“I’ve come to ask you to marry me.” Letter to Reader Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE Copyright

“I’ve come to ask you to marry me.”

“Marry you?” Nicole said faintly, unable to believe she could have heard him correctly.

“You sound astonished. Why?” Alex asked bluntly.

“Well...because...because I didn’t think you were interested in marrying anyone...least of all me.”

“Until recently I wasn’t. As you may know, I was married once...a long time ago.” His expression remained impassive. “But I’ve spent too long looking back. Now I have to look to the future. Your son needs a father. My father needs a grandson.” Alex paused for a moment “I think you and I both need the practical benefits of marriage. Companionship. Moral support. And someone to share our bed...”

Anne Weale celebrates

her 75th novel for Harlequin® with Desert Honeymoon

Dear Reader,

This story came Into my mind during one of the happiest journeys in a lifetime of wonderful travels.

Several of my forbearers lived in India during the British Raj. As a child I listened to their reminiscences of a land that sounded far more colourful and exciting than England—where I grew up. Unwittingly, my great-uncles and great-aunts, who had gone abroad out of duty rather than inclination, sowed the seeds of my wanderlust

I’ve been traveling the world since I was twenty-one. But somehow my destinations never included India. My son made that dream come true. Having arranged to canoe down India’s most sacred river, the Ganges, he suggested that, afterward, his father and I should meet him in Delhi and he would take us to some of his favorite parts of the Country.

The region I found most romantic was in the far northwest...the remote walled cities of Rajasthan. I hope this story will bring you some of the magic of Rajasthan.

Anne Weale

Desert Honeymoon
Anne Weale

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

ON HER way to the final interview, Nicole still didn’t know whose advertisement she had answered, or how many others had survived the first weeding out. In fact she knew little more than she had after reading The Times advertisement offering a suitably qualified person an interesting and challenging post, at a generous salary, in an exotic location, its exact whereabouts unspecified.

That she had been short-listed was encouraging, but to be the winner of this strange contest was something else. Design was a crowded field. She knew she was a good designer, but she didn’t underestimate the competition she would be facing.

The address to which she had been summoned was in the most fashionable part of London. It turned out to be an elegant block of flats with a uniformed hall porter in gold-buttoned pale grey livery. While Nicole gave him her name, she was aware of being scrutinised by a younger man in a business suit...a man who had ‘plain clothes policeman’ or ‘ex-Special Air Service’ written all over him.

She met his eyes, seeing in them not the smallest flicker of interest in her as a woman. Clearly he was a security guard of the most efficient kind. Any unauthorised person trying to get past him would be in big trouble. Which meant that the owners of the apartments must be very important or very rich: the kind of people who needed impregnable protection.

‘You’ll find Dr Strathallen in Flat Two on the fourth floor, madam,’ said the porter, escorting her to the lift where he leaned in to press the button for her. As the door glided into place, shutting her inside the most luxurious elevator she had ever been in, Nicole considered this clue.

Was Dr Strathallen male or female? Was he or she the so far unidentified prospective employer? What kind of doctor was he or she? Not medical presumably. Why would a physician need the services of a textiles designer?

Before she had time to work out what kind of doctor might need such services, the lift opened at the fourth floor, revealing a carpeted corridor. Directly opposite the lift was an alcove containing a sofa and, above it, a painting Nicole recognised as a Gustav Klimt Surely it couldn’t be an original Klimt...could it? Perhaps at this level of living, even the pictures in the corridors had to be the genuine article.

At one side of the alcove, a discreet sign indicated the direction in which she would find the entrance to Flat Two. Her footsteps muffled by the carpet and its thick springy underlay, Nicole arrived there exactly on time and pressed the bell.

Within moments the door was opened. She found herself confronting a man whose grey eyes seemed even colder man those of the guard in the lobby.

She had never been shy or timid, even in her teens. But at first glance something about this man zapped her normal self-confidence. Perhaps because, without being in any way handsome, he was incredibly attractive. She had never met anyone, in real life, whose charisma struck her so forcibly. Some film stars had this sort of impact when they appeared on the screen, but ordinary men didn’t, at least none she had ever met

Conscious of a constriction in her throat, she said, ‘Dr Strathallen?’

He nodded. ‘Come in.’ His voice was deep and brusque, giving the impression he had better things to do than interview her and was irked by the necessity of it.

As she obeyed his gesture and moved past him, Nicole was assailed by a powerful awareness of his physical presence; his height, his build, his aura of extreme fitness. In a totally inconsequential flashback, her memory transported her to a day in her childhood when her parents had taken her to the Regent’s Park Zoo. She hadn’t enjoyed it. The sight of wild animals in cages had upset her.

The one she remembered most clearly was the cheetah. The placard attached to its enclosure had said that, over short distances, it was the fastest animal on earth, hunting in daylight by sight rather than scent. She remembered reading that it was an endangered species, extinct in many of its former habitats. At the zoo, the size of its cage had permitted the creature only to pace its domain. It could never run at full speed, never enjoy its power.

Why the man now shutting the door should remind her of the captive cheetah was hard to fathom. But he did. Perhaps it had something to do with his tan. Here in London, at the end of an exceptionally wet summer, pallid faces were the norm and the tans acquired on beaches in southern Europe had soon faded when holidaymakers returned to their native climate.

But Dr Strathallen’s lean features, as he gestured for her to precede him through an open door at the inner end of the hall, had the tan resulting from a naturally olive complexion being exposed to a hot climate for much longer than the longest vacation.

The large room where the interview was to take place was decorated and furnished with an elegance that married European taste with some fine things of Eastern origin. But precisely where in the vast Oriental world these artefacts came from she wasn’t sure.

To her regret, she wasn’t widely travelled. It was one of several reasons why she wanted the job. She longed to see more of the world. But that wasn’t her principal reason for hoping that, despite his unfriendliness—he hadn’t smiled or shaken hands—Dr Strathallen would prefer her to the other candidates.

‘Sit down.’ He indicated one of two sofas facing each other across a large low glass table.

‘Thank you.’ Nicole sat, placing her bag beside her on the cream-upholstered, feather-filled cushion into which she had sunk.

She was five feet six, but the sofa was designed for long-legged six-footers like the man relaxing opposite her. He was able to rest his broad shoulders against the back cushions whereas she had the choice of sitting upright or lounging which, in these circumstances, wasn’t an option.

For what seemed a long time he looked at her in silence. Nicole forced herself to hold his gaze while longing to look away. There was something extremely disturbing about that silent surveillance even though, like the security man, he didn’t send out the vibes of a virile man looking at a bedworthy woman. Not that bedworthy was the look she wished or tried to project.

Today she had dressed to look businesslike and efficient. Even so several men on the train and in the concourse of the mainline station had given her the eye. She knew, without vanity, that she was still attractive. At thirty-two, she hadn’t yet lost the sex appeal inherited from her far more glamorous mother.

