Rashid’s 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 didn’t know him. Knew very little about him, even. He wasn’t and couldn’t 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 intervals—a drink she didn’t 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 ‘crowd control’, she loves to escape to antiques fairs and auctions. Find out more about Natasha and her books on her website www.natashaoakley.com

‘One of the best writers

of contemporary romance writing today!’

—cataromance.com

THE BRIDES OF AMRAH KINGDOM

Don’t miss the future King of Amrah’s 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 won’t be surprised to learn that I couldn’t 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 Rashid’s story. Loyal and fiercely protective of those he loves, he’s a man who yearns for acceptance. Polly might be a twenty-first century ‘Cinderella’ but she does the saving.

And then there’s Hanif. Serious, dutiful, and the man who will be King of Amrah…

He needs a bride he really doesn’t expect! Remember Princess Isabella of Andovaria, Seb’s irresponsible sister from CROWNED: AN ORDINARY GIRL? I think she’ll be just perfect.

With love

Natasha

CINDERELLA AND THE SHEIKH

BY

NATASHA OAKLEY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For my Dad

CHAPTER ONE

‘SHOULD I know him?’ 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. ‘Forget your contact lenses this morning?’

‘I didn’t forget them.’ Polly accepted the black coffee Minty handed her and took a quick sip of the scalding liquid. ‘It was a late night and my eyes feel like they’re filled with grit if you really want to know.’

‘And you’re too vain to wear your glasses, of course.’

Polly grimaced. More that she’d put them down somewhere and had absolutely no idea where. She set the blue and white mug down on the table. ‘I’m sure I’ve not met him. He’s not exactly in the usual run of sheikhs that do business with Anthony, you know.’

‘Not fat or old.’

‘Something like that.’

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

‘Nice,’ Polly said, looking down at the image of an aggressively handsome man. Actually very nice. Her sight wasn’t so short she couldn’t 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 she’d no experience of. Or very little.

She smiled. Maybe there was more of her scandalous great-great-grandmother in her than she’d supposed. Now that was an interesting thought—and probably one her mother would prefer her not to dwell on. ‘So, who is he?’ she asked, looking up.

‘Officially, His Highness Prince Rashid bin Khalid bin Abdullah Al Baha. But for Western consumption he’s 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.’ Minty leant forward. ‘Pretty damn sexy all round.’

Polly laughed. ‘Not that you’re interested or anything.’

‘Actually I’m not. He’s a bad idea as anything other than eye candy. He’s Crown Prince Khalid’s second son. The one he had with his English wife—’

‘Oh, okay…I’ve heard of him,’ Polly interrupted. ‘He’s Amrah’s playboy sheikh, right?’

Minty nodded. ‘That’s him. Plays hard and fast. Only thing he really exhibits any sort of commitment to is his horses. I don’t understand all that, but he’s 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 doesn’t really matter. We’ll manage.’

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 he’d been to Shelton she’d have remembered.

She closed one eyelid to focus more clearly. ‘A 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.’

Minty shook her head and bent over to open the file resting against the leg of her chair. ‘I don’t. But while we’re at it, have a look at his elder brother,’ she said, passing across another glossy A4 picture. ‘His 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?’

Polly picked up the photograph.

‘Now their daddy’s so ill Hanif’s probably the one we should be talking to,’ Minty said slowly, her eyes focused on her notes. ‘They’ve both got the “bin Khalid bin Abdullah Al Baha”. Exactly the same. Not very imaginative, is it? The only difference is the Hanif-Rashid bit.’

There was more difference between the brothers than that. Sheikh Hanif looked like a ‘safe pair of hands’. At least, he did as far as you could ever judge anything from a single photo when you weren’t 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?

‘Neither of them have been to Shelton. I’m sure. They’re both a good twenty years younger than the men I met.’

Minty flicked through the pages of her notebook. ‘I can’t get my head round these names at all. The dad is Crown Prince Khalid bin Abdullah bin Abdul-Aalee Al Baha. Jeez.’

‘“Bin” means “son of”,’ 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. ‘Think of it like a family tree. And Baha is King Abdullah’s family name so that pinpoints them as being close to the centre of things.’

