LITMIR.BIZ

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I’m not a therapist, I’m a teacher.”

      “Yes, and I need you to teach them. Takia can’t return with her sisters if she doesn’t make up missed and failed coursework, and the other two are struggling in several subjects. You’re to teach all of them. They will attend lessons with you every day. I’ve converted the palace library into a classroom and purchased all the necessary textbooks.”

      “I haven’t taught children as young as yours in years,” she reminded him. “My specialty is older children, middle schoolers and high school students, and the curriculum is American based, not UK—”

      “That’s fine. I’ve bought teacher’s editions, and should you find you require something else, materials, computers, an assistant to help you, just let me know and it’s yours.”

      Why did his reassurance not make her feel better? Why did that niggle of doubt within her just grow? Was it because elementary education wasn’t her area, or because she was afraid of failing when it came to teaching Sharif’s children?

      “Sharif, I just want to make sure you understand that in this instance, I am not the best teacher for the job. I spend my days teaching literature, grammar, social studies to eleven-through-fourteen-year-olds. I don’t teach how to read but how to interpret literary themes, how to deconstruct plot structure, character and conflict.” Swallowing quickly she looked up into his eyes. “There are a thousand teachers in Europe more qualified than me—”

      “But none more suitable,” he answered, leaning forward to touch the back of her hand.

      It was a light touch and yet the brush of his fingers across her skin made her breath catch and her belly knot. His touch was still familiar, achingly familiar. For years he had no place in her heart, her mind or her life, and yet in less than twelve hours he’d changed all that.

      “What makes me so suitable?” she asked, her voice suddenly husky, colored with emotions and desire she hadn’t even known she still could feel. Immediately she fought back, reminding herself, he isn’t yours anymore. And you’re not his.

      But that didn’t seem to matter right now, not when she was awash in emotions, stirred by desire. It’d been so easy to be his. It’d felt absolutely natural. And she hadn’t known then that what they had was rare and magical. She hadn’t known she would never feel that way about anyone again.

      Sharif stared across the room, off into the distance, his eyes so striking, his silver-gray irises framed by the densest black lashes with black winged eyebrows beneath a strong forehead. He was her Valentino of the desert.

      “There are advantages to being king,” he said at last, speaking slowly, thoughtfully. “It didn’t take me long to appreciate those advantages—everyone bows to you, acquiescing to keep you happy. I’m surrounded by people desperate to please me.”

      He paused, frowned, before continuing. “It’s taken me longer to understand the disadvantages. No one wants to earn my disapproval. No one wants to lose a job, a connection, a reward. So people are afraid to tell me unpleasant things and bad news, even if it happens to be the truth.”

      He turned now to look at her. “Maybe once I wanted that blind obedience, the adoration of my people, but it was a mistake. What I really needed were people who’d give me the truth.” His expression shifted, growing troubled and remote. “Truth. Whatever it is.”

      Truth, she repeated silently, mesmerized by the shadows in his gaze. Those shadows hadn’t been there when she knew him. When they’d been together, he’d been so bold, so confident, so … free.

      But that wasn’t the Sharif sitting before her now. No, this man had the weight of the world on his shoulders, weight and worry and a hundred different concerns.

      “It hasn’t been easy, I take it,” she said, remembering how she and Sharif had once loved their evenings and weekends, time for just the two of them, time for long walks and talks followed by a stop at the corner video store and then Chinese or curry take-out. They used to hole up in her apartment and sit on her bed and eat Kung Pao chicken with chopsticks and kiss and laugh.

      And laugh.

      Looking at Sharif she wondered when he’d last laughed. For that matter, when had she?

      But maybe that was all part of growing up. Maybe one became a full-fledged adult and let all those romantic dreams go….

      “I’m not complaining,” he answered. “I love my country. I love my children. But nothing is easy, no. There are always compromises. Sacrifices. But you’ve had those, too, I’m sure.” His head turned and he looked at her. “Haven’t you?”

      CHAPTER FOUR

      DESPITE her sumptuous room with the most amazing Egyptian-cotton linens on the bed, Jesslyn couldn’t sleep.

      Every time she closed her eyes, she could feel that fleeting brush of Sharif’s fingers against the back of her hand, a touch that had scorched her then, a touch that burned her still. But it wasn’t just his touch that stayed with her, it was his low voice, a voice that hummed inside her head.

      In the dark of her room she felt caught in a time warp, suspended in a moment where they were still together and still very much in love.

      After such a fitful night’s sleep, the alarm came too early, jarring Jesslyn awake. For a long moment she sat on the edge of her bed, struggling to get her bearings, and then she remembered she was in a hotel room in Dubai waiting for her morning flight to Sarq.

      She was going to Sarq to take care of Sharif’s children.

      Jesslyn very nearly crawled back under the covers to hide but knew it wasn’t really an option. Instead she dragged herself into the shower where she turned the faucets on full force.

      Drying her hair, she styled it into loose waves to take advantage of her hair’s natural curl. Hair done, Jesslyn chose a simple amethyst sheath dress to wear for the flight. The dress had a matching travel coat which she’d carry over her arm.

      She was slipping her feet into bone-colored heels when two of Sharif’s men arrived at her hotel door. They’d come to take her luggage and escort her to the car. Sharif however wasn’t in the car.

      “His Highness had an unexpected meeting come up this morning. He’ll meet you at the terminal in time for your flight,” one of the men said, holding the door for her while the other tucked her luggage into the trunk.

      Jesslyn wasn’t surprised that Sharif had a meeting come up, and she wasn’t surprised that she was traveling to the airport alone, as he was an exceptionally powerful man, but that didn’t stop her intense whoosh of disappointment.

      The fact that she even felt a whoosh of disappointment scared her. The whoosh meant she still had strong feelings for him. The whoosh meant she cared about his opinion, which made her fear her motivations for taking this job.

      The truth was she couldn’t afford to get involved with Sharif, not when there was so much history between them.

      The truth was she’d gotten involved. There was no backing out of the deal now, not after Sharif had done his part sorting out Aaron’s and Will’s problems.

      The closer the car got to the airport, the more her stomach did crazy flips. Nervously she ran her hands along the slim-fitting skirt of her dress. She’d dressed with such care this morning, had even put on her favorite dress. And yet, wanting to be attractive, wanting him to find her attractive was just asking for trouble.

      It was like cutting open an old wound.

      She wasn’t his girlfriend. She wasn’t his equal. She wasn’t his colleague. She was just a teacher. The schoolteacher Sharif had hired to mind his royal children for the summer.

      The limousine turned through the airport gates, and her stomach did another nosedive. She was here. Her bags were here. Soon she’d be on her way to Sarq, a place she’d wanted to visit for as long as she could remember, and now she was on

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