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Tariq’s eyes narrowed as her protective command washed over him. His first instinct was to resist. He wasn’t used to care from the fairer sex. His experience of women usually involved the rapid removal of their clothing and them gasping out their pleasure when he touched them. Big eyes clouded with concern tended to be outside his experience.
‘And if I don’t?’ he challenged softly.
Their gazes clashed in a way which made Isobel’s stomach perform a peculiar little flip. She saw the mocking curve of his lips and suddenly she felt almost weak—as if she were the invalid, not him. Clamping down the sudden rise of longing, she shook her head—because she was damned if he was going to manipulate her the way other women let him manipulate them. ‘I don’t think you’re in any position to object,’ she answered coolly. ‘And if you did I could always threaten to hand my notice in.’
‘You wouldn’t do that, Izzy.’
‘Oh, wouldn’t I?’ she returned fiercely, because now she could see a hint of that awful pallor returning to his face, and a horrifying thought occurred to her. Yes, her mother had been a nurse, and she had learned lots of basic first aid through her. She had managed to convince the hospital doctor that she could cope. But what if she had taken on more than she could handle? What if Tariq began to have side-effects from his head injury? She thought about the hospital leaflet in her handbag and decided that she’d better consult it. ‘Now, will you please sit down?’
Unexpectedly, Tariq gave a low laugh. ‘You can be a fierce little tiger at times, can’t you?’
Something about his very obvious approval made her cheeks grow warm with pleasure. ‘I can if I need to be.’
‘Okay, you win.’ Sinking down onto a chintzy and over-stuffed sofa, he batted her a sardonic look. ‘Is that better, Nurse?’
Trying not to laugh, Isobel nodded. ‘Marginally. Do you think you could just try sitting there quietly while I light the fire?’
‘I can try.’
Tariq leaned back against a heap of cushions and watched as she busied herself with matches and kindling. Funny, really—he’d never really pictured Izzy in a cottage which was distinctly chocolate-boxy despite the sub-zero temperatures. Not that he’d given very much thought at all as to how his assistant lived her life.
Stifling a yawn, he looked around. The sitting room had those tiny windows which didn’t let in very much light, and a big, recessed fireplace—the kind you saw on the front of Christmas cards. She was crouching down in front of the grate, and he watched as she began to blow on the flames to coax them into life. He found his eyes drawn to the denim skirt, which now stretched tightly over the curves of her buttocks.
He swallowed down a sudden, debilitating leap of desire which made him harden in a way he hadn’t been expecting. In five years of close contact with his highly efficient assistant he couldn’t remember ever noticing her bottom before. And it was actually a rather fine bottom. Firm and high and beautifully rounded. The kind of bottom which a man liked to cup in the palms of his hands as he …
‘What?’ Isobel turned round and frowned.
‘I didn’t …’ Tariq swallowed. What the hell was going on? Did bumps to the head make men lose their senses, so that they started imagining all kinds of inappropriate things? ‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘But you made a funny sort of noise.’ Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. ‘Are you all right? Your eyes have gone all glazed.’
‘Are you surprised?’ Shifting his position, Tariq glared at her, willing his erection to subside. ‘I’ve just had to endure your driving.’
Isobel turned back to the now leaping flames, an unseen smile playing around her lips. If he was jumping down her throat like that, then there couldn’t be very much wrong with him.
She waited until the fire was properly alight and then went into the kitchen and made his favourite mint tea—bringing it back into the sitting room on a tray set with bone china cups and a jar of farm honey.
To her relief, she could see that he had taken her at her word. He’d kicked off his hand-made Italian shoes and was lying stretched out on the sofa, despite it being slightly too small to accommodate his lengthy frame. His thick black hair was outlined by a chintz cushion and his powerful thighs were splayed indolently against the faded velvet. It made an incongruous image, she realised—to see the über-masculine Sheikh in such a domestic setting as this.
She poured tea for them both, added honey to his, and put it down a small table beside him, her gaze straying to his face as she sat on the floor beside the fire. Tariq was known for his faintly unshaven buccaneering look, but today the deep shadowing which outlined the hard definition of his jaw made him look like a study in brooding testosterone.
Now it was Isobel’s turn to feel vulnerable. That faint butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling was back, bigtime. And so was that sudden sensitive prickling of her breasts. She swallowed. ‘How are you feeling?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Will you stop talking to me as if I’m an invalid?’
‘But that’s what you are, Tariq—otherwise you wouldn’t be here, would you? Just pu
t my mind at rest. I’m not asking you to divulge the secrets of your heart—just answer the question.’
For the first time he became aware of the faint shadows beneath her eyes. She must be tired, he realised suddenly, and frowned. Hadn’t he woken her at the crack of dawn yesterday? Called her and known she would come running to his aid without a second thought—because that was what she always did? Safe, reliable Izzy, who was always there when he needed her—often before he even realised he did. It wasn’t an observation which would have normally occurred to him, and the novelty of that made him consider her question instead of batting it away with his habitual impatience.
Oddly—apart from the lessening ache in his head and the woolly feeling which came from his having been inactive for over a day—he felt strangely relaxed. Usually he was alert and driven, restlessly looking ahead to the next challenge. He was also constantly on his guard, knowing that his royal blood made him a target for all kinds of social climbers. Or journalists masquerading as dinner-dates.
Since his brother had unexpectedly acceded to the throne it had grown worse—placing him firmly in the public eye. He was bitterly aware that his words were always listened to, often distorted and then repeated—so he used them with caution.
Yet right now he felt a rush of unfamiliar contentment which was completely alien to him. For the first time in his adult life he found himself alone in a confined space with a woman who wasn’t intent on removing his clothes ….
‘I have a slight ache in my …’ he shifted his position as she tucked her surprisingly long legs beneath her and he felt another sharp kick of awareness ‘… head. But other than that I feel okay.’
