The Secret Kept From The King (Mills & Boon Modern) Page 2

  ‘And you have the tea for that.’

  ‘Scotch might work better.’

  ‘Would you like me to organise some for you?’

  He tilted his head to hers again. ‘It’s after three.’

  His words made little sense.

  ‘It’s after three and you’re working.’

  ‘Oh, right. Yes. That’s my job.’

  He lifted a brow. ‘To work through the night?’

  ‘To work when you need me,’ she said with a lift of her shoulders. Then, with a swift correction, ‘Or when any guest of the Presidential suite requires me. I’m assigned to this suite exclusively.’

  ‘And you have to do whatever I ask?’ he prompted.

  A small smile lifted her lips. ‘Well, not quite.’ She couldn’t suppress the teasing quality from her voice. ‘I can’t cook and I don’t know any jokes, but when it comes to facilitating your requests, then yes, I do whatever is humanly possible to make them happen.’

  ‘And that’s your employment.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He sipped the tea without taking his dark eyes off her. Ordinarily, she would have taken that opportunity to leave, but there was a contradiction within this man that had her saying, ‘I would have thought you’d be used to that degree of service.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because you travel with an entourage of forty men, all of whom it would appear exist to serve your every whim?’

  Another sip of his tea. ‘Yes, this is their job. I am King, and in my country serving the royal family is a great honour.’

  Something tweaked in the back of her brain. A memory from a news article she’d read a couple of weeks ago. His father had died. Recently.

  Compassion moved through her, and empathy, because she could vividly remember the pain of that loss. Five years ago, when her mother had died, she had felt as if she’d never be whole again. In time, day by day, she’d begun to feel more like herself, but it was still a work in progress. She felt her mother’s absence every day.

  It was that understanding that had her saying something she would normally not have dared. ‘I’m sorry, about your father. Losing a parent is...we know it’s something we should expect, but I don’t think anything really prepares us for what life without them will be like.’

  His eyes jolted to hers, widening in his face, so she immediately regretted her familiarity. He was a king, for goodness’ sake, and her job was to bring the tea!

  Dipping her head forward, she found she couldn’t meet his eyes. ‘If that’s all, sir, goodnight.’ She didn’t wait for his answer; turning away from him, she strode to the concealed door. Her hand was on it when he spoke.

  ‘Wait.’

  She paused, her heart slamming against her ribcage.

  She didn’t turn around, though.

  ‘Come back here.’

  Her pulse was like a torrent in her veins.

  She turned to face him. He was watching her. Her heart rate accelerated to the point of, surely, danger.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  A frown etched itself across his face. ‘Sit.’ He gestured to the sofas. ‘Drink tea with me.’

  A million reasons to say ‘no’ came to her. Not once in all the time she’d held this job had she come close to socialising with a guest. For one thing, it was completely forbidden in her contract.

  This is a professional establishment. They are not our friends. They are guests at the most exclusive hotel in the world.

  But that wasn’t the only reason she was resisting his invitation.

  He was too much. Too charming, too handsome, too completely masculine, and if her first, epic failure of a marriage had taught her anything, it was that men who were too handsome for their own good were not to be trusted.

  ‘I insist.’ His words cut through her hesitations, because, ultimately, he was asking her to join him for tea and surely that was within her job description? What the guests wanted, the guests got—within reason.

  ‘I don’t see how that will help you sleep,’ she reminded him, gently.

  His expression was like a whip cracking. ‘Are you refusing?’

  Panic had her shaking her head.

  Keep the guest happy, at all costs.

  ‘Of course not, sir.’ She was already walking through the room, towards the sofas. Only one cup had been on the tray—besides, she didn’t feel like persimmon tea. But she took a seat near the tray, her hands clasped neatly in her lap. And she waited for him to speak, her nerves stretching tighter and tighter with every silent beat that passed.

  ‘Good.’ His nod showed approval but it was hardly relaxing. The differences in their situations were apparent in every way. He was a king, his country renowned for its natural source of both oil and diamonds, making it hugely prosperous, with a chequered history of power-play as foreign forces sought to control both these natural resources for their own financial gain. Perhaps that explained the natural sense of power that exuded from every pore of his; he was a man born to rule a country that required a strong leader.

  ‘Would you like a tea?’

  ‘I think it would be rude to refuse,’ she said quietly, but he heard, if the quirk of his brow was anything to go by.

  ‘I have no interest in force-feeding you drinks native to my country. Would you prefer something else? Room service?’

  The idea of anyone else seeing her sitting on the sofa talking to the Sheikh was impossible to contemplate.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You’re sitting there as though you’re half afraid I’m going to bite you.’

  A small smile lifted Daisy’s mouth. ‘How should I be sitting, sir?’

  He took the seat opposite, his own body language relaxed. His legs, long and muscled, were spread wide, and he lifted one arm along the back of the sofa. He looked so completely at home here, in this world of extreme luxury. That was hardly surprising, given he’d undoubtedly been raised in this kind of environment.

