Sophie Weston - In The Arms Of The Sheikh

‘When was the meeting?’

A little gust of ice-fringed air sent the leaves dancing. Her interrogator did not even seem to notice. But it cut through Natasha’s fashionable suit like a laser ray.

This time when she gritted her teeth it was to stop them from chattering. ‘Thursday evening.’

‘Why didn’t you take an overnight flight?’

‘They were full. Then my flight was delayed, diverted due to fog—’ Natasha got her second wind. ‘Look, what is this? I’m supposed to be spending the weekend with friends. Not giving a rundown of my recent diary to—to—’ she looked at the height, the impassive face, the body impervious to cold, those eyes focused elsewhere, and the perfect insult leaped straight out of her childhood ‘—to Lurch the butler,’ she finished with relish.

‘What?’

He was looking at her now, all right. Right at her. Into her, almost.

Natasha saw him take in her beautifully cut black suit, the thin, ultra-smart New York shoes, the power blonde crop. And saw him decide he didn’t like the package one bit. She began to feel better, in spite of the cold.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he said, very slowly and distinctly.

‘You’re the butler, right?’ she said airily. ‘I mean, someone had to press the button to open those gates. You?’

He inclined his head. It was just about agreement.

‘So you have to know that I am expected,’ she pointed out triumphantly. She waved a hand at the case. ‘Would you take my luggage, please?’

He looked at it with—would that be astonishment?

She could not resist teasing all that glacial disapproval. ‘Hey, I travel light.’

His mouth set in a thin, ferocious line. It drove two deep clefts down his cheeks.

Ouch, thought Natasha. Maybe she had gone a bit far, calling him Lurch. Maybe he was sensitive about being a butler for some reason.

‘So where is Ms Dare?’ she asked in a friendlier tone. ‘Why can’t I get a rise out of the house? Have they decamped to the movies or something?’

He didn’t respond to friendliness. Hardly opening his lips, he said, ‘The party is in the garden.’

‘Well, thank God there’s some partying going on somewhere.’

He sent her a look of acute dislike. ‘You have some identification?’

‘Ident—?’ All desire to be friendly left Natasha abruptly. ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

But he strode forward, quick and sudden as that jungle cat she had thought him. He ran—no, surged like a tidal wave—up the steps. In spite of herself, Natasha retreated before him. It made her spitting mad but she couldn’t help herself.

She stopped just short of backing up against the studded door.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

He ignored that. He clicked his fingers. ‘Passport. You must have a passport. If you’ve just flown in.’

‘Of course, I’ve just flown in,’ flashed Natasha.

‘Then prove it.’

Shaking with fury as much as cold now, she fumbled all the documents out of her shoulder bag—passport, the remains of her airline ticket, the travel agent’s printed itinerary.

He held them out under the porch spotlight to scrutinise them.

‘What were you before you took to butlering?’ Natasha’s tone was poisonous. ‘Customs officer? Tax inspector? Really went to your head, didn’t it?’

He ignored that too. He was studying her passport.

She hated her passport photograph. It had been taken nearly ten years ago. She had not been long back from the jungle. It made her look like a student, all unkempt curls and no makeup.

‘Not a very good likeness,’ he commented. Was there a hint of amusement in the clipped voice?

Natasha’s dislike of the man intensified by several megawatts. How dared he laugh at her? She snatched her passport back with a hand that shook.

‘Satisfied?’

He shrugged. ‘As long as Ms Dare recognises you.’

Natasha blinked. ‘What?’

‘There are forged passports.’

She made a scornful noise. ‘You watch too much television.’

He gave a bark of laughter.

It was too much. Natasha fished her mobile phone out of her bag and shook it open. ‘Oh, enough. I’m calling Izzy now…’

The little machine was torn from her hand and thrown hard across the gravel driveway.

‘My phone…’ It was a squeak of pure outrage.

Squeak? She was furious with herself. She should have been roaring at him like a volcano! The breathless voice did not even sound like her own. Feeble, feeble, feeble. Natasha hated being feeble. It hadn’t happened in a long time.

‘How dare you?’ she choked.

He was icy. ‘You don’t need a phone. If it is a phone.’

He took a step forward.

Natasha felt the squashy weight of her carry-on overnight case against the back of her knees. And realised she had retreated yet again. It was too much. Simple self-respect demanded that she fight back.

She tried to kick him. It was childish, inelegant—and she was off balance. She kicked the bag instead. It fell on its side. Then slowly tumbled, corner over corner, down the steps.

‘Get away from me,’ she said with concentrated fury.

But he was not listening to her. He was not even looking at her any more. He was looking over his shoulder, staring at the bag as if it were alive.

It had fallen in the pool of light at the bottom of the steps.

‘What are you waiting for?’ said Natasha acidly. ‘An explosion?’

He looked back at her then. For a moment it was as if a shutter had opened. His eyes were hard and yet somehow—resigned. Her brow creased.

At once the shutter came down, hard. ‘I guess not.’

‘You did think it would explode,’ said Natasha slowly. Her anger evaporated into something a lot more complicated. Without realising it, she shivered.

He released her from that piercing inspection and stepped back.

Natasha drew a shaky breath. She was worried now. What on earth had Izzy been up to?

Abruptly, he turned away and ran down the steps to take up her overnight case. Natasha tried hard to banish the feeling that he handled it as if he had just requisitioned a consignment of dynamite.

‘Come with me,’ he flung over his shoulder. And set off without looking back.

Natasha caught him up on an ill lit path round the side of the house. She had recovered her sense of outrage by then.

‘Tell me,’ she said with deceptive affability. ‘When they sacked you from the police academy, was it for being too keen?’

He did not even admit to having heard her.

He set a brisk pace that made no allowance for Manhattan footwear, uneven downhill paths or the darkness. Natasha was too proud to remind him. When she found she was lagging so far behind that the striding figure was disappearing in the darkness, she set her jaw and kicked her shoes into the bushes. And caught up with him.

He did not notice.

After that, she kept up pretty well, in the circumstances. Her shoes, even if she ever managed to find them again, would probably be ruined, she thought wryly. To say nothing of ten-denier woodsmoke designer hose. But that was a small price to pay for not having to admit she needed help. And at least he was carrying her suitcase.

It was a big party. There must have been two dozen people there. They laughed and talked in the flickering light of a bonfire. The girls wore all-weather jackets; the men were mostly in thick sweaters. Apart from the man who had met her on the doorstep, of course. He wore a suit, with no concessions at all to the November chill.

Natasha looked round the crowd and sighed. So much for a girls’ weekend! The comforting image of sitting on the rug in front of a blazing fire with Izzy, a couple of mates and several bottles of wine evaporated. It was like a lost vision of paradise. But if this was what Izzy wanted…Natasha squared her shoulders and pinned on a wide social smile.