Rashidâs piercing blue eyes burned through her. The heavy scent of roses, the bitter taste of coffee in her mouth, the feel of heat surrounding her all combined. Polly watched, fixed like a rabbit in headlights, as Rashid drank his coffee.

She noticed the movement of his throat as he swallowed. Noticed the way his hand held the cup. Strong, beautiful hands. The kind of hands you would want to caress your body. And then her eyes travelled up to his lips. The kind of lips you would want to kiss you.

This was fantasy. She didnât know him. Knew very little about him, even. He wasnât and couldnât ever be part of her world, but what she was feeling was as old as time itself. She knew it, even though it frightened her.

Natasha Oakley told everyone at her primary school that she wanted to be an author when she grew up. Her plan was to stay at home and have her mum bring her coffee at regular intervalsâa drink she didnât like then. The coffee addiction became reality, and the love of storytelling stayed with her. A professional actress, Natasha began writing when her fifth child started to sleep through the night. Born in London, she now lives in Bedfordshire with her husband and young family. When not writing, or needed for âcrowd controlâ, she loves to escape to antiques fairs and auctions. Find out more about Natasha and her books on her website www.natashaoakley.com

âOne of the best writers

of contemporary romance writing today!â âcataromance.com

THE BRIDES OF AMRAH KINGDOM

Donât miss the future King of Amrahâs story Coming soon!

Dear Reader

There is something so dangerous about a sheikh. The ultimate fantasy hero, perhaps? Strong, charismatic, and the ruler of all he surveys. I love them.

You wonât be surprised to learn that I couldnât resist the opportunity to create my own slice of Arabia, particularly since my dad spent much of his working life building hospitals and schools across the Middle East. My brother and I grew up with his tales of meeting sheikhs in their sumptuous homes and descriptions of shopping in the souk.

Think modern cities, exotic palaces steeped in history, dunes shaped by the wind to create a starkly beautiful desert landscape and you will have caught a glimpse of the Kingdom of Amrah. Now think of two powerful men, and imagine what kind of women might stop them in their tracks and change them for the better.

The Brides of Amrah Kingdom duet begins here, with Rashidâs story. Loyal and fiercely protective of those he loves, heâs a man who yearns for acceptance. Polly might be a twenty-first century âCinderellaâ but she does the saving.

And then thereâs Hanif. Serious, dutiful, and the man who will be King of Amrahâ¦

He needs a bride he really doesnât expect! Remember Princess Isabella of Andovaria, Sebâs irresponsible sister from CROWNED: AN ORDINARY GIRL? I think sheâll be just perfect.

With love

Natasha

CINDERELLA AND THE SHEIKH

BY

NATASHA OAKLEY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my Dad

CHAPTER ONE

âSHOULD I know him?â Polly Anderson pulled the A4 photograph across the table so she could see it more clearly. She squinted down at it, trying to bring it into focus.

Her friend smiled. âForget your contact lenses this morning?â

âI didnât forget them.â Polly accepted the black coffee Minty handed her and took a quick sip of the scalding liquid. âIt was a late night and my eyes feel like theyâre filled with grit if you really want to know.â

âAnd youâre too vain to wear your glasses, of course.â

Polly grimaced. More that sheâd put them down somewhere and had absolutely no idea where. She set the blue and white mug down on the table. âIâm sure Iâve not met him. Heâs not exactly in the usual run of sheikhs that do business with Anthony, you know.â

âNot fat or old.â

âSomething like that.â

Minty laughed her husky laugh and slid a second photograph along the table. âYou should see him without the headscarf. Then we just get tall, dark and deliciously dangerous.â

âNice,â Polly said, looking down at the image of an aggressively handsome man. Actually very nice. Her sight wasnât so short she couldnât see that. It was all about the eyes, she decided. Mostly about the eyes. Unexpectedly blue in a face that was unmistakably Arab.

Exotic and familiar at the same time. And incredibly sexy. Those eyes seemed to promise feelings and sensations sheâd no experience of. Or very little.

She smiled. Maybe there was more of her scandalous great-great-grandmother in her than sheâd supposed. Now that was an interesting thoughtâand probably one her mother would prefer her not to dwell on. âSo, who is he?â she asked, looking up.

âOfficially, His Highness Prince Rashid bin Khalid bin Abdullah Al Baha. But for Western consumption heâs generally known as Sheikh Rashid Al Baha. Much simpler. Twenty-nine. Six feet two and a half inches. Single. Keen horseman. Rich beyond your wildest dreams.â Minty leant forward. âPretty damn sexy all round.â

Polly laughed. âNot that youâre interested or anything.â

âActually Iâm not. Heâs a bad idea as anything other than eye candy. Heâs Crown Prince Khalidâs second son. The one he had with his English wifeââ

âOh, okayâ¦Iâve heard of him,â Polly interrupted. âHeâs Amrahâs playboy sheikh, right?â

Minty nodded. âThatâs him. Plays hard and fast. Only thing he really exhibits any sort of commitment to is his horses. I donât understand all that, but heâs something big in the horse world. Breeds them or something. Which is why I thought you might have met him through that slimy stepbrother of yours. But if not it doesnât really matter. Weâll manage.â

Polly picked up the more traditional of the two pictures and held it out in front of her. Long flowing white robes and his dark hair concealed beneath a white headdress. Minty was right. Prince Rashid bin thingy was really very sexy. If heâd been to Shelton sheâd have remembered.

She closed one eyelid to focus more clearly. âA couple of sheikhs did come over from Amrah but they were both much older. And I doubt they were royalty because Anthony would have been much more impressed. I can probably get their names for you if you need them.â

Minty shook her head and bent over to open the file resting against the leg of her chair. âI donât. But while weâre at it, have a look at his elder brother,â she said, passing across another glossy A4 picture. âHis Highness Prince Hanif bin Khalid bin Abdullah Al Baha. Again he tends to contract all that to Sheikh Hanif Al Baha. And who can blame him?â

Polly picked up the photograph.

âNow their daddyâs so ill Hanifâs probably the one we should be talking to,â Minty said slowly, her eyes focused on her notes. âTheyâve both got the âbin Khalid bin Abdullah Al Bahaâ. Exactly the same. Not very imaginative, is it? The only difference is the Hanif-Rashid bit.â

There was more difference between the brothers than that. Sheikh Hanif looked like a âsafe pair of handsâ. At least, he did as far as you could ever judge anything from a single photo when you werenât wearing your glasses.

Polly closed one eyelid and brought the blurry image into sharp focus again. He had a solid sort of responsibility. Maybe a hint of sadness in his dark eyes? Certainly steeliness.

But Rashid was something else. There was a restlessness about him. A man who exuded an edginess. Danger. As Minty said, a bad idea. Unquestionably. Why were bad boys always so attractive?

