Kissed by the Sheikh!

Prince Hassan al Rashid looks like the ultimate international playboy, but beneath his designer suit beats the heart of a true desert prince. So when he fears his country is at risk, he knows he must stage a diversion of epic proportions to attract the world’s attention. His plan? To kidnap Rose Fenton – media darling and red-headed firecracker!

Except Hassan never realised how outrageously attractive his feisty captive would be! Rose couldn’t be more wrong for him but, one steamy kiss later, Hassan’s wondering why she feels so right…and how he’s ever going to let her go!

His Desert Rose

Liz Fielding

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover

Excerpt

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘THERE was a journalist on the plane, Partridge.’ Prince Hassan al Rashid joined his aide in the rear of the limousine. ‘Rose Fenton. She’s a foreign correspondent for one of the television news networks. Find out what she’s doing here.’

‘There’s no mystery about it, Excellency. She’s convalescing from pneumonia. That’s all.’ Hassan favoured the man with a look that doubted his sanity. But then Partridge was young, British and unbelievably innocent when it came to politics, whereas he had learned the game at his grandfather’s knee and suspected it would be very far from ‘all’. ‘She’s Tim Fenton’s sister,’ Partridge added helpfully. As if that explained everything. ‘He’s the new Chief Veterinary Officer,’ he continued, when he realised it didn’t. ‘He thought a little sun would help with his sister’s recuperation.’

‘Did he?’ How convenient. ‘And since when did being related to the CVO entitle anyone, let alone a journalist, to a seat on Abdullah’s private jet?’

‘I believe that His Highness thought Miss Fenton would appreciate the extra comfort, after being so ill. He’s apparently a great admirer…’ Hassan’s response was a dismissive wave of the hand, but Partridge stuck to his guns. ‘And since you were coming home anyway—’

‘I only learned about the flight when I asked the embassy to organise my own travel arrangements. We both know that Abdullah wouldn’t fly a kite for my convenience. As for offering his personal flying palace…’

‘I think His Highness is fully aware of your opinion of his extravagance.’

‘Yes, well, even the Queen of England flies on a commercial airliner these days.’

‘His Highness doesn’t want the Queen of England to write a flattering piece about him for one of the major news magazines.’

Not that innocent, then. ‘Thank you, Partridge.’ Hassan briefly acknowledged his aide’s unusually wry touch of humour. ‘I was sure you would get to the point eventually.’

Unfortunately it was not something to laugh about. Rose Fenton would doubtless be fêted and flattered as part of the Regent’s charm offensive while Faisal, the youthful Emir, was conveniently out of the country studying American business methods and showing no great eagerness to return home. His own return, Hassan thought grimly, had been precipitated by a friendly whisper that Abdullah was on the point of turning his Regency into something more permanent.

‘Is she aware what’s expected of her?’ he asked.

‘I shouldn’t think so.’

Hassan wasn’t convinced. ‘What about her brother? Have you met him?’

‘At the sports club,’ he said. ‘On the social circuit. Tim Fenton’s good company. He asked for leave to go home when his sister was taken ill and before he knew what was happening His Highness had issued a personal invitation for her to visit Ras al Hajar to convalesce.’

‘And when my cousin makes up his mind to something, it’s a foolish man who argues.’ And why would Rose Fenton argue? Abdullah kept foreign journalists out of Ras al Hajar as a matter of policy. And there weren’t any local ones. This must have seemed like a gift.

‘I don’t think you need worry, sir. Miss Fenton’s reputation as a journalist is formidable. If your cousin is looking for some flattering publicity I’d say he’s chosen the wrong woman.’

‘Maybe. Tell me, does Tim Fenton like his job here?’

Partridge’s silence was all the reply he required. Rose Fenton wouldn’t need to have it spelt out for her in words of one syllable either; she was far too clever for that. And Abdullah would make it easy for her. He’d tell the woman what a great job he was doing, and to prove it he’d whisk her in air-conditioned luxury from the new medical centre to the new shopping mall, via the new sports facilities. Progress in stainless steel and reinforced concrete.

He’d keep her sufficiently busy so that she wouldn’t have time to go looking for anything that might give her other ideas. Even if she had a mind to. After all, a one-to-one interview with the media-shy Regent would be a serious scoop for any journalist, no matter how formidable her reputation.

Hassan wasn’t as enamoured of journalists as his aide, even when they came packaged like the lovely Rose Fenton.

He changed tack. ‘Tell me, Partridge, since you’re so well informed, what entertainments has my cousin arranged to keep the lady amused while she’s here? I imagine he does have plans to keep her amused?’ The idea was distasteful, but he knew that if Abdullah admired the lady it was for her lovely face and fiery red hair rather than her journalistic skills. Partridge’s quick flush demonstrated exactly the effect Miss Fenton produced on susceptible males. ‘Well?’

‘There have been some activities arranged,’ he confirmed. ‘A dhow trip along the coast, a feast somewhere in the desert, a tour of the city…’

‘She appears to be getting the full red carpet treatment.’ Although he suspected her feet wouldn’t touch the ground long enough for her to feel it. ‘Anything else?’

‘Well, there’s a cocktail party at the British Embassy, of course…’ Then he hesitated.

‘Why do I have the feeling that you’re saving the best until last?’

‘His Highness is hosting a reception at the palace in her honour.’

‘Practically a State visit, then,’ he said, all his worst fears confirmed. ‘But rather an exhausting schedule for a woman convalescing from pneumonia, wouldn’t you say?’

‘She has been ill, Excellency. She collapsed reporting to camera from somewhere in Eastern Europe. I saw it happen. She just pitched forward… for a moment I thought she’d been shot by a sniper. How did she look?’ He asked anxiously, ‘You did see her on the plane?’

‘Only briefly. She looked…’

Hassan paused briefly to consider exactly how Rose Fenton had looked. A little flushed, perhaps. The ruffled collar of her white blouse had provided a frame for a face that was a little thinner than the last time he’d seen her on a satellite news broadcast. Maybe that was why her dark eyes had seemed so large.

Dressed for warmth against the raw chill of the weather, she’d been wearing a scarlet sweater that should have clashed horribly with her red hair, but hadn’t. On the contrary; the effect had been riveting.

