Here’s the set-up:

Clare McKay is a dedicated architect with no time for womanising men. That is, until she accidentally meets Sheikh Rafiq Al Kahil, an Arabian prince, known in the international press as the Playboy Prince. Clare is intent on not falling for his seductive charm, but when he asks her to design a mansion, he presents her with an offer that she can’t refuse. Once she finds herself alone with him in the Arabian desert, how long will she be able to hold out against his advances? And will he be able to cast aside his womanising past for her, as well as a secret engagement to an Arabian Princess?

Chapter One

It had been dark for hours and Clare McKay was still there, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the River Thames. Most of the room was dark, apart from the area around her desk, where two large lamps shone over her work. She sat back and reviewed what she had done so far. It would take two, perhaps three more hours to finish the plans for the new building that she was designing.

She glanced at the clock, high up on the wall next to her. If she kept going, she could get the drawings finished that evening and then hand them over to Mark White, the senior architect, to review. That is, if he ever appeared again from Sophie’s room.

Mark had been in there ever since Sophie Pillsby, the head of the architect firm, Pillsby and Spooly, had called him in earlier that afternoon. Finally he emerged, looking much worse than when he had gone in. Sophie also looked very on edge and her short brown hair was even spikier than usual.

“Think about it over the weekend, but I think you’ll see that there really aren’t any other options,” Sophie called out as Mark shut her office door and wandered over to the coffee machine. He poured himself a large cup of thick, dark brown liquid from the bottom of the pot.

“I was just about to make a fresh pot if you wait a minute,” Clare called out from her desk. She tucked in a long strand of shiny black hair which had escaped from a tight knot at the nape of her neck.

Mark turned his head in surprise. “Clare? Are you still here? I thought everyone had gone home.”

“I’m still working on the final plans for the Amerston building. Remember, we said that we’d try and get the final draft signed off by tonight, the end of the week.”

Mark put his coffee down and came over to her desk. “That looks great,” he said, but he hardly glanced at the designs which were laid out across the huge white boards. Clare had been working on them for hours.

“Why don’t we leave it until Monday?” he said.

“But Mark, we agreed that we’re going to show the plans to the client early next week, ahead of schedule.”

Clare was confused. Mark had seemed so keen earlier that morning when she suggested that they try and submit the sketches to Amerston a week early. “Is everything ok? Is Sophie unhappy with the work that I’ve done on this?” Maybe that was why Mark had been in the boss’s office for so long.

“The work you’ve done is great. It always is,” though Mark did not sound very enthusiastic.

“Look, why don’t you leave this to me to finish off. Go out. Go and do something this weekend. Go and have some…” He looked out the window through the rain streaming down the panes, as if the word he was looking for might be out there somewhere. “Fun! Go and have some fun.”

“What kind of fun?”

“You know. Go to the cinema, or a disco. Get drunk!”

Clare was starting to wonder if perhaps Mark might be a little bit drunk himself. He had a slightly glazed look in his eyes and his mind was definitely not on the Amerston project.

“Call your friend Louise. The one who spends more on designer handbags than the total government budget of some African countries. Go and have a night out with her.” Without waiting for a response, Mark walked away to his office and shut the door.

Clare had absolutely no intention of going out and getting drunk, but she had not seen Louise for several weeks and the idea of going out with her for a couple of drinks sounded tempting. She picked up her phone and called Louise’s mobile on a speed dial number.

“Louise, I know it’s a bit last minute, and it’s Friday night, but are you free to meet up?”

“Clare! What a lovely surprise. Not working? Have you finished off that big project you were doing?”

“Not quite, but Mark’s ordered me to go out and ‘have some fun’.”

“Are you sure? Has the slave-driver set you free? Normally you two are competing to see who can stay in the office the longest. However, I know just the place. The Clifford Hotel bar has just got an award for the best cocktails in London. I’ll meet you outside in thirty minutes.”

Twenty minutes later Clare was standing outside the door of the Clifford Hotel with the rain dripping off the building’s awning above her. She had not had time to go back to her flat to get changed, so she was still wearing her royal-blue skirt suit and white blouse, though she had undone a couple of buttons.

She had also literally let her hair down. Instead of the tight knot at the base of her neck, that she kept it in during the day, her hair now hung straight down her back, black and glossy, her only legacy from a Japanese grandmother.

