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Sophie Weston

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Books by Sophie Weston

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

3791—THE DUKE’S PROPOSAL

3812—THE ENGLISHMAN’S BRIDE

“Are you sure that there is really no room for a man in your life?”

Natasha said sturdily, “He’d be completely surplus to requirements. No question.”

He looked down at her thoughtfully, almost pityingly. For a moment she almost thought he was going to pat her on the head. Her eyes dared him to try.

But he did something even more unsettling. He touched her lower lip with a caress. Natasha flinched as if she had scalded herself. The little touch was somehow more intimate than a kiss.

He gave a soft laugh that nobody but the two of them could have heard.

“It would take me one night to change your mind,” he murmured, his breath stirring the hair that curled round her ear. “Just…one…night.”

Natasha gasped. She sought vainly for a crushing retort.

But it was too late. He was gone.

In the Arms of the Sheikh
Sophie Weston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Born in London, Sophie Weston is a traveler by nature, who started writing when she was five. She wrote her first romance recovering from illness, thinking her traveling was over. She was wrong, but she enjoyed writing so much that she has carried on. These days she lives in the heart of the city, with two demanding cats and a cherry tree—and travels the world looking for settings for her stories.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

NEW YORK is paradise for insomniacs, thought Natasha Lambert. It never sleeps. Let’s hear it for New York!

She pressed her nose against the window of her hotel room and looked down twenty storeys. The November sky was as black as midnight. It was five in the morning. But cars’ headlights still swooped along the rain soaked street and there were people on the sidewalk.

Who were they? People going to work? People coming in from all-night clubbing? Natasha could see a couple emerging from the awning of the hotel, while a porter put a mountain of baggage in their cab.

A couple…In spite of the hotel’s admirable central heating, she found she was shivering. Stop that, she told herself.

Quickly, she went back to the high-concept executive desk that was the reason she had booked this luxury suite in the first place. Not that she looked like a high-concept executive at the moment, thought Natasha, grinning. Not in her sweats and beloved furry slippers with cat faces.

Her laptop stood open in a pool of light. Natasha sat down at it and wriggled her toes in their comforting fur, debating what colour to turn her presentation slides.

Blue? Too cold. Red? Too aggressive.

Just like me, she thought wryly. Her last boyfriend had delivered a comprehensive character analysis before they had stopped seeing each other. Heartless, he’d called her. It had driven him mad when she’d cheerfully agreed with him.

‘It’s not a compliment,’ he yelled.

‘Maybe not to you. I’ve worked hard to get like this.’

That was when he left, fuming.

Now the phone rang. Not taking her eyes off the screen, Natasha scooped it up.

‘Yup?’

‘Can I leave a message for Natasha Lambert, please?’

Natasha grinned. ‘It’s me,’ she said ungrammatically. ‘Hi, Izzy.’

There was an anguished screech. ‘Oh, no.’

Natasha’s grin widened. Izzy Dare was her very best friend.

‘Flattering,’ she remarked. ‘Aren’t you talking to me any more, Izzy? What have I done?’

But Izzy was too full of remorse to laugh. ‘I was trying to leave a message with the desk clerk. I never meant to wake you up.’

‘You didn’t.’

Natasha swirled a pie chart round on the screen. Both red and blue maybe? After all, cold and aggressive were often an advantage in business. Heartless, she might be, but she was very successful.

It was a long time since she had cared what people said about her. Anything was fine, as long as they also said she got the job done. And they did.

She stopped playing with her pie chart. ‘What can I do for you, Izzy?’

But Izzy was still worried. ‘You’re sure I didn’t wake you? But I thought New York was five hours behind London. What on earth is the time there?’

Natasha detached her eyes from the screen and cast a rapid look at her discreetly expensive platinum watch.

‘Just after five.’

‘And you’re up?’ Izzy was horrified.

‘Lambert Research never sleeps,’ said Natasha smugly.

‘But why?’

‘Breakfast meeting with the Head Honcho. They slipped it in at the last moment, so I’m reworking the presentation.’

‘Is he nice?’ said Izzy, temporarily sidetracked.

‘Who?’

‘The Head Honcho.’

Natasha choked at the thought. ‘David Frankel is a short, fat workaholic with a nasty sideline in groping if you let him get too close,’ she announced. ‘He’s also focused as a needle.’

‘Sounds horrid.’

‘That’s why he’s Head Honcho,’ said Natasha peacefully. ‘Powerful men are horrid. It’s part of their job description.’

Izzy protested.

Natasha was indifferent. ‘No sweat. I work with powerful men all the time. They cause a lot of work and I wouldn’t want to date one. But apart from that, they’re fine. Tell me what you want.’

Izzy sounded uncomfortable. ‘About the weekend—’

‘Oh, yes. I’m really, really looking forward to it. A girls’ getaway is just what I need. Especially after the week I’ve had.’

There was a microsecond’s pause, which would have been perceptible if Natasha hadn’t been tapping away adjusting the pie chart again.

This time she made it change to lime-green. The screen pulsed with virulent colour. Natasha put her head on one side. Young and exciting? Or too frivolous?

‘So what about the weekend?’

‘There’s been a change of plan.’

Natasha sighed. ‘That’s a shame. Okay, let’s take a rain check.’

‘No, not that sort of change. A—er—different venue.’

‘Okay,’ said Natasha without much interest. ‘Where?’

‘Well…’ Izzy sounded uncharacteristically embarrassed ‘…it’s a private house now. I’ve sort of borrowed it.’

‘Fine. Give me the address.’

Izzy did. ‘And there’s something else—’

At last Izzy’s hesitation got through. Natasha stopped playing with the mouse. ‘Okay, Izzy. Spit it out. What’s the problem? The place is falling down? There’s no central heating? It’s so deep in the country, I’ll have to hire a helicopter to get there?’

‘You would too, wouldn’t you?’ Izzy sounded odd.

‘Whatever it takes,’ said Natasha briskly. ‘All for one and one for all. You’re my best friend and I haven’t seen you for six months.’ Her fingers twitched. She left the mouse where it was. But it was an effort. ‘Am I going to have to find me a pilot?’

‘No. By car, it’s an hour tops from the airport.’

‘Then there isn’t a problem.’

‘Okay, get back to your work, and I’ll see you tomorrow. You’re still on the overnight flight?’

‘Yup.’

‘That’s good. Gives us the whole day to talk before the others get here.’

Natasha frowned. She turned her back on her laptop. This sounded serious. ‘You in trouble, Izzy?’

Her friend gave the ghost of a laugh. ‘No, no, it’s just that—’ Izzy stopped. Then she went on in a high, unnatural voice, ‘Serenata Place is a bit difficult to find.’ It was as if she wanted to say something else and couldn’t screw her courage up. ‘I’ll email you a map,’ she said with desperate brightness.

Natasha’s frown deepened. She had never heard Izzy sound like that before. Well, not since—

She pulled her mind away from the dark memories. The bad time was three years past. Gone. She and Izzy had got out of the jungle alive and well and so had everyone else. All was well that ended well, in fact. The nightmares would go too, in time.

But that didn’t explain why Izzy sounded so stiff and false.

She said sharply, ‘What’s wrong, Izzy?’

Izzy made an odd sound, half laugh, half sob.

‘I’m getting married.’

‘You’re what?’

‘Married,’ said Izzy, gabbling. ‘I know. I know. It’s very sudden. You don’t know him. Only he’s going away and…this weekend is our engagement party.’

Natasha frowned at the phone for a long moment. Izzy was a practical, strong-minded woman, but she had her area of vulnerability. And Natasha knew exactly where it was. Izzy was at work. She worked with her cousin Pepper in a bright, fashionable office. It was open-plan and anyone could listen to everyone’s conversations. Would Izzy want to discuss everything with her co-workers listening in? No, she would not.

‘Look—I’ll see you on Friday and tell you everything. Have a good flight.’ Izzy rang off.

Okay, she would wait until their tête-à-tête on Friday. But then, she resolved, Izzy was going to tell, and tell everything.

Meanwhile, there was no point in thinking about it. Izzy’s sudden marriage could go on hold for a few hours. Natasha, the professional, had a presentation to finalise.

She turned back to the laptop and, with a savage stab at the keyboard, sent her pie chart purple.

