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Sold to the Sheikh
By Miranda Lee Mills & Boon
Copyright © 2004 Miranda Lee
All right reserved. ISBN: 0263180751
Chapter One
His eyes had been on her all afternoon. Dark, beautiful eyes. Arrogant eyes. Presumptuous eyes.
Charmaine knew, soon after their introduction, that His Royal Highness, Prince Ali of Dubar, was going to make some kind of pass before the day's races were over.
From the moment she became aware of the sheikh's interest in her, Charmaine regretted accepting this particular job. The pleasure of being one of the judges for the 'Fashion-in-the-Field' competition during Flemington's spring racing carnival did not override the displeasure of being pursued by yet another international playboy.
But by the time she'd completed the job she'd been hired for - the final judging on Ladies' Day had been over by four - Charmaine had a firm handle on her irritation and began looking forward to that moment when her admirer put his mouth where his eyes had been, so to speak. Not literally, of course. The thought of such a man actually kissing her made her shudder. Nothing repelled Charmaine more than overly goodlooking, overly wealthy men who thought any female they fancied could be had for the price of a dinner. Or even less.
And this one was more than overly good-looking and overly wealthy. The Arab prince and horse breeder was one of the most handsome men - and undoubtedly one of therichest - Charmaine had ever met. Taller and leaner in her opinion than most Arab princes, he was also clean-shaven and dressed that day not in traditional Arab dress, but a pale grey suit and brilliant white shirt which highlighted his richly olive skin and thick, jet-black hair. His face was as hard and lean as his body, his dark, deeply set eyes bisected by a strong nose that was underlined by a cruelly carved but not unattractive mouth.
He looked unlike any sheikh Charmaine had ever met. And she'd met a few. Supermodels met many of the world's wealthiest men, both in the course of their careers and their social lives. The rich and famous liked having the bold and the beautiful at their dos.
Being invited to be a special guest of Prince Ali in his private box at the races had not surprised Charmaine. Having the sheikh think what he had obviously been thinking about her all afternoon didn't surprise her, either. In her experience, billionaire Arab playboys had a tendency to overestimate their own irresistibility, as well as underestimate the morals of some western women. No doubt, in this sheikh's mind, supermodel equated with superslut.
Charmaine would take great delight in cutting Prince Ali down to size a little. His inflated male ego, she decided as she sensed him watching her again, needed pruning.
She was right. He was watching her, his eyes never leaving her as she made her way back up into the stand, burning their way through her figure-hugging silk dress, stripping her of every stitch and leaving her feeling stark naked and almost bitter over her undeniable physical assets. Not for the first time, Charmaine had a moment of burning resentment over the genes which had combined her father's height and Nordic fairness with her mother's large blue eyes and womanly curves to produce a tall, head-turning blonde who'd first rocketed to modelling fame at the tender age of sixteen.
Nine years later, Charmaine's precocious beauty had blossomed into a more mature but still widely recognisable look with her striking figure and extralong but perfectly straight fair hair. Hourglass shapes were supposedly out of fashion, but Charmaine's elegantly elongated version was eagerly sought after by designers, primarily because she could showcase their wares more effectively than her thinner colleagues. She was especially popular with swimwear and lingerie fashion houses and had made a small fortune being photographed in a state of dishabille.
Unfortunately, a side-effect of being seen on billboards and magazine covers in skimpy underwear and hardly there bikinis was that some men presumed her whole body was for sale, not just the image she projected. It was amazing how many wealthy men had thought they could buy her as their trophy girlfriend, or mistress, or even wife. Charmaine found this perversely amusing. Little did they know but she was the last woman on earth they would want in their beds.
The man staring at her at this moment would be severely disappointed if she agreed to whatever of those three intimate alternatives he had in mind. She was actually doing him a favour in rejecting his overtures.
With a small smile hovering on her lips, she lowered herself with an almost perverse pleasure into the seat he'd obviously kept clear for her, right next to his own and close enough for her to smell his expensive cologne and see that his black eyes were framed with the longest lashes she had ever seen on a man.
The rest of the box was empty, not even graced by the granite-faced bodyguard who'd either stood at the back or shadowed the prince everywhere he'd gone so far that afternoon. Clearly the bodyguard had encountered this particular scenario before, and knew to make himself scarce whilst his boss chatted up whatever lady his royal eye had fallen upon.
"I have been eagerly awaiting your return," the prince said in that overly formal manner which only a British private-school education could have instilled in him. "You have finished your judging for today?"
"Yes, thank goodness. I didn't realise how difficult a task it would be, picking the winner from so many beautifully dressed ladies."
"If I had been the judge, there would have been only the one winner. And that is your lovely self."
Oh, please, she thought wearily. Save it for a more impressed model.
Charmaine didn't give voice to her irritation. Not yet. Instead, she waited patiently for him to put his foot further into his mouth.
"I was wondering if you might be free this evening," he went on predictably. "I would very much like to have your company at dinner."
What you'd like, my pompous prince, is to have me for dinner. Or afters.
Her eyes turned cold as his continued to smoulder.
"I'm sorry," she returned with an upward tilt of her chin that lifted the brim of her picture hat and gave him a clearer view of her icy blue eyes, "but I'm not free tonight."
Her first refusal did not deter him, as she knew it wouldn't.
"Perhaps another night, then. I hear you live in Sydney. You may not be aware of the fact, but I am in Sydney every weekend."
Actually, she hadn't been aware of much about the prince at all till today. Like a lot of sheikhs, he did not seek publicity. But a Melbourne racehorseowning couple who were also guests of the prince today had been more than happy to fill her in when he was off presenting a trophy for one of the early races which his family had sponsored. Charmaine now knew he was in his mid-thirties and managed a huge thoroughbred stud in the upper Hunter Valley north-west of Sydney, a job he'd been doing very successfully for the last decade. Apparently, his royal family's interests in horse-racing spread far and wide and they had similar breeding establishments in Britain and America. Prince Ali, however, was solely in charge of the Australian branch.
She'd also been discreetly informed of his reputation as a ladies' man and a lover, although she wasn't sure if that had been a warning or an advertisement for her host's boudoir skills, a teaser meant to whet her appetite to experience the reality rather than the rumour. If so, his minions had been wasting their time. They'd definitely picked the wrong target today. And so had he.
Continues...
Excerpted from Sold to the Sheikh by Miranda Lee Copyright © 2004 by Miranda Lee. Excerpted by permission.
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