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Sheikh Boss, Hot Desert Nights
Susan Stephens
Out of the office…Casey Michaels has come prepared for her new job in the desert – complete with a safari outfit! But, faced with her gorgeous boss’s potent sexuality, she suddenly feels out of her depth… And into the desert!Sheikh Rafik al Rafar knows an inexperienced woman when he sees one, and in the sultry heat of the desert he begins her sensual awakening. To his surprise, Casey teaches him about the simple pleasures in life. But royal duty is never far from their door…


Could sexual heat pass throughglass? Watching Casey Michaelscross the baggage hall, Raffathought it could. Even in thatoutfit she looked good. Funny…but good.

Her clothes could change. He was wearing jeans and a top for this reconnaissance mission. Official robes were the costume he wore when appropriate—just as Casey would step into a different role when she put on a severely tailored business suit.

The thought of unlacing those office stays and discovering the real woman underneath was an image that pleased him—perhaps more than it should have done. Thumbing his sharp black stubble, he weighed up the supple frame beneath the unflattering safari suit. Virginal innocence sang out loud and clear.

And he never mixed business with pleasure…
Recent reviews for talented Modern™ Romanceand Modern Heat™ author Susan Stephens:

About LAYING DOWN THE LAW, Modern Heat™, January 2008:

‘It should be illegal to miss Susan Stephens’ terrific LAYING DOWN THE LAW! With its cast of wonderful characters, hilarious one-liners, sparkling dialogue and steamy sexual tension, LAYING DOWN THE LAW is compulsive reading for readers who enjoy reading sexy romances that will tug at their heartstrings and tickle their funny bones!’
—CataRomance.com

About BOUGHT: ONE ISLAND, ONE BRIDE, Modern™ Romance, December 2007:

‘An exhilarating tale full of passion, intensity and heat, BOUGHT: ONE ISLAND, ONE BRIDE is a sizzling romance you will be unable to put down, featuring a gorgeous Greek tycoon and a feisty but vulnerable heroine. Sexy, steamy and engrossing, BOUGHT: ONE ISLAND, ONE BRIDE is another triumph for the wonderful Susan Stephens, a writer who never fails to deliver enthralling romances we just cannot resist!’
—CataRomance.com

‘A pleasing story about overcoming the past with the healing power of love. The Greek island and its people are wonderful secondary characters, filled with rich local flavours and traditions.’
—www.romantictimes.com
Susan Stephens was a professional singer before meeting her husband on the tiny Mediterranean island of Malta. In true Modern™ Romance style they met on Monday, became engaged on Friday, and were married three months after that. Almost thirty years and three children later, they are still in love. (Susan does not advise her children to return home one day with a similar story, as she may not take the news with the same fortitude as her own mother!)

Susan had written several non-fiction books when fate took a hand. At a charity costume ball there was an after-dinner auction. One of the lots, ‘Spend a Day with an Author’, had been donated by Mills & Boon author Penny Jordan. Susan’s husband bought this lot, and Penny was to become not just a great friend but a wonderful mentor, who encouraged Susan to write romance.

Susan loves her family, her pets, her friends and her writing. She enjoys entertaining, travel, and going to the theatre. She reads, cooks, and plays the piano to relax, and can occasionally be found throwing herself off mountains on a pair of skis or galloping through the countryside. Visit Susan’s website: www.susanstephens.net—she loves to hear from her readers all around the world!

Susan Stephens also writes for Modern™ Romance!

SHEIKH BOSS, HOT DESERT NIGHTS
BY
SUSAN STEPHENS

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For all those who like their bad boys safely corralled
between the pages of a book, and for Bev,
whose face lights up when I mention the word ‘sheikh’.
CHAPTER ONE
SHE had a backpack the size of the world. Hoisting it off the luggage carousel, she almost knocked out the eye of the woman standing next to her. Buckles and straps jangled from it, along with a rope, a waterproof bedsheet, and a pair of sand boots. She had her hair scraped back and a camouflage hat with a highly becoming neck-flap crammed on her head.
Hearing she was to travel to the interior of A’Qaban as part of her job as marketing executive to that country’s development agency, Casey had ditched the power suit and Jimmy Choos in favour of a safari suit and sandproof knickers. But this wasn’t an airstrip in the furthest reaches of A’Qaban, but A’Qaban International Airport, where the desert came in bijou-sized pieces, each grain of sand polished to a heady sheen by the world’s top designers.
As with any other project she undertook for the company, Casey had researched this one thoroughly. It had only been on the point of boarding the aircraft that she had been told her itinerary had been changed—and by none other than the recently crowned King, Sheikh Rafik al Bad-Boy himself. Apparently His Majesty had insisted on meeting all his key employees before ruling the country took his eye off the business.
Surprised to find an underling like herself under the spotlight, Casey had allowed herself a momentary glow, until it was pointed out to her that Raffa, as the Eton educated and Special Forces hardened Sheik preferred to be known, was well into weeding out the weak links in his organisation. So, here she was, dressed like a park ranger in the midst of Glitz Central, and with no office clothes to save the day.
She had a wardrobe full of smart business suits back home, but what was the point in kicking herself? She was here and she had to get on with it, Casey reflected, hoisting her backpack into a more comfortable position. The Sheikh of A’Qaban was known to test his employees to the limit and she should have had it covered. She might be at a disadvantage, but not for long. As soon as she cleared Customs it would be all about the shopping mall.

Could sexual heat pass through glass? Watching Casey Michaels cross the baggage hall, he thought it could. Even in that outfit she looked good…funny, but good.
How could she not look better than the uptight fashion victim he’d taken a look at in her file? He could see that was an old photo, way out of date now. She had blossomed since it had been taken—more flesh on her bones, and way more blonde hair falling down beneath her ugly hat. That, combined with the good-humoured curve of her lips, the direct, unflustered gaze and the determined stride, made for quite a package—even if that package was bundled up in the most unflattering of clothes.
Her clothes could change. He was wearing jeans and a top for this reconnaissance mission. Official robes were a costume he wore when appropriate—just as Casey would step into a different role when she put on a severely tailored business suit.
The thought of unlacing those office stays and discovering the real woman underneath was an image that pleased him perhaps more than it should have done. Thumbing his sharp black stubble, he weighed up the supple frame beneath the unflattering safari suit. Virginal innocence sang out loud and clear.
And he never mixed business with pleasure.
He turned his mind to the point of Casey’s visit. Could she inspire? Could she lead? Was she prepared to fight for her people? Those were the things that mattered to him. With the livelihoods of thousands of employees at stake, only the strongest executives would survive his cut.
But she intrigued him. He pulled back from his vantage point. It was time to move on if he wanted to keep an eye on Casey’s progress. Thanking each of his customs officials in turn by name for their hospitality, he left the viewing room. He felt super-wired—the way he always felt when the hunt was on. And there was nothing wrong with that. He needed a little craziness in his life, a little freshness.
In his life?
Business and pleasure?
A glint of humour was in his eyes as he joined the bustle in the arrivals hall. Some people recognised him; some stood gaping; some didn’t know him from Adam. The question was, would she recognise him?
His ever-present bodyguards knew to remain invisible. Taken out of context, he had been mistaken by some of his failed employees for just another traveler—which was how he liked it. He was looking for people who could bring something unique and special to A’Qaban, and so far he’d been disappointed. Plus, he liked mingling with his people. It allowed him to feel the pulse of the country and test the mood of his fellow countrymen—that and the acuity of his staff.
En garde, Casey Michaels!