She had only met her once, as a small child on a short trip to Tokyo with her mother, but she still clearly remembered her; a tiny old woman dressed in a cream silk kimono with pink blossoms on it. The old lady was sat on traditional, woven tatami matting the first time Clare met her. The walls around her were made of transparent white paper and on one of them hung a long scroll on which an artist had painted a single branch of a tree. Clare had never seen anything so beautiful and after she left Japan she had dreamt of recreating the beauty and simplicity that she had found in her grandmother’s house.

However, the Amerston project that she was currently working on was neither beautiful nor simple. The CEO of Amerston wanted a head office that he could show off to his clients and the competition. The design was not to Clare’s taste; it was too ornate. However, until she finished her practical training and became a fully qualified architect, she had little choice but to work on the projects that Mark offered her, under his supervision.

She wondered what had made Mark so distracted earlier. He was normally so focused on their work. What had happened in his meeting with Sophie? Perhaps he was just tired. It had been a long week.

“Clare, I’m so sorry I’m late. I couldn’t find a taxi anywhere and the bus took forever to get here.” Louise was walking towards the hotel waving a bright red umbrella in one hand and carrying a beautiful Prada bag in the other, her masses of brown wavy hair flying behind her.

Clare stepped out into the rain to greet Louise just as a shiny black Mercedes pulled up sharply alongside her, throwing up a large puddle. Clare darted back, but it was too late. She looked down at her white coat. It was covered in dirty rain water.

“Your beautiful spring coat!” Louise stood, frozen to the spot, with a look of complete horror on her face.

The hotel porter ignored both of them as he moved swiftly to the passenger side of the car and, with a huge umbrella held high above him, opened the door. Out stepped a tall man dressed in a dark suit and blood-red tie. The tie off-set his tanned face and dark features and for a brief moment Clare forgot the wet spring weather and thought of white beaches drenched in hot sun.

He dashed straight over to Clare. “I am so sorry. Are you ok?” He had a slight accent, which made his voice deep and gravelly, as if it was coming from somewhere deep inside his chest.

“Yes, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t wear white in the rain.” Clare shrugged her shoulders. She knew it had been a mistake to get her spring coat out so early in the year, but the weather forecast that morning had said nothing about rain. She started dabbing at the marks on her coat and shoes with a tissue that she had pulled out of her bag.

“Please, come inside and I will see if I can get it cleaned.” The man motioned for her to come into the hotel lobby and began speaking to some of the staff that came rushing up to him.

“Get him to pay for it. He looks loaded,” Louise hissed into Clare’s ear as they walked into the marble lobby of the Clifford Hotel.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Clare answered back. “It’s only rain water.” She unbuttoned her coat and slipped it off. Looking around, she tried to find somewhere to put the dripping garment and noticed that the man from the Mercedes car was gazing at her from across the lobby. He strode over.

“I have been informed that it will take the hotel at least an hour to clean your coat. I do apologise. Perhaps, if you are not in a hurry, you and your friend could have something to drink or eat while you wait? I would be more than delighted to offer you dinner here at the hotel.”

“We’d love to, wouldn’t we Clare?” Louise grabbed Clare’s coat and flung it at one of the hotel employees, who looked slightly taken aback. The man from the car nodded to the offended female member of staff, who whisked up the coat and walked off to a door labelled Staff Only with her nose in the air.

“And will you be joining us?” Louise beamed a big smile at the man, who in her opinion, looked like an ideal dinner date.

“I’m afraid not, as I have a prior engagement, but I have asked the staff here to do everything they can to make your evening comfortable. And again, apologies for dirtying your coat Miss…?”

“I’m Louise and this is Clare.” By now Louise had steered them all across the lobby to the entrance of the Grand Court restaurant and was standing with one foot in the doorway.

“And I am Rafiq. Good evening ladies.” He shook their hands, turned around, and walked away.

“Here we are at the Grand Court restaurant,” said Louise, as she cut into her lobster. “This is one of the most exclusive restaurants in town. It has a six-month waiting list and we just walked in.”

“More like, pushed our way in.” Clare pointed a silver fork at Louise.

“That man offered us dinner and I’m not one to turn down a chance like this.”

“All he did was splash my coat.”

“It could be ruined. It was expensive.”

“Yes, but I got it in a sale, at a huge discount.”

