His Desert Rose

‘Really?’ And then she laughed. ‘Tell me, Tim, where do you go when you go “out of town” in Ras al Hajar?’

‘Nowhere. That’s the point. You leave civilisation behind.’

‘I’ve done that.’ She’d been in some very uncivilised places in the last few years. Too many. ‘It’s overrated.’

‘The desert is different. Which is why, if you’re someone like Hassan, the first thing you do when you get home is take your hounds and your hawks out into the desert and go hunting. And if you’re his aide, you go with him.’

‘I see.’ What she saw was that if Simon Partridge was back in town, then so was Prince Hassan. ‘Tell me about him. Simon Partridge. It’s unusual for someone like Hassan to have a British aide, surely?’

‘His grandfather had one and lived to tell the tale.’

‘Did he?’

Tim frowned. ‘Hassan’s father. He was a Scot. Didn’t I say?’

‘No, you didn’t.’ Well, he hadn’t. ‘It explains a lot.’

Tim shrugged. ‘Maybe he feels he can rely on Partridge one hundred per cent to be his man, with no divided tribal loyalties, no family feuds to get in the way.’

‘A back to get in the way should someone feel like stabbing him in it?’ she pondered. ‘What does Simon Partridge get out of it?’

‘Just a job. He’s not Hassan’s bodyguard. Partridge was in the army, but his Jeep got into a bit of an argument with a landmine and he was invalided out. His Colonel and Hassan were at school together…’

‘Eton,’ she murmured, without thinking.

‘Where else?’ Tim had assumed it was a question. ‘Partridge, too.’ He looked pleased at her apparent interest in his absent friend and Rose sighed, suspecting a little furtive matchmaking. ‘So?’ Tim retrieved the invitation. ‘What shall I tell him?’

That was easy. The racing might be a non-starter, but Rose wasn’t going to miss out on a chance to meet Hassan’s aide. She handed him back the note. ‘Tell him… Miss Fenton accepts…’

‘Great.’ The phone rang and Tim answered it, listened, then said, ‘I’ll be right there.’ He was halfway to the door before he remembered Rose. ‘Simon’s number is on the note. Will you call him?’

‘No problem.’ She picked up the receiver, dialled the number. As it rang, she looked again at the bold cursive and decided Tim was right for once. She was sure she would like the owner of such a decisive hand.

‘Yes?’

‘Mr Partridge? Simon Partridge?’

There was the briefest pause. ‘I believe I have the pleasure of speaking to Miss Rose Fenton.’

‘Er, yes.’ She laughed. ‘How did you know?’

‘If I told you I was psychic?’ the voice offered.

‘I wouldn’t believe you.’

‘And you would be right not to. Your voice is unmistakable, Miss Fenton.’

While Simon Partridge sounded rather older than she had expected from Tim’s description of him, his voice was low, deeply authoritative, velvet on steel. Not that she was about to drool into the phone.

‘That’s because I talk too much,’ she replied crisply. ‘Tim’s had to rush off to the stables, but he asked me to ring you and say that we’re delighted to accept your invitation to dinner this evening.’

‘I have no doubt that the delight will be all mine.’

His formality was so very… foreign. She wondered how long he had been in Ras al Hajar. She’d assumed it was a fairly recent thing, but maybe not. ‘You know he has to go to the races first, of course—’

‘Everyone goes to the races, Miss Fenton. There is nothing else to do in Ras al Hajar. You will be there?’

‘Well…’

‘You must come.’

Must she? ‘Yes,’ she said, rapidly changing her mind. She rather thought she must. After all, she reasoned, if everyone went to the races, Hassan would be there. ‘Yes, I’m looking forward to it.’ And suddenly she was. Very much.

‘Until this evening, Miss Fenton.’

‘Until then, Mr Partridge,’ she replied. And she put down the receiver feeling just a touch breathless.

Hassan switched off the cellphone that had been purchased in the souk that morning and registered in an entirely fictitious name and tossed it on the divan. Beyond the opening of the huge black tent he could see the lush palm grove watered by the small streams that ran from the craggy mountainous border country. In spring it was paradise on earth. He had the feeling that Rose Fenton might not view it in quite the same way.

‘Come home quickly, Faisal,’ he murmured. At the sound of his voice the hound at his feet rose and pushed a long silky head against his hand.

Rose was thoroughly dissatisfied with her small wardrobe. She’d felt like an absolute dowd at the embassy cocktail party. She’d assumed that it would be smart but casual. Tim had been absolutely no help and in the end she’d decided on her crush-proof go-anywhere little black dress. In the event, of course, all the other women had taken the opportunity to wear their latest designer creations, leaving the black dress looking as if it had already been around the world and back again. Well, it had.

She hadn’t anticipated so much socialising, and besides, she had nothing that could possibly cover an evening outdoors at the races followed by a private dinner.

She would normally have asked her hostess what would be suitable. But there was no hostess, and something about Simon Partridge had precluded that kind of informal chattiness. It was the same something that urged her to make a real effort, pull out all the stops, and she decided to wear the shalwar kameez that she’d been given on a trip to Pakistan and packed in the hope of an interview with the Regent. Something she’d been doing her best to avoid ever since she’d arrived, although even she had begun to run out of convincing excuses.

The trousers were cut from heavy slub silk in a dull mossy shade, the tunic a shade or two lighter and the hand-embroidered silk chiffon scarf paler still. She should have worn it to the embassy.

‘Wow!’ Tim’s reaction was unexpected. He didn’t usually notice what anyone wore. ‘You look stunning.’

‘That’s worrying. I suddenly get the feeling that everyone else will be wearing jeans.’

‘Does it matter? You’re going to absolutely knock Simon’s eyes out.’

‘I’m not sure that’s the effect I’m striving for, Tim.’ Remembering the effect of his voice on her ability to breathe, she thought she might just be kidding herself. ‘At least not until I know him better.’

‘In that outfit he’ll definitely want to get to know you better.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’d better go. Got everything?’

‘Hanky, safety pin, ten pence for the telephone,’ she said solemnly. Her cellphone, tape recorder, notebook and pen went without saying. And she didn’t say anything because she had the feeling they would make her brother uneasy.

Tim laughed. ‘I’d forgotten the way Mum used to say that.’ He put his arm beneath her elbow and helped her up into the Range Rover.

‘How far is it?’

‘Oh, just a couple of miles beyond the stables. Once you get through these low hills there’s a good flat piece of ground that’s perfect for racing.’ He pulled a face as they bumped over the rough track. ‘Sorry about this. The Emir’s had a dual-carriageway road laid from town, but this way’s much quicker for us.’

‘Hey, this is “Front-line” Fenton you’re talking to. A few bumps aren’t going to… Oh, look out!’