by Liz Fielding
'You've changed your tune!' Then, with those dangerously attractive blade-edged cheekbones of Sheikh Fayad, his thick dark hair, broad shoulders still a vivid memory, Violet said, 'So, to recap. Your advice is now to forget safe, go for excitement. Got it.' Then, 'So shall I pick up Molly from playgroup for you? Since you have to wait in for the doctor.'
Sarah laughed. 'Okay, I'll stop nagging. But you can't leave the house. In case you hadn't noticed, your back door is hanging off its hinges.'
'There's nothing to steal,' Violet pointed out, and propped it back in place. 'There. From the outside it'll look solid enough.'
Sarah went home to wait for the doctor. Violet dressed, then swiftly gathered up the scattered contents of the Gladstone bag, stuffing everything back inside, before returning it into the wardrobe.
Violet picked up Molly, stayed to have a sandwich with Sarah, then walked round the back, squeezing
through the gap in the hedge. She thought she'd wedged the door firmly in its frame, but a gust of wind must have caught it, because it had fallen in.
Then she stepped inside.
Her kitchen was wrecked. Drawers pulled out, plates smashed. Photographs and china from the dresser trampled underfoot
And, in the middle of the kitchen, the fridge was lying on its side. If it hadn't been beyond repair before, it was now.
In shock, she walked through the house to discover that every room had been given the same treatment. Even the precious treasures that had been stored through generations in the old leather bag had been tipped out, crushed beneath careless feet. Except for the envelopes. They were gone.
No one would call him while he was at a formal lunch, and normally Fayad would have switched off his cellphone. But he'd promised Violet Hamilton that he would be there if she needed him. And as the phone began to vibrate against his heart, he knew she needed him.
It could only be Violet, and with a brief apology to his host, he left the table.
'Princess?' He spoke without thinking. How easy it was to address her by that title. How right it felt.
'They came back…'
Her voice-little more than a tremor, barely audible-sent real fear coursing through his veins.
'Did they hurt you?' he asked, forcing himself to keep his voice low, when all he wanted to do was roar with fury. If they'd hurt her they'd pay for it.
He was already paying. He'd known the danger, had asked his aide to organise private security, but these things took time to put in place and his enemies hadn't waited.
The man who'd escaped had simply waited until he left, then called for reinforcements.
But an angry response wouldn't help Violet. She'd come through the first attack relatively unscathed, but now she was seriously frightened and she needed a calm response.
'Do you need medical help?' he asked, when she didn't reply.
'I wasn't here.' Then, on a sob, 'Please. Take me away…'
He uttered a prayer of thanks that she had been out of the house, that she'd chosen to call him, then said, 'I'll be with you in twenty minutes.'
He made it in fifteen and, ignoring the front door, went straight around the back. He took in the wreckage of the kitchen, the rest of the ground floor. Then sprinted up the stairs and found her, huddled against the head of a big, old-fashioned double bed, clutching an old leather bag to her chest.
The mess was indescribable. The wardrobe had been ransacked, its contents spilled on the floor. A lamp overturned and smashed.
Ignoring it, he climbed up beside her, put his arms around her and pulled her close, kissing the top of her head as if she were a child. For a moment she reacted like a wild thing, fighting him, lashing out in her anger and pain, but he held on, murmuring the soft words of comfort that his mother had poured into his own ears as a child.
She wouldn't understand them, but it wasn't the words that mattered. There was a tone of voice, a universal comfort that transcended language.
For a moment she was deaf to him, but then a great shudder went through her and, as she leaned into him, hot tears soaked through his jacket to his skin, scalding him with her pain.
He held her close, stayed with her while his staff, summoned as he was driven to her aid, arrived to pack her things, take charge here.
And all the time he held her his heart was singing, because she hadn't called her friend who was just next door. She'd called him. Had wanted him. Had trusted him.
'Princess?' he prompted, when a nod from his aide assured him that everything had been done. That his plane would be waiting by the time they arrived at the airport so that they could board without delay.
'Violet?'
She lifted her head as if the weight of it was almost too much to bear. Her face was ashen, her eyes grey with misery, her lashes clumped together with tears. And still she was beautiful.
'It's time to go,' he said.
She didn't ask where he was taking her, just nodded, and he stood up, helping her up, keeping his arm about her as she found her feet. After a moment, she took an unsteady step back. He reached out to stop her from falling, but she straightened.
'Sarah,' she said. 'I have to tell Sarah I'm leaving or she'll worry.'
'She's here.'
'Violet? I saw the car.' Then, with a gasp as she saw the mess, 'Why didn't you call me?'
'She was protecting you,' Fayad told her. 'Protecting your family.'
'Who will protect her?'
'I will.'
For a moment Sarah challenged him with a look then, apparently satisfied that he meant what he said, she took Violet in her arms and hugged her.
'I'm so sorry. This is all my fault. If I hadn't dragged you along to that wretched Trash or Treasure roadshow…'
'You didn't do this, Sarah,' Fayad said, handing her a card. 'You shouldn't have any more trouble. My people will be here, taking care of the house, and I've organised security, but if you're worried at any time, if you need anything, call this number. My cousin, Hamad al Kuwani, is the ambassador, and he knows who you are and will help in any way…'
'Thank you.' Then she turned to Violet and said, 'Call me. Every day.'
