His Desert Rose. Liz Fielding
Abdullah, as Regent. Whatever is necessary for my country. It had been an apology of sorts, but, hurting and angry at being dispossessed, he had refused to understand and had behaved like the young fool that he’d been.
Older, wiser, he understood that for a man to rule he must first accept that the wishes of the heart must always be sacrificed to necessity.
In a few short weeks Faisal would be twenty-five, and if his young half-brother was to take on the burden of kingship he too would have to learn that lesson. And quickly.
In the meantime something would have to be done to disrupt Abdullah’s attempt at coup by media. His cousin might not encourage the press to come calling at his door, but he understood its power, and he would not let the chance slip to have someone like Rose Fenton in his pocket.
She’d already been given the official grand tour of the more fragrant parts of city, and it would be so easy to be fooled into believing everything was wonderful if you weren’t looking too hard. And Abdullah had it in his power to distract her in all manner of ways.
She might not succumb to the gifts, the gold and pearls that would be showered upon her. It was unlikely—he had little faith in the myth of the crusading, incorruptible journalist—but Abdullah had never been a one-plan dictator. If money wouldn’t do it, he had her brother as a hostage to her co-operation.
Well, two could play at that game, and, although he was sure she wouldn’t take the same view of the situation, Hassan reasoned that he would actually be doing Miss Fenton a favour if he took her out of circulation for a while.
And dealing with her frantic family, the British Foreign Office, the unkind comments of the British media, would give his cousin something more pressing to worry him than usurping Faisal’s throne. It might even prompt him to bail out. While Abdullah enjoyed the tribute that went with his role as stand-in Head of State, he wasn’t nearly so keen on the responsibilities that accompanied the role.
Partridge would doubtless be outraged, but, since his aide was clearly aware of the urgent necessity of doing whatever it took, he could be relied upon to keep his own counsel. In public, if not in private.
‘Horse racing?’ Rose helped herself to a slice of toast. It was six years since she’d been to a racetrack. It might not have been a deliberate decision, but she had always found some pressing reason to decline the many invitations to Ascot and Cheltenham that came her way. ‘At night?’
‘Under floodlights. It’s cooler then. Especially in summer,’ Tim added, then grinned. ‘There’ll be camel racing, too. Would you want to miss that?’
‘Would I?’ She pretended to think. ‘Yes.’
For a moment she thought he was going to say something. Give her the ‘it’s been nearly six years’ speech. He clearly thought better of it, because he shrugged and said, ‘Well, it’s up to you.’ If he was disappointed by her decision he didn’t let it show, and she could hardly believe that he was surprised. ‘I have to be there for obvious reasons, but I can come back and pick you up afterwards.’
She glanced up from the careful application of butter to her toast. ‘Pick me up?’
Tim indicated the square white envelope propped up against the marmalade. ‘We’ve been invited out to dinner after the races.’
‘Again?’ Didn’t anyone ever stay in for a pizza and a video in Ras al Hajar? ‘Who by?’
‘Simon Partridge.’
‘Have I met him?’ she asked, picking up the envelope and extracting a single sheet of paper. The handwriting was bold and strong. The note oddly formal. ‘Simon Partridge requests the pleasure…’
‘No, he’s Prince Hassan’s aide.’
About to plead tiredness, a headache, anything to get out of another formal evening, the night in with a video suddenly lost its appeal. She hadn’t seen the playboy prince since he got off the plane. She’d looked for him, listened out for his name, but he appeared to have vanished from the face of the earth.
‘You’ll like him,’ Tim said. She was sure her brother meant Simon Partridge rather than Hassan, but she didn’t ask; she had the feeling that it would be wiser not to draw attention to her interest. ‘He was desperately keen to meet you, but he’s been out of town.’
‘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