âNeither of them have been to Shelton. Iâm sure. Theyâre both a good twenty years younger than the men I met.â

Minty flicked through the pages of her notebook. âI canât get my head round these names at all. The dad is Crown Prince Khalid bin Abdullah bin Abdul-Aalee Al Baha. Jeez.â

ââBinâ means âson ofâ,â Polly said, putting the photographs down and picking up her coffee. She wrapped her fingers round the comforting warmth and blew across the top of the mug. âThink of it like a family tree. And Baha is King Abdullahâs family name so that pinpoints them as being close to the centre of things.â

âThat makes it all as clear as mud.â Minty rubbed at her forehead. âNot that it matters. I think as long as you cover your shoulders and donât wear miniskirts while in Amrah weâll be just fine even if we donât get all that sorted.â

âRight.â Polly stretched out long legs encased in the finest ten-denier stockings. âI can manage that. Seems a bit of a pity to hide my best feature, though, donât you think?â

âBetter than getting arrested for immorality in a public place.â

âDo they do that?â

âIâve absolutely no idea. Letâs not risk it.â Then as she caught the edge of Pollyâs startled gaze, âDonât let it worry you. Iâve got a team working on the practical side of things. Nothing horrible will happen to you, I promise.â

Polly nodded, only partially reassured.

âAnd Matthew Wriggley, the tame historian we found, is painstakingly putting together some wonderful detail on your Elizabeth Lewis. Really exciting. Youâll love it.â She gathered the photographs together and put them inside her slip file. âIt was all going great until Crown Prince Khalid fell ill and the permission to begin filming was mired in red tape.â

Polly said nothing. She took another sip of her coffee and waited. Sheâd known Minty for something like nine years and she knew there was more to come.

âSo now I need you to cultivate Sheikh Rashid, get his support and encourage him to fast-track it all or weâll miss the best of the weather. Convince him we donât have any kind of subversive agenda.â

Two frown lines appeared in the centre of Pollyâs forehead. âI thought you said we needed to negotiate with the elder brother now Crown Prince Khalid is ill.â

âI knew you werenât paying attention to me. Sheikh Hanif is the brother we should be talking to since heâs generally thought to be his fatherâs right-hand man, but heâs completely un-get-ableat.â

âThatâs not a word.â

âYou know what I mean,â Minty said, ripping the top off a sachet of artificial sweetener and dropping the contents in her coffee. âHeâs doing the bedside vigil thing. Which leaves us with Sheikh Rashidââ

âAh.â

ââwho isnât, and who fortunately has a well-documented soft spot for English blondes.â

âHow fortuitous,â Polly said dryly.

âIsnât it? Even better is that heâs going to be at your place for the big charity bash this weekend. Iâve no idea why he isnât also sitting at his fatherâs bedside but thatâs not importantââ

Polly shook her head. That couldnât be right. âHis name isnât on the guest list,â she said with the quiet certainty of someone whoâd been through it twice last week.

âHe is. Heâs in the Duke of Aylesburyâs party. Part of the âplus sixâ.â

âHow the heck do you know that when I donât?â

âOne very boring dinner party sat next to an inebriated old Etonian and hey presto. Itâs all in the flirting.â Minty picked up her spoon and stirred her coffee. âApparently big brother Hanif was at Eton with the Duke of Aylesbury and theyâre close friends. Presumably that friendship has extended to little brother, too, I donât know. Whatever the reason, heâll be at Shelton on Saturday.â

Polly sat back in her chair and gazed in frank admiration.

âSo, if you do your âcharming lady of the castleâ thing and get his support that should speed everything up beautifully. Weâve had all the appropriate forms in now for about four monthsââ

âDo my what?â

Minty looked up and laughed. âYou know what I mean. Foreigners love that stuff. Take him to see the Rembrandt or something. Talk about your mother the dowager duchess. Toss your hair a bit. Donât mention youâre more the Cinderella of the outfit. Heâll love it.â Distracted, she glanced over her shoulder, then back at Polly. âWhat is that noise?â

âAargh! Thatâs my phone. Sorry.â Polly made a dive for her handbag. âI should have switched it off.â The handle caught on her chair arm and by the time sheâd opened her bag the ringing had stopped.

âImportant?â

Polly glanced down at the number. âProbably not. Itâs Anthony.â She turned it off and returned the phone to the depths of her bag. âIâll call him later.â

âGood plan! Let him sort out the latest crisis. Itâs about bloody time he did something.â

Polly allowed herself a tiny smile. Loyalty to her late stepfather meant she always stopped short of joining in criticism of Anthony.

âHow long is it now since Richard died?â Minty asked suddenly.

âThree years. Almost. Itâll be three years in May.â Was it really that long? Polly replaced her bag back on the floor and picked up her coffee once again. In another four months her mother would have been widowed longer than sheâd been married. Unbelievable. So much had happened.

âPlenty of time for him to have got used to the idea of running the showââ

If only. Anthony still showed absolutely no inclination to do anything of the sort.

âAnd if his well-bred wife thought of something other than horses thatâd help.â

âTheyâll have to manage while Iâm away filmingââ

âIf we get our permit.â

âIf,â Polly agreed mildly.

âWell, try to sound like you mind one way or the other!â

âI do.â Her smiled twisted. Sort of. It was justâ¦leaving Shelton was going to be difficult, particularly since she knew it wasnât in safe hands. Every time she tried to imagine herself packing her case and walking away from itâ¦she couldnât.

Instead sheâd think about how much there was to do. The Burns Night Supper, for example, or the Valentineâs Ball, or the craft fair held at the castle each Easter weekendâ¦

All bringing in desperately needed revenue if the conservation programme was to continue. The trouble was she cared. Somehow, and she didnât really understand how, it had got into her bones. Shelton Castle had become her raison dâÃªtre.

And, the truth was, it wasnât hers to love. It was Anthonyâs. His birthright. His privilege to nurture and succour the castle for future generations. And if she didnât manage to detach herself she would eventually be left with nothing.

Minty watched her with narrowed eyes. âWe agreed. Itâs time you left Shelton.â

They had agreed that.

âAnd way past time you did a job for which youâre being properly paid.â

Also true. Her head agreed. It was her heart that was more difficult to control.

âYouâve got no savings, no pension, no career structureââ

âI know.â And she did. It wasnât something that kept her awake at night, but she did know sheâd allowed herself to drift for too long.

And she knew Amrah could be the answer. The first real attempt sheâd made to cut the umbilical cord that tied her to the castle.

âWell, then, be nice to Sheikh Rashid and Iâll have you on a plane within twenty-four hours of getting the paperwork through.â

âBe nice to Sheikh Rashid.â That was easier said than done. There was no getting near the man. Polly moved back to conceal herself behind an extravagant white floral display of alstromeria, lisianthus and roses so she could watch him more easily. Or, more accurately, so she could watch him without anyone noticing that was what she was doing.

Sheikh Rashid sat facing out across the ballroom. As heâd done all evening. His long legs stretched out in front of him, a look of faint boredom on his face. Silent. Arrogant. And rude, if she was honest.

