Her Desert Dream. Liz Fielding

thought, warming to the woman despite the problems she’d caused.

      There was only one thing wrong with it. Lady Rose had taken matters into her own hands and was, even now—in borrowed clothes, a borrowed car—embarking on an adventure of her own, safe in the knowledge that no one realised she’d escaped. That she could do what she liked while the world watched her lookalike.

      Of course there was nothing to stop her from making it happen, she thought as she finally removed the hat and jewellery she was wearing. Kicked off her shoes and slipped out of the suit.

      All it would take would be a look. A touch. He wasn’t averse to touching.

      She began to pull pins from her hair, absently divesting herself of the Lady Rose persona, just as she did at the end of every gig.

      And she wouldn’t be the victim this time. She would be the one in control, watching as the biter was, for once, bit.

      Then, as her hair tumbled down, bringing her out of a reverie in which Kal touched her hand, then her face, her neck, his lips following a trail blazed by his fingers she let slip a word that Rose had probably never heard, let alone used.

      It had taken an age to put her hair up like that and, unlike Rose, she didn’t have a maid to help.

      Just what she deserved for letting her fantasy run away with her. There was no way she was going to do anything that would embarrass Rose. Her part was written and she’d stick to it.

      She began to gather the pins, but then realised that just because Rose never appeared in photographs other than with her hair up, it didn’t mean that when she shut the door on the world at the end of the day—or embarked on an eight-hour flight—she’d wouldn’t wear it loose.

      She was, after all, supposed to be on holiday. And who, after all, knew what she did, said, wore, when she was behind closed doors?

      Not Kalil al-Zaki, that was for sure.

      And that was the answer to the ‘keeping up appearances’ problem, she realised.

      Instead of trying to remember that she was Lady Rose for the next seven days, she would just be herself. She’d already made a pretty good start with the kind of lippy responses that regulars on her checkout at the supermarket would recognise.

      And being herself would help with the ‘lust’ problem, too.

      For as long as she could remember, she’d been fending off the advances of first boys, then men who, when they looked at her, had seen only the ‘virgin’ princess and wanted to either worship or ravish her.

      It had taken her a little while to work that one out but, once she had, she’d had no trouble keeping them at arm’s length, apart from the near miss with the actor, but then he’d been paid to be convincing. And patient. It was a pity he’d only, in the end, had an audience of one because he’d put in an Oscar-winning performance.

      Kal, despite the way he looked, was just another man flirting with Lady Rose. That was all she had to remember, she told herself as she shook out her hair, brushed it, before she freshened up and put on the clothes Rose had chosen for her.

      So which would he be? Worshipper or ravisher?

      Good question, she thought as she added a simple gold chain and stud earrings before checking her reflection in a full length mirror.

      It wasn’t quite her—she tended to favour jeans and funky tops. It wasn’t quite Lady Rose either, but it was close enough for someone who’d never met either of them, she decided as she chose a book, faced the door and took a slow, calming breath before returning to the main cabin.

      In her absence the seats had been turned around, the cabin reconfigured so that it now resembled a comfortable sitting room.

      An empty sitting room.