When it seemed he was never going to break the silence, she found herself asking, ‘Have you many people to interview?’

‘Five...all equally well qualified. The choice depends on my judgment of who is best suited to the demands of the environment. Would you like some coffee?’

‘Yes, please.’

As he leaned forward to reach for a bell on the table between them and give it a vigorous shake, she couldn’t help noticing the way his thick black hair sprang from a high broad forehead. Even if she hadn’t known about his doctorate, the highest academic degree in any field of learning, even if he had been a stranger sitting opposite her in an Underground train, she would have guessed he was clever, possibly brilliant

Appearances could be misleading but no one with a spark of intuition could fail to read the signs of a penetrating intelligence... or to pick up the indications that he might also be a demanding, even difficult leader in whatever field he excelled in. Uncompromising was the word that sprang to her mind. She wondered if she could cope with another dogmatic person in her life.

‘What kind of environment is it?’ she asked, eager to know what lay behind the somewhat cryptic reference to an exotic location.

He answered her with a question. ‘How’s your geography?’

‘About average.’

‘Do you know where Rajasthan is?’

‘Of course...it’s a state in the north of India,’ Nicole said coolly. She had thought he was going to quiz her about somewhere far more obscure. Not that she was all that knowledgeable about India, but she had often browsed through Dan’s atlas, wondering when, if ever, she might be able to satisfy her longing to see other countries, other cultures.

‘What else do you know about it?’

‘Not a lot. I know it has a famous desert.’

‘The Great Thar Desert.’

Nicole knew how the name was spelt but, until he pronounced it, she hadn’t known the ‘h’ was silent.

At that moment another man entered. He looked to be about fifty, with jet-black hair turning grey, a slight physique and thin hands. He was wearing European clothes but was recognisably Indian.

‘Coffee, please, Jal,’ said Strathallen.

With a slight bow the man withdrew.

‘At the western edge of the desert,’ Strathallen continued, ‘there’s an old walled city called Karangarh. How would you feel about living and working there?’

‘If I hadn’t been prepared to go more or less anywhere, I wouldn’t have applied for the job,’ Nicole replied.

‘But from the questionnaire you filled in it appears that your travels so far have been limited to a few conventional tourist resorts in Europe?’

‘Because I haven’t had the time or the means to go further afield, not because I haven’t wanted to,’ she told him. ‘After my mother’s death, my father wanted me to share his holidays and I wanted to be with him while he was lonely without her. Now he’s married again and has my stepmother to go on holidays with him. Which leaves me free to go wherever I please.’

This explanation wasn’t untrue. It was a version of the truth that would give a better impression than the whole truth. Nicole felt the facts of her life, except those relating to the job she was applying for, were nothing to do with Dr Strathallen. Also he didn’t strike her as a man who would have much understanding of the complexities and pressures affecting the lives of lesser mortals than himself.

The manservant returned with a tray. To have come back so soon he must have been expecting the request and had everything in readiness. Silence fell on the room while he went through a practised ritual of serving the visitor and then his employer—if in fact that was their relationship.

For reasons there wasn’t time to define, Nicole sensed that Dr Strathallen wasn’t the owner of this luxurious and sophisticated apartment It didn’t match his persona. Indeed the clothes he was wearing, a well-cut grey suit with a light blue shirt and dark blue tie, didn’t quite ‘go’ with the general air of the man.

She had no idea what was worn by the inhabitants of the Great Thar Desert, if it had any. But she had read a book about the fierce Tuareg tribesmen of the Sahara. She could easily visualise Strathallen riding over a rolling sea of sand dunes, mounted on a camel, with a black turban on his head and an indigo ‘veil’ protecting his nose and mouth from the gritty desert wind while his narrowed grey eyes searched the empty horizon.

What it was about the man that caused her imagination to present her with this vivid improbable picture, she couldn’t tell. Except that the body inside the businessman’s clothes looked more powerful than that of any men she’d encountered, and his face was a tough man’s face, not that of a number cruncher or anyone desk-bound.

The manservant withdrew, leaving them each with a poured cup of coffee, with a pot containing a couple of refills beside it. The cream jug and sugar bowl were near Nicole. She didn’t take sugar but added some cream to her cup.

‘Do you take these?’ she asked, ready to pass them to him.

‘No, thanks. I don’t eat biscuits either,’ he added, referring to the plate of English biscuits also left near her cup. Nicole had concluded that he didn’t when a plate and a white-on-white embroidered napkin had been set out for her but not for him. Normally she enjoyed biscuits, but right now she didn’t want to have her mouth full when he shot a question at her.

Normally calm and self-possessed as befitted her years, suddenly, in Dr Strathallen’s presence, she felt her poise cracking as if she were an apprehensive twenty-year-old instead of a mature woman..

‘How large a place is Karangarh?’ she asked.

‘A long time ago it was an important city ruled by a long line of princes. The palace at Karangarh is still owned and occupied by His Highness Prince Kesri, the Maharaja of Karangarh, who is also the owner of this apartment’

Strathallen broke off to drink some coffee. Nicole found that, even with milk, hers was still too hot for her to take more than a sip.

‘His life is completely different from that of his forebears,’ he went on. ‘A large part of the palace has been converted into a hotel. Another wing is a hospital. Other buildings are workshops for craftsmen. The Maharaja was educated in England and America. He knows that eastern artefacts often need modifications to appeal to western tastes. That’s why he wants a western-trained designer to oversee the export side of the business.’

‘What sort of skills do his craftspeople have?’ she asked.

‘I’ll show you part of a promotional video the Prince has had made.’ He rose to go to a large cabinet made of some dark unfamiliar wood elaborately inlaid with silver and pieces of mother-of-pearl. He opened the doors, revealing a large television screen. After touching some switches he returned to his place on the other sofa, holding the remote control. ‘This edited version was made to show the applicants for the post,’ he told her. ‘It only lasts seven minutes.’

Watching Nicole Dawson while her attention was concentrated on the screen, Alex was reminded of children’s faces when they were listening to an enthralling story. Her expression showed the same rapt attention. Almost from the opening shot of the walled city of Karangarh rising out of the sandy wasteland surrounding it, she had become totally immersed in the colourful scenes being presented to her.

Already he had interviewed all but one of the other contenders and was becoming bored with the task entrusted to him. Designers were not on his wavelength, nor he on theirs. He disliked big cities and the kind of people who gravitated to them. Especially ambitious career women in designer suits with designer hair, dietfreak’s bodies and complexions you could scrape off with a spoon.

Not that this woman was heavily made up or catwalk-thin. Her figure couldn’t be faulted and she had excellent legs. But she didn’t flaunt them with a minuscule skirt and unnecessarily frequent crossings like two of the women at last night’s dinner party.

London, New York and Paris—perhaps every capital city in the so-called ‘civilised world’—seemed to be full of women who were either looking for a husband or a roll in the hay. He wasn’t in the market for marriage, or for one night stands with the female equivalent of womanisers.

