It seemed to be expected that the men would go first. Somehow with Bahiyaa beside her that didn’t seem rude. It was simply different from the way things were done in England. And, anyway, she’d never quite understood why it was polite to encourage a woman into a room first. She always hated being thrust into a room of people she didn’t know.
They walked across a central courtyard and through another pair of intricately carved wooden doors. The ceiling of the room beyond soared and Polly’s eye was immediately captivated by the geometric decoration that seemed to cover every available surface.
Another pair of doors, another room beyond. And then they came to a room that was exquisitely beautiful for an entirely different reason. Glass doors had been opened out onto a garden. Polly couldn’t see much of it but the scent of flowers wafting in was heady. Roses. Was that possible? Surely in these kinds of temperatures they must be incredibly difficult to grow?
A low table was central to the room and around it there were long couches in rich port-coloured silk. Polly watched carefully as Bahiyaa sank gracefully down and copied her, carefully tucking her skirt around her legs.
‘As soon as you have had some refreshments I will take you to your room,’ Bahiyaa said with a warm smile. ‘By then your luggage will have been unpacked.’
Would it? Oh, heck! Polly had this terrible mental picture of the contents of her suitcase. She’d thought she’d imagined every possible scenario, but staying in an Amrahi palace hadn’t been one of them. Having staff unpack for her was another.
Opposite, John was lounging comfortably on his couch, deep in conversation with his host. Minty had said she’d wanted him particularly because he’d worked so often in Arab countries. He did make it look easy, but all the other team members seemed to be taking this whole experience in their stride. The Amrahi interpreter was smiling as though his life would never reach a greater height than this moment.
Polly tried to think of it in terms she would understand. This must be like being invited to Royal Lodge, the Duke of York’s home. And, yet, it wasn’t quite the same because the Al Baha family wielded real power rather than mere influence.
Today, only a few hours ago, Rashid had been at a summit with other Arab leaders. When she stopped to think about it, how incredible was that? She understood how important it was they kept themselves out of Amrahi politics, but how could you not be curious to know what had been discussed? A summit was something that would be reported worldwide. The decisions made there would impact on a whole region.
And this man was a part of that.
‘Playboy sheikh’ maybe, but on his home turf he was something else entirely. Every eye in the room seemed to be resting on him. It was his personality that was the dominant force.
‘This is your first visit to Amrah?’ Bahiyaa asked.
‘My first visit anywhere, unless you count a long weekend in Paris with some university friends.’
‘Then we must make absolutely sure your stay is delightful.’ She paused while staff quietly came in with small plates of fresh dates, recognisable but only just. They were plump and almost jewel-like. Another couple brought plates of what looked like deep-fried balls together with bowls of a syrupy-looking sauce.
She’d read about the importance of coffee in this part of the world in her travel guides, but she’d expected her first experience of it would be in one of Samaah’s modern coffee houses.
And she’d not expected to be tasting it under Rashid’s watchful eye. He was aware of everything. A little out of her sight line, but she was certain he was listening to her conversation with his sister while he conducted a different one.
Polly had never felt so out of depth in her entire life. Not even when her mother had first announced her engagement to Richard and her bedroom had moved from the staff quarters to the family wing. That had been strange. But this was completely and utterly alien. There were no familiar points of reference at all.
She cast a surreptitious glance in his direction. Rashid’s mother might have been English, the largest part of his education undertaken in her country, but it was hard to believe Rashid had had any Western influences in his life at all.
A man walked forward holding a silver tray on which was a type of coffee-pot and eight small china cups. He stopped by Rashid, who murmured something in Arabic before pouring coffee into one of the cups. Then he sipped. Placing the empty cup back on the tray, he poured a second cup and passed it to her.
She knew enough about this ritual to know it was considered the height of bad manners to refuse. Careful not to touch his fingers, she took hold of the handle-less cup with her right hand, as instructed in Minty’s ‘bible’, and looked down into a thick translucent yellow drink.