The throne room at the palace was a hotchpotch of magnificence and sheer eccentric indulgence. The Emir of Saraq sat on a French brocade chair that would have looked more at home in Versailles and waved the new arrival onto a minimalist Swedish sofa. The Emir had commissioned it personally.

‘You don’t command me, Grandfather,’ said the new arrival, without emotion. He was tall with decided eyebrows and a great haughty beak of a nose. His stark white robe was creaseless. He did not sit down.

‘You are here,’ the Emir pointed out with a touch of defiance.

‘For the moment.’

Their eyes clashed: the Emir’s fierce; the watcher’s unreadable. He had had a lot of practice at masking his feelings. He was good at it.

The Emir’s gaze was the first to fall.

‘Don’t let’s argue, Kazim. This is important.’

The placatory tone was out of character. But his grandfather was a consummate actor, thought Kazim, and as wily as a hunting falcon. He stayed watchful.

‘Is this about another arranged marriage?’

The Emir’s eyes flashed. But almost at once he curbed himself.

‘No. I have agreed. You will decide for yourself when you marry.’ It sounded as if every word were dragged from him, but he still got it out.

It was not enough. Kazim stayed implacable.

‘If I marry,’ he corrected.

The old man did not like that, either. ‘If you marry,’ he agreed reluctantly.

Kazim was remorseless. ‘And who I marry.’

‘And who you marry.’ It was said through gritted teeth.

His grandson nodded slowly, like a general accepting surrender. ‘I will.’

They eyed each other like duellists.

The Emir said something explosive under his breath.

Kazim decided not to hear it. Sometimes it was the only possible move in the prolonged chess game of their relationship.

‘You break with every tradition and listen to nobody—but you do get things done.’

Kazim’s lips twitched. ‘Thank you—I think.’

The Emir stopped muttering and rearranged the fold of his white robe over his knees. He was obviously making a great effort to appear reasonable. ‘I wanted to see you because there has been a warning.’

Suddenly, all Kazim’s wariness dissolved in concern. ‘You mean threats? Against you?’

The Emir permitted himself a thin smile. ‘No. You.’

For a moment Kazim’s face was wiped absolutely clear of expression. He did not answer. The atmosphere in the throne room was suddenly charged with electricity.

‘So you knew,’ said the Emir softly.

Kazim was disturbed. He had not meant to give so much away. The old man was too good at this. Or I’m losing my touch. Not a good thought, that. He buried his unease, professional that he was, and shrugged.

‘There are always crackpots. Threats come with the territory.’

‘And you’re setting yourself up as a target for them,’ said his grandfather with sudden anger.

Kazim sighed. This was not new. His grandfather wanted him home and safe in Saraq, not continent-hopping involved in peace talks.

The old man grunted. ‘This International Reconciliation Council of yours is a great idea. Very high-minded.’ He paused for his effect. ‘In about fifty years’ time.’

‘We haven’t got fifty years,’ said Kazim, a touch wearily. They had had this argument before, many times; most explosively the day he’d left a year ago. He braced himself to argue the case.

But for once the Emir was not after a good argument. ‘That doesn’t matter.’

Kazim was astonished. ‘Excuse me?’

‘You’ve got yourself on an assassination list,’ the old man told him brutally.

Kazim stood like a rock. ‘Your spies are very efficient,’ he said politely.

The Emir glared. ‘You’re very cool about it.’

Kazim shrugged again. ‘I take reasonable precautions.’

‘No, you don’t.’

That made Kazim blink. ‘What?’

‘Getting rid of your security and even your servants for a whole weekend is not taking reasonable precautions,’ announced the Emir.

Kazim was thunderstruck.

‘Isn’t that what you’re going to do?’

‘Invasion of privacy is an alien concept to you, isn’t it?’ said Kazim grimly.

‘I look out for my own.’

‘By keeping them under twenty-four-hour surveillance?’

The Emir ignored that. ‘If it’s a woman, bring her here, where you’ll be safe. You can have the Sultana’s Palace and all the privacy you want.’

A muscle worked in Kazim’s jaw. ‘It is not a woman,’ he said in a goaded voice.

It took a lot to get under controlled Kazim’s skin these days. For the first time in the interview the Emir grinned.

‘Better if it were. You work too hard.’

They both knew that Kazim had not visited his allotted rooms in the Emir’s palace for years. He had come straight from the airport to this meeting and the Emir knew that, in all probability, the private jet was being refuelled even as they spoke.

The Emir had learned the hard way that if it came to a battle of wills between them, Kazim would walk away without a backward look if he thought he was in the right. But this was more than their usual battle of wills. Suddenly he was not the Emir; he was just a man, desperately worried for his grandson’s safety.

‘At least keep up security at Serenata Place.’ It was as close to a plea as the old autocrat could manage.

Kazim was still smouldering at the thought of being spied on. ‘My arrangements to entertain my friends are my own business.’

His grandfather exploded. ‘Friends! What sort of friends want to put you in danger?’

‘Ordinary friends,’ retorted Kazim.

‘Pah!’

But there was a note of real despair in the old man’s voice. Kazim paused, then sat on the sofa and leaned forward slightly.

‘It is only for the weekend,’ he said in a softened voice.

‘Duration is irrelevant,’ said the Emir. ‘It would take a sniper less than a minute to kill you.’ He glared at Kazim as if he hated him.

‘I’ll have Tom do a complete sweep before the guests arrive on Friday,’ Kazim said gently. ‘And I’ll get the full security team in when the servants come on duty again.’

The Emir made a noise of undisguised contempt.

Kazim became noticeably less gentle. ‘But I can’t have my best friend’s engagement party spoiled by men with headsets and professional paranoia.’

‘A party! Have you even checked the guest list?’

Kazim was suddenly every inch the desert prince. ‘Dominic is my friend.’

‘I thought not,’ said his grandfather with angry satisfaction.

Kazim unbent a little. ‘Grandfather, try to understand. Dom and I go climbing together. He has held my life in his hands and I his. Of course I haven’t run checks on his friends.’

‘Cancel this party!’

Kazim’s gaze was level. ‘In my place, would you?’

He knew a lot of stories about his grandfather’s youth. Courage and loyalty featured highly. So did sheer wilfulness.

He lowered his eyes. ‘Everything I am I have inherited from my illustrious forebears,’ he murmured, the picture of a dutiful descendant.

The Emir narrowed his eyes. ‘There’s such a thing as being too clever,’ he said obliquely. ‘One day you’ll fall flat on that smug face of yours.’

Kazim’s dark eyes, so like the Emir’s, lit with sudden humour. ‘When that happens, I’ll make sure you know immediately,’ he assured his grandfather.

And took his leave.

His personal assistant was waiting for him beside the air-conditioned four-wheel drive in the palace’s security yard when Kazim emerged. His angry strides made his white robe billow.

‘Well?’

‘The old man has a spy in my household,’ said Kazim between his teeth. ‘He wants me to fill Serenata Place with twenty-four-hour security. Give me the keys.’

Martin’s heart sank. But he handed over the keys. Most of the time Kazim was open to reason, but these encounters with his grandfather tended to ignite his temper. He had been known to smoulder for days.

Martin fell into step beside him, shaking his head. ‘This is about Dominic’s weekend, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, he has a point.’

They had reached the car. Just about to swing himself up behind the steering wheel, Kazim paused.

‘Listen to me, Martin,’ he said deliberately. ‘I spend my public life surrounded by bodyguards and security timetables. Just once, I want to give a party like an ordinary man.’

Martin had worked for Kazim a long time. He knew when his boss was not going to change his mind.

They all did, the people who worked for Kazim. The households dreaded it; the office dealt with it; his personal staff called it Kazim in sheikh mode. It didn’t happen often. But when it did, he was immoveable.

Martin sighed. ‘It’s your decision.’

They got into the car. Kazim started the engine, checking the Global Positioning Unit.

‘If I can’t trust a man I climb with, I can’t trust anyone.’

Martin was sympathetic. But it was his job to remind Kazim of unwelcome truths. ‘You haven’t climbed with the girlfriend. Or the girlfriend’s girlfriends.’

Kazim turned his head in pure astonishment. ‘You think the Sons of Saraq will send some London fashionista to assassinate me?’

Martin gave a crack of laughter. ‘Put like that it doesn’t seem likely,’ he admitted.

Kazim put the car in drive. For the first time in days, his eyes were dancing. ‘All I can say is, she’d better be blonde!’

