sat back and she breathed again.
“I’m not going to give you the money you so badly want. I’m going to take you to the airport and pay whatever it takes to get that ticket changed—so I hope you really need a flight to Auckland.”
“I do,” she croaked.
He pushed himself away from her. “It will be waiting for you downstairs when you are ready to leave.”
As he rose from the bed, her bravado returned. Her chin lifted. “I don’t need you to take me to the airport—it won’t help. My temporary travel documents will only be ready on Monday. I’ll take a cab back to the hostel.”
“I want you out of Hong Kong.”
“I have no intention of staying a minute more than I have to. Nor will I cause you any grief. I promise.”
He gave her one of those narrow-eyed glances that chilled her to the bone. “If I learn that you have—”
“I’m not going to do anything. I swear. And, believe me, I intend to pay you back,” she said fervently. Tiffany had no intention of being beholden to this man.
He waved a dismissive hand. “Please. Don’t lie.”
“I will repay you. But I’ll need your bank details.”
“To further scam me?” The bark of laughter he gave sounded ugly. His eyes bored into hers. She didn’t look away. The mood changed, becoming hot and oppressive. Something arced between them, an emotion so intense, so powerful that she lost the ability to think.
Without looking away, Rafiq reached into his pocket for his wallet. This time he extracted a small white card. “Here are my details. You can post me a check … but I don’t want to see you again. Ever.”
It stung.
Determined to hurt him, she flung the words back at him. “I have no intention of seeing you again.” Then, for good measure, she added defiantly, “Ever.”
She bit her lip hard to stop it trembling as he swung away, and she watched him head for the door with long, raking strides. When the door thudded shut behind him, she glanced down at the card she held.
Rafiq Al Dhahara. President, Royal Bank of Dhahara.
She should’ve known. He wasn’t any old banker. He was the boss. The man who had showed her a glimpse of heaven would never be an ordinary man.
Four
Rafiq could not settle.
He’d been restless for weeks now. He told himself it was the fierce desert heat of Dhahara that kept him awake deep into the heart of the night. Not even the arctic air-conditioning circulating through the main boardroom of the Royal Bank of Dhahara soothed him.
“Stop pacing,” Shafir said from behind him. “You called us in to talk about the new hotel you’ve financed, but now you wear holes in that kelim. Sit down and talk.” He tapped his gold pen against the legal pad in front of him. “I’m in a hurry.”
Swiveling on his heel, Rafiq put his hands on narrow hips, and scowled down at where his brother lounged in the black leather chair, his white robes cascading about him. “You can wait, Shafir.”
“I might, but Megan won’t. My wife is determined to spend every free minute we have at Qasr Al-Ward.” Shafir flashed him the wicked grin of a man well satisfied by that state of affairs. “Come for the weekend. Celebrate that the contracts for the new Carling Hotel are in place. It’ll give you a chance to shed that suit for a couple of days.”
Shaking his head, Rafiq said, “Too much else to do. I’ll resist the call of the desert.” He envied his brother the bond he had to Qasr Al-Ward, the desert palace that had been in the family for centuries. Since his marriage to Megan, Shafir had made Qasr Al-Ward their home.
“Don’t resist it too long—or you may not find your way back.”
“Why don’t you take our father?” Rafiq wasn’t eager to engage in the kind of analysis that Shafir’s sharp gaze suggested was about to begin. In an effort to distract his brother, he tipped his head to where King Selim was intent on getting his point across to his firstborn son. The words “duty” and “marriage” drifted across the expanse of the boardroom table. “That way Khalid might get some peace, too.”
Shafir chuckled. “Looks like our father is determined not to give him a break.”
“You realize your marriage has only increased the pressure on Khalid?”
Stabbing a finger at his brother’s chest, Shafir chuckled. “And on you. Everyone expected you to marry first, Rafiq. Unlike Khalid, your bride isn’t Father’s choice. And unlike me, women don’t view you as already wed to the desert. You spent years abroad—you’ve had plenty of opportunity to fall in love.”
“It wasn’t so straightforward.” Rafiq realized that was true. “There were no expectations on you, Shafir. No pressure. You’ve always done exactly what you want.”
His brother had spent much of his life growing up in the desert; he’d been allowed rough edges, whereas Rafiq had been groomed for a corporate role. Educated at Eton, followed by degrees at Cambridge and Harvard. There had been pressure to put thought and care into his choice of partner—someone who could bear scrutiny on an international stage. A trophy wife. A powerful trophy wife.
How could he explain how a relationship that started off as something special could deteriorate into nothing more than duty?
“Take it.” His father’s rising voice broke into his thoughts.
Rafiq refocused across the table. His father was trying to press a piece of paper into Khalid’s hand. “All three of these women are suitable. Yasmin is a wealthy young woman who knows what you need in a wife.”
“No!” Khalid’s jaw was like rock.
“She’s pretty, too.” Shafir smirked.
“I don’t want pretty,” his eldest brother argued.
Pretty. Rafiq shied away from the word. Tiffany had thought she was pretty. Not beautiful. Pretty. Rafiq had considered her beautiful.
“I want a woman who will match me,” Khalid was saying. “I don’t care what she looks like. I need a partner … not a pinup.”
“Hey, my wife is a partner,” Shafir objected. “In my eyes she’s a pinup, too.”
Newly—and happily—married, he’d become the king’s ally in the quest to seek a suitable wife for his brothers. Although Rafiq suspected that Shafir was only trying to drive home how fortunate he’d been to find his Megan. If he could find a woman as unique, as in tune with him as Megan was with Shafir, he’d get married in a shot ….
Khalid bestowed a killing look on Shafir, who laughed and helped himself to a cup of the rich, fragrant coffee that the bank’s newest secretary was busy pouring into small brass cups.
“Thank
