Desert Fantasies (Mills & Boon M&B): Duty and the Beast / Cinderella and the Sheikh / Marrying the Scarred Sheikh

by Morey, Trish

  ‘Come with me.’

  She wasn’t in the mood for peremptory instructions but she did want answers. For a start she’d be really interested to know why she was kept separate from the rest of her team. Not that they seemed remotely bothered about it. But was that because she was a woman?

  While she was prepared to be adaptable and accepting of a culture different from her own, she was stuffed if she was going to be sidelined by a Western film crew and a man who was half English whether he liked it or not.

  Without looking at her so called ‘colleagues’, she stood up and followed him.

  ‘You are cross,’ he observed as soon as they were out of hearing.

  ‘Irritated. They might not have expected you to change our itinerary but the whole “your safety is my priority” wasn’t a surprise to them, was it?’

  Rashid smiled.

  ‘So why have I been left out of the loop?’

  ‘Because you fainted and missed that conversation.’

  That hadn’t been the answer she’d expected. She’d been geared up for a fiery discussion on the role of women. Now, with nothing to fight against, she felt deflated.

  He held open the door to what turned out to be his office. The only concessions to their being in Amrah were the marble floors and the carved screens folded back from the windows. That aside it was a seriously high-tech room meant for business. And it was enormous. On the far wall was a large plasma-screen television and in front of that a Western-style sofa, upholstered in dark brown leather, with a tub chair either side of that.

  Polly watched silently as he walked over to his desk and pulled a remote control from the top drawer.

  ‘You remember I told you when we spoke in England that yours would be the second documentary made about my country?’

  Polly nodded.

  He placed a DVD into the machine and stood back. ‘This is it. I would like you to see it before we talk.’

  ‘Have the boys seen this?’

  ‘They have.’

  She sat on the sofa, her eyes fixed on the plasma screen. Rashid placed the remote control on the edge of his desk and walked round to sit in his chair.

  He’d told her the content was offensive, but the initial shots of Amrah were just beautiful. The camera panned across a landscape studded with volcanic remains, then across an endless vista of giant sand dunes. A strange, uncluttered landscape and hauntingly beautiful.

  A voice-over quoted Wilfred Thesiger and Polly glanced over at Rashid. There was nothing wrong with any of that. He answered the question in her eyes. ‘Watch on,’ he said.

  Polly settled back and by the end of the short programme she understood exactly what Rashid’s objections were. The Amrah they’d presented to the West was one of dogma and extremes. It spoke of a society where women were suppressed and their human rights violated.

  It was so unfair. Everything she’d read in preparation for her visit had described a country that was striving to meld all that was wonderful about the East with the best of the West.

  She’d admit to being a little confused by some of the customs she’d encountered, the fact that she and Bahiyaa seemed to occupy an entirely different part of the palace from the men was a strange one, but to portray Amrah as they’d done was irresponsible and, as Rashid had said, offensive.

  She remained silent as he walked over and removed the DVD from the machine and put it away in its case. He looked across at her. ‘I can’t deny there are factions in our society who are accurately portrayed here. When my great-grandfather first opened Amrah up to the West there was fierce opposition. My grandfather has continued to encourage Western investment and it is well known my father would have carried on in the same vein. There are people who are deeply suspicious of that.’

  He switched off the TV.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ She was angry for him. For his country. And humiliated by the crassness of hers. No wonder Rashid had been so cautious about allowing a Western film crew into his country. What King Abdul-Aalee had done for Amrah had been amazing and should have been celebrated. ‘I’d never take part in a programme like that.’

  Rashid smiled. He moved to the chair that was at right angles to the sofa she was sitting on.

  ‘I think it’s incredible how much has been done in such a short time. The new schools, hospitals, the emphasis on building a solid infrastructure…’

  His smile broadened and Polly felt her insides curl up at the edges. She didn’t want to feel like this. She preferred the anger. Felt safer with that. ‘Minty would never make a programme like that,’ she managed, her voice breathy.