The nature of his life made sex a fairly rare indulgence. Women he found attractive were thin on the ground. Sometimes they weren’t available, or weren’t willing to accept his conditions: a cheerful goodbye when the time came to end the relationship

Looking at Ms Dawson, with her straight silky fair hair cut to curve into her neck just below the level of her determined-looking chin, and the soft sexy curves of her mouth, he felt a sudden strong urge to scoop her up from the sofa and carry her to his bedroom.

The thought of how she would respond if he acted on that desire amused him. Of course she would resist, vigorously. But would she really want to resist? Was the attraction mutual? Behind that cool facade, was she as red-blooded and as sex-starved as he was?

The questionnaire she had answered described her as unmarried, unpartnered, and with no family or other personal responsibilities which might interfere with her concentration on the job. Any woman of thirty-two, without a husband or a boyfriend, had to be sublimating.

Perhaps, for some women, it wasn’t as hard as for most men. They seemed to vary a good deal in the strength of their libidos. Among those he’d known intimately, some had been disappointingly inhibited, others as ravenous as he was. It was hard to guess what Nicole Dawson might be like when, metaphorically speaking, she let her hair down.

When the video about Karangarh ended, it left Nicole with the feeling that, for a few minutes, a magic carpet had carried her to a fairytale world of sunlight, fabulous ancient architecture, and incredibly vibrant colours worn by women who walked like queens and men with black eyes and quick smiles.

‘What a wonderful place!’ she exclaimed. ‘What’s your work there, Dr Strathallen? Are you in charge of the hospital?’ It crossed her mind that he might be in London for some medical conference and have been asked by the Prince to deputise for him in the choice of a designer.

He got up to switch off the TV and close the doors of the cabinet. ‘The hospital is staffed by Indian doctors. I’m an anthropologist...studying Rajasthan’s nomadic tribes. The Maharaja allows me to use the palace as my base.’

‘Have you been out there long?’

He glanced at the watch on his lean wrist. She had already noticed the beautiful shape of his hands, with their long backs and longer fingers, the nails immaculately clean. ‘We haven’t much time, Ms Dawson. I necd to know more about you. You’ll find out more about me if you are selected to join the Prince’s staff. He will decide who’s appointed. He’s already seen the preliminary reports. I shall email my reports to him tonight. You won’t be kept waiting long.’

His snubbing reply to her question, which it wouldn’t have taken ten seconds for him to answer, and something in his demeanour made her certain he had already written her off. There was no rapport between them, no meeting of minds.

Which made it all the more annoying that she found him the most physically appealing man she had encountered since... Her mind shied away from the conclusion of that thought.

‘What else do you want to know?’ she said coldly, knowing that the interview had gone sour and she might as well go home now.

Nicole hadn’t told her family she had applied for another job. They thought she was settled where she was. Rosemary, her stepmother, would have been horrified if she knew Nicole wanted to move, even in England, let alone abroad. There had been no point in upsetting Rosemary until such a move was definite.

How the rest of the family would react—would have reacted—Nicole wasn’t sure. But it wasn’t going to arise. She felt in her bones that Dr Strathallen had disliked her, that any day now a letter would come informing her that another applicant had been appointed.

When her stepmother called her to the telephone, saying that a Dr Strathallen wanted to speak to her, Nicole was astonished that he should take the trouble to break the bad news by phone.

She took the receiver from Rosemary. ‘Nicole Dawson speaking.’

‘Good evening, Ms Dawson.’ His voice sounded even deeper and more resonant on the phone. ‘The Prince has read my reports and feels that you and one other candidate are equally well-suited to the post. He would like me to talk to you both again. I suggest that this time we have lunch at a restaurant. Can you manage Friday?’

Luckily Nicole had some time off owing to her from her present employer because she had worked through two weekends on an important and urgent order.

‘Friday would be fine,’ she said.

‘Good.’ He gave her the name and address of the restaurant. ‘We’ll meet there at twelve-thirty?’

‘I’ll look forward to it.’

Strathallen didn’t respond with the conventional ‘So shall r. Instead he said merely, ‘Until Friday,’ and rang off.

Nicole had scarcely had time to replace the receiver when Rosemary asked, ‘Who is Dr Strathallen?’

The second Mrs Dawson never hesitated to ask personal questions or to intrude into other people’s private lives. There was no way anyone living under the same roof with her could have a private life. She looked closely at every envelope that came through the letter box and had no compunction about reading other people’s postcards.

‘He’s an anthropologist,’ said Nicole. Knowing the next question would be ‘Where did you meet him?’ she was about to invent a white lie when her father intervened.

Mr Dawson, who was sitting by the fire, doing the crossword in his morning newspaper as he did every evening, looked up and said, ‘Strathllen...anthropology... that rings a bell. Has he written a book on the subject?’

‘I don’t know, Dad. I know very little about him. He’s looking for a designer and someone gave him my name.’

This was close to the truth but, she hoped, would avoid a cross-examination by her stepmother. Fortunately it was almost time for Rosemary’s favourite soap opera and her eagerness to learn the outcome of the dramatic climax at the end of the last instalment was stronger than her need to know about Nicole’s telephone caller. As Rosemary picked up the remote control, Nicole, who wasn’t a soap fan, said she had things to do upstairs.

‘I’ll say goodnight, Dad.’ She went over to kiss him.

‘Goodnight,. my dear. Sleep well.’

She suspected he knew she found Rosemary a trial, although Nicole had never confided her problems to him. When Rosemary had entered their lives, Nicole had welcomed her, knowing that a man still in his early fifties needed more than a daughter’s companionship.

It was only later, as Rosemary relaxed and allowed her true nature to show, that misgivings had set in. Her stepmother was not a bad woman, quite the reverse. It was her excessive goodness that was the problem She wanted the best for everyone and put herself out to achieve it for them. But what she thought best wasn’t always what they wanted.

Rosemary Dawson was a kind-hearted, wellintentioned control freak who refused to consider that her decisions and arrangements on behalf of her family, friends and acquaintances might sometimes be flawed or even completely disastrous.

‘Goodnight, Rosemary.’ Nicole managed to smile at her stepmother and forced herself to kiss the older woman’s upturned cheek.

Inwardly, she was close to the end of her tether. Somehow she had to escape from the stifling atmosphere in this household. Her father, she knew, was resigned to it He had married Rosemary during the long and desolate aftermath of his first wife’s death. He would abide by that commitment, no matter how severely it taxed his patience.

Sometimes it seemed to Nicole that he was no longer the same person she remembered from her childhood. Something in him had died with her mother. Even with Dan, his grandson, he was not the same carefree, lively personality he had once been.

Dan had tackled his homework as soon as he came back from school. Now, in the small bedroom next to hers, he was sitting in front of his computer. ‘Hi, Mum. Come and look at this.’