Clare had been very pleased with herself at finding such a fabulous designer coat so cheap, even though it had meant waiting outside the store for over an hour in the freezing cold, so that she could be one of the first to get in on the day the sale started. Until she finished her practical training as an architect, she would not be earning the kind of money that would enable her to buy beautiful things at full price, or pay for expensive meals like the one she was having now.

“We didn’t order any champagne,” Clare said to the waiter, as he placed a bottle in a large silver bucket of ice next to their table. “Louise, you didn’t order this, did you?”

“It’s compliments of the house.” The waiter silently removed the cork and poured out the champagne into two cut-crystal glasses.

“Here’s to dirty coats.” Louise took a large swig.

“This all seems a bit much just for an accident.”

“The man’s probably the manager of the hotel or something.” Louise said before taking another large gulp of champagne.

“I doubt it. He didn’t look old enough for a start. I’d say he was in his early thirties, just a few years older than us. And also, hotel managers don’t tend to wear gold and diamond cuff-links.”

“Well then, he’s obviously very wealthy and can afford to pay for all this. Don’t you think he looked rather familiar? I wonder if I’ve met him before.”

“One of your many dates?” Clare was constantly amazed at how Louise managed to fit in a demanding career as an advertising executive with regular dating and socialising. She could barely manage to find time to go out once or twice a month to see a film or visit an art gallery.

“No, I’d certainly remember if I had a date with someone as good-looking as that. What did he say his name was?”

“Rafiq, I think. He didn’t give his last name.”

Clare thought about how she had seen him looking at her in the hotel lobby as she had removed her coat. Something about the look in his eyes had made her feel as if she had removed a lot more than just her coat. However, instead of being annoyed by such attention, it made her feel a little breathless and slightly light-headed. A warm glow worked its way up through her body as she remembered how his dark brown eyes had seemed to caress her. His eyes had stared at her legs, lingered on her hips, moved on to her chest and finally settled on her face.

“Are you ok? You’ve gone all red.”

“I think it’s the champagne. We’ve almost finished the bottle. I’m not used to drinking so much. This dessert is wonderful,” and she put another dollop of lemon cream into her mouth. Clare suddenly felt uncomfortable and wanted to change the subject.

She looked around the dining room, in which only a few tables were still occupied. A beautiful young woman, dressed in a silky evening dress was sat at a table set far back into the corner. She was laughing at something the man opposite her had said. He was smiling back, gazing into her eyes, oblivious to the luxurious surroundings that he was in. He leaned across the table and kissed her. The kiss lasted just long enough to make Clare look away.

Clare did not feel embarrassed or jealous. Rather the sight of those two happy people made her feel hopeful. Maybe one day that would be her, only she would be sitting there with black hair, instead of blonde, and her companion would be slightly darker. An image of Rafiq can into her mind.

“I don’t believe it!” Louise exclaimed. “It’s Brian Thorn, the famous movie star, and that’s Sandy Clarke.” Louise had turned to look at the same time that Clare had turned away.

“They say his marriage has been on the rocks for months,” Louise whispered excitedly. “His wife has already accused him of having an affair, but that was with Ruth Mitchell, the TV soap star, and now, here he is with Sandra Clarke. Personally, I thought her last film was terrible.”

So they were not a perfect couple. A married man and his mistress. All of Clare’s hopeful sentiments drifted away. Being the mistress of another woman’s husband was the last thing that she aspired to.

Louise kept looking over at the corner table. “Do you think they’ll get divorced? The wife will get heaps, probably several million. They didn’t sign a pre-nuptial agreement. Brian Thorn said at the time that it was everlasting love. It doesn’t look like it lasted more than their first round of plastic surgery.” Louise was very up-to-date with celebrity gossip and knew exactly who was sleeping, marrying and divorcing who.

“Let’s leave them to it.” Clare really did not care what famous people got up to and believed that Louise’s interest in such things was rather voyeuristic.

Louise had explained to her several times that in the world of advertising it was important to know what celebrities were up to. She had to make certain that she did not pick the wrong person to front an advertising campaign. However, Clare thought that it would take a lot more than a picture of someone like Brian Thorn to make her want to buy a particular brand of toothpaste. Were people really that gullible?

