Her Desert Dream

CHAPTER ELEVEN

LYDIA wanted this over. Was desperate for Princess Sabirah to pay her call and the week to be over so that she could just stop pretending and go home.

Stop pretending to be Rose. Stop pretending that she felt nothing for Kalil. Not that that worked. He’d only had to call in the darkness. She only had to hear his voice. If she hadn’t cared she would have hung up, not stood there with her phone pressed to her ear, imagining she could hear him breathe while that huge moon rose above them.

Why had he done that?

He was the one who’d stepped back from the brink, broken the most intense, the most intimate connection there could ever be between a man and a woman even when it was obvious he’d wanted her as much as she’d wanted him.

Trapped, like her, committed to a course from which there was no escape but unable to stop himself from touching her. Calling her. Making love to her with words.

Breaking her heart.

She had taken lunch alone, keeping her nose firmly in a book until the words all ran together in a smeary blur, swam fifty lengths of the pool just to stop herself from thinking about him.

Except that when she emerged, slightly dizzy with the effort, he was waiting to wrap a towel around her.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said.

‘I am your bodyguard. It is my duty.’

‘I’m not in any danger.’

Only from falling in love with a man who didn’t believe in love. Who thought marriage was no more than a convenient contract arranged by two families for their advantage. Maybe the girls did have some say, but the pressure had to be intense to make a ‘good’ marriage. Scarcely any different from the way that medieval barons gave their daughters to men whose land marched with theirs, or who could bring them closer to the King.

‘Please…’ She grabbed the towel and ran from the poolside to her room. Sat with it pressed to her face.

‘Be strong, Lydie. You have to be strong…’

But, no matter how she ignored him, Kal’s presence permeated the house.

Everywhere she went, she was sure he’d been there a second before. She couldn’t escape the woody scent that clung to him, the swish of freshly laundered robes, the gentle flapping sound of leather thongs against marble floors.

The thrumming beat of hooves against sand.

It was all in her head, she knew, but she retreated to her room, allowing Yatimah to pamper her with facials, massage the tension out of her shoulders, paint more ornate patterns on her hands and feet with henna.

She caught sight of them as she reached for the phone, hoped they would wear off before she went back to work or they’d cause a few comments from the regulars as she swished their weekly shop over the scanner.

She checked the caller ID and, when she saw it was Kal, considered not answering. But then he’d come looking for her.

She took a deep breath, composed herself.

‘Kal?’ she queried, ice-cool.

‘Just checking. I haven’t seen you all day. Are you hiding from me?’

Reckless, bold, dangerous Bagheera, whose skin shimmered like watered silk, whose mouth tasted like wild honey-only a fool wouldn’t hide.

‘Just putting my feet up, taking it easy while I plan my future,’ she said.

‘Oh? What did you have in mind?’

‘Well,’ she said, her fingers lingering on the bolt of cream silk on the table beside her, ‘now I’m giving up the lookalike business I thought I might set myself up in the rag trade,’ she said. ‘Costing is tricky, though. I need to know how much to budget for material.’

‘Oh, I see. This is about the silk…’

‘I can’t wear it all myself,’ she pointed out. Not unless she made a wedding dress with a thirty foot train. ‘I need to know how much it cost.’

‘You must ask Dena. She dealt with the merchant.’

‘She told me to ask you.’

‘Then it’s a mystery,’ he said with an infuriating hint of laughter in his voice that undid all her good intentions, all her cool.

‘Kal!’ she exploded. ‘I just wanted a few metres for a suit or dress. I can’t take all that home with me.’

‘No problem.’ Now he was enjoying himself. ‘I’ll deliver.’

‘Deliver them to your bride,’ she snapped. ‘Yatimah was telling me that’s what a groom is supposed to do. Send jewels, cloth, carpets, the biggest flat screen television you can afford.’

‘Yatimah has altogether too much to say for herself,’ he snapped back and she rejoiced in having rattled him out of his teasing. He had no right to tease her. No right to call her and make her want him…For a moment neither of them spoke and the only sound was of raised breathing. Then, after a moment, his voice expressionless, his manner formal, Kal said, ‘Lucy phoned to check up on how well I’ve been looking after you, sitti.’

‘Tell her what you like,’ Lydia replied, not even trying for cool. ‘I won’t tell tales. And cut out the sitti.’ It was one thing having Dena or Yatimah calling her ‘lady’, quite another from Kal.