‘That makes it all as clear as mud.’ Minty rubbed at her forehead. ‘Not that it matters. I think as long as you cover your shoulders and don’t wear miniskirts while in Amrah we’ll be just fine even if we don’t get all that sorted.’

‘Right.’ Polly stretched out long legs encased in the finest ten-denier stockings. ‘I can manage that. Seems a bit of a pity to hide my best feature, though, don’t you think?’

‘Better than getting arrested for immorality in a public place.’

‘Do they do that?’

‘I’ve absolutely no idea. Let’s not risk it.’ Then as she caught the edge of Polly’s startled gaze, ‘Don’t let it worry you. I’ve got a team working on the practical side of things. Nothing horrible will happen to you, I promise.’

Polly nodded, only partially reassured.

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

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

‘So now I need you to cultivate Sheikh Rashid, get his support and encourage him to fast-track it all or we’ll miss the best of the weather. Convince him we don’t have any kind of subversive agenda.’

Two frown lines appeared in the centre of Polly’s forehead. ‘I thought you said we needed to negotiate with the elder brother now Crown Prince Khalid is ill.’

‘I knew you weren’t paying attention to me. Sheikh Hanif is the brother we should be talking to since he’s generally thought to be his father’s right-hand man, but he’s completely un-get-ableat.’

‘That’s not a word.’

‘You know what I mean,’ Minty said, ripping the top off a sachet of artificial sweetener and dropping the contents in her coffee. ‘He’s doing the bedside vigil thing. Which leaves us with Sheikh Rashid—’

‘Ah.’

‘—who isn’t, and who fortunately has a well-documented soft spot for English blondes.’

‘How fortuitous,’ Polly said dryly.

‘Isn’t it? Even better is that he’s going to be at your place for the big charity bash this weekend. I’ve no idea why he isn’t also sitting at his father’s bedside but that’s not important—’

Polly shook her head. That couldn’t be right. ‘His name isn’t on the guest list,’ she said with the quiet certainty of someone who’d been through it twice last week.

‘He is. He’s in the Duke of Aylesbury’s party. Part of the “plus six”.’

‘How the heck do you know that when I don’t?’

‘One very boring dinner party sat next to an inebriated old Etonian and hey presto. It’s all in the flirting.’ Minty picked up her spoon and stirred her coffee. ‘Apparently big brother Hanif was at Eton with the Duke of Aylesbury and they’re close friends. Presumably that friendship has extended to little brother, too, I don’t know. Whatever the reason, he’ll be at Shelton on Saturday.’

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

‘So, if you do your “charming lady of the castle” thing and get his support that should speed everything up beautifully. We’ve had all the appropriate forms in now for about four months—’

‘Do my what?’

Minty looked up and laughed. ‘You 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. Don’t mention you’re more the Cinderella of the outfit. He’ll love it.’ Distracted, she glanced over her shoulder, then back at Polly. ‘What is that noise?’

‘Aargh! That’s my phone. Sorry.’ Polly made a dive for her handbag. ‘I should have switched it off.’ The handle caught on her chair arm and by the time she’d opened her bag the ringing had stopped.

‘Important?’

Polly glanced down at the number. ‘Probably not. It’s Anthony.’ She turned it off and returned the phone to the depths of her bag. ‘I’ll call him later.’

‘Good plan! Let him sort out the latest crisis. It’s about bloody time he did something.’

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

‘How long is it now since Richard died?’ Minty asked suddenly.

‘Three years. Almost. It’ll be three years in May.’ 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 she’d been married. Unbelievable. So much had happened.

‘Plenty of time for him to have got used to the idea of running the show—’

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

‘And if his well-bred wife thought of something other than horses that’d help.’

‘They’ll have to manage while I’m away filming—’

‘If we get our permit.’

‘If,’ Polly agreed mildly.

‘Well, try to sound like you mind one way or the other!’

‘I do.’ Her smiled twisted. Sort of. It was just…leaving Shelton was going to be difficult, particularly since she knew it wasn’t in safe hands. Every time she tried to imagine herself packing her case and walking away from it…she couldn’t.

