Liz Fielding - His Desert Rose

Kissed by the Sheikh!

Prince Hassan al Rashid looks like the ultimate international playboy, but beneath his designer suit beats the heart of a true desert prince. So when he fears his country is at risk, he knows he must stage a diversion of epic proportions to attract the world’s attention. His plan? To kidnap Rose Fenton – media darling and red-headed firecracker!

Except Hassan never realised how outrageously attractive his feisty captive would be! Rose couldn’t be more wrong for him but, one steamy kiss later, Hassan’s wondering why she feels so right…and how he’s ever going to let her go!

His Desert Rose

Liz Fielding

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Excerpt Kissed by the Sheikh! Prince Hassan al Rashid looks like the ultimate international playboy, but beneath his designer suit beats the heart of a true desert prince. So when he fears his country is at risk, he knows he must stage a diversion of epic proportions to attract the world’s attention. His plan? To kidnap Rose Fenton – media darling and red-headed firecracker! Except Hassan never realised how outrageously attractive his feisty captive would be! Rose couldn’t be more wrong for him but, one steamy kiss later, Hassan’s wondering why she feels so right…and how he’s ever going to let her go!

Title Page His Desert Rose Liz Fielding www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

‘THERE was a journalist on the plane, Partridge.’ Prince Hassan al Rashid joined his aide in the rear of the limousine. ‘Rose Fenton. She’s a foreign correspondent for one of the television news networks. Find out what she’s doing here.’

‘There’s no mystery about it, Excellency. She’s convalescing from pneumonia. That’s all.’ Hassan favoured the man with a look that doubted his sanity. But then Partridge was young, British and unbelievably innocent when it came to politics, whereas he had learned the game at his grandfather’s knee and suspected it would be very far from ‘all’. ‘She’s Tim Fenton’s sister,’ Partridge added helpfully. As if that explained everything. ‘He’s the new Chief Veterinary Officer,’ he continued, when he realised it didn’t. ‘He thought a little sun would help with his sister’s recuperation.’

‘Did he?’ How convenient. ‘And since when did being related to the CVO entitle anyone, let alone a journalist, to a seat on Abdullah’s private jet?’

‘I believe that His Highness thought Miss Fenton would appreciate the extra comfort, after being so ill. He’s apparently a great admirer…’ Hassan’s response was a dismissive wave of the hand, but Partridge stuck to his guns. ‘And since you were coming home anyway—’

‘I only learned about the flight when I asked the embassy to organise my own travel arrangements. We both know that Abdullah wouldn’t fly a kite for my convenience. As for offering his personal flying palace…’

‘I think His Highness is fully aware of your opinion of his extravagance.’

‘Yes, well, even the Queen of England flies on a commercial airliner these days.’

‘His Highness doesn’t want the Queen of England to write a flattering piece about him for one of the major news magazines.’

Not that innocent, then. ‘Thank you, Partridge.’ Hassan briefly acknowledged his aide’s unusually wry touch of humour. ‘I was sure you would get to the point eventually.’

Unfortunately it was not something to laugh about. Rose Fenton would doubtless be fêted and flattered as part of the Regent’s charm offensive while Faisal, the youthful Emir, was conveniently out of the country studying American business methods and showing no great eagerness to return home. His own return, Hassan thought grimly, had been precipitated by a friendly whisper that Abdullah was on the point of turning his Regency into something more permanent.

‘Is she aware what’s expected of her?’ he asked.

‘I shouldn’t think so.’

Hassan wasn’t convinced. ‘What about her brother? Have you met him?’

‘At the sports club,’ he said. ‘On the social circuit. Tim Fenton’s good company. He asked for leave to go home when his sister was taken ill and before he knew what was happening His Highness had issued a personal invitation for her to visit Ras al Hajar to convalesce.’

‘And when my cousin makes up his mind to something, it’s a foolish man who argues.’ And why would Rose Fenton argue? Abdullah kept foreign journalists out of Ras al Hajar as a matter of policy. And there weren’t any local ones. This must have seemed like a gift.

‘I don’t think you need worry, sir. Miss Fenton’s reputation as a journalist is formidable. If your cousin is looking for some flattering publicity I’d say he’s chosen the wrong woman.’

‘Maybe. Tell me, does Tim Fenton like his job here?’

Partridge’s silence was all the reply he required. Rose Fenton wouldn’t need to have it spelt out for her in words of one syllable either; she was far too clever for that. And Abdullah would make it easy for her. He’d tell the woman what a great job he was doing, and to prove it he’d whisk her in air-conditioned luxury from the new medical centre to the new shopping mall, via the new sports facilities. Progress in stainless steel and reinforced concrete.

He’d keep her sufficiently busy so that she wouldn’t have time to go looking for anything that might give her other ideas. Even if she had a mind to. After all, a one-to-one interview with the media-shy Regent would be a serious scoop for any journalist, no matter how formidable her reputation.

Hassan wasn’t as enamoured of journalists as his aide, even when they came packaged like the lovely Rose Fenton.

He changed tack. ‘Tell me, Partridge, since you’re so well informed, what entertainments has my cousin arranged to keep the lady amused while she’s here? I imagine he does have plans to keep her amused?’ The idea was distasteful, but he knew that if Abdullah admired the lady it was for her lovely face and fiery red hair rather than her journalistic skills. Partridge’s quick flush demonstrated exactly the effect Miss Fenton produced on susceptible males. ‘Well?’