She was being watched. She could feel it like a ripple down her spine. Someone was stalking her; someone far more powerful than the officials she’d encountered so far was watching her. The constant warning signal in her head was making it hard to concentrate.
Impossible, Casey accepted with a gasp as she collided with a door.

Ouch! He grimaced as he watched Casey regroup and recover herself before moving on with the crowd heading for Immigration. At least she hadn’t hurt herself, and the only thing stinging was her pride. Her cheeks had pinked up, but to her credit she showed no other outward sign of dismay. He moved ahead of her, always watching from an upper level. Casey worked for him, and therefore she was under his protection. This visit was a trial and as such it had to be fair. The other candidates had jumped through hoops and so would she, but he’d keep her safe as he’d kept them all safe—not that he’d watched any of the rest quite so avidly.
But that didn’t mean he was going to step over the boundary of care into the dangerous territory of personal interest. It was just that Casey seemed to need more care than most. Other than that he was showing her the same courtesy he had extended to all of his employees.
Oh,really?
Had he felt like this when he’d first encountered the other candidates he would have had some serious concerns about his sexual orientation by now. And he had none.

She had researched the vast steel and glass structure that was A’Qaban International Airport on-line, but nothing could have prepared her for the sheer scale of the place. The glamour of gleaming crystal, bronze and glass, together with the cleanliness and the faint scent of something spicy on the air, was both exciting and distracting.
So no more walking into doors, Casey warned herself firmly—though it was easy to be sidetracked when she was basking in the husky Arabian language, the sound of robes fluttering and the pad of sandalled feet. Just the walk up to Immigration was an exotic introduction to the mysterious east, as the countless portraits of A’Qaban’s leader were a heart-racing introduction to her boss.
There were images of the powerful young leader everywhere, and as Casey paused for a moment to take stock of one she realised it was the same official portrait they had back home, showing a magnificent figure clad in the traditional robes of a Bedouin warrior. She had never seen her boss in western clothes. She turned from that to inspect the royal standard, which was flying from a flagpole in the centre of the hall. A rich blue background hosted a silvery crescent moon, beneath which a rampant lion bared its teeth and roared a warning.
A shiver ran down Casey’s spine as she remembered the lion was Sheikh Rafik’s personal symbol. She had always thought it perfect for a man who had rowed for Eton, played rugby for Oxford, and boxed for the army during his time in the Special Forces, before stamping his authority on the business world as well as his country. Rafik al Rafar was the undisputed alpha lion of the Arabian Gulf—a man whose personal work ethic was famously merciless, and who expected nothing less of his team. A quiver of anticipation that had nothing to do with business ran through her at the prospect of meeting him.
Impressed by the efficiency of the airport staff, Casey was soon part of a fast-moving line in which she thought about her place in the Sheikh’s organisation. Her passion for his country had no doubt helped her rise. Rebuilding A’Qaban was the most exciting project she could imagine. Bordered by a turquoise sea and framed by granite mountains, the country boasted a capital city to rival any in the world, and Casey was determined to see it become a market leader in the global tourist industry.
A’Qaban also had a priceless jewel—one that was largely undiscovered. In Casey’s opinion its interior was the country’s crowning glory. It was a wilderness largely untouched by man, other than the wandering Bedouin tribesmen, whom Sheikh Rafik al Rafar protected. Casey envisaged tours that respected the Bedouins’ freedom to travel whilst celebrating their culture with carefully monitored wildlife safaris, ecological and educational trips, even archaeological digs to pique the interest of the world.
Her lips pressed down briefly with disappointment when she remembered that she would be in the desert right now if the Sheikh hadn’t changed his mind about her destination. There could be no other reason for her being dressed like an extra from the set of Indiana Jones and attracting more sideways glances than a stray camel. But if that was the only disappointment she had to cope with today…
Buoyed up with anticipation, she was just about to check her passport when her old friend intuition came knocking again. There was someone watching her. She had the strongest sense that a hunt was on and that she was the prey. But that was clearly the result of watching too many movies recently. The stack of DVDs back home fleshed out her non-existent personal life, and in the absence of romantic action kept her company at night.
As the line moved smoothly forward Casey took the sensation shimmering down her spine as a reminder to keep her wits about her. Her colleagues had warned her that Rafik al Rafar didn’t play by the rules—a prospect that had excited her at the time, because she liked a challenge. But now she was here, in the middle of this trial by disorientation, she wasn’t feeling quite so confident.
She shook off the feeling. She was determined to enjoy every moment of this trip—even the terminal building, which was decked out like the lobby of a six-star hotel. There were fountains to soothe the senses and cool the air, along with an abundance of lush green plants, and even indoor palm trees stretching their spiny fingers towards the twinkling glass ceiling.
It was just Casey Michaels who was feeling a little out of sorts, Casey accepted as she fought the feeling of being a very small speck of travelling dust in a busy, purposeful world. She was under no misapprehension. She was a piece on the Sheikh’s chessboard, and if she didn’t play the right move at the right time she would be swept out of the game.
A group of A’Qabani women distracted Casey as they fluttered past on silent feet, like so many graceful butterflies. As she smiled, kohl-lined eyes smiled back.
The A’Qabanis seemed such a friendly people. They made her wish she could understand the secret language the women seemed to be transmitting from behind their silken veils. Their language hinted at a hidden world, and it was a world she longed to know more about. But, like the desert interior, that world would have to wait.
Casey passed through Immigration without incident, and at Customs was surprised to be waved on. It seemed strange to her that she, the most disreputable-looking person in the line, hadn’t attracted so much as a challenge. But, heigh-ho, was she complaining? She had no desire to flaunt her stock of big knickers and sensible vests to a line of customs officials dressed in the immaculate robes and headdresses of A’Qaban.
Focusing on the exit signs, Casey quickened her pace. She didn’t expect anyone to be waiting for her so her plan was to call a cab and ask to be taken to the nearest hotel. Once there, she would freshen up and contact the office.
She had barely made it halfway across the concourse when the crowd she was part of peeled away; moments after that she was surrounded by fearsome-looking guards. They wore a uniform of black tunics and baggy trousers, and they all had lethal daggers tucked into their belts. She turned full circle, but there was no escape.
The blood drained from Casey’s face as dark, expressionless eyes confronted her. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before, and it was easily the most frightening experience of her life. What terrible sin had she unwittingly committed?
She didn’t have to wait long to find out. The circle parted almost immediately to admit one man. A hunk in jeans.
Snug-fitting blue jeans, desert boots and a form-fitting top, to be precise. And that was before she took in the ruffled inky hair, sharp gaze, deep tan, sensual mouth and…an earring?
Casey’s mind went into freefall. For a moment she couldn’t think straight. The man was tall—threateningly so—and built like a kick boxer fresh from the ring. Swallowing deep, she called on all her powers of quick recovery. This was not the moment to be wrong-footed by the Sheikh.
‘You move faster than I thought, Casey Michaels.’
Sheikh Rafik al Rafar’s brown-black eyes were stunning, she registered shakily, stumbling into an awkward curtsey. ‘Your Majesty—’
‘Leave your toadying at the door and call me Raffa.’
Raffa…
Raffa was not only the best-looking man she had seen in a long time—if ever—he had a voice that was honey-warm and barely accented, which strummed her senses in a way she had never experienced before. ‘Raffa.’
‘Ahlan wa sahlan, Casey Michaels…’
There was just the faintest touch of mockery in his voice. Could the bad-boy Sheikh tune in to her thoughts? She stared up into eyes that told a story Casey wasn’t sure she was old enough to read, and her heart-rate soared when the ruler of A’Qaban touched his hand to his heart, his lips, and finally to his forehead.
‘Ahlan wa sahlan beek, Your—er, Raffa.’ She lowered her eyes, thanking her lucky stars that on joining a company owned by an Arab Sheikh she had learned the basics of his language. When she raised her head again it was to find the observant gaze licking over her with interest. Had she managed to buy herself a second chance?
‘Come,’ he said.
Come where? she wondered anxiously. Just so long as it wasn’t the next flight home.
He took her to an office containing a desk and two uncomfortable-looking chairs, which was a relief. She walked in, while Raffa shut the door on the guards.
‘What do you have in your backpack, Casey?’ he asked, turning around.
For a moment she was completely thrown.
‘Your backpack?’ he prompted.
She put it down on the floor, leaning it against the utilitarian desk.
‘Open it.’
Her cheeks fired up. Nature had granted Sheikh Rafik al Rafar a fierce, stubble-shaded face full of heart-stopping force and resolve. This was not your usual polished royal, but a hard man of the desert; there was no court of appeal here.
She opened the pack and straightened up. This was business, Casey reminded herself in an attempt to rebuild her flagging confidence. Business she could deal with; men were the problem. In business men were normal human beings, like anyone else, but when they stepped out of that box and became yang to her yin, that was something else. Plus, men as good-looking as this one never noticed her, let alone spoke to her. She’d had no practice dealing with someone so…
She was staring at Raffa’s lips, Casey realised, jerking alert as he spoke.
‘Just show me what you’ve got, Casey.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘SHOW you what I’ve got?’ Casey gulped as her mind reviewed the contents of her backpack. Raffa would hardly be impressed by her selection of giant-sized white cotton knickers.
‘Take a seat, if you prefer,’ he suggested, easing away from the wall.
And have him tower over her? ‘I prefer to stand, if you don’t mind.’
‘As you wish.’
Oh, she did wish. And that was half the trouble. He only had to shrug to draw her attention to the width of his shoulders. She shrank back as he prowled closer.
‘I just want to see how well you have prepared for the desert.’
His gaze was potent; his presence electrifying. He was toying with her, measuring her, pushing her to the limit in ways she had never been pushed before—and her body was really letting her down. This might be business, but she was acutely aware of Raffa and the hard masculine form beneath his casual clothes, and it was almost impossible not to think of the enormous bulge in the front of his jeans as a third presence in the room. Not that she should be thinking about it at all, of course.
And now tears were threatening. Casey Michaels— businesswoman printed through her like a stick of rock—was in serious danger of meltdown. Because if landing this job rested on her female attributes she might as well go home right now.

