In that split second he’d imagined every possible drama that would have brought Safia flying north to Ras al Kawi. To him. When Ruby Dance, and not Safia, had stepped out of the shadow, the complex rush of disappointment, guilt had hit him like a punch in the gut.
Her hair was the same dark silk as Safia’s but it had been cut in short, feathery layers. Her eyes were not the rare blue-green that was the legacy of Iskandar’s army, who’d fought and scattered their seed every inch of the way along the Gulf to India, but the cool blue-grey of a silver fox. She was a little taller and, while her voice had the same soft, low musical tones that wrapped around a man’s heart, when she spoke it was with that clear precision—as English as a rainy day—of the privileged aristocratic women he’d known in Europe.
What she did have in common with Safia was a rare stillness, a face that gave no hint of what she was thinking or feeling.
Schooled to obedience—accepting without question a marriage arranged to keep the peace between their warring families when they were children—Safia would have played the role of perfect wife, borne his children, never by so much as a breath betraying her love for another man.
The arrival of a courier that morning bearing the summons home, and the difficult call from his brother, had stirred up long-buried memories, bringing Safia’s image so vividly to mind that it had taken time for his brain to catch up with what his eyes were telling him. A seemingly endless moment when everything dead within him had stirred, quickened and he’d come close to taking her hand to draw her close. To step back five years and, if only for a moment, be the man he was meant to be. Husband, father, heir to his father’s throne.
He shook his head, grabbed a towel and scrubbed at his face to erase the treacherous thought and concentrate on what Ruby Dance had said about Peter.
A badly broken leg, a wrist that would be out of action for weeks, the agony of cracked ribs; the timing couldn’t be worse. There were a number of projects requiring his undivided attention and, after five long years of exile, the longed-for call home with a sting in the tail...
He glanced at the letter of introduction, picked up his phone and keyed Amanda Garland into the search engine.
Her reputation—clients who were prepared to publicly laud her to the skies, a Businesswoman of the Year award, an honour from Queen Elizabeth—was as impressive as the list of people she’d offered as a reference.
He’d asked the Dance woman if he would have heard of any of them and the fact was that he’d met all of them. If she was used to working at this level she must be seriously good at her job and, unlike Peter, she wouldn’t be itching to disappear into the desert for days at a time with a camera.
* * *
Ruby wasted no time in stripping off and stepping into the walk-in shower. She let the hard needles of water stream over her for one long minute, stimulating, refreshing, bringing her body back to life.
It was warmer here than in London, than on the air conditioned jet, and she abandoned her dark grey trouser suit in favour of a lightweight knee-length skirt and linen top. And, having already experienced the ancient steps, she slipped on a pair of black ballet flats.
She still had a few minutes and used them to check her phone for Amanda’s text, copying the details of the hospital onto one of the index cards she carried with her before going in search of Sheikh Ibrahim’s office.
The evening was closing in. The sea was flat calm, the sky ranging from deep purple in the east to pale pinks and mauves in the west while, in the shadows, tiny solar lights twined around the pergolas and set amongst the casual planting, were blinking on, shining through leaves, glinting on a ripple of water trickling down through rocks.
The garden had a quiet magic and she could have stood there for hours letting the peace seep into her bones. She took one last look then, out of time, she walked down to the next level where, in a corner, a few shrivelled fruits still clung to a pomegranate tree.
She found another flight of steps half hidden behind the thick stems of the bougainvillaea that softened the tower wall. These were narrower, skirting the cliff face with only a wall that did not reach the height of her shoulder to protect her from a nerve-tingling drop onto the rocks below. She did not linger and, precisely fifteen minutes later, as instructed by the Sheikh, she stepped down into a courtyard where concealed lights washed the walls, turning it into an outside room.
Sheikh Ibrahim, wet hair slicked back and now wearing shorts and a loose-fitting T-shirt that hung from those wide shoulders, was sitting, legs stretched out, ankles crossed on the footrest of an old-fashioned cane planters’ chair, smartphone in hand.
There was a matching chair on the other side of the low table.
She placed the card with the hospital details in front of him, slid back the footrest on the empty chair, removed her phone, tablet, notepad and pen from her satchel and, tidily tucking her skirt beneath her, sat down.
He looked at her for what seemed like endless minutes, a slight frown buckling the space between his eyes.
Ruby had learned the habit of stillness long ago. It was her survival technique; she’d schooled herself not to blink, blanking even the most penetrating of stares with a bland look that had unnerved both the disapproving, pitying adults who didn’t know what to say to her and the jeering classmates who knew only too well.
Perhaps she’d become complacent. It was a long time since anyone had bothered to look beyond the image of the professional peripatetic PA that she presented to the world. Now, sitting in front of Sheikh Ibrahim, waiting for him to say something, say anything, it took every ounce of concentration to maintain her composure.
Maybe it was the memory of water dripping onto his bare shoulder, running down his chest, the certainty that he’d been naked beneath that towel that was messing with her head.
Or that his thighs, calves, ankles honed to perfection on horseback, on the blackest of black ski runs, were everything hinted at beneath the jodhpurs he’d been wearing on the Celebrity cover she’d downloaded to the file she’d created as soon as Amanda had called her. Confirmed in the photograph of him cavorting naked in a London fountain, one arm around a girl in transparently wet underwear as he’d poured a bottle of champagne over them both. The photograph that had cost him a throne.
Or maybe it was that she recognised the darkness in his eyes, an all-consuming hunger for redemption. It crossed the space between them and a shiver rippled through her as if he’d reached out and touched her.
‘Jude Radcliffe tells me that he offered you a permanent position in his organisation,’ he said at last. ‘Why didn’t you take it?’
‘You talked to Jude?’ Amanda hadn’t held back when it came to references.
‘Is that a problem?’ He spoke softly, inviting her confidence. She was not fooled. His voice might be seductively velvet but it cloaked steel.
‘No, but it is Sunday. I didn’t think he’d be at the office.’
‘He wasn’t. I know him well enough to call him at home.’ His response was casual enough, but she didn’t miss the underlying warning; someone he knew on a personal basis would be totally frank.
‘Did he tell you that his wife was once a Garland temp?’ she asked, demonstrating her own familiarity with the family. ‘It’s how they met. She was expecting her second baby the last time I worked at Radcliffe Tower.’ She picked up her phone and checked her diary. ‘It’s due next month.’
‘You keep files on the people you work for?’
She looked up. ‘The way they like their coffee, their favoured airlines, the name of their hairdresser, shirt collar size, the brand of make-up they use, important birthdays. They’re the small details that make me the person they call when their secretaries are sick,’ she said. ‘They’re the reason why their PAs check whether I’ll be available before they make their holiday