In The Arms Of The Sheikh

‘Don’t think you can fly in, stand at the altar beside Dom for ten minutes and then fly out,’ Tom warned earnestly. ‘Can’t be done.’

‘Call him and tell him to get someone else,’ said Martin, not laughing any more. ‘It’s the only answer.’

But Kazim’s chin lifted. ‘I have given Dom my word.’

‘Yeah, but you weren’t thinking,’ began Tom.

‘My word.’

Martin knew that was the end of it. If Kazim made a promise, then nothing would sway him. Ever.

‘If I cannot do this, I am a smaller man than I should be.’

There was a little silence. The other two recognised defeat.

‘You’re a good man, Kazim,’ said Tom, moved.

Martin was no less moved. But he was still practical. ‘Frankly, my sympathies are with the ugliest bridesmaid.’

CHAPTER TWO

TO THE private relief of Kazim’s advisers, there was not a blonde in sight as Dom’s guests began to arrive at Serenata Place that Friday. The fiancée turned out to be a redhead with a gorgeous figure and an anxious expression.

‘Big house syndrome,’ said Dom affectionately as she fled upstairs to change.

Kazim was startled. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Izzy went into a spin when I took her home to meet my parents. Now anything resembling a portrait of an ancestor and she freaks.’

A nineteen-twenties interior decorator had covered the walls of the entrance hall of Serenata Place with Victorian hunting prints. Kazim looked at the nearest picture of scarlet-coated fat men on fatter horses thundering over a hedge.

‘They’re not my ancestors,’ he said, revolted.

Dom grinned. ‘I’ll tell her. That will set her mind at rest.’

Kazim, taking hourly phone calls from a jumpy security officer, did not have a lot of time for socialising that evening. But even to him it was obvious that red-headed Izzy was more and more distracted as the guests arrived and the party started. Eventually he came out of the study to find Dom looking worried.

Kazim raised his eyebrows. ‘Now what?’

‘The best friend hasn’t arrived,’ said Dom. ‘We can’t announce the engagement until she gets here, apparently.’

Kazim stayed calm. ‘What do you want to do?’

‘Murder the woman.’

‘Obviously,’ said Kazim dryly. ‘Failing that?’

Dom scowled at the florist’s best efforts. ‘Postpone everything. Announcement, champagne, fireworks, the lot. Put it all on hold until tomorrow and hope the damn woman gets here then.’

Kazim blinked. But all he said was, ‘Just as well all your guests are staying for the whole weekend, then.’

‘Yes, thanks to you.’ Dom gave a heartfelt sigh and biffed him lightly on the upper arm. ‘I’ve definitely got a better class of friend than Izzy has.’

Kazim was amused. ‘You have met the missing friend, then?’

‘Miss Hot Shot?’ Dom shook his head. ‘Not so far.’

‘She sounds intriguing,’ said Kazim politely.

Dom let out a crack of laughter. ‘Not your type.’

‘I thought you hadn’t met her.’

‘I don’t have to. She’s been a prize pain in the neck so far. And quite apart from that, I hear she is definitely a twenty-first-century go-getter.’

Kazim shook his head sorrowfully. ‘I don’t know why you would say that’s not my type.’

‘Because you think a woman’s place is on the receiving end of roses and poetry,’ said his friend. ‘Just before you send them home, leaving you to get on with saving the world from itself.’

Kazim was unoffended. ‘Very amusing,’ he said calmly. ‘But—’ His phone began to beep again. He flicked it open. ‘Excuse me.’

Tom’s text message was unequivocal. Kazim must call him immediately. New information was coming in about threats to the reconciliation talks, and to Kazim in particular. Tom needed advice.

Kazim sighed. ‘Sorry, Dom. Work. It never goes away entirely. I’ll deal with this and catch you later.’

Dom nodded. Kazim’s friends were used to such interruptions. ‘I’ll persuade Izzy to come down and open some bottles. We’ll get the party on the road.’

‘And have the firework people come back tomorrow,’ Kazim reminded him.

Natasha had a bad day. First, the purple pie chart did not do the business for her. Nor did her superb presentation file. David Frankel wanted her personal, undivided attention and he was paying the piper. There was no way he was going to let her go before he was good and ready, preferably not until she agreed to have dinner with him.

As he asked question after pointless question, she saw her chance of getting first one flight, then another disappear. Smiling hard, she excused herself and called Izzy from the ladies’ cloakroom. Izzy did not answer.

Natasha left a message. ‘Izzy, I’m going to be late. Powerful men and their little quirks! Sorry, love. See you as soon as I can.’

It was a repeating pattern in the frustrating hours that followed. The last flight out took off late; hit fog; was diverted…Natasha calculated time-zone differences and called and called. Izzy never once picked up her phone.

In the end it was a dark Saturday evening when Natasha’s hired limousine edged its way through narrow Sussex lanes at last. The chauffeur’s silence was more eloquent than a stream of complaint. They had been through a ten-house village at least three times when Natasha spied a steep single-track road to their left.

‘There.’

Sulkily the chauffeur did as he was told. The heater spluttered and died.

Natasha shivered. She didn’t travel in Prada, but she didn’t travel in Arctic expeditionary wear either. In ten denier and handmade stilettos, her toes were slowly turning to ice.

‘I hope it’s not far. We’re miles from anywhere.’

The chauffeur sniffed.