It looked…foul, if she was perfectly honest, and it smelt incredibly strong. Polly looked at Bahiyaa for guidance as to whether she was expected to drink now or wait.
‘This must be your first taste of gahwa. It is so much a part of our culture that I often forget how strange it is to Western visitors. I think you’ll find it quite similar to espresso.’
That wasn’t especially comforting, since she’d never managed to acquire a taste for espresso.
‘Try.’
Polly sipped. It was strong, with a mixture of flavours she found very strange. Her palate wasn’t sufficiently developed for her to separate them out.
Bahiyaa reached out one heavily hennaed hand for a date and Polly copied her. The contrast between the bitter-tasting coffee and the sweet, succulent date was heavenly.
She looked up and caught Rashid watching her, his blue eyes openly focused on her. Her stomach clenched in recognition. Somehow, and she honestly didn’t understand how, this man attracted her. Not just that. He mesmerised her.
Charisma. Power. Danger. He took her world and he changed it. He made her feel as though everything she’d ever known was now open to question. Every fundamental belief about how men and women reacted to each other now needed to be rethought.
Rashid’s piercing blue eyes burned through her. The heavy scent of roses, the bitter taste of coffee in her mouth, the feel of heat surrounding her all combined. Polly watched, fixed like a rabbit in headlights, as Rashid drank his coffee.
She noticed the movement of his throat as he swallowed. Noticed the way his hand held the cup. Strong, beautiful hands. The kind of hands you would want to caress your body. And then her eyes travelled up to his lips. The kind of lips you would want to kiss you.
This was fantasy. She didn’t know him. Knew very little about him, even. He wasn’t, and couldn’t ever be, part of her world, but what she was feeling was as old as time itself. She knew it, even though it frightened her.
She wanted him. And that wanting had nothing to do with liking or a desire to nurture. It owed nothing to shared values and goals. All the things she thought were important. This was about passion. Desire. An instinctive knowledge that sex with this man would be amazing.
Polly raised a hand up to her forehead. Blood was pulsing in her temples and she felt as if an iron band were tightening around her chest. She couldn’t breathe in the heat. There was only an overwhelming need to lie down. To sleep. To…
‘Polly.’
She heard Bahiyaa’s voice as though it were some way away. And then there was nothing.
Rashid was on his feet.
‘She’s fainted.’ Bahiyaa looked up, Polly’s wrist held in her hand. ‘It must have been the heat.’
He stood back as water was brought in a large iced jug and placed on the central table.
‘Polly? Can you hear me?’
There was no sign of life other than the gentle rise and fall of her breasts. Her blond hair was splayed out across the ruby fabric of the couch. She looked pale and vulnerable. Beautiful. Rashid clenched his hands into fists by his side. His sister was certainly right in thinking that Polly had fainted, but he was less certain the cause was the heat.
Whatever it was that had passed between them was mutual. He’d
seen the open desire in her eyes, read her thoughts as clearly as if she’d spoken them aloud. He’d seen the surprise in them, too, and knew she wasn’t used to reacting to a man the way she did to him.
He watched her eyelids flutter and the soft parting of her lips. ‘Gentlemen, might I suggest I show you the rose garden while Ms Anderson recovers?’ he said, his voice clipped. ‘My sister will stay with her.’
The words were sensible, but Rashid stayed looking down at Polly.
‘I will come and tell you how she is later,’ his sister promised, brushing a gentle hand across Polly’s forehead.
He wanted to push her aside. If there were no one in this room it would be his hand touching her face… And he wanted that with an intensity that amazed him.
‘Rashid.’
Still he hesitated.
‘Rashid,’ Bahiyaa prompted again, ‘you have guests.’
It had been no part of his plan to find Polly Anderson sexually desirable. And, yet, in that moment when he’d looked at her bravely drinking her first cup of gahwa he’d felt something shift.
He swore silently. No, before that. He’d felt it back in Shelton Castle. It was why Polly was in Amrah now when the sensible course of action would have been to refuse their application to film.
They were here because she fascinated him. Against all logic.
