Breaking the Sheikh's Rules Read online

  Years of looking after her father and her two younger brothers and sister had put her in a position of unspoken authority in their home. Even her father knew when not to push her; he owed her too much.

  It was only then that she noticed the sleek silver Jeep with dark windows and an officious-looking bodyguard standing to attention nearby, intermittently scanning the surroundings from behind black glasses. It made her even angrier, reminding her of the sheer arrogance of his pushy assistant, who’d had the gall to come and look the place over, as if it was a slave girl being sold at an auction, before they’d even publicly announced the sale.

  Iseult turned and kept walking, tears blurring her vision. A part of her balked at her extremely uncharacteristic lack of grace and manners, but something about the Sheikh had all her defences raised high and on red alert. She simply couldn’t stand there and watch him steal her horse from right under her, and then deal with the undoubtedly arrogant and smug way he’d hand her back the reins as if she was nothing more than a stablehand.

  Iseult’s tears cleared as she fumed and stomped up the drive; that might be what he was used to in his own country but he wouldn’t get away with it here. She imagined him coming from a barbarically foreign place, where he had harems of scantily clad women attending to his every need, and where he lounged on plush velvet and silk cushions in lavish tents in oases in the desert, gorging himself on decadent foods and wines. The man clearly believed himself important enough to merit bringing bodyguards to a quiet and rural part of Ireland.

  Her overblown imagination mocked her as she recalled the sliver of hard, olive-skinned, muscle-ridged belly she’d seen as he’d vaulted onto Devil’s Kiss, when his shirt had ridden up for a moment. He didn’t have the body of a louche decadent, and he didn’t strike her as the kind of man who required protecting. Her belly tightened again, and a disturbing pulse throbbed between her legs.

  She entered the stableyard and tore off her cap, releasing her hair, breathing hard. Damp sweat pooled uncomfortably between her breasts and trickled down her back. She knew they’d been fighting a losing battle for some time, and that the culmination of it was today. And she knew rationally that she had no real reason to feel such antipathy towards this Sheikh other than the fact he happened to be the new owner…and that he disturbed her on a level she didn’t like to think about.

  As she looked around the unbearably shabby yard the fight suddenly left her, and she felt overwhelmed with fatigue and grief at seeing all the empty stalls. The stud down the road was equally desolate-looking. The homestead stood to the right of the yard. Once it had gleamed from top to bottom, a grand country house, but now it was a mere shadow of its former self. Everything was peeling and crumbling. She’d worked so hard to try and keep them afloat, but everything had gone against them—not least the global economic crisis.

  They might have won two prestigious races recently, but that money had barely made a dent in the huge debts that had built up from years of mismanagement. The one ace up their sleeve had been Devil’s Kiss, and now he was gone. Quite literally. The Sheikh had come to transport him to his own country on the Arabian peninsula, where he had plans to train him, race him, and eventually use him to breed even more winners to add to his arsenal. He was going to overhaul their small stud farm and gallops and turn them into something homogenous: a conveyor belt outfit that would ‘perform’ and meet ‘targets’, and make a profit and breed winners.

  While Iseult had no problem with expansion, and turning their property around so that it functioned properly again on all levels, she’d always loved the fact that they’d remained true to their own identity long after many other farms had sold out to rich Arabs and huge syndicates. Now they were no different from the rest.

  Desultorily, Iseult made her way to Devil’s Kiss’s stable, to get it prepared for his return. She grimaced as she turned on a hose and started to sluice down the yard, thinking of her beloved grandfather, who would have railed against this day too… She’d followed him everywhere until his death; she’d been ten when he’d been struck down with an awful illness and everything had started to unravel…

  Iseult diverted her mind away from painful memories. As soon as Devil’s Kiss had raced and shown his pedigree as a stunning two-year-old the spotlight had been turned onto their stud—especially as it had been so long since they’d produced a winner. Everyone knew that their backs were against the wall, and that they’d sold all but their oldest mares to concentrate on Devil’s Kiss. That buzz was undoubtedly what had brought them to the attention of the Sheikh. And Iseult had to admit bitterly that he’d snapped them up like the bargain they were.