He stayed in that frivolous mood all through the flight back to London, to the despair of Martin and Tom Soltano, Kazim’s American Head of Security. By the time they had been in the air an hour, Martin Page was holding onto his temper so hard it squeaked. And then Kazim said something so outrageous that he exploded.

‘You are joking?’

Kazim raised his haughty profile from the file he was frowning through and his eyebrows rose.

‘I never joke about the diary.’

It was all too nearly true. In the last crowded years, Kazim had shuttled round the world, bringing his particular brand of high intellect and measured calm to conflicts from desert to inner city. It was an important schedule and a responsible one. But it did not make for a lot of laughs.

Martin, who organised most of it, knew all about that. Now he jumped up and flung a poster sized chart down on the table in front of Kazim. It showed his appointments, day by day, for six months ahead. Martin stabbed a finger at the week Kazim had been talking about. ‘Just look. You haven’t got time.’

Kazim stayed serene, as he always did. It was one of his most irritating characteristics. ‘Then I will make time.’

Martin swung round and looked at him broodingly. ‘Maybe you’re so good at making peace because everyone in the room ends up hating you.’

Tom Soltano gave a choke of laughter, which he converted quickly into a cough.

Kazim said calmly, ‘There is always a solution.’

But Martin was too wound up to stop. ‘Look at that month. New York, Paris, Saraq, Indonesia, Turkey. You can’t be certain you will even make Dominic’s wedding, let alone run the show.’

Kazim smiled. He had a beautiful smile. It lit his eyes, turning the stern face to melting charm in the flick of an eyelash. That smile made women adore him. Martin regarded it with deep suspicion.

‘But I am not going to run Dominic’s wedding,’ said Kazim mildly. ‘He has asked me to be his best man. That is all. I gather I stand there holding the wedding rings. How time-consuming can it be?’

Martin stared at him, speechless. American Tom was more forthright.

‘Have you been to an English wedding?’

Kazim al Saraq was brilliant and powerful, with an arrogantly sculpted profile and enough oil wells to mean that people generally did not argue with him. But the other two were his closest associates. They never remembered the oil wells and ignored the profile.

After a few seconds in which he tried and failed to outstare them, Kazim became ever so slightly defensive. ‘An English wedding? Naturally.’

‘A big one? With aunts in hats? Mothers in tears?’ pressed his security adviser with feeling.

Kazim’s lips twitched. ‘Weddings aren’t so different across cultures,’ he said dryly. ‘Mothers in tears are standard from Bombay to Baffin Island.’

All three men contemplated the thought. All three shuddered.

Then Tom pulled himself together. ‘I guess you’re right about mothers,’ he admitted. ‘But the British best man is unique. And it’s a lot more than holding a couple of rings, believe me. I’ve done it.’

Martin nodded. ‘Listen to the man.’

Kazim smiled reluctantly. ‘Okay. Go ahead. Terrify me.’

The other two looked at each other.

‘Well,’ said Tom with relish. ‘You’re responsible for the groom. I mean responsible. You have to give him the party of his life. Even when he’s married he supposed to look back on it as his last days of freedom. That sort of party.’

‘And then you sober him up the next day and get him to church,’ interjected Martin.

Kazim waved that aside. ‘Dominic will be in training for his South Pole expedition. There will be no drunkenness. So no sobering up.’ There was a gleam of fun that they hadn’t seen for ages. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

‘Okay,’ said Martin. ‘How’s this? He’ll have all his mates acting as ushers. You won’t know them and half of them won’t know each other, but you have to tell them what to do. And keep control of the pageboys and flower girls and bridesmaids.’

‘You mean: run the show,’ said Kazim, still infuriatingly calm. ‘I can do that. What else do I do with my life?’

Martin cast his eyes to heaven.

Tom said kindly, ‘You tell Martin and me what to do and we run the show.’

Martin stopped looking heavenwards. ‘That is so true.’

Tom was earnest. ‘Best man is a hands-on kinda thing, Kazim. I’d have to advise against it. You’d be out there as a sitting target.’

Martin nodded. ‘And you wouldn’t be able to wave a hand and say, “Let it be so”, either. You’d have to roll up your sleeves, spit on your hands and get stuck in yourself. No one to delegate to.’

Kazim remained unmoved.

Martin almost danced with irritation. But the Princeton man stuck to his point. ‘Like—you have to run the speeches at the meal after the ceremony,’ he pursued. ‘Hell, you have to make the worst one yourself.’

Kazim was suddenly frosty. ‘I make speeches all the time.’

‘Not like this,’ said Martin with feeling. ‘You have to tell jokes.’

For a moment Tom forgot about the threatening email in his Immediate Action folder. ‘Do you know any stories about Dominic Templeton-Burke that will make a bunch of strangers laugh, Kazim?’ he asked curiously.

For the first time, Kazim paled. The other two saw it with satisfaction.

‘And what about bridesmaids?’ added Tom, beginning to enjoy himself. ‘You do know you’re supposed to escort the chief bridesmaid down the aisle after the bride and groom and all the aunts say what a lovely couple you make.’

‘Yup,’ said Martin with relish. ‘There’ll be a party afterwards, right? Okay, then. You have to dance with the ugliest bridesmaid. And keep on dancing with her whenever she’s on her own.’

‘Make sure none of the pageboys throws up over the wedding presents,’ added Tom, who had indeed been a best man several times. ‘Introduce people. Keep the two mothers-in-law from each other’s throats and the fathers-in-law from the brandy bottle. Send the happy couple off with a smile, having made sure that nobody vandalises their car first.’

Kazim looked appalled. But he gave an uneasy laugh. ‘You’re exaggerating.’

Martin shook his head. ‘Not a word of a lie.’

Kazim straightened his shoulders. ‘Tom did it and survived. It can’t be that bad.’

The other two looked at each other again.

‘Worse,’ they said in unison.

They spent an enjoyable ten minutes telling him the worst wedding disasters either of them could remember.

‘Don’t think you can fly in, stand at the altar beside Dom for ten minutes and then fly out,’ Tom warned earnestly. ‘Can’t be done.’

‘Call him and tell him to get someone else,’ said Martin, not laughing any more. ‘It’s the only answer.’

But Kazim’s chin lifted. ‘I have given Dom my word.’

‘Yeah, but you weren’t thinking,’ began Tom.

‘My word.’

Martin knew that was the end of it. If Kazim made a promise, then nothing would sway him. Ever.

‘If I cannot do this, I am a smaller man than I should be.’

There was a little silence. The other two recognised defeat.

‘You’re a good man, Kazim,’ said Tom, moved.

Martin was no less moved. But he was still practical. ‘Frankly, my sympathies are with the ugliest bridesmaid.’

CHAPTER TWO

TO THE private relief of Kazim’s advisers, there was not a blonde in sight as Dom’s guests began to arrive at Serenata Place that Friday. The fiancée turned out to be a redhead with a gorgeous figure and an anxious expression.

‘Big house syndrome,’ said Dom affectionately as she fled upstairs to change.

Kazim was startled. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Izzy went into a spin when I took her home to meet my parents. Now anything resembling a portrait of an ancestor and she freaks.’

A nineteen-twenties interior decorator had covered the walls of the entrance hall of Serenata Place with Victorian hunting prints. Kazim looked at the nearest picture of scarlet-coated fat men on fatter horses thundering over a hedge.

‘They’re not my ancestors,’ he said, revolted.

Dom grinned. ‘I’ll tell her. That will set her mind at rest.’

Kazim, taking hourly phone calls from a jumpy security officer, did not have a lot of time for socialising that evening. But even to him it was obvious that red-headed Izzy was more and more distracted as the guests arrived and the party started. Eventually he came out of the study to find Dom looking worried.

Kazim raised his eyebrows. ‘Now what?’

‘The best friend hasn’t arrived,’ said Dom. ‘We can’t announce the engagement until she gets here, apparently.’

Kazim stayed calm. ‘What do you want to do?’

‘Murder the woman.’

‘Obviously,’ said Kazim dryly. ‘Failing that?’

Dom scowled at the florist’s best efforts. ‘Postpone everything. Announcement, champagne, fireworks, the lot. Put it all on hold until tomorrow and hope the damn woman gets here then.’

Kazim blinked. But all he said was, ‘Just as well all your guests are staying for the whole weekend, then.’