‘I can’t tempt you to come on a picnic?’

Oh, the man knew how to tempt.

She refused without having to think twice. Well, maybe twice, but she knew the attraction between them was too great to risk another close encounter. And that even while he was paying lip service to honour, his frustrated libido was refusing to quit.

‘Sorry, Kal, but I’m planning a walk on the beach this afternoon and, unlike you, I’m happy with my own company,’ she said, knowing how much that would infuriate him. But she was angry with him for putting her through this, with herself for aching for something so far out of reach. For bringing tears stinging to her eyes. ‘But you’re welcome to stand and watch if you like. Just remember how handy I am with a shell.’

She didn’t wait for him to command her not to do it, but hung up. Then had to hold herself together. Physically wrap her arms around herself, holding her breath, just to stop herself from falling apart.

Kal took himself to the stables in the foulest, blackest mood.

He was behaving like a man who didn’t know his own mind. Who had lost control of his senses.

It wasn’t true. When he could have taken Lydia, he had known it was wrong. That, without commitment, honour, such an act was beneath him, could only hurt her.

He’d hurt her anyway.

She could hide nothing from him and he’d seen her eyes in the moment she had realised why he had refused the greatest gift a woman could bestow on any man. Had seen her pain in the way she’d moved as she’d taken herself away from him in the souk, when all he’d wanted to do was shower her with gold, pearls. Put diamonds in her ears, on every one of the fingers he had taken to his lips. When, seeing that in his face, she had begged him not even to think it.

He was furious because, even as he weakened, unable to stay away, she grew stronger, keeping him at arm’s length when he needed them around her.

A nagging, desperate need that came from somewhere deep inside, from a place he hadn’t, until that moment, known existed. All he knew was that he was ready to consign common sense, five years of patient planning along with everything he had learned about the fleeting nature of ‘love’ from his grandfather, his father, to the deep blue sea.

And still she had turned him down. Not because she didn’t want to go. He was attuned to every nuance in her voice, every hesitation and he’d heard the unspoken longing in a whisper of a sigh before she had said no to his picnic.

But, even when he was losing control, she was strong enough to save him from himself.

Lydia Young might not be a princess, but she had all the attributes of one. Courage, dignity that would become a queen. A spirit that was all her own. He wanted her with a desperation that was driving every other thought from his head.

At home he would have taken up the small biplane he used for stunting, shaken off his mood in a series of barrel rolls, loops. Here, the closest he could get to a release in the rush of power was on one of Hanif’s fine stallions but, as he tightened the girth, the horse skipped edgily away from him, sensing his frustration.

But it wasn’t simply his out of control libido, the sense of being too big for his skin. This was a need that went much deeper, challenging everything he believed in.

He’d spent the last five years planning the perfect life but Lydia was forcing him to face the fact that life wasn’t something that you could plan. It happened. Some of it good, some of it bad, none of it ‘safe’.

He had arrogantly assumed that his grandfather, his father had wasted their lives but, while their families were scarcely conventional, their quivers were full of the children of their youth and they were, he realised with a shock, happy men. That, wherever his grandfather died, he would be surrounded by his children, grandchildren, people who loved him.

He lay his hand on the neck of the horse, gentling him with soft words, even while he yearned for the sound of Lydia’s voice. The sweet scent that clung to her, as if she had been brushing her hands over jasmine. The touch of her hands against his skin.

Wanted to see her face, her eyes lighting up, her mouth softening, her hands describing what her lips were saying. Her quickness with a tender touch to show that she understood. Her laugh. The swiftness with which she melted to his kisses.

While he kept the world at bay, carefully avoiding the risk, the pain that was an inevitable part of what Lydia called ‘love’, she held nothing back.

She had answered every question he had asked of her with not just her body, but her heart and her soul and he wanted to shower her with gifts, buy her every bolt of cloth in the market, heap up gold, pearls, gems in a dower that she could not ignore.

Except, of course, she could and would. She had told him so. Her price was above rubies. Only his heart, freely given in an avowal of love, without negotiations, conditions, guarantees would win her acceptance.

She would not settle for less and neither, he knew now, would he. Because the nearest a man could come to perfection was to take every single moment and live it to the full. With love. And she was right. He was not a stranger to the emotion. Love for his family was part of who he was.

