His Desert Rose

‘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.