From the very first moment heâd arrived heâd been permanently surrounded by women who looked as if theyâd stepped out of a Bond movie, but they could have been invisible for all the attention he paid them. Perhaps he was so used to it he didnât notice they were there?

But it was rude all the same. And, speaking as someone whoâd often been all but invisible, she didnât like it.

Of course, they should have moved away rather than continue to try to attract his attention. That would have been classier, but they didnât. Of course they didnât. They hovered about, smiling and laughing. Hoping he might notice them.

All of which made Mintyâs cunning plan just that little bit more difficult to bring to fulfilment and left Polly stuck behind a large floral arrangement completely uncertain what to do next.

Polly bit her lip. Minty would have powered her way across the ballroom and flicked aside all competition like flies off a trifle, but she wasnât Minty.

And he wasnât the kind of man sheâd ever be comfortable approaching. Contact lenses in, she was able to confirm her initial assessment of His Highness Prince Rashid bin Khalid bin Abdullah Al Baha as sex on legs. Or would be, if you liked that kind of thing. Which she didnât.

He was all too much. Too tall. Too handsome. Tooâ¦powerful. He looked like the kind of man who could crack a nut with his bare hands and wouldnât hesitate to do the same to people if he had to. And, from all sheâd read, he came from a long line of men whoâd had to. Centuries of tribal disputes, years of colonial occupation and violent coups had shaped Amrah into the country it was. Theyâd shaped the men who ruled it, too.

It was strange to think her great-great-grandmother had been an active participant in all that history. Or a small slice of it at least.

âSomething wrong?â

Polly turned to look down at her mother. âNo. Why?â

âYouâre frowning. I wondered if the ice sculpture was melting or the fireworks had got damp,â she said, bringing her wheelchair into line. âItâs not often I see you frowning.â

âNothing like that. As far as I know.â Polly smiled and set her glass of untouched champagne down on the window sill behind her. âBut I ought to stop standing about and check.â

âPollyââ

She stopped.

âI just wanted to say youâve done a beautiful job tonight. Again.â Her mother reached out and lightly touched her hand. âI know Anthony doesnât appreciate the work that goes into something like this, but I do.â

âI know.â Polly spontaneously bent down and placed a kiss on her motherâs cheek. âHave you got everything you need? Can I get you a drink?â

The dowager duchess laughed. âIâm fine. Any more champagne and Iâll be arrested for being drunk in charge of a wheelchair. You do what you need to do, darling.â

âGet someone to come and find me if you want to go to bed,â she said, taking in her motherâs tired face. âThereâs no need for youââ

âStop fussing. Iâll be fine.â Then, her attention snagged, âWhoâs that man? I donât recognise him.â

Polly followed the direction of her motherâs eyes.

âWith the Duke of Aylesbury? Front table, beneath the Mad Duchess oil painting?â

âThatâsââ She stopped as Rashidâs eyes met hers. The sensation was akin to how she imagined it would feel if you stuck a wet finger into an electrical socket. He was quite, quite stillâ¦and, heaven help her, he was definitely watching her.

What was more heâd probably seen her watching him. Polly straightened her spine and summoned up her âperfect hostessâ smile, resisting the temptation to check that her hair was still firmly pinned in its chignon. Then, abruptly, he leant forward and spoke to the Duke of Aylesbury sitting immediately to his left.

She forced her chin that little bit higher as Sheikh Rashidâs blue eyes locked with hers once more. It had to be pure imagination that made her stomach clench inâ¦

God only knew what. The word that had sprung into her mind had been fear. Except that didnât make any sense.

âHe looks so angry.â

âThatâs His Highness Prince Rashid bin Khalid bin Abdullah Al Baha.â His formal title came easily from her lips, absolutely no trace of the uneasiness she felt appearing in her voice. She dragged her eyes away. âWhy do you think heâs angry?â

âI just did,â her mother said slowly, and then smiled. âFor a moment. He has a very uncompromising face.â

That was one way of putting it. It seemed to Polly he had an uncompromising everything.

Her mother released the brake on her wheelchair, apparently having lost interest. âI hope Anthony isnât intending to do business with him. I donât think that would be a good idea at all.â

On that slightly obscure observation the dowager duchess moved away, her gloved hands moving lightly on the wheels of her chair. Polly watched her for the shortest of moments and then, deliberately not looking back at the Amrahi prince, walked towards the Long Gallery.

Or tried to. Every step she felt as though his eyes were boring into her back. All of a sudden it became difficult to walk in a straight line. She felt conscious of how her arms swung in relation to her legs. Wondered what would be the best thing to do with her hands. She hadnât felt so self-conscious since sheâd left puberty.

Polly slipped out into the Long Gallery and pulled the door shut behind her with a satisfying click. She rubbed a hand over the goose bumps on her forearm. What was the matter with her? Surely if sheâd learnt one thing in the last six years it was not to let these people get to her. They could look down their long patrician noses any which way they wanted. It didnât touch her. Couldnât, if she didnât let it.

Butâ¦

Still the words she needed to put a frame around what she was feeling eluded her. There was something. Something she couldnât quite catch at.

Call it feminine intuition, but she was certain the mind behind those blue eyes wasnât thinking about anything as pleasant as her state-school education and her motherâs temerity to marry âout of her classâ.

Polly frowned. The way heâd looked at her had felt personal. Heâd looked at her as though she wereâ¦

Damn it! What was the word?

Heâd looked at her as if she were theâ¦enemy. That was it. As though it were only the finest of veneers layered over his anger.

Polly shook her head. She was being ridiculous. The dark hair, olive skin, blue-eyed combination had really done something peculiar to her common sense. She didnât know him. Didnât even know very much about him and heâd have to know even less about her.

At best sheâd be a name on their application for permission to film in Amrah. Maybe he just wasnât keen on a film crew coming to his country? But that hardly made sense because he could say ânoâ and Minty would have to move on to another project. It was hardly something he needed to lose any sleep over.

But she might. Polly walked the length of the Long Gallery and through into the library with the wonderful smell of leather, polish and really old books. If Sheikh Rashid did veto the project, what would she do then? It was past time she left this place and it wasnât as though she had alternatives leaping out at her.

âEverything all right, Miss Polly?â

Polly spun round and smiled up at her stepbrotherâs elderly butler whoâd come through the Summer Sitting Room. âFine. Iâm just on my way to check everythingâs ready for the fireworks.â

âYouâll find the two gentlemen from âCreative Showâ in the staff room,â the butler said, the merest flicker in his eyes communicating how annoying heâd found them.

Polly smiled and gathered up the folds of her peacock-blue dress. âWeâre nearly done. And the rain seems to be holding off all right so I think weâll revert to midnight. Letâs get this over as soon as possible and send these people home.â

âVery good, Miss Polly.â

Miss Polly. She liked that. Henry Phillips had managed to find the perfect solution as to what to call someone who was almost one of the family but not quite.

