by Liz Fielding
That the two of them would have a great time together, gossiping non-stop, did nothing to make Lydia feel better about the deception.
Kal had been given less than twenty-four hours to make arrangements for his absence, pack and visit the clinic where his grandfather was clinging to life to renew the promise he’d made that he should die in the place he still called home.
Now, as he stood at the steps of the jet bearing the Emir’s personal insignia, he wondered what His Highness’s reaction had been when he’d learned who would be aboard it today.
It wasn’t his first trip to the country that his great-grandfather had once ruled. Like his grandfather and his father, Kalil was forbidden from using his title, using the name Khatib, but, unlike the old man, he was not an exile.
He’d bought a waterfront apartment in the capital, Rumaillah. His aircraft flew a regular freight service into Ramal Hamrah, despite the fact that they remained stubbornly empty. No one would dare offend the Emir by using Kalzak Air Services and he made no effort to break the embargo. He did not advertise his services locally, or compete for business. He kept his rates equal to, but not better than his competitors. Took the loss.
This was not about profit but establishing his right to be there.
He’d been prepared to be patient, sit it out, however long it took, while he’d quietly worked on the restoration of his family home at Umm al Sama. But he’d continued to remain invisible to the ruling family, his family, a stranger in his own country, and patience was no longer an option. Time was running out for his grandfather and nothing mattered but bringing him home to die.
He’d do anything. Even babysit a wimp of a woman who wasn’t, apparently, allowed to cross the road without someone holding her hand.
He identified himself to Security, then to the cabin crew, who were putting the final touches to the kind of luxury few airline passengers would ever encounter.
His welcome was reserved, but no one reeled back in horror.
A steward took his bag, introduced him to Atiya Bishara, who would be taking care of Lady Rose during the flight, then gave him a full tour of the aircraft so that he could check for himself that everything was in order.
He was treated no differently from any anonymous security officer who’d been asked to escort Lady Rose on a flight that, historically, should have been his grandfather’s to command. Which said pretty much everything he needed to know about how the rest of the week was likely to pan out.
His aunt might pay a courtesy visit to Lady Rose, but even if she acknowledged his presence it would be as a servant.
Lydia rapidly exchanged clothes with Rose in the private room that had been set aside for her as guest of honour at the Pink Ribbon Lunch.
Lady Rose had walked into the room; ten minutes later Lydia, heart pounding, mouth dry, had walked out in her place.
She held her breath as a dark-suited security man fell in behind her.
Would he really be fooled? Rose had assured her that he would be looking everywhere but at her, but even wearing Rose’s crushed raspberry silk suit, a saucy matching hat with a wispy veil and the late Duchess of Oldfield’s famous pearl choker, it seemed impossible that he wouldn’t notice the difference.
But there was no challenge.
Smile, she reminded herself as she approached the hotel manager who was waiting to escort her to the door. It was just another job. And, holding that thought, she offered the man her hand, thanked him for doing such a good job for the Pink Ribbon Club, before stepping outside into the thin winter sunshine.
Rose had warned her what to expect but, since rumours of a wedding had started to circulate, media interest had spiralled out of control. Nothing could have prepared her for the noise, the flashes from dozens of cameras. And it wasn’t just the paparazzi lined up on the footpath. There were dozens of ordinary people hoping for a glance of the ‘people’s angel’, all of them taking pictures, video, with their cellphones. People who thought she was the real thing, deserved the real thing, and she had to remind herself not just to smile, but to breathe.
It was the photographers who saved her, calling out, ‘Lady Rose! This way, Lady Rose! Love the hat, Lady Rose!’
The eye-catching little hat had been made specially for the occasion. Fashioned from a stiffened loop of the same material as the suit, it had a dark pink net veil scattered with tiny velvet ribbon loops that skimmed her face, breaking up the outline, blurring any slight differences that might be picked out by an eagle-eyed picture editor.
