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Woman in a Sheikh’s World
She dreamed of the desert.
She dreamed of dunes turning red gold under the burning fire of the sun and of the clear blue waters of the Persian Gulf lapping beaches of soft white sand. She dreamed of savage mountains and palm-shaded pools. And she dreamed of a Prince—a Prince with eyes all shades of the night and the power to command armies.
‘Avery!’ He was calling her name but she carried on walking without looking back. The ground crumbled beneath her feet and she was falling, falling
‘Avery, wake up!’
She rose through clouds of sleep, the voice jarring with the image in her head. It was wrong. His voice was rich, deep and everything male. This voice was female and amused. ‘Mmm?’
The delicious aroma of fresh coffee teased her and she lifted her head and stared at the mug that had been placed next to her on the table. With a groan, she sat up and reached for it, half blind from sleep. ‘What time is it?’
‘Seven. You were moaning. That must have been some dream.’
Avery pushed her hand through her hair and tried to wake herself up. She had the same dream every night. Thankfully when she woke it was to find herself in London, not the desert. The discordant blare of taxi horns announced the start of the morning rush hour. No mountains and no shaded oasis—just Jenny, her best friend and business partner, pressing the button on her desk to raise the blinds.
Sunshine poured into the spectacular glass-clad office from all directions and Avery felt a sudden rush of relief to be awake and realise that the ground hadn’t crumbled beneath her feet. She hadn’t lost everything. This was hers and she’d built it from sheer hard work.
‘I need to take a quick shower before our meeting.’
‘When you ordered this couch for your office, I didn’t realise the intention was to sleep on it.’ Jenny put her coffee down on Avery’s desk and slipped off her shoes. ‘Just in case you don’t actually know this, I feel it’s my duty to point out that normal human beings go home at the end of the working day.’
The disturbing dream clung to Avery’s mind like a cobweb and she tried to brush it off, irritated by how much it could affect her. That wasn’t her life. This was.
Barefoot, she strolled across her office and took a look at her reality.
Through the floor to ceiling windows, the city sparkled in the early morning sunshine, mist wrapping the River Thames in an ethereal cloak as delicate as a bride’s veil. Familiar landmarks rose through the milky haze and down on the streets below tiny figures hurried along pavements and cars were already jammed together on the web of roads that criss-crossed beneath her office. Her eyes stung from lack of sleep but she was used to the feeling by now. It had been her close companion for months, along with the empty feeling in her chest that nothing could fill.
Jenny was looking at her. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘Nothing to talk about.’ Avery turned away from the window and sat down at her desk. Work, she thought. Work had been everything until her world had been disturbed. She needed to get that feeling back. ‘The good news is that in my extended insomnia moment last night I finished the proposal for the launch in Hong Kong. I’ve emailed it to you. I think I’ve excelled myself this time. Everyone is going to be talking about this party.’
‘Everyone always talks about your parties.’
The phone she’d left charging overnight buzzed. Back in business mode, Avery reached for it and then saw the name on the screen. Her hand froze in mid-air. Again? It was at least the fifth time he’d called.
She couldn’t do this now. Not so close to the dream.
Her hand diverted and she switched on her computer instead, her heart thundering like a stampeding herd of wild horses. And layered under the panic was pain. Pain that he could intentionally hurt her like this.
‘That’s your private number. Why aren’t you answering it?’ Jenny peered at the screen of the phone and her head jerked up. ‘Mal? The Prince is calling you?’
‘Apparently.’ Avery opened the spreadsheet she’d been working on and noticed with a flash of irritation that her hand wasn’t quite steady. ‘I should have changed my number.’ He had no right to call her private line. She should have cut all ties. Should have made sure he wasn’t able to call her except through the office.
‘Over’ should have meant just that except that he’d made sure that couldn’t happen.
‘All right, enough. I’ve ignored what’s going on for too long.’ Jenny plonked herself down in the chair opposite. ‘I’m officially worried about you.’
‘Don’t be. I’m fine.’ The words had been repeated so often they fell out of her mouth on their own. But they didn’t convince Jenny.
‘The man you loved is marrying another woman. How can you be fine? In your position I’d be screaming, sobbing, eating too much and drinking too much. You’re not doing any of those things.’
‘Because I didn’t love him. We had an affair, that’s all. An affair that ended. It happens to people all the time. Shall we get to work now?’
‘It was so much more than an affair, Avery. You were in love.’
‘Good sex doesn’t have to mean love; I don’t know why people always think that.’ Did she sound calm? Did she sound as if she didn’t care? Would anyone guess that the numbers on her screen were nonsense? She knew that people were watching her, wondering how she was reacting as the wedding of the Crown Prince drew closer. There were times when she felt like an exhibit in a zoo. It seemed that the whole world was waiting for her to drop to her knees and start sobbing.
And that, she thought, was a shame for them because they were going to be waiting a long time. She’d throw out her stilettos before she’d sob over a man. Especially a man like Mal, who would take such a display of weakness as a sign of another successful conquest. His ego didn’t need the boost.
The ringing stopped and then immediately the phone on her desk rang.
Jenny looked at the phone as if it were an enraged scorpion. ‘Do you want me to—?’
‘No.’
‘He’s very insistent.’
‘He’s a Prince—’ Avery muted her phone ‘—he can’t help insisting. Mal only has two settings, Prince and General. Either way, he’s commanding someone.’ No wonder they’d clashed, she thought numbly. No relationship could have two bosses.
There was an urgent tap on the door and Chloe, the new receptionist, virtually fell into the room in her excitement. ‘Avery, you’ll never guess who is on the phone!’ She paused for dramatic effect. ‘The Crown Prince of Zubran.’ Clearly she expected her announcement to have more impact than it did and when neither of them reacted she repeated herself. ‘Did you hear me? The Crown Prince of Zubran! I tried to put him through but you weren’t picking up.’
‘Insistent and persistent,’ Jenny murmured. ‘You’re going to have to answer it.’
‘Not right now. Chloe, please tell him I’m unavailable.’
‘But it’s the Prince himself. Not his assistant or his adviser or anything, but him. In person. Complete with melting dark voice and a very cultured accent.’
‘Give him my sincere apologies. Tell him I’ll call back as soon as I can.’ As soon as she’d worked out her strategy. As soon as she was confident she wasn’t going to say, or do, something she’d later regret. A conversation like that had to be carefully planned.
Chloe gaped at her. ‘You sound so relaxed, like it’s normal to have someone like him just calling on the phone. I can’t believe you know him. I’d be dropping his name into every conversation. He is so gorgeous,’ she confessed in a breathy voice. ‘Not just in the obvious way, although I wouldn’t object if he wanted to take his shirt off and chop wood in front of me or something, but because he’s just such a man if you know what I mean. He’s tough in a way men aren’t allowed to be any more because it’s not considered politically correct. You just know he is not the sort to ask permission before he kisses you.’
Avery looked at their newly appointed receptionist and realised with surprise that the girl didn’t know. Chloe was one of the few people not to know that Avery Scott had once had a wild and very public affair with Crown Prince Malik of Zubran.
She thought about the first time he’d kissed her. No, he hadn’t asked permission. The Prince didn’t ask permission for anything. For a while she’d found it exhilarating to be with a man who wasn’t intimidated by her confidence and success. Then she’d realised that two such strong people in a relationship was a recipe for disaster. The Prince thought he knew what was best for everyone. Including her.
Jenny tapped her foot impatiently. ‘Chloe, go to the bathroom and stick your head under cold running water. If that doesn’t work, try your whole body. Whatever it takes because the Prince is not going to be kissing you any time soon, with or without permission, so you can forget that. Now go and talk to him before he assumes you’ve passed out or died.’
Chloe looked confused. ‘But what if it’s something really urgent that can’t wait? You are arranging his wedding.’
Wedding.
The word sliced into Avery like a blade through soft flesh, the pain taking her by surprise. ‘I’m not arranging his wedding.’ The words almost choked her and she didn’t understand why. She’d ended their relationship. Her choice. Her decision, freely made. So why did she feel pain that he was marrying another woman? In every way, it was the best possible outcome. ‘I’m arranging the evening party and I sincerely doubt that he is calling about that. A Prince does not call to discuss minor details. He won’t even know what’s in the canapes until he puts them in his mouth. He has staff to deal with details. A Prince has staff to do everything. Someone to drive his car, cook his meals, run his shower—’
‘—someone to scrub his back while he’s in the shower—’ Jenny took over the conversation ‘—and the reason Avery can’t talk to him now is because I need to talk to her urgently about the Senator’s party.’
‘Oh. The Senator—’ Visibly impressed by all the famous names flying around the office, Chloe backed towards the door, her legs endless in skinny jeans, bangles jangling at her wrists. ‘Right. But I suspect His Royal Highness is not a man who is good at waiting or being told “no”.’
‘Then let’s give him more practise.’ Avery pushed aside memories of the other occasions he’d refused to wait. Like the time he’d stripped her naked with the tip of his ceremonial sword because he couldn’t be bothered to unbutton her dress. Or the time he’d.
No, she definitely wasn’t going to think about that one.
As the door closed behind the receptionist, Avery groped for her coffee. ‘She’s sweet. I like her. Once we’ve given her some confidence, she’ll be lovely. The clients will adore her.’
‘She was tactless. I’ll speak to her.’
‘Don’t.’
‘Why the hell are you doing this to yourself, Avery?’
‘Employing inexperienced graduates? Because everyone deserves a chance. Chloe has lots of raw potential and—’
‘I’m not talking about your employment policy, I’m talking about this whole thing with the Prince. What possessed you to agree to arrange your ex’s wedding? It is killing you.’
‘Not at all. It’s not as if I wanted to marry him and anyway I’m not arranging the actual wedding. Why does everyone keep saying I’m arranging his wedding?’ A picture of the desert at dawn appeared on her computer and she made a mental note to change her screen saver. Perhaps it was the cause of her recurring dreams. ‘I’m responsible for the evening party, that’s all.’
”All? It has the most influential guest list of any party in the last decade.’
‘Which is why everything must be perfect. And I don’t find it remotely stressful to plan parties. How could I? Parties are happy events populated by happy people.’
‘So you really don’t care?’ Jenny flexed her toes. ‘You and the hot Prince were together for a year. And you haven’t been out with a man since.’
‘Because I’ve been busy building my business. And it wasn’t a year. None of my relationships have lasted a year.’
‘Avery, it was a year. Twelve whole months.’
‘Oh.’ Her heart lurched. A year? ‘OK, if you say so. Twelve whole months of lust.’ It helped her to diminish it. To label it neatly. ‘We’re both physical people and it was nothing more than sex. I wish people wouldn’t romanticize that. It’s why so many marriages end in divorce.’
‘If it was so incredibly amazing, why did you break up?’