And his sister knew that. Her dark eyes looked up at him, a soft smile on her lips. She knew.
Rashid forced his hands to relax by his sides. It was the lure of the forbidden and he would master it. He had no place in his life for a woman like PollyannaAnderson—even if she were not related by marriage to a man he fully intended to ruin.
‘I’m sure my sister will manage better alone.’ Abruptly he turned and moved towards the garden.
CHAPTER FOUR
POLLY awoke in a comfortable bed, cool cotton covering her, and it took a moment for her to realise where she was. Not at Shelton. Not any more. She was in Rashid’s home. Rashid Al Baha’s palatial home.
Her eyes took in the strange room. Presumably she’d been carried here because she sure as heck couldn’t remember walking. Carried.
Polly raised a hand to shield her eyes, as though that would block out the image of that. Who had carried her? One of her colleagues? Rashid?
The last thing she actually remembered was the world slipping away and the overwhelming feeling of sickness that had accompanied it.
‘There is nothing to worry about,’ a female voice spoke softly. ‘You fainted in the heat.’
Polly took her hand away and looked across the shadowy room to where Princess Bahiyaa was sitting reading by soft lamplight. Rashid’s sister set the book down on the small hexagonal table and stood up.
‘The heat and humidity here in Samaah is very different from anything in England. I should have arranged for refreshments to be served in an airconditioned part of the palace,’ she said, pouring out a glass of water from the jug set out beside the bed. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Polly raised herself up on her elbow and pulled the pillow up behind her, only then noticing she was still in her clothes. Time to be grateful for small mercies. ‘Carried’ was humiliating enough, ‘undressed’ would have been terminally mortifying.
She brushed her hair off her face. ‘I’ve never fainted before. I’m really embarrassed.’
‘There is no need. The fault is mine.’
It wasn’t. Polly knew it wasn’t, but then it hadn’t been her fault either. Nor had it been Rashid’s, but his blue eyes were the last thing she remembered.
‘Shukran,’ she said, accepting the glass Bahiyaa gave her.
‘Do you speak Arabic?’
‘Only a few words and I’m not sure how useful they’ll be.’ She took a sip of water. ‘“Ma-atakallam arabi” might be, I suppose, but there’s not a lot of point in saying “I don’t know much Arabic” in anything other than English.’
Bahiyaa laughed. ‘It is lovely that you have tried. May I?’ she asked, indicating the side of the bed.
Polly nodded.
‘While you were sleeping I arranged for some of my clothes to be brought for you. I saw that much of what you have will be uncomfortably warm even at this time of the year.’
Princess Bahiyaa had seen the contents of her suitcase. Oh…hell! Polly’s toes squirmed at the thought of how she’d packed her case: socks balled down the sides and underwear she really should have binned months ago tucked inside her interpretation of ‘modest and conservative’ clothing. ‘I couldn’t, I—’
‘It is no matter. Please.’ Bahiyaa smiled. ‘And it is my pleasure. And maybe you would like a refreshing shower,’ she said, pointing at a door in the far corner, ‘before having a little to eat? You will feel much better, I think.’
Polly glanced down at her wristwatch. She made a quick mental calculation. Five o’clock UK time would mean it was a little past nine in Amrah. Too late to be asking her hosts to organise food…
But…the prospect of food was too tempting to put up a really convincing fight. And a shower would be wonderful.
‘I will organise it now and be back shortly.’
Polly waited until Bahiyaa quietly shut the door before setting her glass down on the side table and gingerly pushing back the light covering that had been placed over her. The floor beneath her feet was tiled and cool. The room was impossibly beautiful, with dark wood furniture that was so burnished it seemed to shimmer.
Carved wooden screens were at the windows and bright jewel-coloured fabrics were draped over the most enormous bed. Polly bit back a smile. There’d be room for a sheikh and his entire harem in a bed that size. It was incredible and, if she set her English reserve to one side for a moment, wasn’t it just the most exciting thing to stay in an Amrahi palace rather than some impersonal hotel?
