The Sultan's Heir

“Really! And what made the family leave?” she asked, in a light, false voice.

Overdoing the ingenuousness, he advised her silently.

“Lamis is married now, with a young child. She works in television in Barakat.” He lifted the little rose again. “She collects ornaments like this.”

A fact Rosalind knew well. The ornament was not in the same style as the others on her table. The others were mostly her own choice, a carved jade figurine, a chunk of raw amethyst, a polished rose crystal set in an antique wooden tripod, a decorated egg, but… Think of me when you look at the rose, Rosalind.

“I am on a permanent commission to buy her a new one every time I come to Europe.” She was hiding something, that much was obvious. You rushed her, he told himself. Relax. Let her tell you in her own time.

She gazed for a moment at the perfect red rose, with its little translucent drop like a tear on one petal. Rosalind had never really liked the idea of the rose being imprisoned. Like a woman in purdah. It was natural to think of Lamis when she looked at the rose: Lamis was the rose.

“My sister was not the same woman when she returned from her time in England,” Najib murmured. “Do you know what happened while she was here to change her?”

The black gaze seemed to probe her. Rosalind dropped her eyes and nervously adjusted one of the other ornaments on the table, then forced herself to meet his gaze again. She shrugged. “What, for example?”

“I never knew. She never spoke of it. But she had been a carefree young woman. She came home marked by…suffering.” He set down the glass ball with a kind of protective care, as if the rose, or the thought of his sister, called up an instinctive tenderness for anything weaker than himself.

Rosalind felt almost hypnotized by the gentle voice, the dark, dark eyes, the strong, sensitive hands. He sounded like a man in touch with life. It would be a relief to confide in him, but… The corners of her mouth pulled down to signal ignorance, she shook her head.

“Maybe it was because of the war,” she said.

But he only shook his head in his turn, still watching her, and somehow Rosalind felt compelled to speak.

“We heard a rumour that Lamis went home under a bit of a cloud,” she offered, a little desperately. “Gambling, or something. They said she lost an absolute bundle in some Mayfair casino and her family had to bail her out.”

“That was true.” He sipped his coffee. “But such a thing as this could not have caused the change I am speaking of.” His eyes were on her again, as if he knew she knew.

“But you were here yourself. Surely you would have known if anything happened?”

“I went home, like Jamshid, just before the Kaljuk War. Lamis remained to complete her studies.”

She said, “Did Lamis ever mention me?”

“She never talked about her time here. Did she know of your marriage?”

Rosalind shrugged, not sure what to say. “People generally did,” she temporized.

He nodded, drained his coffee cup, set it down.

“Well, it is no surprise if she was afraid to tell my grandfather. The messenger’s fate is well-known. Perhaps you will enjoy making her acquaintance again.”

“Oh, sure!” Rosalind smiled to hide her racing thoughts, her quickened heartbeat. “When is she coming to England?”

He frowned at her.

“Do you have no intention of visiting East Barakat to inspect your inheritance and meet the family, Rosalind?”

Once she had dreamed of such a trip. But that was long ago.

Rosalind hesitated. “I don’t know,” she began. She glanced at her watch and leapt in sheer horror when she realized what time it was.

“Oh!” she cried, slamming down her cup so that it rattled. “I’m sorry, I completely forgot! I—have an appointment.” She jumped to her feet. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’m very late.”

He obediently slipped the papers back into his case, snapped it shut and got to his feet. He followed her to the door. She was practically running.

“Goodbye,” she said quickly.

“We will talk again,” he said.

“Yes,” she babbled. “Yes, give me a call….”

She opened the door, but he did not step through. Instead, Najib al Makhtoum bent to set down his case beside the cheerful plastic dinosaur on wheels. He straightened, and Rosalind’s breath caught in her throat as his hands grasped her shoulders.

He stared down into her face. For a strange moment, his mouth above hers, they seemed to slip into some other reality, a reality where they knew each other very well, where he had the right to kiss her. Rosalind had the crazy thought that by putting the ring on her finger he had opened a door onto another life, and tendrils of that other possibility were now reaching for them. His black gaze pierced her, searching for her soul, and her lips parted involuntarily.

They blinked, and the world shook itself back into place. She is a complete temptress, he told himself. You will have to be on your guard every moment. Jamshid’s behaviour was a mystery no longer. His judgement must have been derailed as powerfully as if he were drugged.

“Rosalind, this is of immense importance,” he said. “You cannot guess how vital it is that you tell me the truth. Do not allow an old grievance to affect you any further. Did you give birth to Jamshid’s son?”

His long fingers were painful on the soft flesh at her shoulders. The look in his eyes frightened her.

“Why is it so important?”

“I am not at liberty to explain. But I ask you to believe that it is.”

It was her pain speaking when she said, “How can a possibility that was totally rejected five years ago suddenly become a matter of immense importance?”

He shook her. “Tell me.”

She pulled out of his grasp and turned away. “I have told you. Jamshid’s baby died,” she said, her voice raw. She looked at her watch again. “Please go. I’m late.”

“Goodbye, Rosalind,” he said, picking up his case. “I’ll be in touch.”

He strode down the corridor to the wrought-iron cage that held the elegant Art Deco lift. But before he could push the button, it clanged and heaved and started its upward journey from the lobby.

Rosalind bit her lip. Instead of closing the door she stood there, nervously planted in the doorway, following the sound of the machine’s tortured progress. How could she have failed to think of this?

Najib glanced at her, his eyes widening and then narrowing into alertness at what he saw in her face.

Rosalind waited with a kind of fatalistic foreknowledge as the lift creaked up three floors and ground to a stop. Then the door opened and, as she had known they would, a small, excited boy and a pretty teenage girl stepped out.

Najib, holding the door open with one arm, turned to watch in disbelief as the child shot down the hall towards Rosalind, a decorated sheet of blue construction paper clutched in one tiny hand. Rosalind knelt down and held her arms open.

“Mommy, Mommy!” cried Sam, his eyes glowing, as he flung himself into her embrace. “Look what I made you!”

Over his head, Rosalind saw Najib al Makhtoum’s dark, accusing gaze rake over her for one horrible moment. Then he turned and stepped into the lift.

“He’s the living spit of the old man,” said Naj.