by Liz Fielding
His ‘Trust me’ had been a waste of breath-she couldn’t hear him-but it had made him feel better as he went in for the kiss, hard and fast. This wasn’t seduction, this was survival and he wanted her total attention, every emotion, fixed on him, even if that emotion was outrage.
He didn’t get outrage.
For a moment there was nothing. Only a stunned stillness. Then something like an imperceptible sigh breathed against his mouth as her eyes closed, the tension left her body and her lips softened, yielded and clung to his for a moment, warm and sweet as a girl’s first kiss. Then parted, hot as a fallen angel tempting him to sin.
At which point the only one in danger of losing anything was him.
How long was a kiss? A heartbeat, minutes, a lifetime?
It seemed like all three as his hands, no longer captive, moved to her waist, her back, drawing her closer. A heartbeat while he breathed in the clean, fresh scent of her skin; minutes as the kiss deepened and something darker, more compelling stirred his senses; a lifetime while his hormones stampeded to fling themselves into the unknown without as much as a thought for the consequences.
Exactly like his grandfather. Exactly like his father.
Men without a purpose, without a compass, who’d put their own selfish desires above everything.
That thought, like a pitcher of cold water, was enough to jar him back to reality, remind him why he was here, and he drew back.
Rose took a gasping, thready little breath as he broke the connection. Sat unmoving for long moments before her lids slowly rose, almost as if the long, silky lashes were too heavy to lift.
Her lips parted as if she was going to speak but she closed them again without saying a word, instead concentrating on her breathing, slowing it down using some technique that she’d probably learned long ago to manage nerves.
When she raised her lashes again, she was sufficiently in control to speak.
He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she mouthed the words so carefully that he could lip-read enough to get the gist, which was, as near as damn it, ‘If you were that scared, Kal, you should have told me. We could have taken the car.’
It was the response of a woman who, with ten years of interaction with the public behind her, knew exactly how to rescue an awkward moment, who could put anyone at ease with a word.
It put a kiss that had spiralled out of hand into perspective, allowing them both to move on, forget it.
Well, what had he expected?
That she’d fall apart simply because he’d kissed her?
She might-or might not-be a virgin princess, but she’d already proved, with her dry and ready wit, that she was no shrinking violet.
He knew he should be grateful that his rescue mission had been recognised for what it was. Received with her legendary good humour, charm.
But he wasn’t grateful. Didn’t want to forget.
He wanted to pull her close, kiss her again until that classy English cool sizzled away to nothing, her ‘charm’ shattered in a pyrotechnic blaze that would light up the night sky and this tender Rose, nurtured under glass, broke out and ran wild.
It wasn’t going to happen.
Even if had been an appropriate time or place, their destinies were written. Even if she rejected the Earl in waiting her grandfather had lined up to walk her down the aisle and chose someone for herself, it was never going to be the scion of a disgraced and dispossessed exile.
And when he took a bride, it would not be in response to carnal attraction, the sexual chemistry that masqueraded as love, stealing your senses, stealing your life. His marriage would be an affair of state that would cement an alliance with one of the great Ramal Hamrahn families-the Kassimi, the Attiyah or the Darwish. The surrender of one of their precious daughters an affirmation that he had restored his family to their rightful place.
Had brought his grandfather home.
But time was running out. He had been infinitely patient and he no longer had years. His grandfather was already on borrowed time, stubbornly refusing to accept the death sentence that had been passed on him until he saw his grandson married as a Khatib should be married. Could die in peace in the place where he’d been born.
An affair that would cause scandalised headlines worldwide would do nothing to help his cause. He had to keep himself focused on what was important, he reminded himself, even while he held Rose, could feel her corn silk hair tumbling over his hands, her soft breath upon his cheek.
Fight, as he’d always fought, the demanding, selfish little gene he’d inherited, the one telling him to go for it and hang the consequences. The knowledge that she wanted it as much as he did. The pretence that it would just be a holiday romance, wouldn’t hurt anyone.
That wasn’t true. You could not give that much and walk away without losing something of yourself, taking something of the other with you. Already, in the closeness of the hours they had spent together, he had given more than he should. Had taken more. He concentrated on the clean, vast infinity of the night sky-diamonds against black velvet-until it filled his head, obliterating everything else.
Lydia wanted to curl up and die with embarrassment. Not because Kal had kissed her. That had been no more than straightforward shock tactics, designed to prevent her from doing something stupid.
And it had worked.
She hadn’t screamed, hadn’t tried to grab the pilot and make him stop.
Why would she when the minute his lower lip had touched hers, she’d forgotten all about the fact that they were rising from the ground in a tiny glass bubble?
Forgotten her fear.
Forgotten everything as the warmth of his mouth had first heated her lips, then curled through every part of her body, touching the frozen core that had remained walled up, out of reach for so long. As it felt the warmth, whimpered to be set free, he’d drawn her close and the kiss had ceased to be shock tactics and had become real, intense.
A lover’s kiss, and as her arms had wrapped themselves around his neck she hadn’t cared who he thought she was. He was kissing her as if he wanted her and that was all that mattered, because she wanted him right back.