She’d looked up from a book she was holding and met his glance with frank curiosity; it had been a confident look that avoided being in any way flirtatious but had still managed to convey the suggestion that she’d welcome his company to while away the tedious hours in the air.

Honesty forced him to concede that he’d been tempted, his own curiosity thoroughly roused by her presence on his cousin’s private jet. And he was not impervious to the pleasure of a beautiful woman’s company to help pass the time.

At one point he’d got as far as summoning the steward to invite her forward. In the few seconds it had taken the man to respond, common sense had reasserted itself.

Mixing with journalists was not a good idea. A man just never knew what they’d print next. Or rather he did know. Too late, he’d learned that it was far easier to gain a reputation than lose it, especially if the reputation suited a certain highly placed individual.

And Abdullah would certainly hear about any conversation they’d shared the minute the wheels touched down. Being seen with him would do her no good at all in palace circles.

She’d be safer sticking to her book, no matter how unexpected her choice. Fantasy was always less dangerous than the real thing.

He realised that Partridge was still waiting for his answer. ‘She looked well enough,’ he said irritably.

Rose Fenton stopped to catch her breath as she stepped out of the chill of the air-conditioned arrival hall of the airport and into the midday heat of Ras al Hajar.

Despite the brave show of daffodils in the parks, London hadn’t quite made spring, and Rose had been bundled up in thermal underwear and a heavy sweater by her unusually anxious mother.

‘Are you all right, Rose? You must be tired from the journey.’

‘Don’t fuss, Tim.’ Her brother’s anxious query made him sound exactly like their mother and she wasn’t used to being fussed over. It made her realise just how sick she’d been. She peeled off the sweater. ‘I’m not an invalid, just hot,’ she snapped, her irritability a sure indication that she wasn’t feeling quite as lively as she would have everyone believe. She’d been very bad-tempered the week before she collapsed with pneumonia, but Tim’s obvious concern made her instantly contrite. ‘Oh, heck, I’m sorry. It’s just that for the last month Mum’s been treating me like some nineteenth-century heroine about to expire from consumption.’ Her smile took on a slightly mischievous slant as she hooked her arm through his. ‘I thought I’d escaped the leash.’

‘Yes, well, I have to admit you don’t look quite as bad as I’d expected from the way she’s been fretting,’ he retaliated, easily slipping into the old habit of brotherly teasing, not in the least in awe of her distinguished reputation as a foreign correspondent. ‘I was beginning to wonder if I should rent a bath-chair for your visit.’

‘That really won’t be necessary.’

‘Just a walking stick, then?’

‘Only if you want me to beat you with it.’

‘You’re definitely on the mend,’ he said, laughing.

‘I had two choices: recover quickly, or die of boredom. Mum wouldn’t let me read anything more taxing than a three-year-old magazine,’ she told him as he ushered her in the direction of a dusty dark green Range Rover. ‘And when she discovered I was watching the news, she threatened to confiscate my TV.’

‘You’re exaggerating, Rose.’

‘As if I would!’ Then she relented. ‘Well, maybe. Just a bit.’ And she grinned. ‘But I’m not tired, really. Travelling in the Emir’s private jet had about as much in common with flying economy as a bicycle has with a Rolls Royce.’ She grinned. ‘It’s flying, Tim, but not as we know it.’ She breathed in the warm desert air. ‘This is what I need. Let me get out of these thermals,’ she said, ‘and you won’t be able to stop me.’

‘I warn you, I’m under strict orders to keep you from doing anything too physical.’

‘Spoilsport. I was banking on being whisked away on a fiery black stallion by some hawk-nosed desert prince,’ she teased, but, since her brother looked less than impressed with that idea, she squeezed his arm reassuringly. ‘Just kidding. Gordon gave me a copy of The Sheik to read on the plane.’ Her news editor’s idea of a joke, no doubt. He had an odd sense of humour. Or maybe it had been an excuse to hand over the book-shop carrier that contained all the information he’d been able to dig up on the situation in Ras al Hajar right under her mother’s watchful eyes. She patted the bag slung over her shoulder. ‘I’m not sure whether it was meant as inspiration or warning.’

‘You mean you actually read it?’

‘It’s a classic of women’s fiction,’ she protested.

‘Well, I hope you took it as a warning. I’ve had my instructions from Ma and, believe me, horse riding of any description is definitely off the agenda. You’re allowed to lie in the shade by the pool with a little light reading in the morning, but only if you promise not to go in the water—’

‘I’ve had weeks of this, Tim. I am not promising anything.’

‘Only if you promise not to go in the water,’ he repeated, with a broad grin, ‘and have a little nap in the afternoon.’ Then, more gently, ‘You gave us all a terrible fright, you know, collapsing in the middle of the evening news.’

‘Very bad form,’ she agreed briskly. ‘I’m supposed to report the news, not make it…’ Her voice trailed off as she watched a long black limousine, windows darkened, speed away from the airport.

The car’s occupant was undoubtedly the reason for the flight of the Emir’s private jet on which her brother had managed to hitch her a ride. Wearing an immaculately tailored dark suit, a discreetly striped shirt and a silk tie, he could have been the chairman of any large public company boarding his private plane moments before take-off. But he wasn’t.

Their gazes had met and mutual recognition had been instant before the door to her cabin had been hurriedly shut by an apologetic stewardess more used to travelling princesses than nosy journalists.

Which had been a pity. Prince Hassan al Rashid came very high on her must-meet list. Amongst the pile of news clippings, the photograph of the hawkish face with piercing grey eyes had been the only one that had caught her attention and held it. If Rose had been seriously seeking her own personal fantasy adventure with a sheikh, on a horse of any colour, he would have fulfilled the role admirably.

Prince Hassan had paused as he’d entered the aircraft, and in the moment before the door was shut those grey eyes had fixed her with a look that had brought a flush of colour to her cheeks and made her want to tug her calf-length skirt closer to her ankles. It was a look that had left her feeling entirely female, entirely vulnerable in a way that for a twenty-eight-year-old journalist was almost embarrassing.

A twenty-eight-year-old journalist, with one marriage, one war and half a dozen in-depth interviews with prime ministers and presidents behind her.

