At The Sheikh's Command

A faint smile touched Abbie’s mouth, warming and easing a little of the anxiety from her grey eyes. At just twelve, George was still young enough to think in the simplest terms. Their imposing visitor was a sheikh and, as such, he should be wearing the flowing robes that were the traditional dress of men from his country. Instead, this sheikh was dressed in an immaculate steel-grey silk suit, superbly tailored, hugging the width of straight shoulders that had no need of extra padding to make them, or the chest beneath them, look broad and strong. The fine material slid over the powerful muscles of long, long legs, clung to the lean line of his hips, as he moved forward to where her father now stood on the doorstep, waiting to greet him. Under the afternoon sun, hair black as a raven’s wing gleamed glossily sleek and the hand that he lifted to brush it back from his wide forehead had the same smoothly golden bronzed tone as the skin on that devastating face.

‘So he’s not a real sheikh?’

‘Yes—yes, he is, sweetheart. But I think he only wears those robes in his own country.’

‘In the desert—when he’s riding on his camel?’

‘Yes, I expect so.’

Another wider smile curved her lips at her young brother’s innocent questions.

‘So he is a real sheikh—and he can help Andy?’

Abbie’s smile vanished, evaporating rapidly at this reminder of just why the Sheikh was here, and the seriousness of the situation that had brought about his visit.

‘Yes, George. I hope so. I really hope so.’

‘Daddy will talk to him,’ George asserted.

‘Daddy will talk to him,’ Abbie echoed.

But her voice didn’t have the conviction she wished for. Her shadowed eyes were watching the scene beyond the window, seeing the way that the Sheikh strolled towards the door, handsome head held arrogantly high, keen dark eyes scanning his surroundings assessingly.

He held out his hand to her father courteously enough and the clasp seemed firm and sure. But watching James Cavanaugh intently, sensitive to every move, every change of expression, Abbie saw the way the older man almost bowed, instinctively inclining his head in respect for his royal visitor. The gesture worried her. It made her fear that her father had been overawed by this much younger man. She didn’t want to think about the possible implications of that.

They needed her father to be fully in control of the situation. He had to be able to cope, to discuss the matter calmly and confidently. Andy’s future depended on it.

The thought of her brother, only just nineteen, alone and afraid, locked away in one of Barakhara’s darkest, most secure jails made her shiver in fear, her nerves tying themselves into tight, cruel knots in her stomach. Andy had been foolish, stupid, totally irresponsible—but he wasn’t bad. He’d made a mistake—a very serious one, admittedly, but a mistake was all it was. And if he was given a second chance…

He had to be given a second chance! After all, that was why the Sheikh was here.

Surely he wouldn’t have travelled all this way just to tell them that he wasn’t prepared to show her brother any leniency?

Leaning forward a little, she tugged slightly at the fall of the elderly lace curtain that shielded the window, twitching it aside so that she could see more clearly. Then froze as the small movement caught the corner of the Sheikh’s eye, causing him to turn his head sharply, narrowed eyes hunting the source of the distraction. In a heart-stopping second the black, black gaze locked with silver-grey—and held.

‘Oh, help!’ Abbie couldn’t hold back the exclamation of something close to horror.

If she had been a small scurrying mouse that had suddenly looked up and found itself the centre of the concentrated attention of some hunting hawk the shiver of apprehension that raced through her couldn’t have been any more fearful. Abbie felt her throat close on a spasm of pure panic and her nerveless fingers let the curtain drop as she stepped back sharply, dodging out of the firing line of that laser-like scrutiny as quickly as she could.

But even so she felt the burn of his gaze hot on her skin, the sense of shock and bewilderment lingering as the net curtain fell back into place, shielding her once again from those sharp, assessing eyes.

Dear God, please let these negotiations be over and done with soon, she prayed silently. For no logical reason whatsoever, she was suddenly assailed by the feeling that she would not be safe while this man was in the house.

She just wanted him to go—be on his way—and out of her life for good.

And yet…she admitted as she stepped back as far out of sight as possible.