She hadn’t cared that he thought it was Rose who’d reacted so wantonly. Who’d wanted more. Who would still be kissing him as if the world was about to end if he hadn’t backed off.
He was still holding her, still close enough that she could feel him breathing. Close enough that when she was finally brave enough to open her eyes she could see the what-the-hell-happened-there? look in his eyes. She wanted to explain that it was okay. That she wasn’t Rose, just some dumb idiot girl who was having a very strange day.
That he could forget all about it. Forget about her.
But that was impossible.
She had to put things right, restore Rose’s reputation. Instead, she closed her eyes again and concentrated on her breathing. Slowing it down. And, as her mind cleared, she realised that the answer was simple. Fear.
She could put it all down to her fear. Or his, she thought, remembering how he’d pretended to be the one who was scared as they’d lifted off.
If she could make him laugh it would be all right. They would be able to move on, pretend it had never happened.
But he hadn’t laughed; there was no reaction at all and she realised that just because she could lip-read didn’t mean that he could, too. He hadn’t a clue what she was saying.
She took her hands from his shoulders, tried to concentrate on what he was saying as he looked up, beyond her. Shook her head to indicate that it hadn’t got through.
He turned, looked straight at her as he repeated himself. ‘And miss this?’
What?
She didn’t want to take her eyes from him. While she was looking at him, while he was still holding her, she could forget that there was nothing but a thin wall of perspex between her and the sky.
But he lifted one of his dark brows a fraction of a millimetre, challenging her to be brave, and she finally tore
her gaze from him, turned her head.
In the bubble of the helicopter they had an all round view of the sky which, away from the light pollution of the airport, the city, she could see as it was meant to be seen, with the constellations diamond-bright, the spangled shawl of the Milky Way spread across the heavens.
It was an awe-inspiring, terrifying sight. A reminder of how small they were. How vulnerable. And yet how spectacularly amazing and she didn’t look away. But, although she wanted to reach back, share the moment with Kal, she remembered who she was supposed to be.
Not the woman on the checkout who anyone could-and did-flirt with. Not Lydia Young, who had a real problem with leaving the ground, but Lady Rose Napier, who could handle an unexpected kiss with the same natural charm as any other minor wobble in her day.
Instead, she concentrated on this unexpected gift he’d given her, searching for constellations that she recognised until she had to blink rather hard because her eyes were watering. At the beauty of the sky. That was all…
Kal must have said something. She didn’t hear him, just felt his breath against her cheek, then, as he pointed down, she saw a scatter of lights below, the navigation lights of boats riding at anchor as they crossed a wide creek.
As they dropped lower, circling to land on the far bank, Lydia caught tantalising glimpses of the domes, arches of half a dozen or more exotic, beautiful beach houses. There was a private dock, boats, a long curve of white sand. And, behind it all, the dramatic, sharply rising background of jagged mountains, black against a sky fading to pre-dawn purple.
While she had not been fooled by the word ‘cottage’, had anticipated the kind of luxury that few people would ever experience, this was far beyond anything she could have imagined.
It reminded her of pictures she’d seen of the fantasy village of Portmeirion, more like a film set, or something out of a dream than anything real, and by the time the helicopter landed and she’d thanked the pilot, her heart was pounding with excitement, anticipation.
She’d been so determined to keep her reaction low-key, wanting to appear as if this was what she was used to, but that wasn’t, in the end, a problem. As Kal took her hand and helped her down, she didn’t have to fight to contain a wow. The reality was simply beyond words.
There was an open Jeep waiting for them, but she didn’t rush to climb in. Instead, she walked to the edge of the landing pad so that she could look out over the creek. Eager to feel solid earth beneath her feet. To breathe in real air laden with the salty scent of the sea, wet sand, something else, sweet and heavy, that she did not recognise.
It was still quite dark, but all the way down to the beach lights threaded through huge old trees, shone in the water.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful,’ she said as Kal joined her. ‘I expected sand, desert, not all this green.’
‘The creek is in a valley and has a microclimate of its own,’ he said. ‘And Sheikh Jamal’s father began an intensive tree planting programme when he took the throne fifty years ago.’
‘Well, good for him.’
‘Not everyone is happy. People complain that it rains more these days.’
‘It rains more everywhere,’ she replied, looking around for the source of the sweet, heady fragrance filling the air. ‘What is that scent?’ she asked.
‘Jasmine.’ He crossed to a shrub, broke off a piece and offered it to her with the slightest of bows. ‘Welcome to Bab el Sama, Lady Rose,’ he said.
CHAPTER FIVE
LYDIA, holding the spray of tiny white flowers, didn’t miss the fact that he’d put the ‘Lady’ back in front of her name. That his voice had taken on a more formal tone.
That was good, she told herself. Perfect, in fact.
One kiss could be overlooked, especially when it was purely medicinal, but it wouldn’t do to let him think that Lady Rose encouraged such liberties.
‘The luggage is loaded.’
He might as well have been done with it and added madam.
‘The pilot won’t take off until we’re clear of the pad. If you are ready?’