Instead she’d think about how much there was to do. The Burns Night Supper, for example, or the Valentine’s Ball, or the craft fair held at the castle each Easter weekend…

All bringing in desperately needed revenue if the conservation programme was to continue. The trouble was she cared. Somehow, and she didn’t really understand how, it had got into her bones. Shelton Castle had become her raison d’être.

And, the truth was, it wasn’t hers to love. It was Anthony’s. His birthright. His privilege to nurture and succour the castle for future generations. And if she didn’t manage to detach herself she would eventually be left with nothing.

Minty watched her with narrowed eyes. ‘We agreed. It’s time you left Shelton.’

They had agreed that.

‘And way past time you did a job for which you’re being properly paid.’

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

‘You’ve got no savings, no pension, no career structure—’

‘I know.’ And she did. It wasn’t something that kept her awake at night, but she did know she’d allowed herself to drift for too long.

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

‘Well, then, be nice to Sheikh Rashid and I’ll have you on a plane within twenty-four hours of getting the paperwork through.’

‘Be nice to Sheikh Rashid.’ 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 he’d 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 he’d arrived he’d been permanently surrounded by women who looked as if they’d 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 didn’t notice they were there?

But it was rude all the same. And, speaking as someone who’d often been all but invisible, she didn’t 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 didn’t. Of course they didn’t. They hovered about, smiling and laughing. Hoping he might notice them.

All of which made Minty’s 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 wasn’t Minty.

And he wasn’t the kind of man she’d 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 didn’t.

He was all too much. Too tall. Too handsome. Too…powerful. He looked like the kind of man who could crack a nut with his bare hands and wouldn’t hesitate to do the same to people if he had to. And, from all she’d read, he came from a long line of men who’d had to. Centuries of tribal disputes, years of colonial occupation and violent coups had shaped Amrah into the country it was. They’d 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.

‘Something wrong?’

Polly turned to look down at her mother. ‘No. Why?’

‘You’re frowning. I wondered if the ice sculpture was melting or the fireworks had got damp,’ she said, bringing her wheelchair into line. ‘It’s not often I see you frowning.’

‘Nothing like that. As far as I know.’ Polly smiled and set her glass of untouched champagne down on the window sill behind her. ‘But I ought to stop standing about and check.’

‘Polly—’

She stopped.

‘I just wanted to say you’ve done a beautiful job tonight. Again.’ Her mother reached out and lightly touched her hand. ‘I know Anthony doesn’t appreciate the work that goes into something like this, but I do.’

‘I know.’ Polly spontaneously bent down and placed a kiss on her mother’s cheek. ‘Have you got everything you need? Can I get you a drink?’

The dowager duchess laughed. ‘I’m fine. Any more champagne and I’ll be arrested for being drunk in charge of a wheelchair. You do what you need to do, darling.’

‘Get someone to come and find me if you want to go to bed,’ she said, taking in her mother’s tired face. ‘There’s no need for you—’

‘Stop fussing. I’ll be fine.’ Then, her attention snagged, ‘Who’s that man? I don’t recognise him.’

Polly followed the direction of her mother’s eyes.

‘With the Duke of Aylesbury? Front table, beneath the Mad Duchess oil painting?’

‘That’s—’ She stopped as Rashid’s 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 still…and, heaven help her, he was definitely watching her.

What was more he’d probably seen her watching him. Polly straightened her spine and summoned up her ‘perfect hostess’ 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 Rashid’s blue eyes locked with hers once more. It had to be pure imagination that made her stomach clench in…

God only knew what. The word that had sprung into her mind had been fear. Except that didn’t make any sense.

‘He looks so angry.’

‘That’s His Highness Prince Rashid bin Khalid bin Abdullah Al Baha.’ 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. ‘Why do you think he’s angry?’

‘I just did,’ her mother said slowly, and then smiled. ‘For a moment. He has a very uncompromising face.’

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. ‘I hope Anthony isn’t intending to do business with him. I don’t think that would be a good idea at all.’

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 hadn’t felt so self-conscious since she’d 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 she’d 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 didn’t touch her. Couldn’t, if she didn’t let it.

