Free Engaged at the Chatsfield by Melanie Milburne Page A

sheikh’s suite was similarly taken care of. There was nothing to offend and a great deal to appreciate in her setup of his rooms and the floor below.
    Thoughts of her work faded as an older man walked with supreme confidence across the lobby. His air that of a man who owned all he surveyed, he acknowledged the numerous greetings by his employees with a regal tip of his head. Her father.
    Stopping in front of the reception desk, he was clearly prepared to welcome the sheikh upon arrival.
    Gray hair shot with silver, his blue eyes were still clear, his six-foot-one frame just slightly stooped. Garbed in a perfectly tailored Pierre Cardin suit, his shoes no doubt handmade, he looked like a man who would fit right in with the fabulously wealthy people his hotel catered to.
    Gene smiled and said something to the head of desk reception. And all the air expelled from Liyah’s lungs in a single whoosh.
    She’d seen that smile in the mirror her whole life. His lips were thinner, but the wide smile above a slightly pointed chin? That was so familiar it made her heart ache.
    His eyes were blue, hers were green—but their shape was the same. That hadn’t been obvious in the publicity shots she’d seen of him.
    She’d gotten her mother’s honey-colored skin, oval face, small nose and arched brows, not to mention Hena’s black hair and five-foot-five stature. Their mother-daughter connection had been obvious to anyone who saw them together.
    Liyah had never considered she might also share physical traits with her father.
    The resemblance wasn’t overly noticeable by any means, but that smile? Undeniably like hers.
    This man was her father.
    Hit with the profundity of the moment, Liyah’s knees went to jelly and she had to put her hand against the wall for stability.
    Unaware of her father’s moderate financial support and way too aware of the Amari rejection of any connection, Liyah had spent her life knowing of only one person in her family.
    Hena Amari.
    Her mom was the only Amari who had ever recognized Liyah as a member of that family. A family who had cast her out for her disgrace .
    And since her mom’s death, Liyah had been alone. In that moment, she realized that if this man accepted her—even into the periphery of his life—she wouldn’t be alone any longer.
    Her father’s face changed, the smile shifting to something a lot tenser than the expression he’d worn only seconds before. He stood a little straighter, his entire demeanor more alert.
    Liyah’s gaze followed his, and for the second time in as many minutes she went weak in the knees.
    Surrounded by an impressive entourage and dressed in the traditional garb of a Zeena Sahran sheikh stood the most beautiful man Liyah had ever seen. Known for his macho pursuits and outlook, despite his supreme political diplomacy, the emir wouldn’t appreciate the description, she was sure.
    But regardless of...or maybe because of his over-six-foot height, square jaw and neatly trimmed, close-cropped facial hair, the sheikh’s masculine looks carried a beauty she’d never before encountered.
    No picture she’d ever seen did him justice. Two-dimensional imagery could never catch the reality of Sheikh Sayed bin Falah al Zeena’s presence. Not his gorgeous looks or the leashed power that crackled in the air around him like electricity.
    Nothing about the unadorned black abaya worn over Armani, burgundy keffiyeh on his head and black triple-stranded egal holding it in place expressed anything but conservative control. The Zeena Sahran color of royalty of the keffiyeh and three strands of the egal, rather than the usual two, subtly indicated his status as emir.
    Wearing the traditional robe over a tailored designer suit with the head scarf implied supreme civilization. And yet, to her at least, it was obvious the blood of desert warriors ran in his veins.
    The first melech of Zeena Sahra had won independence for his tribe—which later became the founding people of the