No, not quite. She would always be the housekeeperâs daughter even if her mother had married the fourteenth duke. And Henry Phillips would always remember heâd taken her into the kitchens and made her hot milk and sugar during her fatherâs wake. It was a bond between them that would never be broken even if she was almost âa member of the familyâ.

âHenryâ¦?â She stopped him as a new thought occurred to her. âWhat do you know about Sheikh Rashid Al Baha? Heâs not been to Shelton before tonight, has he?â

âNo,â the butler answered with one of his rare smiles, âbut I fancy heâs the money who bought Golden Mile all the same.â

âBy himself?â

âIndeed.â

âHe must be worth billions!â

âA little more than that,â the butler said with another thin smile. âI doubt it was pocket change, but nothing that need worry him, I gather.â

âSo why didnât he come here?â she asked with a frown.

âI imagine all the negotiations were carried out through his agent. His Grace and the anonymous buyer of Golden Mile both wished the transaction to be private.â

âOh.â

âWhy do you ask?â

âNo reason.â Almost no reason. It had suddenly occurred to her that the look in Rashid Al Bahaâs cold blue eyes might have had something to do with Anthony after all. Her stepbrother made enemies easier than anyone she knew.

âAnd they met tonight?â

Henry nodded.

âWhat happened? Did they argue?â

âThat would be very unusual for someone from his culture, I believe. They spoke and it was extremely cordial. Butââ the elderly man searched for the correct word ââit wasâ¦shall we say, cold.â

Why? An Amrahi prince with the reputation and disposable income of this one would normally have Anthony exerting himself to charm. And even she had to own he was good at that when he saw a reason to be.

But âcoldâwas exactly the word to describe the way Rashid Al Baha had looked at her earlier. Cold, angry and speculative.

CHAPTER TWO

RASHID watched the Hon Emily Coolidge finger the large diamond nestled against her rather bony chest and felt a familiar wave of boredom wash over him. This was his motherâs country, the country in which heâd received much of his education, but he felt very little affinity with it. Or with the people who lived in it.

It felt empty. Soulless. Emily had to know heâd never choose her, or anyone like her, as the mother of his children. It made her behaviour inexplicable.

The brunetteâs finger moved again across the cool plains of the diamond droplet. Thereâd been a time, not so long ago, when that unspoken offer would have been appealing. In fact, he wouldnât have stopped to think about it. Heâd merely have lost himself in mindless pleasure, content that Western women seemed to view these things differently.

âWill you be in London next week?â

Rashid twisted the champagne glass between thumb and forefinger, concentrating on the play of light on the liquid in his glass. He really hadnât thought much about who the mother of his children would be. It was always something for the future. Something far distant.

But now things were changing. He felt a mortality that had never touched him before. There had to be something inbuilt that made a man long to pass on his genes. To feel that he would go onâ¦

Was that it? Was that what this gnawing dissatisfaction with his life was about? A wanting to set his place in history? To find meaning?

âIâm returning to town after this evening.â Again the brunette moved her hand suggestively across her low dÃ©colletage. âWouldnât it be fabulous if we could spend some time together before you fly back to Amrah?â

âNo.â And then he cursed himself for what had been a staggering lack of good manners. His shoulders moved in an apologetic shrug. âMy fatherâ¦â

Rashid let the sentence hang unfinished. The doctors, he knew, would do everything they could, but neither he, nor any man, could hope to foresee what the next few months would bring.

Emily leant forward and touched his hand, outwardly concerned.

Rashid studied her face. She didnât care. There was no genuine emotion in her painted eyes.

And he couldnât be bothered.

The truth of that slid into his brain like a dagger through silk. He wanted to shake these people off, move away, find space to breathe. And yet he had the responsibility of a guest towards his hostâs friends. A responsibility he was shirking.

It was a relief when a loud crack ripped across the general murmur of conversation. He looked out towards the formal gardens stretching down to the ornamental lake and at the white firework cascading down like some overblown pompom.

âOh, my God, how lovely.â Emily unwound her overly long body and stood, hand raised to shield her eyes as though that would somehow make it easier to see what was happening out in the landscaped gardens. âFireworks! Oh, Rashid, how beautiful.â She turned her long neck so she could look directly at him.

Another sharp crack, followed by a hiss and sizzle, and he caught sight of a particularly spectacular cascade of golden shards.

âI love fireworks!â

Vaguely, very vaguely, he was aware of the movement around the table. Chairs scraped back and then Nickâs hand touching his arm. âComing to see?â

Rashid shook his head. He looked up and met his friendâs understanding blue eyes. Nick knew why he was here and would be tolerant if his behaviour wasnât quite as it should be.

Rashidâs head jerked upwards as he felt the spurt of anger flicker deep inside him. Under any other circumstances he wouldnât be here. Given half a choice heâd be back in Amrah, ready to spend precious time with his father if he was sent for. And heâd have been watching his brotherâs back, holding off the factions that were all too eager to turn recent events to their advantage.

His friend smiled and deftly manoeuvred the rest of the party outside. Rashid pulled a weary hand across his face and then let his eyes wander along the panelled walls. So different from home, but no less beautiful. Shelton Castle was a place of wealth. A little shabby, but in the English style of conserving all that was old regardless of fashion.

Heâd come hoping to understandâand he didnât. The fifteenth Duke of Missenden was feckless and without honour. He fully deserved the destiny he had created for himself, Rashid thought, and if heâd scared him by coming here, so much the better.

Rashid was distracted by a flash of peacock-blue dipping in and out of the black-dinner-suited men clustered by the doors to the terrace. He sat back in his chair and watched Miss Pollyanna Anderson weave her way through the tightly packed throng watching the fireworks.

She was his one uncertainty. Where did she fit into all this? Last night heâd finally accepted Nickâs statement that the dowager duchess and her daughter were not accepted by the late dukeâs children and therefore unlikely to be complicit in anything underhand.

But Pollyanna was too confident. Sheâd worked the room tonight with the assurance of someone who knew she belonged.

It had been Pollyanna whoâd orchestrated the staff so they were largely inconspicuous. Pollyanna whoâd managed the minor fracas earlier. He couldnât see her as someone passive. She appeared strong and capable.

So, given all that, was he prepared to accept Pollyanna Andersonâs sudden desire to come to Amrah was a mere coincidence? His strong mouth twisted. And if it were not a coincidence, what he wanted to know was what she hoped to gain. And by what means did she intend to gain it?

His eyes narrowed. Did she hope to coerce him into silence by distorting what she saw in his country? Or was she some kind of a honey trap? Set to embarrass him and discredit his evidence?

That didnât feel right. She moved gracefully enough, but she didnât walk in a way that suggested she expected to be looked at. Her dress was a stunning colour, which brought out the deep blue of her eyes, but he doubted it had been made by any of the designers the women heâd spent time with would have deemed worthy of notice.