He had never done this before. He took it for granted that any executive working for him knew what they were doing. He had never plucked an employee hot from their flight and brought them to a private office to interrogate them before, and he had no excuse now. Except to say Casey Michaels intrigued him. He dreaded her turning out to be a vacuous blonde. He’d encountered his fair share over the years, and there was no place for them in his business.
As she pulled out the first object he realised with some amusement that she was anything but. The photo in Casey’s personnel file was as misleading as his own official portrait. In fact, if she got the job, Casey’s first task would be to put the presentation of company profiles out to tender.

She believed she had packed everything necessary, but had she? So much hung on this, Casey reflected tensely, pulling out her plastic sheet for collecting drinking water.
Raffa’s lips pressed down with approval.
She held up her mirror, for signalling if she became lost…
The mirror garnered another nod.
Scissors, string and a fire stone for lighting tinder.
‘Scissors?’
‘Along with my Swiss army knife, my folding spade, and my water canister. They were packed in the hold in a waterproof zip-bag, which I have here—’ She produced it.
Raffa indicated with a wave of his hand that she should continue.
A box of water-purifying tablets, six tubes of salt tablets, and an industrial-sized tub of insect repellent, along with a first-aid kit.
‘And a map?’ he pressed.
‘Of course…’ She produced the map, safely contained in a plastic cover to prevent it getting wet or ripped. ‘And a compass.’
She was rewarded by the smallest tug of Raffa’s lips.
‘And the bulge?’
She dearly wanted to look at his bulge, but managed not to. ‘My spare clothes.’
‘A business suit?’
Not unless it was a grow-your-own-business suit, stowed in a water canister… ‘Unfortunately, no.’
‘Well, fortunately…’ The word was laced with ironic emphasis ‘…we have shops here.’
A flood of heat rushed to Casey’s face. ‘If I’d known I was coming to the city I would have packed differently.’ She froze. Judging by the expression on Raffa’s face, no one ever interrupted him. Which raised another problem. Reining herself in she could do. Changing her personality completely in the short time available was going to prove a little more difficult.
Raffa’s powerful shoulders eased in a shrug. ‘I wanted you here,’ he said, as if that were the only explanation necessary. But it was not the end of her frustration. Raffa was just so aggravatingly nonchalant, while she was…
So out of her depth in his presence?
It wasn’t her business sense letting her down now, but the tension crackling between them.
‘You can pack everything away,’ Raffa said, providing her with a welcome distraction. ‘I’m satisfied you are as prepared as you could be for the desert…’
Inwardly, she cheered. Thank goodness he hadn’t asked her to dig any deeper and reveal the six sets of sensible underwear, the rape alarm, and the condoms her ever-practical if misguided mother had insisted she must pack.

He brooded as he watched Casey pack away her belongings. Her qualifications were good on paper, her work ethic unquestioned, but he needed more than that. The person who would eventually lead his marketing team must show total commitment to A’Qaban, and be a questing, innovative, initiative-seizing individual, capable of working solo and producing results without requiring constant monitoring or supervision.
His gaze swept over Casey again. Her outfit was outlandish, almost comical, but somehow she managed to pull it off. The combination of naivety and absolute determination gave her an unaffected charm—though he suspected she could be stubborn, given half a chance.
He’d take that as a plus, he decided, though she would have to be prepared to travel as and when required, and adapt to changing itineraries if necessary. She would also have to cope with the interior. He’d had the last candidate airlifted out when they couldn’t hack it, and until he was sure of Casey she was staying in the city.
The question was, could she cope with anything more rigorous than a sanitised desert kingdom? He was quite keen to find out, and found himself silently urging her on.
Come on, Casey Michaels, show me what you’ve got…