  Ridiculously, tears threatened again—too much buried grief swimming up to the surface. And that was when Iseult heard the familiar clatter of hooves in the yard behind her. She hurriedly blinked away her tears and turned around warily to look up. The sun chose that moment to peek out from dark, oppressive clouds and Iseult shivered—because she was momentarily blinded and all she could see was the intimidatingly broad-shouldered silhouette of the Sheikh on Devil’s back. Like a portent of doom.

  For a second Nadim was utterly transfixed. The girl was revealed fully without that unflattering cap, and she was most definitely a girl—beautiful enough to make his breath catch. Not a scrap of make-up marred her pale alabaster skin and that amazing bone structure. And he’d never seen such unusual colouring: long dark red hair was pulled back into an untidy ponytail which must have been stuffed under the cap, and tendrils drifted and clung to her cheeks and neck. Tight jeans and the fleece did little to disguise the fact that she was tall and slim, lean as a whip, her body sleek and toned.

  But it was her eyes that caught him as if spellbound. Huge and almond shaped, with long black lashes, they were the colour of dark liquid amber. And as he watched, fascinated, those stunning eyes flashed a warning and her chest rose and fell, making him want to drop his gaze and inspect those delicately feminine swells again. He sensed instinctively that she was more voluptuous than she looked, and wondered why she hid her curves. But he cut off his wandering mind there, when it had a direct effect on his anatomy. The kick of desire in his blood made him feel disorientated. It was unwarranted and completely inappropriate.

  Her full mouth had tightened back into the mutinous line. ‘If you’ve quite finished your inspection, I’ll take Devil’s Kiss now. I’m not part of the inventory of your newly acquired assets.’

  Her voice was surprisingly husky, but Nadim didn’t dwell on that further enticement now. Her haughty look forced a surge of anger upward and drove Nadim off the horse to the ground. Once again he’d been mesmerised by someone who was little more than a stablehand. Unthinkable. He deliberately ignored her hand, outstretched for the reins, fixing her with a harsh glare.

  It was a struggle for Iseult to stay standing as the Sheikh came off the horse and stood far too close for her liking. His slow appraisal just now had turned her insides to jelly. And now, facing her like this, he was far more devastating than she’d acknowledged before. He had to be at least six foot three and, while she was relatively tall, she felt minute in comparison.

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Miss O’Sullivan, but I believe that you and your father are very much part of the inventory. Part of the agreement for the sale of this property outlines the fact that all working staff will be retained to ensure a smooth transition. Are you not part of the staff?’

  His deep voice and softly drawled words, with more than a hint of a seductively foreign accent, made Iseult’s knees feel curiously weak. Anger at her response made her lash out. ‘I’m more than just staff. Perhaps where you come from you’re used to buying and selling people, but in this country we’ve outgrown such antiquated practices.’

  His face tightened perceptibly. ‘Be very careful, Miss O’Sullivan. You’re in danger of going too far. As it is, your insolence is intolerable. I don’t appreciate employees who talk back or use guard dogs to intimidate.’

  Iseult fl
ushed at being reminded of the recent incident with his emissary. ‘Murphy isn’t a guard dog. He’s just protective. Your assistant was trespassing; I was here on my own.’

  The Sheikh’s mouth was a grim line of displeasure. ‘You ignored a perfectly polite request from him to come and see the property even though it was common knowledge you were close to advertising a sale.’

  Iseult couldn’t meet that blistering dark gaze. She felt about two feet tall. How could she explain to this autocratic man the violently visceral feeling she’d had not to give up and admit defeat? And how his arrogant assistant had effortlessly raised her hackles by being so pushy, making her dread a soulless takeover by a face less buyer?

  He continued, ‘Do I need to remind you that very soon I will own everything you see around you, and could have you thrown off this property for good?’