Breathe, smile…
‘How was lunch, Lady Rose?’ one of the photographers called out.
She swallowed down the nervous lump in her throat and said, ‘It was a wonderful lunch for a great cause.’ Then, when there was still no challenge, no one pointed a finger, shouted, Fake!, she added, ‘The Pink Ribbon Club.’ And, growing in confidence, she lifted her right hand so that the diamond and amethyst ring on her right hand flashed in the sunlight as she pointedly touched the little ribbon-shaped hat. ‘Don’t forget to mention it.’
‘Are you looking forward to your holiday, Lady Rose?’
Growing in confidence-it was true, apparently, that people saw only what they expected to see-she picked out the photographer who’d asked the question and smiled directly at him.
‘Very much,’ she said.
‘Will you be on your own?’ he dared.
‘Only if you all take the week off, too,’ she replied, raising a laugh. Yes! She could do this! And, turning her back on the photographers, she walked down the steps and crossed to the real people, just as she had seen Lady Rose do a hundred times on news clips. Had done herself at promotional gigs.
She took the flowers they handed her, stopped to answer questions-she could have entered Mastermind with Lady Rose as her specialist subject-paused for photographs, overwhelmed by the genuine warmth with which people reached out to her. To Rose…
‘Madam…’ The security officer touched his watch, indicating that it was time to leave.
She gave the crowd a final wave and smile and turned back to the limousine, stepped inside. The door closed behind her and, within moments, she was gliding through London behind a liveried chauffeur.
At which point she bit back a giggle.
This wasn’t like any other job. No way. At this point, if it had been an ordinary job, she’d be heading for the hotel cloakroom for a quick change before catching the bendy bus back to work. Instead, she was in a top-of-the-range Mercedes, heading for an airfield used by people for whom the private jet was the only way to travel. The final hurdle before she could relax and enjoy being Lady Rose without the risk of someone taking a second look and challenging her.
It was a thought to bring the giggle under control. Not the fear of being challenged. The thought of getting in a plane.
Kal paced the VIP lounge, certain that he was wasting his time.
Lucy was wrong. Playing nanny to a woman known to the world as ‘England’s Sweetheart’, or ‘angel’ or even ‘virgin’, for heaven’s sake, wasn’t going to make him any friends in the Ramal Hamrahn court. Unless there really was an attempt on her life and he saved her. Maybe he should arrange one…
He stopped fantasising and checked the time.
Another minute and she’d be late. No more than he’d expected. She was probably still posing for photographs, being feted by her fans.
He’d seen her on the news-she was impossible to avoid-a pale, spun-sugar confection, all sweetness and light. He knew she was a friend of Lucy’s but, really, could anyone be that perfect?
He was about to pick up a newspaper, settle down to wait, when a stir at the entrance alerted him to her arrival. That she had arrived exactly on schedule should have been a point in her favour. It only served to irritate him further.
Lydia could not believe the ease with which she moved through airport formalities but when you were an A-list VIP, related to the Queen, even if it was goodness knew how many times removed, it seemed that
the ordinary rules did not apply. Forget the usual hassle with the luggage trolley. She hadn’t even seen the bags that Rose had packed for this trip.
And no one was going to make her line up at a check-in desk. Clearly, people who flew in their own private jets did not expect to queue for anything.
She didn’t have to take off her jacket and shoes, surrender the handbag and briefcase she was carrying to be X-rayed. Instead, she was nodded through the formalities and escorted to the departure lounge by Lady Rose’s security officer.
Rose had explained that he would see her to the aircraft and after that she’d be on her own, free from all risk of discovery. And once she was in Ramal Hamrah, ensconced in the luxury of Princess Lucy’s holiday cottage at Bab el Sama, all she had to do was put in the occasional appearance in the garden or on the beach to ensure that the paparazzi were able to snatch pictures of her while she lived like a princess for a week.
It was like some dream-come-true fairy tale. Checkout girl to princess. Pure Cinderella.