‘Yes, thanks to you.’ Dom gave a heartfelt sigh and biffed him lightly on the upper arm. ‘I’ve definitely got a better class of friend than Izzy has.’

Kazim was amused. ‘You have met the missing friend, then?’

‘Miss Hot Shot?’ Dom shook his head. ‘Not so far.’

‘She sounds intriguing,’ said Kazim politely.

Dom let out a crack of laughter. ‘Not your type.’

‘I thought you hadn’t met her.’

‘I don’t have to. She’s been a prize pain in the neck so far. And quite apart from that, I hear she is definitely a twenty-first-century go-getter.’

Kazim shook his head sorrowfully. ‘I don’t know why you would say that’s not my type.’

‘Because you think a woman’s place is on the receiving end of roses and poetry,’ said his friend. ‘Just before you send them home, leaving you to get on with saving the world from itself.’

Kazim was unoffended. ‘Very amusing,’ he said calmly. ‘But—’ His phone began to beep again. He flicked it open. ‘Excuse me.’

Tom’s text message was unequivocal. Kazim must call him immediately. New information was coming in about threats to the reconciliation talks, and to Kazim in particular. Tom needed advice.

Kazim sighed. ‘Sorry, Dom. Work. It never goes away entirely. I’ll deal with this and catch you later.’

Dom nodded. Kazim’s friends were used to such interruptions. ‘I’ll persuade Izzy to come down and open some bottles. We’ll get the party on the road.’

‘And have the firework people come back tomorrow,’ Kazim reminded him.

Natasha had a bad day. First, the purple pie chart did not do the business for her. Nor did her superb presentation file. David Frankel wanted her personal, undivided attention and he was paying the piper. There was no way he was going to let her go before he was good and ready, preferably not until she agreed to have dinner with him.

As he asked question after pointless question, she saw her chance of getting first one flight, then another disappear. Smiling hard, she excused herself and called Izzy from the ladies’ cloakroom. Izzy did not answer.

Natasha left a message. ‘Izzy, I’m going to be late. Powerful men and their little quirks! Sorry, love. See you as soon as I can.’

It was a repeating pattern in the frustrating hours that followed. The last flight out took off late; hit fog; was diverted…Natasha calculated time-zone differences and called and called. Izzy never once picked up her phone.

In the end it was a dark Saturday evening when Natasha’s hired limousine edged its way through narrow Sussex lanes at last. The chauffeur’s silence was more eloquent than a stream of complaint. They had been through a ten-house village at least three times when Natasha spied a steep single-track road to their left.

‘There.’

Sulkily the chauffeur did as he was told. The heater spluttered and died.

Natasha shivered. She didn’t travel in Prada, but she didn’t travel in Arctic expeditionary wear either. In ten denier and handmade stilettos, her toes were slowly turning to ice.

‘I hope it’s not far. We’re miles from anywhere.’

The chauffeur sniffed.

To their right, there were hedges and dark fields; to their left, a high laurel hedge. It was beautifully clipped.

‘Looks like some sort of stately home in there,’ Natasha said doubtfully. ‘Hope we haven’t gone wrong again.’

And then there was a signpost. ‘Serenata Place. Strictly Private.’

‘Friendly,’ Natasha remarked.

And very, very grand. She was startled, though she did not say that aloud.

What did it matter how grand it was? she told herself robustly. She could handle grand. She could handle anything.

But as the limo turned in through high hedges and was brought to a stop by massive wrought-iron gates Natasha felt her confidence wavering, for once.

She set her teeth and did not let it show. Instead she lowered the electric window and spoke briskly into the entry camera.

‘Ms Lambert for Ms Dare. I’m expected.’

There was no voice on the other end. No response at all. Just a long, sinister pause.

Then, at last, the gates swung inward. Silently.

Natasha shivered again; not entirely because of the temperature.

‘Oh, great. All it needs is for Lurch the butler to come swaying out of the shadows,’ she muttered, thoroughly put out.

She closed the window and sat back, looking about her. They were going through some seriously stately grounds. The drive was longer than a jumbo’s runway. And then they came to the house…

‘Enough turrets to turn Disney studios green with envy,’ said Natasha, blankly. ‘And Sleeping Beauty’s forest to protect it! Why on earth didn’t Izzy tell me she was borrowing a Gothic mansion?’

The chauffeur did not answer.

The limousine stopped. However sulky he felt, the chauffeur had been well trained. He extracted her compact luggage and took it up the front steps. He rang an impressive bell pull before coming back to open the door of the limousine for her. If it had still been raining he would have held an umbrella over her head.

‘Thank you,’ said Natasha, getting out like a princess.

She had the oddest feeling she was being watched. But the front door remained closed and the windows were dark. In spite of a porch light like a beacon, there was no sound of life.

She went up the front steps. They struck cold as ice through the soles of her fashionable pumps. Marble, she thought, resigned. Definitely the real thing. A mansion indeed.

‘I suppose this really is the right place—’ she began.

But the driver was making good his escape. She watched the limousine drive off through the trees and found that her heart was sinking.

Natasha took hold of herself. Was she a woman or a wimp?

‘The butler probably has to fight his way out of the coffin to get to the front door,’ she told herself mordantly. ‘Great stuff, Izzy. A themed weekend!’

She pressed the doorbell again several times. Hard.

The feeling of being watched intensified. It was like standing in a spotlight. She tilted her head, listening…

Was that a noise…?

No, she told herself. No, not an actual noise. She could not hear anything but the wind in the trees. No steps on the raked gravel path. No breathing.

But something inside her knew he was there. Her blood seemed to get heavy; move more slowly. Her bones tingled.

Be careful.

Natasha swallowed. The Gothic atmosphere was really getting to her! She rang the bell again and again, heart beating hard.

Then, like a shot from a gun, there came the crackle of dry leaves underfoot.

She froze. Imagination was one thing. Instincts screaming at her to be on the alert were something totally different. Natasha had learned to trust her instincts. They had saved her life once. She whipped round.

‘Who’s there?’

She scoured the shadows as if each one hid a personal assassin.

The man emerged from the darkness between two huge bushes. He was not stealthy, but he walked lightly. He was tall, wearing something dark.

Natasha’s first impression was that he was very professional. Professional what, she was not sure. But, a professional herself, she recognised the characteristics: tense, focused, controlled. Her second impression, which blasted the first away like a firestorm—was total arrogance.

Natasha knew arrogance in all its forms. She worked with it every day and, once, it had nearly cost her her life. She detested it. On pure reflex, she went into defensive mode. Her backbone locked and her chin came up like a fighter plane taking off.

The man looked at her. He did not say anything. The reflected light from the porch picked up high, haughty cheekbones and eyes that pierced. Just for the moment she thought of a jungle cat, watchful and contained. And dangerous.

Dangerous? She fought with herself. This was a shadow of the past, pure and simple. Nothing more. She was not going to let paranoia get to her after all these years. She set her teeth.

‘Good evening.’ Her tone was pleasant—well, fairly pleasant. It said she reserved the right to lash out if he didn’t jump to attention. Close associates would have recognised that tone.

The man from the shadows was unmoved. More, he was unimpressed.

‘Yes?’ It was about as welcoming as a firestorm, too.

It would have intimidated a lesser woman. Natasha was almost certain it was meant to intimidate her.

It didn’t. She wasted no more time on civilities.

‘I’m expected,’ she said briskly.

That did not impress him either. ‘And you are?’

‘Ms Lambert to see Ms Dare.’ It was as curt as if she were calling at one of the big New York skyscrapers and he were a lowly reception clerk. ‘Do I have to repeat myself? I told you on the entry phone.’

He did not like that. He stiffened.

That gave Natasha some slight satisfaction. But not enough to compensate for standing out here in the cold November wind in a designer suit that was definitely aimed at the indoor market. She refused to shiver, though.

‘Lambert?’

‘Natasha Lambert.’ She was nearly snarling. ‘Ms Dare asked me for the weekend.’

He pretended to think about it—with insulting slowness. ‘That was the weekend that started last night? Or this morning at the latest?’

If it hadn’t been so cold, Natasha would have told him that her travel arrangements were her own business. But she was desperate to get indoors out of the biting wind.

‘I was held up.’ She gritted her teeth and tried hard to sound reasonable. She couldn’t quite manage apologetic.

But it did not seem that he was interested in an apology, after all.

‘Why?’ It shot at her like a bullet.