She was tired from the travelling and shaken up by the speed of events. And by Rafik al Rafar.
By him mostly.
She held him entirely responsible.
She could even identify, with a nose well trained at the perfume counter of countless department stores, each ingredient in his exotic cologne: vanilla—an aphrodisiac, sandalwood—a sultry spice, and—
‘Shall we go?’ he prompted. ‘Casey?’ Dipping his head, he gave her a disturbingly direct stare. ‘I’m going to take you to your hotel to drop your bag,’ he said, ‘and then—’
Her face flamed red with embarrassment. She was twenty- five years old and didn’t possess a single atom of know-how when it came to men.
‘Then I’ll buy you a suit,’ he said, rather disappointingly.
‘You don’t need to. I—’
‘Never accept gifts from men?’ He raised one sweeping brow.
‘I’ve got money with me.’
He shrugged. ‘If you prefer to pay, that’s okay with me.’
She was still staring into his eyes like an obedient puppy, Casey realized—something it was all too easy to do.
Holding the door, Raffa was waiting for her. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Raffa paused just in front of the main exit doors leading from the concourse. His guards, anticipating this, stopped instantly and stood to attention.
‘Welcome to A’Qaban,’ he said to Casey. ‘My country is your country for the next few days.’
Heat was sweeping over her in waves. It had nothing to do with the brilliant sunshine. She felt so grubby and travel-stained compared to Raffa, who was coolness personified. His gaze was measured as he looked at her, and faintly amused. She felt under a scrutiny from which she suspected there would be no let-up while she was in A’Qaban. It was impossible not to feel honoured by the pledge he’d just made her, and also impossible not to feel very much threatened on the personal front. It was as if her very womanhood was on the line. It shouldn’t matter to her if that was found wanting just so long as she landed this job—but it did matter; it mattered far more than it should have done.
He gestured towards the limousine that had pulled up at the curb. ‘Let me take your backpack for you.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘I don’t do kind.’
Blunt words that for some reason made her quiver all over.
Raffa’s fierce fighting men had formed a private corridor in order for them to make the short transit from the airport doors to the royal vehicle. It had blacked out windows—a hermetically sealed chamber lined in softest kidskin, where she would be shut off from the world.
Panicking, she held back. Overheating, she dragged off her unbecoming hat.
‘You should wait until you are under cover,’ Raffa warned as she shook out her hair. ‘The sun is deceptively strong. While you are in A’Qaban you must take every opportunity to avoid the heat.’
But the heat was all in his eyes.
CHAPTER THREE
HE FELT Casey next to him on the seat of the limousine like a lick of flame on a heart turned cold. So many women; so few memories—or at least none he cared to keep. Perhaps that was why he was so cynical. He had planned to turn around his country in the same way he’d turn around a business—with balance sheets, boardroom battles and cold, hard fact. The possibility that there might be something missing from that scheme had never occurred to him before Casey Michaels arrived on the scene. Now he wondered if her take on things might refresh the ideas he’d had. But he would never find out while she was tense like this.
He settled back, hoping that would reassure her. She sat stiffly for a while and then turned away from him to stare out of the window. He inhaled her fragrance. Light and floral, it counter-balanced his musk and spice perfectly. The contrast suggested to him that it might be time to recruit someone different from the hardbitten, results-driven individuals he usually selected. But was Casey right for A’Qaban?
As he watched her toying with her soft blonde curls, winding them round and round her slender fingers, he told himself not to be so ridiculous. A woman like Casey Michaels could never be up to the job on offer, and only his libido suggested otherwise.
‘Are those Artesian wells?’
He leaned closer, surprised and pleased by her interest. ‘Yes, that’s right…’
He drew back slowly, wondering if she had felt his heat as he had felt hers. He was conscious of how pale her skin was. Dusted with freckles, it had the bloom of a peach…and the scent of a woman. She would burn in the sun, he realised; yet another reason to send her home. But another, darker side of him yearned to taste her, to see her eyes burn with passion and lust for him. It was all too easy to imagine making love to Casey until she fell asleep in his arms.
‘Oh, look!’ she exclaimed, distracting him. ‘A camel.’
‘Really?’ Imagine that. A camel in the desert. Her childish excitement only underscored the decision he had already made. She must go home.
‘I can’t believe the desert comes right up to the margins of the highway,’ she said, turning to him with luminous appeal in her clear blue eyes.
There was such innocence in those eyes, and at the very moment when he should have withdrawn from it he responded. ‘If you look to towards the mountains you’ll be able to see more camels on the horizon.’
‘Oh, yes!’ she exclaimed, breathless with excitement as the black silhouettes of the marching dromedaries appeared framed in gold against the darkening sky.
She was practically pressing her face to the car window in her enthusiasm, all thoughts of nervousness in his presence forgotten. And when she held her fine-boned hands to her face and exclaimed in wonder it was the strongest warning yet to book her flight home. He shouldn’t feel moved like this. This was business.
And his decision might have remained that straightforward had not the delicate column of her neck led to such a stubborn chin. For all her lack of worldliness, he suspected there was more to Casey Michaels than met the eye. He switched his thoughts from bed to business. She wouldn’t be moulded as easily as some of the other candidates. She would have her own opinions and her own fresh take on ideas. She might even have some innovative suggestions to add to the pot. Could he afford to deny A’Qaban a new young talent because he didn’t trust himself not to take her to bed?
‘I think this is very exciting,’ she said, spinning round to speak to him. ‘And I can’t wait to get started. It’s such a challenge.’
She made the challenge sound like a supreme prize—much as he felt about it himself. He confined himself to an acknowledging dip of the head. The lust Casey had inspired in him suggested the next couple of days would be a challenge for both of them—if only because this was not a woman to take and enjoy, or a woman who would understand that a man in his position had nothing more to offer her beyond a few nights of passion; this was a woman instinct told him should be treasured and valued for her originality. With Casey’s innocence standing between them, for now he had to admit he was facing stalemate.

Raffa made it easy for her to forget she was sitting next to a king, though forgetting the charisma of the man was rather more difficult. His warm, spicy scent embraced every part of her until she tingled. Just because she shied away from men it didn’t mean she was incapable of feeling, and with Raffa’s unbelievable levels of testosterone buzzing in the air she was feeling rather too much of everything.
He appeared to be relaxed and unaware of her interest, so she took the opportunity to steal a glance at him. A man all at ease, he sprawled on the seat with his hair ruffled and his pirate earring glinting in the slanting rays of the dying sun. He was just so cool and sexy, with eyes full of promise and a mouth shaped for fantasy kisses. Why did he have to be her boss? She guessed it was some time since he had shaved, because his stubble was thicker, blacker, sharper than she had ever seen on any man.
Would it hurt to have that stubble rasp against, say, the tender skin on her neck, her cheek…her breast? She shivered at the thought of it. She only had a few bungled kisses to go on, and they had practically put her off kissing for life. Usually overly moist, they had convinced her she wasn’t missing much. But she imagined Raffa’s kisses would be different. He would be an accomplished kisser, as in all else. She flinched away when his lips curved as their gazes clashed. Had he read her thoughts? Sensed her fascination? If he had read something into it…
She had to calm herself with steady breathing. Turning away to stare out of the heavily tinted windows only increased the impression that she was entering the mysterious, closed world she had glimpsed at the airport. And, yes, she was eager to learn what lay behind the silken veil, but would she be permitted to look? Or would she be taken from one sterile, air-conditioned capsule to the next without ever once experiencing the real A’Qaban?
She had to fight for the opportunity to see the country if she had any hope of selling A’Qaban to the world, Casey realised. But if he took her behind the silken curtain, what then?
Her insides melted at the thought of it, and sensation pooled between her thighs. She wanted him to take her there. She wanted him to touch her there…tenderly and persuasively— and, yes, persistently, rhythmically, stroking until she’d had enough. He’d ease her thighs wide apart and cup her buttocks to keep her in the most receptive position—and of course he’d pay close attention to her responses and stop the moment she wanted him to—
‘Not too hot, are you?’ Raffa said, turning as she sighed.
‘No, I’m fine,’ she fudged, pretending to ease cramped limbs, though goodness knew there was enough room in the limousine to stretch out.
Her imagination would get her into trouble one day, Casey acknowledged, but while her fertile mind insisted on teasing her with erotic possibilities in A’Qaban, her sensible self knew there was no law that said she had to open those doors and walk through.
Maybe not. But she did have to shift position discreetly now and then to ease the worrying signs of arousal those thoughts had provoked.