All she needed was a pair of glass slippers and a fairy godmother to provide her with someone tall, dark and handsome to play Prince Charming.
She wouldn’t even have to flee when the clock struck twelve. She had a whole week before she turned back into Lydia Young, whose job as supermarket checkout girl was occasionally enlivened by a lookalike gig.
She automatically reached for the door to the VIP departure lounge, but it opened as she approached; a ‘Lady’ with a capital L did not open doors for herself. She was so intent on covering her mistake by adjusting the veil on her hat that she missed the fact that her escort had stopped at the door.
‘Mr al-Zaki will take care of you from here, madam.’
Who?
She thought the word, but never voiced it.
All sound seemed to fade away as she looked up. She was tall, but the knee-meltingly gorgeous man waiting to ‘take care’ of her was half a head taller and as his eyes, dark and intense, locked with hers, she felt the jolt of it to her knees. And yes, no doubt about it, her knees melted as he lowered his head briefly, said, ‘Kalil al-Zaki, Lady Rose,’ introducing himself with the utmost formality. ‘Princess Lucy has asked me to ensure that your holiday is all that you wish.’
Graceful, beautiful, contained power rippling beneath exquisite tailoring, he was, she thought crazily, the embodiment of Bagheera, the bold, reckless panther from her childhood favourite, The Jungle Book. She’d made her father read over and over the description of his coat like watered silk, his voice as soft as wild honey dripping from a tree.
Her own, as she struggled for a suitable response, was nonexistent.
Kalil al-Zaki might favour well-cut British tailoring over a fancy Ruritanian uniform but he was as close to her own Prince Charming fantasy as she was ever likely to come and she had to resist the temptation to look around for the old lady with wings and a wand who’d been listening in on her thoughts.
CHAPTER TWO
‘YOU’RE coming with me to Bab el Sama?’ she managed finally, knowing that she should be horrified by this turn of events. The frisson of excitement rippling through her suggested that she was anything but.
‘There and back,’ he confirmed. ‘My instructions are to keep you safe from harm. I have a letter of introduction from Princess Lucy, but the aircraft is waiting and the pilot will not wish to miss his slot. If you’re ready to board?’
Lydia just about managed a nod and the noise flooded back like a shock wave as, his hand curling possessively around her elbow, he walked her to the door, across the tarmac towards the plane. Where she received shock number two.
When Rose had explained that she’d be flying in a private jet, Lydia had anticipated one of those small executive jobs. The reality was a full-sized passenger aircraft bearing the royal livery.
She’d fantasized about being treated like a princess, but this was the real deal; all that was missing was the red carpet and a guard of honour.
If they found out she was a fake they were not going to be amused and, as Kalil al-Zaki’s touch sizzled through her sleeve, Lydia had to concentrate very hard on marshalling her knees and putting one foot in front of the other.
This was anything but a fairy tale and if she fell flat on her face there would be no fairy godmother to rescue her with the wave of a wand.
Concentrate, concentrate…
She’d already had an encounter with one of Rose’s security guards. He hadn’t looked at her the way that Kalil al-Zaki had looked and he certainly hadn’t touched. The closest he’d been was when he’d opened the car door and his eyes had not been on her, but the crowd.
No matter what he said about ‘keeping her safe’, it was clear that this man was not your standard bodyguard, so who on earth was he?
Should she have recognised his name?
Think…
He’d mentioned Princess Lucy. So far, so clear. She was the friend who’d lent Rose her holiday ‘cottage’ for the week. The wife of the Emir’s youngest son, who was the Ramal Hamrahn Ambassador to London.
Rose had filled her in on all the important background details, a little of their history, the names and ages of their children, so that she wouldn’t make a mistake if any of the staff at Bab el Sama mentioned her or her children.
But that was it.
This was supposed to be no more than a walk-on role with only servants and the occasional telephoto lens for company.