‘My client in New York demanded an extra meeting.’

He looked at her, but it was almost as if he did not see her. He frowned.

‘When was the meeting?’

A little gust of ice-fringed air sent the leaves dancing. Her interrogator did not even seem to notice. But it cut through Natasha’s fashionable suit like a laser ray.

This time when she gritted her teeth it was to stop them from chattering. ‘Thursday evening.’

‘Why didn’t you take an overnight flight?’

‘They were full. Then my flight was delayed, diverted due to fog—’ Natasha got her second wind. ‘Look, what is this? I’m supposed to be spending the weekend with friends. Not giving a rundown of my recent diary to—to—’ she looked at the height, the impassive face, the body impervious to cold, those eyes focused elsewhere, and the perfect insult leaped straight out of her childhood ‘—to Lurch the butler,’ she finished with relish.

‘What?’

He was looking at her now, all right. Right at her. Into her, almost.

Natasha saw him take in her beautifully cut black suit, the thin, ultra-smart New York shoes, the power blonde crop. And saw him decide he didn’t like the package one bit. She began to feel better, in spite of the cold.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he said, very slowly and distinctly.

‘You’re the butler, right?’ she said airily. ‘I mean, someone had to press the button to open those gates. You?’

He inclined his head. It was just about agreement.

‘So you have to know that I am expected,’ she pointed out triumphantly. She waved a hand at the case. ‘Would you take my luggage, please?’

He looked at it with—would that be astonishment?

She could not resist teasing all that glacial disapproval. ‘Hey, I travel light.’

His mouth set in a thin, ferocious line. It drove two deep clefts down his cheeks.

Ouch, thought Natasha. Maybe she had gone a bit far, calling him Lurch. Maybe he was sensitive about being a butler for some reason.

‘So where is Ms Dare?’ she asked in a friendlier tone. ‘Why can’t I get a rise out of the house? Have they decamped to the movies or something?’

He didn’t respond to friendliness. Hardly opening his lips, he said, ‘The party is in the garden.’

‘Well, thank God there’s some partying going on somewhere.’

He sent her a look of acute dislike. ‘You have some identification?’

‘Ident—?’ All desire to be friendly left Natasha abruptly. ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

But he strode forward, quick and sudden as that jungle cat she had thought him. He ran—no, surged like a tidal wave—up the steps. In spite of herself, Natasha retreated before him. It made her spitting mad but she couldn’t help herself.

She stopped just short of backing up against the studded door.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

He ignored that. He clicked his fingers. ‘Passport. You must have a passport. If you’ve just flown in.’

‘Of course, I’ve just flown in,’ flashed Natasha.

‘Then prove it.’

Shaking with fury as much as cold now, she fumbled all the documents out of her shoulder bag—passport, the remains of her airline ticket, the travel agent’s printed itinerary.

He held them out under the porch spotlight to scrutinise them.

‘What were you before you took to butlering?’ Natasha’s tone was poisonous. ‘Customs officer? Tax inspector? Really went to your head, didn’t it?’

He ignored that too. He was studying her passport.

She hated her passport photograph. It had been taken nearly ten years ago. She had not been long back from the jungle. It made her look like a student, all unkempt curls and no makeup.

‘Not a very good likeness,’ he commented. Was there a hint of amusement in the clipped voice?

Natasha’s dislike of the man intensified by several megawatts. How dared he laugh at her? She snatched her passport back with a hand that shook.

‘Satisfied?’

He shrugged. ‘As long as Ms Dare recognises you.’

Natasha blinked. ‘What?’

‘There are forged passports.’

She made a scornful noise. ‘You watch too much television.’

He gave a bark of laughter.

It was too much. Natasha fished her mobile phone out of her bag and shook it open. ‘Oh, enough. I’m calling Izzy now…’

The little machine was torn from her hand and thrown hard across the gravel driveway.

‘My phone…’ It was a squeak of pure outrage.

Squeak? She was furious with herself. She should have been roaring at him like a volcano! The breathless voice did not even sound like her own. Feeble, feeble, feeble. Natasha hated being feeble. It hadn’t happened in a long time.

‘How dare you?’ she choked.

He was icy. ‘You don’t need a phone. If it is a phone.’

He took a step forward.

Natasha felt the squashy weight of her carry-on overnight case against the back of her knees. And realised she had retreated yet again. It was too much. Simple self-respect demanded that she fight back.

She tried to kick him. It was childish, inelegant—and she was off balance. She kicked the bag instead. It fell on its side. Then slowly tumbled, corner over corner, down the steps.

‘Get away from me,’ she said with concentrated fury.

But he was not listening to her. He was not even looking at her any more. He was looking over his shoulder, staring at the bag as if it were alive.

It had fallen in the pool of light at the bottom of the steps.

‘What are you waiting for?’ said Natasha acidly. ‘An explosion?’

He looked back at her then. For a moment it was as if a shutter had opened. His eyes were hard and yet somehow—resigned. Her brow creased.

At once the shutter came down, hard. ‘I guess not.’

‘You did think it would explode,’ said Natasha slowly. Her anger evaporated into something a lot more complicated. Without realising it, she shivered.

He released her from that piercing inspection and stepped back.

Natasha drew a shaky breath. She was worried now. What on earth had Izzy been up to?

Abruptly, he turned away and ran down the steps to take up her overnight case. Natasha tried hard to banish the feeling that he handled it as if he had just requisitioned a consignment of dynamite.

‘Come with me,’ he flung over his shoulder. And set off without looking back.

Natasha caught him up on an ill lit path round the side of the house. She had recovered her sense of outrage by then.

‘Tell me,’ she said with deceptive affability. ‘When they sacked you from the police academy, was it for being too keen?’

He did not even admit to having heard her.

He set a brisk pace that made no allowance for Manhattan footwear, uneven downhill paths or the darkness. Natasha was too proud to remind him. When she found she was lagging so far behind that the striding figure was disappearing in the darkness, she set her jaw and kicked her shoes into the bushes. And caught up with him.

He did not notice.

After that, she kept up pretty well, in the circumstances. Her shoes, even if she ever managed to find them again, would probably be ruined, she thought wryly. To say nothing of ten-denier woodsmoke designer hose. But that was a small price to pay for not having to admit she needed help. And at least he was carrying her suitcase.

It was a big party. There must have been two dozen people there. They laughed and talked in the flickering light of a bonfire. The girls wore all-weather jackets; the men were mostly in thick sweaters. Apart from the man who had met her on the doorstep, of course. He wore a suit, with no concessions at all to the November chill.

Natasha looked round the crowd and sighed. So much for a girls’ weekend! The comforting image of sitting on the rug in front of a blazing fire with Izzy, a couple of mates and several bottles of wine evaporated. It was like a lost vision of paradise. But if this was what Izzy wanted…Natasha squared her shoulders and pinned on a wide social smile.

The bonfire was huge. It blazed cheerfully at the edge of a small lake. The air was full of the smell of mulled wine, barbecued sausages and potatoes baked in their jackets.

And at last she realised what was happening. ‘It’s a firework party!’

There was a shriek. ‘Natasha. Natasha. I thought you’d stood me up.’ Izzy burst out of the crowd round the bonfire and hugged her in a crushing embrace.

‘Sorry. I tried to get a message through.’ Natasha returned the hug enthusiastically until she ran out of air. Gasping, she fought her way back to oxygen. ‘What on earth are you wearing, Izzy?’

Izzy grinned. ‘Fur-lined waxed jacket,’ she said professionally. ‘What the well-dressed mountaineer is wearing.’

‘Why?’ said Prada’s best customer, honestly puzzled. ‘It’s lethal. I nearly choked in there. And it makes you look like a beach ball.’

‘It keeps me warm,’ said Izzy unanswerably. ‘I don’t care how I look. We’re going to have fireworks later. People won’t be looking at me.’

Natasha groaned. ‘You’re hopeless. No one would think you worked in fashion.’

‘And no one would think you didn’t,’ Izzy retorted. She looked over her friend’s shoulder and smiled. ‘Where did you find her, Kazim?’

‘On the doorstep,’ said Natasha’s adversary briefly.

‘Like a Christmas present,’ said Izzy, beaming.

‘Or a pizza you haven’t ordered,’ muttered Natasha.

Izzy was startled. ‘What?’

But Natasha was not looking at her. She glared at the man called Kazim. ‘I gather I’m so late you thought I was off your guest list.’

