In The Arms Of The Sheikh

‘Lambert?’

‘Natasha Lambert.’ She was nearly snarling. ‘Ms Dare asked me for the weekend.’

He pretended to think about it—with insulting slowness. ‘That was the weekend that started last night? Or this morning at the latest?’

If it hadn’t been so cold, Natasha would have told him that her travel arrangements were her own business. But she was desperate to get indoors out of the biting wind.

‘I was held up.’ She gritted her teeth and tried hard to sound reasonable. She couldn’t quite manage apologetic.

But it did not seem that he was interested in an apology, after all.

‘Why?’ It shot at her like a bullet.

‘My client in New York demanded an extra meeting.’

He looked at her, but it was almost as if he did not see her. He frowned.

‘When was the meeting?’

A little gust of ice-fringed air sent the leaves dancing. Her interrogator did not even seem to notice. But it cut through Natasha’s fashionable suit like a laser ray.

This time when she gritted her teeth it was to stop them from chattering. ‘Thursday evening.’

‘Why didn’t you take an overnight flight?’

‘They were full. Then my flight was delayed, diverted due to fog—’ Natasha got her second wind. ‘Look, what is this? I’m supposed to be spending the weekend with friends. Not giving a rundown of my recent diary to—to—’ she looked at the height, the impassive face, the body impervious to cold, those eyes focused elsewhere, and the perfect insult leaped straight out of her childhood ‘—to Lurch the butler,’ she finished with relish.

‘What?’

He was looking at her now, all right. Right at her. Into her, almost.

Natasha saw him take in her beautifully cut black suit, the thin, ultra-smart New York shoes, the power blonde crop. And saw him decide he didn’t like the package one bit. She began to feel better, in spite of the cold.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he said, very slowly and distinctly.

‘You’re the butler, right?’ she said airily. ‘I mean, someone had to press the button to open those gates. You?’

He inclined his head. It was just about agreement.

‘So you have to know that I am expected,’ she pointed out triumphantly. She waved a hand at the case. ‘Would you take my luggage, please?’

He looked at it with—would that be astonishment?

She could not resist teasing all that glacial disapproval. ‘Hey, I travel light.’

His mouth set in a thin, ferocious line. It drove two deep clefts down his cheeks.

Ouch, thought Natasha. Maybe she had gone a bit far, calling him Lurch. Maybe he was sensitive about being a butler for some reason.

‘So where is Ms Dare?’ she asked in a friendlier tone. ‘Why can’t I get a rise out of the house? Have they decamped to the movies or something?’

He didn’t respond to friendliness. Hardly opening his lips, he said, ‘The party is in the garden.’

‘Well, thank God there’s some partying going on somewhere.’

He sent her a look of acute dislike. ‘You have some identification?’

‘Ident—?’ All desire to be friendly left Natasha abruptly. ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

But he strode forward, quick and sudden as that jungle cat she had thought him. He ran—no, surged like a tidal wave—up the steps. In spite of herself, Natasha retreated before him. It made her spitting mad but she couldn’t help herself.

She stopped just short of backing up against the studded door.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

He ignored that. He clicked his fingers. ‘Passport. You must have a passport. If you’ve just flown in.’

‘Of course, I’ve just flown in,’ flashed Natasha.

‘Then prove it.’

Shaking with fury as much as cold now, she fumbled all the documents out of her shoulder bag—passport, the remains of her airline ticket, the travel agent’s printed itinerary.

He held them out under the porch spotlight to scrutinise them.

‘What were you before you took to butlering?’ Natasha’s tone was poisonous. ‘Customs officer? Tax inspector? Really went to your head, didn’t it?’

He ignored that too. He was studying her passport.

She hated her passport photograph. It had been taken nearly ten years ago. She had not been long back from the jungle. It made her look like a student, all unkempt curls and no makeup.

‘Not a very good likeness,’ he commented. Was there a hint of amusement in the clipped voice?

Natasha’s dislike of the man intensified by several megawatts. How dared he laugh at her? She snatched her passport back with a hand that shook.

‘Satisfied?’

He shrugged. ‘As long as Ms Dare recognises you.’

Natasha blinked. ‘What?’

‘There are forged passports.’

She made a scornful noise. ‘You watch too much television.’

He gave a bark of laughter.

It was too much. Natasha fished her mobile phone out of her bag and shook it open. ‘Oh, enough. I’m calling Izzy now…’