A few minutes performing for a bunch of journalists, and getting away with it, had given her a terrific buzz, but playing the part convincingly under the eyes of someone like Kalil al-Zaki for an entire week was a whole different ball game.
Hopefully, the letter of introduction would fill in the details, she thought as his hand fell away at the top of the steps and she was greeted by the waiting stewardess.
‘Welcome aboard the royal flight, Lady Rose. I am Atiya Bishara and I will be taking care of you today.’ Then, looking at the flowers she was clutching like a lifeline, ‘Shall I put those in water?’
Lydia, back on more or less familiar territory, began to breathe again. This was the basic lookalike stuff she’d been doing since she was fifteen years old and she managed to go through the standard ‘How d’you do?’ routine as she surrendered the flowers and the dark pink leather briefcase that exactly matched her hat. The one Rose had used to conceal the cash she’d needed for her week away and which now contained Lydia’s own essentials, including her own passport in the event that anything went wrong.
‘Your luggage has been taken to your suite, Lady Rose. I’ll take you through as soon as we’re in the air,’ Atiya said as she led her to an armchair-sized seat.
A suite?
Not that familiar, she thought, taking out her cellphone and sending a one word message to Rose to let her know that she’d got through security without any hiccups. Apart from Kalil al-Zaki, that was, and Rose couldn’t do anything about that.
That done, she turned off the phone and looked around.
From the outside, apart from the royal livery, the aircraft might look much like any other. On the inside, however, it bore no similarity to the crammed-tight budget airlines that were a necessary evil to be endured whenever she wanted a week or two in the sun.
‘Would you like something to drink before we take off?’ Atiya asked.
Uh-oh.
Take and off, used in tandem, were her two least favourite words in the English language. Until now her head had been too busy concentrating on the role she was playing, enjoying the luxury of a chauffeur-driven limousine, free-wheeling around the unexpected appearance of Kalil al-Zaki, to confront that particular problem.
‘Juice? A glass of water?’
‘Water, thank you,’ she replied, forcing herself to concentrate, doing her best not to look at the man who’d taken the seat across the aisle.
And failing.
His suit lay across his broad shoulders as if moulded to him and his glossy black hair, brushed back off a
high forehead curled over his collar, softening features that could have been chiselled from marble. Apart from his mouth.
Marble could never do justice to the sensuous droop of a lower lip that evoked such an immediate, such a disturbing response in parts of her anatomy that had been dormant for so long that she’d forgotten how it felt.
As if sensing her gaze, Kalil al-Zaki turned and she blushed at being caught staring.
Nothing in his face suggested he had noticed. Instead, as the plane began to taxi towards the runway, he took an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and offered it to her.
‘My introduction from Princess Lucy, Lady Rose.’
She accepted the square cream envelope, warm from his body, and although she formed the words, Thank you, no sound emerged. Praying that the dark pink net of her veil would camouflage the heat that had flooded into her cheeks, she ducked her head. It was embarrassment, she told herself as she flipped open the envelope and took out the note it contained.
Dear Rose,
I didn’t get a chance to call yesterday and explain that Han’s cousin, Kalil al-Zaki, will be accompanying you to Bab el Sama.
I know that you are desperate to be on your own, but you will need someone to drive you, accompany you to the beach, be generally at your beck and call while you’re in Bab el Sama and at least he won’t report every move you make to your grandfather.
The alternative would be one of the Emir’s guards, good men every one but, as you can imagine, not the most relaxing of companions.
Kal will not intrude if you decide to simply lie by the
pool with a book, but you shouldn’t miss out on a visit to the souk-it’s an absolute treasure of gold, silks, spices-or a drive into the desert. The peace is indescribable.
Do give me a call if there is anything you need or you just need someone to talk to but, most of all rest, relax, recharge the batteries and don’t, whatever you do, give Rupert a single thought.
All my love,
Lucy
Which crushed her last desperate hope that he was simply escorting her on the flight. ‘There and back’, apparently, included the seven days in between.