And yet she had never seen a man like him in her life. In spite of her fears, she knew that she would find it impossible to erase the image of his stunning features that was etched onto her mind.

If only they could have met some other time, in some other way.

Who the devil was that?

Sheikh Malik bin Rashid Al’Qaim wasn’t a man easily distracted from his purpose. If an issue demanded his attention, it got it—wholeheartedly. And the subject he had to discuss with James Cavanaugh was one that needed wholesale concentration. But, just for a moment, the sudden flash of movement, the twitch of a net curtain over to his left had caught his eye. He had turned…

And found himself transfixed, his gaze caught and held by the blonde who was staring at him in open curiosity from the ground floor window.

A stunning blonde. Tall and slim, with sleek, smooth hair and a figure shapely enough to distract his attention even further just for a moment. Even the ridiculously old-fashioned and unflattering cotton apron wrapped around her and tied tightly at her slender waist couldn’t disguise the very sensual appeal of the feminine curves it covered.

Curves he would like a closer look at. Very much closer.

But even as the thought crossed his mind the blonde’s eyes widened in something like embarrassment and she stepped back hastily, letting the lace curtain drop between them once again, concealing her from him.

No matter.

Malik crushed down the sudden twist of disappointment, the murmur of protest from senses that had been woken by the swift glimpse of the unknown blonde. He had more important matters on his mind. The woman—clearly a maid or some other home help that the Cavanaughs employed—would keep.

‘Would you care for something to drink—some refreshment after your journey?’

Swiftly Malik turned his attention back to what James Cavanaugh—Sir James Cavanaugh, he reminded himself—was saying.

‘That would be very welcome,’ he acknowledged and allowed himself to be escorted into the cool shade of the big oak-panelled hall, their footsteps echoing on the ornately tiled floor, his bodyguards following behind him.

He would much rather state his business and get the whole thing out into the open so that they each knew where they stood, he reflected as he followed the older man through a door on the left and into a large bay-windowed room. A room that had obviously once been elegant and luxurious, but which now showed every sign of the sort of neglect and decay into shabbiness that came from a lack of ready cash to put things right.

He had spotted these indications of disrepair everywhere on the approach to this house. The ornate wrought iron gates had not had a coat of paint in years and were rusting and falling into decay, the fountain in the courtyard was coated in green moss and the flower beds were obviously unweeded and uncultivated.

The house itself might be huge and elegant, showing the way that this family had once held power and status in English society, but clearly the upkeep of their stately home was now beyond the means of the very limited income they possessed.

Which would make his task easier, he decided, watching his host fuss over his comfort in a way that did little to conceal the way that James was clearly a bundle of nerves. They would have little choice but to accept the offer he was here to make, and be grateful for it.

Malik just wished they didn’t have to go though this pantomime of welcome and polite small talk first. The friendliness his host was now displaying would vanish soon enough. James Cavanaugh was not going to like what he had to say—not one little bit.

But if James wanted to see his son again this side of young Andrew’s fortieth birthday then he would have no alternative but to agree to the conditions he was being offered.

Whether his daughter would go along with them was quite another matter.

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS like waiting for the countdown to an explosion, Abbie told herself as she headed up the stairs to change, moving as quietly as possible past the library in the hope of hearing what was being said behind the closed door. But the only sound that came through the thick wood was the muffled murmur of voices, too blurred to make out any words, let alone decide how things were going.

She could tell which was her father’s voice and which their visitor’s but that was all. The rich, accented tones of the Sheikh’s words carried even if their meaning didn’t—and it appeared that he was doing all the talking.

Which seemed terribly ominous, she admitted, the thought draining all the strength from her legs so that she had to force herself to keep moving, holding on to the carved wooden banister for support. Had her father run out of things to say already? Or had the Sheikh rejected every suggestion put to him and was now laying down the terms on which he would help them?

Or, worse, was he making it plain that he had no mercy to offer? That her brother must serve out the sentence that had been passed on him, without any hope of remission?

‘Oh, Andy!’