  ‘I am sure she would not.’ Rashid brought his fingers together and let them rest against his mouth while he watched her.

  He’d watched her yesterday, Polly thought, in just the same way. It was as though he was trying to see inside her, trying to understand more than she said with words. Almost as though she were a specimen under a microscope and then, sometimes, the way he looked at her changed. She became a woman and his pupils dilated.

  That was when she felt most afraid. She was hopelessly out of her depth with a man like Rashid Al Baha. It felt a lot like she remembered feeling when she’d been swimming in the sea off Cornwall as a child. There were undercurrents she couldn’t see tugging at her, taking her in a direction she knew she shouldn’t be going.

  The trouble was she wanted to go there. Rashid was excitement. Danger.

  When he spoke his voice was low and controlled. ‘You have come to Amrah at a crossroads for us politically. My father is dying and the country knows it. The only person who is clinging to a belief that he might be spared is my grandfather.’

  Polly heard the edge in his voice that told her how much what he was saying mattered to him and irrationally she found it mattered to her. She wished she’d not forced this conversation on him. She ought to have followed the others’ lead, been glad of the opportunity to be here at all.

  ‘He is steadfastly refusing to name any successor other than my father.’ His mouth twisted. ‘While I admire his love and loyalty, it does mean the country is left uncertain of its future direction.’

  Rashid paused.

  ‘Who will he choose?’ Polly ventured after a moment.

  ‘If his objective is to see his work continue he’ll choose my elder brother, Hanif. He’s long been considered my father’s heir.’

  Polly moistened her top lip with the tip of her tongue. ‘I still don’t understand why it matters if people know where we’re going.’

  ‘It might not matter. But Hanif stands for conservative liberalism in a country where there are active extremists.’ Rashid’s eyes held hers, fiercely blue. ‘I have always been aware your visit here might be seen as an opportunity to undermine what Hanif is trying to achieve.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘His political opponents could use your visit as propaganda. It would be easy to suggest Hanif is nothing more than a puppet of Western governments.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘More probably they could seek to embarrass us by compromising your safety.’

  News programmes she’d seen over the years of Western journalists being kidnapped suddenly flashed in her mind. She wasn’t brave. She didn’t feel any great compulsion to ‘get a story out there’. At this moment, given the choice, she’d fly straight back home.

  ‘This morning I received the information that your planned itinerary might have been leaked so I have decided on changes. It is a precaution merely.’

  ‘And you’re coming with us?’ Polly said, casting an uneasy glance in his direction. If it were a ‘precaution merely’ why would Rashid Al Baha put aside everything else that claimed his time?

  ‘I am responsible for your safety and I will see no harm comes to you. You have my personal guarantee.’

  It was the strangest thing, but Polly didn’t doubt it. Looking at Rashid, you simply couldn’t doubt he’d deliver exactly what he promised. She’d never had anyone in her life make h
er feel safe.

  Not even in childhood. When her father had died she’d been so scared. Within weeks they’d had to move out of their home on the Shelton estate and buy a small terrace house in Shelton itself. Her room had been painted in gloss red and smelt damp and she’d hated it. For months and months she’d cried herself to sleep, but she’d never told her mother.

  Not once. Her father had asked her to look after her and she’d done that. Her role had always been to be ‘strong’. Long before the accident that put her mother in the wheelchair. She was still doing it.

  But with Rashid Polly felt she could give over control. She looked at his blue eyes and her initial fear receded. He would keep them safe. Her safe.

  ‘Are you happy to continue?’

  ‘Of course,’ she answered quickly. ‘Will we still leave tomorrow?’

  ‘Unless I hear anything which gives me cause for concern.’

  ‘And if you do?’

  ‘I will send you home.’

  He stood up and Polly felt compelled to do the same. Their interview was over and he no doubt had much to do. ‘How do I get back to rejoin the others?’

