Her Exotic Prince

Had brought his grandfather home.

But time was running out. He had been infinitely patient and he no longer had years. His grandfather was already on borrowed time, stubbornly refusing to accept the death sentence that had been passed on him until he saw his grandson married as a Khatib should be married. Could die in peace in the place where he’d been born.

An affair that would cause scandalised headlines worldwide would do nothing to help his cause. He had to keep himself focused on what was important, he reminded himself, even while he held Rose, could feel her corn silk hair tumbling over his hands, her soft breath upon his cheek.

Fight, as he’d always fought, the demanding, selfish little gene he’d inherited, the one telling him to go for it and hang the consequences. The knowledge that she wanted it as much as he did. The pretence that it would just be a holiday romance, wouldn’t hurt anyone.

That wasn’t true. You could not give that much and walk away without losing something of yourself, taking something of the other with you. Already, in the closeness of the hours they had spent together, he had given more than he should. Had taken more. He concentrated on the clean, vast infinity of the night sky—diamonds against black velvet—until it filled his head, obliterating everything else.

Lydia wanted to curl up and die with embarrassment. Not because Kal had kissed her. That had been no more than straightforward shock tactics, designed to prevent her from doing something stupid.

And it had worked.

She hadn’t screamed, hadn’t tried to grab the pilot and make him stop.

Why would she when the minute his lower lip had touched hers, she’d forgotten all about the fact that they were rising from the ground in a tiny glass bubble?

Forgotten her fear.

Forgotten everything as the warmth of his mouth had first heated her lips, then curled through every part of her body, touching the frozen core that had remained walled up, out of reach for so long. As it felt the warmth, whimpered to be set free, he’d drawn her close and the kiss had ceased to be shock tactics and had become real, intense.

A lover’s kiss, and as her arms had wrapped themselves around his neck she hadn’t cared who he thought she was. He was kissing her as if he wanted her and that was all that mattered, because she wanted him right back.

She hadn’t cared that he thought it was Rose who’d reacted so wantonly. Who’d wanted more. Who would still be kissing him as if the world was about to end if he hadn’t backed off.

He was still holding her, still close enough that she could feel him breathing. Close enough that when she was finally brave enough to open her eyes she could see the what-the-hell-happened-there? look in his eyes. She wanted to explain that it was okay. That she wasn’t Rose, just some dumb idiot girl who was having a very strange day.

That he could forget all about it. Forget about her.

But that was impossible.

She had to put things right, restore Rose’s reputation. Instead, she closed her eyes again and concentrated on her breathing. Slowing it down. And, as her mind cleared, she realised that the answer was simple. Fear.

She could put it all down to her fear. Or his, she thought, remembering how he’d pretended to be the one who was scared as they’d lifted off.

If she could make him laugh it would be all right. They would be able to move on, pretend it had never happened.

But he hadn’t laughed; there was no reaction at all and she realised that just because she could lipread didn’t mean that he could, too. He hadn’t a clue what she was saying.

She took her hands from his shoulders, tried to concentrate on what he was saying as he looked up, beyond her. Shook her head to indicate that it hadn’t got through.

He turned, looked straight at her as he repeated himself. ‘And miss this?’

What?

She didn’t want to take her eyes from him. While she was looking at him, while he was still holding her, she could forget that there was nothing but a thin wall of perspex between her and the sky.

But he lifted one of his dark brows a fraction of a millimetre, challenging her to be brave, and she finally tore her gaze from him, turned her head.

In the bubble of the helicopter they had an all round view of the sky which, away from the light pollution of the airport, the city, she could see as it was meant to be seen, with the constellations diamond-bright, the spangled shawl of the Milky Way spread across the heavens.

It was an awe-inspiring, terrifying sight. A reminder of how small they were. How vulnerable. And yet how spectacularly amazing and she didn’t look away. But, although she wanted to reach back, share the moment with Kal, she remembered who she was supposed to be.

Not the woman on the checkout who anyone could—and did—flirt with. Not Lydia Young, who had a real problem with leaving the ground, but Lady Rose Napier, who could handle an unexpected kiss with the same natural charm as any other minor wobble in her day.