By the time they turned into the flag-lined drive of what Raffa briefly explained was A’Qaban’s premier hotel, Casey realised the towering pink stone building, modelled on the lines of an ancient fort, was something else she would be expected to market. She paid close attention. If the inside of the building were only half as impressive as the outside the hotel would sell itself, and the truth was she ached to take on tougher projects. Surely it was the diversity of culture and landscape that would sell A’Qaban to the world? She had to win the right to visit the desert.
As the chauffeur drew the limousine to a halt at the foot of a wide sweep of steps, and Casey saw doormen better dressed than she was, she knew what her first steps towards that goal must be.
But Raffa spoke first. ‘Take some rest,’ he said abruptly.
Maybe he couldn’t wait to get rid of her.
‘You’ll be working flat out tomorrow. You’ll find a list of essential telephone numbers in your room.’
So he had changed his mind about the shopping trip. ‘And my business suit?’
‘I’ll call an aide and have a selection sent up to your suite.’
Casey frowned. So some man was going to assume he knew what she should be wearing? ‘That won’t be necessary, thank you,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll make my own arrangements.’
‘That is the way we do things here.’
‘Well, it’s not my way to have someone choose my clothes.’ She had intended to couch her refusal in a way she hoped Raffa would not find offensive, but unfortunately it didn’t come out that way, and she found herself confronting his narrowed gaze. ‘I’m used to picking out and paying for my clothes myself, you see,’ she added, hoping to soften the effect of her first sally.
Had she gone too far?
Raffa’s stern expression exhibited surprise, and then faint amusement.
Which left her with just one thing to sort out. ‘When will I see you again?’
‘I’ll be in touch.’ He turned away, effectively dismissing her.
She had gone way too far.
Plus, as he turned to leave her she got the distinct and very embarrassing impression that he had not thought she was talking about their next business meeting. ‘I mean when will our next business meeting be?’ she clarified.
‘What else?’ Leaning half in and half out of the car, Raffa spoke to her in a muted and discreet tone that allowed him to get his message across loud and clear: ‘If this doesn’t work out for you, Casey, there are plenty of other jobs in my organization.’
Roger that. ‘But this is the job I want,’ she said stubbornly, holding his gaze for as long as she dared so there could be no mistake.
Sweeping inky brows rose minutely. Shutting the car door, Raffa made some signal, and then both he and the limousine swept away.

So she liked to live dangerously, he mused, turning to watch Casey walk up the steps of the hotel. It amused him to see that she had managed to wrestle her backpack from the horrified doorman already. She was quite determined to go it alone and she made him smile. She hadn’t given him so much as a chance to have the shopping mall closed for her to have a spending spree on him. Oh, no, that wasn’t Casey Michaels’s way.
He eased back in his seat, but found it impossible to relax. He swung round in his seat to take one final look at her.
In fact…
‘Turn around, please,’ he told the driver. ‘We’re going back.’

