The Solitary Sheikh

The council had sat impassive while she railed at them for their narrow-minded ignorance and cowardly sticking to ineffective methods, but when she resigned they had accepted it with obvious relief. She had finished out the school year, but as of a week ago, Jana was unemployed.

Of course, the media had been on her side. It was just the kind of story they loved, but Jana had very soon tired of being fodder for the entertainment industry that masqueraded as news broadcasting, and in any case her story had a brief lifespan. It would take more than newspaper articles and talk shows to change the national curriculum, though a generation of children had already emerged from the schools unable to read

Fighting was what was needed, but Jana had temporarily run out of the famous Stewart fighting energy. She felt like her distant ancestor, Bonnie Prince Charlie, after the Battle of Culloden: defeated. Her father urged her to enter politics and run for parliament—that, too, was a part of the family heritage—and one day she might do that. But for the moment, Jana just wanted to get away and lick her wounds.

The ad for a private English tutor to “an important family in the small but prosperous Barakat Emirates” had caught her eye two months ago. The position was for a minimum of one year. She knew it was the escape she needed.

“There are better ways to get away than a job in the Barakat Emirates,” her mother said.

Jana shrugged. Her mother’s suggestion of a sailing holiday in the Maldives or a villa in Greece, either of which friends could be counted on to supply at short notice, had tempted her...until she saw what her mother was really planning. Jana had no intention of taking such a holiday if Peter was also going to be a guest—and her mother would make certain that Peter was a guest. Peter was the man her whole family adored.

“Mother, we’ve been over it.”

“I really think, Jana, that a few weeks in—”

“Mother.”

“Yes, darling.”

“I am not going to marry Peter,” Jana said, slowly and unmistakably.

“Oh, darling, why do you keep saying that? He’s so right—”

Jana couldn’t help laughing. Her mother was completely transparent. Peter was right for her parents, and would be a great brother for Julian and Jessica, her younger sister and brother. She knew all that. Unfortunately, he was not right for Jana. They agreed about nothing in life. She sighed and shrugged. She was so tired of fighting. Please, God, let me get this job, she prayed silently. Don’t let me end up married to Peter.

Her laughter cut her mother off. She looked at Jana and lifted her hands resignedly. “At least take the Rolls,” she urged.

Jana gave in. She knew her mother had manipulated her, had made it seem like a small concession when she was holding out on a major issue, and her own weakness frightened her. Her resistance was low. If the whole family started pressing her to marry Peter...Jana clenched her jaw. If she was offered the job she would take it even if the advertiser was’ an oriental despot.

Two

An hour later Jana slipped gracefully out of the back seat of the navy Rolls and into the heat of the city streets, looking as fresh as a spring morning. She stood for a moment looking up at the facade of the Dorchester Hotel. Under the caress of the hot summer sun it had a rich, satisfied glow.

“Thank you, Michael,” she murmured to the chauffeur.

“Good luck, Miss,” he said. “I hope you get the job.”

“Thank you. I do, too,” she said, a little grimly.

She thought her chances were good. Her experience was right for the job. She had had three interviews over the past six weeks—all with intermediaries—and she knew the numbers had been whittled down to a shortlist of three or four. Now the father of the children she would teach was in town and she was meeting him for the first time. She had been told that their mother was dead.

She flashed a quick smile at the doorman as he held the door for her, and he seemed to take in her slim, vibrant figure, her glowing red hair, wide-spaced eyes and dramatic flair with one comprehensive, appreciative glance that managed to indicate that he wouldn’t mind holding the door all day for her.

“Good afternoon, Miss. Lovely day,” he offered.

Then she was being ushered to the enquiry desk, where a stern, handsome, dark-eyed Barakati took her in tow, led her into an elevator, and then, as the doors closed, said, “Forgive me, but may I have your handbag?”

Jana stiffened. “What?”

“I request to search your handbag, Miss Stewart.”

She stared at him down her nose. “Certainly not!” she said, in her best imitation of her mother.

The minion shrugged. “I am sorry, Madame, I must insist.”

“Nothing was said to me at any time about being searched!”

The elevator arrived at the floor and stopped, but he had turned a key in the panel and the doors did not open.

“I say it, Madame.”

“And who are you?”

“I am Ashraf Durran, cousin and Cup Companion to Omar Durran ibn Daud ibn Hassan al Quraishi,” he said, with a nod of such regal condescension that she blinked. “Please, Miss Stewart, allow me to search you. He is waiting for you.”

Jana hadn’t run away from the restrictions of her own family life all these years to go to work now for someone who had their staff physically searched and who was apparently worried about assassination attempts. Maybe her mother was right.

She asked with angry amusement, “Whose pay, exactly, does he imagine I’m in?”

“There are many fools in the world. Miss Stewart,” the man said simply. “Please,” he said, lifting his hands in a gesture inviting reason.

Her hands tightened on her bag. She was damned if she’d submit to this! “I was invited here for an interview, and no one said anything about being searched. I think there’s been a mistake,” she said firmly.

Ashraf Durran stared at her, shrugged and reached into his pocket. For a chilling moment she thought the narrow black object he pulled out was a gun. She laughed with reflexive relief when he started to speak into it. After a moment he said, “Baleh, baleh,” and put it back in his pocket.

“I must search you and your bag, Madame,” he said.

“Or?”

“Or escort you back downstairs.”

She glared furiously at him. “Well, do tha—” she began, but immediately broke off. She thought of Peter, of the vacation her mother would engineer—for Jana and Peter—if she did not get this job.

She handed her bag to Ashraf Durran, waited as he searched it and handed it back to her. “Excuse me,” he said, and she gasped as he reached for her and then stood in cold, stony fury as he ran his hands lightly, impersonally over her body.

“Thank you,” he said. “I am sorry for the necessity.” Then he turned the key and the elevator doors opened.

She stepped out into a large furnished foyer. A massive mirror directly opposite reflected her image. She was relieved to see that her irritation did not show. In her white dress she was neat and cool looking. There were several men, all in Western suits, but some wearing burnouses in addition, standing and sitting around the room, and they all turned to watch her progress as Ashraf Durran led her across to a door. She had the humiliating conviction that they all knew that she had just been searched.

Ashraf Durran tapped on the door and opened it. As the door opened into the elegantly furnished hotel sitting room, the two occupants turned towards her and got to their feet.

Behind them an expanse of Hyde Park showed green through a wide window. One man, she saw, was the old man with grey hair, tall, thin, and perfectly erect, whom she had met at a previous interview. Hadi al Hatim’s dark eyes sparkled with a smile of welcome.

The other was much younger—in his mid-to-late thirties, she thought—a little taller, lean, a good build. He had sea green eyes, strong cheekbones, a broad forehead, thick black hair and a neat devil’s beard. His expression was hard and closed. He might as well have been carved from stone, for all the feeling she got from him. He did not smile.

“Miss Jana Stewart, Your Highness,” Hadi al Hatim presented her, then put out his hand. Jana shivered as she put out her own hand to take it. “Miss Stewart, it is a pleasure to meet you again. This is His Serene Highness Sheikh Omar ibn Daud, the Prince of Central Barakat.”

“Prince?” she repeated on a wailing note. “My mother was right! Oh, damn it!”