Instead, she concentrated on this unexpected gift he’d given her, searching for constellations that she recognised until she had to blink rather hard because her eyes were watering. At the beauty of the sky. That was all…

Kal must have said something. She didn’t hear him, just felt his breath against her cheek, then, as he pointed down, she saw a scatter of lights below, the navigation lights of boats riding at anchor as they crossed a wide creek.

As they dropped lower, circling to land on the far bank, Lydia caught tantalising glimpses of the domes, arches of half a dozen or more exotic, beautiful beach houses. There was a private dock, boats, a long curve of white sand. And, behind it all, the dramatic, sharply rising background of jagged mountains, black against a sky fading to pre-dawn purple.

While she had not been fooled by the word ‘cottage’, had anticipated the kind of luxury that few people would ever experience, this was far beyond anything she could have imagined.

It reminded her of pictures she’d seen of the fantasy village of Portmeirion, more like a film set, or something out of a dream than anything real, and by the time the helicopter landed and she’d thanked the pilot, her heart was pounding with excitement, anticipation.

She’d been so determined to keep her reaction low-key, wanting to appear as if this was what she was used to, but that wasn’t, in the end, a problem. As Kal took her hand and helped her down, she didn’t have to fight to contain a wow. The reality was simply beyond words.

There was an open Jeep waiting for them, but she didn’t rush to climb in. Instead, she walked to the edge of the landing pad so that she could look out over the creek. Eager to feel solid earth beneath her feet. To breathe in real air laden with the salty scent of the sea, wet sand, something else, sweet and heavy, that she did not recognise.

It was still quite dark, but all the way down to the beach lights threaded through huge old trees, shone in the water.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful,’ she said as Kal joined her. ‘I expected sand, desert, not all this green.’

‘The creek is in a valley and has a microclimate of its own,’ he said. ‘And Sheikh Jamal’s father began an intensive tree planting programme when he took the throne fifty years ago.’

‘Well, good for him.’

‘Not everyone is happy. People complain that it rains more these days.’

‘It rains more everywhere,’ she replied, looking around for the source of the sweet, heady fragrance filling the air. ‘What is that scent?’ she asked.

‘Jasmine.’ He crossed to a shrub, broke off a piece and offered it to her with the slightest of bows. ‘Welcome to Bab el Sama, Lady Rose,’ he said.

Chapter Five

LYDIA, holding the spray of tiny white flowers, didn’t miss the fact that he’d put the ‘Lady’ back in front of her name. That his voice had taken on a more formal tone.

That was good, she told herself. Perfect, in fact.

One kiss could be overlooked, especially when it was purely medicinal, but it wouldn’t do to let him think that Lady Rose encouraged such liberties.

‘The luggage is loaded.’

He might as well have been done with it and added madam.

‘The pilot won’t take off until we’re clear of the pad. If you are ready?’

It was right there in his tone of voice. It was the one he’d used before he’d started flirting. Before she’d started encouraging him.

She turned to look at the Jeep, where a whiterobed servant was waiting to drive them to the cottage. She’d been sitting for hours and, now she was on her feet, wasn’t eager to sit again unless she had to.

‘Is it far?’ she asked. ‘I’d like to stretch my legs.’

He spoke to the driver, who answered with a shake of his head, a wave of the hand to indicate a path through the trees.

Lydia watched the exchange, then frowned.

Kal wasn’t telling the man that they’d walk, she realised, but asking the way. He’d seemed so familiar with everything that she’d assumed he had been here before, but clearly this was his first time, too.

She hadn’t taken much notice when he’d said his family were personae non gratae at the Ramal Hamrahn court.

Court, for heaven’s sake. Nobody talked like that any more. But now she wondered why, for three generations, his family had lived in Europe.

What past crime was so terrible that he and his siblings had never been invited to share this idyllic summer playground with their cousins? It wasn’t as if they’d be cramped for space. Even if they all turned up at the same time.

‘There’s a path through the gardens,’ he said. Then, ‘Will you be warm enough?’

‘You’re kidding?’

