Sandra Marton - Hostage Of The Hawk

* * *

Halfway across the city, Special Minister Hassan was already thinking the same thing.

‘I am suspicious of Bennett’s motives, my lord,’ he said to Prince Khalil as he hung up the phone. ‘But we shall see what happens. The woman’s brother will meet with me tonight.’

Khalil nodded. ‘Good.’ He turned, walked slowly across the room, and stood gazing out the window as if he could see beyond the city to the hills that marked the boundary of his kingdom. Sam Bennett was a sly, tough opponent; it was more than likely his son would be the same. Too sly and too tough for Hassan, who was loyal and wise and obedient but no longer young. How could he let the old man meet with Bennett? If he’d learned one thing these past weeks, it was that dealing with anybody named Bennett was like putting a ferret in charge of the hen house.

Khalil spun away from the window. ‘Hassan!’

‘Yes, my lord?’

‘I have changed my mind. I will meet with Sam Bennett’s son myself.’

Hassan looked startled. ‘You, sir? But—’

‘There are no “buts”, Hassan,’ Khalil said sharply. ‘Call down for some coffee and lay out my clothing.’ He smiled tightly, the sort of smile that chilled those who knew him well. ‘I promise you this, old man. One way or another, tonight will change everything.’

* * *

It was Joanna’s thought, too, as she sat beside her father, only half listening as he droned on about tonight’s agenda.

One way or another, she knew in her bones that her life would not be the same after this night ended.

Afterwards, she would remember how right she’d been.

WHAT did you wear to a dinner meeting with a Hawk of the North?

Not that she’d be dining with the great man himself, Joanna thought wryly as she peered into the wardrobe in her bedroom. Her appointment was with Hassan, Special Minister to Prince Khalil, although what a bandit needed with a minister was beyond her to understand. Their conversation had been brief but it had been enough to give her a good idea of what he’d be like.

He’d be tall and angular and as old as the hills that lay beyond the city. The skin would be drawn across his cheekbones like ivory papyrus. His eyes, pale and rheumy with age, would glitter with distaste when he saw her and realised that she was Joanna Bennett, for he lived in a world in which female equality was unheard of.

Joanna smiled tightly as she riffled through the clothing hanging inside the wardrobe.

How would she convince him to continue the meeting, once her deceit was obvious?

‘Surely, the great Khalil wishes prosperity for his people,’ she’d begin, ‘and would not wish you to refuse to meet with someone who can provide it.’ Then, as distasteful as the prospect was, she’d dig into her purse, take out the envelope with the numbered Swiss bank account her father had established, and slide it gently across the table.

After that, Hassan wouldn’t care if she were a man, a woman or a camel.

* * *

Joanna glanced at her watch as she stepped from her taxi. Eight o’clock. Her timing was perfect. She put her hands to her hair, checking to see if the pair of glittery combs were still holding the burnished auburn mass back from her face, then smoothed down the skirt of her short emerald silk dress. She’d hesitated, torn between a Chanel suit and this, the one cocktail dress she’d brought with her, deciding on the dress because she thought the suit might make her look too severe, that it would be enough of a shock for the minister to find himself dealing with a woman without her looking like that kind of woman.

The doorman was watching her enquiringly and she took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and walked briskly towards him. She was nervous but who wouldn’t be? Everything she wanted—her father’s approval, the vice-presidency at Bennettco—hung on the next couple of hours.

‘ Masa el-kheyr , madam.’

Joanna nodded. ‘Good evening,’ she said, and stepped through the door.

Soft, sybaritic darkness engulfed her, broken only by the palest glow of carefully recessed overhead lighting and flickering candlelight. Music played faintly in the background, something involving flutes and chimes that sounded more like the sigh of wind through the trees than anything recognisable to her Western ear.

‘ Masa el-kheyr , madam. Are you joining someone?’

The head waiter’s smile was gracious but she wondered if he would continue smiling if she were to say no, she wasn’t joining anyone, she wanted a table to herself.

‘Madam?’

Joanna gave herself a little shake. The last thing she needed was to get herself into an antagonistic mood.

‘Yes,’ she said pleasantly. ‘My name is Bennett. I believe there’s a reservation in my name.’

Was it her imagination, or did the man’s eyebrows lift? But he smiled again, inclined his head, and motioned her to follow him. There was an arched doorway ahead, separated from the main room by a gently swaying beaded curtain. When they reached it, he drew the curtain aside and made a little bow.

‘The reservation request was for as private a table as possible,’ he said.

Joanna nodded as she stepped past him. A private alcove. That would be better. At least, she and Hassan wouldn’t have to deal with—

A man was rising to his feet from the banquette. Joanna’s eyes widened. He was thirty, perhaps, or thirty-five, tall, with a lithe body and broad shoulders contained within a finely tailored English suit. Her gaze flew to his face. His eyes were shockingly blue against his tanned skin. His nose was straight, his mouth full and sensuous. And he was smiling.

Joanna’s heart gave an unaccustomed thump. Lord, he was gorgeous!

She smiled back, flustered, then turned quickly to the head waiter.

‘I’m terribly sorry, but there must be an error.’

‘Yes.’ The man had spoken, and she looked back at him. His smile had grown, tilting a little with intimacy and promise. ‘I’m afraid the lady is right.’ His voice was soft, smoky, and lightly tinged with an indefinable accent. ‘If I were not expecting a gentleman to join me—’

The head waiter cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me, sir. I believe you said you were waiting for a Mr Joseph Bennett.’

‘Yes, that’s right. I am.’

‘Then there’s been no error, sir. This is the gentleman—uh, the lady—you were waiting for.’

Joanna’s eyes flew to the man’s face. They stared at each other in silence. This was Hassan, Minister to Prince Khalil? Oh God, she thought, as she saw his expression go rapidly from surprise to disbelief to fury, and she stepped quickly forward and shot out her hand.

‘Mr Hassan,’ she said with a big, determinedly cheerful smile, ‘what a pleasure to meet you. I’m Jo Bennett.’

He looked at her hand as if it were contaminated, then at her.

‘If this is an example of Western humour,’ he said coldly, ‘I should warn you that I am not amused.’

Joanna swallowed, dropped her hand to her side, and fought against the desire to wipe the suddenly damp palm against her skirt.

‘It’s not a joke, no, sir.’

Sir? Sir ? What was going on here? Was she really going to permit this—this arrogant minister to a greedy despot to reduce her to a deferential schoolgirl? It was one thing to be nervous, but it was quite another to let the balance of power be stripped from her without so much as a whisper. Whether Mr Hassan liked it or not, they were here on equal footing. The sooner she reminded him of that, the better.

Joanna lifted her chin and forced a cool smile to her lips.

‘I am Joanna Bennett,’ she said calmly. ‘And I can understand that you might be a bit surprised, but—’