Avery felt her chest tighten. She didn’t want to think about it. ‘He wants to get married. I don’t want to get married. I ended it because it had no future.’ And because he ‘d been arrogant and manipulative. ‘I’m not interested in marriage.’
‘So these dreams you’re having don’t have anything to do with you imagining him with his virgin princess?’
‘Of course not.’ Avery reached into her bag and pulled out a packet of indigestion tablets. There were just two left. She needed to buy more.
‘You wouldn’t need those if you drank less coffee.’
‘You’re starting to sound like my mother.’
‘No, I’m not. No offence intended, but your mother would be saying something like “I can’t believe you’ve got yourself in this state over a man, Avery. This is exactly the sort of thing I warned you about when I taught you at the age of five that you are responsible for every aspect of your life, including your own orgasm.”‘
‘I was older than five when she taught me that bit.’ She chewed the tablet, the ache in her jaw telling her that she’d been grinding her teeth at night again. Stress. ‘You want to know why I said yes to this piece of business? Because of my pride. Because when Mal called, I was so taken aback that he was getting married so quickly after we broke up, I couldn’t think straight.’ And she’d been hurt. Horribly, hideously hurt in a way she’d never been hurt before. There was a tight, panicky feeling in her chest that refused to go away. ‘He asked if it would feel awkward to arrange the party and I opened my mouth to say yes, you insensitive bastard, of course it would feel awkward but my pride spoke instead and under its direction my mouth said no, no of course it won’t feel awkward.’
‘You need to re-programme your mouth. I’ve often thought so.’
‘Thanks. And then I realised he was probably doing it to punish me because—’
Jenny lifted an eyebrow. ‘Because—?’
‘Never mind.’ Avery, who never blushed, felt herself blushing. ‘The truth is, our company is the obvious and right choice for an event like that. If I’d refused, everyone would have been saying, “Of course Avery Scott isn’t organising the party because she and the Prince were involved and she just can’t handle it.”‘ And he would have known. He would have known how much he’d hurt her.
But of course he already knew. And it depressed her to think that their relationship had sunk that low.
A Night of No Return
It was the one night of the year he dreaded more than any other.
In the beginning he’d tried everything in a bid to escape it—wild parties, women, work—but he’d discovered that it didn’t matter what he was doing or who he was doing it with, the pain remained the same. He chose to live his life in the present, but the past was part of him and he carried it everywhere. It was a memory that wouldn’t fade. A scar that wouldn’t heal. A pain that went bone-deep. There was no escape, which was why his favoured way of spending this particular night was to find somewhere he could be alone and get very, very drunk.
He’d driven the two hours from his office in London to the property he was restoring in rural Oxfordshire simply for the privilege of being alone. For once his phone was switched off, and it was staying that way.
Snow swirled in a crazy dance in front of the windscreen and visibility was down to almost zero. Huge white drifts were piled high at the side of the road, a trap for the nervous, inexperienced driver.
Lucas Jackson was neither nervous nor inexperienced and his mood was blacker than the weather.
The howl of the wind sounded like a child screaming and he clenched his jaw and tried to blot out the noise.
Never had the first glimpse of stone lions guarding the entrance to his estate been so welcome. Despite the conditions he barely slowed his pace, accelerating along the long drive that wound through acres of parkland towards the main house.
He drove past the lake, now frozen into a skating rink for the ducks, over the bridge that crossed the river and heralded the final approach to Chigworth Castle.
He waited to feel the rush of satisfaction that should have come from owning this, but as always there was nothing. It shouldn’t have surprised him, he’d long since accepted that he wasn’t able to feel in the way that other people did. He’d switched that part of himself off and he hadn’t been able to switch it on again. What he did experience as he looked at the magnificent building was a detached appreciation for something that satisfied both the mathematician in him and the architect. The dimensions and structure were perfect. A gatehouse presided over the entrance, its carved stonework creating a first impression that was both imposing and aesthetically pleasing. And then there was the castle itself, with its buff stonework and battlements that attracted the interest of historians from around the world. The knowledge that he was preserving history gave him a degree of professional pride, but as for the rest of it—the personal, emotional side—he felt nothing.
Whoever said that revenge was a dish best eaten cold had been wrong.
He’d sampled it and found it tasteless.
And tonight Lucas wasn’t even interested in the historical significance of the house, just its isolation. It was miles from the nearest hint of civilisation and that suited him just fine. The last thing he wanted tonight was human contact.
Lights burned in a few of the upstairs windows and he frowned because he’d specifically instructed the staff to take the night off. He was in no mood for company of any description.
He drove over the bridge that spanned the moat, under the arch that guarded the entrance and skidded the last few metres into the courtyard, his tyres sending snow spinning into the air.
It occurred to him that if he hadn’t left the office when he had, he might not have made it. He had staff capable of clearing the roads in the estate, but the approach to the house consisted of a network of winding country lanes that were a low priority for the authorities responsible for their upkeep. Briefly he thought of Emma, his loyal PA, who had stayed late at the office yet again in order to help him prepare for his coming trip to Zubran, an oil-rich state on the Persian Gulf. It was a good job she lived in London and wouldn’t have far to travel home.
Abandoning the car to the weather, he strode across the snowy carpet and let himself in to the darkness of the entrance hall.
No housekeeper to greet him tonight. No staff. No one. Just him.
‘Surprise!!’ A chorus of voices erupted from around him and lights blazed.
Temporarily blinded, Lucas froze, shock holding him immobile on his own doorstep.
‘Happy birthday to me!’ Tara walked forward, a sway in her hips and a sly smile on her beautiful face as she hooked a finger inside his coat and lifted her scarlet painted mouth to his. ‘I know you promised to give me my present next week, but I can’t wait that long. I want it now.’
Lucas stared down into those famous blue eyes and still felt nothing.
Slowly, deliberately, he detached her hand from the front of his coat. ‘What the hell,’ he asked quietly, ‘are you doing here?’
‘Celebrating my birthday.’ Clearly less than delighted with his chilly response, she produced her trademark pout. ‘You refused to come to my party so I decided to bring the party to you. Your housekeeper let us in. Why haven’t you ever invited me here before? I love this place. It’s like a film set.’
Lucas lifted his gaze. He saw now that the grand hall with its magnificent paintings and tapestries had been decorated with streamers and balloons. Gaudily wrapped presents were stacked next to a large iced birthday cake. Open bottles of champagne stood on an antique table, mocking his black mood.
Never in his life had he felt less like celebrating.
His first thought was that he was going to fire his housekeeper, but then he remembered just how persuasive Tara could be when she wanted something. She was a master at manipulating emotions and he knew it frustrated her that she’d never succeeded in manipulating his.
‘Tonight is not a good night for me. I told you that.’ His voice sounded robotic but Tara simply shrugged dis-missively.
‘Well, whatever it is that is making you so moody, you need to snap out of it, Lucas. You’ll forget about it once you’ve had a drink. We’ll dance for a bit and then go upstairs and—’
‘Get out.’ His thickened command was greeted with appalled silence. Her friends—people he didn’t know and had no desire to know—murmured their shock.
The only person who seemed unaffected by his response was Tara herself whose ego was the least fragile thing about her. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Lucas. You don’t mean that. It’s a surprise party.’
But the surprise, apparently, was his. Only Tara could hold a surprise party for her own birthday. ‘Get out and take your friends with you.’
Her eyes hardened. ‘We all came by coach and it isn’t coming back until one o’clock.’
‘When did you last look outside? Nothing is going to be moving on these roads by one o’clock. That coach had better be here in the next ten minutes or you’ll be snowed in. And trust me, you do not want that.’ Perhaps it was his tone, perhaps it was the fact that he looked dangerous—and he knew that he must look dangerous because he felt dangerous—but his words finally sank home.
Tara’s beautiful face, that same face that had graced so many magazine covers, turned scarlet with humiliation and anger. Those cat-like eyes flashed into his, but what she saw there must have scared her because the colour fled from her cheeks and left her flawless skin as pale as the winter snow blanketing the ground outside.
‘Fine.’ Her lips barely moved. ‘We’ll take our party elsewhere and leave you alone with your horrid temper for company. Now I know why your relationships don’t last. Money, brains and skill in bed can’t make up for the fact that you don’t have a heart, Lucas Jackson.’
He could have told her the truth. He could have told her that his heart, once intact and fully functioning, had been damaged beyond repair. He could have told her that the phrase ‘time heals’ was false and that he was living proof that damage could be permanent. He could have described the relief that came from knowing he might never be healed because a heart already damaged could never be damaged again.
There was something beating in his chest, that was true, but it did nothing more than pump blood around his body, enabling him to get out of bed in the morning and go to work every day.
He could have told Tara all of that but she would have gained as little satisfaction in the listening as he would in the telling, so he simply strode past her towards the famous oak staircase that rose majestically from the centre of the hall.
Tonight the proportions and design gave him no satisfaction. The staircase was merely a means to escape from the people who had invaded his sanctuary.
Without waiting for them to leave, he took the stairs two at a time and strode towards his bedroom in the tower that overlooked the moat.
He didn’t care that he’d shocked them.
He didn’t care that he’d ended yet another relationship.
All he cared about was getting through this one night.
He was a cold-hearted, driven workaholic.
Her normal patience nowhere to be found, Emma struggled to keep the car on the road. It was Friday night and she should have been at home relaxing with Jamie. Instead, she was chasing her boss round the English countryside. After the week she’d had it was the last thing she needed. She had a life, for goodness’ sake. Or rather, she would have liked to have a life. Unfortunately for her, she worked for a man for whom the concept of a life outside work didn’t exist.
Lucas Jackson didn’t have any emotional attachments and clearly didn’t think his staff should have them either. He wasn’t interested in her as a person, just in her contribution to his company. And there would have been no point in explaining her feelings because, as far as she could tell, he didn’t have feelings. His life was so far removed from hers that sometimes when she drove into her space in the car park beneath the iconic glass building that housed the world-renowned architectural firm of Jackson and Partners, she felt as if she’d arrived on another planet. Even the building itself was futuristic—a tribute to cutting-edge design and energy efficiency, designed to maximise daylight and natural ventilation, a bold statement that represented the creative vision and genius of just one man. Lucas Jackson.
But creative vision and genius required focus and single-minded determination and that combination together created a driven, difficult human being. More machine than human, she thought moodily as she peered through the thick falling snow in an attempt to not end her days in a ditch.
When she’d started working for him two years previously she hadn’t minded that their conversation was never personal. She didn’t want or expect it when she was at work, so that suited her well. The one thing she would never, ever do was fall in love with her boss. But she’d fallen in love with her job. The work was interesting, stimulating and in every way that mattered Lucas was an excellent employer, despite the fact that his reputation had unnerved her to the point where she almost hadn’t applied for the role. She’d found him to be professional, bright and a generous payer and it excited her to be involved with a company responsible for the design of some of the most famous buildings of recent times. He was undoubtedly a genius. Those were his positive points.
