Sophie Weston - In The Arms Of The Sheikh

‘You would too, wouldn’t you?’ Izzy sounded odd.

‘Whatever it takes,’ said Natasha briskly. ‘All for one and one for all. You’re my best friend and I haven’t seen you for six months.’ Her fingers twitched. She left the mouse where it was. But it was an effort. ‘Am I going to have to find me a pilot?’

‘No. By car, it’s an hour tops from the airport.’

‘Then there isn’t a problem.’

‘Okay, get back to your work, and I’ll see you tomorrow. You’re still on the overnight flight?’

‘Yup.’

‘That’s good. Gives us the whole day to talk before the others get here.’

Natasha frowned. She turned her back on her laptop. This sounded serious. ‘You in trouble, Izzy?’

Her friend gave the ghost of a laugh. ‘No, no, it’s just that—’ Izzy stopped. Then she went on in a high, unnatural voice, ‘Serenata Place is a bit difficult to find.’ It was as if she wanted to say something else and couldn’t screw her courage up. ‘I’ll email you a map,’ she said with desperate brightness.

Natasha’s frown deepened. She had never heard Izzy sound like that before. Well, not since—

She pulled her mind away from the dark memories. The bad time was three years past. Gone. She and Izzy had got out of the jungle alive and well and so had everyone else. All was well that ended well, in fact. The nightmares would go too, in time.

But that didn’t explain why Izzy sounded so stiff and false.

She said sharply, ‘What’s wrong, Izzy?’

Izzy made an odd sound, half laugh, half sob.

‘I’m getting married.’

‘You’re what?’

‘Married,’ said Izzy, gabbling. ‘I know. I know. It’s very sudden. You don’t know him. Only he’s going away and…this weekend is our engagement party.’

Natasha frowned at the phone for a long moment. Izzy was a practical, strong-minded woman, but she had her area of vulnerability. And Natasha knew exactly where it was. Izzy was at work. She worked with her cousin Pepper in a bright, fashionable office. It was open-plan and anyone could listen to everyone’s conversations. Would Izzy want to discuss everything with her co-workers listening in? No, she would not.

‘Look—I’ll see you on Friday and tell you everything. Have a good flight.’ Izzy rang off.

Okay, she would wait until their tête-à-tête on Friday. But then, she resolved, Izzy was going to tell, and tell everything.

Meanwhile, there was no point in thinking about it. Izzy’s sudden marriage could go on hold for a few hours. Natasha, the professional, had a presentation to finalise.

She turned back to the laptop and, with a savage stab at the keyboard, sent her pie chart purple.

The throne room at the palace was a hotchpotch of magnificence and sheer eccentric indulgence. The Emir of Saraq sat on a French brocade chair that would have looked more at home in Versailles and waved the new arrival onto a minimalist Swedish sofa. The Emir had commissioned it personally.

‘You don’t command me, Grandfather,’ said the new arrival, without emotion. He was tall with decided eyebrows and a great haughty beak of a nose. His stark white robe was creaseless. He did not sit down.

‘You are here,’ the Emir pointed out with a touch of defiance.

‘For the moment.’

Their eyes clashed: the Emir’s fierce; the watcher’s unreadable. He had had a lot of practice at masking his feelings. He was good at it.

The Emir’s gaze was the first to fall.

‘Don’t let’s argue, Kazim. This is important.’

The placatory tone was out of character. But his grandfather was a consummate actor, thought Kazim, and as wily as a hunting falcon. He stayed watchful.

‘Is this about another arranged marriage?’

The Emir’s eyes flashed. But almost at once he curbed himself.

‘No. I have agreed. You will decide for yourself when you marry.’ It sounded as if every word were dragged from him, but he still got it out.

It was not enough. Kazim stayed implacable.

‘If I marry,’ he corrected.

The old man did not like that, either. ‘If you marry,’ he agreed reluctantly.

Kazim was remorseless. ‘And who I marry.’

‘And who you marry.’ It was said through gritted teeth.

His grandson nodded slowly, like a general accepting surrender. ‘I will.’

They eyed each other like duellists.

The Emir said something explosive under his breath.

Kazim decided not to hear it. Sometimes it was the only possible move in the prolonged chess game of their relationship.

‘You break with every tradition and listen to nobody—but you do get things done.’

Kazim’s lips twitched. ‘Thank you—I think.’

The Emir stopped muttering and rearranged the fold of his white robe over his knees. He was obviously making a great effort to appear reasonable. ‘I wanted to see you because there has been a warning.’

Suddenly, all Kazim’s wariness dissolved in concern. ‘You mean threats? Against you?’

The Emir permitted himself a thin smile. ‘No. You.’

For a moment Kazim’s face was wiped absolutely clear of expression. He did not answer. The atmosphere in the throne room was suddenly charged with electricity.

‘So you knew,’ said the Emir softly.

Kazim was disturbed. He had not meant to give so much away. The old man was too good at this. Or I’m losing my touch. Not a good thought, that. He buried his unease, professional that he was, and shrugged.

‘There are always crackpots. Threats come with the territory.’

‘And you’re setting yourself up as a target for them,’ said his grandfather with sudden anger.

Kazim sighed. This was not new. His grandfather wanted him home and safe in Saraq, not continent-hopping involved in peace talks.

The old man grunted. ‘This International Reconciliation Council of yours is a great idea. Very high-minded.’ He paused for his effect. ‘In about fifty years’ time.’

‘We haven’t got fifty years,’ said Kazim, a touch wearily. They had had this argument before, many times; most explosively the day he’d left a year ago. He braced himself to argue the case.

But for once the Emir was not after a good argument. ‘That doesn’t matter.’

Kazim was astonished. ‘Excuse me?’

‘You’ve got yourself on an assassination list,’ the old man told him brutally.

Kazim stood like a rock. ‘Your spies are very efficient,’ he said politely.

The Emir glared. ‘You’re very cool about it.’

Kazim shrugged again. ‘I take reasonable precautions.’

‘No, you don’t.’

That made Kazim blink. ‘What?’

‘Getting rid of your security and even your servants for a whole weekend is not taking reasonable precautions,’ announced the Emir.

Kazim was thunderstruck.

‘Isn’t that what you’re going to do?’

‘Invasion of privacy is an alien concept to you, isn’t it?’ said Kazim grimly.

‘I look out for my own.’

‘By keeping them under twenty-four-hour surveillance?’

The Emir ignored that. ‘If it’s a woman, bring her here, where you’ll be safe. You can have the Sultana’s Palace and all the privacy you want.’

A muscle worked in Kazim’s jaw. ‘It is not a woman,’ he said in a goaded voice.

It took a lot to get under controlled Kazim’s skin these days. For the first time in the interview the Emir grinned.

‘Better if it were. You work too hard.’

They both knew that Kazim had not visited his allotted rooms in the Emir’s palace for years. He had come straight from the airport to this meeting and the Emir knew that, in all probability, the private jet was being refuelled even as they spoke.

The Emir had learned the hard way that if it came to a battle of wills between them, Kazim would walk away without a backward look if he thought he was in the right. But this was more than their usual battle of wills. Suddenly he was not the Emir; he was just a man, desperately worried for his grandson’s safety.