His Desert Rose. Liz Fielding
Rose had the feeling that her disappearance would be kept out of the news if Abdullah could manage it. And he probably could. Tim wouldn’t be too hard to convince that her safety depended upon it. And the embassy would do whatever they thought was most likely to achieve her safe return. Just as well she had the mobile, then; Gordon would never forgive her for failing to turn in this scoop.
Oh, Lord! Whatever had happened to her fright-or-flight mechanism? She wasn’t afraid; she wasn’t planning escape. The primary emotion flowing through her system was indignation at the unromantic manner of her abduction.
She should just be grateful that Hassan hadn’t hurt her, that he hadn’t tied her up, or gagged her. Well, he hadn’t needed to. She hadn’t yelled when she could have, should have. Even now she was lying still and doing nothing at all to make life difficult for the man. That was because curiosity was running indignation a close second.
What did Hassan want?
Not just a cosy chat. If he’d wanted that he could have knocked on the villa door any time and she’d have been happy to offer him a cup of tea and a chocolate digestive. It was the way they did it in Chelsea. Maybe they did things differently in Ras al Hajar.
Or maybe he had an entirely different agenda.
Think, Rose! Think! What possible reason could Hassan al Rashid have for kidnapping her? What reason did anyone have?
Ransom? Ridiculous.
Sex? There was a momentary wobble somewhere low in her abdomen at the thought, then she dismissed the idea as errant nonsense.
Could this be the playboy prince’s idea of a joke? After all, his cousin the Regent would be seriously ticked off by the kind of publicity this little escapade would generate, and rumour suggested there was no love lost between the two men. She could just imagine the headlines, the news bulletins…
Suddenly everything clicked into place. That had to be it. Headlines. This was no joke. Hassan wanted Ras al Hajar in the news. More than that, he wanted to embarrass Abdullah…
Quite suddenly, she lost her temper. Drat the story! Here she was, wrapped up like a parcel of washing, her bones rattling like stones in a cup, and all because Hassan thought it would be amusing to irritate his cousin with bad headlines and she happened to be a handy source of aggravation.
She felt aggrieved. Seriously aggrieved. She was a woman. Not film star material, maybe, but she had all the right bits in all the right places. Her hair… All right, she might have personal reservations about her hair, but there was no doubt that it was an unmissable shade of red. Her eyes might be plain old brown, but they did the job and came complete with the regulation set of lashes. Her nose… Oh, what the heck. She stopped the inventory and, digging her knees into whatever part of his anatomy happened to be in the way, she heaved herself up and back.
Surprise, or maybe pain, together with the serendipitous lurching of the Land Rover as it raced over the rough terrain, combined to loosen Hassan’s grip. She just had time to fling off the cloak before he recovered, caught her and pinned her against the floor. And, as she dragged great gulps of fresh air into her lungs, she was once again staring up into those dangerous grey eyes.
Her situation was not lost upon her. She was vulnerable and utterly at the mercy of a man she did not know, whose motives were less than clear. One of them had better say something. And quickly.
‘When you ask a girl to dinner, Your Highness, you really, really mean it, don’t you?’
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