The negatives were that he was focused on work to the exclusion of everything else.
Take this week. Preparations for the official opening of the Zubran Ferrara Resort, an innovative eco hotel nestling on the edge of the warm waters of the Persian Gulf, had driven her workload from crazy to manic. Fuelled by caffeine, she’d stayed until the early hours every night in an attempt to complete essential work. Not once had she complained or commented on the fact that, generally, she expected to be fast asleep by two a.m. and preferably not at her desk.
The one thing that had kept her going had been the thought of Friday. The start of her holiday. Two whole weeks that she took off every year over the festive season. She’d visualised that time in the way a marathon runner might imagine the finish line. It had been the shining light at the end of a tunnel of exhaustion.
And then the snow had started falling. And falling. All week it had been snowing steadily until by Friday London was half empty.
All day Emma had been eyeing the weather out of the window. She’d seen staff from other office buildings leaving early, slithering and sliding their way through the snow to be sure of making it home. As Lucas’s PA she had the authority to extend that privilege to other more junior staff and she had, until the only two people remaining in the building had been herself and her ruthlessly focused boss.
Lucas hadn’t appeared to notice the snowstorm transforming the world into a death zone. When she’d mentioned it, he hadn’t responded. That would have been bad enough and sufficient to have her cursing him for her entire journey home but just as she’d been about to turn out the lights, the last to leave as usual, she’d noticed the file sitting on his desk. It was the file she’d put together for his trip to Zubran and it included papers that needed his signature. A helicopter would be picking him up from his country house. He wouldn’t be coming back to the office.
At first she didn’t believe he could have forgotten it. Lucas never forgot anything. He was the most efficient person she’d ever worked for. And once she’d come to terms with the fact that for some reason his usual efficiency had chosen a frozen Friday night to desert him, she’d faced a dilemma.
She’d tried calling him, hoping to catch him while he was still in London, but his phone continually switched to voicemail, presumably because he was already talking to someone else. Lucas spent his life talking on the phone.
She could have arranged a courier, but the file contained confidential and sensitive information and she didn’t trust it with anyone but herself. Did that make her obsessive? Possibly. But if it were to be mislaid she would be out of a job and she wasn’t about to take that risk.
Which was why she was now, late on a miserable Friday night when no one else with any sense would be on the roads, heading west out of London towards his rural country house.
Emma squinted through the white haze. She didn’t mind hard work. Her only rule was that she didn’t work at weekends. And for some reason—maybe her references, maybe her calm demeanour, or just the fact that he’d lost six PAs in as many months—Lucas Jackson had accepted that one caveat, although he had once made a caustic comment about her ‘wild social life’.
If he’d taken the trouble to find out about her, he would have known that there wasn’t room for ‘wild’ in her life. He would know that the nearest she’d got to a party was through the pages of the celebrity magazines her sister occasionally bought. He would have known that after working a punishing week at Jackson and Partners her idea of a perfect weekend was just sleeping late and spending time with Jamie. Lucas would have known all that, but he didn’t because he’d never asked.
Defying the Prince
She was a shameless exhibitionist.
Prince Matteo, second in line to the throne of Santina and hardened cynic, watched in grim-faced silence as a girl with a rippling mane of streaky blonde hair flirted outrageously with the lead singer of the local band which had been carefully vetted and approved as ‘suitable’ entertainment by palace officials.
This was a royal engagement party but apparently she hadn’t let the dress code printed clearly on her invitation inhibit her choice of outfit for the evening. Wearing a dress of sparkling scarlet sequins, she stood out like a single slender poppy in a bouquet of white roses. Her appearance was sending out myriad messages to the stunned onlookers. Her towering peep-toed shoe-boots said naughty, the daring strapless dress cried look at me, her scarlet mouth shouted take me.
As her hair slid back to reveal smooth, bare shoulders, Matteo could almost feel the texture against his palms and taste the smoothness of her throat under his lips. Everything about her made him think of strawberries: that endless ripple of long blonde hair with its faint suggestion of pink; those rounded breasts pushing happily against that scarlet sequined dress; and those lips, those lips made him think of ripe, sweet, juicy fruit. Not the cultivated variety that were heaped into bowls for palace garden parties but the small wild strawberries that grew in abundance in the rich soil around his palazzo on the rugged west coast of the island.
Wild.
The word summed her up perfectly.
As he watched, those lips curved into a wickedly sexy smile. An explosion of raw sexual heat burned through his body and the intensity of that reaction shocked him because he considered himself not just discerning when it came to the female sex but impervious to their tricks.
Matteo turned to his older brother. ‘I presume from the total lack of social graces, her surname is Jackson and she’s going to be another of your dubious relations.’
Alex lifted his glass. ‘She’s my future sister-in-law. Allegra’s half-sister.’
‘I thought the idea was to boost the reputation of the monarchy, not destroy it.’ Even without confirmation from his brother he would have known that she was yet another member of the notorious Jackson family, most of whom were currently grinding vampy stilettos through centuries of royal protocol. ‘Why are you doing this?’ Was it his imagination or was his brother drinking more than usual?
‘I’m in love with her.’ Alex’s gaze rested on his fiancée, Allegra Jackson, also resplendent in red, although her dress was considerably more restrained than her sister’s. ‘And she’s in love with me.’
‘Would she be “in love” with you if you weren’t a prince?’
Alex gave a twisted smile. ‘Ouch, that’s harsh.’
‘It’s honest.’ Matteo didn’t apologise. At a young age he’d learned in the most brutal way possible to be suspicious of human nature and the lesson hadn’t just been well learned. It had formed him.
Briefly, his gaze met his brother’s.
Alex frowned. ‘This is different.’
‘You’re sure?’ An unwanted memory uncurled in his subconscious, like a wisp of smoke from a fire long extinguished. Without thinking Matteo glanced down at his left hand, at the less than perfect alignment of his index finger and the silvery scar that was now no more than a faint line from his wrist to this knuckle. Similar scars crossed his ribs and the upper part of his back. His chest tightened and, just for a moment, he was back on the ground with his face pressed into the dirt, feeling the trickle of his own blood on the back of his neck. Right there, right then, choking on his mistakes, almost dying of them, he’d realised that his relationships would never be like other people’s. Did love even exist? He had no idea. He just knew it didn’t exist for him. And he doubted it existed for his brother. ‘I’ve yet to meet a woman who can separate the man from the title.’
‘And you’ve met plenty.’ Alex gave a faint smile. ‘You mock the Jackson reputation but your own isn’t exactly squeaky clean. Fast women, fast cars, fast jets.’
‘Not any more.’
‘Last time I looked you were still driving a sports car and escorting the delightful Katarina.’
‘I was talking about the jets.’ He missed it, he realised, more than he would have anticipated given the years that had passed. ‘And we were talking about your engagement—’
‘No, you were delivering dire warnings. Have you ever trusted a woman?’
Just the once. ‘Do I look like a fool?’
He knew that everyone he met had an agenda. He knew that those who spoke to him, approached him, flirted with him, all of them were interested in what he was and what he could do for them, not who he was. As a result, he trusted no one. And he especially didn’t trust the Jackson swaying seductively on the stage. She looked as if she’d just dragged herself from a wild night in someone’s bed and hadn’t even bothered to brush her hair. Her raw sex appeal jarred in the atmosphere of rigid restraint and Matteo wondered if he was the only person in the room with a sick feeling of foreboding. Yes, the king wanted his eldest son living in Santina and taking up his responsibilities as Crown Prince, but did he want it so badly he was prepared to sanction a liaison with a family like the Jacksons? On the surface the public was in love with the idea of a prince marrying a commoner, but how much would they love it when the whole thing came crashing down?
He wasn’t even aware of the tension in his shoulders until he felt the dull ache spread through his muscles.
This felt so wrong.
Experience told him that the girl on the stage was the worst kind of opportunist. ‘She is loud and attention seeking. She looks like a ripe plum that’s going to burst out of its skin at any minute.’ He switched from strawberries to plums because he disliked plums. It was a more comfortable analogy.
‘But very sexy.’
It seemed like an odd comment from a man at his own engagement party and Matteo would have said more but at that moment he saw a group of Jacksons gathered round a priceless portrait and winced as he heard the oohs and aahs.
‘They’re trying to guess the price of the Holbein.’
As one of them commented in a loud voice that the colours were a bit dull, he closed his eyes briefly, wondering whether there was any way of stopping this before it exploded. ‘They don’t know Michelangelo from Michael Jackson. Is she really going to be your mother-in-law?’ Watching Chantelle Jackson peer at a priceless vase, Matteo shook his head in disbelief. ‘Any moment now she is going to drop it into her bag. And no doubt it will be for sale on the internet on Monday.’ Suddenly he wished he had a closer relationship with Alex. ‘You were supposed to be marrying Anna. What happened?’
‘I fell in love.’
Something about that bland response didn’t ring true and Matteo wondered whether this engagement was an act of rebellion on Alex’s part. ‘Perhaps you should take more time?’
‘I know exactly what I’m doing.’ He paused. ‘And Chantelle won’t be my mother-in-law. She is Allegra’s stepmother.’
It seemed like an odd comment. Matteo was about to ask a few probing questions when he saw that the strawberry girl was now centre stage.
And suddenly those knowing eyes were fixed on him as she started singing a song she dedicated to her sister, a song about getting your guy, which was all too appropriate, Matteo thought.
In the world of social climbing his brother had to be the equivalent of Mount Everest.
No wonder the Jacksons were celebrating.
As she leaned forward and sang cheekily into the microphone he saw movement out of the corner of his eye as Bobby Jackson, an ex-footballer whose colourful and varied love life was catalogued by the tabloids, tried to remove his daughter from the limelight.
Matteo watched with mixed feelings.
It was definitely time someone prised her away from the microphone, but the fact that it was the flamboyant, scandal-ridden Bobby simply magnified the transgression.
‘Come on, love.’ Bobby Jackson made a clumsy grab for his daughter’s arm but she shrugged him off and he almost lost his balance. ‘Give the microphone back, there’s a good girl.’ His face was the colour of a Santina sunset. The deep hue could have been the result of intense embarrassment but Matteo suspected it was more likely to have been caused by an overindulgence of the very best champagne. Bobby Jackson was too thick-skinned to suffer from embarrassment. Matteo knew he’d dragged himself up from nothing and was determined that his family should do the same, although apparently that ambition didn’t stretch to encouraging his daughter to sing.
Matteo glanced at his own father and saw that the king’s features were as rigid and inflexible as one of Michelangelo’s statues.
‘Izzy!’ Bobby made another abortive grab for his daughter. ‘Not now. Best behaviour and all that.’ Izzy.
Of course.