  ‘Do you wish to?’

  Heat rippled through her. It would certainly be the safest option but, no, she didn’t want to. He was an irresistible temptation. The feeling of being on the edge, of not quite knowing what he was thinking and feeling about her was addictive.

  ‘You haven’t had a chance to see Elizabeth’s garden in daylight. It would be a shame not to. I could show you now.’

  Why was he doing his? Her eyes flicked to his lips. What did he want from her?

  ‘If you have the time, I’d like that.’

  No one had ever kissed her as Rashid had last night. Not with that expertise and control. It had been a few seconds of pure sensation before sanity had kicked in. But he was like a drug. He’d awoken her to possibilities, things she really hadn’t allowed herself to think. And now he was choosing to spend time with her again.

  ‘I will ask for refreshments to be brought to the summer house.’

  ‘There’s a summer house?’

  ‘This garden was designed to soothe Elizabeth’s longing for home, remember. An English garden must have its summer house. Besides which it provides some welcome shade.’ He reached for the phone on his desk and spoke quickly and in Arabic.

  This was probably the craziest decision of her entire life. Polly knew it, but it didn’t seem to make any difference.

  ‘That is settled.’

  His smile sent shivers coursing through her. A feeling of anticipation. She kept pace as Rashid led her through a maze of corridors. Even if she’d felt at liberty to wander around the palace freely, which she didn’t, she wouldn’t have had the faintest idea which way to head.

  They walked through a Moorish archway and into a formal seating area with low couches. The room was filled with a heady scent that seemed to envelop her. ‘What is that smell?’

  ‘Bokhur.’

  ‘Bokhur,’ Polly repeated the unfamiliar word.

  Rashid smiled. ‘It’s incense. Although to say that doesn’t communicate its importance to Amrahi households.’ He stopped, allowing her to breathe in the complex aroma. ‘Every village will have their own bokhur maker who will create incense which is unique to that area. The ingredients might be any combination of frankincense, rosewater, sandalwood, ambergris…’

  She wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Each recipe is a closely guarded secret, handed down from one generation to the next. And once it is made it is scattered over hot charcoals,’ he said, pointing at a silver incense-burner.

  It certainly beat the rather bland pot-pourri she placed around the castle, but she wasn’t sure she liked it. It was unfamiliar, exotic and slightly cloying as it seemed to seep into the light fabric of her borrowed clothes.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Perhaps. I’m not sure. It’s so different.’ But then everything here was so different. She was different.

  Rashid laughed. ‘It is the scent of home.’

  She looked at him curiously but, of course, he was right. And for her the ‘scent of home’ would be newly cut grass, old books and beeswax polish. Nothing as exotic as bokhur.

  As she went through the doors that led into the garden and into the full heat of the sun she was glad of the co-ordinating lihaf Bahiyaa had placed across one shoulder. Deftly, as she’d been shown, Polly placed it over her head.

  She looked up and caught Rashid watching her. Again. ‘It’s hot,’ she said foolishly.

  ‘And you are fair. You are wise to cover up in the sun.’

  Rashid started down one of the paths and, coming into the rose garden from a different direction, Polly immediately saw Elizabeth’s summer house. It was open on all sides, more of a pavilion, and smothered in rambling roses.

  Elizabeth’s summer house. Built for her by a man who had loved her.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said softly.

  Rashid looked down at her. ‘I think so.’ He watched as she lifted a hand to shade her eyes from the sun, then turned to look back at the palace.

  He truly wanted Polly to like this garden, he realised. He loved her wide-eyed enthusiasm. The feeling he was sharing something with her she would treasure.

  From the moment his father had given him this palace as his home the rose garden had been a strange attraction. He’d spent years trying to distance himself from his English heritage, but he’d always been drawn to this garden with its strange melding of East and West.

  He felt at home here. Peaceful. And that was the purpose of a garden. A place where you could feel at one with yourself and with your God.