His eyes narrowed in the firelight. They glinted evilly. He said, ‘If you had called…’ He sounded like a hanging judge.

Even Izzy said apologetically, ‘Actually, that’s true, Tasha. When you didn’t turn up last night, I thought you weren’t coming.’

‘But I’ve left message after message.’

Izzy looked guilty. ‘In the excitement, I forgot to top up my phone.’

Natasha shook her head. ‘So you didn’t get even one of my messages? What on earth did you think I was doing?’

Izzy bit her lip. ‘I suppose I just thought something more important had come up.’

Natasha was genuinely shocked. ‘I’m not that rude. Am I?’

‘Not rude,’ said Izzy forgivingly. ‘Just busy being a tycoon.’

‘I’m not!’

Izzy smiled. ‘How many times have you blown me out this year?’

That was horribly true. Natasha could not deny it.

‘Never mind,’ said Izzy blithely. ‘You’re here now. That’s all that matters.’

Even in the fitful light of the bonfire, it was clear that Kazim Whoever-he-was did not agree. Natasha’s guilty conscience mutated rapidly into something a lot more combative.

‘Well, I am now I’ve made it through the front door security checks,’ she agreed, simmering. ‘Unlike my phone.’

Izzy looked bewildered. ‘What’s happened to your phone? Oh, Natasha, don’t say you were mugged.’

Natasha looked straight at Kazim Whoever-he-was. ‘Yup. A mugging. That’s what it was.’

His eyes flickered. But he did not say anything.

Kind Izzy hugged her again, distressed. ‘How horrible.’

Natasha did not take her eyes off Kazim. ‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ she told him.

She meant it. She could see from that look in his eyes that he knew it too. His nostrils flared.

Clearly no one had said that they could handle Kazim before. He was outraged. Outraged enough to do anything about it? Natasha was not sure.

Then she saw the rigid look to his mouth. Oh, yes, definitely outraged enough to do something.

For a moment she felt a little frisson of alarm. But then she caught herself. She never ran from a challenge. Ever.

Fine, do your worst, she taunted him silently.

His nostrils flared.

A trickle of something that could have been alarm ran down Natasha’s spine. Alarm or excitement. Suddenly all her senses were alert.

Nobody else seemed to notice. But she knew what was going on. And so did he. In the smoky darkness, unseen by anyone but themselves, light sabre clashed against light sabre.

It was like strong dark wine. Or a high wind.

Or coming alive.

CHAPTER THREE

ONLY not yet. Natasha had to get some warm clothes on before Kazim thought her trembling was down to him. He was arrogant enough for that.

Natasha turned her shoulder on him.

‘Actually, Izzy, I could do with getting out of these clothes. Can you point me in the direction of my room?’

Izzy was instantly remorseful. ‘Sure. You must be freezing.’

‘I’ve been warmer,’ agreed Natasha. ‘In fact, I’d be glad to borrow a sweater too. I didn’t know I’d need one.’

‘And, of course, you kept your packing down to the minimum.’ Izzy chuckled. She looked eloquently at Natasha’s overnight case. ‘How long have you been living out of that tiny little bag?’

Natasha grinned. It was a long-standing joke between them.

‘A week.’

‘Then a sweater isn’t all you’ll need to borrow,’ said Izzy with feeling.

‘The hotel had a laundry service,’ retorted Natasha. ‘A sweater will do it, really.’

‘I’ll come and find you some nice warm layers. And gum boots.’

Kazim interposed. ‘Stay with your guests. I can show Ms Lambert to her room. There are plenty of spare sweaters in the Egyptian room.’

Izzy’s brows flicked up, as if something in his tone surprised her.

Maybe it was the frosty disapproval, thought Natasha with irony. Presumably butlers weren’t supposed to take an instant dislike to their employers’ guests, even if the current employer was only borrowing their services for the weekend.

‘The fireworks will start any moment,’ Kazim said, as if that clinched it.

Natasha would much rather have had the girls’ tête-à-tête with Izzy that she had promised herself. But she knew her social duty.

‘Go and fix the fireworks,’ she urged Izzy. ‘If—Kazim, is it?—will just show me where to go…’ she sent a bland smile in his general direction, carefully not meeting his eyes ‘…I’ll get myself sorted in no time.’

‘Okay,’ said Izzy slowly. She looked thoughtful. ‘Mulled wine out here afterwards, then. I’ll bet you can do with it.’

Without waiting further, Kazim set off.

‘Whoops. See you in a bit,’ said Natasha and scampered after him, as fast as her stockinged feet permitted.

He led the way up the hill to a large paved terrace. Natasha followed. The damp grass struck cold underfoot. She regretted the impulse that had made her kick off her shoes. Temper always backfires, she thought ruefully. But it was too late now—and at least this time she was managing to keep up without slipping and sliding all over the place!

You’re still a quick study, Natasha, she congratulated herself.

He was still striding ahead without speaking, though. She decided to open hostilities.

‘So that was an adequate identification?’ she said to his back.

He glanced over his shoulder at that. ‘It was.’

‘What a relief!’

He ignored the mockery. ‘It must be.’

She realised suddenly that there was just a hint of a foreign accent to the deep voice, elusive as perfume. Maybe it was not even an accent. Just a slight over precision in pronunciation.

Natasha said abruptly, ‘When did you decide to dislike me?’

He kept walking. ‘If I am Lurch the butler, it is not my place to dislike you.’

It was neutral. Indifferent, even. So why was she suddenly positive that he was laughing at her? And why did a man with an arrogance quotient in the top one per cent decide to take a job as a butler?

Before she could ask, he held the door into the house open for her to precede him. She glanced at him as she passed and was surprised at the sheer force of his physical presence. Yes, he was tall. Taller even than she had realised outside on the front steps. But it was not his height that had all her instincts on red alert.

Nor was it his looks. Though the light of the house revealed him to be one of the most extraordinarily good-looking men Natasha had ever met. Not the pretty, smooth-faced good looks of a fashionable heart-throb either. It was something harder, fiercer. The dark eyes might be cool. But there was a fire burning under that imperturbable façade, she thought.

I wouldn’t like to cross him.

In spite of herself, Natasha shivered at the thought.

Instantly she was angry. It did not matter whom she crossed, said her internal mentor. She could handle herself. More important, she could handle the enemy! No matter what the world threw at her, she could handle it. Always had. Always would.

Relax, she told her instincts.

The door led to an old-fashioned orangery, all pale wood and glass. It was warm and full of sweet-leaved citrus trees. Overwhelmed for a moment, she paused in the doorway, all her senses alive to the scented air.

And Kazim walked into her.

It was like an assault, an electric shock straight to the naked nerves. She jumped, stumbled…cursed.

He caught her by the elbow and set her upright. ‘Careful.’

His fingers were cold from the brutal night, but his hold was not. Natasha felt as if a fire inside him arced across and set light to something in her too. It literally took her breath away.

He looked at her, surprised. ‘Are you all right?’

She gave that little shiver again. She did not answer. She could not.

Relax, damn you!

‘You are jumpy, aren’t you?’

Natasha found her voice—and brought herself gratefully back down to earth. ‘Try bloody frozen,’ she told him pleasantly.

He did not look as if he quite believed that. But he shrugged and led the way, threading between the orange and lemon trees as if they made up an obstacle course he could run blindfold. He opened the door into the main house with a flourish.

Still there was nothing Natasha could quite put her finger on. The gesture was just too theatrical. It was almost mocking.

She thought: It’s as if I’m standing on a stage and performing to an audience of one.

What does he know that I don’t?

But she was not going to let him see that he was getting to her. She went through the door he was holding and looked coolly round the oak-panelled entrance hall.

‘Impressive!’

The walls were hung with Victorian hunting prints and massive portraits of sober citizens in civic regalia. She pursed her lips in a silent whistle. ‘Whoever owns this place? They must be complete fossils.’

His spine was reinforced steel. ‘The owner values tradition, certainly.’ His tone said that she was a trashy modern thing, incapable of understanding.

Natasha decided it was time for a little mockery of her own.

‘Fun bunch,’ she observed, curling her lip at a severe family group. ‘Even the gun dog looks as if he’s wearing a corset.’

Kazim looked down his nose. ‘Not an art lover, Ms Lambert?’

‘Not a fan of pompous snobs,’ she said crisply.