But…

Still the words she needed to put a frame around what she was feeling eluded her. There was something. Something she couldn’t quite catch at.

Call it feminine intuition, but she was certain the mind behind those blue eyes wasn’t thinking about anything as pleasant as her state-school education and her mother’s temerity to marry ‘out of her class’.

Polly frowned. The way he’d looked at her had felt personal. He’d looked at her as though she were…

Damn it! What was the word?

He’d looked at her as if she were the…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 didn’t know him. Didn’t even know very much about him and he’d have to know even less about her.

At best she’d be a name on their application for permission to film in Amrah. Maybe he just wasn’t keen on a film crew coming to his country? But that hardly made sense because he could say ‘no’ 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 wasn’t as though she had alternatives leaping out at her.

‘Everything all right, Miss Polly?’

Polly spun round and smiled up at her stepbrother’s elderly butler who’d come through the Summer Sitting Room. ‘Fine. I’m just on my way to check everything’s ready for the fireworks.’

‘You’ll find the two gentlemen from “Creative Show” in the staff room,’ the butler said, the merest flicker in his eyes communicating how annoying he’d found them.

Polly smiled and gathered up the folds of her peacock-blue dress. ‘We’re nearly done. And the rain seems to be holding off all right so I think we’ll revert to midnight. Let’s get this over as soon as possible and send these people home.’

‘Very good, Miss Polly.’

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 housekeeper’s daughter even if her mother had married the fourteenth duke. And Henry Phillips would always remember he’d taken her into the kitchens and made her hot milk and sugar during her father’s wake. It was a bond between them that would never be broken even if she was almost ‘a member of the family’.

‘Henry…?’ She stopped him as a new thought occurred to her. ‘What do you know about Sheikh Rashid Al Baha? He’s not been to Shelton before tonight, has he?’

‘No,’ the butler answered with one of his rare smiles, ‘but I fancy he’s the money who bought Golden Mile all the same.’

‘By himself?’

‘Indeed.’

‘He must be worth billions!’

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

‘So why didn’t he come here?’ she asked with a frown.

‘I 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.’

‘Oh.’

‘Why do you ask?’

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

‘And they met tonight?’

Henry nodded.

‘What happened? Did they argue?’

‘That would be very unusual for someone from his culture, I believe. They spoke and it was extremely cordial. But—’ the elderly man searched for the correct word ‘—it was…shall we say, cold.’

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 ‘cold’was 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 mother’s country, the country in which he’d 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 he’d never choose her, or anyone like her, as the mother of his children. It made her behaviour inexplicable.

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

‘Will you be in London next week?’

Rashid twisted the champagne glass between thumb and forefinger, concentrating on the play of light on the liquid in his glass. He really hadn’t 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 on…

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?

‘I’m returning to town after this evening.’ Again the brunette moved her hand suggestively across her low décolletage. ‘Wouldn’t it be fabulous if we could spend some time together before you fly back to Amrah?’

‘No.’ And then he cursed himself for what had been a staggering lack of good manners. His shoulders moved in an apologetic shrug. ‘My father…’

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 didn’t care. There was no genuine emotion in her painted eyes.

And he couldn’t 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 host’s 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.

‘Oh, my God, how lovely.’ 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. ‘Fireworks! Oh, Rashid, how beautiful.’ 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.

‘I love fireworks!’

Vaguely, very vaguely, he was aware of the movement around the table. Chairs scraped back and then Nick’s hand touching his arm. ‘Coming to see?’

Rashid shook his head. He looked up and met his friend’s understanding blue eyes. Nick knew why he was here and would be tolerant if his behaviour wasn’t quite as it should be.

Rashid’s head jerked upwards as he felt the spurt of anger flicker deep inside him. Under any other circumstances he wouldn’t be here. Given half a choice he’d be back in Amrah, ready to spend precious time with his father if he was sent for. And he’d have been watching his brother’s 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.

He’d come hoping to understand—and he didn’t. The fifteenth Duke of Missenden was feckless and without honour. He fully deserved the destiny he had created for himself, Rashid thought, and if he’d 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 he’d finally accepted Nick’s statement that the dowager duchess and her daughter were not accepted by the late duke’s children and therefore unlikely to be complicit in anything underhand.