  Iseult could feel the colour drain from her face, and saw something flash in his eyes. He even said something that sounded like a curse under his breath and moved towards her. Did he think she was going to faint? Iseult had never fainted in her life. She moved back jerkily, and the Sheikh stopped, his eyes gleaming obsidian.

  Nadim had to curb a reflex to apologise—although he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to apologise for anything. He hadn’t meant to speak so harshly, but when she’d gone white and looked as if he’d put a knife through her heart his immediate reaction had been one of remorse and to protect. He couldn’t believe that this girl had taken him in even for a moment. He allowed no woman to get under his skin so easily.

  He shouldn’t be demeaning himself by engaging in dialogue with someone like her. She was about to become just one more of hundreds of employees scattered across the globe.

  He finally handed her the reins and said curtly, ‘Devil’s Kiss travels tomorrow. See to it that he’s ready.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  A SHORT while later, her belly still roiling with tangled emotions, Iseult went through the back door into the house, toeing off her boots and muttering under her breath as she walked into the warm and welcoming kitchen, where their housekeeper, Mrs O’Brien, was looking flushed and harried. Their infamous family dog, Murphy, was not doing much to help by getting in her way.

  Iseult shooed him out through the door and turned back. ‘What’s wrong?’

  The older woman blew some hair out of her red face. ‘Your father informed me barely an hour ago that the Sheikh will have lunch here, along with himself and their solicitors. That’s lunch for five people—more than I’ve had to cook for since the kids went back to college.’

  Everyone in the family affectionately referred to Iseult’s younger siblings—Paddy Junior, and the twins Nessa and Eoin—as the kids. But now anger bubbled up again to think that the Sheikh, with a mere click of his fingers, was putting them under added pressure. They barely had the money to stock the fridge and cupboards for themselves. Iseult longed to tell Mrs O’Brien to ignore the decree, but she knew her father would die of embarrassment. The fact was, they had no choice but to accept their predicament.

  It was the Sheikh or the bank—neither one a palatable option, but at least, Iseult had to concede grudgingly, the Sheikh was keeping her father on as a manager and had offered a decent wage. She didn’t like how that concession made her feel guilty now. She knew she’d behaved badly. But right now she didn’t want to look at the cause of the irrationality of her response.

  Defeatedly she reached for the spare apron and started to help Mrs O’Brien, who sent her a grateful smile as they worked together to bring lunch up to some kind of acceptable standard for a Sheikh.

  Carrying a tray of soup starters a short while later, Iseult hesitated at the dining room door for a moment, and had to ignore the shiver of sensation that shot through her body when she heard the low rumble of the Sheikh’s sexy voice. Sexy? Since when had she been aware of sexy? Gritting her teeth and jaw so hard that it hurt, she pasted a bland smile on her face and went in.

  Silence greeted her, and she deliberately avoided any eye contact. Her heart ached to see that her father had allowed the Sheikh to sit at the head of the table. Once, in her grandfather’s heyday, they had run a hugely successful and thriving business. Renowned horse-breeders from all over the world had come and paid exorbitant sums of money just to have their mares stand at O’Sullivan’s stud to be covered by their pure-blooded stallions.

  This moment, right now, couldn’t make it any clearer how far their fortunes had fallen.

  With a shaking hand Iseult served the solicitors their bowls of soup, then her father, and lastly the Sheikh, though she knew she ought to have served him first. Barely holding it together, she somehow managed to grab the tray and go to leave again. But then she heard her father clear his throat.

  ‘Iseult, love, aren’t you going to join us?’

  She heard the plea in his voice. He depended on her for so much—she was the one who knew the farm inside and out—but in all honesty she hadn’t expected to be included in this. Her father remained the public figurehead of the stud despite everything, and Iseult had every hope that one day he’d assume his role fully again. The look in his eyes spoke volumes, though. He was terrified these men would see how little control he had over the place. And he was terrified that they’d renege on the agreement to keep him on as manager.

