The Sheikh’s Reward

by Lucy Gordon

  ‘We were thinking of desire the moment our eyes met. Don’t try to deny it.’

  She couldn’t have begun to deny it. The truth was shocking but it was still the truth. She wondered wildly if she could jump out of the car and flee, but he was holding her hand in a grip that was only superficially gentle. Underneath, it was unbreakable.

  He touched her face with his fingertips. The next thing she knew, his lips were on hers in the lightest kiss she’d ever known. It was so light that it might not have happened, except that it was followed by another on her chin, her jaw, her eyes, and again on her lips. She barely felt them, but she felt their effects in the tingling excitement they produced all over her body.

  This was alarming. If he’d tried to overwhelm her with power she could have defended herself. But Sheikh Ali was an artist, putting out all his artistry to bring her under his spell. And there seemed to be no defence against that.

  She moved helplessly against him, neither returning his kisses nor fending him off. He looked down into her face, but it was too dark in the car for him to find what he wanted to know. Nor could she see the little frown of uncertainty between his eyes.

  The long, sleek car glided to a halt in a quiet street in London’s most exclusive area. Slowly he released her. The chauffeur opened the door and Ali took her hand to assist her out. Then she was stepping out onto the pavement, and realising what she ought to have thought of before-that he had brought her not to a restaurant but to his home.

  She knew this was the moment when she should act sensibly and run, but what kind of journalist ran away at the first hint of danger?

  She gave herself a little shake. Of course there was no danger. What had put that thought into her head?

  The tall windows of the mansion were filled with light. One on the ground floor had the curtains pulled back, revealing crystal chandeliers and lavish furnishings.

  Slowly the front door opened. A tall man in Arab robes and headdress stood there massively.

  ‘Welcome to my humble home,’ said Prince Ali Ben Saleem.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A S SHE entered the house Fran blinked at her gorgeous surroundings. She was in a large hallway, dominated by a huge, sweeping staircase, and with double doors on either side. There were exotic tiles beneath her feet, and more of them covering the walls. It was bewildering but gorgeous.

  Every set of doors leading off the hall was closed, but at that moment one pair was thrown open and a man emerged. He approached Ali, not appearing to notice Fran, and addressed him in a language she didn’t understand. While the two men talked she glanced through the doors and saw that the room was an office. The walls were covered with charts and maps, there were three fax machines, a row of telephones and a computer unlike any she had ever seen. Fran guessed that it was state of the art. So that was where he did the deals that earned him a million a day.

  Ali noticed the direction of her glance and spoke sharply to the man, who retreated into the office and closed the door. Ali put his arm about Fran’s shoulder, guiding her firmly away. He was smiling, but there was no mistaking the irresistible pressure he was exerting.

  ‘That is only my office,’ he said. ‘In there I do very dull things that wouldn’t interest you.’

  ‘Who knows? Perhaps I would be interested?’ Fran said provocatively.

  Ali laughed. ‘Such a beautiful woman need think only how to be more beautiful still, and to please the man who is enchanted by her.’

  How about that? Fran thought, annoyed. Prehistoric, male chauvinist-

  Ali threw open another set of doors and Fran gasped at the sight that met her eyes. It was a large, luxuriously decorated room with a bay window, in which stood a table laid for two. The plates were the finest porcelain with heavy gold bands around the edge. By each place stood three glasses of priceless crystal. The cutlery was solid gold.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she murmured.

  ‘For you, nothing is too good,’ Ali declared.

  For me-or for whoever you happened to pick up, Fran thought, determined to keep her wits about her. But aloud all she said was, ‘You’re too kind.’

  He led her to the table and pulled a chair out for her like the humblest of attendants. Part of the act, Fran decided, amused. All her journalistic instincts were on full alert, and while she seemed to be merely languidly accepting whatever happened she was actually observing every detail.

  At the same time, she couldn’t deny that she was enjoying herself. Ali was simply the most handsome man she’d ever seen. In the casino she’d seen him mainly sitting at the table, or at a distance. Now he was on his feet and close to her she felt the full impact of his magnificence.

