His Desert Rose. Liz Fielding
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!’
A pale riderless horse leapt from a low bluff and landed in front of them, turning to rear up in front of the car, mane flying, hooves pawing at the air. Tim swung to avoid it, throwing the car into a sideways skid that seemed to go on for ever on the loose gravel.
‘It’s one of Abdullah’s horses,’ he said, as he brought the Range Rover under control. ‘Someone’s going to be in trouble—’ The moment they stopped, he flung open the door and leapt down. ‘Sorry, but I’ll have to try and catch it.’
‘Can I do anything?’ She turned as he opened the tailgate and took out a rope halter.
‘No. Yes. Use the car phone to call the stables. Ask them to send a horsebox.’
‘Where?’
‘Just say between the villa and the stables; they’ll find us.’
The interior light had not come on and she reached up, clicked the switch, but nothing happened. She shrugged, lifted the phone, but there was no dial tone. Great. She picked up her bag and dug out the new mobile phone that Gordon had included in the carrier with the book and the cuttings. It was small, very powerful and did just about everything except play the national anthem, but she wasn’t confident enough with it to press buttons in the dark, so slid down from her seat to check it out in the headlights. Her feet had just touched the ground when the headlights went out.
She could hear her brother, some distance off, gentling the nervous horse, hear the scrabbling of hooves against the rough ground as the lovely creature danced away from him. Then that sound, too, abruptly stopped as the horse found sand.
It was so quiet, so dark in the shadow of the bluff. There was no moon, but the stars were brilliant, undimmed by light pollution, and the sand reflected the faintest silvery shimmer against which everything else was jet-black.
A shadow detached itself from the darkness.
‘Tim?’
But it wasn’t her brother. Even before she turned she knew it wasn’t him. Tim had smelt faintly of aftershave, was wearing a light-coloured jacket. This man had no scent that she could discern and he was dressed from head to foot in a robe of a blackness so dense that it absorbed light rather than reflecting it. Even his face was concealed in a black keffiyeh worn so that nothing but his eyes were visible.
His eyes were all she needed to see.
It was Hassan. Despite the charge of fear that fixed her to the spot, despite the adrenalin-driven panicky race of her heart, she knew him. But this was not the urbane Prince boarding a private jet in expensive Italian tailoring; this was not Hassan in playboy prince mode.
This was the man promised by granite-grey eyes, deep, dangerous and totally in command, and something warned her that he wasn’t about to ask if she needed help.
Before she could do more than half turn to run, before she could even think about shouting a warning to her brother, he’d clamped his hand over her mouth. Then, with his free arm flung around her, he lifted her clear of the ground as he pulled her hard against his body. Hard enough for the curved weight of the dagger at his waist to dig into her ribs.
Definitely not from the local branch of auto rescue.
She might have done a self-defence course but so apparently had he, because he knew all the moves. Her elbows were immobilised, and with her feet off the ground she had no platform from which to launch a counter-move. Not that it would do her any good. She might make the high ground, but what then? There was nowhere to run to and, although she couldn’t see anyone else, she doubted that he was alone.
She struggled anyway.
He simply tightened