He glanced at the picture they were passing. ‘The alderman does look as if he’s on his best behaviour,’ he admitted thoughtfully, to her surprise.

But before she could pursue her brief advantage, he led the way upstairs and turned along a discreetly lit corridor.

‘Ms Dare thought you would enjoy the Egyptian room. She said you’d like the chandelier. And it has a real nineteen-twenties bathroom.’

Natasha was inclined to be scornful. ‘What’s special about a nineteen-twenties bathroom?’

Kazim’s expression did not change. But Natasha knew she had made another mistake. Somehow, she had let him score a point.

‘I will be happy to show you.’ It was just too smooth, somehow. Like someone playing a butler on the stage.

Her brows twitched together in quick suspicion. But before she could challenge him, he had opened a massive oak door. He flicked a light switch. It seemed to Natasha as if a dozen lamps came on at least. He stood back to let her precede him. She stood in the doorway, blinking in disbelief.

The room had everything. Not just a chandelier, a velvet-hung four-poster bed, some serious antique chests and a painting that looked like an original Monet.

She gulped. But she had no time for the room to overawe her. Her feet were hurting quite badly now. In fact her left heel was burning. She must have bruised it as she’d scrambled after him over the paths and the twig-strewn grass. Refusing to let him see what he had reduced her to, she strode into the room, concentrating hard on not limping.

Kazim followed. He set down the small overnight case—with a great deal more ceremony than it deserved—on a bench at the end of the bed. He patted the rich brocade coverlet. As if he were testing the damned thing for bounceability, thought Natasha wrathfully. While he played the part of a classic butler in perfect tailoring.

‘Thank you,’ she said crisply, dismissing him.

He did not seem to notice. He just nodded, acknowledging her thanks. Was he laughing at her again?

Kazim opened a drawer, then several others, in quick succession, as if he was unsure for once. Natasha barely noticed. Her nose twitched at the smell of lavender and mothballs.

‘Traditional indeed,’ she said, almost to herself. ‘My grandmother’s house used to smell like that.’

Kazim did not like that. He shut the last drawer with considerable force.

‘You will find spare sweaters in there. Shirts. Please help yourself.’

Natasha came back to the present with a little jump.

‘Thank you,’ she repeated with emphasis and opened the door wide, standing beside it pointedly.

He ignored the hint. Instead he crossed the huge room and flung open a pair of double doors she had not noticed before.

‘And here is the answer to your question. Your bathroom!’

She could almost hear a flourish of trumpets, thought Natasha. It was clear that he was not going to move until she had inspected it.

She sighed ostentatiously. ‘There’s really no need to give me the guided tour. I know how taps work.’

‘But these are exceptional taps.’

Did his lips twitch? She stared at him suspiciously. He stared back, the expressionless butler to the life. She mistrusted him deeply.

But she wasn’t going to let him get the better of her.

A bathroom was too intimate, of course. But not more intimate than that proprietorial stroking of the bedspread. And she was quite sure that he knew it and was deliberately amusing himself.

Natasha pinned on a smile as deceptive as his own and limped over to stand beside Kazim. Not close beside Kazim. There was a crucial metre between their shoulders. She took good care of that.

‘Thank you. Very nice. That—’

Then she took in the full wonder of the room before her. She stopped dead. Her jaw dropped.

‘Decadent, would you say?’ said her tormentor, pleased.

Natasha gulped. ‘I’ve never—’ She pulled herself together. She was not going to let the damn man make her lose her cool so easily. ‘How interesting,’ she said faintly. ‘Egyptian?’

‘Well, Hollywood Egyptian,’ agreed Kazim. ‘It was designed by a movie art director. Impressive, isn’t it?’

Natasha shook her head, still staring. ‘Everything but the sheikh,’ she said with feeling, forgetting to be cool again.

For a moment he was no longer impassive. His lips twitched perceptibly. ‘That could be arranged.’

Natasha came back to the real world with a jump. ‘Sorry. What?’

He was striding round the bathroom, indicating its unique design with a helpful commentary. Natasha listened to one word in ten.

Every horizontal surface in the bathroom gleamed with marble—floor, ceiling, vanity table, even the window sill. The walls, where they weren’t gleaming decorated mirrors, were covered with hieroglyphs and pictures of stylised Egyptian houris with more eye make-up than draperies. The sunken bath was circular; at the marble rim there were indentations that she realised suddenly were head rests. Two head rests, to be precise.

If she had been with Izzy, they would have sat down on the edge of that preposterous bath and laughed until they’d cried. But it was not a joke she could share with this not-quite-butler. Not Kazim, with his unreadable eyes and his private laughter. And his theatrical butlering.

The truth was he was just too damn sexy to be a butler. He challenged her. He made her uneasy. He made her think. And she needed to talk all of that through with some good friends over a bottle of wine.

Natasha was aware of a sharp pang of regret. Oh yes, she had really been looking forward to that girls’ weekend. It would have been nice to take off her armour for once. She shifted unwarily and winced as her bruised heel complained.

She found he was looking at her oddly. Perceptively? That would never do. She didn’t want this man to recognise that uncharacteristic moment of weakness.

She drew herself to her full height and said crisply, ‘Thank you for showing me to my room. Now I would like to change.’

But he did not go. Indeed, he showed no sign that he even noticed he had been dismissed. ‘Are you hurt?’

She was startled. ‘What?’

‘You flinched.’

‘I didn’t.’

He didn’t contradict her. He just looked. Suddenly he was all male arrogance again.

Natasha responded to it, as she always did. Her eyes narrowed and her chin tilted dangerously. ‘What?’

He ignored her, frowning. ‘Now I think about it, you were limping in the orangery too.’

She glared. ‘Okay, maybe I was. So what?’

‘So how did you hurt yourself?’

‘Well, now, there’s a question. Could it be anything to do with being marched along an uneven path in the dark at light speed? Surely not!’

He frowned even harder. ‘Are you saying it’s my fault?’

Natasha gave a bark of laughter.

For a moment he looked furious. Then it was gone and he was the courteous butler again. ‘Then I must do what I can to help you.’

‘Why bother?’ said Natasha, blunt as always.

‘You are my guest.’

She bared her teeth at him in a smile that was ninety per cent challenge and ten per cent pure taunt. ‘I’m Izzy Dare’s guest.’

His eyes flickered. Annoyance, palpable as smoke, wafted off him.

Yes! Natasha chalked up a point to the female warrior. A small point, but worth having.

Content with her victory, she nodded to the door. ‘Now, if you’ll just go and help someone else, I’ll be down in a few minutes.’ The superior tone pleased her.

For the second time he failed to notice that she was dismissing him. Or not failed exactly. Ignored would be a better word.

Natasha drew herself to her full height. ‘Thank you—’

She got no further. He swung her neatly off her feet.

‘Put me down,’ said Natasha furiously, superior no longer.

He did. But not at all as she had intended.

He dropped her onto a stone seat with lion’s paws for arms and went down on one knee before her.

He picked up one foot and stared blankly at her ruined tights. ‘What on earth have you done?’

Natasha had not felt so grubby since she had scraped her knee in the playground and her mother had rebuked her. She glared. ‘Lost my shoes, didn’t I?’

She tried to take her foot back. She failed.

He inspected the foot narrowly.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Natasha was trembling. With anger, she told herself. With anger.

Kazim rotated her ankle. He was quite gentle but very firm.

‘No bones broken,’ he decided.

Natasha was shaken. To disguise it—‘Are you a doctor as well?’ she said nastily.

He looked up then, a surprising glint of mischief in his eyes.

‘No, but I’ve taken enough physical risks to know the basics.’

She took the opportunity to retrieve her foot. ‘No bones broken,’ she said curtly. ‘You said it yourself. Now will you please…?’

He lifted her other foot.

She gasped and fell silent. There was not even a vestige of torn hose between their skins, this time. And his fingers were so warm she could feel the blood beating against her cold skin.

Natasha’s mouth dried. She forgot what she was going to say; almost forgot how to think. All she could do was sit there, breathless, looking down at his bent head, and wonder at how crisp and dark his hair was, how surprisingly broad his shoulders. How sensitive his hands…

Natasha sat bolt upright. She was horrified. That was the sort of thing you thought about a lover. Or didn’t, on the whole, at least in her recent experience. But not, never, a stranger.

I must be out of my mind.