Rose had warned her that it wouldn’t be hot at this time of year and maybe it wasn’t for this part of the world. Compared with London in December, however, the air felt soft and balmy.

Then, as a frown creased Kal’s brows, she realised that her response had been pure Lydia. Not quite on a scale with Eliza Doolittle’s blooper at the races, but near enough.

She was tired and forgetting to keep up the Lady Rose act. Or maybe it was her subconscious fighting it. Wanting to say to him Look at me, see who I really am…

‘The temperature is quite perfect,’ she added. And mentally groaned. She’d be doing the whole, How kind of you to let me come routine if she didn’t get a grip.

Didn’t put some distance between them.

In a determined attempt to start as she had meant to go on—before he’d taken her hand, made her laugh—she said, ‘You don’t have to come with me, Kal. Just point me in the right direction and I can find my own way.’

‘No doubt. However, I’d rather not have to explain to Lucy why I had to send out a search party for you.’

‘Why would she ever know?’

‘You’re kidding?’

She ignored the wobble somewhere beneath her midriff as he repeated her words back to her as if he was mocking her, almost as if he knew. ‘Actually, I’m not,’ she said, knowing that it was only her guilty conscience making her think that way.

‘No? Then let me explain how it would happen. At the first hint of trouble the alarm would be raised,’ he explained. ‘The Chief of Security would be alerted. The Emir’s office would be informed, your Ambassador would be summoned—’

‘Okay, okay,’ she said, holding up her hands in surrender, laughing despite everything. ‘I get it. If I go missing, you’ll be hauled up before the Emir and asked to explain what the heck you were doing letting me wander around by myself.’

There was a momentary pause, as if he was considering the matter. Then he shrugged. ‘Something like that, but all you need to worry about is the fact that Lucy would know what had happened within five minutes.’

Not something she would want to happen and, while she didn’t think for one moment she’d get lost, she said, ‘Point taken. Lead the way, Mr al-Zaki.’

The steps were illuminated by concealed lighting and perfectly safe, as was the path, but he took her arm, presumably in case she stumbled.

Rose wouldn’t make a fuss, she told herself. No doubt someone had been holding her hand, taking her arm, keeping her safe all her life. It was what she’d wanted to escape. The constant surveillance. The cotton wool.

As he tucked her arm beneath his, she told herself that she could live with it for a week. And, as she leaned on him a little, that he would expect nothing else.

The path wound through trees and shrubs. Herbs had been planted along the edges, spilling over so that as they brushed past lavender, sage, marjoram and other, less familiar, scents filled the air.

Neither of them spoke. The only sound was the trickle of water running, the splash of something, a fish or a frog, in a dark pool. She caught glimpses of mysterious arches, an ornate summer house, hidden among the trees. And above them the domes and towers she’d seen from the air.

‘It’s magical,’ she said at last as, entranced, she stored up the scents, sounds, images for some day, far in the future, when she would tell her children, grandchildren about this Arabian Nights adventure. Always assuming she ever got to the point where she could trust a man sufficiently to get beyond arm’s length flirting.

Meet someone who would look at her and see Lydia Young instead of her famous alter ego.

The thought leached the pleasure from the moment.

She’d been featured in the local newspaper when she’d first appeared as Lady Rose, had even been invited to turn up as Rose and switch on the Christmas lights one year when the local council were on a cost cutting drive and couldn’t afford a real celebrity.

Even at work, wearing an unflattering uniform and with her name badge clearly visible, the customers had taken to calling her ‘Rose’ and she couldn’t deny that she’d loved it. It had made her feel special.

Here, now, standing in her heroine’s shoes, she discovered that being someone else was not enough.

That, instead of looking at Lydia and seeing Rose, she wanted someone, or maybe just Kalil al-Zaki, to look at Rose and see Lydia.

Because that was who she’d been with him.

It was Lydia who’d been afraid of taking off, whose hand he had held. Lydia he’d kissed.

But he’d never know that. And she could never tell him.

He was silent too and once she risked a glance, but the floor level lighting only threw his features into dark, unreadable shadows.

Then, as they turned a corner, the view opened up to reveal that while behind them, above the darker bulk of the mountains, the stars still blazed, on the far side of the creek a pale edge of mauve was seeping into the pre-dawn purple.