‘It’s almost logging-off time,’ Nicole said, as she picked up a stool and placed it next to his chair.

‘I know, but you must see this website. It’s brilliant!’

She rested an arm on his shoulders and looked at the screen. What she really wanted to do was to hug him tightly to her. But although she still kissed him goodnight, and Dan planted a kiss on her cheek before he got out of the car when she dropped him off at school, she took care not to be too demonstrative.

He was twelve now, on the verge of puberty when life started getting complicated...especially for a boy without a father. In looks, he took after her, with the same fair hair and hazel eyes. But the size of his hands and feet, and the way he was shooting up, indicated he was going to be a big man. It was her most fervent wish that, despite a bad start in life, he would also grow up to be a good man.

After taking her on a tour of the website, Dan closed down his PC and began getting ready for bed. At school, he was conscientious rather than clever. Team sports bored him. His overriding enthusiasm was for computers, an interest that Rosemary deplored but Nicole encouraged.

While he was in the bathroom, probably skimping his wash but giving his teeth a good brush because she had given him an electric toothbrush which kept going for two minutes, Nicole sat on the end of his bed. She wished she had had the luck, when her son was little, to meet a nice man who would have been a father to Dan and set him a good example. A grandfather wasn’t the same. Her father did his best, but he couldn’t do the things a man in his thirties would have done.

And it wasn’t only for Dan’s sake that she longed for a man in her life. She would have liked more children, a home of her own and someone to share her bed. From a personal perspective, her twenties had been as arid and empty as the Great Thar Desert. Now she was in her thirties and the few men she met were either married or had been through a painful divorce and weren’t going to make another commitment in a hurry. She had long since given up hoping that a knight in shining armour was going to materialise and whisk her off to the life of her dreams.

That just wasn’t going to happen. The only person who could make things better was herself, which was why she had answered the advertisement.

Walking from the Underground station nearest to her rendezvous with him, Nicole wondered what Dr Strathallen had written in his report on her. She now knew a bit more about him than she had at their first meeting.

Her father, who clipped newspaper articles on subjects that interested him, had unearthed a report of a lecture given by Dr Alexander Strathallen to the Royal Geographical Society a couple of years earlier. His subject had been the Rabari nomads whose traditional way of life was under threat. Probably the only reason the talk had been reported was because he had made some controversial statements about the decline in moral values in the west.

Nicole had also found out from a girlfriend who knew about such things that the restaurant where he was giving her lunch was exceedingly fashionable and tables had to be booked long in advance. Not wanting to arrive first, when she came to the street where it was and saw that it was located close to the corner, she continued along the main road, window-shopping until her watch showed twenty-nine minutes past twelve.

The restaurant had a large plate glass window allowing passers-by to see the interior. As Nicole approached the entrance, she recognised Alexander Strathallen’s hawk-like profile. He was seated on a sofa immediately inside the window and at right angles to it. But he wasn’t alone.

There were two people with him, a man and a woman. The woman was leaning towards him from the opposite sofa, talking vivaciously and then breaking off to sip from a flute of champagne.

Dismayed at the thought of being interrogated by three people, Nicole raised her hand to open the door, but had it opened for her by a friendly young man who welcomed her to the restaurant. Then a smiling girl appeared to take her coat and umbrella. Although it hadn’t rained so far, heavy showers were forecast for later. When, having handed over her things, Nicole turned towards Strathallen and his companions, she found he had already risen and was standing behind her.

‘Good afternoon.’ For the first time he smiled and offered his hand.

The smile transformed him from a somewhat forbidding personality into one of such charm that Nicole felt her insides do an involuntary flip. The feel of his long strong fingers closing over hers accentuated the reaction.

‘Good afternoon.’ She always shook hands firmly but now put all her strength into returning his clasp to avoid having her knuckles ground together. But his handshake wasn’t the crushing grip she expected. Obviously he modified it when greeting women.

Then, instead of introducing her to the others, he said to the hovering young man, ‘We’ll go straight in and have our drinks at the table.’

Apart from one young couple so casually dressed that Nicole thought they had to be from the pop music world, or showbiz, the restaurant was empty.

‘What would you like to drink?’ her host asked, when they were seated.

Nicole’s mind went totally blank. Perhaps it was the result of tension, followed by relief that the other people weren’t with him, plus the jolt of attraction, but all the right answers deserted her.

‘As we’ll be drinking wine, let’s stay with the grape, shall we?’ Strathallen. suggested. ‘Two glasses of champagne, please.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

When the young man had gone, Strathallen said, ‘I arrived early and got into conversation with a couple of Americans. Nice people, but I didn’t think you’d want to hear all the details of their itinerary. I hope coming to London again hasn’t caused any problems with your present employer.’

‘No, my working hours are fairly flexible. With all the people I’ve worked for since leaving college, I’ve always tried to give maximum input—never just the minimum required—and that’s paid dividends. They’ve been understanding when I wanted to go on courses or take an extra day off.’

‘What sort of courses have you been on?’

‘Oh...time management...computer graphics skills...that kind of thing.’

The champagne arrived and with it two large folders containing the menus.

‘To an enjoyable lunch,’ said Strathallen, raising his glass to her before tasting the pale golden wine. ‘Let’s decide what to eat and then we can concentrate on other things.’ He replaced the flute on the table and began to study the menu.

Nicole tried to match his concentration, but it was making a good second impression on the man beside her that mattered more to her than the specialities of a chef who, according to her friend, had already been awarded two Michelin stars and was said to be sure to gain the coveted third star before too long.

When the maître d‘hôtel came to explain, in a pronounced French accent, some of the choices to her, she was conscious that, although he was very good-looking and charming, he didn’t, for her, have the disturbing qualities of the darkly bronzed Scot beside her.

At least she presumed from his surname that Strathallen’s roots were in Scotland even if, like so many of his countrymen, he chose to spend his life elsewhere.

After their food and wine had been ordered, on impulse she said, ‘Does your wife like living in India, Dr Strathallen?’

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. There were no visible signs of his displeasure, but she couldn’t have felt it more strongly if he had glared at her. Perhaps he expected her to let him lead the conversation. Or perhaps he didn’t approve of being asked a personal question. For whatever reason, she sensed she had annoyed him.

‘I’m not married,’ he answered. And then: ‘My way of life and domesticity don’t mix. But why are you free of all attachments?’

The questionnaire she had filled in had required ‘divorced’ to be ticked if that was the applicant’s status. So he knew she had never been married. But searching as it had been, the inquisition hadn’t required her to state that she was a single parent. And she had no intention of revealing that fact to him now. Somehow she didn’t think he would be sympathetic. He might even consider that Dan’s existence disqualified her.

Some people wouldn’t understand how a loving mother could contemplate leaving her child, even though, hopefully, it wouldn’t be a long separation. Had Dan been younger, she wouldn’t have left him. But at this point in his life, the potential benefits outweighed the drawbacks. She would miss being with him a lot more than he would miss her.

