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“Yes.” She nodded, splashing her fingertips down onto the water. “I suppose I was.” Phoebe had kept herself busy. It had taken years to pull herself out of the emotional slump Etienne had pushed her into. Being busy and distracted had helped. Sheikh Hakim was silent. “You do not approve?” She prompted, finally.
He arched his brows in surprise. “Do you care, either way?”
“No.” Her smile was dazzling in its beauty and sincerity. She looked directly at him, as she smiled, and when her pale eyes met his dark ones, something seemed to spark between them. An invisible but unmistakable spark of electricity, that killed the smile instantly. She swallowed and looked away again.
Hakim cut through the water easily, reminding Phoebe of a predatory animal. He stood only a foot or so from her, his darkly tanned body wet and smooth. Her eyes seemed glued to his mouth. His firm, wide mouth, above a square jaw dusted with dark stubble. “I am unaccustomed to anyone speaking to me as you do, Phoebe Douglas-Cauve.”
“Phoebe Douglas,” she corrected, lifting her eyes to his and feeling that strange flash of awareness in her stomach once more. “Not Douglas-Cauve.”
His dark eyes were locked with hers, silently probing her, silently reading her, silently asking her questions she didn’t want to answer. Finally, his voice painfully cold, he said, “You did not like Etienne.”
Phoebe bit down on her lower lip and looked away. In her chest, her heart was beating like bees trapped in a glass. “He was not my father. It seemed disingenuous to continue to use his surname after he’d died.”
Hakim saw the way conflicting emotions danced through her eyes. “Yet you will take his fortune.”
She looked at him, defiantly. She had great plans for Etienne’s fortune, and she needed every penny to make good on them. “Yes. The money serves my purpose. The name did not.”
Hakim spoke harshly, in his native tongue. Phoebe could only guess, judging by the inflection, that he was cursing. “You dare speak with such disrespect for a man who loved you as his own daughter?”
Phoebe’s nostrils flared wide. “You know nothing about the matter, Hakim.”
He glared at her. “In my palace, and my country, you may address me as Sir or Sheikh Al Meshuda. Do you understand?”
She glared at him. “Perfectly.”
“And do not forget, Phoebe, that there will be no fortune if you do not convince me that you deserve it.”
Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “I am sure you cannot do that. I could hire a lawyer.”
His laugh was a rich rumble. “To take me on? Who would be so stupid?”
“You are an arrogant piece of work!” She kicked through the water, moving to the stairs at the end. Hakim watched her, wondering why this one woman was able to inspire such a level of antipathy and emotion in him. He’d never known such a stirring sense of feeling.
“Arrogant, perhaps. But I am also honest. Do not leave this pool.”
Phoebe’s heart was racing, but she suspected anger was only partly responsible. “Why not?” She asked, her hands on the coping.
“Because I am not finished speaking with you.” He said, simply, moving slowly towards her.
Phoebe, understandably, had a deeply held hatred for bossy men. For men who ordered instead of asked, who dictated rather than cajoled. But Sheikh Hakim’s arrogantly demanding nature was bringing out completely new emotions. She spun around, and found he was only inches from her. Her breath hitched in her throat, but she would not look away. “Do I have to ask to be dismissed, sir?” Her tone was dripping with mocking deference.
He swore again. “I have met you three times in my life, and each time has left me with a desire to shout at you until you understand my feelings. What is it about you that makes me so furious?”
“Simple,” she responded, her voice wobbling slightly. “You’ve said it yourself. I’m spoiled, selfish, and I hate the man you claim to have loved like a second father.”
He shook his head. “It is not that.” He leaned closer, his face curious. “When did I say that?”
Phoebe could hardly breathe. Hakim was subjecting her to a slow, steady appraisal, his dark eyes fanning a flame inside of her that she didn’t know she’d ever be able to extinguish. As his eyes caressed her full, parted lips, she felt a kick of arousal, swift and unmistakable, low in her abdomen. She needed space.
She pulled herself from the pool in one easy movement, unaware of how elegant her body was as she stood, and rung her hair out over one shoulder.
Hakim, to her chagrin, followed suit. “Phoebe?”
“After his funeral.”
Hakim was still, as he recalled the facts of that day. The first time he’d seen Phoebe; the day he’d said farewell to a dear friend. “Yes, I did.”
“Anyway,” she waved a hand through the air, self-conscious in her one piece bathing suit beneath his undisguised appraisal. “I feel the same about you.”