She was attractive, he conceded, but in a very English way. Wide blue eyes, pale alabaster skin and hair the colour of desert sand. But no femme fatale. And, baring the fact he was certain sheâd known exactly who he was and where he was to be found at any given time this evening, sheâd not tried to approach him.

Sheâd been too busy working, controlling the events of the evening with a skill born of practice. He watched her as she paused, looking back towards the fireworks with a slight smile. Then she raised a hand to rub her neck and turned away. Her movements were rapid and she walked with obvious purpose across the highly polished floor towards a narrow door in the back wall.

It was the small furtive glance she made back across the now almost empty ballroom that had Rashid on his feet. Curiosity had always been his besetting sin and this was beyond temptation.

Rashid sidestepped the table and followed her across the ballroom. The door sheâd walked through opened easily and he slid quietly into what appeared to be an intimate but ornately furnished sitting room. Gilt mirrors hung on the opposite wall and the furniture looked as if it belonged in a museum rather than a family home. All with a faded air of grandeur befitting one of Englandâs foremost stately homes.

It took less than a second to locate Ms Anderson. She was sitting at right angles to the fireplace on one of a pair of brocade sofas, as yet completely unaware heâd come in. Via her reflection he watched her slip off her shoes and reach down to rub at her toes.

The rhythmic movement of her fingers over stockinged feet was unexpectedly sensual and his eyes were riveted. Even more to the tantalising glimpse of her full breasts as the front of her dress gaped.

Rashid forced himself to look away and his eyes snagged on the back of her neck, with the two soft tendrils of honey-gold hair that had escaped the tight twist sheâd favoured. It was the kind of neck made to be kissed. Long. Soft.

Maybe heâd underestimated her success as a potential honey trap? Pollyanna possessed a natural sensuality.

âMs Anderson, my name is Rashid Al Baha.â

Her head snapped round to look at him and her mouth formed an almost perfect âoâ. âWhâ?â

âI apologise,â Rashid said, moving farther into the room, âfor disturbing you.â

She hurriedly returned her feet to the torturous-looking heels sheâd been wearing and stood up, letting the soft folds of her dress mass around her ankles. âNo. That is, Iâ¦â One agitated hand twisted the loose curls back into her chignon. âIâm sorry, did you need something?â

Rashid stopped a few feet away from her. âIâm no great lover of fireworks.â

âOh.â

Again that almost perfect oval. His eyes flicked across her flushed face and over a body that he knew Western convention would deem too curvaceous. She was not a conventional beauty, perhaps, but he felt a vague sense of disappointment that she was not a consolation prize.

Centuries ago he might have taken this woman in recompense for her stepbrotherâs sins. Maybe thereâd been wisdom in that. It was just possible that a few weeks in the arms of Miss Pollyanna Anderson might go some way to dissipating his anger.

He watched the tremulous quiver of her full lips and felt a renewed rush of sexual awareness. Rashid clenched his teeth and forced himself to look at the famed Rembrandt hanging over the ornate fireplace.

âI thought this might be a good opportunity to talk,â he said, looking back at her, determined to regain control.

âTalk? Iâ¦â Her hand smoothed out the front of her dress, drawing attention to her curves.

âOr are you not aware your request to film in my country has been passed to me?â

âW-we did think it might have been.â And then she smiled.

She had an amazing smile. Rashid felt the full impact, particularly when it was combined with the feel of her hand in his. âItâs really kind of you, Your Highness.â

âRashid, please.â

The beating pulse at the base of her neck was the only indication he had that she wasnât entirely comfortable. She had such pale skin. So white.

âRashid,â she repeated obediently. âAnd Iâm Polly.â

It took him a moment to catch up. A moment he spent remembering that he needed to let go of her hand.

âMinty suggested I try to speak to you about it tonight, but I doubt Iâd have had the courage.â

âMinty?â

âAraminta Woodville-Brown. Sheâs the producer.â Polly hesitated. âHasnât she been in contact with you? I thoughtâ¦â

Had she? Faced with a pair of clear blue eyes looking up at him he wasnât sure that he remembered.

âI thought that must be why you wanted to talk to me.â

âIâve merely seen the paperwork,â he said in a voice that sounded overly formal. He couldnât seem to help it.

âOh. Wellâ¦â she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue ââ¦Minty thinksâ¦that is, she believes it would make a good programme and Iâ¦â

She broke off again and took a deep breath. Then she smiled. Her blue eyes glinting with sudden laughter. âIâm making a real hash of this, arenât I? Iâm so sorry.â

If sheâd been hoping to deliver a polished presentation in support of the application sitting on his desk she certainly was, but at this precise moment he was more inclined to approve it than he would have believed possible.

She took another deep breath and Rashid found himself watching the rise and fall of her breasts. The fact they were now demurely covered made it more erotic than anything the Hon Emily Coolidge had managed in a dress practically slashed to her navel.

âPerhaps I could get you something to drink and we could start again?â

âI need nothing.â

âD-do you mind if I pour myself some water?â

âNot at all.â

Polly walked over to the mahogany bow sideboard and lifted a glass from the top of the water jug, chinking the two together. The noise was loud in the quiet of the room. Behind her, Rashid stood perfectly still. He was like some great big black spider. Motionless, and poised to strike.

Did spiders strike? Not that it really mattered. Rashid Al Baha looked as if he might strike. And, honestly, the reality of him was unnerving enough without adding the curse of her imagination. Tomorrow morning, the minute she opened her eyes, she was going to ring Minty and tell her the next time she had a good idea for smoothing out a bureaucratic hiccup she was to do it herself.

âIâI always keep some water in here in case I need it,â she said, trying to regulate her voice. Her hand shook slightly as she poured and a splodge landed partly on the tray and partly on the wood.

Everything slowed to half speed as the water spread out on the highly polished surface. âOh, God, please no!â she said, swiping at it with her hand. âOh, help!â

This was like a waking nightmare and it couldnât be happening to her. It couldnât. What was it about her karma that sent everything around her into free fall? Her fingers made no impact on the puddle of water and she turned round, looking for something that would be more effective.

âHere.â Rashid stepped forward, holding out a clean, starched white handkerchief.

She grabbed it and started to mop up the water, then carefully wiped the underside of the glass. âThanks. Iâm not usually that clumsy.â And then, âActually, I am. Iâm jinxed,â she said, handing back his handkerchief. âBut, look, no permanent damage. I live to destroy another day.â

She looked up and caught the waft of something tangy on his skin. A clean masculine smell. And she could see the dark shadow on his chin.

Powerful. That was the only word to describe Rashid Al Baha. It was apt for everything about him. Hard, masculine features, a honed physique that confirmed everything sheâd read about his predilection for dangerous sports and a steady blue gaze that was startling against the black of his hair.