Reminding herself that she hadn’t even got the job yet, and might never have it, Nicole said, ‘I loved someone when I was younger. Unfortunately it didn’t work out. Since then I’ve concentrated on my work. Perhaps I’ll meet someone else someday... but I’m not holding my breath,’ she tacked on lightly. ‘There are other things in life.’

‘Indeed there are—and food is one of them,’ he added, as two more of the restaurant’s staff arrived at their table, the one in the rear holding a large silver tray from which the other took a dish and placed it in front of Nicole.

She had chosen scallops as her first course. They came arranged in a circle surrounding a column of chicory. Earlier, a basket of long pointed brown rolls had been brought. As she broke hers in half and helped herself to butter, Nicole realised that she was hungrier than she had expected to be.

Usually, stress killed her appetite, and what could be more stressful than knowing that her future and Dan’s depended on convincing Alexander Strathallen that she was the best person for the job?

CHAPTER TWO

FOR some minutes they ate in silence.

Strathallen had already finished his glass of champagne and started drinking the wine he had chosen to go with the meal. Nicole still had some champagne left and planned to go easy on the wine which, judging by her glimpse of the label when the wine waiter had displayed it, was several cuts above the plonk she drank on evenings with her friends.

She liked to relax with a glass of wine when she got home from work. But her father wasn’t allowed to drink for health reasons and Rosemary was one of those non-drinkers who disapproved of alcohol as vehemently as reformed smokers disapprove of cigarettes.

She was the kind of woman who, if Nicole had kept wine in the sideboard in the dining room, would have watched to see how much she was drinking. So Nicole kept a bottle of supermarket plonk in a cupboard in her bedroom-cum-studio. The cupboard was locked because she knew Rosemary went in there while she was out. Keeping the bottle out of sight made her feel uncomfortable, but it was preferable to having Rosemary making critical remarks. She made enough of those as it was.

Closing her mind to thoughts of her stepmother, Nicole said, ‘My father is interested in anthropology. He remembered a talk you gave to the Royal Geographical Society. Perhaps it wasn’t reported accurately, but it gave the impression that you don’t think much of the way the western world operates.’

He put down his knife and fork, leaned back in his chair and gave her the penetrating look that made her feel he could see inside her mind. ‘I don’t. Do you?’

‘The west is the only culture I know.’

‘You must have opinions about it.’

She had hoped to start him talking about his views, not to cause him to quiz her about hers. ‘Of course... everyone has opinions, but they’re not always worth expressing. Mine certainly wouldn’t be worth a report in The Times as yours were.’

He shrugged. ‘They were probably short of copy for that particular issue. But we didn’t come here for me to expound my views. I want to know more about you. What do you do with yourself outside working hours?’

Most of Nicole’s spare time was spent with her son, but she couldn’t tell him that. She said, ‘I walk...I I read...I go swimming...I like to cook.’ Though, since Rosemary’s advent, her only chance to use the kitchen was when her father and stepmother went out to dinner with Rosemary’s circle of friends.

‘What sort of books do you read?’ Strathallen asked.

‘Anything and everything...mainly travel books and biographies.’

‘No fiction?’

‘Sometimes.’ She wasn’t going to tell him that, last thing at night, she often unwound in the pages of a romance. Men didn’t read romances and tended to make fun of or despise them. They were not in touch with their emotions the way women were. Instead, she said, ‘I rather like science fiction.’ This was a taste she had acquired from Dan.

‘Never tried it,’ he said, a touch dismissively. ‘But when I’m out in the desert my choice of reading is dictated by space and weight considerations. I’ll send you a list of books to read before you come to India. It’s always a good idea to bone up on a place before one arrives.”

Thank you—’ It was a few seconds before the full impact of his statement sank in. When it did, her hazel eyes widened. ‘Do you mean you’re recommending me?’ She couldn’t conceal the surprise mingled with her delight.

‘Unless you reveal some serious defect between now and the end of lunch...yes, I’m recommending you,’ he confirmed.

. Despite his amused reply, she sensed that he had some underlying reservation about his selection of her as the best of the candidates.

‘How soon can you start?’ he went on. ‘How much notice must you give your present employers? I’m sorry...’ The apology was tacked on because, in shifting his long legs under the table, his thigh had brushed against her knees.

Nicole knew the contact was accidental. He was not the type to play footsie. What disturbed her was her own reaction: an intense curiosity to know what it would be like to have this somewhat dour man make an amorous advance to her. Exciting...wildly exciting, was the next thought in her mind. And not only because he looked the way men were supposed to look—tall, lithe, with latent power and virility in every line of his body—but because there was also something primitive and untamed lurking under his seemingly civilised exterior.

She had felt it the first time they met when the memory of the caged cheetah had come into her mind. She felt it again now, so strongly that for a moment she couldn’t collect her thoughts and answer his question.

Then she pulled herself together. “Six weeks... is that all right?’

Walking back to his friend Kesri’s apartment, a place the Prince seldom used himself but kept for the benefit of his aged great-aunts who belonged to an era when India’s royal families had enjoyed every possible luxury, Alex wondered if in picking Nicole Dawson for the post he had made an error of judgment.

Her qualifications and those of the other finalist were evenly matched. He had selected Nicole for no better reason than that he wanted to see more of her...in every sense of the term.

He had found her attractive the first time he interviewed her, and today’s lunch had heightened her allure. There was something elusive about her that appealed to the hunter in him. Women who were pushovers left him cold.

He remembered her explanation of why she was on her own. I loved someone when I was younger. Unfortunately it didn’t work out. Since then I’ve concentrated on my work.

That, in essence, replicated his own situation. His job, and the places it took him to, precluded any close, long-term relationships. He was a loner and had been for a long time. As long as she understood that, and he’d already indicated the way things were with him, they could have a good time together. But like Kesri’s liaisons, his own had to be without strings. There was no way he could share his life with a woman.

When Nicole told Dan about her new job, he said, ‘Is it in London?’ Then, his expression hopeful, ‘Are we going to live there?’

Anxious to give him time to assimilate the change, she said, ‘Would you like that?’

Dan nodded vigorously. ‘It’d be great. I’d miss Granpa, of course, but I wouldn’t miss her! Not having her breathing down our necks would be brilliant That’s one of the reasons I’m looking forward to being a boarder next term.’

It was the first time he had said in so many words that he didn’t like his step-grandmother.

‘No, it isn’t in London. It’s somewhere much further away...somewhere abroad,’ Nicole told him.

Far from looking dismayed, he looked pleased. ‘America?’

She shook her head, praying that what she said next wouldn’t make him look crestfallen. ‘Rajasthan...it’s in India.’

For a moment or two he looked startled. Then his eyes sparkled with excitement. ‘You’re not kidding me, are you? Wow, that’s brilliant, Mum.’ A flicker of doubt subdued his initial enthusiasm. ‘It’s a long way. Won’t the air fares be way too expensive for me to come for the holidays?’