But she was quite capable of recognising a seriously dangerous man when she saw one, and his photograph, a posed, expressionless, formal portrait, hadn’t even come close to the real thing.

What, if any, impression she had made upon him was impossible to tell. In the few moments before the door had been closed discreetly between them, his expression had given nothing away.

It was her first taste of purdah and, despite the fact that she’d been treated throughout the flight like a princess, she didn’t much like it. She knew that, by his own standards, Prince Hassan was showing her far more respect by ignoring her presence than if he had joined her, but as a journalist she could scarcely help being disappointed. It was her disappointment as a woman that disturbed her more.

Besides, such respect seemed strangely at odds with his reputation as a playboy prince whose wealth, according to gossip, was pumped straight from his country’s oil wells to the wrists and necks of beautiful women, and the world’s most exclusive gaming tables.

But at home in Ras al Hajar he apparently chose to at least nod to convention. When he had disembarked before her, to be greeted by the officials lined up on the tarmac, he had dispensed with the expensive Italian tailoring and was wearing the trappings of a desert prince. A black prince.

The breeze had tugged impatiently at the gossamer-thin camel hair cloak thrown over his black robes, at the black keffiyeh held in place by a simple, unadorned camel halter. And she had sensed his own impatience with the ceremonial honour paid him as each man stepped forward to take his hands and bow deeply over them.

Tim saw her glance drawn to the limousine as the morning sun flashed from the darkened windows. ‘Prince Hassan,’ he murmured.

‘Prince who?’ she asked, feigning ignorance. She had long since learned that people told her far more that way.

But Tim did not leap in with the local gossip as she had hoped. ‘No one for you to get worked up about, Rose. He’s only the local playboy.’

‘Really? From all the bowing and scraping when he got off the plane, I thought he must be next in line to King around here.’

‘He’s not next in line to anything.’ Tim shrugged. ‘Hassan warrants all that “bowing and scraping”, as you so eloquently put it, because his father took a bullet meant for the old Emir. Several bullets, in fact.’

‘Oh?’ Act dumb, Rosie, just act dumb. ‘He was shot?’

Tim’s disbelieving glance warned her that she might have gone a bit over the top, but he indulged her curiosity. ‘Yes, he was shot, and his reward for a bullet in the shoulder and a smashed leg was the hand of the old Emir’s favourite daughter and a life of ease. Not that he lived long enough to enjoy it.’

‘He didn’t survive the attack, then?’

‘He made a pretty fair recovery, by all accounts, but he was killed in a car accident a few months after the wedding.’

‘How terrible.’ Then, ‘Was it an accident?’

Her brother’s mouth straightened in a knowing grin. ‘Quick for a girl, aren’t you?’ Then he shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine and that’s all anyone can do—guess.’

‘Well, he lived long enough to father a son,’ she said, regret stirring at deeply buried memories. ‘That’s as close to immortality as any of us ever gets.’

‘Rose,’ Tim prompted gently.

She responded with a distracted, ‘Mmm,’ as she continued to watch the limousine speed away from the airport. It might be her job to be interested in anyone who was so close to the throne yet could never aspire to it, but something else was prompting her curiosity about the man behind those grey eyes.

She’d met men who could command the most undisciplined rabble with no more than a look from eyes like that. It wasn’t the colour that mattered, it was the strength, the conviction behind them. His weren’t the eyes of a playboy. And if he was pretending? The thought strayed into her head and stirred the down on the nape of her neck.

Then, realising that Tim was still patiently holding the door for her, she smiled. ‘So, I like a good human interest story. Tell me about him. His father must have been dead before he was born.’

‘He was. Perhaps that’s why Hassan was so indulged by the old man. He was raised as a favourite.’ Tim glanced back at the limousine, disappearing at speed in the direction of the open desert. ‘Too much money, too little to do; it was bound to lead to trouble.’

‘What kind of trouble?’

He shrugged. ‘Women, gambling… But what can you expect? A man has to do something, and despite the title he’s effectively barred from palace politics.’

‘Oh? Why’s that?’ She was too quick with the question and Tim suddenly realised that he was being pumped for information.

‘Leave it, Rose,’ he said firmly. ‘You’re here for rest and recuperation, not to ferret out a non-existent story.’

‘But if you don’t tell me why he can’t get involved in politics I’ll just worry about it,’ she said, quite reasonably, as Tim helped her up into the air-conditioned comfort of the four-wheel drive. ‘I just won’t be able to help myself.’

‘Try. Very hard,’ he suggested. ‘This isn’t a democracy and nosy journalists are not welcome.’

‘I’m not nosy,’ she said, with a grin. ‘Just interested.’ Prince Hassan interested her a lot. Men with eyes like that didn’t waste time playing… not without good reason.

‘And I’m Charley’s Aunt. You’re here as Prince Abdullah’s guest, Rosie. Break the rules and you’ll be on the first flight out of here. And so will I, so drop it. Please.’

It was years since Tim had called her Rosie, and she suspected that this was his way of reminding her that, despite the fact that she was a well-known and respected journalist, she was still his little sister. And this was his territory. So she shrugged and let the subject drop. For now. Besides, she knew, or suspected she knew, the answer to her question. Hassan’s father might have been a hero, but he’d been a foreigner, a Scot who’d been drawn to the desert. She had the press cuttings to prove it.

But it wouldn’t do to let Tim know that. ‘Sorry, it’s just force of habit. And boredom.’

‘Then we’ll have to make sure that you don’t get bored. I’ve arranged a small party to introduce you to some people, and Prince Abdullah has pulled out all the stops to make sure you have a good time.’

Rose allowed Tim to run on about the receptions and parties lined up and waiting for her pleasure, not pushing the subject she was most interested in. After all, receptions and parties were the places to hear all the latest gossip and, with luck, meet the local playboy.

‘What was that about a reception at the palace?’ she asked, tuned in for the important words even while her brain was thinking about something else.

‘Only if you feel up to it,’ he added. He glanced across at her and pulled a little face. ‘I should warn you that the ride in Abdullah’s private plane might have strings attached. He’s not above trying to charm you into recording a flattering interview with him.’

