He handled everything masterfully, from fending off fawning women to rescuing Sarah from sticky questions and ensuring she was not exposed to problems or unpleasantness by the simple but effective measure of not allowing anyone to take her from his side. Even pre-arranged places at tables were rearranged to accommodate his insistence on their not being separated.
It was stamped on every mind that Sarah Hillyard was to be respected as Sheikh Tareq al-Khaima’s companion and under his protection and woe betide anyone who put a foot wrong with her or slighted her in any way. His manner to her was courteous, gentlemanly, above reproach in word and deed. In short, he treated her like a princess and subtly forced others to do the same.
It made her feel cosseted, valued, cared for as though she was precious to him. This was heightened by his air of possessiveness. Only he took her arm. Only he rested a light hand on her waist. Only he danced with her. It was heady stuff for Sarah who found it more and more difficult to keep her feet on the ground.
At first she had thought Tareq was treating her as he believed she wanted to be treated, a cynical display of his reeducation. But there was nothing even slightly sardonic in his behaviour towards her. Then she had reasoned Washington was a hotbed of political gossip and Tareq’s public performance was probably being reported to the embassy which served his country and thus back to his uncle. Perhaps she was being convincingly set up as the woman in his life so she would come as no surprise at his half-brother’s wedding.
All she absolutely knew was Tareq eased off the act in private, remaining polite and considerate but holding a distance she could not cross. Some nights he parted very abruptly from her. Other nights he questioned her closely—Had she enjoyed herself? Was she interested or bored? Would she prefer not to be involved with such company?—and she had the chilling sense of more pieces being fitted into his jigsaw of her. What struck her more painfully than anything else was that once they were alone together, there was no physical touching, absolutely none.
Exhilaration…frustration. Sarah swung from one to the other like a yo-yo. She needed the daytime away from Tareq to regain some equilibrium. Yet still he shadowed her every hour. If she wasn’t thinking of the evening before or the evening to come, she was thinking of what to share with him of her sight-seeing activities, how to be companionable while covering up the ever-constant desire of wanting more from him.
The same pattern had been repeated in New York, although there the meetings and dinners had been with bankers and the talk had revolved around the money markets. More new clothes had become a necessity. The between seasons outfits she had purchased in Naples simply didn’t suit the New York winter and she was very conscious of not letting Tareq down in company.
They had flown to England a week ago, taking up residence in this house, and in some ways it had proved the most difficult time for her. There was nothing new about the city of London to distract her, no social engagements taking up the evenings, nothing to busy her in the house since a married couple looked after everything. And highlighting her failure to reach into Tareq’s heart, was Peter Larsen, the person who knew him better than anyone.
The trusted trouble-shooter was already in London when she and Tareq had arrived. Whether he had flown directly to England from Australia, Sarah didn’t know and didn’t ask. Peter Larsen practised British reserve and discretion to the nth degree. He never spoke of business in front of her, despite spending most of each day at Eaton Place, either in this office which she presently occupied, or in the library where he was currently closeted with Tareq, discussing some business strategy.
He shared lunch with them, was unfailingly polite to her, and kept his own private life extremely private. The only personal thing Sarah knew about him was he owned an apartment overlooking the Thames.
She couldn’t say she disliked him. He gave her no reason to. But she deeply envied the easy rapport between him and Tareq. Sometimes they talked in a kind of shorthand, their understanding so closely attuned, a look or a gesture conveyed more of a message than words.
Since the incident with Dionne Van Housen, Tareq had given Sarah no cause to be jealous of other women, but she was jealous of what he shared with Peter Larsen. Their communication didn’t miss a beat and the bond of trust was so strong neither ever paused to question it. Somehow it turned her into an outsider, despite being in the same room as them.
Sarah heaved a despondent sigh and dragged her attention back to the letter she had started. She had no heart for it but she tried to find something more to say.
I’m glad the parcel from New York arrived safely and the twins had such fun at school with the Statue of Liberty hats.
The symbol of freedom. Would she ever feel free of Tareq, even when the year was over? She hoped her father was making the best of a fresh start because she was surely paying for it.
The office door opened, startling Sarah out of her reverie. Peter Larsen stepped into the room, carrying a file of papers. He paused, frowning slightly as he saw her occupying the chair in front of the computer. Sarah leapt up, gesturing an apology as she sought to excuse herself.
“I was writing to Jessie. I hope you don’t mind my being here while you were with Tareq.”
He shrugged. “As I understand it, you have the freedom of the house, Miss Hillyard. Do continue your letter if you so desire.”
“I don’t want to be in your way.”
“I have only to return this file to the cabinet and then I’ll be leaving.” He surprised her by asking, “How is Jessie?”
“Fine! Looking forward to Christmas.”
He smiled. Actually smiled. “Such a bright little girl. She took to the computer like a duck to water. I liked her very much. Say hello to her from me.”
Sarah was quite stunned by this unexpected crack in Peter Larsen’s customary reserve. “Yes, I will,” she answered, dazedly watching him cross the room to the filing cabinet before it occurred to her to remark, “I didn’t know you’d met her.”
He answered matter-of-factly as he took a set of keys from his trouser pocket, unlocked the cabinet and pulled out a drawer. “I made a point of it after my last meeting with your father. Mainly to check her progress, see that the tutor was doing his job well and Jessie was happy with what she was learning.” He glanced at Sarah, smiling again. “She insisted on demonstrating her new skills to me so I could tell Tareq how good she was.”
A child like Jessie could bring warmth out of a stone, Sarah thought. Hoping this was an opportunity to milk Peter Larsen of more information on her family, she asked, “How long ago was this?”
“Just before I flew out,” he replied, inserting the file in the drawer. “First of December.”
Sarah totted up the time he’d spent in Australia after she and Tareq had left. Four weeks. Which seemed an excessive amount.
“Was my father holding up okay?” she asked anxiously. “I mean…were you satisfied he was doing the right thing by the horses and everything?”
“I was satisfied your father had every good intention, Miss Hillyard.” He gave her a sympathetic look. “You must know that only time will bring results.”
“Yes. of course. It was just…I was worried about Firefly…and his poor performance in the Melbourne Cup.” She cast around for a way to ask if her father had displayed any particular attitude towards the prize horse.
“It’s been taken care of, Miss Hillyard. I saw to it personally. There’ll be no more trouble coming from that quarter,” Peter Larsen quietly assured her, then proceeded to relock the cabinet.
Sarah’s concerns were far from answered. Had Peter Larson taken Firefly to another trainer? But that would defeat the test of Firefly’s performance at the end of the year.
“How has it been taken care of?” she cried. “I don’t see how…”
“Miss Hillyard, it’s quite irrelevant