  ‘However you would usually sit,’ he prompted.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, the words quizzical rather than apologetic. ‘It’s just this has never happened before.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘My job is to provide for your every need without actually being noticed.’

  At that, his eyes flared wider, speculation colouring his irises for a heart-racing moment. ‘I’m reasonably certain it would be impossible for you to escape anyone’s notice.’

  Heat rose in her cheeks, colouring them a pale pink that perfectly offset the golden tan of her complexion. She wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she stayed quiet.

  ‘Have you worked here long?’

  She compressed her lips then stopped when his eyes followed the gesture, tracing the outline of her mouth in a way that made her tummy flip and flop.

  ‘A few years.’ She didn’t add how hard that had been for her—to finally accept that her long-held dream of attending the Juilliard was beyond reach, once and for all.

  ‘And always in this capacity?’

  ‘I started in general concierge.’ She crossed her legs, relaxing back into the seat a little. ‘But about six months later, I was promoted to this position.’

  ‘And you enjoy it?’

  Of their own accord, her eyes drifted to the view of New York and her fingers tapped her knee, as if playing across the keys of the beloved piano she’d been forced to sell. ‘I’m good at it.’ She didn’t catch the way his features shifted, respect moving over his face.

  ‘How old are you?’

  She turned back to face him, wondering how long he intended to keep her sitting there, knowing that it was very much within her job description to humour him even when this felt like an utterly bizarre way to spend her time.

  ‘Twenty-four.’

  ‘And you’ve a
lways lived in America?’

  ‘Yes.’ She bit down on her lower lip thoughtfully. ‘I’ve actually never even been overseas.’

  His brows lifted. ‘That’s unusual, isn’t it?’

  She laughed softly. ‘I don’t know. You tell me?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Then I guess I’m unusual. Guilty as charged.’

  ‘You don’t have any interest in travelling?’

  ‘Not having done something doesn’t necessarily equate to a lack of interest,’ she pointed out.

  ‘So it’s a lack of opportunity, then?’

  He was rapier sharp, quickly able to read between the lines of anything she said.

  ‘Yes.’ Because there was no point in denying it.

  ‘You work too much?’

  ‘I work a lot,’ she confirmed, without elaborating. There was no need to tell this man that she had more debt to her name than she’d likely ever be able to clear. Briefly, anger simmered in her veins, the kind of anger she only ever felt when she thought about one person: her waste-of-space ex-husband Max and the trouble he’d got her into.

  ‘I thought you were guaranteed vacation time in the United States?’

  Her smile was carefully constructed to dissuade further questioning along these lines, but, for good measure, she turned the tables on him. ‘And you, sir? You travel frequently, I presume?’

  His eyes narrowed as he studied her, and she had the strangest feeling he was pulling her apart, little by little, until he could see all the pieces that made her whole.

  She held her breath, wondering if he was going to let the matter drop, and was relieved when he did.

  ‘I do. Though never for long, and not lately.’ His own features showed a tightness that she instinctively understood spoke of a desire not to be pressed on that matter.

  But despite that, she heard herself say gently, ‘Your father was ill for a while, before he died?’

  The man’s face paled briefly. He stood up, walking towards the window, his back rigid, his body tense. Daisy swallowed a curse. What was she thinking, asking something so personal? His father had just died—not even a month ago. She had no business inviting him to open that wound—and for a virtual stranger.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ She stood, following him, bitterly regretting her big mouth. ‘I had no right to ask you that. I’m sorry.’ When he didn’t speak, she swallowed, and said quietly, ‘I’ll leave you in peace now, Your Highness.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  MANHATTAN WAS A vibrant hive of activity beyond the windows of his limousine. He kept his head back against the leather cushioning of his seat, his eyes focussed on nothing in particular.

  ‘That could not have gone better, Your Highness.’

  Malik was right. The speech to the United Nations had been a success. As he was talking, he realised that he wasn’t the only one in the room who’d experienced anxiety about the importance of this. There was an air of tension, a fear that perhaps with the death of the great Kadir Al Antarah, they were to be plunged back into the days of war and violence that had marked too much of his country’s history.

  But Sariq was progressive, and Sariq was persuasive. He spoke of Shajarah, the capital of RKH, that had been born from the sands of the desert, its ancient soul nestled amongst the steel and glass monoliths that spoke of a place of the future, a place of promise. He spoke of his country’s educational institutions which were free and world-class, of his belief that education was the best prevention for war and violence, that a literate and informed people were less likely to care for ancient wounds. He highlighted what the people of RKH had in common with the rest of the world and when he was finished, there was widespread applause.

  Yes, the speech had been a success, but still there was a kernel of discontent within his gut. A feeling of dissatisfaction he couldn’t explain.

  ‘Your father would have been proud of you, sir.’

  Malik was right about that too.

  ‘When we return to the hotel, have the concierge come to me,’ Sariq told Malik. He didn’t know her name. That was an oversight he would remedy.

  ‘Is there something you require?’

  ‘She will see to it.’