But this was new. This love for a woman who, from the first moment he had set eyes on her, had made the lights shine more brightly.

He’d lost the perfect moment, had hurt her. Now, to show her how he felt, he had to give her not just his heart but his world. Everything that made him who he was. And there was only one way he could do that, could win her trust.

The horse snorted impatiently, eager to be off, but he left the groom circling the yard as he made the calls that would change his life.

Lydia stepped onto the beach, kicking off her sandals. It was cooler today and she was wearing cotton trousers, a white shirt, a cashmere sweater knotted at her waist.

There were clouds gathering offshore and the wind coming off the sea was sharper, whipping up little white horses on the creek and, as she strode along the beach, hanging onto her temper by a thread, she glowered at the photographer’s launch, bobbing on the waves, hoping that he was seasick.

She doubted that. There hadn’t been pictures in the papers for a day or two. A sighting of Rupert Devenish at a business meeting in the States had downgraded interest in Bab el Sama and he would have packed up his telephoto lenses and gone in search of more lucrative prey.

It hadn’t been a great week for anyone, she thought, her hand tightening around the note from Princess Sabirah’s secretary that Dena had delivered to her as she’d left for her walk.

It was brief and to the point, informing her, regretfully, that the Princess had a cold and was unable to travel this week. Wishing her a pleasant stay and the Princess’s sincere hope that they would meet soon in London.

Somewhere where there was no chance that Kal al-Zaki would pop out of the woodwork, presumably.

That the illness was diplomatic, she had no doubt, and she let out a very unladylike roar of outrage that all Kal’s hopes and dreams had been crushed without even a chance to put in a plea for his grandfather.

What on earth was the matter with these people? It had all happened fifty years ago, for heaven’s sake.

‘Get over it!’ she shouted to the sky, the seabirds whirling overhead.

He had to know. She would have to tell him and the sooner the better. Maybe there was still something he could do. She could do…

If she really had been Rose, she could have gone to Rumaillah by herself, taken some flowers to the ‘sick’ Princess. On her own, she would have been admitted. Could have pleaded for him.

She stopped, stood for a moment staring at the phone in her hand as she realised something else. That with his mission dead he would turn to her for comfort, would be free to love her…

She stopped the thought dead, ashamed even to have given it room in her head, and quickly scrolled down the contact list and hit ‘dial’. Unexpectedly, it went straight to voicemail…

‘Kal,’ she began uncertainly, hating to be the bearer of such bad news. Then, as she hesitated, above the buffeting of the wind she heard another sound. The pounding of hooves. She swung round and saw him riding towards her astride a huge black horse, robes flying behind him, hand outstretched. Before she could think, move, there was a jolt as he swooped low, caught her round the waist, lifted her to his saddle.

It was the dream, she thought crazily as she clung to him, her face pressed against his pounding heart.

She’d reached out to him as she’d watched him from above, wanting to be lifted to the stars.

There were no stars and she knew that at any moment he would slow down, berate her for taking unnecessary risks.

But he didn’t stop, didn’t slow down until Bab el Sama was far below them, the horse rearing as he brought it to a halt, turned, slid to the ground with her.

‘Did your English heart beat to be swept onto my horse, ya habibati?’ He smiled as he curved his hand around her face. ‘Did you feel mine, beloved?’ He took her hand and placed it against his chest. ‘Feel it now. It beats for you, Lydia Young.’

Beloved…

He had called her his beloved and as his lips came down on hers she was lost.

‘This is kidnapping,’ she said when he carried her to a waiting four-by-four. ‘Where are you taking me?’

‘You will see,’ he said as he fastened the seat belt and climbed in beside her. ‘Then I will ask you if you wish me to take you back.’

‘But what about…?’

He silenced her protest with a kiss.

‘The groom will take him back,’ he said and she realised that this had not been a spur of the moment escapade but was a carefully arranged assault on her defences by a man who when he offered a treat refused to take no for an answer. No doubt there would be a picnic waiting for her at the side of the river, or some archaeological treasure.

But when he stopped there was nothing but a distant view.

‘There,’ he said. ‘Do you see it?’

She could see something shimmering through the dust haze like a mirage. A tower, a shimmer of green above high walls, and she knew without doubt that she was looking at Umm al Sama.

‘I see it,’ she said. Then, turning to him, ‘I see you, Kalil bin Zaki.’