âTh-that sideboard came to Shelton in seventeen ninety-two.â Polly could feel the heat burning in her cheeks. âIt would be dreadful if I was the first person in all that time to put a mark on it.â

Rashid smiled. Heâd smiled before, politely, but this was something different. For the first time it reached his eyes. Maybe he was human, after all? Wouldnât that be a surprise?

âIâm sorry. Please take a seat.â She pulled at the chain around her neck. âI should have said that before. Iâm afraid Iâm a little nervous.â

That devastating smiled widened. âThere is no need to be.â

âYou clearly donât know Minty. Iâm no good at this type of thing.â Polly took her water with her and sat back down in the corner of the sofa. âSheâd do this so much better than I can.â

Rashid chose the sofa opposite. His eyes were still firmly resting on her face. It was unsettling. And that was putting it mildly.

âTake it to him.â Mintyâs final words to her were echoing in her head. She was fairly sure her friend hadnât factored in spilling water over a valuable antique, tripping over her words and generally not being able to think of anything anyway. Her mind was a complete blank.

And all the while those blue eyes watched her. Polly looked away and gently chewed at her bottom lip.

âI would be interested to know how you come to be involved?â he prompted, as though he knew she was never going to be able to get started alone.

He had an amazing voice, too. His accent wasnât so dissimilar to the ones she heard every day, but the way he put his words together, the stress he placed on the syllables was certainly different. Unmistakably foreign despite his English-public-school education.

âI suppose itâs because it was my idea. In a way. Although I didnât expect it would happen.â She raised her eyes back up to his face. âMintyâs the film-maker. She wants to make an hour-and-a-half programme which could be broken up into three half-hour slots. Something like that.â

His feet moved and Polly found herself looking down at his highly polished Italian shoes. She was sure they were Italian. Expensive and very beautiful. Everything about him screamed an understated wealth. The kind of wealth that could buy a racehorse like Golden Mile as an individual rather than as part of a consortium. Even in her stepbrotherâs world that was unusual.

And here she was, sitting in the North Sitting Room with her heart in her mouth and her future, it would seem, resting on her ability to convince this man it was a good idea.

âWith you presenting?â

âYes, thatâs the idea.â

Rashid inclined his head. He was like a panther. The thought slid into her head. That was a far better analogy than a spider. He was all contained power, unpredictable and dangerous.

âI know weâd be the first film crew allowed into Amrahââ

âThe second.â

âSecond?â

âWhen my grandfather became King he was eager to open our country to the West. Fourteen years ago he allowed a programme to be made and the result was deeply offensive to both my family and our people.â

Talk about wanting the ground to open up beneath you. âI didnât know that.â

Any other man and sheâd have asked what had been offensive about it, but she didnât feel she could. There was an impenetrable barrier around Rashid Al Baha.

Polly moistened her lips and tried to find the words that would convince him that their intention was not to offend. Not in any way.

âOur programme would focus on Elizabeth Lewisâs journey across Amrah in the late eighteen eighties. Weâd like to retrace her steps, see some of the things she describes.â

âSuch as?â

âThe desert. Fortresses.â This was so difficult. She was floundering and she knew it. She hadnât thought much about what she would see as the decision wasnât hers. âCamel-riding. Maybe even camel-racing. I believe she did that at one point.â

Rashid sat back on the sofa. âAn important part of Amrahâs culture, but not one that is generally looked on favourably in the West.â

âBut the king has forbidden child jockeys by law. Itâit was that,â she struggled on, âwhich people found difficult to accept. Over here, I mean.â

Was she imagining a hint of a smile in those cold blue eyes? He really was the most unfathomable man. But, if his reputation with women had any basis in reality, he must be able to use that smile to good effect sometimes.

What would that feel like? If Rashid Al Baha looked at her with desire? With wanting? She felt a slightly hysterical bubble of laughter start in the pit of her stomach and spiral upwards. If His Highness Prince Rashid bin Khalid bin Abdullah Al Baha turned his notorious playboy charm on her sheâd run in the opposite direction. He was an absolutely terrifying man.

âI see. It is helpful to have it explained.â The smile in his eyes became more definite.

Polly just hoped sheâd wake up in a few minutes and realise this whole conversation had never happened.

Of course he didnât need her to tell him what the international community thought about child jockeys. He was a highly educated man. A leader of men. Heâd probably even been instrumental in implementing the ban.

She could feel the heat rise in her face and a dry, nervous tickle irritate the back of her throat. Just wait âtil she got Minty on the phone tomorrow. If it turned out she had known about the âoffensiveâ programme made earlier Polly was going to personally shoot her.

âWhat I meant to say was that we wouldnât be saying anythingâ¦contentious. Itâs more a human-interest type of thing. A personal journey.â

âPersonal?â

âYes. Well, yes. Thatâs the plan.â

âBut not yours?â

She shrugged. âOnly in as much as Elizabeth Lewis is my great-great-grandmother.â

âYour great-great-grandmother?â

âOn my fatherâs side.â

A frown snapped across his forehead. âThat wasnât in the paperwork.â

âI suppose because itâs not really relevant, is it?â

For a moment Rashid said nothing. âHer legacy is still remembered in Amrah.â

Polly risked a smile. âI still donât know very much about her, but I gather she wasâ¦ahead of her time.â

This time she was left in no doubt that his eyes were smiling, but his voice was still dry. âAn unusual woman.â

Did he consider that a good or a bad thing?

âThatâs it, really. Minty and I made a short programme on Shelton Castle about two years agoââ

âIâve seen it.â

âYou have?â she asked, her eyes nervously flicking up. âAnyway, it was funâand quite successful in ratings terms so Minty found it easy to get the funding for this one. And, well, th-that really is itâ¦â She tailed off lamely. âSheâs put it all together and I know sheâll be more than happy to talk it over with you. Iâm just there to provide a personal connection to the subject.â

And because Minty was quite determined her friend would find a life for herself away from Shelton. There was no need to mention that. It made her sound incredibly wet.

Besides, Minty might change her mind when she heard how this conversation had gone. If Rashid had even the slightest inclination to open his country to a film crew again heâd want to be sure the resulting programme would be well executed and she hadnât done much to instil him with confidence.

Rashid stood up in one fluid movement. It was that panther thing again. He was all restrained power and energy, his mind finding an outlet in movement, and yet she would never describe him as agitated. In fact, you couldnât really imagine anything much throwing this man off his balance.

All of a sudden she didnât care one way or the other. Sheâd done her best and that was all anyone could do. If this didnât come off something would. Life was like that. It couldnât go on for ever without a bend in the road.

Polly finished off the last of her water and stood up, cradling the glass in two hands. âW-what do you think? Can we come?â

His blue eyes flashed across at her. âThere would need to be conditions.â

âOf course. Not that Iâd have anything to do with any of that. But Minty was wonderful when she made the programme on Shelton. Everyone involved was really considerate of the castle and there was nothing intrusive or unpleasant about the experience.â

Much to her annoyance Polly could hear a tremor in her voice. She wanted to sound confident and yet, somehow, in front of this man it wasnât possible.

