Liz Fielding - His Desert Rose

And her thoughts wandered back to Prince Hassan al Rashid. The playboy prince was something of a cliché too. But those grey eyes suggested something very different behind the façade.

Prince Abdullah might woo her co-operation with his private jet and his roses, but it was Hassan who had her undivided attention.

‘WHAT do you mean, you can’t find him?’ Hassan could barely contain his anger. ‘He has bodyguards who watch him night and day—’

‘He’s given them the slip.’ Partridge’s voice echoed faintly on the satellite link. ‘Apparently there’s a girl involved—’

Of course there would be a girl. Damn the boy. And damn those blockheads who were supposed to look after him…

Except that he’d been twenty-four himself, once, centuries ago, and remembered only too well how it felt to live every waking moment under watchful eyes. Remembered just how easy it was to lose them when there was a girl…

‘Find him, Partridge. Find him and bring him home. Tell him…’ What? That he was sorry? That he understood? What good would that do? ‘Tell him there isn’t much time.’

‘I’ll do whatever is necessary, Excellency.’

Hassan stood at the entrance to his tent, Partridge’s words ringing in his head. Whatever is necessary… His dying grandfather had used those words to him on the day he’d named his younger grandson, Faisal, his heir, and his nephew, Abdullah, as Regent. Whatever is necessary for my country. It had been an apology of sorts, but, hurting and angry at being dispossessed, he had refused to understand and had behaved like the young fool that he’d been.

Older, wiser, he understood that for a man to rule he must first accept that the wishes of the heart must always be sacrificed to necessity.

In a few short weeks Faisal would be twenty-five, and if his young half-brother was to take on the burden of kingship he too would have to learn that lesson. And quickly.

In the meantime something would have to be done to disrupt Abdullah’s attempt at coup by media. His cousin might not encourage the press to come calling at his door, but he understood its power, and he would not let the chance slip to have someone like Rose Fenton in his pocket.

She’d already been given the official grand tour of the more fragrant parts of city, and it would be so easy to be fooled into believing everything was wonderful if you weren’t looking too hard. And Abdullah had it in his power to distract her in all manner of ways.

She might not succumb to the gifts, the gold and pearls that would be showered upon her. It was unlikely—he had little faith in the myth of the crusading, incorruptible journalist—but Abdullah had never been a one-plan dictator. If money wouldn’t do it, he had her brother as a hostage to her co-operation.

Well, two could play at that game, and, although he was sure she wouldn’t take the same view of the situation, Hassan reasoned that he would actually be doing Miss Fenton a favour if he took her out of circulation for a while.

And dealing with her frantic family, the British Foreign Office, the unkind comments of the British media, would give his cousin something more pressing to worry him than usurping Faisal’s throne. It might even prompt him to bail out. While Abdullah enjoyed the tribute that went with his role as stand-in Head of State, he wasn’t nearly so keen on the responsibilities that accompanied the role.

Partridge would doubtless be outraged, but, since his aide was clearly aware of the urgent necessity of doing whatever it took, he could be relied upon to keep his own counsel. In public, if not in private.

‘Horse racing?’ Rose helped herself to a slice of toast. It was six years since she’d been to a racetrack. It might not have been a deliberate decision, but she had always found some pressing reason to decline the many invitations to Ascot and Cheltenham that came her way. ‘At night?’

‘Under floodlights. It’s cooler then. Especially in summer,’ Tim added, then grinned. ‘There’ll be camel racing, too. Would you want to miss that?’

‘Would I?’ She pretended to think. ‘Yes.’

For a moment she thought he was going to say something. Give her the ‘it’s been nearly six years’ speech. He clearly thought better of it, because he shrugged and said, ‘Well, it’s up to you.’ If he was disappointed by her decision he didn’t let it show, and she could hardly believe that he was surprised. ‘I have to be there for obvious reasons, but I can come back and pick you up afterwards.’

She glanced up from the careful application of butter to her toast. ‘Pick me up?’

Tim indicated the square white envelope propped up against the marmalade. ‘We’ve been invited out to dinner after the races.’

‘Again?’ Didn’t anyone ever stay in for a pizza and a video in Ras al Hajar? ‘Who by?’

‘Simon Partridge.’

‘Have I met him?’ she asked, picking up the envelope and extracting a single sheet of paper. The handwriting was bold and strong. The note oddly formal. ‘Simon Partridge requests the pleasure…’

‘No, he’s Prince Hassan’s aide.’

About to plead tiredness, a headache, anything to get out of another formal evening, the night in with a video suddenly lost its appeal. She hadn’t seen the playboy prince since he got off the plane. She’d looked for him, listened out for his name, but he appeared to have vanished from the face of the earth.

‘You’ll like him,’ Tim said. She was sure her brother meant Simon Partridge rather than Hassan, but she didn’t ask; she had the feeling that it would be wiser not to draw attention to her interest. ‘He was desperately keen to meet you, but he’s been out of town.’

‘Really?’ And then she laughed. ‘Tell me, Tim, where do you go when you go “out of town” in Ras al Hajar?’

‘Nowhere. That’s the point. You leave civilisation behind.’

‘I’ve done that.’ She’d been in some very uncivilised places in the last few years. Too many. ‘It’s overrated.’

‘The desert is different. Which is why, if you’re someone like Hassan, the first thing you do when you get home is take your hounds and your hawks out into the desert and go hunting. And if you’re his aide, you go with him.’

‘I see.’ What she saw was that if Simon Partridge was back in town, then so was Prince Hassan. ‘Tell me about him. Simon Partridge. It’s unusual for someone like Hassan to have a British aide, surely?’

‘His grandfather had one and lived to tell the tale.’

‘Did he?’

Tim frowned. ‘Hassan’s father. He was a Scot. Didn’t I say?’

‘No, you didn’t.’ Well, he hadn’t. ‘It explains a lot.’

Tim shrugged. ‘Maybe he feels he can rely on Partridge one hundred per cent to be his man, with no divided tribal loyalties, no family feuds to get in the way.’