  ‘It’s not a very English garden, though,’ Polly said, looking out across the orange trees, then up at him. ‘Don’t exactly run to those back home.’

  Bahiyaa must have persuaded her to line her eyes in kohl. A dark smoky line around sparkling eyes that were as blue as his own. She looked as much a hybrid as this garden. In traditional Amrahi clothes, hands covered in an intricate henna pattern, she was the embodiment of a fantasy.

  It was no part of his plan now to want to kiss her. He’d brought her here to talk. Only it was hard to remember that when his body responded to her with sharp immediacy. He didn’t want to talk. He knew what she felt like, tasted like. He knew how her curves fitted against him, how soft her skin was, the warmth of her breath against his mouth, and he craved that.

  He hadn’t wanted to like her, didn’t want to respond to her, but she drew him in anyway. Like a fly on a cobweb, he was more securely caught the more he struggled against it.

  But at what cost? Amrah’s future rested on the next few days and he’d been indiscreet in what he’d told her earlier. The knowledge that negative publicity would harm Hanif was power if she chose to use it.

  He needed to be sure of her reasons for being here. It wasn’t enough to believe her innocent. He had to know. His feelings for Polly were complicated, but he needed to focus on why he’d arranged for her to stay at his home.

  ‘Fresh oranges still warm from the sun is about as far from a frost-bitten February day as you can get. Even if we manage to restore the orangery we’ll never be able to recreate anything like this at Shelton.’

  ‘But it’s not a traditional Amrahi garden either,’ Rashid countered, watching the sunlight catch at the silver embroidery that edged her lihaf, ‘although it has elements you’d expect to find in one. The fountain, the long rills of water… Even the simplest Arab garden finds space for water.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Polly said, looking up at him.

  She was happy now. With him. If he kissed her now would she stop him as she had yesterday or would she surrender to the inevitable? Because in any other place, at any other time, it would have been inevitable.

  ‘English gardens have fountains, too. At Shelton we have a spectacular one which you can see from the Summer Sitting Room.’

  The mention of her stepbrother’s ance
stral home was as effective as a cold shower. Did Polly know the extent to which Anthony Lovell had borrowed against his inheritance? Quite possibly selling Golden Mile to Rashid had been the last act of a very desperate man.

  And desperate men could be very persuasive. And maybe her love for the house was enough of a temptation. Without any interference on his part he couldn’t see the duke holding on to his country seat for long.

  They walked down the vine-shaded path towards the summer house. ‘You always speak of Shelton Castle with such affection.’

  Polly looked up at him, a warm smile lighting her eyes. ‘I love it. I always have. My mother says it’s because I’ve polished most of it. Which is true. I had my first job at the castle at fourteen.’

  Rashid said nothing, hoping his silence would encourage her to speak.

  ‘There’s such a sense of history about the place. Every nook and cranny could tell you a story. And we have our own resident ghost.’

  ‘You believe that?’

  ‘I’ve never seen her but there are plenty who will swear to it. We call her the Mad Duchess, but actually she was Lady Margaret Chenies who was married, pretty much against her will, to the very first Duke of Missenden back at the time of the English Civil War.’ Her blue eyes danced with mischief.

  ‘Was she mad?’

  ‘Highly strung, I think, and lived a miserable life.’

  ‘As all ghosts should.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  Rashid watched, fascinated at the hint of a dimple. ‘Lady Margaret was absolutely devoted to her only son who was killed at the Siege of Gloucester in sixteen forty-three and she threw herself out of the window in her grief.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘But there are those who say she was pushed by her philandering husband. She now walks the Long Gallery, which actually wasn’t built in sixteen forty-three, calling his name.’

  Rashid smiled. It was impossible not to. Her enthusiasm for her subject was infectious—as it had been in the documentary on Shelton. She was a natural in front of the camera and it was really not surprising her friend had decided to utilise her talent.