‘It’s nearly dawn,’ she said, surprised out of her momentary descent into self-pity. It still felt like the middle of the night, but she’d flown east, was four hours closer to the day than her mother, fast asleep in London.

She was on another continent at sunrise and, to witness it, all she had to do was stand here and wait.

Kal didn’t even ask what she wanted to do. He knew.

‘There’s a summer house over there,’ he said, urging her in the direction of another intricately decorated domed and colonnaded structure perfectly situated to enjoy the view. ‘You can watch in comfort.’

‘No…’

It was open at the front and there were huge cane chairs piled with cushions. Total luxury. A place to bring a book, be alone, forget everything. Maybe later. Not now.

‘I don’t want anything between me and the sky,’ she said, walking closer to the edge of the paved terrace where the drop was guarded by a stone balustrade. ‘I want to be outside where I can feel it.’

He let her go, didn’t follow her and she tried not to mind.

Minding was a waste of time. Worse. It was a stupid contradiction. Distance was what she had wanted and the old lady with the wand was, it seemed, still on the job, granting wishes as if they were going out of fashion.

She should be pleased.

It wasn’t as if she’d expected or needed to be diverted, amused. She had a pile of great books to amuse her, occupy her mind, and exploring the garden, wandering along the shore should be diversion enough for anyone. If the forbidden delights of Kal al-Zaki’s diversionary tactics hadn’t been such a potent reminder of everything she was missing. The life that she might have had if she hadn’t looked like Lady Rose.

But then, as the mauve band at the edge of the sky widened, became suffused with pink, she heard a step behind her and, as she half turned, Kal settled something soft around her.

For a moment his hands lingered on her shoulders, tense and knotted from sitting for too long, and without thinking she leaned into his touch, seeking ease from his long fingers. For a moment she thought he was going to respond, but then he stepped back, putting clear air between them.

‘You will get cold standing out here,’ he said with a brusqueness that suggested he had, after all, been affected by their closeness. That he, too, was aware that it would be inappropriate to take it further.

‘And you don’t want to explain to Lucy how I caught a chill on your watch?’ Light, cool, she told herself.

‘That wouldn’t bother me.’ He joined her at the balustrade, but kept his eyes on the horizon. ‘I’d simply explain that you stubbornly, wilfully insisted on standing outside in the chill of dawn, that short of carrying you inside there was nothing I could do about it. I have no doubt that she’d agree with me.’

‘She would?’ The idea of Rose being wilful or stubborn was so slanderous that she had to take a breath, remind herself that he was judging Rose on her behaviour, before she nodded and said, ‘She would.’ And vow to try a little harder—a lot harder—to be like the real thing.

‘His Highness, the Emir, on the other hand,’ Kal continued, ‘would be certain to think that I’d personally arranged for you to go down with pneumonia in order to cause him maximum embarrassment.’

He spoke lightly enough, inviting amusement, but she didn’t laugh, sensing the underlying darkness behind his words.

‘Why on earth would he think that?’ she asked, but more questions crowded into her head. Without waiting for him to answer, she added, ‘And why do you always refer to him as His Highness or the Emir?’ She made little quote marks with her fingers, something else she realised Rose would never do, and let her hands drop. ‘Sheikh Jamal is your uncle, isn’t he, Kal?’ she prompted when he didn’t answer.

‘Yes,’ he said shortly. Then, before she could say another word, ‘Someone will bring tea in a moment.’

‘This is your first visit here, too,’ she said, ignoring the abrupt change of subject. ‘Why is that?’

‘Watch the sunrise, for heaven’s sake,’ he practically growled at her.

In other words, Lydia, mind your own business, she thought, unsure whether she was pleased or sorry that she’d managed to rattle him out of his good manners.

Here was a mystery. A secret.

That she wasn’t the only one hiding something made her feel less guilty about the secret she was keeping for Rose, although no better about lying to him, and without another word she did as she was told.