Matteo realised where he’d seen her before. He recognised her now as the five-minute wonder who had exploded onto the manufactured pop scene after appearing on a reality TV singing show. Izzy Jackson. Hadn’t she hit the headlines for wearing a bikini on stage? Basically for doing everything but singing. Presumably she had a voice like a crow with a throat infection, like most of the wannabes that warbled and croaked their way onto people’s TV screens, which was why he remembered nothing about her singing.
Even her own family didn’t want her to sing in public, he thought, watching as her father tried to drag her from the stage.
It was like pulling a mule. She dug her legs in and stood, chin raised, eyes flashing as she carried on belting out the tune.
It was clear that she thought this was her opportunity to shine and she wasn’t going to relinquish it easily, a fact that raised Matteo’s radar for trouble to full alert status.
‘Maybe we should turn this whole farce into a reality TV show,’ he drawled to his brother. ‘Celebrity Love Palace? I’m a Prince, Get Me Out of Here?”
‘Do me a favour? Get her out of here. The focus of attention has to be on my engagement.’ Alex spoke with an urgency that rang alarm bells in Matteo’s brain.
‘Are you going to tell me why?’
‘Just do it, Matt. Please.’
Without further question Matteo handed his champagne to a passing footman.
‘You owe me. And I will be calling in the favour.’ With that he strode across the room to separate trouble from the microphone.
The Forbidden Ferrara
There was a shocked silence round the boardroom table.
Amused by the reaction, Santo Ferrara sat back in his chair. ‘I’m sure you’ll all agree it’s an exciting project,’ he drawled. ‘Thank you for your attention.’
‘You’ve lost your mind.’ It was his older brother who finally broke the silence. Cristiano, who had recently relinquished some of his responsibility in the company to spend more time with his young family. ‘It can’t be done.’
‘Because you didn’t succeed? Don’t beat yourself up. It’s fairly common for a man to lose his edge when he’s distracted by a wife and kids.’ Santo loaded his tone with sympathy, enjoying the brief interlude in what had been a long, punishing few weeks. And if he felt a slight twinge of envy that his brother had gone on to be as successful in his personal life as he was in business then he told himself that it was just a matter of time before he found the same thing himself. ‘It’s like seeing a great warrior fallen. Don’t blame yourself. Living with three women can soften a man.’
The rest of the Board exchanged nervous glances but wisely chose to remain silent.
Cristiano’s gaze locked on his. ‘I am still chairman of this company.’
‘Precisely. You’ve taken a back seat while you change nappies. Now leave the good ideas to the rest of us.’ He was being deliberately combative and Cristiano gave a reluctant laugh.
‘I’m not denying that your proposal is exciting. I can see the business potential in adapting the hotel to accommodate a wider range of sports and appeal to a younger demographic. I even agree that expanding on the West coast of Sicily has potential for a certain type of discerning traveller–‘ he paused and when he looked at Santo his eyes were deadly serious ‘–but the success of the project rests on you gaining the extra land from the Baracchi family and old man Baracchi would shoot you through the head before he sold to you.’
Good-natured banter gave way to tension. Those around the table kept their eyes down, everyone well aware of the history between the two families. The whole of Sicily knew the history.
‘That is my problem to deal with,’ Santo said in a cool tone and Cristiano made an impatient sound as he pushed back his chair and paced over to the expanse of glass that overlooked the glittering Mediterranean sea.
‘Since you took over day-to-day running of the company you have more than proved yourself. You have done things I hadn’t even thought of doing.’ He turned. ‘But you will not be able to do this. You will simply inflame a situation that has been simmering for almost three generations. You should let it die.’
‘I am going to turn the Ferrara Beach Club into our most successful hotel.’
‘You will fail.’
Santo smiled. ‘Shall we bet on that?’
For once his brother didn’t return the smile or take up the challenge. ‘This goes deeper than sibling rivalry. You cannot do this.’
‘enough time has passed for us to put grievances aside.’ ‘That,’ Cristiano said slowly, ‘depends on the grievance.’
Santo felt the anger start to heat inside him but alongside the anger were darker, murkier emotions that sprang to life whenever the Baracchi name was mentioned. It was a visceral reaction, a conditioned response reinforced by a lifetime of animosity between the families. ‘I was not responsible for what happened to Baracchi’s grandson. You know the truth.’
‘This is not about truth or reason, but about passion and prejudice. Deep-rooted prejudice. I have already approached him. Made him several more than generous offers. Baracchi would see his family starve before he sells his land to a Ferrara….
Once a Ferrara Wife…
‘Ladies and gentlemen welcome to Sicily. Please keep your seat belts fastened until the aircraft has come to a standstill.’
Laurel kept her eyes fixed on the book in her lap. She wasn’t ready to look out of the window. Not yet. Too many memories waited there—memories she’d spent two years trying to erase.
The toddler in the row behind her yelled a protest and squirmed, smacking both his legs into the back of her seat with a force that jolted her forwards, but Laurel was aware of nothing except the hot ball of stress that burned at the base of her ribs. Normally reading soothed her but her eyes were recognising letters that her brain wouldn’t compute. Even as part of her was wishing she’d packed a different book, another part of her knew it wouldn’t have made a difference.
‘You can let go of the seat now. We’ve landed.’ The woman seated next to her touched her hand gently. ‘My sister is a nervous flyer too.’
Laurel heard the quiet voice from somewhere in the distance and slowly turned her head. ‘Nervous flyer?’
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. My sister once had a panic attack en route to Chicago. They had to sedate her. You’ve been gripping that seat since we took off from Heathrow. I said to my Bill, “That girl doesn’t even know we’re sitting next to her. And she hasn’t once turned the page of that book.” But we’ve landed now. It’s over.’
Absorbing the startling truth that she hadn’t turned the page once during the flight, Laurel stared at the woman blankly. Kind brown eyes looked back at her. The woman’s expression was concerned and motherly.
Motherly?
Laurel was surprised she was even capable of recognising that expression, given that she’d never seen it before, especially not directed at her. She had no memory of being left wrapped in supermarket bags in a cold city park by a mother who didn’t want her, but the memories of the years that followed were embedded in her brain like shrapnel.
She had no idea why she would suddenly feel tempted to confess to a stranger that her fear had nothing to do with flying and everything to do with landing—in Sicily.
The other woman filled the silence. ‘We’re safely down now. You can stop worrying.’ She leaned over Laurel and craned her neck to see out of the window. ‘Just look at that blue sky and that view. It’s my first time in Sicily. And you?’
Small talk. Conversation that skimmed the surface but never dipped into the murky ocean of feelings beneath.
This, Laurel could do. ‘It’s not my first time.’ Because the woman’s kindness deserved some reward, she added a smile to the words. ‘I came here on business a few years ago.’ Mistake number one, she thought.
The woman eyed Laurel’s skinny jeans. ‘And this time?’
Laurel’s lips moved, the answers flowing automatically even though her brain was engaged elsewhere. ‘I’m here for my best friend’s wedding.’
‘A real Sicilian wedding? Oh, that’s so romantic. I saw that scene in The Godfather, all that dancing and family and friends—fabulous. And the Italians are so good with children, of course.’ The woman threw a disapproving look at the passenger behind them who had read her book throughout the flight and ignored her fractious toddler. ‘Family is everything to them.’
Laurel stuffed the book in her bag and undid her seat belt, suddenly desperate to escape from the conversation. ‘You’ve been so kind. Sorry I’ve been such boring company on this flight. If you’ll excuse me, I have to go.’
‘Oh, no, dear, you can’t leave your seat yet. Didn’t you hear the announcement? There’s someone important on the plane. Some VIP or other. Apparently they have to leave before the rest of us.’ Peering past Laurel out of the window, the woman gave an excited gasp. ‘Oh, just look at that. Three cars with blacked out windows have just pulled up. And those men look like bodyguards. And—oh, my, you have to look, dear, it’s like something out of a movie. I swear they have guns. And the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen has just stepped onto the tarmac. He’s got to be at least six foot three and spectacular to look at!’
Man?
No, she wasn’t expecting a man. She wasn’t expecting anyone. To avoid an unwanted reception committee, she’d told no one which flight she would be on.
Her chest felt ominously tight and suddenly she wished she’d kept her asthma inhaler with her instead of putting it in her bag in the overhead locker.
An invisible force drew her head round and she found herself looking out of the window.
He stood on the tarmac, his eyes obscured by a pair of aviator sunglasses, his attention apparently fixed on the commercial aircraft that had just taxied to a halt. The fact that he was allowed such unprecedented access to the runway said a great deal for the influence he wielded. No other civilian would have been extended such a privilege, but this man wasn’t just anyone. He was a Ferrara. A member of one of the oldest and most powerful families in Sicily.
Typical, Laurel thought. When you want him, he’s nowhere to be seen. And when you don’t
Her kindly neighbour craned her neck to get a better look. ‘Who do you think he is? They don’t have a royal family, do they? Must be someone important if he can skip Customs and just drive onto the runway. And what sort of man needs all that security? I wonder who he’s meeting?’
‘Me.’ Laurel rose to her feet with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man preparing to walk to the gallows. ‘His name is Cristiano Domenico Ferrara and he’s my husband.’ Mistake number two, she thought numbly. But not for much longer. She was about to become an ex-wife. A wedding and a divorce in the same trip. Killing two birds with one stone.
She wondered about that saying. What was good about killing two birds?
‘I hope you have a really nice holiday in Sicily. Make sure you try the granita. It’s the best.’ Ignoring the worried look of her kindly neighbour, Laurel removed her bag from the overhead locker and walked down the aisle to the front of the plane, grateful that she’d worn heels. There was something about high heels that gave you confidence in a tight situation and she was definitely in a tight situation. Passengers whispered and stared but Laurel was barely aware of them. She was too busy wondering how she could get through the next few days. It would be the biggest test of her life and she had a feeling it was going to take more than a pair of killer heels to see her safely through it.
Stubborn, arrogant, controlling—why had he come to meet her? Was he punishing her or himself?
The pilot hovered at the top of the metal steps. ‘Signora Ferrara, we had no idea we had the pleasure of your company on board—’ His forehead was shiny with sweat and he cast a nervous glance towards the formidable welcoming committee assembled on the tarmac. ‘You should have made yourself known.’
‘I didn’t want to be known.’
His fawning attention was uncomfortable to witness. ‘I hope you enjoyed your flight with us today.’
The journey couldn’t have been more painful if she’d been tied to a cart and dragged back to Sicily.
How stupid of her to have thought she could just arrive in her own time and that no one would notice. Cristiano had probably had the airports monitored. Or maybe he had access to the passenger lists.
When they’d been together, the extent of his influence had left her open-mouthed with disbelief. In her job she was used to dealing with celebrities and the super-rich but the Ferrara world was nothing short of extraordinary.
For a short time she’d lived that life with him. That glittering, gilded life of immense wealth and privilege. It had been like tumbling onto a bed of goose down after a life spent sleeping on concrete.