‘Will you go there with me?’

He had brought her to the place where his grandfather had been born. The place he called home. Not home as in the place where he lived, like the apartments in Rumaillah, London, New York, but the home of his heart. The place that an exile, generations on, still carried deep in the memory, in his soul.

That he would keep for a woman who meant more than a brief affair. This was the home he had been preparing not just for the return of his grandfather, but for the bride he would one day bring here and, even though he knew who she was, Lydia Young, he was offering it to her.

Words for a moment failed her, then a phrase came into her head, something from long ago Sunday School…

‘Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge…’

Kal knew this was a perfect moment. He had offered the woman he loved all that he was and she had replied with words that touched his soul and as he reached for her, embraced her, sealed their future with a kiss, he knew he owned the world.

Kal led her through Umm al Sama by the hand, through gardens that had run wild, but were being tamed. Beside pools that had been cleaned and reflected the blue of a sky that had magically cleared above them. Through arched colonnades decorated with cool blue and green tiles.

Showed her a wind tower that funnelled the air down to a deep cooling pool below ground. Buildings that had been beautiful once and would be beautiful again when he had finished restoring them.

One building, smaller than the rest, was finished. Kal watched her from the doorway as she walked around an exquisite sitting room touching fine tables, running a finger over the smooth curves of fine porcelain.

‘This is so beautiful, Kal. So special.’ She looked at him. ‘What was this?’

Kal had not touched Lydia since they’d arrived at Umm al Sama. Outside, in the garden, where they might be seen, he’d kept a discreet distance between them. Showing her respect. He had not brought her here to make love to her, but to give her his heart. To give her this.

‘My great-grandfather’s wife lived here before they moved to the new palace at Rumaillah.’

‘Leaving it to the heir apparent?’

‘No one has lived here since my grandfather was banished. If you go upstairs, there should be something to eat on the balcony.’

‘All this and food too?’

‘I invited you on a picnic,’ he reminded her, leading the way to a wide covered balcony with carved shade screens that ran the length of the building.

She stared for a moment at the distant view of the mountains, then pushed open a door to reveal the private apartment of a princess.

The polished floor was covered with rare carpets, the walls hung with vivid gauzy silk, as was the great bed at its heart.

Lydia looked back at him. ‘Are you expecting Scheherazade?’

‘Only you. Come, ya habibati,’ he said, extending his hand to her. ‘You must be hungry.’

‘I’m starving, Kal.’ As she raised her hand to meet his, she came into his arms, lifted her lips to his. ‘Feed me.’

As she breathed the words into his mouth he shattered. The man who had been Kalil al-Zaki no longer existed. As he shed his clothes, fed Lydia Young, the wife of his heart, with his touch, his mouth, his body, she rebuilt him with her surprise, her delight, tiny cries of pleasure at each new intimacy and finally with her tears as they learned from each other and finally became one.

‘I have to go back to Bab el Sama, Kal,’ she protested the following morning as she lay in bed while he fed her pomegranate seeds and dates for breakfast. ‘I have no clothes here.’

He kissed her shoulder. ‘Why do you need clothes?’

‘Because otherwise I can’t leave this room.’

He nudged the edge of the sheet, taking the kiss lower. ‘I repeat, why do you need clothes, ya rohi, ya hahati?’

He’d showered her with words she did not understand as he’d made love to her, but she refused to be distracted.

‘Dena will be concerned.’

‘Dena knows that you are with your bodyguard. Am I not guarding your body?’ And his smile, his touch, made everything else go away.

Thoroughly and completely distracted, it was gone noon when she stirred again. She was alone in the great bed they’d shared and, wrapping the sheet around her, she went to the balcony, expecting to find him there waiting for her to wake.

The balcony was deserted but her clothes, freshly laundered, were waiting for her on a dresser with a note from Kal.

Ask for whatever you want. Umm al Sama is yours. I will back soon.

She held it to her breast, smiling. Obviously he’d gone to fetch her clothes, explain their absence, and she bathed, washed her hair, dressed. The note from the princess’s secretary, forgotten in the wild excitement of her abduction, of Umm al Sama, of Kal, was at the bottom of the pile. That had been ironed, too.

She should have told him about that. As she put on Rose’s watch she wondered what time he’d left. How long it would be before he returned.