Clare called over the waiter and double-checked that their meal really had been paid for. The waiter assured them that it had, much to her relief. She knew that the vintage champagne alone would have stretched her credit card, much less the bill for the meal itself. Louise also looked a bit relieved. She might have a new Prada bag, but there was very little inside it. She could not afford to indulge in both designer bags and expensive meals.

They stood up and Louise cast another sideways glance at the famous movie star in the corner who was now whispering into the other woman’s ear. Or was he nibbling it? Clare walked on ahead towards the entrance of the restaurant.

“Your coat, Madame.” A waiter held out her white spring coat for her to put on. It beautifully laundered and did not have a single mark on it. Clare was pleased. She would not have been able to find another one that suited her quite so well, even if Rafiq had offered to pay for a replacement.

“What a great evening,” Louise said a few minutes later, as they stood outside the hotel while the doorman tried to hail down a taxi. “I can’t wait until I tell everyone at work that I not only spent Friday night at the Grand Court, but I also saw Brian Thorn with Sandra Clarke. The other people at the office will be stunned.

“By the way Clare, you finished work early this evening. At least it was early for you. You never told me why.”

“Mark told me to go out and have some fun. ‘Go and get drunk’ I think he said. We certainly did have a bit of fun. I’m not drunk, but I am a bit tipsy.” Clare giggled. “Strange though, it isn’t like Mark to say something like that,” Clare pondered this for a moment. “He didn’t even give me anything to work on over the weekend. I wonder why.”

“A free weekend? What are you going to do? I’m afraid I’m busy. I have to go and see my Mum. She’s split up with her latest fling and wants a bit of consoling. Come along if you want.”

“No thanks. I’m not sure if I’m up to another one of your Mum’s heartbreaks. I think I’ll spend the weekend a bit more quietly. There are a few art exhibitions on that I’ve been meaning to see.”

A taxi pulled up beside them. As Louise climbed in, Clare looked back at the hotel. No sign of the man who had stepped out of the Mercedes earlier that evening. No sign of the car either. Shame. Clare wanted to thank him for the wonderful meal.

“Looking for that man, Rafiq?” Louise called out. “Don’t worry. Get in the taxi. I think we’ll probably see him again.”

“How do you know?” Clare asked, climbing in next to her friend.

“Just a hunch. The way he was looking at you in the lobby.”

So Louise noticed it too. It had crossed Clare’s mind that she might have just imagined it. It had been a long time since anyone had made her even slightly weak at the knees and maybe the sensation had led her to wishing for things that had not really happened.

“I think he’ll find a way to make sure that the two of you meet up again,” Louise continued, giving Clare a friendly nudge. And as the taxi pulled away, Clare hoped that Louise was right.

* * * * *

“Are the two ladies I bought in still here?” Rafiq asked the maitre d’ of the Grand Court.

“I’m afraid, Sir, that they left about five minutes ago.”

Rafiq’s meeting that evening had gone on for much longer than expected and by the time he walked into the restaurant it was already very late. He had hoped that they would still be there, so he could check if Clare was all right.

He had been horrified when his car had splashed a huge spray of dirty rain water all over her. She was so exquisite looking; it was as if he had desecrated a rare work of art; it was like he had splashed mud on a Botticelli. He wanted to check that the damage had been repaired.

He scanned the room, uncertain of what to do next.

“Hey, come and join us for a nightcap. You know Sandy, don’t you?” Bruce Thorn had spotted Rafiq and was signalling to the waiter for another chair.

Rafiq smiled at the pair of them. He had been wondering what Sandy had been up to recently. The last time he had seen her, she was skinny dipping off the side of his yacht in the Mediterranean.

He wondered how long she had been with Brian and how long it would last. She was very sexy, but once you got past those amazing curves there was not much else to her. However, he was sure Brian would be able to overlook her lack of conversational abilities.

“Hello Brian. I see you are seducing the delectable Sandy Clarke. What brings you to London?” Rafiq nodded to Sandy and smiled, but did not take the chair that Brian pushed towards him. Sandy pouted and lent forward, showing a rather large amount of heavily-scented cleavage.

“We’ve been hiding out, trying to avoid that ghastly wife of his,” she squealed.

Brian pretended to look guilty. “I think we might’ve been spotted. A couple of women were sat over there having dinner earlier. One of them kept staring at us. I’m sure she recognised me.” Brian pointed at the empty table nearby which had already been freshly laid out for the next day.