‘Well, he’s out of luck,’ she said, mentally scratching the interview with Abdullah, number two on her Ras al Hajar must-do list. A pity, but it would give her more time to concentrate on Prince Hassan. After all, she was on holiday and entitled to a treat. ‘I’m here to relax.’

‘Since when did relaxation get in the way of work? I can’t see you turning down an exclusive interview with the ruler of a strategically important and oil-rich country, no matter how sick you’ve been.’

‘Regent,’ she reminded him, abandoning all pretence. ‘Isn’t the young Emir due back from America soon? Or could it be that now he’s had a taste of life at the top, Prince Abdullah is reluctant to step down? I mean, once you’ve been King anything else has to be something of an anticlimax. Doesn’t it?’ Tim frowned, his glance suddenly anxious. She grinned and put a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘I’ll just stick to lying quietly by the pool with a little light reading, shall I? Relaxing.’

He swallowed. ‘Perhaps that would be best. I’ll tell His Highness that you’re too weak for partying just yet.’

‘Don’t you dare! Tell him… Tell him, I’m just to weak to work.’

Hassan remained deep in thought for a long time after the car had come to a halt. ‘You’ll have to go to the States, Partridge. It’s time Faisal was home.’

‘But Excellency—’

‘I know, I know.’ He waved impatiently. ‘He’s enjoying the freedom and he won’t want to come, but he can’t put it off any longer.’

‘He’d take it better from you, sir.’

‘Maybe, but the fact that I feel unable to leave the country will ram home the message more effectively than anything either of us can say.’

‘What do you want me to say?’

‘Tell him… tell him if he wants to keep his country, it’s time to come home before Abdullah takes it from him. I can’t put it plainer than that.’

He climbed from the limousine and strode towards the huge carved doors of the coastal watch-tower he had made his home, his feet ringing on the stone slabs of the courtyard.

‘And Miss Fenton?’ Partridge asked, his pace slower as he leaned heavily on his walking stick.

Hassan paused at the entrance to his private apartments. ‘You can safely leave Miss Fenton to me,’ he said sharply.

Partridge paled, swinging round in front of him and forcing him to a halt. ‘Sir, you won’t forget she’s been ill—’

‘I won’t forget that she’s a journalist.’ Hassan’s face darkened as he saw the anxiety in the man’s face. Well, well. Lucky Rose Fenton. Needed by a fabulously rich and totally powerful older man for her ability to make him look good, desired by a young and foolish one with nothing in his head but romantic nonsense. All in one day. How many women could start a holiday with that kind of advantage?

It occurred to him that Rose Fenton, blessed with both brains and beauty, probably started every holiday with that kind of advantage.

‘What are you planning to do, sir?’

‘Do?’ He wasn’t used to having his intentions questioned.

Partridge might be nervous, but he wasn’t cowed. ‘With Miss Fenton.’

Hassan gave a short laugh. ‘What do you think I’m going to do with her, man?’ The image of the book she had been holding swept into his mind. ‘Abduct her and carry her off into the desert like some old-time bandit?’

Partridge immediately flushed. ‘N-no.’

‘You don’t sound very certain,’ he pressed. ‘It’s what my grandfather would have done.’

‘Your grandfather lived in a different age, sir,’ Partridge said. ‘I’ll go and pack.’

Hassan watched him go. The young man had guts, and he admired him for the way he coped with disability and pain, but he wouldn’t put up with dissent from anyone. He’d do whatever he had to.

Thirty minutes later he handed Partridge the letter he had written to his young half-brother and walked with him to the Jeep that would take him down to the jetty. The courtyard was full of horsemen with hawks at their wrists, long-legged silky-coated Salukis at their heels. Partridge’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re going hunting? Now?’

‘I need to heat the London damp out of my bones and get some good, clean desert air in my lungs.’ And it occurred to him that if Abdullah was planning a quiet coup, it might be wise to take himself to his desert camp where his presence would be less noticeable. ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’

‘This is it.’

‘It’s beautiful, Tim.’ The villa was out of the town, set on the hillside overlooking the wild and rugged coast near the royal stables. Tim’s title might give him control of the country’s veterinary services, but his main concern was the Regent’s stud. Below them was a palm grove and around the house there were oleanders in flower, bright birds… ‘I expected desert… sand dunes…’

‘Hollywood has a lot to answer for.’ The door opened at their approach and Tim’s servant bowed as Rose crossed the threshold. ‘Rose, this is Khalil. He cooks, cleans and looks after the place so I can concentrate on work.’ The young man returned her smile shyly.

‘Good grief, Tim,’ Rose said, once she’d admired everything, from the exquisite rugs laid over polished hardwood floors to the small swimming pool in the discreetly walled garden beyond the French windows. ‘It’s a bit different from that scruffy little house you had in Newmarket.’

‘If you think this is luxury, just wait until you see the stables. The horses have a much larger swimming pool than me and I have a fully equipped hospital, anything I ask for—’

‘Okay, okay!’ She grinned at his enthusiasm. ‘You can give me the grand tour later, but right now I could do with a shower.’ She lifted her hair from her neck. ‘And I need to change into some lighter clothes.’

‘What? Oh, sorry. Look, why don’t you make yourself at home, have a rest, something to eat? Your room is through here.’ He shepherded her through to a large suite. ‘There’s plenty of time to see everything.’

She stopped in the doorway, but it wasn’t the splendour of her room that surprised her. It was the fact that every available surface was obscured by baskets full of roses. ‘Where on earth did all these come from?’

‘Wherever roses are grown at this time of year.’ Tim shrugged, obviously embarrassed by the excess. ‘I should have thought you were used to it by now. I don’t suppose anyone ever sends you lilies, or daisies or chrysanthemums. Do they?’

‘Rarely,’ she admitted, looking for a card, but finding none. ‘But they usually come in dozens. These appear to have been ordered by the gross.’

‘Yes, well, Prince Abdullah sent them over this morning so that you’d feel at home.’

‘He thinks I live in a florist’s shop?’

Tim pulled a face. ‘They do everything on a grander scale here.’ He glanced anxiously at his watch. ‘Rose, can you look after yourself for an hour or so? I’ve a mare about to foal…’

She laughed. ‘Go. I’ll be fine.’