Oh, wow! She really must stop running around the suite, picking things up and putting them down again, and try to get over the fact that she had been given accommodation that exceeded her wildest dreams by her wildest dreams.
Racing into the bathroom, she turned on the drench shower, getting drenched in the process, before sprinting back into the biggest bedroom she’d ever seen.
Who needed a gym when you had your own running track?
And, no, her backpack wasn’t in here, it was still in the ballroom-sized lounge, Casey remembered, chasing back the way she’d come. She had the whole of the top floor to herself, for goodness’ sake. It was less a penthouse and more a country. Even her bulging pack looked like a doll’s accessory, lying where she had discarded it on the football-pitch-sized rug in the centre of the floor.
Fighting with the buckles, she flung it open and delved inside. The best she could come up with was a white T-shirt, a pair of old jeans and some flip-flops, but at least they were clean and fresh, and they’d have to do. Flinging the chosen outfit onto a chair, she raced back to the bathroom, tugging off clothes as she ran. Stepping gratefully beneath the tepid water, she soaped herself down. This was a bathroom fit for a king—a bathroom the size of her family home—a bathroom lined in pink-veined cream marble with a matching floor. There were black granite surfaces and golden taps. It wasn’t to her taste, but there was no doubt it was the height of luxury, the height of decadence, the height of—well, the height. And there was even a store-sized selection of high end products for her to choose from.
But no time to use them.
She grabbed for towels in her excitement, plucking the first ones that came to hand from the heated rail. Wrapping her hair in one, she almost managed to wrap her body in the other before barging through the door, and—
Paling with shock, she remained rooted to the spot, clutching her wholly inadequate towel over those bits most obviously reacting to the ruler of A’Qaban.
Raffa was currently lounging on the sofa. Surprised, excited and embarrassed, she performed a virginal two-step, backing her way to the bathroom door, conscious all the while her towel was slipping. ‘Wh…who let you in?’
‘Your butler.’
‘My…?’ She didn’t even know she had a butler. How many more invisible men were sharing the penthouse with her?
Unfolding his powerful frame, Raffa straightened up and did the last thing she expected. ‘What are you doing?’ She backed away nervously as he strolled towards her.
‘I thought you might need these…’
He sounded so relaxed she wondered if dealing with half-naked employees was par for the course. But then she saw what he was holding. As Raffa’s cool, sexy gaze remained steady on her face, she extended one hand cautiously to take the jeans and top she’d chosen to wear.
‘Most people who stay here use this space as a meeting room and reception area,’ he explained.
And don’t run around it naked, Casey gathered, pressing back against the bathroom door. ‘Could you…?’ How to make the required gesture without dropping her towel?
Fortunately, Raffa anticipated her. ‘Could I turn around?’ he suggested.
Could he read her mind? She hoped not. ‘Please…’
‘My pleasure…’
It was a relief to turn his back on Casey and allow his stern expression to unbend a little. She was so warm and pink and flustered; she was adorable. Not a quality he sought, necessarily, in his executives.
‘Okay, you can turn round now.’
How piquant to be given permission. But there had been too many compliant milksops in his life recently, and he rated ladies who stood up to him. Executives who stood up to him, he amended.
‘Did you need something?’ Casey sounded concerned, professional, as she straightened her clothes.
‘The shopping trip,’ he reminded her.
‘I’ve got it covered.’
‘You have?’ He narrowed his eyes, viewing the towel she had discarded on the floor. She blushed violently as she explained, ‘I called a cab.’
‘No need.’
‘No need?’
As she angled her face and stared at him with an ingenuous look in her clear blue eyes he got a jolt. She affected him in a way no executive should. That didn’t stop him sticking to his plan. ‘I’ll take you.’
‘You?’
She looked alarmed, as if he had suggested something immoral. His gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips. They were full, moist, and slightly parted. He had certainly never wanted to kiss one of his executives before.
‘Why?’ she said suspiciously.
Had he had been expecting wall-to-wall gratitude? ‘Because it’s the least I can do,’ he explained. ‘I brought you here with a backpack and a shovel, and you need a suit.’ He made a gesture, as if to say that was an end of it. ‘Shall we go?’ He looked towards the door.
‘Only if you promise I can pay.’
‘What?’ As he held her gaze he was amused to think anyone could be so humdrum on paper and yet so original in the flesh.
She brandished her purse. ‘Promise me…’
‘I thought Sheikhs were supposed to pay?’ He spoke lightly to restore her mood, but she only blushed again and looked away. He guessed she was concerned she had overstepped the mark and had lost the job without a hand being played. What would the papers have to say about this? he wondered as he gave his word.
‘Thank you. And as for Sheikhs,’ she admitted shyly, ‘I really don’t know—you’re my first.’
And your last, he thought fiercely.
‘Muta assif, Casey Michaels,’ he intoned in a deceptively calm voice. ‘Please accept my apologies if I have insulted you.’
‘No insult,’ she hurried to assure him. ‘It’s just that I’m used to paying my own way.’
‘You should never apologise for that.’ He held the door for her.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE limousine had gone home to bed, and in its place was a blood red Lamborghini.
‘You wanted to go shopping didn’t you?’ Raffa prompted, when Casey remained rooted to the spot, staring at the fabulous vehicle in confusion.
‘Of course I do, but—’
‘But what?’
But it was a small car where they’d almost be touching— where they’d be sharing the same air, the same breath. ‘Is the boot big enough?’
‘For one business suit?’ Raffa looked at her sideways.
What to say? She couldn’t admit that she didn’t trust herself to sit so close to him without her brain scrambling and something addled coming out of her mouth.
‘The shops don’t stay open all night.’
She took the prompt as a warning to get a move on, and made her way to the open door where, with as much grace as she could muster, she performed the contortions required to insert a reasonably well-upholstered body into a letter-box-sized opening.
‘It’s a moulded seat,’ Raffa explained helpfully as she bumped her hips in a dozen different places.
Moulded around Tinkerbell’s bottom, Casey presumed, forcing her own rather more ample curves into the available space. ‘Lovely…’ She beamed, remembering not to flinch as Raffa settled himself beside her.
He was being helpful, she reminded herself. He didn’t need to do this.
And she didn’t need to stare at his strong, capable hands on the wheel, or his legs…But she could see the muscles in his thighs working as he operated the vehicle, and they were really gripping her attention. She raised her chin in time to see Raffa lower what to her would be around a month’s worth of wages in designer sunglasses past the obstacle of his ridiculously long eyelashes and part-way down his nose. Far too late now to evade his laser stare.
‘It is a very big shopping mall. Give me a clue as to what you need and I’ll decide where to park up.’
‘Just a serviceable suit.’
‘Which you’ll wear with flip-flops? Don’t waste my time,’ he warned, settling his sunglasses into position. ‘Remember the five “P’s”.’
‘The five what?’ She turned to look at him in bewilderment.
‘Proper Preparation Prevents Poor Performance.’
‘Of course…’ What? ‘I won’t,’ she assured him.
As Raffa gunned the engine and released the brake her full attention returned to his face. He hated shopping; she could understand that—he was a man. But maybe, just maybe, she could use this opportunity to turn the shopping trip into an advantage…‘ I can’t wait to get star—’
The rest of Casey’s sentence was lost in the roar of the colossal engine as the Lamborghini took off. G-Force knocked her back in her seat, rendering conversation impossible.