‘On what I’m going to be earning that won’t be a problem. But it does mean we won’t see each other except in the long holidays. I can’t come back for your half-term and weekend leaves.’

‘We can email each other every day. But, Mum, will you be all right...in India all by yourself?’

His concern made her smile, but there was a lump in her throat. ‘You needn’t worry about me. I’ll be living in a palace.’

She began to tell him everything she knew about the Prince and the picturesque walled city on the fringe of the desert.

Soon after Dan was born, her father had taken steps to ensure that his grandson could be educated at the independent school where he and his father and grandfather had been pupils. It was a family tradition that, in some ways, Nicole would have liked to break. In her heart she wasn’t in favour of boys being sent away from home at the tender age of thirteen.

But Marsden wasn’t one of England’s famous public schools like Eton or Gordonstoun. It was a more modest establishment not far from where they lived. Also, not only had her father denied himself many pleasures to fund Dan’s education, Rosemary’s advent had changed Nicole’s view of the situation.

There was another factor to consider. The local state school had been going downhill under a lax head teacher. It had a reputation for disorderly behaviour and poor exam results. The principal of her father’s old school was a man of forceful character, with teenagers of his own. She felt Dan would be safer under his aegis than at the local day school with its overcrowded classrooms and lack of playground supervision.

Relieved to have her son’s backing, Nicole went down to break the news to her father and stepmother,

Predictably, Rosemary was outraged. ‘How can you even contemplate leaving your poor little boy?’ she expostulated. ‘It’s bad enough that he doesn’t have a father. For his mother to desert him—’

Keeping control of her temper, Nicole said quietly, ‘I’m not deserting him, Rosemary. It will only be for a short time. At the end of term, Dan can fly out to join me.’

To her relief, before Rosemary could resume her denunciation, Mr Dawson said firmly, ‘If you hadn’t taken the initiative, I was going to suggest that, with Dan away at school, it was time to broaden your horizons. You’re doing the right thing, my dear. For almost thirteen years you’ve adapted your life to Dan’s needs and that was right and proper. Now it’s time to consider your own needs...time to spread your wings. I can’t think of anywhere more exciting to do that than India.’

And then, to the surprise of both women, he directed a quelling glance at his wife and said with great firmness, ‘Nicole has made a decision which I think will benefit her and the boy. If you don’t agree, Rosemary, please keep your views to yourself.’

Nicole’s night-flight to Delhi landed early in the morning.

When she emerged from the airport building, pulling her suitcase behind her, a daunting scene greeted her. What seemed like hundreds of people were waiting to pounce on the passengers, grab their luggage and convey them to their final destination.

In her jet-lagged state she was strongly tempted to turn tail and go back inside the airport, especially as none of the placards with European names on them that were being brandished by some of the men behind the barricades had her name written on it.

Reluctantly making her way to the opening in the barrier through which other newly arrived foreigners were passing ahead of her, she braced herself to hang on to her luggage until whoever was meeting her materialised.

Then, with profound relief, she saw a familiar figure making his way towards her. She was so glad to see him, her face lit up with delight.

Towering over the crowd, Alex Strathallen was also noticeable for his air of complete relaxation in a situation fraught with the tension of too many porters and drivers competing for too few customers.

While everyone else was shoving and pushing, he moved through the crush with the ease of a tall and commanding figure to whom smaller, less assured people automatically gave way. But his expression, she noticed, was not the chilly hauteur to be seen in old sepia photographs of the British who had run India during the Raj. He was smiling as he moved through the press, exchanging friendly words with those who let him pass.

‘A bit of a madhouse, isn’t it?’ he said, when he reached her.

‘A bit,’ she agreed, with a smile. ‘I’m glad I have someone meeting me.’

‘Let’s get you out of this maelstrom. Our driver will take your case—’ he indicated an Indian who had come through the crush behind him ‘—and I’ll take your backpack.’

He slipped the straps from her shoulders rather in the manner of a grown-up divesting a small child of its coast Then, with it slung by one strap over his own broader, more powerful shoulder, he led the way through the multitude who now made no further attempts to impose themselves on her.

A few moments later she was in the back of a taxi and Alex was folding his long legs to fit the space beside her.

‘How was the flight? Did you get any sleep?’ he asked.

‘Not a lot...but otherwise it was great. I enjoyed it. Very nice food...two good movies.’

‘Who did you have sitting next to you?’

‘An elderly couple celebrating their golden wedding with a trip to see the Taj Mahal.’

Perhaps it was only her imagination, but it seemed to her that, for a moment, something strange happened... like a shutter coming down. He was sitting beside her, but his mind was somewhere else.

She wasn’t sure why, but his silence made her uneasy. After some moments, she asked, ‘How are we getting to Karangarh? By train?’

‘By air...but not till tomorrow. I have some business in Delhi and you need to break your journey. We’ll fly to Karangarh after breakfast. Tonight we’re staying at the Imperial, an oasis of calm right in the centre of Delhi.’

There were placid-looking pale grey cattle standing about, unattended, on the verges of the wide tree-lined road to the city. Near a roundabout where there seemed to be a hair-raisingly casual attitude to traffic lanes, Nicole noticed a slogan pasted on a hoarding. Be not anxious about what you have, but about what you are.

It reminded her of Rosemary’s bitter disapproval of this undertaking. Her stepmother had been careful not to express it again in her husband’s presence, but had found several opportunities to upbraid Nicole in private.

Am I being selfish? she wondered, for the umpteenth time. Saying goodbye to Dan had been agony. She could still feel his arms round her neck as they exchanged their last hug at the London airport where, with her father, he had seen her off.

If there had been tears in his eyes when they drew apart, she didn’t think she could have left him. But Dan, already keenly looking forward to his own flight to India in twelve weeks’ time, had been cheerful rather than dejected.

She had had to seem cheerful too. Only in the privacy of a cubicle in the washroom on the airside of the security and customs barriers had she cried, but only briefly. Then she had washed her face, braced herself and joined the rest of the passengers waiting for flights to places even more distant than where she was going.

Beside her, Strathallen said, ‘You’ll feel better when you’ve had a bath. Then, if I were you, I’d go to bed until lunchtime. If you didn’t nap on the plane, there’s no way you can stay awake until bedtime tonight’

‘Whatever you say. You’re the expert. How many times have you flown from Europe to India?’

Tve lost count I’ve been coming here a long time. For me the culture shock is at that end, not this.’

Nicole’s first impression of Delhi was of chaotic traffic and swarms of people. Then their taxi turned through a gateway where a short avenue of tall palms led to the porticoed entrance to a building.

The rear passenger door was opened for her by a massively built bearded and turbanned doorman. ‘Good morning, madam.’

‘Good morning. Thank you.’