Maybe he’d rung. She checked her messages but there was nothing. Tried his number but it went straight to voicemail but this wasn’t news she could dump on him that way. And leaving a When will you be back? message seemed so needy…

A servant brought her food. She picked at it. Took a walk in the garden.

Checked her phone again. With nothing to read, no one to talk to, she switched to the Net and caught the urgent flash of a breaking news story and her blood ran cold.

Lady Rose kidnapped…

Rose…

But it wasn’t Rose.

Of course it wasn’t. It was her in the picture.

Make that a whole series of pictures.

Alone on the beach. Kal riding her down. Lifting her to his saddle. Disappearing into the distance.

The photographer hadn’t gone anywhere, she realised. Or had he been tipped off because he’d had all the time in the world to get the whole story in pictures…?

No question by whom.

There was only one person at Bab al Sama who wanted to be visible.

Well, two. She had wanted to be visible and maybe she’d given Kal the idea. Because when he’d realised that the princess wasn’t coming-Dena had no doubt had her own note from the palace and would certainly have told him-he must have been desperate.

Not for himself. Whatever happened, he’d thrown away his own hopes and dreams the minute he’d picked her up from the beach. The family name, the title, the bride. Five years of quiet diplomacy, of being invisible.

He’d done this solely out of love for his grandfather.

For love, she reminded herself as she stared at the pictures for one last moment.

One thing was certain-with the world’s press on the case, he was no longer invisible. The Emir could no longer pretend he did not exist. On the contrary, he had probably sent his guard to arrest him, lock him up. That would explain his lengthy absence. Why his phone was switched off.

And only she could save him.

She resisted the temptation to leave him to cool his heels for a night in the cells and went to find someone to take her to Rumaillah.

All he’d planned was a photo opportunity followed by a picnic. She was the one who’d got completely the wrong end of the stick, responding to his polite invitation to visit his family home with a declaration of eternity. Led all the way with her desperate ‘I’m starving…feed me’. What on earth was a man to do faced with that? Say no, thanks-again?

Once she was on her way-and had stopped blushing long enough to think straight-she called Rose. She couldn’t have picked up the story yet, or she’d have been on the phone herself. She growled with frustration as her call went straight to voicemail and she left a reassuring message.

Then she called her mother, not because she’d be worried, but because she really, really needed to hear her voice.

Kal left his beautiful Lydia sleeping. He could have asked for her things to be sent to Umm al Sama, but he wanted to visit the souk.

While she had clearly understood the significance of his taking her to Umm al Sama, that no one but his bride would ever sleep in that bed, he wanted to buy her at least one of the diamonds that he would shower on her.

He left Yatimah to pack their bags while he crossed the creek in search of a perfect solitaire. A stone that would say the things that words could never say. A pledge. A promise of forever.

Then he called his grandfather to tell him that he must not be in such a hurry to die. That, if he was patient, he would see not only a wedding at Umm al Sama but a great-grandson born there, too.

It was after lunch before he arrived home to be told that the sitti had insisted on being taken to Rumaillah. To the palace.

Rumaillah…

Had there been a call? A summons from the Princess? No. She would not have made a formal visit wearing a pair of cotton trousers and a shirt. This was something else. He took the stairs two at a time as he raced to the room where they had spent the night in blissful discovery of each other, certain that she must have left a message.

There was nothing.

Only the message he had left for her.

And a note from the palace with Princess Sabirah’s regrets…

Dena had told him that she’d been unwell; it was why she hadn’t come earlier. This must have been in Lydia’s pocket when he’d taken her from the beach. It couldn’t have anything to do with her racing off to Rumaillah.

Unless…

He flipped to the Net, saw the breaking news story. And swore long and inventively in several languages. He’d had the photographer warned off but he’d either come back or this was another one. It made no difference.

He knew exactly what Lydia must be thinking.

She’d assume that he’d known that the Princess was not coming and that he had used her to force the Emir to notice him.

That she’d trusted him with all that she was, given him her most precious gift, and he had betrayed her.

Lydia stood at the door to the majlis. She’d borrowed an abbayeh from one of the women at Umm al Sama but she was the only woman in the group of people who had arrived to petition the Emir. She was aware of a rumbling of disapproval, a certain amount of jostling, but she stood tall, refused to turn tail and run, and waited her turn.

The room was vast. At one end the Emir sat with his advisors. Along each wall men, drinking coffee from tiny cups, sat on rows of sofas.