‘If you’re sure? If you need me—’

‘I’ll whinny.’

His face relaxed into a smile. ‘Actually, I think you’ll find the telephone system is perfectly adequate.’

Alone, she turned back to the roses. Creamy white, perfect florist’s blooms. She resisted the urge to count them; instead she thoughtfully riffled the satiny petals of a half-open bud with the edge of her thumb. The flowers were beautiful, but scentless, a sterile cliché without any real meaning.

And her thoughts wandered back to Prince Hassan al Rashid. The playboy prince was something of a cliché too. But those grey eyes suggested something very different behind the façade.

Prince Abdullah might woo her co-operation with his private jet and his roses, but it was Hassan who had her undivided attention.

CHAPTER TWO

‘WHAT do you mean, you can’t find him?’ Hassan could barely contain his anger. ‘He has bodyguards who watch him night and day—’

‘He’s given them the slip.’ Partridge’s voice echoed faintly on the satellite link. ‘Apparently there’s a girl involved—’

Of course there would be a girl. Damn the boy. And damn those blockheads who were supposed to look after him…

Except that he’d been twenty-four himself, once, centuries ago, and remembered only too well how it felt to live every waking moment under watchful eyes. Remembered just how easy it was to lose them when there was a girl…

‘Find him, Partridge. Find him and bring him home. Tell him…’ What? That he was sorry? That he understood? What good would that do? ‘Tell him there isn’t much time.’

‘I’ll do whatever is necessary, Excellency.’

Hassan stood at the entrance to his tent, Partridge’s words ringing in his head. Whatever is necessary… His dying grandfather had used those words to him on the day he’d named his younger grandson, Faisal, his heir, and his nephew, Abdullah, as Regent. Whatever is necessary for my country. It had been an apology of sorts, but, hurting and angry at being dispossessed, he had refused to understand and had behaved like the young fool that he’d been.

Older, wiser, he understood that for a man to rule he must first accept that the wishes of the heart must always be sacrificed to necessity.

In a few short weeks Faisal would be twenty-five, and if his young half-brother was to take on the burden of kingship he too would have to learn that lesson. And quickly.

In the meantime something would have to be done to disrupt Abdullah’s attempt at coup by media. His cousin might not encourage the press to come calling at his door, but he understood its power, and he would not let the chance slip to have someone like Rose Fenton in his pocket.

She’d already been given the official grand tour of the more fragrant parts of city, and it would be so easy to be fooled into believing everything was wonderful if you weren’t looking too hard. And Abdullah had it in his power to distract her in all manner of ways.

She might not succumb to the gifts, the gold and pearls that would be showered upon her. It was unlikely—he had little faith in the myth of the crusading, incorruptible journalist—but Abdullah had never been a one-plan dictator. If money wouldn’t do it, he had her brother as a hostage to her co-operation.

Well, two could play at that game, and, although he was sure she wouldn’t take the same view of the situation, Hassan reasoned that he would actually be doing Miss Fenton a favour if he took her out of circulation for a while.

And dealing with her frantic family, the British Foreign Office, the unkind comments of the British media, would give his cousin something more pressing to worry him than usurping Faisal’s throne. It might even prompt him to bail out. While Abdullah enjoyed the tribute that went with his role as stand-in Head of State, he wasn’t nearly so keen on the responsibilities that accompanied the role.

Partridge would doubtless be outraged, but, since his aide was clearly aware of the urgent necessity of doing whatever it took, he could be relied upon to keep his own counsel. In public, if not in private.

‘Horse racing?’ Rose helped herself to a slice of toast. It was six years since she’d been to a racetrack. It might not have been a deliberate decision, but she had always found some pressing reason to decline the many invitations to Ascot and Cheltenham that came her way. ‘At night?’

‘Under floodlights. It’s cooler then. Especially in summer,’ Tim added, then grinned. ‘There’ll be camel racing, too. Would you want to miss that?’

‘Would I?’ She pretended to think. ‘Yes.’

For a moment she thought he was going to say something. Give her the ‘it’s been nearly six years’ speech. He clearly thought better of it, because he shrugged and said, ‘Well, it’s up to you.’ If he was disappointed by her decision he didn’t let it show, and she could hardly believe that he was surprised. ‘I have to be there for obvious reasons, but I can come back and pick you up afterwards.’

She glanced up from the careful application of butter to her toast. ‘Pick me up?’

Tim indicated the square white envelope propped up against the marmalade. ‘We’ve been invited out to dinner after the races.’

‘Again?’ Didn’t anyone ever stay in for a pizza and a video in Ras al Hajar? ‘Who by?’

‘Simon Partridge.’

‘Have I met him?’ she asked, picking up the envelope and extracting a single sheet of paper. The handwriting was bold and strong. The note oddly formal. ‘Simon Partridge requests the pleasure…’

‘No, he’s Prince Hassan’s aide.’

About to plead tiredness, a headache, anything to get out of another formal evening, the night in with a video suddenly lost its appeal. She hadn’t seen the playboy prince since he got off the plane. She’d looked for him, listened out for his name, but he appeared to have vanished from the face of the earth.

‘You’ll like him,’ Tim said. She was sure her brother meant Simon Partridge rather than Hassan, but she didn’t ask; she had the feeling that it would be wiser not to draw attention to her interest. ‘He was desperately keen to meet you, but he’s been out of town.’

‘Really?’ And then she laughed. ‘Tell me, Tim, where do you go when you go “out of town” in Ras al Hajar?’

‘Nowhere. That’s the point. You leave civilisation behind.’

‘I’ve done that.’ She’d been in some very uncivilised places in the last few years. Too many. ‘It’s overrated.’

‘The desert is different. Which is why, if you’re someone like Hassan, the first thing you do when you get home is take your hounds and your hawks out into the desert and go hunting. And if you’re his aide, you go with him.’

‘I see.’ What she saw was that if Simon Partridge was back in town, then so was Prince Hassan. ‘Tell me about him. Simon Partridge. It’s unusual for someone like Hassan to have a British aide, surely?’

‘His grandfather had one and lived to tell the tale.’

‘Did he?’