When Strathallen came round the back of the taxi and took hold of her arm to escort her up the steps, it was the polite gesture of a man who at some stage of his life had been trained in traditional courtesies. But all the way up the entrance stairs and through the imposing lobby to the lift, she was conscious of the light touch of his fingers just above her elbow.

‘Shouldn’t I register?’ she asked, at the door of the lift.

He released his hold. ‘They can take your passport details later.”

‘But the room key...’

‘The door will be open.’

From the lift they entered a wide corridor decorated and thickly carpeted in a soft shade of apple-green. At the far end she saw her luggage being wheeled through a door by one of the hotel staff.

Moments later, to her surprise, she found the room he had entered was not her bedroom but an ante-room leading into a large and elegantly appointed sitting room.

‘This is Prince Kesri’s suite,’ Strathallen explained. ‘The hotel is full tonight. There’s a large wedding party staying here.’

The luggage porter reappeared through the door of an adjoining room. He smiled and bowed to Nicole. Strathallen gave him a tip and was handed the room key.

When the man had gone, he said, ‘Would you like some coffee or tea before you have your shower?’

‘What I’d really like is some water.’

‘It’s in here.’ Showing her that what she would have taken for an elegant sideboard was actually a luxury version of a mini-bar with glasses in one section and an ice-box in the other, he put some ice in a tall glass and opened the seal on a bottle of water with an effortless turn of his strong wrist. ‘If there’s anything else you need, call Room Service or Reception. The switchboard operator will give you a wake-up call if you want one. I’ll be back about one. We’ll have lunch in the garden. See you later.’

As he strode to the door, Nicole said, ‘Thank you for meeting me. I hope it wasn’t too inconvenient’

As he opened the door, he turned. ‘Not inconvenient at all. It was a pleasure.’ He gave her one of his rare and charming smiles.

She was woken, as she had requested, at half past twelve. For some minutes she lay taking in the unaccustomed opulence of her surroundings. This bedroom was many times larger than her room in her father’s house, with a lofty ceiling from which hung a large electric fan.

She had already unpacked fresh underwear and a change of clothes more suitable for lunch in a grand hotel than the combat trousers, shirt and zip-up fleece she had travelled in.

When she had dressed and put on a little light make-up, she went back to the sitting room to drink another glass of water. It was only then that she noticed there was another door opposite the entrance to the bedroom. Perhaps it was another bedroom for the use of the Prince’s wife if he had one. So far she knew very little about her employer, although his forebears were mentioned in more than one of the books on the reading list she had received from Strathallen.

Curious to see what lay behind the closed door, Nicole opened it. As she had surmised, the room within was another bedroom—and someone was using it. There was a laptop computer with a couple of floppy disks on top of it on the writing table. A book with a marker protruding from it lay on the night-table between the twin beds. A document case had been left on one of seat cushions of the sofa facing the beds.

As she took in these indications that the room was occupied and realised they had to mean that Strathallen was sharing the suite with her, Nicole remembered him saying the hotel was full. Even so, it seemed odd, to say the least, for him to have taken for granted that she wouldn’t mind this arrangement Surely the proper thing to have done was to book himself, or her, into another hotel?

Within a couple of minutes of her closing the door of his room, Strathallen joined her.

‘Did you get some sleep?’ he asked.

‘Yes, thank you. I feel much better.’

‘Good...then we’ll go down and eat. No need to bring your key. I picked mine up from the desk in case you were still in bed.’

As they were walking to the lift, Nicole said, ‘Won’t the hotel staff think it strange...our sharing the Prince’s suite?’

He looked down at her. ‘Is that an oblique way of saying you don’t want to share the suite with me?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ she began.

‘Women often don’t say what they mean,’ he said dryly. ‘It’s one of their characteristics. Taking your question at its face value, the hotel staff are paid to think about making us as comfortable as possible. What we do, unless it interferes with the comfort of other guests, isn’t their concern.’

The lift was at another floor. He pressed the call button. ‘Do you want me to move somewhere else?’

‘No...no, of course not.’ She could see that, from his point of view, it would be less convenient, not to mention more expensive. Presumably the Prince, not the sardonic-eyed man beside her, would be paying the bill for their stay here.

The lift opened. As she stepped inside, Nicole felt herself blushing. She wished she had held her tongue. All she had done, by raising the matter, was to embarrass herself.

The hotel’s garden was screened by tall trees that muted the noise of the city surrounding this exclusive oasis. Immediately outside the building there was a paved terrace where people were eating light refreshments. Beyond it was a sunlit lawn where tables were laid more formally.

A portly major-domo in leg-hugging white trousers, the knee-length tunic which she knew was called an Achkan and a spectacular crested green turban to match the broad sash round his middle came to meet them as they stepped onto the lawn.

‘Dr Strathallen...madame...where would you like to sit?’

‘In the shade, please. My guest arrived from Europe this morning. She might find the sun too hot.’

The major-domo conducted them to a table under a sunbrella. A waiter was summoned, gin and tonics brought.

‘Does the Prince spend a lot of time in Delhi?’ she asked.

‘He comes about once a month. His sister works here. She’s a gynaecologist and very involved in women’s pressure groups. The Prince also tries to influence the future of India. He also enjoys the more sophisticated social life here... something that I would pay to avoid,’ he added dryly.

‘But surely everyone needs some social life.’

‘I enjoy meeting my friends. I don’t care for large smart parties.’

He had been looking at her, but now he turned his cool grey gaze on two groups of people taking their places at nearby tables. One was a party of well-dressed businessmen. The other group consisted of three attractive young women, one wearing European clothes, the second a silk sari and the third dressed in loose trousers and a long tunic, both garments made of pale blue and white cotton voile.

‘What’s the name of the outfit the girl in blue is wearing?’ Nicole asked.

Strathallen had given them only cursory attention before turning back to Nicole. He must be exceptionally observant, she realised, when, without a second look at the three women’s table, he said, ‘That’s a salwar kameez, traditionally from the Punjab, but city girls aren’t sticklers for tradition. They wear what they like.’

At that moment Nicole caught sight of a small bushy-tailed striped creature darting across the grass towards the damask-clothed table on which, shaded by an awning, an array of puddings and gateaux awaited the lunchers after they had eaten their selections from the range of hot food in the huge silver-topped dishes on the main table.

‘What’s that little animal?’ she exclaimed.

‘A palm squirrel. They’re the reason the puddings are protected by plastic domes. If they weren’t, those little marauders would be tucking in with great gusto,’ he said, smiling.

Perhaps it was just as well that he didn’t smile often, she thought. Every time he did, it had a peculiar effect on the pit of her stomach.

He rose. ‘Let’s go and choose something to eat, shall we?’ he suggested.

When lunch was over, Nicole expected him to leave her to her own devices for the afternoon. But he said, ‘I have an hour to spare before my meeting. Do you feel like stretching your legs?’