As she kicked off her sandals, stepped forward, the abbayeh caught-or maybe someone was standing on it-and slipped from her hair and every sound died away.

The Emir rose, extended a hand in welcome and said, ‘Lady Rose. We were concerned for your safety. Please…’

He gestured her forward.

She walked the length of the room. Bowed. Said, ‘Thank you, Excellency, but as you see I am safe and well. If you have seized Kalil al-Zaki, have him locked in your cells, I must ask you to release him.’

There was a buzz, silenced by a look from the Emir.

‘Who is Kalil al-Zaki?’ he asked.

She gasped, snapped, ‘Who is he? I don’t believe you people! It’s been fifty years since his grandfather was exiled. Was stripped of everything he cared about. Your nephew has an apartment in this city, yet you treat him as if he did not exist.’

Now there was silence. Pin drop silence, but she was too angry to care that she was flouting royal protocol. Even an Emir needed to hear the truth once in a while.

‘Kalil al-Zaki is a man of honour, a man who cares for his family, who has built up an international business that would grace any nation. He wants nothing from you but to bring his grandfather home to die. You would grant that to a dog!’ Then, in the ringing silence that followed this outburst, ‘And, by the way, my name is Lydia Young. Lady Rose has taken a holiday in a place where she won’t be photographed twenty-four hours a day!’

Then, because there was nothing left for her, she sank to her knees before him.

‘The son of your great-grandfather is dying, Excellency. Will you not let him come home?’

Kal was too late to stop her. He was blocked at the doorway by the Emiri guard, forced to watch as she berated the Emir.

But, in the deathly silence that followed her appeal for mercy, even they were too stunned to stop him and he pushed the man aside, lifted her to her feet, then touched his head, his heart and bowed to her.

‘Ya malekat galbi, y a rohi, y a hahati. You are beautiful, my soul, my life. Ahebbak, ya tao’am rohi. The owner of my heart. Amoot feeki. There is no life without you.’ Then, ‘I did not know, Lydia. Please believe me, I did not use you. I did not know.’

She would have spoken, but the Emir stepped forward. ‘I have listened to your appeal, Lydia Young.’

That she was dismissed, neither of them were in any doubt, but as he turned to leave with her, caring only that she should believe him, the Emir said, ‘I have not heard from you, Kalil al-Zaki.’

She touched his hand, said, ‘Stay.’

‘No…’

‘For heaven’s sake, Kal. This is what you wanted. Your chance. Don’t blow it now.’

Then she turned and walked away.

Lydia had been taken to the Princess’s quarters. She’d been fed and given a change of clothes and then, having asked to be allowed to go straight home, the British Consul had been summoned to provide her with temporary papers since her passport was with her belongings and only Kal knew were they were.

She arrived home to a dozen messages from newspapers wanting her story and one from a famous publicist who warned her to sign nothing until she’d talked to him. And reporters knee-deep on the footpath outside her mother’s flat.

Her mother didn’t say a word. Just hugged her.

Numb until then, she finally broke down and cried.

Rose called to make sure she was really all right. To apologise for the publicity. To thank her.

‘You’ve changed my life, Lydia. Words cannot express my gratitude. You should sell your story, make a mint.’

‘There is no story, Rose.’ Then, ‘Is there any chance of getting my car back soon? I’m due back at work the day after tomorrow.’

‘That’s a bit of a bad news, good news story, I’m afraid. The bad news is that I had a little bit of an accident,’ she confessed.

‘Oh.’ The car had been her pride and joy. It had taken her forever to save up for it…‘Is it in the garage?’

‘Er…a little bit more of an accident than that,’ she admitted. ‘It’s nothing but a cube of metal in a scrapyard, but the good news is that George has arranged a replacement for you. A rather jolly red Beetle. I’ll make sure it’s delivered tomorrow.’

‘Thank you. And Rose. Congratulations. I hope you will be really happy.’

‘I’ll send you and your mother an invitation to the wedding.’

There was nothing from Kal and, since she didn’t want to hear from the reporters, the newspapers or the publicist, she unplugged the phone and turned off her mobile.

She sent an email to the lookalike agency, informing them that she would no longer be available and asking them to take her off their books.

Deleted dozens from newsmen offering interviews, and weirdos who just wanted to be weird.