  If Malik thought the request strange, he didn’t say anything. The limousine cut east across Manhattan, snagging in traffic near Bryant Park, so Sariq stared from his window at the happy scene there. The day had been warm and New Yorkers had taken to the park to feel the brief respite from the temperature offered by the lush surrounds. He watched as a child reached into the fountain and scooped some water out, splashing it at his older brother, and his chest panged with a sense of acceptance.

  Children were as much a part of his future as ruling was. He was the last heir of the Al Antarah line of Kings, a line that had begun at the turn of the last millennia. When he returned to his kingdom and his people, he would focus more seriously on that. He knew the risks if he didn’t, the likelihood of civil war that would result from a dangerous fight for the throne of the country.

  Marriage, children, these things would absolve him of that worry and would secure his country’s future for generations to come.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Your Highness?’ Her heart was in her throat. She’d barely slept since she’d left his apartment the night before, despite the fact she’d been rostered off during the day, while he was engaged on official business. That was how it worked when she had high-profile guests. She knew their schedules intimately so she could form her day around their movements, thus ensuring her availability when they were likely to need her.

  He was not alone, and he was not as he’d been the night before—dressed simply in jeans and a shirt. Now, he wore a white robe, flowing and long, with gold embellishments on the sleeve, and on his head there was a traditional keffiyeh headdress, white and fastened in place with a gold cord. It was daunting and powerful and she found her mouth was completely dry as she regarded him with what she hoped was an impassive expression. That was hard to manage when her knees seemed to have a desire to knock together.

  ‘Yes. One moment.’

  His advisors wore similar outfits, though less embellished. It was clear that his had a distinction of royal rank. She stood where she was as they continued speaking in their own language, the words beautiful and musical, the Sheikh’s voice discernible amongst all others. It was ten minutes before they began to disband, moving away from the Sheikh, each with a low bow of respect, which he acknowledged with a small nod sometimes, and other times not at all.

  His fingers were long and tanned, and on one finger he wore a gold ring with a small, rounded face, like a Super Bowl ring, she thought out of nowhere and smiled at the idea of this man on the football field. He’d probably take to it like a duck to water, if his physique was anything to go by. Beneath those robes, she knew he had the build of a natural athlete.

  Great.

  Her mouth was dry all over again but this time he was sweeping towards her, his robes flowing behind him. She had only a few seconds to attempt to calm her racing pulse.

  When he was a few feet away from her, he paused, so she was caught up in the masculinity of his fragrance, the exotic addictiveness of it—citrus and pine needles, spice and sunshine.

  ‘You were offended last night.’

  His words were the last thing she’d expected. Heat bloomed in her cheeks.

  ‘I was too familiar, sir.’ She dropped her eyes to the view, unable to look at him, a thousand and one butterflies rampaging wildly inside her belly.

  ‘I invited you to be familiar,’ he reminded her so the butterflies gave way to a roller coaster.

  ‘Still...’ she lifted her shoulders, risking a glance at him then wishing she hadn’t when she discovered his eyes were piercing her own ‘...I shouldn’t have...’

  ‘He had been sick. It was unpleasant to witness. I wished, more
than anything, that I could do something to alleviate his pain.’ A muscle jerked in his jaw and his eyes didn’t shift from hers. ‘I have been raised to believe in the full extent of my power, and yet I was impotent against the ravages of his disease. No doctor anywhere could save him, nor really help him.’ He didn’t move and yet somehow she felt closer to him, as though she’d swayed forward without realising it.

  ‘Your question last night is difficult for me to answer.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. You didn’t do anything wrong.’

  Her body was in overdrive, every single sense pulling through her, and she was aware, in the small part of her brain that was capable of rational thought, that this was a completely foreign territory to be in. He was a guest of the hotel—their boundaries were clearly established.

  She had to find a way to get them back onto more familiar territory.

  ‘I work for the hotel,’ she said quietly. ‘Asking you personal questions isn’t within my job description, and it’s certainly not appropriate. It won’t happen again.’

  He didn’t react to that. He stayed exactly where he was, completely still, like a sentinel, watching her, his eyes trained on her face in a way that made her pulse stutter.

  ‘I asked you to talk with me,’ he reminded her finally.

  ‘But I should have declined.’

  ‘Your job is to facilitate my needs, is it not?’

  Her heart began to pound against her ribs. ‘Within reason.’

  His smile showed a hint of something she couldn’t interpret. Cynicism? Mockery? Frustration?

  ‘Are you saying that if I ask you to come and sit with me again tonight, you’ll refuse?’

  Her body was filled with lava, so hot she could barely breathe.

  Her eyes were awash with uncertainty. ‘I’m not sure it’s appropriate.’

  ‘What are you afraid of?’

  ‘Honestly?’

  He was watchful.

  ‘I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing. Of offending you. My job is to silently...’

  ‘Yes, yes, you have told me this. To escape notice. And I told you that’s not possible. I have already noticed you, Daisy. And having had the pleasure of speaking with you once, I would like to repeat that—with a less abrupt conclusion this time. Are you saying therefore that you won’t sit with me?’