‘His life is completely different from that of his forebears,’ he went on. ‘A large part of the palace has been converted into a hotel. Another wing is a hospital. Other buildings are workshops for craftsmen. The Maharaja was educated in England and America. He knows that eastern artefacts often need modifications to appeal to western tastes. That’s why he wants a western-trained designer to oversee the export side of the business.’
‘What sort of skills do his craftspeople have?’ she asked.
‘I’ll show you part of a promotional video the Prince has had made.’ He rose to go to a large cabinet made of some dark unfamiliar wood elaborately inlaid with silver and pieces of mother-of-pearl. He opened the doors, revealing a large television screen. After touching some switches he returned to his place on the other sofa, holding the remote control. ‘This edited version was made to show the applicants for the post,’ he told her. ‘It only lasts seven minutes.’
Watching Nicole Dawson while her attention was concentrated on the screen, Alex was reminded of children’s faces when they were listening to an enthralling story. Her expression showed the same rapt attention. Almost from the opening shot of the walled city of Karangarh rising out of the sandy wasteland surrounding it, she had become totally immersed in the colourful scenes being presented to her.
Already he had interviewed all but one of the other contenders and was becoming bored with the task entrusted to him. Designers were not on his wavelength, nor he on theirs. He disliked big cities and the kind of people who gravitated to them. Especially ambitious career women in designer suits with designer hair, dietfreak’s bodies and complexions you could scrape off with a spoon.
Not that this woman was heavily made up or catwalk-thin. Her figure couldn’t be faulted and she had excellent legs. But she didn’t flaunt them with a minuscule skirt and unnecessarily frequent crossings like two of the women at last night’s dinner party.
London, New York and Paris—perhaps every capital city in the so-called ‘civilised world’—seemed to be full of women who were either looking for a husband or a roll in the hay. He wasn’t in the market for marriage, or for one night stands with the female equivalent of womanisers.
The nature of his life made sex a fairly rare indulgence. Women he found attractive were thin on the ground. Sometimes they weren’t available, or weren’t willing to accept his conditions: a cheerful goodbye when the time came to end the relationship
Looking at Ms Dawson, with her straight silky fair hair cut to curve into her neck just below the level of her determined-looking chin, and the soft sexy curves of her mouth, he felt a sudden strong urge to scoop her up from the sofa and carry her to his bedroom.
The thought of how she would respond if he acted on that desire amused him. Of course she would resist, vigorously. But would she really want to resist? Was the attraction mutual? Behind that cool facade, was she as red-blooded and as sex-starved as he was?
The questionnaire she had answered described her as unmarried, unpartnered, and with no family or other personal responsibilities which might interfere with her concentration on the job. Any woman of thirty-two, without a husband or a boyfriend, had to be sublimating.
Perhaps, for some women, it wasn’t as hard as for most men. They seemed to vary a good deal in the strength of their libidos. Among those he’d known intimately, some had been disappointingly inhibited, others as ravenous as he was. It was hard to guess what Nicole Dawson might be like when, metaphorically speaking, she let her hair down.
When the video about Karangarh ended, it left Nicole with the feeling that, for a few minutes, a magic carpet had carried her to a fairytale world of sunlight, fabulous ancient architecture, and incredibly vibrant colours worn by women who walked like queens and men with black eyes and quick smiles.
‘What a wonderful place!’ she exclaimed. ‘What’s your work there, Dr Strathallen? Are you in charge of the hospital?’ It crossed her mind that he might be in London for some medical conference and have been asked by the Prince to deputise for him in the choice of a designer.
He got up to switch off the TV and close the doors of the cabinet. ‘The hospital is staffed by Indian doctors. I’m an anthropologist...studying Rajasthan’s nomadic tribes. The Maharaja allows me to use the palace as my base.’
‘Have you been out there long?’
He glanced at the watch on his lean wrist. She had already noticed the beautiful shape of his hands, with their long backs and longer fingers, the nails immaculately clean. ‘We haven’t much time, Ms Dawson. I necd to know more about you. You’ll find out more about me if you are selected to join the Prince’s staff. He will decide who’s appointed. He’s already seen the preliminary reports. I shall email my reports to him tonight. You won’t be kept waiting long.’
His snubbing reply to her question, which it wouldn’t have taken ten seconds for him to answer, and something in his demeanour made her certain he had already written her off. There was no rapport between them, no meeting of minds.
Which made it all the more annoying that she found him the most physically appealing man she had encountered since... Her mind shied away from the conclusion of that thought.
‘What else do you want to know?’ she said coldly, knowing that the interview had gone sour and she might as well go home now.
Nicole hadn’t told her family she had applied for another job. They thought she was settled where she was. Rosemary, her stepmother, would have been horrified if she knew Nicole wanted to move, even in England, let alone abroad. There had been no point in upsetting Rosemary until such a move was definite.
How the rest of the family would react—would have reacted—Nicole wasn’t sure. But it wasn’t going to arise. She felt in her bones that Dr Strathallen had disliked her, that any day now a letter would come informing her that another applicant had been appointed.
When her stepmother called her to the telephone, saying that a Dr Strathallen wanted to speak to her, Nicole was astonished that he should take the trouble to break the bad news by phone.
She took the receiver from Rosemary. ‘Nicole Dawson speaking.’
‘Good evening, Ms Dawson.’ His voice sounded even deeper and more resonant on the phone. ‘The Prince has read my reports and feels that you and one other candidate are equally well-suited to the post. He would like me to talk to you both again. I suggest that this time we have lunch at a restaurant. Can you manage Friday?’
Luckily Nicole had some time off owing to her from her present employer because she had worked through two weekends on an important and urgent order.
‘Friday would be fine,’ she said.
‘Good.’ He gave her the name and address of the restaurant. ‘We’ll meet there at twelve-thirty?’
‘I’ll look forward to it.’
Strathallen didn’t respond with the conventional ‘So shall r. Instead he said merely, ‘Until Friday,’ and rang off.
Nicole had scarcely had time to replace the receiver when Rosemary asked, ‘Who is Dr Strathallen?’
The second Mrs Dawson never hesitated to ask personal questions or to intrude into other people’s private lives. There was no way anyone living under the same roof with her could have a private life. She looked closely at every envelope that came through the letter box and had no compunction about reading other people’s postcards.
‘He’s an anthropologist,’ said Nicole. Knowing the next question would be ‘Where did you meet him?’ she was about to invent a white lie when her father intervened.
Mr Dawson, who was sitting by the fire, doing the crossword in his