Liz Fielding: Chosen as the Sheikh's Wife

Violet picked up Molly, stayed to have a sandwich with Sarah, then walked round the back, squeezing

through the gap in the hedge. She thought she'd wedged the door firmly in its frame, but a gust of wind must have caught it, because it had fallen in.

Then she stepped inside.

Her kitchen was wrecked. Drawers pulled out, plates smashed. Photographs and china from the dresser trampled underfoot

And, in the middle of the kitchen, the fridge was lying on its side. If it hadn't been beyond repair before, it was now.

In shock, she walked through the house to discover that every room had been given the same treatment. Even the precious treasures that had been stored through generations in the old leather bag had been tipped out, crushed beneath careless feet. Except for the envelopes. They were gone.

No one would call him while he was at a formal lunch, and normally Fayad would have switched off his cellphone. But he'd promised Violet Hamilton that he would be there if she needed him. And as the phone began to vibrate against his heart, he knew she needed him.

It could only be Violet, and with a brief apology to his host, he left the table.

'Princess?' He spoke without thinking. How easy it was to address her by that title. How right it felt.

'They came back…'

Her voice-little more than a tremor, barely audible-sent real fear coursing through his veins.

'Did they hurt you?' he asked, forcing himself to keep his voice low, when all he wanted to do was roar with fury. If they'd hurt her they'd pay for it.

He was already paying. He'd known the danger, had asked his aide to organise private security, but these things took time to put in place and his enemies hadn't waited.

The man who'd escaped had simply waited until he left, then called for reinforcements.

But an angry response wouldn't help Violet. She'd come through the first attack relatively unscathed, but now she was seriously frightened and she needed a calm response.

'Do you need medical help?' he asked, when she didn't reply.

'I wasn't here.' Then, on a sob, 'Please. Take me away…'

He uttered a prayer of thanks that she had been out of the house, that she'd chosen to call him, then said, 'I'll be with you in twenty minutes.'

He made it in fifteen and, ignoring the front door, went straight around the back. He took in the wreckage of the kitchen, the rest of the ground floor. Then sprinted up the stairs and found her, huddled against the head of a big, old-fashioned double bed, clutching an old leather bag to her chest.

The mess was indescribable. The wardrobe had been ransacked, its contents spilled on the floor. A lamp overturned and smashed.

Ignoring it, he climbed up beside her, put his arms around her and pulled her close, kissing the top of her head as if she were a child. For a moment she reacted like a wild thing, fighting him, lashing out in her anger and pain, but he held on, murmuring the soft words of comfort that his mother had poured into his own ears as a child.

She wouldn't understand them, but it wasn't the words that mattered. There was a tone of voice, a universal comfort that transcended language.

For a moment she was deaf to him, but then a great shudder went through her and, as she leaned into him, hot tears soaked through his jacket to his skin, scalding him with her pain.

He held her close, stayed with her while his staff, summoned as he was driven to her aid, arrived to pack her things, take charge here.

And all the time he held her his heart was singing, because she hadn't called her friend who was just next door. She'd called him. Had wanted him. Had trusted him.

'Princess?' he prompted, when a nod from his aide assured him that everything had been done. That his plane would be waiting by the time they arrived at the airport so that they could board without delay.

'Violet?'

She lifted her head as if the weight of it was almost too much to bear. Her face was ashen, her eyes grey with misery, her lashes clumped together with tears. And still she was beautiful.

'It's time to go,' he said.

She didn't ask where he was taking her, just nodded, and he stood up, helping her up, keeping his arm about her as she found her feet. After a moment, she took an unsteady step back. He reached out to stop her from falling, but she straightened.

'Sarah,' she said. 'I have to tell Sarah I'm leaving or she'll worry.'

'She's here.'

'Violet? I saw the car.' Then, with a gasp as she saw the mess, 'Why didn't you call me?'

'She was protecting you,' Fayad told her. 'Protecting your family.'

'Who will protect her ?'

'I will.'

For a moment Sarah challenged him with a look then, apparently satisfied that he meant what he said, she took Violet in her arms and hugged her.

'I'm so sorry. This is all my fault. If I hadn't dragged you along to that wretched Trash or Treasure roadshow…'

'You didn't do this, Sarah,' Fayad said, handing her a card. 'You shouldn't have any more trouble. My people will be here, taking care of the house, and I've organised security, but if you're worried at any time, if you need anything, call this number. My cousin, Hamad al Kuwani, is the ambassador, and he knows who you are and will help in any way…'

'Thank you.' Then she turned to Violet and said, 'Call me. Every day.'

'She will,' he said, and, anxious to get her away, he supported her down the stairs, steering her through the wreckage of the hall until they reached the front door, not permitting her to stop, mourn.

'Don't look back,' he warned as she hesitated, momentarily dug in her heels. 'Always look ahead, keep your eyes on where you're going.'

'If only I knew where that was.'

She looked up at him, and then, because he wanted to reassure her, he bent and kissed her.

It had been an impulse. An attempt to distract her. Distract himself, maybe. But the softness of her lips, clinging to his, seemed to light a fire that had been smouldering within him since the moment he had first set eyes on her.

A recognition.

'Wherever it is,' he said, 'I will be with you. For as long as you need me.'

Violet felt numb. As they sped towards the airport, enfolded in the luxurious leather of his car, the only warmth came from Sheikh Fayad's hand, holding hers as if he would never let it go.

Her hand. And her mouth.

She knew why he'd kissed her. He'd seen how hard it was to walk away from her home when they both knew that she'd never be going back. It had been no more than a distraction. He'd wanted to divert her, get her over the step, down the path, through the gate and into his car. To keep her from looking back.

And it had worked.

While her lips had clung to his, she'd had the feeling that there was nothing in the world that could hurt her. That there was no past, only a future. That with him she was safe.

She hoped it was true, because she'd put herself entirely in his hands. Good hands. Strong, gentle, she thought, looking at her own wrapped in his long fingers as he continued to hold on, never once letting go, despite the constant stream of calls he took on his cellphone.

Even when they arrived at the airport and a member of the VIP ground staff would have whisked her away, as if that were the norm, he just tightened his grip and said, 'Leave her. She stays with me.'

Only when they were in the air and he'd escorted her to an unbelievably luxurious sitting room did he finally release her hand, delivering her into the care of the young woman waiting there.

'Rest now. Leila will be your companion. She will take care of you,' he said. 'No one will disturb you.'

Too late. She was disturbed beyond repair. But she managed a hoarse, 'Thank you.'