Tim frowned. ‘Hassan’s father. He was a Scot. Didn’t I say?’

‘No, you didn’t.’ Well, he hadn’t. ‘It explains a lot.’

Tim shrugged. ‘Maybe he feels he can rely on Partridge one hundred per cent to be his man, with no divided tribal loyalties, no family feuds to get in the way.’

‘A back to get in the way should someone feel like stabbing him in it?’ she pondered. ‘What does Simon Partridge get out of it?’

‘Just a job. He’s not Hassan’s bodyguard. Partridge was in the army, but his Jeep got into a bit of an argument with a landmine and he was invalided out. His Colonel and Hassan were at school together…’

‘Eton,’ she murmured, without thinking.

‘Where else?’ Tim had assumed it was a question. ‘Partridge, too.’ He looked pleased at her apparent interest in his absent friend and Rose sighed, suspecting a little furtive matchmaking. ‘So?’ Tim retrieved the invitation. ‘What shall I tell him?’

That was easy. The racing might be a non-starter, but Rose wasn’t going to miss out on a chance to meet Hassan’s aide. She handed him back the note. ‘Tell him… Miss Fenton accepts…’

‘Great.’ The phone rang and Tim answered it, listened, then said, ‘I’ll be right there.’ He was halfway to the door before he remembered Rose. ‘Simon’s number is on the note. Will you call him?’

‘No problem.’ She picked up the receiver, dialled the number. As it rang, she looked again at the bold cursive and decided Tim was right for once. She was sure she would like the owner of such a decisive hand.

‘Yes?’

‘Mr Partridge? Simon Partridge?’

There was the briefest pause. ‘I believe I have the pleasure of speaking to Miss Rose Fenton.’

‘Er, yes.’ She laughed. ‘How did you know?’

‘If I told you I was psychic?’ the voice offered.

‘I wouldn’t believe you.’

‘And you would be right not to. Your voice is unmistakable, Miss Fenton.’

While Simon Partridge sounded rather older than she had expected from Tim’s description of him, his voice was low, deeply authoritative, velvet on steel. Not that she was about to drool into the phone.

‘That’s because I talk too much,’ she replied crisply. ‘Tim’s had to rush off to the stables, but he asked me to ring you and say that we’re delighted to accept your invitation to dinner this evening.’

‘I have no doubt that the delight will be all mine.’

His formality was so very… foreign. She wondered how long he had been in Ras al Hajar. She’d assumed it was a fairly recent thing, but maybe not. ‘You know he has to go to the races first, of course—’

‘Everyone goes to the races, Miss Fenton. There is nothing else to do in Ras al Hajar. You will be there?’

‘Well…’

‘You must come.’

Must she? ‘Yes,’ she said, rapidly changing her mind. She rather thought she must. After all, she reasoned, if everyone went to the races, Hassan would be there. ‘Yes, I’m looking forward to it.’ And suddenly she was. Very much.

‘Until this evening, Miss Fenton.’

‘Until then, Mr Partridge,’ she replied. And she put down the receiver feeling just a touch breathless.

Hassan switched off the cellphone that had been purchased in the souk that morning and registered in an entirely fictitious name and tossed it on the divan. Beyond the opening of the huge black tent he could see the lush palm grove watered by the small streams that ran from the craggy mountainous border country. In spring it was paradise on earth. He had the feeling that Rose Fenton might not view it in quite the same way.

‘Come home quickly, Faisal,’ he murmured. At the sound of his voice the hound at his feet rose and pushed a long silky head against his hand.

Rose was thoroughly dissatisfied with her small wardrobe. She’d felt like an absolute dowd at the embassy cocktail party. She’d assumed that it would be smart but casual. Tim had been absolutely no help and in the end she’d decided on her crush-proof go-anywhere little black dress. In the event, of course, all the other women had taken the opportunity to wear their latest designer creations, leaving the black dress looking as if it had already been around the world and back again. Well, it had.

She hadn’t anticipated so much socialising, and besides, she had nothing that could possibly cover an evening outdoors at the races followed by a private dinner.

She would normally have asked her hostess what would be suitable. But there was no hostess, and something about Simon Partridge had precluded that kind of informal chattiness. It was the same something that urged her to make a real effort, pull out all the stops, and she decided to wear the shalwar kameez that she’d been given on a trip to Pakistan and packed in the hope of an interview with the Regent. Something she’d been doing her best to avoid ever since she’d arrived, although even she had begun to run out of convincing excuses.

The trousers were cut from heavy slub silk in a dull mossy shade, the tunic a shade or two lighter and the hand-embroidered silk chiffon scarf paler still. She should have worn it to the embassy.

‘Wow!’ Tim’s reaction was unexpected. He didn’t usually notice what anyone wore. ‘You look stunning.’

‘That’s worrying. I suddenly get the feeling that everyone else will be wearing jeans.’

‘Does it matter? You’re going to absolutely knock Simon’s eyes out.’

‘I’m not sure that’s the effect I’m striving for, Tim.’ Remembering the effect of his voice on her ability to breathe, she thought she might just be kidding herself. ‘At least not until I know him better.’

‘In that outfit he’ll definitely want to get to know you better.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’d better go. Got everything?’

‘Hanky, safety pin, ten pence for the telephone,’ she said solemnly. Her cellphone, tape recorder, notebook and pen went without saying. And she didn’t say anything because she had the feeling they would make her brother uneasy.

Tim laughed. ‘I’d forgotten the way Mum used to say that.’ He put his arm beneath her elbow and helped her up into the Range Rover.

‘How far is it?’

‘Oh, just a couple of miles beyond the stables. Once you get through these low hills there’s a good flat piece of ground that’s perfect for racing.’ He pulled a face as they bumped over the rough track. ‘Sorry about this. The Emir’s had a dual-carriageway road laid from town, but this way’s much quicker for us.’

‘Hey, this is “Front-line” Fenton you’re talking to. A few bumps aren’t going to… Oh, look out!’

A pale riderless horse leapt from a low bluff and landed in front of them, turning to rear up in front of the car, mane flying, hooves pawing at the air. Tim swung to avoid it, throwing the car into a sideways skid that seemed to go on for ever on the loose gravel.