  Iseult hesitated for a second, but then that deep drawling voice came. ‘Since when does a stablehand who doubles as a server sit at the table with the new owner? I think not, Mr O’Sullivan. Your daughter can hardly be expected to be party to our private discussions.’

  Iseult turned to the Sheikh, the tray still held by her side, and had to restrain the urge not to smash it on his arrogant head. She smiled sweetly, while mentally apologising to her father. She deliberately made her Irish brogue even stronger. ‘I couldn’t agree more, Sheikh. I know my place. And I’ve a horse to get ready for the travelling tomorrow—straight after I’ve finished serving the lunch, of course.’

  With that she bobbed a curtsey, and as she left she could have sworn she heard a muffled snigger coming from where their own solicitor had been sitting.

  Iseult thought it best to let Mrs O’Brien retrieve the soup bowls and serve the main course. But when she got busy making Irish coffees and asked Iseult to get the plates she couldn’t avoid going back.

  The silence was thick with tension when she walked into the room, and Iseult’s skin prickled under the weight of one particularly heavy gaze. Somehow she managed to take the plates while avoiding all eye contact. She could see that her father’s face was slightly flushed, and her belly clenched in an automatic reaction of anxiety. But to her relief she saw that he was still drinking water. He’d been dry for years now, but she knew something like this had the potential to send him back to a dark place. Her conscience struck her hard. She wasn’t exactly helping matters.

  With all the plates balanced precariously in her arms, Iseult got to the door—only to find that it had closed on her. She had a split second of wondering what to do, and then she felt a large dark presence loom behind her. A tantalising scent of something sensuously foreign tickled her nostrils, making her belly clench again—but this time for a very different reason. In utter surprise, she watched as a tautly muscled brown arm reached around her to open the door.

  She had to step back closer to the Sheikh in order for him to open it, and for a very disturbing moment the entire length of her back was pressed against his hard chest and belly. It was like a wall of steel. She nearly dropped every plate, but in a smooth move he ushered her out and pulled the door after them, coming round to stand in front of her. Iseult wanted to avoid his eyes, but drummed up all her courage to meet them.

  His voice was low, and tore strips off her. ‘I didn’t appreciate the ham acting, Miss O’Sullivan. Try a cute move like that again and neither you nor your father will have anything further to do with this place. Your name will be history overnight. I’m beginning to feel that I’ve been entirely too generous wher
e your father is concerned, and I have serious doubts about his capability to run this place.’

  He continued with a blistering tone. ‘I have no idea where your misplaced animosity has sprung from; your farm’s demise was not by my hand and we’ve never met before. I suggest you have a think about that before we meet to talk after lunch.’

  The plates trembled ominously in Iseult’s hands. She found it hard to think straight. ‘What do you mean, talk?’

  ‘After just ten minutes of conversation with your father it’s become clear that he’s no more in control of things around here than that homely housekeeper. It would appear that I have underestimated you, Miss O’Sullivan. You will meet with me in your father’s study in one hour and you will explain everything to me.’

  With that he brushed past her and went back into the room, shutting the door again with a firm click. She stood motionless for a long moment, her heart hammering, until she heard Mrs O’Brien huffing up the stairs with a tray full of desserts and Irish coffees. In a state of shock, Iseult put down the plates on a nearby table and opened the door for Mrs O’Brien before escaping back to the kitchen. She couldn’t have helped give out the desserts even if she’d wanted to. She knew that something hot or cold would have ended up in someone’s lap because she was shaking so hard with reaction.

  She dumped the plates in a dishwasher that had seen better days, and fled outside after stuffing her feet back into her mucky boots.

  Once in the yard, sucking in deep breaths of fresh air, Iseult put her hands to her hot cheeks. What was wrong with her? The Sheikh was absolutely right. It wasn’t his fault they were in this position; this had been coming for a long, long time. He’d just taken advantage of their weakness in a challenging market. And, as she’d conceded earlier, being bought out by him was infinitely preferable to being bought out and sold off in pieces by the bank.