Her great-great-grandmother would certainly have thought so. Elizabeth would probably have had no hesitation in borrowing Princess Bahiyaa’s clothes either, Polly thought, fingering the silk of the pale pink tunic laid out across the foot of the bed. For just this little while wouldn’t it be wonderful to set aside all of her inhibitions? To live boldly?
Polly let the tunic drop back on the bed and padded over to where Bahiyaa had said she’d find a shower. She stopped on the threshold, stunned by the acres of black marble and a highly decadent sunken bath.
Aware Rashid’s sister could return at any moment, Polly opted for a shower, and in the quickest time possible, before scurrying back to the bedroom. Bahiyaa’s clothes were waiting for her. Tempting her. The silver threads in the fabric glinting in the lamplight. She felt as if she’d got the devil himself sitting on her shoulder whispering, ‘Just do it.’
Polly picked up the silk…trousers and stepped into them. She supposed that was what they were called. They were loose fitting with a drawstring waist and came in tight around the ankles. And were incredibly comfortable. Already she could feel that the fierce heat of Amrah’s sun would be more bearable without a tight waistband.
And the tunic felt like gossamer. She’d never worn a fabric so light, or decorated with such exquisite embroidery. Minty’s instruction to dress ‘conservatively’ and ‘modestly’ had suddenly taken on a whole new meaning. This outfit was far sexier than anything she’d worn before.
It was the colours, the geometric patterns in the embroidery and the way the silk caressed her skin. It was…glamour with a capital ‘G’.
Taking the path of least conflict at Shelton meant she had precious little experience of that. The knack of survival had been to blend into the background as much as possible and no one wearing something like this could ever hope to do that.
She felt beautiful in it. She felt as if she really had wandered into an Arabian adventure. She felt like someone else and that was exciting.
There was a soft tap at the door.
‘May I come in?’ Bahiyaa called.
‘Yes.’ Polly moved to open the door. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘That pink i
s a wonderful colour for you,’ Bahiyaa said, coming into the room. ‘I thought it would be. It makes your pale skin bloom.’
If any woman had said that to her in England Polly would have found it strange, but coming from Bahiyaa it was charming. She smiled. ‘You’re very kind to lend—’
‘It is a gift,’ the other woman stopped her. ‘Please.’ She turned and picked up a loose wraplike cloak in the same shade of dusky pink. ‘There is a little more before you are ready. This we call a thub and you wear it over the dishdasha.’
‘The tunic’s called a dishdasha? I thought that was for men?’
‘Similar, but a little more fitted,’ Bahiyaa said with a laugh. ‘Women here are not so very different from those in your country. And men are the same the world over. These,’ Bahiyaa said, pointing at the loose-fitting trousers, ‘we call sirwal.’
‘Sirwal,’ Polly repeated obediently.
‘And finally,’ Bahiyaa continued, reaching behind her for a long length of fine pink silk, slightly darker than either the sirwal or the dishdasha but picking out some of the embroidery in the over jacket, ‘you have a lihaf.’
‘Lihaf not hijab?’
Bahiyaa smiled and gently arranged the lihaf in place. ‘Arabia is made up of many countries and there are many tribes within each of those. Each tribe has its own traditions, its own way of dressing and distinctive dialect.’
‘I didn’t mean—’
‘You are looking beautiful. All we need now is sandals. I thought that since we are a similar size you might be able to manage with a pair of mine? I am a European size thirty-nine.’
Polly was beginning to feel so overwhelmed by the whole situation she’d have put on anything—and it was magical to be given the chance to wear something so romantic and feminine. She slipped her feet into Bahiyaa’s high gold sandals, a size too big but perfectly manageable.
‘Perfect.’ Bahiyaa stepped back to admire the effect. ‘Now come.’
Polly found it hard to pull herself away from the mirror. She looked completely different. Transformed. Bahiyaa laughed as though she knew exactly what Polly was thinking. ‘I never understand why some Amrahi women adopt Western dress. Our traditional clothes are…deceptively seductive, don’t you think?’
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