some of the best food in the capital. But she felt strangely removed from it all—as if she was an outsider, looking in.
Maybe that wasn’t so surprising. She was with two members of a royal family and they spent a lot of the evening speaking—and arguing—in their native tongue. Consequently, she found herself sipping at the rich red wine without really noticing and before she knew it she was halfway through a second glass. Her cheeks had begun to burn and Zahid was frowning at her across the table—and suddenly she found herself lost in the judgemental razoring of his gaze. Her tongue snaked out to encircle lips which had suddenly become bone-dry and she could have sworn she saw his eyes darken in response.
‘Don’t have anything more to drink, Francesca.’
She hadn’t been intending to—at least, not until he clipped out that peremptory order. ‘Why, are you rationing me now?’ she questioned. ‘This is only my second glass.’
Zahid felt irritated. It had been bad enough that his younger brother was stubbornly refusing to listen to reason and take his advice—without Francesca suddenly throwing her inhibitions to the wind. Why the hell had Tariq foisted that wine on her—and why had she let him?
‘You’re clearly not used to it. Come on,’ he said abruptly, rising to his feet. ‘It’s time we were going.’
‘But I haven’t had any pudding!’ she protested.
‘Wasn’t the chocolate you were eating earlier enough to satisfy your sweet cravings?’ questioned Zahid acidly.
‘But I only had one—and I missed lunch!’
Dark eyes looked positively frozen now. ‘You can order something from room service when we get back,’ he snapped. ‘And fascinating as this conversation is, I feel we must deprive my brother of any more of it.’
But Tariq was laughing. ‘Oh, please don’t let me stop you—I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sounding quite so domesticated, Zahid.’
Frankie’s feisty mood had evaporated by the time she retrieved her cashmere wrap from the cloakroom, and Tariq slid it round her shoulders with automatic courtesy. Why couldn’t Zahid do a gentlemanly thing like that, she wondered wistfully—instead of glaring at her as if she had suddenly become radioactive? She stepped out into the cold night and the drop in temperature was so dramatic that she stumbled a little until Zahid caught her elbow and steadied her.
She could feel his fingers burning through the fine cashmere of her wrap and she saw his mouth grow taut, before he gently manoeuvred her into the limousine as it slid to a halt beside them.
He turned to his brother, his face tense and his voice low. ‘Just remember what I said. You are now the brother of the sheikh—the heir. You shouldn’t be associated with a woman like that, a woman who is …’
Frankie had been listening intently to their conversation but rather annoyingly he had said the last word in his native language—or rather, he hissed it out like a cornered snake she had once seen at the zoo.
‘Who’s Tariq going out with who you obviously don’t approve of?’ she questioned, after they’d said goodbye and the car was pulling away.
‘Nobody,’ he answered tersely.
‘But I just heard you say—’
‘Well, you shouldn’t have done. You should have blocked the sound out. Don’t you know what they say about eavesdroppers?’
‘If I’m supposed to be working for you, and if you’re supposed to trust me, then don’t I need to know these things?’
‘Not now, Francesca! You will know what I wish you to know and when I wish you to know it. But top of the list of my requirements is an assurance that you do not persist with a line in questioning when your sheikh has expressly forbidden it. Do you understand?’
He had never spoken to her like that before. Never. Not once had he ever pulled rank—and Frankie shrank back against the seat of the car as she realised that this was the price she must pay for working for him. She was no longer to be indulged and protected by him—but to be treated as he would treat any other member of his staff. And didn’t a stupid and stubborn little part of her suddenly long for some of the slightly indulgent and caring attitude which he’d always shown to her before? ‘I think you’ve made yourself very clear,’ she said, in a small voice.
He turned towards her, his mood made sombre by his younger brother’s stubbornness—but something in the crestfallen expression on her face wiped the anger clean out of his head and replaced it with something entirely different.
Her lips were trembling and her face was pale. Framed by the soft cashmere of her wrap, the dark green silk of her dress seemed to be straining against the weight of her luscious breasts. And legs. He swallowed down the sudden hot surge of lust. What about her legs? When she crossed them like that, was she aware that the delicate silk moulded against the outline of her thighs and that her shapely ankles would drive any normal, hot-blooded man crazy with desire?
He wanted to kiss her.
He wanted to tear away the silk-satin to see those breasts for himself before tasting their rosy tips. He wanted to slide the dress still further up her legs and make her hot and sweet and wet for him.
He must be out of his mind!
Shifting his position further along the seat, Zahid stared at her with an expression which would have made his sage old advisors back in Khayarzah shiver with apprehension if they’d seen it. But his fury was directed at himself.
What the hell was he playing at?
‘Cover your legs!’ he bit out.
His furious words crashed in and shattered Frankie’s pensive mood and she sat up and returned his angry stare, her eyes bewildered. Her legs? Why, there was hardly any of her legs on show—barely even a flash of ankle! Perhaps she hadn’t been sitting in a way which was very ladylike, but even so—there was no need for him to shout. She leaned forward to tug at her skirt but that didn’t seem to please him either.
‘Is this the way you behave when you go out for dinner with a man?’ he demanded. ‘Quaffing wine by the glass and wriggling around in the back of a car with a dress which looks at least one size too small?’
‘No! No! I told you—I hardly drink a thing. And the dress is a perfect fit! Don’t be so old-fashioned, Zahid!’
‘But I am old-fashioned!’ he thundered, before the hypocrisy of his own words hit him. He wasn’t usually old-fashioned when it came to women, was he? Usually, the more outrageous the outfit, the more he enjoyed it. He thought of Katya the other night, turning up in nothing but her glittery panties and a fur coat and his mouth thinned. He hadn’t enjoyed that very much, had he?
‘We are almost at the hotel,’ he said in a cold voice. ‘Do you think you can possibly manage to make it upstairs on your own, without stumbling?’
She’d never heard him sound quite so frosty before—or so angry—and Frankie puckered her lips together, afraid that she might top off the evening with something unforgivable—like bursting into tears. Had she had made another serious misjudgement, thinking that the answer to her problems had been to grab at this job?
