In The Arms Of The Sheikh

CHAPTER TWO

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

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

Kazim was startled. ‘Excuse me?’

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

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

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

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

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

Kazim raised his eyebrows. ‘Now what?’

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

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

‘Murder the woman.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘She sounds intriguing,’ said Kazim politely.

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

‘I thought you hadn’t met her.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘There.’

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

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

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

The chauffeur sniffed.

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

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

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

‘Friendly,’ Natasha remarked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha shivered again; not entirely because of the temperature.

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

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

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

The chauffeur did not answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She pressed the doorbell again several times. Hard.

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

Was that a noise…?

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

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

Be careful.

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

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

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

‘Who’s there?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I’m expected,’ she said briskly.

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

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

He did not like that. He stiffened.

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

‘Lambert?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Why?’ It shot at her like a bullet.

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

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

‘When was the meeting?’

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

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

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

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

‘What?’

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

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

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

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

He inclined his head. It was just about agreement.

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

He looked at it with—would that be astonishment?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Then prove it.’

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

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

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

He ignored that too. He was studying her passport.

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

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

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

‘Satisfied?’

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

Natasha blinked. ‘What?’

‘There are forged passports.’

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

He gave a bark of laughter.

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

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

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

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

‘How dare you?’ she choked.

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

He took a step forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He released her from that piercing inspection and stepped back.

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

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

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

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

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

He did not even admit to having heard her.

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

He did not notice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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