Monarch of the Sands by Sharon Kendrick

in the way she thought. In a funny sort of way he had been glad about her rudeness—because hadn’t it stopped him from ringing her to find out what had happened after she’d gone to confront Simon? He’d convinced himself that it would have been all about self-interest if he’d done so. And told himself that he should stay away from her—for both their sakes. Yes, he had opened her eyes to the fact that she had been involved with some pathetic fortune-hunter—but now that she was presumably free of him, it should have no impact on
his
life.
    Because hadn’t he been disturbed by the rush of lust he’d felt while carrying her into the house? And hadn’t the thoughts he’d had about her subsequently made him realise that she had grown up into a subtle kind ofbeauty—and that it would be better for both of them if he kept his distance from her? Wasn’t that the reason why he hadn’t helped her with her coat, because he was reluctant to be tempted by her soft scent and even softer skin?
    ‘Don’t worry about your rudeness, Francesca—it’s forgotten,’ he said coolly. ‘I probably would have felt exactly the same if the situation had been reversed.’
    She watched as he walked across the room. She wanted to protest that such a scenario would never have happened—that Zahid was far too clever to be manipulated as she had been. But somehow the words dried in her throat and it was nothing to do with their relevance. No, it was the sight of him looking like some lithe jungle cat who seemed a little too
elemental
to be at home in these luxurious surroundings.
    A silk shirt of palest ivory briefly brushed against the hard contours of his torso and clung like cream to the powerful line of his shoulders. Black trousers hugged at the narrow line of his hips and skated over the cradle of his masculinity. He had loosened his tie and a couple of buttons of his shirt and, catching a glimpse of the dark hair which was arrowing downwards, she felt her mouth dry.
    He looked as if he had been engrossed in work and was now relaxing a little. It was a snapshot image of his own, private world—and even more daunting than his physical appearance was the realisation that Zahid had a complete and busy life of which she knew nothing. What was it like being a king? she wondered. Particularly if such a daunting office had been thrust on you out of the blue, as had happened to him. Had it changed him? It
must
have changed him.
    Frankie licked the parchment-dry surface of her lips, trying to concentrate on reality, rather than hopeless fantasy. That was yet another great difference between them, she thought. He had a life, and she didn’t. Well, not any more—no job, a broken engagement and some broken dreams as well.
    He slanted her a questioning look. ‘Why don’t you sit down, Francesca? Would you like some coffee? Or tea, perhaps?’
    ‘No. No, thanks.’ Sitting down felt too relaxed, too informal for what she was about to say—and so Frankie walked over to the massive windows on the pretext of enjoying the view. And for a moment, she didn’t have to pretend. There was the London Eye—its massive circle framing the Houses of Parliament and iconic clock-face of Big Ben. ‘Oh, wow,’ she said.
    ‘Picture-postcard stuff, isn’t it?’ he offered drily, looking at the stiff set of her shoulders and the hair which today was hanging neatly down her back. Her hand was bare of an engagement ring and she was wearing a navy dress which, despite its plainness, still managed to emphasise every amazing curve of her healthy young body. His eyes focused on the luscious swell of her bottom and her long, shapely legs and he found himself thinking some dark and very erotic thoughts until he reminded himself that this was Francesca. Francesca O’Hara, his childhood friend.
    ‘So is this a social call?’ he questioned thickly.
    She turned around. Was that his way of saying that he was busy? That he might have sat and drunk tea