  He was about six feet two in height, with long legs and broad shoulders. Yet he didn’t give the impression of being heavily built. He walked softly, making no sound, but nobody could have overlooked him. His movements had the lightness of a panther ready to spring.

  His face was more than merely good-looking. It was a study in contradictions. At first glance it was European, inherited from his mother. Yet his Arab father was also there. Fran had read about Prince Saleem, a fierce man who inspired terror and devotion among his people. He too was in Ali’s face in the dark chocolate eyes, the curved, stubborn mouth, and the air of proud authority.

  Yet Ali had more than looks. His charisma was so strong that it was practically a force field. He radiated strength and intensity. And, while some of it must have come from having been born to rule, her instincts told her that his vibrant, emotional power was all his own.

  He showed her to a seat, drawing the chair out and deferring to her. ‘I will serve you myself, if that is agreeable to you?’ he said smoothly.

  ‘I am honoured to be attended by a prince,’ Fran murmured.

  She saw him smile, and guessed what he was thinking: this woman had fallen for his line, just like all the others. Well, if he thought that, he was in for a shock.

  A heated trolley stood nearby, and he ladled a pale yellow liquid into a dish. It was thick, like porridge, mixed with rice, and it tasted delicious.

  ‘Pumpkin soup,’ Ali explained. ‘I have a weakness for it, so when I’m here my chef keeps some permanently ready.’ He served himself and sat facing her. The table was small, so even on opposite sides they were still close. ‘Have you ever tasted Arabic food before?’ he asked.

  ‘A little. There’s a restaurant I sometimes go to. It has the most delicious chicken with dates and honey, and I can’t resist it. But the surroundings are vulgar. The walls are covered with murals of the desert, with oases that light up in neon.’

  Ali winced. ‘I know the kind of place you mean. They make a great play of the desert, but none of them knows what the desert is really like.’

  ‘What is it like?’ Fran asked eagerly. ‘Tell me about the desert.’

  ‘How shall I know what to say? There are so many deserts. There is the desert in the evening when the sun turns to blood and is swallowed up by the sand. In England you have long twilights, but in my country it can be broad daylight, and then pitch darkness a few minutes later.

  ‘Then, in the early hours, dawn lays a cool light on the land for a few moments, then rises in pale glory, and we all give thanks for the renewed blessing. But at noon the desert can be a enemy, and the sun turns to a furnace, driving you back into the sand.

  ‘But they all have one thing in common, and that is the silence: a deeper silence than you can imagine. Until you have stood in the desert and watched the stars wheel overhead, you have never heard the silence of the earth as it spins on its axis.’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘That’s what I thought.’

  Without her knowing, a dreamy, far-away look had come into her eyes. Ali saw it, and a small frown of interest creased his brows. ‘You thought?’ he asked.

  ‘I used to dream about places like that,’ she admitted. ‘When I was a child that dream was very important to me.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Ali said intently. �
�What happened in your childhood?’

  ‘It’s strange, but whenever I think about that time I remember rain. I suppose it couldn’t have rained every day, but all I can see is grey, drizzly skies, and people to match.’

  ‘People were unkind to you?’

  ‘No, I’m not being fair. After my parents died I was raised by some distant cousins on their farm. They meant well, but they were old and very serious, and knew nothing about children. They did their best for me, encouraged me to do well at school. But there was no excitement, and I longed for it.’ She gave a small embarrassed laugh. ‘You’ll probably think this is silly, but I started to read The Arabian Nights.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s silly. Why should I? I read it myself as a boy. I loved those fantastical tales, with their magic and drama.’

  ‘There was certainly plenty of that,’ Fran remembered. ‘A sultan who took a new wife every night and killed her in the morning.’

  ‘Until he found Scheherazade, who teased his mind with fantastic tales, so that he had to let her live to find out what came next,’ Ali supplied. ‘I loved the stories, but I loved Scheherazade’s wit even more.