He would give Casey the same chance he’d given all the other candidates.
And then…?
She’d fail, and he’d send her home, of course.
His lips tugged as his body argued with this sombre inner counsel. It would be interesting to see which half of him won through in the end.
He drew into the extensive car park, where a valet was waiting to park the car. ‘Money?’ he prompted, before Casey got out. He was still prepared to help her, but she had plumbed the pockets of her jeans, coming up with a handful of screwed-up notes and some spare change, which she now showed him. He stared at it dubiously. ‘Are you sure that’s enough?’
‘It’s plenty for what I need,’ she told him, jutting out her chin. ‘It’s more than I usually spend…’
He raised a brow and said nothing.
He followed her inside as his silent guards peeled out of the following cars. This was a first for them, he mused as he left the order of the car park behind for the bustle and glamour of an up-market mall. He motioned his guards to remain in the background as Casey consulted the mall guide. Having looked around to get her bearings, she headed off.
He followed her with interest. Shopping malls in A’Qaban were for exclusive labels only. Most of the shops didn’t reveal anything so vulgar as the cost of an article, and though personally he hated floating prices, with increasing wealth they had become a fact of life in the country. The general consensus was, if you had to ask the price, chances were you couldn’t afford it. To him that was not only insulting, but open to misuse, allowing prices to be thought up on a whim. It was on his list of things to change—but not today, because this was Casey Michaels’s day and his concerns were all for her.
He had brought Casey to A’Qaban to test her business acumen, not to humiliate her, he reminded himself, staying right behind her. If it got anywhere close to that, he’d step in.
He waited in the shadows of the first boutique to see how she got on. The shop specialised in clothes he thought far too old for her. As he had feared, the misnamed ‘assistants’ were dismissive of Casey, and barely looked her way as she searched the rails. He felt insulted and angry on her behalf. He wasn’t surprised to see a photograph of the late Sheikh, a distant relative of his, still hanging on the wall. Attitudes here were still in the Dark Ages. He intended A’Qaban to be a country of equal opportunity, where everyone would be treated with respect. The employees here had some shocks in store when that happened, but for now Casey was stuck with the ancient regime, and it pained him to see her embarrassment when she came out of the shop.
‘I’m sorry to keep you, Raffa, but there’s nothing I like in here.’
‘Don’t apologise.’ Seeing her face fall, and knowing she couldn’t afford anything in the shop, he nudged Casey into the shadows, where no one could see what they were doing.
She turned her face up to him, staring at him warily.
‘Call it an advance on your wages,’ he murmured, wanting to save her pride.
‘No…Please…’
Her tiny hand pushed his away as he tried in vain to pass a wad of banknotes to her.
‘I mean it, Raffa. Please don’t…’
He eased back, respecting her position, and had to satisfy himself with a raised brow at the snooty manageress as they left the shop.
Seeing his face clearly in the light, the woman blenched.
Without a word of complaint Casey headed for the next shop, but when she was shown the same lack of attention he decided he must put her out of her misery.
‘No, really—I’ve learned a lot,’ she explained when he again drew her to one side.
Such as she couldn’t afford anything in A’Qaban? Such as people without enough money got snubbed here? That wasn’t what he wanted for his country. He felt ashamed, and was already reaching for his wallet again when Casey’s face suddenly lit up.
‘Ah, that’s what I need,’ she exclaimed, heading off in the direction of a well-stocked stationery shop.
‘Don’t get distracted,’ he warned. He was sympathetic, but he’d brought her here for a purpose, not for a protracted shopping trip.
‘Will you wait outside for me?’
He ground his jaw. He could understand she wouldn’t want him witnessing any more embarrassing situations, but now was not the time to be searching for a postcard home. ‘Will you please take some money from me and get whatever it is you need?’
‘I won’t need a lot of money for this,’ she informed him.
Intrigued, he followed her into the shop, where she bought a clipboard and a pen. ‘That’s it?’ he said as she paid for them.
‘What more do I need?’
‘Do you intend wearing them?’ he asked dryly.
Casey’s response was to press back against the counter, clutching her purchases to her breast like a shield.
‘That was a joke?’ he prompted lightly.
‘Of course I don’t intend wearing them.’
She acted bold, but not for the first time he sensed her fear of him as a man. It was raw and very real to her, and it made him curious, but for now he stepped away. The last thing on his mind was to intimidate her.
‘Will you come with me?’ she said, as if concerned she’d tried his patience too far.
‘Lead the way…’ He made a gesture for her to go first, noticing her lips were parted and her gaze was fixed on him. And she was breathing too fast. She was a lot more innocent than he could ever have imagined, but she was aroused.
She was vulnerable, he told himself sternly as she walked past, and as such Casey Michaels was untouchable.
He matched his stride to her shorter one, keen to see where this was going. He waved his guards away when they threatened to get in her way. She was retracing her steps, he noticed with interest, heading back to the first shop. He waited while she went inside. He waited with rather less forbearance when the same snooty assistants were rude to her again. They ignored her. Or at least they ignored her for the first five minutes—after which they paid her a lot more attention. Perhaps that had something to do with the fact that Casey had taken up a position in the centre of their store and was using her clipboard to write down what appeared to be a detailed inventory of their stock.
‘Can I help you?’ the assistant detailed to apprehend Casey demanded.
‘No, thank you,’ Casey replied politely. ‘But I’m pretty sure I can help you.’
Botoxed brows rose as far as they were able.
His ears pricked up. He took a step forward and had to curb his impatience to step in. If the woman saw him, whatever project Casey had embarked on would be sunk.
‘Actually,’ Casey continued in the same pleasant and confiding tone, ‘I’m conducting a survey for Sheikh Rafik al Rafar bin Haktari on the level of service customers receive in his stores.’ As the woman tensed, she added, ‘The Sheikh does own this boutique, I believe?’
‘Together with every other shop in the mall,’ the assistant confirmed, in a voice that not only lacked its former sneer but had gained a wobble.
‘Yes, that’s what I thought,’ Casey agreed. ‘You see, I am what’s known in the trade as a Secret Shopper.’
At this point he thought the assistant in more need of assistance than Casey, and had to admit he was impressed by the end result—which involved Casey making a clean sweep of the store without a penny changing hands.
‘Sale or approval,’ she explained to him breezily on her way out.
He got it now. He would pay for them eventually. Clever? Yes. But ultimately disappointing. It always came down to money in the end. He could only hope that if Casey intended to repeat the exercise she would choose a younger range of clothes for her next rapacious fashion trolley-dash.
But she had another surprise in store for him.
‘I shan’t keep them,’ she confided as they strode together down the brilliantly lit mall.
‘So what will you do with them?’ He waved a hovering security guard forward to take the packages.
‘Return them, of course.’
‘But how does that help your situation?’
She gave him a look, clearly getting into her stride now. ‘Can I have a little longer to prove my point?’
‘As long as there is a point to prove, you can take as long as you like—within reason.’
Her next stop was a cashpoint machine. Instinctively, he checked around for paparazzi. Sheikh Rafik al Rafar, billionaire tycoon, waiting patiently beside a cashpoint while his companion du jour extracted a measly two hundred dollars— counting it carefully before stowing it safely in her purse— that would make a great headline.
‘That should be enough,’ she said, glancing up at him.
Wisely, he declined to comment, and merely indicated that Casey should lead the way.
The moment he saw her destination he understood. There was one store of international renown that had managed to transcend labels and had acquired a cachet of its own. It had done this by being a fast follower of the catwalk fashions at a fraction of the cost. And it was to this store that Casey took him now. She bought a small selection of clothes, with a pretty shawl to wear over them, the cheapest of bags, and a cardigan.
‘I expect you’d prefer me to cover my arms in some situations,’ she observed thoughtfully.
Actually, he’d like her to uncover everything, and he only pulled back from those thoughts because some better part of him conceded she was too pure for him to sully. Such a pity— so much unlit fire going to waste in her veins.
She had bought a pair of trousers too, and he had to admit that pleased him. If she did survive the interview in the city there were still those traditionalists in the interior who looked down on shows of flesh, and he didn’t want anyone looking down on Casey Michaels. Other than him, of course, and then only from his height advantage, he reflected wryly as she unfurled her tiny hand to show him the coins she had left.
‘And I’ve still got change,’ she told him triumphantly.
‘You’ve done well,’ he admitted, ‘but you should have let me pay.’
‘Why?’ Her blue eyes levelled on his.
‘Non-taxable expenses?’ he teased her, deadpan.
‘You draw expenses?’ she challenged him. No soon had she spoken than she slapped a hand over her mouth, exclaiming how sorry she was, and that it was no business of hers whether or not he paid tax to himself.
‘What am I going to do with you?’ He really meant it. But, concluding tiredness had finally caught up with her, and that she was probably dehydrated too, he decided on a change of plan.
‘Juice?’ Her voice was trembling. ‘Oh, yes, please—I’m just dying for a drink.’
‘Save that sentiment for the desert.’
She was instantly alert, clearly not so tired as he had thought her. They both knew the promise of a visit to the desert meant she was still in the game. How could she not be? he thought, when he saw her eyes darken.
* * *
She shouldn’t undercut him when he spoke. She mustn’t walk too close to him, either. Or assume anything, Casey reprimanded herself as Raffa led the way towards a chi-chi café in the basement of the mall. An opportunity to visit the desert and keep in the running for this job hung by a thread, and so it was more important than ever to show the best of her professional self. She must be all about business from this moment on.
But how easy was that when nothing compared to wanting Raffa in all the wrong ways…ways that had nothing to do with business at all?

