Liz Fielding - Chosen as the Sheikh's Wife

He responded with a frown. 'Why do you thank me? You have given me all you have while I have brought nothing but trouble to you and your friends.'

'I returned what is rightfully yours. As for the rest-you told Sarah that it was not her fault. Well, it's not yours, either.' Then, because he seemed lost for an answer, 'They will be safe?'

This morning she'd been so arrogant in her dismissal of danger. How could she have been so stupid? If anything happened to them…

'They will come to no harm, insh 'Allah ,' he said. 'By the will of God.' Then, with a smile, 'And the best security that money can buy.'

And then he was gone, leaving her to the pampering of Leila.

'Come. Bathe, sleep,' she said. 'You will feel better.'

She'd certainly look better. Forget her face. She'd thrown on the first things that had come to hand that morning when she'd dashed off to fetch Molly from playgroup. An old T-shirt on which she'd experimented with a design that not even her best friend would wear-let alone buy-and a pair of jeans that she'd bought in the market.

'So much for being a princess,' she said. 'I don't exactly look the part, do I?'

'I'm so sorry, sitti .' Leila was all flustered apology. 'I did not mean…'

Oh, good grief, the poor girl thought she was offended. 'I'm a mess, Leila. Honestly, you don't have to be polite.'

'Oh.' Then, indicating her suitcases, which had not been placed in the hold but in the bedroom-this was travelling, but not as she knew it-'I'll find something for you to wear.'

Violet's first response was to explain that she was perfectly capable of looking through a suitcase, but she choked back the words as she realised that Leila would be hurt, feel rejected.

'Thank you.' Then, 'Maybe you can help me choose something that would make me look a little more…?'

'The part?' she offered, repeating the word with a tentative smile.

Which was what?

Sheikh Fayad called her Princess.

Never in a million years, she thought.

Presentable was about as much as she could hope for. Less of a wimpy embarrassment.

'"The part" will do nicely,' she said, managing a smile of her own, and leaving Leila, considerably happier, to sort through her clothes, while she wallowed in the luxury of the bathroom. Soaking the hideous night, the unbelievably worse day, out of her bones.

What was it Sarah had said about needing a little excitement in her life?

How about flying in a wide-bodied jet that would make anything in the Queen's Flight look like economy. Flying at thirty thousand feet, up to her neck in scented bubbles. Being flown away on a metaphorical magic carpet to some strange and exotic country by a man who would light up any woman's dreams.

She lifted wet fingers to her lips and smiled. A man whose chosen method of distracting a woman in distress was to kiss her. How much better could it get?

No. She definitely wasn't going there…

It had been no more than his way of preventing her from descending into hysteria, she knew. But for a moment, as his lips had claimed hers, held them for what had seemed like endless moments, it had felt like… She grinned. It had felt like skiing down Everest.

When she emerged from the bathroom, this time in a soft snowy white bathrobe, her hair wrapped in one of those fancy towels that soaked up the water, Leila was waiting, and had her hair dry and glossily straight in no time flat. Clearly she wasn't the standard cabin crew member; her duties extended well beyond providing peanuts and mineral water.

'You will rest now,' she said, turning back the bed. 'I will iron your clothes and repack them properly.'

'No…'

Leila frowned.

'No, really-I can't expect you to do that.'

'It is my pleasure,' she said, gathering up her bags and, leaving her with nothing but a pair of clean but

crumpled cotton PJs, which she'd laid out as carefully as if they were made of silk, she headed for the door.

Fayad had to force himself to concentrate. Apart from the speculation that cutting short his visit to London was bound to provoke, stirring up more rumours about his grandfather's health, it meant a great deal of work for his staff as they cancelled meetings, lunches, receptions.

He made some calls himself, offering apologies for his abrupt change of plan, discussing alternative dates, leaving his diary secretary to confirm the details. But all the time, at the back of his mind, was Violet.

She had brushed aside the first attempt to steal the knife as if it had been nothing. But the wanton destruction of her home was an act of terrifying violence, rage, even, impossible to dismiss with the same casual courage. He understood why, instead of calling her closest friend, or even the police, she had called the only person she knew who would understand. Who wouldn't torment her with questions but would simply act.

It wasn't her safety that bothered him now. No one would harm her while she was in his care. But there was another problem.

In dropping everything and going to her aid he'd broken just about every protocol, crashed through every barrier that existed within his society between a man and a woman who was not his wife.

He could have done no less.

Seeing her, crumpled up like some broken, wounded creature, a man would have had to have had a heart of flint not to act as he had done, and everyone would understand that.

But there were consequences. It had not been a private matter. Too many of his staff had seen him holding her.

Everything else might have been accepted, even the kiss, but not that intimacy, and he had no doubt that his grandfather would hear of it long before he reached home. This would not be treated as some minor indiscretion to be overlooked; not when the consequences would suit the old man so well.

If she'd been anyone else it would not have mattered. As a foreign woman it would have been understood that she did not live by their rules. If she'd remained in London, even, it might have been possible to brush it aside.

But by taking her home, presenting her to his grandfather, he was giving her the status to which she was entitled, and as far as the court was concerned his marriage to Violet Hamilton would be a foregone conclusion.

To offer her anything less would be an insult to her and would certainly outrage the Sayyid family, happy to use whatever insult that came to hand in pursuit of discord. Even when it was an insult to the offspring of a daughter who had shamed them.

They'd gladly use it to manufacture a schism that they could use to drive the country apart and fuel their grab for control of the oil revenues that were-for the moment-pouring into the country.

The offer, with a dower fit for a princess, would have to be made, and in truth it was a marriage that would serve every imaginable purpose. From an aristocratic family, Violet was returning the symbol of their country's origins, redressing an old wrong with no thought of reward. Restoring her family's honour. Neutralising the Sayyid threat.

It was a marriage that would delight his grandfather and give Fayad a wife of great character, great beauty, while reuniting two great tribes who had for far too long been enemies beneath the diplomatic display of unity.

All attributes that made it a perfect match for him. Except one.

He dragged a hand over his face as if to wipe away the memories that haunted him. The loss of his wife, his son, had ripped the heart out of him and, despite all efforts to tempt him to offer for the treasure of one of the carefully nurtured daughters who would doubtless have made the perfect wife, he had been immune.

His family had been in danger and he had not been there to keep them safe. No man could live through that and be whole ever again…

Violet Hamilton was a chance to redeem himself, and in that first moment when he had set eyes on her, when she'd opened the door thinking it was just another day and looked up at him, any man would have responded to her as the desert to rain.