  ‘I used to read that book in the desert, looking out at the horizon as the sun blazed its last before dying. How sad for you to yearn for the sun in this cold country.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, and living in a chilly house, watching the rain outside, always short of pocket money because-I quote-“we mustn’t be extravagant”.’

  She hadn’t meant to make herself sound quite so deprived as it came out. Her elderly cousins hadn’t been mean, simply determined to teach her the value of money. While rebelling at their frugal standards she’d somehow imbibed them. She’d gone on to achieve a first-class degree in economics, but pure economics had been too dry for her. So she’d switched to journalism, specialising in stories where scandal mingled with money. She’d found the excitement she secretly yearned for through investigating the shady secrets of high-profile figures. But she couldn’t tell Ali Ben Saleem that.

  There was a great deal more she couldn’t tell him- like Uncle Dan’s teachings about ‘money and morality’. The God-fearing old man had never bought himself or his family any little treat without donating a similar amount to charity.

  His wife had shared his views about thrifty living until Fran was sixteen and had suddenly blossomed into a beauty. Aunt Jean had yearned to celebrate the girl’s looks with a new wardrobe, but it had taken many earnest discussions before Dan could be brought into the right frame of mind. The local charities had done well that summer.

  They were both dead now, but their austere, kindly influence lingered. Fran had a passion for lovely clothes, but she never treated herself without also giving to a good cause. It was bred in the bone, and she wouldn’t have known how to stop. It was hardly surprising that Sheikh Ali’s lifestyle roused her to indignation.

  ‘I know what you mean about restaurants that play up to stereotypes,’ Ali said. ‘I’ve been in places over here called Ye Old English Waterwheel, with waiters dressed as yeomen, tugging their forelocks, and saying, “What be thoy pleasure, maister?”’ His stage yokel accent was so talented that Fran bubbled with laughter. He laughed with her and added, ‘I nearly told them my pleasure would be to have them vanish from the face of the earth.’

  ‘I suppose we both suffer from that kind of cliché about our countries,’ Fran said.

  ‘But England is also my country. I have an English mother, I attended Oxford University and learned soldiering at Sandhurst.’

  She almost said, Yes, I know, but stopped herself in time. It wouldn’t do to let him know she’d done her homework on him.

  They had finished the pumpkin soup and Ali indicated a choice of dishes.

  ‘If I had known your preference, I would have arranged for chicken with dates and honey,’ he said. ‘I promise it shall be served the next time we dine. Until then, perhaps you can find something in this humble selection.’

  ‘This humble selection’ stretched right down a long table. Fran was almost overwhelmed with choice. At last she picked a dish of long green beans.

  ‘It’s very hot,’ he warned.

  ‘The hotter the better,’ she said recklessly.

  But the first bite told her she’d made a mistake. The beans were spiced with onions, garlic, tomatoes and cayenne pepper.

  ‘It’s-it’s delicious,’ she said valiantly.

  Ali grinned. ‘You have steam coming out of your ears. Don’t finish it if it’s too much for you.’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ But she accepted some of the sliced tomatoes he pushed over to her, and to her relief they quenched the fire in her mouth.

  ‘Try this instead,’ Ali suggested, helping her to another dish. It was a cod liver salad and presented no problems. She began to relax even more. It was tempting to give herself up to the night’s seductive spell.

  And then, without warning, something disastrous happened. Glancing up, Fran met his eyes and found in them the last qualities she would have expected: real warmth, charm and-incredibly-a sense of fun. He was smiling at her, not seductively or cynically, but as though his mind danced in time with hers, and he was glad of it. And suddenly she suspected that this might be a truly delightful, great-hearted, funny, entrancing man. It was total disaster.

  She struggled to clear her mind, but it persisted in lingering on the curve of his mouth, which was wide and flexible and made for kisses. It was smiling at her now in a special way that started a glow inside her.