Neither of them spoke or moved again while the darkness rolled back and the sun, still below the horizon, lit up bubbles of cloud in a blaze of colour that was reflected in the creek, the sea beyond, turning them first carmine, then pink, then liquid gold. As it grew light, the dark shapes against the water resolved themselves into traditional dhows moored amongst modern craft and beyond, sprawling over the steep bank on the far side of the creek, she could see a small town with a harbour and market which were already coming to life.

‘Wow,’ she said at last. ‘Double wow.’

She caught a movement as Kal turned to look at her and she shrugged.

‘Well, what other word is there?’ she asked.

‘Bab el Sama.’ He said the words softly. ‘The Gate of Heaven.’

She swallowed at the poetry of the name and said, ‘You win.’

He shook his head and said, ‘Are you done?’

‘Yes. Thank you for being so patient.’

‘I wouldn’t have missed it,’ he assured her as they turned and walked back towards the summer house—such an ordinary word for something that looked as if it had been conjured up by Aladdin’s djinn—where a manservant was laying out the contents of a large tray.

The man bowed and, eyes down, said, ‘Assalam alaykum, sitti. Marhaba.’

She turned to Kal for a translation. ‘He said, “Peace be upon you, Lady. Welcome.”’

‘What should I say in return?’

‘Shukran. Alaykum assalam,’ Kal said. ‘Thank you. And upon you peace.’

The man smiled, bowed again, when she repeated it, savouring the words on her tongue, locking them away in her memory, along with Bab el Sama. He left them to enjoy their breakfast in private.

As she chose a high-backed cane chair and sank into the vivid silk cushions, Kal unwrapped a napkin nestled in a basket to reveal warm pastries.

‘Hungry?’

‘I seem to have done nothing but eat since I left London,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to swim the creek once a day if I’m going to keep indulging myself this way.’

Maybe it was the thought of all that effort, but right now all she wanted to do was close her eyes and go to sleep. Tea would help, she told herself, just about managing to control a yawn.

‘Is that a yes or a no?’ he asked, offering her the basket.

‘Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,’ she said, succumbing to the enticing buttery smell. ‘I suppose it is breakfast time?’

‘It’s whatever time you care to make it,’ he assured her as he poured tea into two unbelievably thin china cups. ‘Milk, lemon?’

‘Just a touch of milk,’ she said. Then, ‘Should you be doing this?’ He glanced at her. ‘Waiting on me?’

Kal frowned, unable, for a moment, to imagine what she meant.

‘Won’t it ruin your image?’

‘Image?’

He hadn’t been brought up like his grandfather, his father, to believe he was a prince, above the mundane realities of the world. Nor, despite his Mediterranean childhood, was he one of those men who expected to live at home, waited on by a doting mother until he transferred that honour to a wife. Even if he had been so inclined, his mother had far more interesting things to do.

As had he.

His image was not about macho posturing. He had never needed to work, never would, but once he’d fallen in love with flying he had worked hard. He’d wanted to own aircraft but there was no fun in having them sit on the tarmac. He’d started Kalzak Air Services as a courier service. Now he flew freight worldwide. And he employed men and women—hundreds of them—on their qualifications and personal qualities first, last and everything in between.

‘Hanif nursed his first wife, nursed Lucy, too, when she was injured,’ he said.

‘He did?’

‘Lucy has not told you?’

‘Only that he loved her.’

‘He loved his first wife, too.’ The girl who had been chosen for him. A traditional arranged marriage. ‘He has been twice blessed.’

‘Maybe he is a man who knows how to love,’ she said.

Was that the answer?

It was not a concept he was comfortable with and, remembering what Lucy had said about Rose not being able to lift a finger without someone taking a photograph of her, he carried his own cup towards the edge of the promontory and leaned against the parapet. A man enjoying the view. It was what anyone would do in such a place.

The sun was in the wrong direction to reflect off a lens that would betray a paparazzo lying in wait to snatch a photograph. Not that he imagined they would ever be that careless. The only obvious activity was on the dhows as their crews prepared to head out to sea for a day’s fishing.

As he scanned the wider panorama, the distant shore, he saw only a peaceful, contented community waking to a new day, going about its business. He let the scene sink into his bones the way parched earth sucked up rain.