Rafiq completely forgot about Sandy and turned to look at Brian. “A woman with long black hair and striking features: large blue, almond-shaped eyes, and wonderful long legs?” Rafiq asked him.

“The person staring at me had a lot of brown hair, but her friend would fit that description,” replied Brian. “Why? Do you know them?”

“Not exactly.” Rafiq wished again that his meeting had not dragged on for so long. He could be getting to know Clare a whole lot better right now instead of talking to these two.

Sandra giggled. “Why Rafiq, I do believe you’ve found someone new. Tell us all about it when you’ve had your wicked way with her.” She winked at him and looked very pleased with herself for having had this little insight. “Come on Brian, let’s go. It’s about time you had your wicked way with me. Sorry Rafiq, you’ve already had your turn.”

She lifted up a small satin purse that was lying on the table and grabbed Brian’s arm. Brian did not look too bothered about Sandra’s reference to Rafiq’s earlier affair with her. It was a well-known fact that Sandra Clarke had known a lot of men.

Rafiq said his goodbyes and recalled the few nights that he had spent with her. Their time together had been fun, but nothing remarkable. Brian was welcome to her.

Chapter Two

Clare sipped some green tea from a small porcelain cup and tried to ignore the slight throbbing in her temples. The last time she had drunk champagne was at her father’s fourth wedding. It had left her feeling a bit sick then, but that could have been the fact that her dad was marrying a woman who was two years younger than his own daughter.

Clare had tried to put on a brave face and be polite to her new, very young stepmother. She had almost felt sorry for her, as she knew it would not be long before her dad was off chasing someone else.

Clare got up and made herself another cup of tea. Maybe some fresh air would clear her head. She carried the warm cup of tea into her living room and went over to the small desk in the corner. Next to her laptop was a black and red lacquer bowl piled high with glossy leaflets. Clare grabbed the lot and spread them out on her coffee table.

Each one of the leaflets was for an art show, or an exhibition somewhere in London. Clare was on the mailing list of all the main museums and galleries, as well as most of the minor ones, though she did not manage to visit them as frequently as she would have liked. However, with the whole weekend free, she at last had the chance to catch up on a couple of them.

She went through the leaflets, glancing at some of them and looking more carefully at others. Slowly, and with quite a lot of deliberation, she sorted them into three piles: Must See, Might See, Would Never See. The third pile she put in the bin. The second pile she put back in the lacquer bowl. That left her with the third pile: Must See. In this group there were just two leaflets. One was for an exhibition of Korean ceramic art at the Victoria and Albert Museum and the other was for a show of modern Spanish artists at a small gallery in Mayfair.

Having made her choice, she got ready to go out. It did not take her long. She simply sprayed on some very light perfume and threw on her white coat, hoping that the weather would stay clear this time. After she locked her front door, she stepped out into the cold, crisp morning.

* * * * *

Rafiq picked up another piece of lightly buttered toast and spread a thick layer of blackcurrant preserve on it. He really did not want to have another meeting with the business men he had seen the night before. They had already messed up his evening and he was not going to have them take up the whole of his morning as well.

He picked up the gold-plated mobile phone that was lying on the damask table cloth in front of him. “Hello, Hammid. Cancel my appointment with those Evenco people. Tell them we won’t be investing in their building project in Dubai and they needn’t present us with any more business plans.”

He breathed a sigh of relief and picked up the morning’s newspaper. Now that he had sorted out the nasty business for the day, maybe he could do something more pleasant. He scanned the paper to see what was going on in London that weekend.

As he was no longer investing in the Evenco project, he decided that he would spend the money on something else. He would find something that would be more pleasing to the eye than a condominium development, though probably less lucrative. He knew that Sotheby’s was having an auction of nineteenth-century Russian silver and there were a couple of pieces that he wanted to bid on, but that was not until next week.

He looked in the newspaper at the list of art galleries. At first he did not see anything that he was interested in and was about to fold up the paper, when he suddenly saw a small advertisement in the left-hand corner. It was for an exhibition of twentieth century Spanish art showing at the Conti Gallery in Mayfair.

He had been interested in acquiring some Spanish work ever since he had seen an exhibition of Spanish Masters at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. He did not think he would find an El Greco or a Velasquez at a small private gallery, but perhaps once he was there, he would see something that would catch his eye.