âSheâs your friend.â He brushed her comment aside as though it wasnât worth nothing. It was the spur she needed.

âThe programme on Shelton was one of five Minty made about different English stately homes. No one complained. Sheâs a talented and very successful documentary film maker.â Polly raised her chin. âSo, what do you think?â she asked, forcing herself to meet his eyes. There was nothing to see. Not by so much as a flicker did he give away what he was thinking.

âWhy now?â

Sheâd been braced for an outright rejection and his question surprised her. âNow? You want to know why now?â she echoed, and then gathered herself together. âBecause of the weather. If we want to film in the desertââ

Rashid cut her off. âI will think about it,â he said, turning away and striding across the room.

Polly stood, slightly stunned as the door shut behind him. She drew in a shaky breath. Heaven help her. That had been scary. Butâ¦he had left her with a little bit of hopeâand, even ten minutes ago, that was more than sheâd expected.

CHAPTER THREE

POLLY adjusted her long dark head-covering, trying to pull it farther over her blond hair. âHow do I stop this thing slipping off?â

Pete, standing closest to her, gave the front a gentle tug. âMaybe a hair clip? I donât know. Do your best. Itâs not required of Westerners to cover their heads unless theyâre entering a holy place.â

Yes, she knew. But Mintyâs thirty-two-page ring-bound instruction booklet had also said a simple covering was sensible in the heat and generally considered respectful.

âJust relax about everything. So, where is this interpreter guy? Ali something, isnât it?â he said with a look over his shoulder at the cameraman.

Ali Al-Sabt. She knew that, too. Sheâd gone through Mintyâs âbibleâand highlighted anything that might be important in fluorescent yellow. She practically knew it verbatim, but there was no point saying anything.

âHe should be holding up a card. Easy enough to spot,â Baz said, scanning the crowded concourse.

âYouâd have thought.â

Polly let the conversation wash over her. The five men Minty had assembled were all veteran travellers. Theyâd worked together before, knew each other well and clearly considered her dead weight in their team. It didnât matter. She was here. And it was absolutely incredible.

There were people everywhere. The guidebook had said that Amrahis regarded travel as an event and that whole families tended to see their loved ones off and meet those coming home. It was all a world away from her quiet and controlled departure from Heathrow, but she loved it. The noise, the bustle, the general excitement of the place.

âThere! Johnâs over there.â

A hand waved high above the crowd and Polly allowed Pete to steer her towards it, struggling to keep the wheels of her case straight.

A smiling man in a traditional white dishdasha nodded as they approached. âAs-salaam alaykum.â

Polly murmured, âWa alaykum as-salaam.â Which she seriously hoped meant âPeace to youâ or something like. Leastways that had been what her Phrases for the Business Traveller to Amrah had said, though her pronunciation was bound to be hit and miss despite the accompanying CD.

âThis is Ali Al-Sabtââ

Behind them there was a loud shout and then a general hum of excitement. Pollyâs eyes went to the glass-protected VIP walkway, high above. At first she noticed the speed at which a group of men on it were walking, their sense of purposeâand then recognition hit her.

She felt as though her stomach had plummeted a couple of hundred feet. Even in the traditional robes of his country Rashid Al Baha was unmistakable. Powerful.

For the tiniest fraction of a second she fancied his footsteps slowed and his eyes met hers. She felt as though everything around her had frozen in a blur of colour. There was only himâ¦and her. Everyone else was as still as if theyâd been paused by a TV remote. He looked directly at her. She was sure he did.

For a moment.

And then the world around her restarted, the noise of the concourse louder than before.

âThatâs Sheikh Rashid Al Baha. He must be returning from the summit in Balkrash.â

Polly wasnât sure which member of the team said that. She watched as Rashid disappeared from sight, still feeling a little shell shocked. She wasnât alone either. Judging from the reaction of the people around her, the Crown Princeâs second son enjoyed a film-star status in his own country. There were fingers pointing all around. An excited chattering, which punctured the general hubbub of airport noise.

âWhat was the summit about?â she asked, bending to adjust the label on her bag.

âPerhaps best if we donât ask those kind of questions,â Steve, the one American of the team, said quietly. âLetâs keep ourselves out of the politics. Contravene that one and I guess weâll be on the first plane out of here.â

Polly agreed and stood quietly by while they waited for Graham to join them with all their equipment.

Seeing Rashid had brought back all the feelings sheâd experienced when sheâd met him at Shelton. He unsettled her. Worried her. It wasnât as though she felt he was attracted to her. Not that. It was that heâ¦was watching her.

Watching her, looking for something that would mean he could make a decision about her. And because she knew he wasnât a man to have as your enemy itâ¦bothered her. At least, she thought that was what she thought.

âReady to go, Polly?â Baz said, coming behind her.

She nodded and let herself be steered towards the exit. Once outside the intense heat hit her like a wall, driving everything else from her mind. Sheâd come expecting the temperatures to be high, but this was searing. Direct sunlight made her grateful for the scarf she had fashioned into a hijab covering her head. Less about modesty, perhaps, and everything about practicality.

âPlease to come this way,â Ali said, indicating a line of waiting cars. Sleek, expensive and so black you might imagine theyâd been dipped in oil. And more incredibly they were surrounded by uniformed guards. Guards with guns.

âPlease. This way.â

Polly looked over her shoulder in time to see Pete duck down into the third car. Graham was anxiously watching their expensive equipment safely stowed away, and John, Baz and Steve had already vanished.

âMiss Anderson,â Ali said, indicating the second car. As she moved towards it the door was held open. Disorientated, she meekly did what was wanted, only hesitating when she realised there was a man already inside. A man she recognised.

âYou?â she said foolishly.

Rashid Al Bahaâs blue eyes met hers. âAs you see.â

âIâI wasnât expecting to seeâ¦ I meanâ¦â Oh, hell! Polly pulled at the scarf covering her blond hair in what she recognised was a nervous gesture. âWere you supposed to be meeting us? Iâm sure we werenât toldââ

His eyes seemed to dance. âThis is a spontaneous gesture of hospitality. There is no way I could have arranged my timetable today to coincide with yours.â

âOh.â And then, rather belatedly, âThank you.â

âAfwan.â

Youâre welcome, she mentally translated, foolishly pleased the hours sheâd spent poring over her phrase book were paying dividends. âAre you sure weâre allowed to be travelling together?â

Rashid settled himself more comfortably in his seat, resting his head back on the rest. âYou have an inaccurate view of my country.â

âI merely wondered whether it was appropriate with you being a member of the royal family.â

âAh.â He turned his head so that he could look at her. âI think youâll find that, as a member of the royal family, Iâm permitted to do as I choose.â

Polly wasnât sure what to answer. Her explanation hadnât been true either, because she had wondered whether it was usual for a woman to travel alone in a private car with an Amrahi man who wasnât a family member. And it seemed Rashid was totally aware of that. His blue eyes were still glinting. Teasing.