  And when she forced her attention away from his mouth his eyes were lying in wait to tease and entice her. There was a wicked promise in them and it was tempting to speculate what would happen to a woman who called that promise in. Of course, that could never be herself. She was here on serious business. But some lucky woman…

  She pulled herself together.

  ‘You have a lovely home,’ she said, sounding slightly forced.

  ‘Yes, it’s beautiful,’ he agreed. ‘But I’m not sure it could be called a home. I have many dwellings, but I spend so little time in each one that-’ He finished with a shrug.

  ‘None of them is home?’ Fran asked.

  He gave a rueful smile. ‘I feel like a small boy saying this, but wherever my mother is feels like my home. In her presence there is warmth and graciousness, and a sense of calm benevolence. You would like her very much.’

  ‘I’m sure I should. She sounds like a great lady. Does she live in Kamar all the time?’

  ‘Mostly. Sometimes she travels, but she doesn’t care for flying. And-’ he looked a little self-conscious ‘-she doesn’t approve of some of my pleasures, so-’

  ‘You mean like going to the casino?’ Fran supplied, laughing.

  ‘And other small indulgences,’ he said outrageously. ‘But mostly the casino. She says a man should have better things to do with his time.’

  ‘She’s right,’ Fran said immediately.

  ‘But how could I have spent this evening better than in meeting you?’

  ‘You’re not going to start telling me it was fate again, are you?’

  ‘Have you suddenly become a cynic? What about all that Arabian folklore you used to enjoy? Didn’t it teach you to believe in magic?’

  ‘Well,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘it taught me to want to believe in magic, and that’s almost the same thing. Sometimes, when life was very dull, I’d dream that a flying carpet was going to come through the window and carry me off to the land where genies came out of lamps and magicians cast their spells in clouds of coloured smoke.’

  ‘And the magic prince?’ he teased.

  ‘He came out of the smoke, of course. But he always vanished in the smoke again, and the dream ended.’

  ‘But you never stopped hoping for the flying carpet,’ Ali said gently. ‘You pretend to be very sensible and grown-up, but in your heart you’re sure that one day it will come.’

  She blushed a little. It was disconcerting to have him read her though
ts so well.

  ‘I think that for you,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘the carpet will come.’

  ‘I don’t believe in magic,’ she said, with a little shake of her head.

  ‘But what do you call magic? When I saw you standing there tonight, that was magic far more potent than casting spells. And from that moment everything went well with me.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘Do you know how much your witchcraft made me win? One hundred thousand. Look.’

  Ali reached into his inside pocket, drew out a cheque book and calmly proceeded to write out a cheque for the full amount.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Fran gasped.

  ‘I am giving you what is rightfully yours. You won this. Do with it as you will.’

  He signed it with a flourish, then looked up at her, his eyes teasing. ‘Who shall I make it out to? Come, admit defeat. Now you will have to tell me your name.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ she mused. She raised the glass, letting her eyes flirt with him over the rim. ‘I’d be very foolish to give in right this minute, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘But I must have a name to put on the cheque.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Without a name I can’t give it to you.’

  ‘Then keep it,’ she said with an elegant gesture. ‘I didn’t ask you for anything.’

  His eyes showed his admiration. ‘You’re not afraid to play for high stakes.’

  ‘But I’m not playing for anything,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I’ve lived very happily without wealth and I can go on doing so.’

  He cast a wry glance at her neck which wore a fortune in diamonds. Without hesitation Fran removed the necklace and set it beside him. ‘Just so that there’s no misunderstanding,’ she said. ‘I seek nothing from you. Nothing at all.’

  It wasn’t strictly true, but what she wanted from him would have to be told at another time, and another place. And then she would call the shots.

  Their eyes held for a moment. His held bemusement that she should take their duel right up to the line. Finally there was a glimmer of respect.

  With a shrug that mirrored the ones he’d given at the gaming tables, he pushed the cheque over to her, with the name still blank. Then he rose to his feet and made as if to fasten the necklace back in place. But Fran prevented him.