful pink. “I’m sorry. I hope you don’t mind my saying that. It’s just— I had no idea. In my research on El Zafir, I didn’t see anything about— I’m sorry. But you did ask.”
“Yes, I did.” Her flustered manner told him she hadn’t planned to say that. The compliment was honest, ingenuous and charmingly innocent. He very nearly forgave her for mistaking him for an assistant.
“Where I come from, cowboys are the masculine standard. Most women wouldn’t think of office staff as macho. But most women haven’t been to El Zafir.”
He couldn’t decide whether to be flattered or insulted and made a mental note to make discreet inquiries about Texas cowboys. He also revoked his momentary weakness regarding forgiveness. But strangely enough, he wanted her to go on. “So you’re an assistant?”
She nodded, then took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. He expected to see black makeup, mascara or raccoon eyes as women had told him it was called when it ran. But, there was none. She wore no cosmetics. Still, her skin was flawless—smooth and quite soft-looking.
“I just arrived in El Zafir this morning,” she explained. “I was supposed to be here two days ago, but flights out of North Texas were delayed because of storms. Where I come from they say if you don’t like the weather, just wait a minute. But this time I wasn’t that lucky.”
“So how did you come to my—to El Zafir, Miss—”
“Doyle. Penelope Colleen Doyle. It rhymes with oil.”
“Yes.”
“You can call me Penny.”
“Penny,” he said, testing the name given to the lowest valued coin in U.S. currency.
“I was hired by Princess Farrah Hassan. Have you met her?”
His lips twitched, but he held back the threatening smile. “Once or twice.”
“She’s pretty impressive. A real force of nature. The king’s sister. I’m to be her assistant.”
“When did this happen?”
“A month ago.”
“And you’ve just arrived today?”
She nodded. “I had to settle the lease on my apartment and arrange storage for my things.”
She looked very young to have the responsibility of living on her own. “How old are you?” he couldn’t help asking.