Well, if he didnât care, why should she? This wasnât her country. She deliberately concentrated on fastening her seat belt. With the door shut and the tinted windows closed the atmosphere was pleasantly cool. Polly sighed and settled back into the softest leather seat sheâd ever sat in. Soft as butter. She let her fingers rest on the suppleness of it and tried not to think how close Rashid Al Baha was to her. Or how much he unnerved her.

And he really did unnerve her. On every level there was. This close she could feel him breathe, strong and even. It seemed to pulse through her. As did her awareness of his taut body, thighs slightly apart and feet firmly planted against the sway of the car.

âYouâve just returned from a summit, I gather,â she said in an effort to break the silence.

âYes.â

âD-did it go well?â Steveâs words of caution came flooding into her mind. Politics was a no-go area. Part of the stipulations Rashid had made was that they didnât film anything that could be construed as military or politically sensitive. âI donât mean to pry, obviously.â

He said nothing, merely watched her beneath hooded eyes.

âI still canât believe Iâm really here.â Polly nervously pleated one end of her scarf. âOne minute Iâm discussing whether we need to take the chandelier in the Great Hall down for cleaning and the next Iâm here.â

Not the greatest conversational gambit sheâd ever tried, but it was the best she could do. Every sense she had was throbbing with awareness. Every hair on her body standing to attention. She couldnât remember reacting to a man like thisâ¦ever. But then sheâd never met a man quite like him.

Polly turned to look out of the tinted car window. Partly because she needed to have something other than Rashid Al Baha to focus on, and partly because she was captivated by what she was glimpsing.

The guidebooks sheâd devoured hadnât really prepared her. Sheâd come expecting desert and wide blue skies and was confronted by modern glass, steel constructions and six-lane motorways.

âAmrah is a place of great contrasts,â Rashid said, as though heâd been able to read her thoughts.

âI had no idea Samaah would be like this. How old a city is it?â

He shifted in his seat, drawing her attention back to him as much by that as his voice. âCenturies old, but its current incarnation is only forty. It has become a financial centre and brought a great deal of wealth to the country.â

Sheâd known that. Only that wasnât part of Elizabeth Lewisâs story and sheâd not focused her attention on what that would mean. âAmrah doesnât have oil, does it?â

âSome, but the reserves are fast running out.â

Polly turned again to look out of the window. She watched as the buildings sped past, unwilling to miss anything.

If theyâd arrived by sea, she knew from guidebooks sheâd have been met with fortified ramparts dating back centuries. A testament to its troubled history. But thisâ¦was all so newly constructed.

âAre you disappointed?â

âStunned.â

âWe have the camels and the Bedouin tents, too.â His voice was laced with humour.

Polly turned her head to look at him and smiled. Her first since getting into the car. She settled back into her seat. âDo you spend much time in the desert?â

âLike most of my countrymen I return at least once a year to reconnect myself with my heritage. A tradition, if you will. Something you English seem to understand.â

He said it as if she were a different species. âYouâre half English.â

âMy mother is English, but I am entirely Arab.â

How did he manage to turn his voice to flint? Polly adjusted her scarf, tucking one end carefully over her shoulder.

âIâm flattered you have so obviously researched me,â he continued, his voice slicing through the silence.

Polly glanced up at his calmly arrogant face. Did he honestly think that? That sheâd consciously sat down and âGoogledâ him?

She had. But sheâd infinitely prefer it if he didnât think it. âMerely read the magazines in the hairdresserâs,â she corrected. âYouâre often featured. Being royalty.â

âThen I should be the one asking the questions, perhaps.â

âThereâs nothing particularly interesting about meââ She broke off as she caught sight of the Majan International Hotel. âIsnât that where weâre staying?â

âThereâs been a change.â

Polly looked at him sharply. âWhat kind of change?â

âI have decided to offer you the hospitality of my home while you are in Samaah. You and your colleagues,â he added as blandly as though he hadnât seen her quick glance through the back window to make sure they were still being followed.

She wasnât particularly reassured. Why was he doing this? He might have given them permission to film here, but even Minty hadnât imagined heâd wanted them here.

âIs that a spontaneous decision?â

âNot at all. How else could I have arranged for cars to be here to meet you?â

Quite. And Polly had the definite feeling very little in Rashidâs life was left to chance.

âMy sister is waiting to receive you. I was to have joined you later.â

His sister?

âIs it far from the airport?â

âNo.â

Through the window to her left Polly could see they were still flanked by motorcycle outriders. It deflected her interest. âAre they necessary?â

âIt is wise.â

âBecause we might be attacked?â

âBecause I might be,â he returned coolly.

Rashid watched the blond Englishwoman process that. He could sense her uncertainty, see the questions she wanted to ask but felt she couldnât. For now that suited him perfectly well.

He stretched. âIt is a minimal threat but a significant one, particularly while there is uncertainty about Amrahâs political future.â

âIâve read about that.â Her blue eyes met his. âI was sorry to hear your fatherâs ill again.â

Just that. No spurious sympathy in her face. Heâd spent much of last week receiving condolences from men he knew would be pleased to hear his father had died and one of his more conservative uncles named as successor. Words meant nothing, but her quiet statement felt genuine.

It was that dichotomy again. The difference between what he knew and what he felt. She seemed genuineâbut there was no one as plausible as someone who was making it her business to appear so.

âHis doctors have been able to buy him a few months, but I think he will shortly be in paradise.â

âIâm so sorry.â

âI think your sympathy should be reserved for the people he is to leave behind.â

Pollyanna clutched at her scarf as it threatened to slide off her head. âThatâs what I meant. Itâs incredibly hard to lose a parent.â Then, âAre you sure this is the right time to have visitors like us? We would be perfectly comfortable at the hotel. And we only mean to stay in Samaah for a couple of nights.â

âIâm aware.â

âWouldnât you rather be with your family?â

âIf Iâm needed I will be called.â

He watched her hesitate and then bite back whatever observation she had been tempted to make. That was just as well. Heâd given more away in that single sentence than heâd intended.

Her perfume, light but exotic, swirled around him like a wisp of smoke. It seemed to drug his mind, pull truths from his lips heâd prefer left unsaid. And the truth was she was probably right. This wasnât the best time to have visitors in his home.

And certainly not this one.

Despite the dossier heâd read on Miss Pollyanna Anderson he remained uncertain of her motives in coming here. And, until he was, heâd every intention of controlling everything about her visit.

âYour family is well?â

Her blue eyes widened slightly. âMy motherâs well enough.â

âAnd your brothers?â

âI donât have any brothers.â

It was very convincing. Yet she presumably chose to live in the home of her motherâs stepson, a man he knew for a liar and a cheat, because she wanted to.

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