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‘And if lunch is good, you can also cook dinner for me this evening and I will pay you handsomely for your services,’ Rafiq completed levelly.
‘How handsome is handsome?’ Izzy pressed tautly.
Rafiq almost laughed at her upward glance of sudden interest. ‘I’m very generous when it’s a question of my comfort and convenience away from home.’
Izzy nodded slowly. ‘So, I’ll cook lunch.’
‘I thought you would argue.’
Izzy rolled her bright blue eyes. ‘Not a chance if you’re offering to pay me and keep quiet about my late arrival here. I’m not too proud to admit that I’m as poor as a church mouse and that when money talks, I listen.’
Rafiq liked her frankness even if he was a little turned off by it. Of course, he was accustomed to gold-diggers with a little more flair at hiding their true natures, the type that admired diamond jewellery, designer clothing or dropped loaded hints to ensure that they benefitted richly from any time they spent in his bed. Yet the minute his thoughts went in that judgmental direction, he was angry with himself. This particular woman was an ordinary woman working in an equally ordinary job to make a living, a person far removed from the polished models and spoiled socialites of his experience. On her terms, money was a basic need to cover real-world expenses like shelter and food and clothing.
‘You said I’ve got an hour?’ Izzy checked, peeling her tunic off up over her head, copper curls bouncing as she went for the challenge. ‘There’s no food here but there’s a supermarket across the street. You’ll have to tell me your likes and dislikes first.’
With difficulty, Rafiq dragged his attention from the bounce of her full breasts beneath her faded tee shirt as she removed the overall. His groin throbbed as though a blowtorch had been turned on him, the hunger, the need almost painful and at that moment he reached a decision. If everything went the way it should, he would take her to his bed and spend the night with her. Cruising clubs for a suitable pickup wasn’t really his thing. Drunken or loud women turned him off. His guards drew attention to him. Photos would be taken. Discretion was always a problem. Conscious that those sapphire-bright eyes were still locked to him with an air of expectancy, Rafiq stopped plotting and replied.
Izzy checked her watch. ‘First, shopping,’ she told him.
‘One of my guards will accompany you,’ Rafiq informed her.
‘That’s really not necessary.’
The dark eyes went cool and hard. ‘I decide what’s necessary around here.’
‘Oh...’ Izzy succumbed to an involuntary grin as if his innate dominance was somehow amusing. ‘Do you want me to call you “sir”?’
Rafiq thought about it since, after all, that was what he was accustomed to in company. Yet, there was something ridiculously refreshing about her playful irreverence. It lightened his mood and stimulated his sense of humour because he had not the slightest doubt that she’d be ‘sir’-ing him all the way if she knew that he was a crown prince.
‘No. You may call me Rafiq,’ he informed her smoothly.
‘Do you live in the UK?’
‘No. I live in Zenara,’ he divulged with greater reluctance.
But Izzy wasn’t even looking at him; she was gathering up her cleaning tools. ‘Never heard of it,’ she told him apologetically.
‘It’s in the Middle East,’ Rafiq felt moved to explain with amusement. ‘I gather you’re not a geography student.’
‘No, I’m doing English. My final year, final exams,’ she burbled with a wince, sidling past him, her hip bumping his. ‘Sorry, but I had better get on with that shopping...’
And just like that Rafiq’s attention was dismissed by a woman. Irritation and surprise and something perilously like pleasure warred within him because a woman had never walked away from him before. No, they always lingered, chatting, flirting, batting eyelashes and desperately trying to hold his interest. She wouldn’t be a pushover, that was for sure, he acknowledged with satisfaction, at that moment loving the prospect of a challenge.
As soon as she crossed the street, a hefty bodyguard at her side, Izzy unfurled her cheap mobile phone and rang her sister, Maya. ‘Well,’ she said cheerfully in a voice laden with sisterly mystery and promise. ‘Have I got a story to tell...’