It was right there in his tone of voice. It was the one he’d used before he’d started flirting. Before she’d started encouraging him.
She turned to look at the Jeep, where a white-robed servant was waiting to drive them to the cottage. She’d been sitting for hours and, now she was on her feet, wasn’t eager to sit again unless she had to.
‘Is it far?’ she asked. ‘I’d like to stretch my legs.’
He spoke to the driver, who answered with a shake of his head, a wave of the hand to indicate a path through the trees.
Lydia watched the exchange, then frowned.
Kal wasn’t telling the man that they’d walk, she realised, but asking the way. He’d seemed so familiar with everything that she’d assumed he had been here before, but clearly this was his first time, too.
She hadn’t taken much notice when he’d said his family were personae non gratae at the Ramal Hamrahn court.
Court, for heaven’s sake. Nobody talked like that any more. But now she wondered why, for three generations, his family had lived in Europe.
What past crime was so terrible that he and his siblings had never been invited to share this idyllic summer playground with their cousins? It wasn’t as if they’d be cramped for space. Even if they all turned up at the same time.
‘There’s a path through the gardens,’ he said. Then, ‘Will you be warm enough?’
‘You’re kidding?’
Rose had warned her that it wouldn’t be hot at this time of year and maybe it wasn’t for this part of the world. Compared with London in December, however, the air felt soft and balmy.
Then, as a frown creased Kal’s brows, she realised that her response had been pure Lydia. Not quite on a scale with Eliza Doolittle’s blooper at the races, but near enough.
She was tired and forgetting to keep up the Lady Rose act. Or maybe it was her subconscious fighting it. Wanting to say to him Look at me, see who I really am…
‘The temperature is quite perfect,’ she added. And mentally groaned. She’d be doing the whole, How kind of you to let me come routine if she didn’t get a grip.
Didn’t put some distance between them.
In a determined attempt to start as she had meant to go on-before he’d taken her hand, made her laugh-she said, ‘You don’t have to come with me, Kal. Just point me in the right direction and I can find my own way.’
‘No doubt. However, I’d rather not have to explain to Lucy why I had to send out a search party for you.’
‘Why would she ever know?’
‘You’re kidding?’
She ignored the wobble somewhere beneath her midriff as he repeated her words back to her as if he was mocking her, almost as if he knew. ‘Actually, I’m not,’ she said, knowing that it was only her guilty conscience making her think that way.
‘No? Then let me explain how it would happen. At the first hint of trouble the alarm would be raised,’ he explained. ‘The Chief of Security would be alerted. The Emir’s office would be informed, your Ambassador would be summoned-’
‘Okay, okay,’ she said, holding up her hands in surrender, laughing despite everything. ‘I get it. If I go missing, you’ll be hauled up before the Emir and asked to explain what the heck you were doing letting me wander around by myself.’
There was a momentary pause, as if he was considering the matter. Then he shrugged. ‘Something like that, but all you need to worry about is the fact that Lucy would know what had happened within five minutes.’
Not something she would want to happen and, while she didn’t think for one moment she’d get lost, she said, ‘Point taken. Lead the way, Mr al-Zaki.’
The steps were illuminated by concealed lighting and perfectly safe, as was the path, but he took her arm, presumably in case she stumbled.
Rose wouldn’t make a fuss, she told herself. No doubt someone had been holding her hand, tak
ing her arm, keeping her safe all her life. It was what she’d wanted to escape. The constant surveillance. The cotton wool.
As he tucked her arm beneath his, she told herself that she could live with it for a week. And, as she leaned on him a little, that he would expect nothing else.
The path wound through trees and shrubs. Herbs had been planted along the edges, spilling over so that as they brushed past lavender, sage, marjoram and other, less familiar, scents filled the air.
Neither of them spoke. The only sound was the trickle of water running, the splash of something, a fish or a frog, in a dark pool. She caught glimpses of mysterious arches, an ornate summer house, hidden among the trees. And above them the domes and towers she’d seen from the air.
‘It’s magical,’ she said at last as, entranced, she stored up the scents, sounds, images for some day, far in the future, when she would tell her children, grandchildren about this Arabian Nights adventure. Always assuming she ever got to the point where she could trust a man sufficiently to get beyond arm’s length flirting.
Meet someone who would look at her and see Lydia Young instead of her famous alter ego.
The thought leached the pleasure from the moment.
She’d been featured in the local newspaper when she’d first appeared as Lady Rose, had even been invited to turn up as Rose and switch on the Christmas lights one year when the local council were on a cost cutting drive and couldn’t afford a real celebrity.
Even at work, wearing an unflattering uniform and with her name badge clearly visible, the customers had taken to calling her ‘Rose’ and she couldn’t deny that she’d loved it. It had made her feel special.
Here, now, standing in her heroine’s shoes, she discovered that being someone else was not enough.
That, instead of looking at Lydia and seeing Rose, she wanted someone, or maybe just Kalil al-Zaki, to look at Rose and see Lydia.
Because that was who she’d been with him.
It was Lydia who’d been afraid of taking off, whose hand he had held. Lydia he’d kissed.
But he’d never know that. And she could never tell him.