She didn’t open the door to the manager of the local garage who came to deliver a brand-new red VW Beetle, which she knew cost about three times what she’d paid for her car, until he put a note through the door explaining who he was.

There was no missing the black and gold livery of the Kalzak Air Services courier who pulled up outside and delivered her luggage. All those lovely clothes, the cosmetics, the scent, the four bolts of silk.

She gave her mother and Jennie their gifts.

And then, in the privacy of her room, she cried again all over the cream silk.

The Emir had given Kal a hard time. Made him wait while he consulted his brothers, his sons, his nephews. Hanif had supported him and so, unexpectedly, had Zahir and all the time he had been berating himself for letting Lydia walk away. Fly away.

She had thought he was in trouble and had come to help. Had begged for him.

Only her ‘stay’ had kept him here while members of a family he did not know video-conferenced from all over the world, deciding the fate of his grandfather, eventually deciding that compassion required that he should be allowed to return to Umm al Sama. And that, after his death, his family could use the name Khatib.

Kal told the Emir that he would bring his grandfather home but under those terms they could keep their name. He didn’t want it. Lydia deserved better from him than acceptance of such a mealy-mouthed offer.

And the Emir smiled. ‘I remember him. You are just like him.’

‘You honour me, Excellency.’

At which point His Excellency had thrown up his hands and said, ‘Let the old man have his name and his title.’

‘Will you permit Dena to return to London with me to fetch him, travel back with him and his nurses?’

‘If she is agreeable.’ Then, with heavy irony, ‘Is there anything else you want, Kalil bin Zaki al-Khatib? One of my granddaughters as a bride, perhaps, now that you are a sheikh?’

‘I am very conscious of the honour you bestow, Excellency,’ he replied, ‘but, like my grandfather, I have chosen my own bride. You have had the honour of meeting her.’

And this time the Emir laughed appreciatively.

‘She is all fire, that one. You will have your hands full.’ He did not appear to believe that this was a bad thing.

Since there was no other way to get rid of them, Lydia finally faced the newsmen, standing on the pavement outside her home giving an impromptu press conference, answering their questions.

‘Who was the horseman?’

‘A bodyguard rescuing me from intrusive photographers.’

Laughter.

‘Lady Rose has cut her hair. Will you do that?’

‘No.’

‘When did you meet?’

‘Will you be seeing her?’

‘Have you met her fiancé?’

No. No. No.

She kept a smile pinned to her face, didn’t lose her temper, even at the most intrusive questions, and eventually they ran out of things to ask.

And since she wasn’t Lady Rose, it didn’t take long for the madness to die down. One moment the pavement in front of their flat had been mobbed, the next there was no one.

The agency was still pleading with her to reconsider her decision. They’d been inundated with requests for appearances since Rose had announced her engagement. But the publicist, who’d been so keen to negotiate a contract for her to ‘write’ the story of her career as Rose’s lookalike-with the titillating promise to reveal who had really swept her away on that black stallion and what had happened afterwards-finally accepted that she meant it when she said ‘no’.

With the excitement of Rose’s engagement to occupy the gossip pages, she quickly became old news.

The story about the exiled Sheikh who had been pardoned by the Emir and allowed to return home to die probably wouldn’t have made the news at all, except that Ramal Hamrah was where that very odd incident had taken place, when everyone thought Lady Rose had been kidnapped.

She had heard nothing from Kalil.

No doubt he had his hands full taking care of his grandfather, transferring him to Umm al Sama. Getting to know a whole new family.

She winced as White Christmas began to play for the fiftieth time that week on the seasonal tape. Turned to smile at yet another harassed mother doing her Christmas shop. Reached for yet another turkey.

Kal quietly joined the checkout queue.

All his duties done, he had come straight from the airport to find Lydia. Had gone to her home. He’d met her mother and, with her blessing, he had come to claim his love publicly, in her real world. Wanted her to know that there was no misunderstanding between them. That he knew who she was. That it was not some icon he had fallen in love with but Lydia Young.

Not the aristocrat in the designer suit, but the ordinary girl on the supermarket checkout wearing an overall and a ridiculous hat.

She looked exhausted. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes, her cheeks were hollow and had lost their glow, but the smile never faltered.

She greeted regular customers as friends. Asked what they were doing for the holiday and, as she listened with every appearance of interest, they lost a little of their tension as she swiftly dealt with their purchases. He watched her pack the shopping for one old lady whose hands were crippled with arthritis, helped her count out the money.