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

It had been Pollyanna who’d orchestrated the staff so they were largely inconspicuous. Pollyanna who’d managed the minor fracas earlier. He couldn’t see her as someone passive. She appeared strong and capable.

So, given all that, was he prepared to accept Pollyanna Anderson’s 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 didn’t feel right. She moved gracefully enough, but she didn’t 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 he’d 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 she’d known exactly who he was and where he was to be found at any given time this evening, she’d not tried to approach him.

She’d 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 she’d 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 England’s 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 he’d 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 she’d favoured. It was the kind of neck made to be kissed. Long. Soft.

Maybe he’d underestimated her success as a potential honey trap? Pollyanna possessed a natural sensuality.

‘Ms Anderson, my name is Rashid Al Baha.’

Her head snapped round to look at him and her mouth formed an almost perfect ‘o’. ‘Wh—?’

‘I apologise,’ Rashid said, moving farther into the room, ‘for disturbing you.’

She hurriedly returned her feet to the torturous-looking heels she’d been wearing and stood up, letting the soft folds of her dress mass around her ankles. ‘No. That is, I…’ One agitated hand twisted the loose curls back into her chignon. ‘I’m sorry, did you need something?’

Rashid stopped a few feet away from her. ‘I’m no great lover of fireworks.’

‘Oh.’

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 stepbrother’s sins. Maybe there’d 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.

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

‘Talk? I…’ Her hand smoothed out the front of her dress, drawing attention to her curves.

‘Or are you not aware your request to film in my country has been passed to me?’

‘W-we did think it might have been.’ 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. ‘It’s really kind of you, Your Highness.’

‘Rashid, please.’

The beating pulse at the base of her neck was the only indication he had that she wasn’t entirely comfortable. She had such pale skin. So white.

‘Rashid,’ she repeated obediently. ‘And I’m Polly.’

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

‘Minty suggested I try to speak to you about it tonight, but I doubt I’d have had the courage.’

‘Minty?’

‘Araminta Woodville-Brown. She’s the producer.’ Polly hesitated. ‘Hasn’t she been in contact with you? I thought…’

Had she? Faced with a pair of clear blue eyes looking up at him he wasn’t sure that he remembered.

‘I thought that must be why you wanted to talk to me.’

‘I’ve merely seen the paperwork,’ he said in a voice that sounded overly formal. He couldn’t seem to help it.

‘Oh. Well…’ she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue ‘…Minty thinks…that is, she believes it would make a good programme and I…’

She broke off again and took a deep breath. Then she smiled. Her blue eyes glinting with sudden laughter. ‘I’m making a real hash of this, aren’t I? I’m so sorry.’

If she’d 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.

‘Perhaps I could get you something to drink and we could start again?’

‘I need nothing.’

‘D-do you mind if I pour myself some water?’

‘Not at all.’

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.

‘I—I always keep some water in here in case I need it,’ 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. ‘Oh, God, please no!’ she said, swiping at it with her hand. ‘Oh, help!’

This was like a waking nightmare and it couldn’t be happening to her. It couldn’t. 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.

‘Here.’ 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. ‘Thanks. I’m not usually that clumsy.’ And then, ‘Actually, I am. I’m jinxed,’ she said, handing back his handkerchief. ‘But, look, no permanent damage. I live to destroy another day.’

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 she’d read about his predilection for dangerous sports and a steady blue gaze that was startling against the black of his hair.

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

Rashid smiled. He’d smiled before, politely, but this was something different. For the first time it reached his eyes. Maybe he was human, after all? Wouldn’t that be a surprise?

‘I’m sorry. Please take a seat.’ She pulled at the chain around her neck. ‘I should have said that before. I’m afraid I’m a little nervous.’

That devastating smiled widened. ‘There is no need to be.’

‘You clearly don’t know Minty. I’m no good at this type of thing.’ Polly took her water with her and sat back down in the corner of the sofa. ‘She’d do this so much better than I can.’

