Sophie Weston - In The Arms Of The Sheikh

Natasha left a message. ‘Izzy, I’m going to be late. Powerful men and their little quirks! Sorry, love. See you as soon as I can.’

It was a repeating pattern in the frustrating hours that followed. The last flight out took off late; hit fog; was diverted…Natasha calculated time-zone differences and called and called. Izzy never once picked up her phone.

In the end it was a dark Saturday evening when Natasha’s hired limousine edged its way through narrow Sussex lanes at last. The chauffeur’s silence was more eloquent than a stream of complaint. They had been through a ten-house village at least three times when Natasha spied a steep single-track road to their left.

‘There.’

Sulkily the chauffeur did as he was told. The heater spluttered and died.

Natasha shivered. She didn’t travel in Prada, but she didn’t travel in Arctic expeditionary wear either. In ten denier and handmade stilettos, her toes were slowly turning to ice.

‘I hope it’s not far. We’re miles from anywhere.’

The chauffeur sniffed.

To their right, there were hedges and dark fields; to their left, a high laurel hedge. It was beautifully clipped.

‘Looks like some sort of stately home in there,’ Natasha said doubtfully. ‘Hope we haven’t gone wrong again.’

And then there was a signpost. ‘Serenata Place. Strictly Private.’

‘Friendly,’ Natasha remarked.

And very, very grand. She was startled, though she did not say that aloud.

What did it matter how grand it was? she told herself robustly. She could handle grand. She could handle anything.

But as the limo turned in through high hedges and was brought to a stop by massive wrought-iron gates Natasha felt her confidence wavering, for once.

She set her teeth and did not let it show. Instead she lowered the electric window and spoke briskly into the entry camera.

‘Ms Lambert for Ms Dare. I’m expected.’

There was no voice on the other end. No response at all. Just a long, sinister pause.

Then, at last, the gates swung inward. Silently.

Natasha shivered again; not entirely because of the temperature.

‘Oh, great. All it needs is for Lurch the butler to come swaying out of the shadows,’ she muttered, thoroughly put out.

She closed the window and sat back, looking about her. They were going through some seriously stately grounds. The drive was longer than a jumbo’s runway. And then they came to the house…

‘Enough turrets to turn Disney studios green with envy,’ said Natasha, blankly. ‘And Sleeping Beauty’s forest to protect it! Why on earth didn’t Izzy tell me she was borrowing a Gothic mansion?’

The chauffeur did not answer.

The limousine stopped. However sulky he felt, the chauffeur had been well trained. He extracted her compact luggage and took it up the front steps. He rang an impressive bell pull before coming back to open the door of the limousine for her. If it had still been raining he would have held an umbrella over her head.

‘Thank you,’ said Natasha, getting out like a princess.

She had the oddest feeling she was being watched. But the front door remained closed and the windows were dark. In spite of a porch light like a beacon, there was no sound of life.

She went up the front steps. They struck cold as ice through the soles of her fashionable pumps. Marble, she thought, resigned. Definitely the real thing. A mansion indeed.

‘I suppose this really is the right place—’ she began.

But the driver was making good his escape. She watched the limousine drive off through the trees and found that her heart was sinking.

Natasha took hold of herself. Was she a woman or a wimp?

‘The butler probably has to fight his way out of the coffin to get to the front door,’ she told herself mordantly. ‘Great stuff, Izzy. A themed weekend!’

She pressed the doorbell again several times. Hard.

The feeling of being watched intensified. It was like standing in a spotlight. She tilted her head, listening…

Was that a noise…?

No, she told herself. No, not an actual noise. She could not hear anything but the wind in the trees. No steps on the raked gravel path. No breathing.

But something inside her knew he was there. Her blood seemed to get heavy; move more slowly. Her bones tingled.

Be careful.

Natasha swallowed. The Gothic atmosphere was really getting to her! She rang the bell again and again, heart beating hard.

Then, like a shot from a gun, there came the crackle of dry leaves underfoot.

She froze. Imagination was one thing. Instincts screaming at her to be on the alert were something totally different. Natasha had learned to trust her instincts. They had saved her life once. She whipped round.

‘Who’s there?’

She scoured the shadows as if each one hid a personal assassin.

The man emerged from the darkness between two huge bushes. He was not stealthy, but he walked lightly. He was tall, wearing something dark.

Natasha’s first impression was that he was very professional. Professional what, she was not sure. But, a professional herself, she recognised the characteristics: tense, focused, controlled. Her second impression, which blasted the first away like a firestorm—was total arrogance.

Natasha knew arrogance in all its forms. She worked with it every day and, once, it had nearly cost her her life. She detested it. On pure reflex, she went into defensive mode. Her backbone locked and her chin came up like a fighter plane taking off.

The man looked at her. He did not say anything. The reflected light from the porch picked up high, haughty cheekbones and eyes that pierced. Just for the moment she thought of a jungle cat, watchful and contained. And dangerous.

Dangerous? She fought with herself. This was a shadow of the past, pure and simple. Nothing more. She was not going to let paranoia get to her after all these years. She set her teeth.

‘Good evening.’ Her tone was pleasant—well, fairly pleasant. It said she reserved the right to lash out if he didn’t jump to attention. Close associates would have recognised that tone.

The man from the shadows was unmoved. More, he was unimpressed.

‘Yes?’ It was about as welcoming as a firestorm, too.

It would have intimidated a lesser woman. Natasha was almost certain it was meant to intimidate her.

It didn’t. She wasted no more time on civilities.

‘I’m expected,’ she said briskly.

That did not impress him either. ‘And you are?’

‘Ms Lambert to see Ms Dare.’ It was as curt as if she were calling at one of the big New York skyscrapers and he were a lowly reception clerk. ‘Do I have to repeat myself? I told you on the entry phone.’

He did not like that. He stiffened.

That gave Natasha some slight satisfaction. But not enough to compensate for standing out here in the cold November wind in a designer suit that was definitely aimed at the indoor market. She refused to shiver, though.

‘Lambert?’

‘Natasha Lambert.’ She was nearly snarling. ‘Ms Dare asked me for the weekend.’

He pretended to think about it—with insulting slowness. ‘That was the weekend that started last night? Or this morning at the latest?’

If it hadn’t been so cold, Natasha would have told him that her travel arrangements were her own business. But she was desperate to get indoors out of the biting wind.

‘I was held up.’ She gritted her teeth and tried hard to sound reasonable. She couldn’t quite manage apologetic.

But it did not seem that he was interested in an apology, after all.

‘Why?’ It shot at her like a bullet.

‘My client in New York demanded an extra meeting.’

He looked at her, but it was almost as if he did not see her. He frowned.