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O’Sullivan blustered and stuttered, ‘No, Sheikh Nadim. I never meant that at all. It’s just that Iseult has been training Devil’s Kiss…so she’s attached.’
Nadim flicked the man beside him a dark look, hiding the fact that he was taken aback anew to hear it confirmed that she’d trained him. And he had to admit, despite his misgivings, that the horse looked good.
‘I would hope that the advantage of keeping the training grounds and stud in your name, along with being kept on as manager, is benefit enough compared to the alternative—which is that your bank is ready to throw you out on the street.’
The older man was all but wringing his hands, clearly terrified he’d offended the new landlord. ‘Of course, Sheikh Nadim…I never meant to imply anything… It’s just that Iseult—well, she’s a bit headstrong. I hope that she doesn’t offend…’
His voice trailed away as the rider slowed and came to a halt, turning the horse slowly to face where Nadim and Paddy O’Sullivan stood. Nadim watched as they approached, and the rider became more obviously a young girl. Just how old was she, anyway? he wondered as they drew closer and closer. It was impossible to tell.
He noted with increasing displeasure that she wasn’t jumping off the horse to make his acquaintance.
For some reason, when his attention should have been taken by the horse, he found his eye resting curiously on its rider, his thoughts staying on her. A face was partially revealed beneath the lip of the cap. And something in his chest kicked once. Like an electric shock to his heart.
He could see that her face was exquisitely sculped—high cheekbones and a delicately firm jaw, straight nose. Her eyes were hidden by the cap, and her mouth was set in a mutinous line, but Nadim imagined that in repose it would be sensuously full. His gaze dropped and he saw the unmistakable line of slight but feminine curves beneath her T-shirt. He felt another kick then, in a more base part of his anatomy, and was astounded.
He expected such responses when he moved in sophisticated circles where mature, experienced, sensually confident women abounded. Not here in a strange country, on the edge of a green field, looking at a girl he’d moments ago dismissed as a boy. And who was irritating him more with each passing minute. Anger at his own unbidden response made the muscles in his face tighten.
Iseult O’Sullivan had hated every minute of having to exercise Devil’s Kiss for the man who had come to inspect the spoils of his takeover—especially when he didn’t even care enough to see what he was buying himself before he came today to sign the deal.
He’d sent an assistant to trespass on their land and take photographs, after which he’d quietly bought the adjoining land some months previously. And since then he’d been biding his time, waiting to strike—like a vulture circling over a decaying carcass—until they’d had no choice but to announce the sale. But as she looked down now, her boiling anger seemed to drain away.
She was suddenly absurdly glad to be sitting astride Devil’s back, because she knew if she was standing she might not be able to remember why she was angry. Her hands gripped the reins and Devil’s Kiss moved restlessly underneath her, sensing her inner agitation, his highly strung nature never too far from the surface.
The man was like something from another planet, and nothing like the stereotypical Arabic Sheikh she might have imagined if she hadn’t already Googled him for information and seen pictures. And, despite having seen pictures of him, it was still hard for her to deal with the reality. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, and was as insanely good-looking as his pictures had promised. Tall, handsome, and dangerously dark.
He was wearing faded jeans which clung indecently to powerful thigh muscles, and a dark long-sleeved polo shirt, its sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms. His biceps bulged against the material of his shirt, and the fine Irish mist settled over him like a glittering diamond coat. His darkly olive skin stood out against the lush backdrop like an exotic hothouse flower.
One booted foot was lifted to rest negligently on the bottom rung of the fence. His hair was short and dark, but thick, as if it would lean towards unruly curls if allowed to grow any longer.
She took in all this in a second, with an accelerating heartbeat. Virile sexuality drenched the air around him like a tangible forcefield and Iseult shivered involuntarily, recognising a base sexuality that seemed to resonate with something equally base within her.
He carried an air of authority and power suited to the monarch he was, ruling over a wealthy sheikhdom where he owned one of the most exclusive thoroughbred stables on the Arabian peninsula. The kind of stables where legendary winners were bred and trained.
With her heart stuttering in her chest, Iseult watched as the Sheikh calmly and gracefully vaulted over the fence, not a hint of strain on his face even though the fence was over five feet. Immediately Devil’s head reared back, nostrils flaring, and he stepped sideways with a skittish move. Iseult patted the horse and murmured encouragement for him to not make this easy on his new owner.
Her father, standing just a few feet away, was sending fervent silent signals to Iseult: Please behave. But she was too heartsore to behave, no matter how she’d been momentarily thrown. This man was coolly and calmly taking everything she’d ever known and loved, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it except not make it easy for him.
The Sheikh was looking up at her, and she could see the expressions crossing his face, and his anger mounting that she wasn’t jumping off, jumping to attention. While she’d have liked to think that she was consciously making her displeasure known, she knew her inability to move had more to do with his sheer male charisma than any rebellion. Finally her father’s voice intruded, and she could hear the fear. ‘Iseult, please allow Sheikh Nadim to ride Devil’s Kiss. He’s come a long way.’
With much less grace than she was used to Iseult slipped off the horse and came around his head to hand the reins to the Sheikh. Her legs turned to water when she recognised just how tall and well built he was. Like one long, lean and hardened muscle, with shoulders so broad they blocked out the background.
She felt innately feminine next to his superior build. It was very disturbing when she’d long ago given up any attempt to explore that side of herself, assuming she just didn’t have it in her. Reaction to her thoughts made her all but thrust the reins at him. ‘Here you are.’
His black eyes glittered dangerously, and Iseult was glad of the protection of her cap. She desperately wanted him to take the reins before he could see how her hand was starting to shake, and to her intense relief he did. But not before his fingers touched off hers, and she jerked back so quickly that Devil’s Kiss moved skittishly again.
Before she could lose it completely she turned and walked away through the soft damp grass, and climbed over the fence jerkily to stand by her father, who was radiating waves of disapproval. She’d never
felt so out of control of her own body and emotions, and she didn’t like it one bit.
She watched with a thumping heart as Sheikh Nadim coolly and calmly walked around the horse, lengthening the stirrups and running a large brown hand over his flanks. Iseult’s belly tightened and she felt a flare of something hot in her abdomen.
Then he vaulted onto the horse with a fluid grace she’d never seen before, and nudged Devil’s Kiss straight into a canter. Iseult’s throat dried up completely. Devil’s Kiss was an absolute traitor; he’d shown not even a flicker of rebellion at seating this man, clearly recognising his skill and authority.
Sheikh Nadim al Saqr was considered something of a rebel in horse breeding circles, as he’d been slow to set up a base in Europe, preferring to keep his horses in his home country, out of sight and highly secret. The world of flat racing had been sent into a tailspin when he’d entered one of his three-year-olds into the most prestigious race in Europe at Longchamp the previous year and it had won. A rank outsider, who had only raced previously in Dubai, it had stunned everyone and made the racing world sit up and recognise Sheikh Nadim al Saqr as a serious contender.
Beside her, her father chuckled softly and said, ‘Weren’t expecting Devil’s Kiss to take to him like that, were you?’
The backs of Iseult’s eyes stung with hot tears, which was so unlike her—after everything she’d been through she rarely if ever resorted to tears, and suddenly she was a bag of weeping hormones. This was the ultimate betrayal, coming on top of everything else. With an incoherent grunt she turned and stormed off, back up the drive to the house they no longer owned, away from the field they also no longer owned.
