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Iseult walked instinctively towards the stables, where Devil’s Kiss heard her coming and put his head out over his door with a welcoming whinny. Iseult smiled sadly and went over, rubbing him affectionately on the nose. ‘This is our last day together, Devil. You’ll be gone tomorrow…’
A huge lump constricted Iseult’s throat then, and she fought not to give in to the grief when she thought of how she’d hoped and prayed for a different outcome. But one good horse could never have turned their fortunes around. They’d have needed ten winners for that. Everyone had depended on her for as long as she could remember, so it was second nature now to bottle it up, swallow the lump down.
Her thoughts gravitated back to the Sheikh, and how threatened she’d felt just now with his tall, hard body against her back. She shivered. She couldn’t explain it, but from the moment she’d heard he was coming to get Devil’s Kiss himself her hackles had risen for no good reason. She’d put it down to the fact that she’d have felt that way about whoever the new owner was, but it was almost as if some sixth sense had warned her that he would threaten her on many more levels than that of just being the new owner of their stud, which was ridiculous.
Her conscience struck her again; she’d felt that way as soon as she’d seen the pictures of him on the internet. It had been a physical reaction to his image that had no basis in logic or rationality. She’d never been one to sigh over and lust after pin-ups; those normal rites of passage were something she’d never had time to indulge in as a teenager.
But then today her fears had been confirmed. From the moment she’d seen him out of the corner of her eye as she’d exercised Devil’s Kiss on the gallops every sense had gone onto high alert. Which had only got worse when she’d actually seen him up close. He was hard and implacable. Unreadable. And yet…some deeply secret and feminine part of her had thrilled inside when she’d seen him in the flesh.
Her mouth compressed as she continued to rub Devil’s Kiss distractedly. After losing her mother at the tender age of twelve, she’d never had anyone to encourage her out of her naturally tomboyish state. Her one failed attempt to be feminine had ended in abject humiliation, after which she’d vowed never to let anyone make her feel so vulnerable again…
Iseult cursed herself now. Why was she thinking of that memory? An image of the Sheikh’s hard, beautiful face came into her mind and her belly quivered. She resolutely refused to acknowledge the fact that this complete stranger seemed to have unlocked something deeply feminine within her, bringing back painful memories. It was preposterous, because there was no way on this earth that a man like him would ever notice someone like her. She’d seen pictures of his women on the internet: all stunning, polished, gorgeous. Every thing Iseult wasn’t and never would be.
She turned and walked back to the house reluctantly, driving down the mounting feeling of dread at the thought of facing the Sheikh again. She would have to apologise to him for her behaviour.
After taking off her boots again, and replacing them with trainers in the room beside the kitchen, Iseult walked through the house and paused outside the study door. Taking a deep breath, she knocked lightly and went in.
The Sheikh stood looking out of the big window which took in a view of rolling green fields as far as the eye could see and the gallops in the distance. Iseult’s breath hitched and her heart took up an unsteady rhythm. And then he slowly turned around, and heat climbed up her chest and into her face.
She stayed near the door and saw one ebony brow arch imperiously. She was reminded in that instance who she was dealing with, and who she had trifled with. She swallowed. ‘I owe you an apology.’
The brow stayed arched. He wasn’t going to make this easy.
‘I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that I was—’
He cut in then, and she could hear the anger vibrating in his voice. ‘Rude? Obnoxious? Behaving like a petulant teenager?’
Iseult fought to clamp down on a renewed surge of anger and clenched her fists. The Sheikh walked over to sit against the huge desk, crossing his arms over that formidable chest. In her peripheral vision Iseult could see the material of his jeans straining over his powerful thighs, and for a dizzy second she forgot what he’d just said.
But then she remembered. Her vision cleared, the red mist lifted. She lifted her chin. ‘I’m apologising now for my behaviour. I had no right to treat you with such disrespect.’
‘No, you didn’t.’ He sounded a little surprised, and looked at her assessingly. ‘But I can appreciate that this must be a difficult situation, so I’m prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt. For now.’
His eyes dropped for a moment, in a long sweep down her body. Iseult could feel that clammy sweat break out again. Why did she feel as if he’d undressed her every time he did that?
‘After all,’ he drawled, his eyes on hers again, ‘you can’t be more than…what? Eighteen?’
That red mist hovered close again. Iseult had to will it down and bit out, ‘I’m no child. I’m twenty-three.’
Nadim had to quell the surge of reaction when he heard how old she was. She was the same age as Sara had been when she’d— He ruthlessly cut off his thoughts there, uncomfortably aware of how different the woman in front of him was from his late wife. He didn’t appreciate being reminded of her now, and it made his voice harsh.
‘Clearly a very immature twenty-three-year-old, who can’t abide the thought of no longer being the mistress of the house.’
Iseult felt hysteria rising. ‘Clearly you’ve not taken a close look at your new property, Sheikh. It’s been a long time since there was a mistress of this house the way you’re implying. Everyone here works day and night to keep the place running. Even Mrs O’Brien hasn’t been paid in months; she’s here out of loyalty and because we provide a roof over her head.’ Her voice took on a bitter edge. ‘But evidently sheer hard work wasn’t enough to bring us through tough times.’
‘Or a good horse…’ Nadim said.
‘Or a good horse,’ Iseult repeated, unable to hide the weariness in her voice.
Nadim was taken aback by the sudden jump from passion to defeat. He’d clearly hit a nerve. Taking a closer look for the first time, he could see that Iseult was actually bordering on being painfully thin. And when her face wasn’t flushed with anger, as he’d seen it often enough today, it was pale…too pale. He could see faint purple shadows under her eyes. Something shifted in his chest, and a protective instinct nearly overwhelmed him with its force.
‘Is your father still drinking?’ he asked then, so abruptly that Iseult’s face flushed again. Curiously, it made Nadim feel somehow comforted.
She shook her head fiercely, her eyes flashing a warning. ‘He hasn’t touched a drop in seven years. And he won’t—ever again.’
Nadim’s mouth quirked, but not with humour. ‘Not even you can guarantee that—and I saw your worried glance earlier, before you saw he was drinking water. How do you know this transition won’t send him off the rails again? After all, isn’t that what precipitated your decline?’
Iseult wondered dimly how he’d so effortlessly articulated her own innermost worries, how he knew so much, but then had to concede that her father’s drinking problem had been common knowledge within their circles—despite her attempts to hide it and take his workload onto her shoulders.