The combination of apple, mint and celery in the smoothie was delicious, and so was the sight of Casey’s full red lips pursing around the straw.
‘Some time during my stay,’ she said, biting her lip as she thought out loud, ‘I’d like to come back to this mall.’
‘To do what?’ he said suspiciously.
‘To conduct a proper survey.’
‘Go on,’ he pressed.
‘Well, it seems to me that some of these stores are hardly welcoming…’
Understatement, he reflected.
‘And if you’re serious about increasing footfall significantly as the tourist industry grows, I think your staff would benefit from more training. It would both incentivise them and increase your profits substantially.’
He was leaning forward, staring into her eyes, finding it harder and harder to remember why it was so important to keep this on a professional footing. ‘You don’t say?’ he mocked gently.
‘But I do say,’ she assured him, all confidence and reason in her role of marketing executive. ‘Some of us might not be as rich as others, but our money is just as good. And if lots of us little people spend—’
‘Little people?’ In spite of his best efforts, his lips curved. Nothing on earth would convince him to think of Casey as little or insignificant in any way—or, indeed, others like her. Since when had wealth become a measure of the man? ‘It has never been my intention to build an exclusive enclave in A’Qaban, solely for the rich to enjoy.’
‘Then why don’t you make use of my expertise in not having lots of money while you can?’ she suggested playfully.
‘I might just do that.’
Her eyes flashed, and then she remembered who he was and looked down. He liked the way she grew in confidence whenever business was under discussion, but would she ever achieve that same degree of poise in her personal life? He hoped so—though perhaps not while she was here in A’Qaban. He could do many things, but he hadn’t yet learned how to rein in his libido, and she could feel it however hard he tried to curb his interest.
She drained her drink and, with all talk of business over between them, she seemed at a loss again. She flicked him a glance and looked away. As one blush started bleeding into another he felt he must reassure her.
‘You’re doing okay.’ Reaching out, he briefly covered her hand with his.
‘I’m fine,’ she assured him, flinching back. And then, gaining in confidence, she added, ‘I’m not relying on instinct. I have a degree in—’
‘Shopping?’ he suggested dryly.
‘In retail marketing,’ she corrected him solemnly.
He liked that. No one pulled him up—ever. He liked it almost more than when she blushed and looked away. He liked it too much, he decided, standing up.
‘Shall we go?’ He held her chair for her, discreetly waving away the bodyguards who would have done that for him. ‘And now I’m taking you straight back to the hotel,’ he insisted, his gaze drawn to the dark circles beneath her eyes. ‘You look tired.’
‘It’s only temporary. I’ll be up bright and early in the morning,’ she assured him.
She’d sleep comfortably through to noon, he guessed as their gazes briefly met and held. He wanted to give her the morning off, but how would that be fair to the other candidates? And now, before the image of Casey curled up and warm in bed could take hold of him, he made a move. ‘Come on, let’s go,’ he insisted, eager to break the spell she had woven.
‘Thank you for the smoothie,’ she said, shifting awkwardly in front of him. ‘And for…’
‘For what?’ he prompted when she hesitated.
‘For giving me this chance.’
‘You earned this chance,’ he told her steadily.
‘I know you have some weeding out to do—’
‘Stop fishing,’ he warned. ‘You’ll get my verdict like everyone else—before you leave.’
Distress flared in her eyes and was just as quickly gone. He’d make no allowances for Casey forming some emotional attachment to A’Qaban. What he’d told her was how it had to be. He wanted the best candidate for the job, and she’d be treated exactly the same as all the other candidates.
‘Is a suit all right for tomorrow morning?’ she asked in a much more businesslike fashion when he dropped her at the hotel.
Nude would have been his choice, if the circumstances had been different. ‘A suit is good,’ he agreed, passing her bags to the doorman. ‘Or smart casual would be fine too.’
They shook hands formally. He resisted the temptation to convey anything at all in his eyes, but when he stared back at her through the rearview mirror of the Lamborghini his foot stamped down on the throttle as if he couldn’t quite believe the effect she’d had on him.
CHAPTER FIVE
CASEY didn’t go straight to bed, as Raffa had suggested, but stayed up analysing the small amount of data she had managed to collect at the shopping mall. She even went down to the hotel business centre and typed it up. She wanted to impress him. It was important to her. Suddenly this wasn’t about the job any more, but about Raffa seeing her potential as an effective co-worker. She wasn’t the blunderer who had arrived all hot and bothered in A’Qaban, but to prove that to him she had to make sure everything she suggested in the way of change placed A’Qaban above criticism. Integrity was everything if she was going to build a world-class brand.
And she was going to build a world-class brand.
She put her computer to bed in the early hours, took a bath to ease feet screaming from pounding acres of marble mall floor, and tried to sleep. She couldn’t. Her brain was racing. Getting out of bed, she slipped on a robe and, picking up the previous day’s newspaper, unfurled the business pages of the A’Qaban Times.
What an eye-opener that was. The first headline to catch her attention read:
Car numberplate fetches $3 million in charity auction!
‘Father gave me blank cheque to buy new licence plates
for my 4-wheel drive,’ reports young socialite.
Holy moley! Dropping the newspaper on the bed, she paced the room, trying to picture that amount of money piled up in stacks around its perimeter. If it were piled up next to the off-roader it would probably hide it from view. But if the thought of so much excess went against her grain, at least it was a consolation to think a charity would benefit. And she mustn’t lose sight of her primary objective, which was to secure the job of marketing a country. So forget about blank cheques, car numberplates and over-indulged minor celebrities…
And Raffa.
Or she’d never get to sleep.
But as she wearily pulled back the bedcovers she couldn’t forget any of it; especially Raffa…

She must have drifted off to sleep some time in the early hours, Casey realized, as she woke slowly to find dawn peeping through the shutters. Making happy sounds of contentment, she decided to treat herself to another hour in bed. Firm and big, the bed was dressed with crisp white sheets that carried the faint scent of jasmine, and, like the hotel Raffa had put her up in, it was divine. Thankfully, the butler had remained invisible—ergo, also divine. And sleep was divine, Casey concluded, stretching lazily before turning her face into the soft bank of pillows. There was even a divine telephone within reach of the bed…
A ringing telephone.
She groped for it, grimacing at the unwelcome intrusion. ‘…llo…?’
‘Ten minutes. Downstairs in the lobby.’
Raffa!
She sat bolt-upright.
The line was dead before she had chance to reply.
Rolling out of bed, she landed on the floor. Picking herself up, she staggered, half asleep, in the general direction of the bathroom, blundering into things as she went. She managed to run up a total of stubbed toe, banged head and almost dislocated shoulder. Raffa had made it sound cheerfully like the middle of the day. And why not, when he had probably worked out and swum a thousand metres before showering down and placing his call?
After which thought, she entered the bathroom and turned the shower to its lowest temperature. Readying herself, she leaped in. And leaped out again, shrieking. There was only so much she could cope with at five o’ clock in the morning.
Teeth chattering, she set the shower to warm and returned. Washing her hair, she soaped down quickly, rinsed off again, and stepped out.
Better.
Much better.
Wrapping a towel around her head, she cleaned her teeth, sprayed deodorant everywhere—it stung in some places—and gargled with mouthwash.
Okay, she was most definitely awake now.
Scampering into the bedroom, she pounced on her knapsack and plucked out her sensible knickers. Teaming those with her sensible bra—the one that didn’t show beneath the shirt she’d bought, she chose dark trousers and a red cardigan rather than a jacket.
High heels, of course…
With trousers?
Discarding the trousers, she tugged on the skirt.
No good. Pale legs.
Throwing it off, she grabbed the trousers again.
Shirt, trousers, high heels…
Shirt, trousers, desert boots…
Definitely high heels.
Spinning in front of the full-length mirror, she viewed herself as critically as a two-and-a-half-second spin would allow.
Whatever the day ahead held, she was ready for it.
There was no time for make-up, and her hair was a candy-floss explosion she just bound in a band as she raced to the door. Her hand stalled halfway to the handle. Back up. What about the survey she’d prepared?
And some of the duty free scent she’d bought on the plane.
Squirt everywhere; sneeze. Finished.
Ready.
Two seconds to tuck the survey under her arm in a professional manner, and tip her chin at a businesslike angle. And still two minutes left on the ten-minute deadline.
She opened the door. ‘Oh, hell!’
‘Hello, yourself…’

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