His Desert Rose

‘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.’