‘It’s one of Abdullah’s horses,’ he said, as he brought the Range Rover under control. ‘Someone’s going to be in trouble—’ The moment they stopped, he flung open the door and leapt down. ‘Sorry, but I’ll have to try and catch it.’

‘Can I do anything?’ She turned as he opened the tailgate and took out a rope halter.

‘No. Yes. Use the car phone to call the stables. Ask them to send a horsebox.’

‘Where?’

‘Just say between the villa and the stables; they’ll find us.’

The interior light had not come on and she reached up, clicked the switch, but nothing happened. She shrugged, lifted the phone, but there was no dial tone. Great. She picked up her bag and dug out the new mobile phone that Gordon had included in the carrier with the book and the cuttings. It was small, very powerful and did just about everything except play the national anthem, but she wasn’t confident enough with it to press buttons in the dark, so slid down from her seat to check it out in the headlights. Her feet had just touched the ground when the headlights went out.

She could hear her brother, some distance off, gentling the nervous horse, hear the scrabbling of hooves against the rough ground as the lovely creature danced away from him. Then that sound, too, abruptly stopped as the horse found sand.

It was so quiet, so dark in the shadow of the bluff. There was no moon, but the stars were brilliant, undimmed by light pollution, and the sand reflected the faintest silvery shimmer against which everything else was jet-black.

A shadow detached itself from the darkness.

‘Tim?’

But it wasn’t her brother. Even before she turned she knew it wasn’t him. Tim had smelt faintly of aftershave, was wearing a light-coloured jacket. This man had no scent that she could discern and he was dressed from head to foot in a robe of a blackness so dense that it absorbed light rather than reflecting it. Even his face was concealed in a black keffiyeh worn so that nothing but his eyes were visible.

His eyes were all she needed to see.

It was Hassan. Despite the charge of fear that fixed her to the spot, despite the adrenalin-driven panicky race of her heart, she knew him. But this was not the urbane Prince boarding a private jet in expensive Italian tailoring; this was not Hassan in playboy prince mode.

This was the man promised by granite-grey eyes, deep, dangerous and totally in command, and something warned her that he wasn’t about to ask if she needed help.

Before she could do more than half turn to run, before she could even think about shouting a warning to her brother, he’d clamped his hand over her mouth. Then, with his free arm flung around her, he lifted her clear of the ground as he pulled her hard against his body. Hard enough for the curved weight of the dagger at his waist to dig into her ribs.

Definitely not from the local branch of auto rescue.

She might have done a self-defence course but so apparently had he, because he knew all the moves. Her elbows were immobilised, and with her feet off the ground she had no platform from which to launch a counter-move. Not that it would do her any good. She might make the high ground, but what then? There was nowhere to run to and, although she couldn’t see anyone else, she doubted that he was alone.

She struggled anyway.

He simply tightened his grip and waited, and after a moment she stopped. There was no point in wearing herself out unnecessarily.

When she was quite still except for the unnaturally swift rise and fall of her breast as she tried to regain her breath, he finally spoke. ‘I would be grateful if you did not shout, Miss Fenton,’ he said, very quietly. ‘I have no wish to hurt your brother.’ And his voice was like his hand, like his eyes, hard, uncompromising, not playing games.

He knew who she was, then. This wasn’t some random snatch. No. Of course it wasn’t. It might have been some days since they’d exchanged that momentary glance on the plane that had brought her to Ras al Hajar, but she’d heard the voice much more recently. Heard it insisting that she must go to the races. And she had blithely assured him that she would be there. That had been the reason for the invitation; he’d wanted to be sure she would be there so he could plan exactly where and when to abduct her.

Not Simon Partridge, then. But Hassan. She realised that she wasn’t as surprised as she might have been. The voice was a much better fit.

But what did he want? Just because she’d read a few pages of The Sheik in an idle moment, that didn’t mean she subscribed to the fantasy. She didn’t think for a minute that he was about to carry her off into the desert for the purposes of ravishment. She was a journalist, and not given much to flights of fancy. And why would he bother when, with the click of his fingers, he could bring just about any woman he desired to his side?

‘Well?’ He was offering her a choice? Not much of one. She nodded, once, promising her silence.

‘Thank you.’ The formal courtesy was unmistakable. As if she had had any choice but surrender! But, as if to prove that he was a gentleman, Hassan immediately removed his hand from her mouth, set her feet to the ground, eased his grip on her. Maybe he was so used to obedience that it didn’t occur to him that she wouldn’t keep quiet, keep still. Or maybe it didn’t matter all that much. There was only Tim, after all, and with a sudden sense of dread she recalled the sudden silence.

‘Where is Tim? What have you done with him?’ she demanded as she spun back to face him, her own voice hushed in the absolute still of the desert night. Hushed! She should be screaming her head off…

‘Nothing. He’s still chasing after Abdullah’s favourite stallion.’ The eyes gleamed. ‘I imagine he’ll be gone some time. This way, Miss Fenton.’ Her eyes, quickly adjusting to the darkness, saw the uncompromising shape of a Land Rover waiting in the shadows. Not one of the plush, upmarket jobs that her brother drove, but the basic kind that took to hard terrain like a duck to water. The kind used by military men the world over.

Far more practical than a horse, she didn’t doubt, any more than she doubted that she would go wherever he was taking her. Her only alternative was to run for it, try and dodge him in the rocky outcrops of the rising ground behind her. As if he anticipated she might try it, Hassan tightened his hold and urged her towards the waiting vehicle.

Despite the prickle of fear that was goosing her flesh, all her journalist instincts were on red alert. But, although her curiosity was intense, she didn’t want him to think she was going willingly. ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ she said, and dug in her heels.

‘Kidding?’ He repeated the word as if he didn’t understand it. Then he raised his head, looked beyond her. The moon was rising, and as she turned she saw the dark silhouette of her brother in the distance. He had managed to get the head rope on the stallion and was leading him quietly back towards the Range Rover, completely oblivious to her plight, to the danger he was walking into.

Hassan had seriously underestimated his skill, his empathy with even the most difficult of horses, and, realising it, he swore beneath his breath. ‘I don’t have time to argue.’