Seeing him standing at the bottom of the aircraft steps, Laurel almost lost her footing. She hadn’t seen him since that day. That awful day, the memory of which could still make her run to the bathroom and heave up her guts.
When Daniela had insisted that she stick to her promise and be her maid of honour Laurel should have pointed out the impact of that request on everyone involved. She’d thought there was no limit to what she’d do for friendship, but now she realised she’d been wrong about that. Unfortunately that clarity of thinking came too late.
Reaching into her bag, Laurel pulled out her sunglasses and put them on. If he was playing that game, then so was she.
With the pilot standing nervously behind her and all the passengers absorbed in the unfolding drama, she lifted her chin and stepped through the open door.
The sudden punch of heat was a shock after the chilly fog of London. The sun blazed down on her, spotlighting every reluctant step. Her heels clunked on the metal and the only thing preventing her from falling was her death grip on the rail. It was like descending into hell and he waited on the tarmac like the devil himself—tall, intimidating and unnaturally still, flanked by dark-suited security men who waited at a deferential distance for his command.
It was so different from the first time she’d arrived here, full of excitement and anticipation. She’d fallen in love with the island and the people.
And one man in particular.
This man.
She couldn’t see his eyes, but she didn’t need to see them to know what he was thinking. She could feel the tension—knew that he was being sucked back into the past just as she was.
‘Cristiano.’ At the last moment she remembered to inject casual indifference into her tone. ‘You didn’t have to break off from closing another mega-deal to come and meet me. I wasn’t exactly expecting you to hang out the welcome flags.’
That hard, sensuous mouth flickered at the corners. ‘How could I not meet my dear, sweet wife from the airport?’
After two barren years it was a shock to be face to face with him. But the bigger shock was the fierce hunger that burned in the empty pit of her stomach, the deep craven wanting she’d believed had died alongside their marriage.
Despair hit her because feeling like this felt like a betrayal of her beliefs.
She didn’t want to feel like this.
Cristiano Ferrara was a cold, hard, unfeeling bastard who no longer deserved a place in her life.
No, not cold. Automatically she corrected herself. Not that. In fact it might have been easier had he been cold. To someone as emotionally cautious as Laurel, Cristiano with his volatile, expressive Sicilian temperament had been dangerously fascinating. She’d been seduced by his charisma, his blatant masculinity and by his refusal to let her hide from him. He’d dragged an honesty from her she’d never given to anyone else.
Now, she was grateful for the extra layer of protection provided by the sunglasses. She’d never been good at revealing her thoughts to anyone. She’d always protected herself. To trust him had taken all her courage, which had made his careless betrayal all the more shocking.
She didn’t see him move but he must have gestured because one of the cars drew up next to her and a door opened.
‘Get in the car, Laurel.’ His icy tone wrapped itself around her body and acted like brakes. She couldn’t move.
Laurel stared into the interior at the luxurious evidence of the Ferrara success story.
She was supposed to climb inside without question. To follow his wishes without question because that was what everyone else did. In the world he inhabited—a world outside the limits of most people’s imagination—he was all powerful. He decided what happened and when.
Mistake number three had been coming back, she thought. Her anger, held tightly inside for two years, gnawed at her insides like acid.
She didn’t want to slide into the car with him.
She didn’t want to share that small, enclosed space with this man.
‘I feel sick after the plane journey. I’m going to walk around Palermo for a while before I go to the hotel.’ She’d booked somewhere small that would never appear on the Ferrara radar. Somewhere she could recover from the emotional demands of this wedding.
The breath hissed through his teeth. ‘Get in the car or so help me I will put you there myself. Embarrass me in public again and you will regret it.’
Again. Because of course she had done exactly that. She’d taken his masculine pride and smashed it into pieces and he’d never forgiven her.
Which suited her fine because she’d never forgiven him, either.
Never forgiven him for abandoning her when she ‘d needed him most.
She couldn’t forgive or forget, but that didn’t matter because she had no desire to rekindle their relationship. She didn’t want to fix what they’d broken. This weekend wasn’t about them, it was about his sister.
Her best friend.
Keeping that fact at the front of her mind, Laurel bent her head and slid into the car, grateful for the blacked out windows that shielded her from the goggling passengers who sat with their noses pressed to the windows of the aeroplane watching the drama unfold.
Cristiano joined her in the car and the door was closed on them. The doors locked with a solid clunk, a reminder that a member of the super-rich Ferrara family was always a target.
He leaned forward and spoke in Italian to the driver, the lilting expressive language sliding over Laurel with the softness of silk. He was an international businessman and he favoured Italian over the more guttural Sicilian dialect spoken by the locals although he could switch easily enough when it suited him. The fact that she loved hearing him speak to her in Italian had been one of their many private jokes.
The car moved forward, their departure allowing the rest of the passengers to finally disembark.
Laurel envied them their freedom. ‘How did you know I would be on that flight?’ ‘Is that a serious question?’
No. If there was anything that the Ferrara family didn’t know then it was because it didn’t interest them. The scope and reach of their power was breathtaking, especially for someone like her who had come from nowhere. No one had cared who she was or where she was going.
‘I didn’t expect you to meet me. I was going to text Dani, or get a taxi or something.’
‘Why?’ His strong, muscular leg was dangerously close to hers, thrusting into her personal space. ‘You wanted to find out if I’d pay the ransom if you were kidnapped?’ Power throbbed from him and suddenly she realised why she’d been swept along by everything. She could barely think in his presence. Even now, his sexuality made her catch her breath.
She slid across the seat slightly, trying to widen the distance. ‘The divorce will be final soon. You probably would have paid them to take me off your hands. Your stroppy, disobedient ex-wife.’
The tension in the car tightened to snapping point. ‘Until the ink is dry on those papers, you’re still a Ferrara. Act like one.’
Doukakis’s Apprentice
‘He’s here. He’s arrived. Damon Doukakis just strode into the building.’
Woken by the panicky voice, Polly lifted her head from her arms and was blinded by sunlight pouring through the window. ‘What? Who?’ The words were slurred, her brain emerging slowly from the shadows of sleep. The headache that had been part of her life for the past week still squeezed her skull. ‘I must have dozed off. Why didn’t anyone wake me?’
‘Because you haven’t slept for days and you’re scary when you’re tired. There’s no need to panic. I’m doing that for both of us. Here—I brought sustenance.’ Balancing two mugs of and a large muffin, the woman kicked the door shut. ‘Wake yourself up with carbs and coffee.’
Polly rubbed her eyes and squinted at the screen of her laptop. ‘What time is it?’
‘Eight o’clock.’
‘Eight o’clock?’ She flew to her feet, sending papers and pens spinning across the floor. ‘The meeting is in fifteen minutes! Were you hoping I’d just walk in there and talk in my sleep or something?’ Polly hit ‘save’ on the document she’d been working on all night, her hand shaking from the sudden awakening. Her heart pounded and deep in her stomach was a solid lump of dread.
Sleeping didn’t make any of it go away and reality pressed down on her like a heavy weight.
Everything was about to change. Life as she knew it had ended.
‘Stay calm,’ Debbie swooped across the office and put the plate and the mugs on the desk. ‘If you show him you’re afraid, he’ll walk all over you. That’s what men like Damon Doukakis do. They sniff out weakness and they move in for the kill.’
‘I’m not afraid.’ The lie wedged itself in her throat.
She was afraid. She was afraid of the responsibility and of the consequences of failure. And, yes, she was afraid of Damon Doukakis.
Only a fool wouldn’t be.
‘You’re going to be fine. I mean, we’re all depending on you, obviously, but I don’t want the fact that you have the future of a hundred people in your hands to make you nervous.’
‘Thanks for that calming thought.’ Polly allowed herself a quick gulp of coffee and then checked her BlackBerry. ‘I’ve only been asleep for two hours and I already have a hundred e-mails. Don’t these people ever sleep?’ She scrolled through them quickly, scanning for anything important. ‘Gerard Bonnel wants us to move our meeting tomorrow back to the evening. Can I get a later flight to Paris?’
‘You’re not flying. The train was cheaper. I bought you a non-flexible ticket on the seven-thirty out of St Pancras. If he’s moved the meeting then you’ll have most of the day to kill.’ Debbie leaned forward and stole a large chunk from the muffin. ‘Go and see the Eiffel Towel. Make love to a delicious French guy on the banks of the Seine. Ooh la la.’
In the process of replying to an e-mail, Polly didn’t look up. ‘Public sex is an offence, even in France.’
‘Nowhere near as big an offence as your non-existent sex-life. When did you last go on a date?’
‘I have enough problems without adding a sex-life to the mix.’ Polly pressed ‘send’. ‘Did you sort out a purchase order for that magazine promotion?’
‘Yes, yes. Do you ever stop thinking about work? The fearsome Damon Doukakis just might have met his match in you.’
‘The rest of these e-mails are going to have to wait.’ Polly put the phone down on her desk and glanced at the clock. ‘Damn—I wanted to take another look at the presentation. I need to brush my hair—I don’t know what to do first—’
‘Hair. You slept with your head on your arms and you look like Mohican Barbie.’ Debbie whipped a pair of hair straight-eners out of Polly’s drawer and plugged them in. ‘Hold still. This is an emergency.’
‘I need to go to the bathroom and do my make-up.’
‘No time. Don’t worry. You look great. I love that look. You’re so good at mixing vintage with current.’ Debbie slid the irons down Polly’s hair. ‘The hot pink tights really work.’
Keeping her head still, Polly reached out and unplugged her laptop. ‘I can’t believe my dad still hasn’t rung. His company is being decimated and he’s nowhere in sight. I’ve left about a hundred messages.’
‘You know he never switches his mobile on. He hates the thing. There—’ Debbie unplugged the irons ‘—you’re done.’
Polly twisted her hair and pinned it in a haphazard knot at the back of her head. ‘I even called a few of the London hotels last night to see if a middle-aged gentleman and a young woman had rented a suite with them.’
‘That must have been embarrassing.’
‘I grew up with embarrassing.’ She retrieved her boots from under the desk. ‘Damon Doukakis is going to rip us apart when he realises my father isn’t showing up.’
‘The rest of us will make up for it. The whole company came in early. We’re all busy bees. If Doukakis is looking for slackers, he’s not going to find them here. We’re determined to make a good impression despite your father’s absence.’
‘It’s too late. Damon Doukakis has already made up his mind what he wants to do with us.’ And she knew what that was. Panic gripped her. He’d taken control of her father’s company. He could do anything he liked with the business.
It was his revenge. His way of sending a message to her father.
But it was a crude weapon. The scorching blaze of his wrath wasn’t just going to burn up her father—it was going to burn up the innocent staff who didn’t deserve to lose their jobs.
The weight of responsibility was suffocating. As her father’s daughter she knew she had to do something, but in truth she was powerless. She had no authority.