The truthful answer would have been that she felt so full of delicious food that, on her own, she would have retired to her room for another nap. Instead she nodded and reached for her bag.

Leaving the grounds of the hotel was like entering another world, but only a short walk along the dusty, noisy main thoroughfare that Strathallen said was called Janpath was a relatively quiet sidestreet where women were selling textiles in all the roseate colours of dawn and sunset. Their wares were spread on a bank at one side of the lane like a huge magic carpet. On lines strung between the trees, hand-stitched quilts made from pieces of antique velvet and silk were displayed.

Although the vendors’ cotton saris probably cost nothing compared with the silk ones worn by guests at the Imperial, the colours were still wonderful, perhaps enhanced by long exposure to the sun and many washings.

‘How graceful they are,’ she remarked to Strathallen.

‘Grace seems to go with bare feet or flat sandals and to disappear with high heels.’ He glanced down at her low-heeled shoes. ‘I’m glad to see you don’t wear them.’

She found some of his views irritatingly arbitrary. ‘I do sometimes, when I’m not going to have to walk far.’

‘I’ll take you along to the government-sponsored emporium and leave you there,’ said Strathallen. ‘You’ll probably want to spend an hour looking round the various craft sections and it’s only a short walk back to the hotel. We’ll convene for dinner about seven.’

Nicole was ready and waiting in the suite’s sitting room when, a few minutes to the hour, Strathallen came out of his bedroom. His hair still damp from the shower, he was no longer wearing a lounge suit but had changed into chinos and a cotton shirt a little darker than his tan.

‘You got back all right then?’ he said.

‘No problem,’ she smiled. ‘After I’d left the emporium I had a browse in a bookshop where the proprietor told me I must read this.’ She held up the book she had bought.

Strathallen read out the title. ‘A Princess Remembers...The Memoirs of the Maharani of Jaipur. It’s very popular with women tourists. The Maharani and her mother were both famous beauties in their day. I haven’t read it myself but I’m told it’s an interesting insight into a vanished era.’

‘Why haven’t you read it? Because it’s written by a woman?’

His mouth curled with amusement. ‘You think I’m a woman-hater?’

‘Not a hater, that’s too extreme, but perhaps not very pro women.’

‘Not en masse,’ he agreed. ‘But there are some women whose company I enjoy. Don’t tell me that, given the option of being, let’s say, stranded somewhere with a group of men or women, you wouldn’t choose your own sex as more likely to be on your wavelength.’

‘That would depend on the situation. On a bus that had broken down in the middle of nowhere, I certainly wouldn’t be the one to get it going and nor would most women. In any random group of men, there’s almost certain to be one with mechanical know-how. I’m sure you would have a crack at fixing an engine. I wouldn’t know where to begin.’

‘I’d start by looking for the manual. Let’s go down to the bar, shall we?’

As they left the suite, four women emerged from a door at the far end of the corridor. All were dressed in exquisite saris with borders of real gold thread. They glittered with costly jewels. But while three had their lustrous black hair uncovered, the fourth had her hair and face concealed by the shimmering folds of a diaphanous scarlet sari with gold embroidery all over it.

Like a cluster of iridescent dragonflies, they approached the lift.

‘We’ll go down by the stairs,’ said Strathallen. Lowering his voice, he added, ‘The one in red is the bride.’

As the three unveiled woman glanced at him, he placed his palms together and inclined his head in a gesture that made Nicole wonder if, behind the rather ruthless exterior he presented, there was a streak of chivalry.

CHAPTER THREE

‘WILL her bridegroom have been chosen by her parents?’ Nicole asked, as they walked down the staircase.

‘Yes...and she probably has as good a chance of being happy as a western bride,’ he said. ‘Most of the people here believe that love is something that grows in a lifetime of living together.’

‘Perhaps they’re right,’ said Nicole. ‘I suppose if you grow up with the idea of your parents picking out a husband for you, it doesn’t seem as outlandish as it does to us. Anyway our system isn’t all that successful. But it must make their wedding nights horribly fraught if the brides and grooms barely know each other.’

‘It may make them more exciting,’ he commented dryly. ‘It’s no big deal going on a honeymoon with someone you’ve been sleeping with for months.’

‘I should think it would be a much better deal,’ said Nicole.

‘Was your first time a disappointment?’

She couldn’t believe he had asked such a personal question on so short an acquaintance. Her cheeks flaming, she said stiffly, ‘I was speaking generally, not personally.’

He made no comment. She knew he didn’t believe her. What made it all the more annoying was that his guess was correct. It had been the worst disappointment of her life. She had thought that love was the passport to rapture. Perhaps, for some people, it was. But it hadn’t been for her.

When they reached the lobby, the bride and her attendants had just emerged from the lift and were moving in the direction of a wide corridor leading off the lobby.

‘The hotel has a small shopping arcade,’ said Strathallen. ‘The windows might interest you. What did you think of the emporium?’

Still annoyed by his earlier question, Nicole said, with forced politeness, ‘It was fascinating...a very useful overview of the things being made here. Thank you for thinking of it.’

‘I’m glad you enjoyed it. Did you buy anything?’

‘I was tempted several times, especially by the cashmere shawls, but I managed to resist them. It’s usually a mistake to shop when you’ve just arrived somewhere.’

They had come to the first of the window displays he had mentioned. It was full of jewellery and ornaments of the type to appeal to wealthy tourists in search of lavish mementoes. Her taste ran to simpler things. She could see at a glance there was little she liked.

Again, Strathallen showed uncanny perspicacity. ‘Not your style?’ he asked.

‘Not really...and I’m sure you would rather be sitting down with a drink. Was your meeting successful?’

‘I don’t know. I was summoned to address a government committee on ways to protect the interests of the nomads. Whether the committee was persuaded by my arguments only time will tell. Did you go anywhere else apart from the bookshop?’

‘No, I came back and had my first taste of lassi on the terrace.’

She did not tell him she had also asked at the desk if the hotel had facilities for sending an email to Dan. They had and, to her delight, when she had keyed in the password to her Yahoo mail box, there had been a message from him, sent the night before when he got home from the airport.

Dear Mum, Hope you enjoyed the flight. Did you have your own TV screen? Email soon. Lots of love. Dan xxx

Her reply had been longer. When he printed it out it would cover a couple of pages. She had included messages to her father and Rosemary. Once a week she would send an email for family consumption. The daily messages would be for Dan’s eyes only.

‘Did you like it?’ Strathallen asked.

‘What...? Oh, the lassi...yes, delicious. When the waiter told me it was made with yogurt, I was sure I would like it I eat a lot of yog as—’ She stopped short, on the brink of saying ‘as my son calls it’.

Fortunately the bar steward was approaching the corner table where they had just sat down and his arrival distracted Strathallen’s attention from her slight slip of the tongue.

In fact Alex was aware that she had clipped off the end of her remark. He also knew that, for a minute before that, her mind had been miles away from where they were.

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