She wasn’t about to let Tim walk into trouble, but even as she drew a ragged breath to shout a warning she was enveloped in blackness. Real blackness, the kind that made starlight look like day, and she was wrapped, parcelled, bundled, lifted off her feet and slung over his shoulder.

Far too late she stopped being the cool correspondent, absorbing every last detail for her report, and began to struggle in dreadful earnest. Too late she realised she should have yelled when she’d had the chance. Not for help, since that would surely be pointless, but to make sure that Tim called her news editor to tell him what had happened.

She kicked furiously in an effort to free her head, not wasting her breath in shouting, because her voice wouldn’t make it beyond the confines of the heavy cloth. But although her feet were free to inflict whatever damage she could manage they appeared to make no impression upon her captor. If only she could free her hands! But they were pinned uselessly to her sides… Well, not quite uselessly. One them was still gripping the little mobile phone. She almost smiled. The mobile. Well, that was all right, then. She’d call the news desk herself…

Then she was dumped unceremoniously on the floor of the truck, and even through the thick muffling cloth she could hear the sound of an engine, smell hot diesel oil. Diesel oil? Where were the horses? Where was the glamour?

Right now, according to the book she’d read on the plane, she should be racing across the desert crushed against her captor’s hard body and struggling desperately for her honour…

She almost laughed. Times had certainly changed. Her honour was the last thing on her mind. She’d been kidnapped and all she could think about was calling in the story.

Well, not quite all. There had been a moment as she’d been crushed against Hassan’s chest, with his hand clamped across her mouth and his gaze locked with hers, when swooning would have been very easy. And it didn’t need a particularly vivid imagination to picture his body hard against hers, holding her tightly as she continued to fight him even as the Land Rover sped away.

Only three days ago she’d been joking about being swept off by a desert prince. Bad mistake. It wasn’t a bit funny. She was being jolted hard against the Land Rover floor and, as if he realised it, her captor rolled so that he was beneath her, taking the worst of it. Although whether lying on top of a man hell-bent on abduction could be described as an improvement… But with his arm still clamped about her, she didn’t have any choice.

Maybe it would be wiser to stop struggling, though, put the fantasy firmly from her mind, ignore the intimacy of their tangled legs and try and work out what on earth Hassan thought he was doing. Ask herself why he had taken such a crazy risk.

It would be easier to think without the suffocating weight of the cloak depriving her of her senses, without his arms wrapped tightly about her.

She supposed she should be afraid. Poor Tim would be frantic. Then there was her mother. So much for the constant nagging to be prepared. For the first time in her life she had a real use for the safety pin, could have jabbed it into His Highness’s thigh hard enough to make him seriously regret grabbing her, maybe even hard enough to make him let go so that she could throw off the covering.

Unfortunately her handbag, containing the pin, was sitting on the floor of Tim’s Range Rover. Along with the clean hanky and the ten pence piece for the emergency telephone call.

This situation certainly fell into the emergency telephone call category, although how many public telephones was she likely to find in the desert? Her mother hadn’t thought of that one.

Still, when she found out that her daughter was missing, Pam Fenton would spend far more than ten pence on the telephone giving the Foreign Office hell.

If she found out her daughter was missing. Rose had the feeling that her disappearance would be kept out of the news if Abdullah could manage it. And he probably could. Tim wouldn’t be too hard to convince that her safety depended upon it. And the embassy would do whatever they thought was most likely to achieve her safe return. Just as well she had the mobile, then; Gordon would never forgive her for failing to turn in this scoop.

Oh, Lord! Whatever had happened to her fright-or-flight mechanism? She wasn’t afraid; she wasn’t planning escape. The primary emotion flowing through her system was indignation at the unromantic manner of her abduction.

She should just be grateful that Hassan hadn’t hurt her, that he hadn’t tied her up, or gagged her. Well, he hadn’t needed to. She hadn’t yelled when she could have, should have. Even now she was lying still and doing nothing at all to make life difficult for the man. That was because curiosity was running indignation a close second.

What did Hassan want?

Not just a cosy chat. If he’d wanted that he could have knocked on the villa door any time and she’d have been happy to offer him a cup of tea and a chocolate digestive. It was the way they did it in Chelsea. Maybe they did things differently in Ras al Hajar.

Or maybe he had an entirely different agenda.

Think, Rose! Think! What possible reason could Hassan al Rashid have for kidnapping her? What reason did anyone have?

Ransom? Ridiculous.

Sex? There was a momentary wobble somewhere low in her abdomen at the thought, then she dismissed the idea as errant nonsense.

Could this be the playboy prince’s idea of a joke? After all, his cousin the Regent would be seriously ticked off by the kind of publicity this little escapade would generate, and rumour suggested there was no love lost between the two men. She could just imagine the headlines, the news bulletins…

Suddenly everything clicked into place. That had to be it. Headlines. This was no joke. Hassan wanted Ras al Hajar in the news. More than that, he wanted to embarrass Abdullah…

Quite suddenly, she lost her temper. Drat the story! Here she was, wrapped up like a parcel of washing, her bones rattling like stones in a cup, and all because Hassan thought it would be amusing to irritate his cousin with bad headlines and she happened to be a handy source of aggravation.

She felt aggrieved. Seriously aggrieved. She was a woman. Not film star material, maybe, but she had all the right bits in all the right places. Her hair… All right, she might have personal reservations about her hair, but there was no doubt that it was an unmissable shade of red. Her eyes might be plain old brown, but they did the job and came complete with the regulation set of lashes. Her nose… Oh, what the heck. She stopped the inventory and, digging her knees into whatever part of his anatomy happened to be in the way, she heaved herself up and back.

Surprise, or maybe pain, together with the serendipitous lurching of the Land Rover as it raced over the rough terrain, combined to loosen Hassan’s grip. She just had time to fling off the cloak before he recovered, caught her and pinned her against the floor. And, as she dragged great gulps of fresh air into her lungs, she was once again staring up into those dangerous grey eyes.

Her situation was not lost upon her. She was vulnerable and utterly at the mercy of a man she did not know, whose motives were less than clear. One of them had better say something. And quickly.

‘When you ask a girl to dinner, Your Highness, you really, really mean it, don’t you?’

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