‘Stop that,’ she rapped out.

He did not even look up. ‘You’re bleeding.’

‘What?’

She bent down to peer at the foot. Their faces were suddenly close. She caught a hint of seriously expensive cologne.

Her brows twitched together. Since when did butlers wear Amertage?

Oblivious, Kazim said, ‘Ah, there it is. You seem to have torn the skin. Hold still a moment.’

‘What? Why? Ouch!’

She recoiled at the sharp pain.

He held up a savage-looking rose thorn and offered it to her. ‘Big beast,’ he said with satisfaction.

‘Yes,’ agreed Natasha faintly.

He was still concentrating on the task in hand. ‘You need a bandage on this. I will have someone see to—’ He stopped dead.

Suddenly Natasha was desperate to be alone.

‘Don’t bother. I’ve got a plaster in my case. I’ll do it myself.’

He ignored that too, getting to his feet. ‘Then I’ll get it for you.’

Natasha flinched inwardly. She really, really didn’t want this man going through her things. She travelled so light that almost everything in the bag was deeply personal. The contents revealed altogether too much about her, from the severe cotton underwear to rainbow silk scarves; to say nothing of those ludicrous furry feet.

But she couldn’t say that, could she? It would just show him how exposed he made her feel—even invite him to probe further. So she watched helplessly as he went back into the bedroom and threw open the small case.

Trying to sound indifferent, she told the open bathroom door, ‘There’s a small first aid pack in there somewhere.’

He started emptying the case, putting her clothes in neat piles on the bed as he removed them.

‘Very efficient, travelling with your own medical kit.’

‘I am efficient.’

It made her stomach turn over, watching those long fingers among her silks and cashmere. And when he found the squashy pussy-cat slippers, he paused, staring as if he could not believe his eyes. He said nothing. But Natasha felt her face flame.

She looked round wildly for a distraction. She found it in Egyptiana.

‘Who on earth put this lot together? Egyptian Bathroom Productions Inc? It’s outrageous.’

He put the slippers down on the floor and chuckled.

It was a sexy sound. So sexy Natasha’s hair lifted gently on the back of her neck.

Even as she fought down her own instinctive response, it astonished her. Arrogance and sexiness did not go together in Natasha’s book. Not normally. This man seemed to be turning all her normal reactions on their head. Again and again and again.

‘It’s pure art deco,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I told you—specially commissioned from a Hollywood expert.’

Natasha swallowed. ‘It would have to be. Either that or we have some serious grave-robbing here.’

‘Ah, here it is.’ He came back into the bathroom with her little first aid pouch.

She could still feel the remnants of that blush. It was all her own fault too! What sort of professional woman thought slippers with whiskers were absolutely indispensable gear for an international business trip?

What would he think of her? What did it matter what he thought?

But she hadn’t admitted she owned a pair to anyone, not her mother, not even Izzy. Much less that she took them with her whenever she travelled. And now this mocking, unpredictable, sexy man was the only person in the world who knew her shameful secret. Well, that particular shameful secret. She winced.

‘Thank you,’ she muttered.

He looked at the wall frieze with appreciation. ‘My—’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Er—the original owner was a reprobate, but he wasn’t into grave-robbing.’

Natasha followed his gaze. The houris were slim as reeds and twisting themselves into graceful, muscle-killing knots. She eyed them sourly.

‘Just young women wearing lots of eye make-up and not much else,’ she supplied.

But they were beautiful, utterly confident in their languid hedonism. They were definitely not the sort of women to sit pounding at a computer at five o’clock in the morning in order to impress a client.

Natasha stroked a gentle finger down one lithe shape. She was suddenly rueful. ‘Ever feel outclassed?’

Kazim’s tone became positively comforting. ‘They are not supposed to represent real women, you know.’

She jumped and came back to the moment.

‘Thanks for the reassurance,’ she said dryly.

‘Unnecessary, I’m sure.’

God, you’re smooth.

She didn’t say it aloud. A polite visitor didn’t make personal remarks to a butler—even a borrowed butler with a dodgy attitude and an expensive taste in toiletries.

She almost snatched the first aid pouch from him and quickly found a plaster. She ripped off the protective packaging and briskly inspected her heel.

Kazim watched in evident disapproval. ‘Surely you’re going to disinfect the wound before you put a plaster on?’

Natasha breathed hard. ‘Look, it was a rose thorn, right? Not a poison dart.’

‘Even so, it would be wise to wash it, at least. Your feet are very dirty.’

Once, when she was about eight, her mother had come to pick her up from school. It had been summer and her mother had been wearing a pretty voile dress smelling of apple blossom. Feverish with delight at the unexpected treat, Natasha had rushed off the athletics field and flung herself into her arms. Of course, she’d been sweaty and covered with sand from the long-jump pit. It hadn’t been surprising that her mother had recoiled.

But it stayed, that tiny, involuntary, uncontrollable moment of revulsion. It stayed—and burned.

Natasha often wondered what would her mother have said if she had seen her only daughter in tee shirt and trousers that were no more than rags, unwashed for days, plodding through the jungle at the behest of an arrogant bullyboy. Because her life had depended on it. Recoil wouldn’t have covered it. Oh, yes, slippers with whiskers on were only part of the things Natasha didn’t tell her nearest and dearest.

And now here was Kazim, who had seen those furry feet, and wore the most expensive cologne in the world. Okay, his reaction was not quite full-blown recoil. But he did not like her dirty feet, that much was obvious. He was not trying too hard to hide his distaste.

‘Thank you for pointing that out,’ said Natasha wryly.

‘I’ll ring for someone—’ He did another of those abrupt skids into silence.

But Natasha barely noticed. ‘No need, thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘There are antiseptic wipes in the first aid kit. I can take it from here.’

He looked down at her foot. ‘The wound is very awkwardly placed.’

Temper, uncontrollably sudden, bubbled up, startling her. ‘I’m fine. I don’t need anyone. I’ve put on my own sticking plasters all my life.’

‘But—’

‘And I’ll shower. I’ll scrub myself from head to toe, I promise. If you will just—go—away.’ Her voice rose to a small scream.

Their eyes met like swords.

He did not go away. He did not move.

And then he astounded her. Utterly.

‘When I first saw you,’ he was reflective, ‘I thought you looked like a robot.’

And in that gleaming, sparkling, voluptuous room, he touched one finger to the pulse that jumped at the base of her throat.

‘You don’t look like a robot now.’

Natasha heard herself give a gasp like a bursting balloon.

Kazim smiled and bent towards her. Slowly. Slowly. His eyes were guarded, but she sensed smouldering heat there. And there was a question in their depths, a question he demanded she answer…

Natasha leaned back and back until she thought her spine would snap. But she did not push him away. And she did not utter a word of protest.

For a moment they were utterly still; staring at each other; not speaking.

Kazim seemed to search her face. He looked serious; no longer teasing, questioning even. No hint now of the man whose lip had curled at her dirty feet. None of that spine-chilling arrogance. He looked as if he were setting out with her on an unknown path and wanted to know he could trust her…

Natasha caught her breath, shocked. She was moved by his expression, and that shocked her too.

Then, even as she watched his eyes flickered and he straightened. He was smiling again, but his eyes were masked. The smouldering fire was doused as if it had never been. The question, it seemed, had got its answer.

He gave her a pleasant smile. ‘Surprising.’

He waited. But Natasha was all out of smart remarks. All out of anything except a vast astonishment.

‘Don’t you agree?’ he prompted gently.

But all she could do was shake her head dumbly.

He looked oddly satisfied. And, before she could find her voice or think of a sensible thing to say, he had bowed his head and left.

Natasha found she had been holding her breath. She dragged in a long, grateful gust of air and bent over the marble unit, swallowing again and again.

Eventually her breathing came back under her control. What the hell happened? she thought, bewildered.

She took a long look at herself in the glimmering Venetian mirror. Her stylish hair was wind blown and had collected more than a few twigs. But they would brush out. Then the natural wheat-blonde hair would fall back into its usual elegant cap. That was why she paid a fortune to her hairstylist. It framed her face, emphasising the quirky cheekbones and diminishing the too-wide mouth, the too-decided nose, the lopsided, world-weary grey eyes.

‘You have an interesting face, dear,’ her mother used to say to her. ‘Full of character.’ And ‘Prettiness is overrated,’ said her pretty mother complacently.

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