'She will,' he said, and, anxious to get her away, he supported her down the stairs, steering her through the wreckage of the hall until they reached the front door, not permitting her to stop, mourn.
'Don't look back,' he warned as she hesitated, momentarily dug in her heels. 'Always look ahead, keep your eyes on where you're going.'
'If only I knew where that was.'
She looked up at him, and then, because he wanted to reassure her, he bent and kissed her.
It had been an impulse. An attempt to distract her. Distract himself, maybe. But the softness of her lips, clinging to his, seemed to light a fire that had been smouldering within him since the moment he had first set eyes on her.
A recognition.
'Wherever it is,' he said, 'I will be with you. For as long as you need me.'
CHAPTER FIVE
Violet felt numb. As they sped towards the airport, enfolded in the luxurious leather of his car, the only warmth came from Sheikh Fayad's hand, holding hers as if he would never let it go.
Her hand. And her mouth.
She knew why he'd kissed her. He'd seen how hard it was to walk away from her home when they both knew that she'd never be going back. It had been no more than a distraction. He'd wanted to divert her, get her over the step, down the path, through the gate and into his car. To keep her from looking back.
And it had worked.
While her lips had clung to his, she'd had the feeling that there was nothing in the world that could hurt her. That there was no past, only a future. That with him she was safe.
She hoped it was true, because she'd put herself entirely in his hands. Good hands. Strong, gentle, she thought, looking at her own wrapped in his long fingers as he continued to hold on, never once letting go, despite the constant stream of calls he took on his cellphone.
Even when they
arrived at the airport and a member of the VIP ground staff would have whisked her away, as if that were the norm, he just tightened his grip and said, 'Leave her. She stays with me.'
Only when they were in the air and he'd escorted her to an unbelievably luxurious sitting room did he finally release her hand, delivering her into the care of the young woman waiting there.
'Rest now. Leila will be your companion. She will take care of you,' he said. 'No one will disturb you.'
Too late. She was disturbed beyond repair. But she managed a hoarse, 'Thank you.'
He responded with a frown. 'Why do you thank me? You have given me all you have while I have brought nothing but trouble to you and your friends.'
'I returned what is rightfully yours. As for the rest-you told Sarah that it was not her fault. Well, it's not yours, either.' Then, because he seemed lost for an answer, 'They will be safe?'
This morning she'd been so arrogant in her dismissal of danger. How could she have been so stupid? If anything happened to them…
'They will come to no harm, insh 'Allah,' he said. 'By the will of God.' Then, with a smile, 'And the best security that money can buy.'
And then he was gone, leaving her to the pampering of Leila.
'Come. Bathe, sleep,' she said. 'You will feel better.'
She'd certainly look better. Forget her face. She'd thrown on the first things that had come to hand that morning when she'd dashed off to fetch Molly from playgroup. An old T-shirt on which she'd experimented with a design that not even her best friend would wear-let alone buy-and a pair of jeans that she'd bought in the market.
'So much for being a princess,' she said. 'I don't exactly look the part, do I?'
'I'm so sorry, sitti.' Leila was all flustered apology. 'I did not mean…'
Oh, good grief, the poor girl thought she was offended. 'I'm a mess, Leila. Honestly, you don't have to be polite.'
'Oh.' Then, indicating her suitcases, which had not been placed in the hold but in the bedroom-this was travelling, but not as she knew it-'I'll find something for you to wear.'
Violet's first response was to explain that she was perfectly capable of looking through a suitcase, but she choked back the words as she realised that Leila would be hurt, feel rejected.
'Thank you.' Then, 'Maybe you can help me choose something that would make me look a little more…?'
'The part?' she offered, repeating the word with a tentative smile.
Which was what?
Sheikh Fayad called her Princess.
Never in a million years, she thought.
Presentable was about as much as she could hope for. Less of a wimpy embarrassment.
'"The part" will do nicely,' she said, managing a smile of her own, and leaving Leila, considerably happier, to sort through her clothes, while she wallowed in the luxury of the bathroom. Soaking the hideous night, the unbelievably worse day, out of her bones.
What was it Sarah had said about needing a little excitement in her life?
How about flying in a wide-bodied jet that would make anything in the Queen's Flight look like economy. Flying at thirty thousand feet, up to her neck in scented bubbles. Being flown away on a metaphorical magic carpet to some strange and exotic country by a man who would light up any woman's dreams.
She lifted wet fingers to her lips and smiled. A man whose chosen method of distracting a woman in distress was to kiss her. How much better could it get?
No. She definitely wasn't going there…
It had been no more than his way of preventing her from descending into hysteria, she knew. But for a moment, as his lips had claimed hers, held them for what had seemed like endless moments, it had felt like… She grinned. It had felt like skiing down Everest.