Debbie ate a piece of muffin. ‘I read somewhere that Damon Doukakis works a twenty-hour day so at least you’ll have something in common.’
After three nights with virtually no sleep Polly could barely focus. Drugged by tiredness, she struggled to shake the clouds from her brain. ‘I’ve put together the figures. Let’s just hope Michael Anderson can work the laptop. You know what he’s like with technology. I’ve backed up the entire presentation in three places because he managed to delete the thing last time. Are the rest of the board here?’
‘They all arrived at the same time as him. Not that they said anything to us.’ Deep lines of disapproval bracketed Debbie’s mouth. ‘None of them have the bottle to face us since they sold their shares to Demon Damon. I still don’t understand why a rich, powerful tycoon like him would want to buy our little company. I mean, I love working here, but we’re not exactly his style are we?’
Polly thought about how hard she’d worked to try and drag the company into the twenty-first century. ‘No. We’re not his style.’
‘So did he buy us for the fun of it?’ Debbie finished the muffin and licked her fingers. ‘Maybe this is billionaire retail therapy. Instead of buying shoes, he blows a fortune on an ad agency. He offered the board a whole heap of money.’
Polly kept her mouth shut but the dark dread turned to an icy chill.
She knew why he’d bought the company. And it wasn’t something she could share with anyone. Damon Doukakis had sworn her to silence in a single chilling phone call that had come a few days earlier. A phone call she hadn’t mentioned to anyone. She didn’t want it to be public knowledge any more than he did.
Polly forced herself to breathe slowly. ‘I’m not surprised the board sold. They’re greedy. I’m so sick of booking their long lunches and their first-class airfares and then being told we’re not profitable. They remind me of mosquitoes, sucking up our lifeblood into their fat bodies—’
Debbie recoiled. ‘Pol, that’s gross.’
‘They’re gross.’ Polly mentally ran through everything she’d put into the presentation. Had she missed anything? ‘If I were the one giving the presentation, I wouldn’t be so worried.’
‘You should be the one giving it.’
‘Michael Anderson is too threatened by me to let me open my mouth. He’s afraid I might actually tell someone who does the work around here. And anyway, I’m just my father’s executive assistant, whatever that is. My job is to keep everything running behind the scenes.’ And she was horribly conscious that she had no formal qualifications. She’d learned by watching, listening and trusting her instincts and she was savvy enough to know that for most employers that wouldn’t be enough. Polly pressed her hands to her churning stomach, wishing she could stride into the boardroom wielding an MBA from Harvard. ‘Doukakis already has a super-slick successful advertising agency in his organisation. He doesn’t need another one and he doesn’t need our staff. He’s just going to snap his jaws around us like—’
‘No!’ Debbie held up her hand and shuddered. ‘Don’t tell me what it will be like. No more of your blood-sucking-mosquito analogies—I just ate your breakfast.’
‘I’m just saying—’
‘Well, don’t say. And if Damon Doukakis wants your father’s business that badly, well—that’s sort of a compliment, isn’t it? And you’re assuming he’ll make us all redundant, but he might not. Why buy a business and then break it up?’
Because he wanted to be in control.
Instead of being a helpless passenger like her, Damon had put himself in the driving seat. While her father was living the life of a man half his age, his company was being savaged by a ruthless predator. And she was fighting that predator single-handed.
‘Cheer up.’ Debbie patted her shoulder. ‘Damon Doukakis might not be as ruthless as they say. You’ve never actually met him in person.’
Oh, yes, she had.
Feeling her face turn the same colour as her tights, Polly closed her laptop.
They’d met just once, in the head’s office the day she and one other girl had been permanently excluded from the exclusive girls’ boarding school they attended. Unfortunately that one other girl had been his sister and Damon Doukakis had turned the full force of his anger and recrimination onto Polly, the ringleader.
Just thinking about that day was enough to make her body tremble like a leaf in the wind.
She was under no illusions about what the future held for her.
To Damon Doukakis she was a troublemaker with an attitude problem.
When he lifted his axe, she’d be the first for the chop.
Polly ran her hand over the back of her neck. Maybe she’d just offer to resign if he kept the staff on. He wanted a sacrifice for her father’s behaviour, didn’t he? So she’d be the sacrifice.
Debbie picked up the empty plate. ‘So who is your dad seeing this time? Not that Spanish woman he met at Salsa classes?’
‘No, I—I don’t know.’ The lie slid easily over her lips. ‘I haven’t asked.’ Stressed out of her mind, Polly picked up her BlackBerry and slipped it into the pocket of her dress. ‘It’s crazy, isn’t it? I can’t believe that Damon Doukakis is about to stride in here and take away everything my dad has ever worked for and he is in some hotel somewhere—’
‘—having wild monkey sex with a woman who is probably half his age?’
‘Don’t! I don’t want to think about my father having sex, especially with a woman my age.’ Especially not this woman.
‘You should be used to it by now. Do you think your dad realises that his colourful sex-life has put you off ever having a relationship?’
‘I don’t have time for this conversation.’ Blocking out thoughts of her father, Polly wriggled her feet into her boots and zipped them up. ‘Have you arranged coffee and pastries for the boardroom?’
‘All done. But Damon Doukakis is probably just going to feast on the staff. He’s like a great white shark.’ Adding to the aura of menace, Debbie made a fin with her hands and hummed the theme from Jaws. ‘ He glides through the smooth waters of commerce, eating everything that gets in his way. He’s at the top of the food chain, whereas we’re right at the bottom of the ocean. We’re nothing more than plankton. Let’s just hope we’re too small to be a tasty snack.’
Uncomfortable with the analogy, Polly glanced protectively towards the fish tank that she kept on her desk. ‘Keep your voice down. Romeo and Juliet are getting nervous. They’re hiding behind the pond weed.’ She wished she could join the fish. Never in her life had she ever dreaded anything as much as this meeting. Over the past few days she’d sacrificed sleep trying to put together a convincing case for saving the staff. She no longer had any illusions about her own future, but these people were like her family and she was going to fight to the death to protect them.
The phone on her desk rang and she picked it up with the same degree of enthusiasm a doomed man would display on his walk to the gallows. ‘Polly Prince ’ She recognised the slightly slurred tones of Michael Anderson, her father’s deputy and the agency’s creative director. Despite the hour, he’d obviously already had a drink. As he instructed her to bring the laptop to the boardroom, Polly gripped the phone tightly. Snake. The man hadn’t had a creative idea for at least a decade. He’d bled the agency dry and now he’d sold his shares to Damon Doukakis for an inflated price.
Anger shot through her. If they hadn’t sold out, this whole situation might have been contained.
Slamming down the phone, Polly scooped up her laptop, determined to do what she could to fight for the staff.
‘Good luck.’ Debbie glanced at Polly’s feet. ‘Wow. Those boots are perfect for kicking ass. And they make you look tall.’
‘That’s the idea.’ Last time she’d met Damon Doukakis he’d made her feel small in every way. Physically and emotionally, he’d towered over her. It wasn’t going to happen again. This time she was determined that when he glared at her they were going to be eye to eye.
A Night of Scandal
They were waiting for him to fail.
Nathaniel Wolfe, bad boy of Hollywood and focus of millions of women’s erotic fantasies, stood alone in the wings of the famous London theatre, listening to the excited hum of conversation from the waiting audience.
He knew they could roughly be divided into two camps. Women who had come to see if his face and body lived up to the promise of the big screen and men who had come to see whether he could really act.
The knives had been out for him since it had been announced that he would play the title role in a modern interpretation of Shakespeare’s Richard II.
They thought he couldn’t do it. They thought that the awards, the plaudits, the box office successes were all a result of clever camera work and a handsome face. They thought he had no talent.
A cynical smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
He was going to blast their prejudices into the stratosphere. By tomorrow morning no one would be questioning his talent. The headlines wouldn’t be Can the Big Bad Wolfe Really Act? but Big Bad Wolfe Silences Critics with Outstanding Performance. He was going to show them an emotional range that had never before been seen in the theatre.
The director was hovering in the wings and they shared a single brief glance. It had been a stormy collaboration with Nathaniel insisting on playing the part the way he wanted to do it and the director fighting back. Between them they’d produced magic that both knew would go down in theatre history.
As the moment approached, Nathaniel closed his eyes and blocked out the outside world. It was the ritual he always used. Within moments, Nathaniel Wolfe ceased to exist.
He was Richard, King of England.
This was what he did. He turned a role into reality. He didn’t just act that character, he became that character. At the age of nine he’d discovered it was possible to slip into someone else’s skin and hide there. It had been a way of escaping from the dark that had licked around the edges of his life. He could be whoever he wanted to be. A knight, a ninja, a dragon slayer, a vampire, a superhero. Desperate, he’d given himself the strength and power to fight back. To protect those he loved. Acting had begun as an escape and quickly become a disguise. And that was how he lived his life. Alone and in disguise, depending on no one.
He had no trouble being someone else.
It was being Nathaniel Wolfe that gave him problems.
‘The dress does not make you look fat.’ Katie tightened the corset over rolls of flesh. ‘The colour is really flattering, I think you look great. And anyway, you’re the Duchess of Gloucester. You’re supposed to look—’ She broke off as the actress glowered at her. ‘Statesman-like,’ she finished. ‘You’re supposed to have gravitas.’
‘So you’re basically saying I look fat and old?’ ‘No! I picked the costume really carefully.’ Realising how that could be interpreted, Katie braced herself for more abuse. ‘You’re playing the part of a grieving widow so you’re not supposed to look bright and cheerful.’
‘Are you trying to tell me how to act?’
‘No. I’m telling you that you look perfect for the part. Please try and relax.’ ‘How can I relax when I’m cast alongside Nathaniel Wolfe? He is sarcastic, cutting, moody Yesterday when I made that one simple mistake—’
‘He just looked at you,’ Katie said soothingly. ‘He didn’t actually say anything.’ ‘You don’t know how much can be conveyed by the eyes, especially when those eyes belong to Nathaniel Wolfe. When he looks at you it’s like being zapped by a laser.’ Increasingly agitated, the older woman waved her hand towards the door. ‘Go. I need to be around people who understand my temperament.’
Crabby and irritable? ‘I still have to zip up your dress.’ Katie discovered that her hands were shaking. ‘Look, we’re all stressed—’
‘What do you have to be stressed about?’
‘Well ’ For a moment Katie almost told her about the meeting she had with a top British costume designer and how much was riding on it. She almost blurted out that her debts were so scarily huge she spent her nights creating mental spreadsheets, trying to find a way of paying everything she owed. But if all went well tomorrow, then that would change. This was her big break.
Misinterpreting her silence, the actress made an impatient sound in her throat. ‘You have no idea what it’s like acting opposite a Hollywood star. You have no idea how it feels to know that every single person in that audience has come to see him.’ She turned the full force of her wrath onto Katie. ‘My dress could split and everyone would still be looking at him! I could be naked and no one would notice!’