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

‘Take it to him.’ Minty’s final words to her were echoing in her head. She was fairly sure her friend hadn’t 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.

‘I would be interested to know how you come to be involved?’ 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 wasn’t 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.

‘I suppose it’s because it was my idea. In a way. Although I didn’t expect it would happen.’ She raised her eyes back up to his face. ‘Minty’s 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.’

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 stepbrother’s 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.

‘With you presenting?’

‘Yes, that’s the idea.’

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.

‘I know we’d be the first film crew allowed into Amrah—’

‘The second.’

‘Second?’

‘When 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.’

Talk about wanting the ground to open up beneath you. ‘I didn’t know that.’

Any other man and she’d have asked what had been offensive about it, but she didn’t 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.

‘Our programme would focus on Elizabeth Lewis’s journey across Amrah in the late eighteen eighties. We’d like to retrace her steps, see some of the things she describes.’

‘Such as?’

‘The desert. Fortresses.’ This was so difficult. She was floundering and she knew it. She hadn’t thought much about what she would see as the decision wasn’t hers. ‘Camel-riding. Maybe even camel-racing. I believe she did that at one point.’

Rashid sat back on the sofa. ‘An important part of Amrah’s culture, but not one that is generally looked on favourably in the West.’

‘But the king has forbidden child jockeys by law. It—it was that,’ she struggled on, ‘which people found difficult to accept. Over here, I mean.’

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 she’d run in the opposite direction. He was an absolutely terrifying man.

‘I see. It is helpful to have it explained.’ The smile in his eyes became more definite.

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

Of course he didn’t need her to tell him what the international community thought about child jockeys. He was a highly educated man. A leader of men. He’d 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 ’til she got Minty on the phone tomorrow. If it turned out she had known about the ‘offensive’ programme made earlier Polly was going to personally shoot her.

‘What I meant to say was that we wouldn’t be saying anything…contentious. It’s more a human-interest type of thing. A personal journey.’

‘Personal?’

‘Yes. Well, yes. That’s the plan.’

‘But not yours?’

She shrugged. ‘Only in as much as Elizabeth Lewis is my great-great-grandmother.’

‘Your great-great-grandmother?’

‘On my father’s side.’

A frown snapped across his forehead. ‘That wasn’t in the paperwork.’

‘I suppose because it’s not really relevant, is it?’

For a moment Rashid said nothing. ‘Her legacy is still remembered in Amrah.’

Polly risked a smile. ‘I still don’t know very much about her, but I gather she was…ahead of her time.’

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

Did he consider that a good or a bad thing?

‘That’s it, really. Minty and I made a short programme on Shelton Castle about two years ago—’

‘I’ve seen it.’

‘You have?’ she asked, her eyes nervously flicking up. ‘Anyway, it was fun—and quite successful in ratings terms so Minty found it easy to get the funding for this one. And, well, th-that really is it…’ She tailed off lamely. ‘She’s put it all together and I know she’ll be more than happy to talk it over with you. I’m just there to provide a personal connection to the subject.’

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 he’d want to be sure the resulting programme would be well executed and she hadn’t 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 couldn’t really imagine anything much throwing this man off his balance.

All of a sudden she didn’t care one way or the other. She’d done her best and that was all anyone could do. If this didn’t come off something would. Life was like that. It couldn’t 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. ‘W-what do you think? Can we come?’

His blue eyes flashed across at her. ‘There would need to be conditions.’

‘Of course. Not that I’d 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.’

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 wasn’t possible.

‘She’s your friend.’ He brushed her comment aside as though it wasn’t worth nothing. It was the spur she needed.

‘The programme on Shelton was one of five Minty made about different English stately homes. No one complained. She’s a talented and very successful documentary film maker.’ Polly raised her chin. ‘So, what do you think?’ 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.

‘Why now?’

She’d been braced for an outright rejection and his question surprised her. ‘Now? You want to know why now?’ she echoed, and then gathered herself together. ‘Because of the weather. If we want to film in the desert—’

Rashid cut her off. ‘I will think about it,’ 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. But…he had left her with a little bit of hope—and, even ten minutes ago, that was more than she’d expected.

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