He made an instinctive move forward to help as she heaved a heavy bag of potatoes over the scanner, got a glare from the woman in front who was fiddling with a mobile phone. She was trying to take a picture of Lydia, he realised, and he leaned forward and said very quietly, ‘Don’t do that.’

About to tell him to mind his own business, she thought better of it and, muttering something about forgetting something, melted away.

Next in line was a woman with a toddler and a small baby who was grizzling with exhaustion.

Lydia whizzed the goods through, packed the bags, then took the baby, put it to her shoulder as the woman searched helplessly for her wallet. Reassuring the woman, patting the baby. The baby fell asleep, the wallet was found.

‘Can I take you home with me?’ the woman asked as she retrieved her baby.

He’d seen her dressed in designer clothes, every inch the Lady with a capital L.

He’d seen her sweetness with Yatimah, her eyes hot with passion, soft with desire. Seen her berate the Emir in a room filled with hostile men. Seen her on her knees begging for him…

Beauty was a lot more than skin-deep and with each revelation he’d fallen deeper in love with Lydia. And as he watched her kindness, her compassion, her cheerful smile even though she was exhausted, he fell in love with her all over again.

She lifted her hands to her face and rubbed it, turned as someone came alongside her. ‘Your shift is nearly up. Just this last one and then I’ll take over.’

His cue to place the basket he was carrying on the shelf, take out the single item it contained and place it on the conveyer.

He saw her gather herself for one last effort. Put the smile back in place, turn to wait for the goods to reach her. Saw the smile falter, the frown pucker her brow as she watched the tiny dark blue velvet-covered box move slowly towards her. The diamond solitaire at its heart sparking a rainbow of light.

Confused, she looked up. Saw him standing at the far end of the conveyer as, behind him, half a dozen shoppers stared open-mouthed. Rose slowly to her feet.

‘Kal…’

‘The ring was in my pocket when I returned to Umm al Sama, Lydia. I was sure that you knew, understood that the only woman I would take there would be my bride. But I wanted to give you a tangible token of my love. Something more than a dream.’

‘I am not what you wanted.’

‘Until I met you I didn’t know what I wanted, but love is the star to every wandering bark, Lydia. You taught me that. I had been wandering all my life, without a star to guide me…’ He sank to his knees. ‘Ahebbak, Lydia. I love you. I am begging you to marry me, to be my princess, my wife, my lover, the mother of my children, my soul, my life.’

The growing crowd of onlookers broke out into a spontaneous round of applause but it was Lydia who mattered.

‘How is he?’ she asked. ‘Your grandfather?’

‘Happy to be home. Thanks to you.’

‘Then you have everything.’

‘Everything but you.’ He stood up, took the ring from the box, held it up, then touched it to each finger of her left hand, counting slowly in Arabic…‘Wahid, ithnan, thelatha, arba’a, khamsa…’

‘Ithnan, ya habibi-my beloved,’ she said. ‘Ahebbak, Kalil. I love you.’

He slipped the ring onto the ring finger of her left hand, then walked around the checkout, took her in his arms and kissed her.

By this time they had brought the entire row of checkouts to a standstill. And the entire store was clapping.

‘Maybe we had better leave, my love,’ he said. ‘These good people need to finish their shopping. And we have a wedding to arrange.’

Daily Chronicle, 2nd March 2010

LADY ROSE LOOKALIKE MARRIES HER LORD

Lydia Young, who for ten years made regular appearances as a Lady Rose lookalike, was married today at Umm al Sama in Ramal Hamrah to Sheikh Kalil bin Zaki al-Khatib, nephew of the Emir.

Sheikh Kalil, who founded the international air freight company Kalzak Air Services, met Miss Young before Christmas and proposed after a whirlwind romance.

The bride’s mother Mrs Glenys Young, who was formerly a seamstress for a London couturier, made her daughter’s wedding dress from a bolt of cream silk that was a gift from the groom.

Four of the groom’s sisters were attendants and his brother was best man. Family members and guests flew in from all over the world to be present at the ceremony, amongst them Lady Rose Napier and her fiancé billionaire businessman George Saxon. The groom’s grandfather, who is gravely ill, rallied sufficiently to make a short speech at the reception.

The couple will spend their time between homes in London, Paris, New York and Ramal Hamrah.