Horrified by that thought, Katie took several deep breaths. ‘Please calm down. It’s just opening-night nerves. Everyone feels the same.’
‘Everyone except Nathaniel Wolfe,’ the actress snapped.
‘He’s as remote as Antarctica and every bit as icy. No one dares get too close in case they injure themselves on all that ice.’
‘And then they’d sink like the Titanic.’
‘Are you saying I look like the Titanic?’
‘No!’ Katie decided it was safer not to indulge in conversation. ‘You look gorgeous and the dress fits perfectly.’
‘Not for much longer. When I’m stressed I just want to eat. And acting alongside Nathaniel Wolfe stresses me. You’re young and pretty. Why aren’t you backstage wearing a pushup bra and a plunge top like all the other girls?’
‘I look ridiculous in a push-up bra and I’d die on the spot if Nathaniel Wolfe actually noticed me. Fortunately he doesn’t know I exist. He calls me “wardrobe.” Even when I was fitting him for his costume he didn’t talk to me. He was on the phone the whole time. Breathe in ’ Katie struggled with the zip, praying that it would hold. She didn’t want to be the one to point out that eating a truckload of doughnuts between costume fitting and opening night wasn’t helpful. ‘Nathaniel Wolfe is so famous I find it impossible to act normally around him. When he walks into the room my stomach churns, my mouth falls open and I stare like an idiot, which is not a good look. And anyway, he is the ultimate bad boy and I prefer men who are a little less scary.’ She fastened the hooks at the neckline. ‘There. You’re ready. Good luck.’
‘It’s bad luck to wish an actress good luck. You’re supposed to say “break a leg” or something similar.’
Katie sighed. Break a zip? ‘I’m in charge of wardrobe, if anyone breaks anything it will be a problem because none of the costumes will fit over a plaster cast. And now I have to go and check on John of Gaunt.’
She escaped to the wardrobe department where her close friend and assistant, Claire, was munching a bar of chocolate and reading a celebrity magazine hidden underneath a costume. She glanced up guiltily as Katie entered the room. ‘Oops. You caught me peeking into other people’s lives— all for the purposes of research, of course.’ Her grin turned to a frown as she looked at Katie’s face. ‘I’m guessing you’ve just come from sorting out the Duchess of Grizzly Ghastly Gloucester. Did she fit into her dress?’
‘Just.’ Katie flopped into a chair. Pain stabbed behind her eyes. ‘Dressing her in deep purple is great for the character she’s playing, but dark colours are very unforgiving against exposed flesh and I have a horrible feeling that her dress is going to split. Do we have any headache pills left?’
‘I just swallowed the last. And talking of headaches ’ Claire passed her the magazine. ‘I don’t know if you’re going to want to see this, but there’s a huge feature on your sister in here. Is Paula Preston the Most Beautiful Woman in the World? Well, duh—no, she’s the most airbrushed woman in the world. How come you’re Field and she’s Preston? Why don’t the two of you have the same surname?’
‘She doesn’t want anyone to make the connection. She likes to pretend her family doesn’t exist.’ Katie stared at the picture of her sister and then thought about how much their mother was struggling. Part of her just wanted to get on the phone and yell. She wanted to remind Paula about family loyalty and priorities. But she knew there was no point. ‘When it all came out about Dad’s gambling problem, she was horrified. I was horrified, too, obviously, but Paula was just so angry with Mum for forgiving him and staying with him all those years. She blames her for the fact we had no money when we were growing up and says that if Mum loses the house now, then it’s her own fault. She doesn’t see why she should pay for what she sees as Mum’s weakness.’
‘Nice.’
‘Sometimes I can’t even believe we’re related.’ Katie chewed the corner of her fingernail and then caught sight of her sister’s perfect nails and let her hand drop into her lap. ‘It
was all too grubby for her. She’s created this perfect image for herself and she doesn’t want it tarnished by Dad’s sins.’
Claire snatched the magazine back from her and ripped out the offending article. ‘There.’ She scrunched up the pages and threw them in the bin. ‘She’s where she deserves to be. And now I’m going to watch the wicked Wolfe onstage. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing. Are you coming?’
‘No. I need to look at my drawings again and go over the script before tomorrow.’
‘You’ll never be able to work in Hollywood if you’re star-struck.’
‘I’m not star-struck.’
‘Yes, you are. When you took his inside leg measurement, your face was like a tomato.’
‘OK, maybe I’m Nathaniel Wolfe-struck.’
‘The guy is smoking hot, that’s for sure.’
Katie twisted the cap off a bottle of water. ‘Yes, but he isn’t real. How well can you ever really know an actor? How do you know when they’re acting?’ She sipped her water. She knew only too well how easy it was to think you knew someone and then discover you didn’t. ‘I mean, if Nathaniel Wolfe ever said “I love you” to you, are you seriously going to believe him?’
‘I overheard him telling the director that love is a four-letter word and he never uses four-letter words. Do you know that the tickets for this sold out in four minutes? Four minutes. Incredible. Particularly when you think that Shakespeare is gobbledegook to lots of people. Macbeth talking to skulls—’
‘Hamlet.’ Katie slipped off her shoes and flexed her toes. ‘It was Hamlet.’
‘Whatever. I was rubbish at English at school. I used to think Chaucer was something you rested your teacup on.’
‘That’s saucer, not Chaucer.’
‘My point exactly. Anyway, what I’m saying is that he could be reading his tax return and it would still be a full house. This is Nathaniel Wolfe we’re talking about. The man has won every award going, except the Sapphire Screen Award. That’s the big one.’ Katie thought about the massive hype that surrounded the most prestigious film award in the world. ‘He’s been nominated three times.’
‘I guess it’s every actor’s ultimate goal. He certainly deserves it this time round.’ Claire looked dreamy.
‘Even when he’s spouting Shakespeare and I don’t understand a word he’s saying, I still can’t stop listening.’
‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you—it’s mind control. It’s the voice. And those incredible blue eyes.’
‘Can you imagine what it would be like to actually have sex with him? I wonder if you’d stare with your mouth open all the way through?’
‘That’s one question I’m never going to be able to answer. He doesn’t even know I’m alive. Thank goodness.’ Katie put the top back on her water and returned the bottle to her bag. ‘Listen, about tonight—’
‘You are not backing out, so don’t even think about it. It starts at eleven and we need to look really sexy. Wear something that shows your cleavage.’
‘No way. I still have no idea how I let you talk me into speed dating.’
‘You’re gorgeous, Katie. You only think you’re fat because your sister is Paula Preston, supermodel.’
‘I feel so unfit. When this play is over I’m going to be more disciplined about exercise. I want to be toned and sleek. It’s depressing watching Nathaniel Wolfe. His body is packed muscle.’ Gloomy, Katie flexed her biceps. ‘I barely have the strength to lift my water bottle.’
‘He looks deadly in that leather jacket you picked out for him. You are utterly amazing at knowing exactly which costume will work best.’
‘The costume is supposed to mimic the character’s emotional journey.’ Katie glanced down at her ripped jeans. ‘I dread to think what my clothes say about my emotional journey but I definitely travelled economy.’
‘Your clothes say that you’re an overworked, underpaid costume designer with no time to worry about your own wardrobe.’
‘And with huge debts.’
‘You’re incredibly talented. One day someone is going to discover you.’
‘Well, I wish someone would discover me quickly.’ Panic streaked through her. ‘The house sucks everything I earn. It’s like a monster.’
‘You have to tell your Mum how much you’re struggling. She doesn’t really need three bedrooms, does she?’
‘It’s the home she lived in with Dad. It’s full of memories.’ Emotionally and physically exhausted, Katie closed her eyes. ‘Every time I go there she tells me that living in the house is the only thing keeping her going since we lost him. Despite everything, theirs was such an incredible love story. Anyway, if I get this job it will all be fine. Another step up the ladder.’
‘I bet your sister would be interested if she knew you were working with Nathaniel Wolfe.’ Claire stretched out her legs. ‘Do you prefer him in Alpha Man or Dare or Die?’
‘Alpha Man.’
‘Seriously?’ Claire frowned. ‘Alpha Man was about a Special Forces soldier. I didn’t think it would be your sort of thing.’
‘I loved the fact he thought he had no heart and then when he met the daughter of his enemy—’ Katie’s eyes misted ‘—that bit at the end when he sacrifices himself to save her. I cried for days. I must have watched it a hundred times. Nathaniel Wolfe was crazily good in that movie. And totally gorgeous. If they awarded a Sapphire for Best Physique, he’d win.’
‘Talking of the Sapphires—’ Claire threw her the magazine ‘—flick through the rest of that when you get a minute. There’s an article on dressing for the big night. They’re predicting who will wear what at the ceremony in two weeks’ time. You might be interested.’
‘Why? I’m never going to be invited to the Sapphire ceremony, which is just as well because I don’t think you’re allowed to wear holey jeans.’ Katie slipped the magazine into her bag to read later and Claire glanced at her watch and jumped to her feet.
‘Whoa, look at the time. Less than five minutes to go. Sure you won’t change your mind and come?’
‘No, thanks. You can drool for both of us.’
Bella and the Merciless Sheikh
Sand, sand and more sand.
Her father couldn’t have sent her to a more remote place if he’d put her in a rocket and sent her to the moon. And if that had been possible, no doubt he would have signed the cheque, Bella thought bitterly as she curled her bare toes into the coarse sand of the desert and stared across the stark landscape. Come to think of it, this might as well be the moon. Or maybe Mars. The red planet.
Why a retreat in the middle of the desert?
Why not a nice spa on Fifth Avenue?
‘Bella?’
Hearing her name, Bella gave a moan of despair. Already? It was barely daylight.
Reluctantly, she turned. None of this was hisfault, she reminded herself. It wasn’t fair to take her anger and frustration out on him. ‘Early start, Atif?’
He was dressed simply in a white robe, the fabric glaring under the beginnings of the Arabian sun. ‘I meditate before dawn.’
Bella suppressed a yawn. ‘Personally I prefer to start my day with a strong black coffee.’
‘You can find a better start to the day by feasting on what lies around you,’ the old man murmured. ‘There’s nothing as calming as watching the sunrise in the desert. Don’t you find the peace soothing?’
‘Honestly? It’s driving me stark-staring nuts.’ Without thinking, Bella reached for her phone and then remembered that it had been confiscated, along with everything else that she needed to communicate with the outside world. She tapped her empty palm impatiently against her thigh and then looked down at her fingernails with distaste. Given the choice between a coffee and a manicure, she would have opted for the manicure. ‘Do you actually own this place?’
‘I am merely passing through. When I am ready, I will move on.’
‘I would have moved on after two minutes given the chance! I’ve been here for two weeks and it feels like a life sentence.’
How could her father do this to her? Thanks to him, she’d been cut off from everyone. Left alone at a time when she desperately needed human comfort.