When she emerged from the bathroom, this time in a soft snowy white bathrobe, her hair wrapped in one of those fancy towels that soaked up the water, Leila was waiting, and had her hair dry and glossily straight in no time flat. Clearly she wasn't the standard cabin crew member; her duties extended well beyond providing peanuts and mineral water.
'You will rest now,' she said, turning back the bed. 'I will iron your clothes and repack them properly.'
'No…'
Leila frowned.
'No, really-I can't expect you to do that.'
'It is my pleasure,' she said, gathering up her bags and, leaving her with nothing but a pair of clean but
crumpled cotton PJs, which she'd laid out as carefully as if they were made of silk, she headed for the door.
Fayad had to force himself to concentrate. Apart from the speculation that cutting short his visit to London was bound to provoke, stirring up more rumours about his grandfather's health, it meant a great deal of work for his staff as they cancelled meetings, lunches, receptions.
He made some calls himself, offering apologies for his abrupt change of plan, discussing alternative dates, leaving his diary secretary to confirm the details. But all the time, at the back of his mind, was Violet.
She had brushed aside the first attempt to steal the knife as if it had been nothing. But the wanton destruction of her home was an act of terrifying violence, rage, even, impossible to dismiss with the same casual courage. He understood why, instead of calling her closest friend, or even the police, she had called the only person she knew who would understand. Who wouldn't torment her with questions but would simply act.
It wasn't her safety that bothered him now. No one would harm her while she was in his care. But there was another problem.
In dropping everything and going to her aid he'd broken just about every protocol, crashed through every barrier that existed within his society between a man and a woman who was not his wife.
He could have done no less.
Seeing her, crumpled up like some broken, wounded creature, a man would have had to have had a heart of flint not to act as he had done, and everyone would understand that.
But there were consequences. It had not been a private matter. Too many of his staff had seen him holding her.
Everything else might have been accepted, even the kiss, but not that intimacy, and he had no doubt that his grandfather would hear of it long before he reached home. This would not be treated as some minor indiscretion to be overlooked; not when the consequences would suit the old man so well.
If she'd been anyone else it would not have mattered. As a foreign woman it would have been understood that she did not live by their rules. If she'd remained in London, even, it might have been possible to brush it aside.
But by taking her home, presenting her to his grandfather, he was giving her the status to which she was entitled, and as far as the court was concerned his marriage to Violet Hamilton would be a foregone conclusion.
To offer her anything less would be an insult to her and would certainly outrage the Sayyid family, happy to use whatever insult that came to hand in pursuit of discord. Even when it was an insult to the offspring of a daughter who had shamed them.
They'd gladly use it to manufacture a schism that they could use to drive the country apart and fuel their grab for control of the oil revenues that were-for the moment-pouring into the country.
The offer, with a dower fit for a princess, would have to be made, and in truth it was a marriage that would serve every imaginable purpose. From an aristocratic family, Violet was returning the symbol of their country's origins, redressing an old wrong with no thought of reward. Restoring her family's honour. Neutralising the Sayyid threat.
It was a marriage that would delight his grandfather and give Fayad a wife of great character, great beauty, while reuniting two great tribes who had for far too long been enemies beneath the diplomatic display of unity.
All attributes that made it a perfect match for him. Except one.
He dragged a hand over his face as if to wipe away the memories that haunted him. The loss of his wife, his son, had ripped the heart out of him and, despite all efforts to tempt him to offer for the treasure of one of the carefully nu
rtured daughters who would doubtless have made the perfect wife, he had been immune.
His family had been in danger and he had not been there to keep them safe. No man could live through that and be whole ever again…
Violet Hamilton was a chance to redeem himself, and in that first moment when he had set eyes on her, when she'd opened the door thinking it was just another day and looked up at him, any man would have responded to her as the desert to rain.
Even now he could feel the warmth of her body as he'd held her close, the softness of her breasts against his chest, the scent, the silk of her hair against his cheek.
Feel the soft tug of her lips against his…
'Sheikh?'
He looked up to see his aide regarding him anxiously and he shook his head, dismissing his concern with a gesture. Drank from the glass of water at his hand. It made no difference.
Violet woke to the steady thrumming of the aircraft's engines, for a minute completely disoriented. Then, as she rolled over, luxuriating in the feel of the finest linen sheets, it all came back with a rush.
The khanjar.
Her home.
Sheikh Fayad.
She was flying to Ras al Kawi in the kind of luxury that she could only ever have dreamed of. She concentrated on that rather than the horror she'd left behind.
'You are awake, sitti…' Leila placed a tray on the table beside the bed containing orange juice, fresh figs, small cakes. 'We will be landing in an hour,' she said, with a shy smile. 'Sheikh Fayad asked if he might be permitted to join you before we touch down?'
Be permitted? Then, as she sipped at the orange juice, her brain caught up. Obviously the meaning had become distorted in translation.
'I imagine he wants to drill me in the rules of court etiquette,' she said, putting two and two together and coming up with a little inventive translation of her own. 'Teach me when to curtsey and remind me that princesses only speak when they're spoken to.' And who could blame him?
Leila looked shocked. 'No! That would be most…'