Emma Darcy: Australia: In Bed with a Sheikh!: The Sheikh's Seduction / The Sheikh's Revenge / Traded to the Sheikh

Sarah didn’t regret her decision. It was strange how far away that life in England seemed now. The question was…where to go from here? She wandered into the living room, curled up on the sofa and gave the matter serious consideration.

She’d always loved books. They’d been her escape from loneliness, her friends and companions, doors that opened other worlds for her. She’d had her mind set on getting into some career in publishing. Maybe her degree in English Literature would still hold her in good stead there, though she had no work experience and probably openings at publishing houses were few and far between. Still there was no harm in looking for a position.

Melbourne? Sydney? London?

She instinctively shied from going back to England.

A new life, she thought, one she would make on her own. Though how best to do it kept her mind going around. When the telephone rang it startled her out of a deep reverie. She leapt to pick up the receiver, glancing at her watch simultaneously. Close to nine-thirty.

“The Hillyard Homestead,” she rattled out.

“Sarah…I promised to call Jessie. Is she still waiting?”

Susan’s voice was strained. She didn’t sound herself at all. But at least she hadn’t forgotten her daughter. “No, she was tired,” Sarah answered. “I put her to bed at eight. Do you want me to see if she’s awake?”

“No, I…I just thought of it and…oh, Sarah…” She burst into tears.

“Susan, what’s wrong?”

Deep, shuddering breaths. “I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay. Take it easy,” Sarah soothed, trying to contain her own fast-rising anxiety. “Try to tell me what’s happened.” Please, God! Not another dreadful accident!

“The sheikh…he’s taking all his horses away from your father.”

“Why?” It made no sense. Unless…“Surely not because Firefly didn’t win the cup?”

“No. There’s…there’s more. The past two years…but you know what they’ve been like, Sarah. It was hard for Drew to keep his mind on the job.”

What was she justifying? Had her father mismanaged the training?

“It’ll ruin us,” Susan went on, her voice a wail of despair. “It’ll make other owners uneasy. You know reputation is everything in this business.”

“I don’t understand.” She’d been too busy with Jessie to take an active interest in what was happening with the thoroughbreds in her father’s stables. “What is the sheikh’s complaint?”

“It’s all about…about performance.” She broke into tears again.

“Susan, put Dad on. Let me talk to him,” Sarah urged.

“He’s…he’s drinking. There’s nothing we can do. Nothing…”

Not if you’re drunk. Sarah bit back the retort, knowing it was useless. All the same, her father’s growing habit of hitting the bottle could be at the root of this problem. It was all very well to seek relief from stress but not if it led to shirking responsibilities.

“Tell Jessie I’ll call her tomorrow.”

The phone went dead.

No point in holding the receiver. She put it down. The living room suddenly felt cold. If her father was ruined, if that sent him further along the path of drinking himself into oblivion…what would happen to his and Susan’s marriage? What would happen to the children? It was always the innocent ones who were overlooked.

Sarah shivered.

Did Tareq al-Khaima realise what effect today’s decision would have? Did he care? How bad was the situation?

Sarah shook her head helplessly. She had no idea to what extent her father had failed in giving the sheikh satisfaction.

But she did know the circumstances behind his failure .

Tareq had been sympathetic to her once. If he remembered her…if she could get him to listen…

It was worth a try.

He was staying at the Como Hotel. She remembered her father mentioning it. If she went there as early as possible tomorrow morning…

Anything was worth a try to stave off disaster.

SARAH GLANCED ANXIOUSLY at her watch. The drive into the city had taken over two hours. The morning was slipping away from her. It was almost eight o’clock and she was still locked in Melbourne traffic. A sleepless night and a heavy weight of worry wasn’t doing much for her judgment on which were the faster transit lanes, either.

She’d left Werribee as early as she could but not as early as she would have liked. It had taken time to instruct one of the stable hands in the house routine so he could look after the children until the foreman’s wife could come. It wasn’t the best arrangement but this was an emergency situation.

Her main fear was the possibility she was already too late to make any difference to Tareq’s decision. He may have acted yesterday, lining up another trainer to take his horses. Or he could be at Flemington right now, discussing business. The Spring Carnival wasn’t over yet. It was Oaks Day tomorrow. Many owners gathered with trainers at the racetrack at dawn each morning, watching the form of favoured horses.

On top of which, even if Tareq was at his hotel, there was no guarantee he would see her. Or talk to her. Let alone listen to what she had to say. All Sarah could do was hope and pray for a chance to change his mind before his decision became irreversible.

When she finally reached the Como Hotel, she did a double take. Despite its being in South Yarra, outside the main city area, she had expected a big, plush, ostentatiously luxurious establishment, the kind of place one automatically associated with oil-wealthy sheikhs. The Como was relatively small, almost boutique size. Sarah hoped it meant Tareq was more approachable.

She found a parking station just off Chapel Street, left the jeep there, and walked back to the hotel.

The moment she entered it, the decor screamed class—quiet, exclusive class—marble floors, black leather sofas, floral arrangements worthy of being called exquisite modern art. It might not be ostentatious luxury but it was just as intimidating to anyone who didn’t belong to the privileged people.

Sarah could feel herself bridling against its effect and mentally adopted a shield of untouchability to carry her through gaining entry to Tareq’s presence. She knew from experience with her mother’s high-strata world that her appearance would not be a critical factor. The dark brown corduroy jeans and fawn skivvy would pass muster anywhere these days. The wind had undoubtedly tossed her unruly curls but that didn’t matter. Neither did the fact she wore no make-up. “Being natural” could be just as fashionable as designer clothes.

The concierge directed her to the reception area, around to the left and down a flight of steps, privacy from the street effectively established. One elegant freestanding desk was apparently enough to serve the guests. The woman behind it smiled invitingly. Sarah willed her to be obliging, too.

“I’ve come to call on Sheikh Tareq al-Khaima. Is he in?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Whom should I say is calling?”

“If you’ll just give me his suite number…”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. That’s against our security rules. I can call up to his suite for you. What name should I give?”

Security. Of course. This place was probably as tight as Fort Knox—no unwanted visitors allowed past the steel doors of the elevator. “Sarah Hillyard,” she stated flatly, resigning herself to the inevitable. If Tareq didn’t want to see her, she couldn’t force him to.

Her nerves knotted as the call was made and the message passed on. There seemed to be a long hesitation before an answer was given. Sarah’s tension eased slightly when the receptionist smiled at her, indicating no problem.

“He’s sending Mr. Larsen down to fetch you. It should only be a minute or two, Miss Hillyard.”