The shocking discovery she’d made only two weeks earlier had left her numb and emotionally drained. The person she’d been before that night had gone forever. So had the naive assumptions she’d nurtured throughout her life.
Regret tore through her You shouldn’t have looked, Bella.
Like Pandora, she’d lifted the lid of the box and now she was paying the price.
‘You allow emotion to grip you the way a falcon grips its prey.’ Atif watched her with the same tranquil expression he adopted during their sessions together. ‘You are angry, but your father sent you here for your own benefit.’
‘He sent me here as a punishment because I embarrassed him.’ Bella wrapped her arms around herself and wondered how she could feel cold in such a hot, oppressive place. ‘I’ve embarrassed the whole family. Brought the Balfour name into disrepute. Again.’ But no one had considered what the whole sordid incident had done to her. And the fact that no one had considered her feelings simply increased her sense of abandon ment.
Remembering everything that had happened on the night of the Balfour Ball, Bella felt a lump build in her throat. She wanted to know how her sister Olivia was feeling about the whole thing—she wanted to make amends.
Her behaviour had been bad—she knew that. But she’d been goaded. Upset. And Olivia had said things too
‘Can I have my phone back just to send one text?’ Suddenly it seemed desperately important that she contact her twin. ‘Or could I use your computer? I haven’t checked my emails for two weeks.’
‘That isn’t possible, Bella.’
‘I’m going mad, Atif! Sand and silence are a lousy combination.’ She glanced around her desperately and her attention focused on a cluster of low whitewashed buildings she’d noticed earlier in the week. ‘How about those stables over there—can I at least go for a ride or something? Just for an hour.’
‘They are nothing to do with the Retreat. The stables are privately owned.’
‘Strange place to keep horses.’ Bella studied the guards standing by the entrance. Why would a stable need guards? ‘Well, if I can’t borrow a horse could I at least have my iPod? I find it easier to relax to music.’
‘Silence is golden.’
‘Around here, everything is golden.’ Simmering with frustration, Bella looked at the shifting sands and an idea took shape in her mind—an outrageous, daring idea. ‘That city we passed through on the way here, tell me about it.’
‘Al-Rafid is a sheikhdom, famous for its rich, cultural heritage.’
‘Is there oil?’ She forced herself to make casual conversation but all she really wanted to ask was, How long will it take me to get there and do they have high-speed broadband?
‘Huge reserves of oil, but the ruling Sheikh is an astute businessman. He has turned what was once an ancient desert city into an international centre for commerce. The buildings on the waterfront are as modern as anything you would find in Manhattan or Canary Wharf, but only a few streets away is the old city with many wonderful examples of Persian architecture. Al-Rafid Palace is the most breathtaking of all, but it is rarely opened to the public because it is home to Sheikh Zafiq and his family.’
‘Lucky him, living in a city. He obviously hates the sand too.’
‘On the contrary, Sheikh Zafiq loves the desert, but he is a fiercely bright, educated man who has successfully incorporated progressive business thinking into the running of a very traditional country. But he has never forgotten his roots. For one week every year, he allows himself time alone in the desert. Time for reflection. He is a powerful man—some would say ruthless—but he is also a man deeply aware of his responsibilities.’
Responsibility.
Wasn’t that the last word her father had said to her before he’d sent her into exile? Bella squirmed uncomfortably, trying to ease the sharp prick of her conscience. ‘So this sheikh. Is he married with eight wives and a hundred children?’
‘His Highness has not yet chosen a wife. His family background is complicated.’
‘I bet it’s a picnic compared to mine.’
‘Sheikh Zafiq’s mother was a princess, much loved by everyone. Unfortunately she died when he was a baby.’
‘She died?’ Bella felt as though she’d been thumped in the chest. Like her, he’d lost his mother as a child. She felt compelled to find out more about the powerful, ruthless Sheikh, forgetting that her original obj ective had been simply to discover the distance to civilisation. ‘Did his father marry again?’
‘Yes, but tragically both his father and stepmother were killed in an accident when His Highness was just a teenager.’
So he’d lost two mothers.
Bella watched as the rising sun set fire to the dunes, changing the colours from dull red to bright gold. She felt a strange affinity with the mysterious Sheikh. He was out there somewhere across the bleak, featureless mountains of sand. Did he think about the mother he’d never known? Had he discovered things about her that would have been better left a secret?
Was his mind as much of a mess as hers?
Bella dug her hands into the pockets of her cotton trousers and reminded herself that regret was pointless. The past couldn’t be undone. In all the hours of enforced meditation there was one topic on which she’d refused to allow herself to dwell.
Her mother.
Later. Later, she’d have to think about it but for now it was all too raw.
‘So this Sheikh guy—’ she pushed her hair out of her eyes, grimacing at the texture and indulging in a brief fantasy about deep conditioning and a blow dry ‘—he must have been pretty young to take over the running of a country.’
‘Just eighteen. But he was bred to rule.’
‘Poor guy. Must have had a pretty grim childhood. But all that oil must mean he’s rich. So why hasn’t he married? I suppose he’s old and ugly and can’t even buy himself a wife.’
‘His Highness is in his early thirties and is considered extremely handsome by those better qualified to comment on these things than me.’
‘So what’s wrong with him, then?’ Bella eyed the lizard that scuttled across the sand in front of her.
‘At some point he will marry someone suitable, but I understand that he is in no hurry.’
‘And who can blame him? Marriage can be a nightmare. My father has done it three times. He’s a devotee of the saying, “If at first you don’t succeed—try, try and try again.” You have to admire his perseverance. As a spectator sport it’s quite gripping.’
‘Your father has had three marriages?’
‘You’d think he’d be good at it by now, wouldn’t you?’ Bella brushed sand from her bare arms, wondering whether it counted as exfoliation. ‘He’s had enough practise.’
‘You have to let the anger go, Bella. You’re too passionate.’
‘That’s me.’ She kept her tone careless. ‘Too passionate. Too everything. Try having siblings, half-siblings, three mothers and a father like mine and you might understand why I don’t have your sense of calm. Nothing winds you up like family. Except maybe having your laptop, your phone and your iPod removed at the same time.’
‘It is when life is at its most demanding that we must seek inner peace. Your own ability for quiet reflection can be an oasis in the storm of life.’
‘I wouldn’t say no to a few days by an oasis,’ Bella said absently, unsettled by the effect his words had on her. The truth was she envied his sense of calm. She wanted that, but had no idea how to achieve it. ‘Palm trees, water to bathe in. I have no problem with sand, providing I’m staring down at it from my sun lounger with a Margarita in my hand.’
He bowed his head. ‘I’ll leave you to reflect, Bella. And see you at nine for yoga.’
‘Yoga. Yippee. The excitement might just kill me.’ Bella’s expression was deadpan and she watched him stroll back towards the tents but inside she was boiling with emotion.
Enough!
No more meditation. No more desert.
She was going to find the keys to a Jeep and get out of here even if it meant tying someone up in their tent.
She was about to return to the Retreat and go on the hunt for transport when she noticed that the guards had disappeared from the entrance to the stables. Bella’s eyes narrowed and her mind raced ahead as she adjusted her plans. No one knew her in the stables, did they? If she walked with enough confidence they might even think she worked there.
Indulging in a brief fantasy about fleeing across the desert in a horsebox, she slid past a sign that said “Strictly No Admittance” and walked down a sandy path that led to a stable block. A fountain bubbled in the centre of the deserted courtyard and only now could Bella see that the stables were both sophisticated and extensive.
‘Whoever owns this place must be seriously loaded.’ She sneaked a look over her shoulder to see if anyone had noticed her. But the stables appeared deserted. No guards. No one.
Strange, Bella thought, glancing around her. Where was everyone?
She knew from experience that stables were busy places. A horse stuck its head over the door of the stable and whickered at her.
Bella walked across to him. ‘At least someone lives here. Hello, beautiful,’ she crooned, rubbing her hand over the mare’s silky neck. ‘How’s your morning so far? Done any meditation? Knotted any of your legs into a lotus? Sipped any herbal tea?’
The horse blew gently against her neck and Bella suddenly felt better than she had for weeks.
‘Want to come and sleep in my tent?’ She kissed the animal on the nose, fussing and gentling the mare, the familiar scent of hay and horse calming her in a way that no amount of meditation had achieved. Peering over the stable door, she took in the quality of the horse. ‘You really are a beauty. Pure-bred Arab. Why would anyone keep a horse as special as you hidden away out here?’
The horse nudged her hard and Bella almost lost her balance.
‘You’re fed up with being trapped in the stable, aren’t you? I know the feeling. Where is everyone? Why are you on your own here?’
The place was eerily deserted and Bella looked around uneasily, trying to shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong—that something bad was about to happen.
‘Oh, for crying out loud—’ Cross with herself, she turned back to the horse. ‘I’ve been living in boredomville for so long I’m imagining things. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past two weeks it’s that nothing ever happens out here.’
The horse moved restlessly in its box and Bella murmured to the animal sympathetically, sharing that restlessness. She had a desperate longing to spring onto her back and just ride and ride until her thoughts were far behind.
And why not? Why take a Jeep when she could ride to the city?
It couldn’t be that far. She could remember the way. Vaguely. Once there she could arrange for the horse to be returned with her compliments.
Hopefully Atif would be so angry he’d refuse to have her back.
I’ll be banned, Bella thought happily, sliding the bolt on the stable door and letting herself inside. Bad Bella. ‘People always think the worst of me and I’d hate to disappoint them. Poor Atif is going to need to delve deep to discover his inner peace,’ she told the mare as she swiftly untied her. ‘I’m about to put his karma through significant turbulence. He’d better fasten his seat belt.’
‘If you wish to spend a week alone in the desert, then at least allow your guards to accompany you, Zafiq.’
‘If I allowed the guards to accompany me, then I would no longer be alone,’ Zafiq pointed out drily. ‘This is the one week of my life when I am allowed to be a man and not a ruler. I place you in sole charge, Rachid.’
His young brother paled, clearly daunted by the responsibility. ‘You don’t think you should postpone your trip? The oil negotiations have reached a crucial stage. They are expecting you to come back with a lower offer.’
‘Then they will be disappointed.’
‘You are seriously going to walk away at the peak of negotiations? It’s the worst time.’
Zafiq gave a cool smile. ‘On the contrary, it’s the best time, Rachid.’
‘What if they go elsewhere?’ ‘They won’t.’
‘But how can you be so sure? How do you know? How do you always know the right thing to do?’ As they walked towards the stables, his brother cast him an envious glance. ‘I wish I could be as inscrutable as you. You never reveal your emotions.’
Hearing the angry squeal of a stallion, Zafiq walked purposefully in the direction of the commotion. ‘The same cannot be said for my horse, who seems to be revealing his emotions unhindered.’
‘Everyone in the stables is terrified of him.’
