Her Desert Dream

CHAPTER THREE

HAVING screwed herself up to be ‘relaxed’, the empty cabin was something of a let-down, but a table had been laid with a lace cloth and, no sooner than she’d settled herself and opened her book, Atiya arrived to serve afternoon tea.

Finger sandwiches, warm scones, clotted cream, tiny cakes and tea served from a heavy silver pot.

‘Is all this just for me?’ she asked when she poured only one cup and Kal had still not reappeared.

She hadn’t wanted his company, but now he’d disappeared she felt affronted on Lady Rose’s behalf. He was supposed to be here, keeping her safe from harm.

‘Captain Jacobs invited Mr al-Zaki to visit the crew on the flight deck,’ Atiya said. ‘Apparently they did their basic training together.’

‘Training?’ It took her a moment. ‘He’s a pilot?’

Okay. She hadn’t for a minute believed that he was bothered by the take-off, but she hadn’t seen that coming. A suitable career for a nephew of an Emir wasn’t a subject that had ever crossed her mind, but working as a commercial airline pilot wouldn’t have been on her list even if she had. Maybe it had been military training.

A stint in one of the military academies favoured by royals would fit.

‘Shall I ask him to rejoin you?’ Atiya asked.

‘No,’ she said quickly. She had wanted him to keep his distance and her fairy godmother was, apparently, still on the case. ‘I won’t spoil his fun.’

Besides, if he returned she’d have to share this scrumptious spread.

Too nervous to eat lunch, and with the terrifying take-off well behind her, she was suddenly ravenous and the temptation to scoff the lot was almost overwhelming. Instead, since overindulgence would involve sweating it all off later, she managed to restrain herself, act like the lady she was supposed to be and simply tasted a little of everything to show her appreciation, concentrating on each stunning mouthful so that it felt as if she was eating far more, before settling down with her book.

Kal paused at the door to the saloon.

Rose, her hair a pale gold shimmer that she’d let down to hang over her shoulder, feet tucked up beneath her, absorbed in a book, was so far removed from her iconic image that she looked like a completely different woman.

Softer. The girl next door rather than a princess, because that was what she’d be if she’d been born into his culture.

Was the effect diminished?

Not one bit. It just came at him from a different direction. Now she looked not only luscious but available.

Double trouble.

As he settled in the chair opposite her she raised her eyes from her book, regarding him from beneath long lashes.

‘Did you enjoy your visit to the cockpit?’

An almost imperceptible edge to her voice belied the softer look.

‘It was most informative. Thank you,’ he responded, equally cool. A little chill was just the thing to douse the heat generated by that mouth. Maybe.

‘Did your old friend offer you the controls?’ she added, as if reading his mind, and suddenly it all became clear. It wasn’t the fact that he’d left her side without permission that bothered her.

The stewardess must have told her that he was a pilot and she thought he’d been laughing at her fear of flying.

‘I hoped you wouldn’t notice that little bump back there,’ he said, offering her the chance to laugh right back at him.

There was a flicker of something deep in her eyes and the suspicion of an appreciative dimple appeared just above the left hand corner of her mouth.

‘That was you? I thought it was turbulence.’

‘Did you?’ She was lying outrageously-the flight had been rock steady since they’d reached cruising altitude-but he was enjoying her teasing too much to be offended. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve flown anything this big. I’m a little rusty.’

She was struggling not to laugh now. ‘It’s not something you do seriously, then?’

‘No one in my family does anything seriously.’ It was the standard response, the one that journalists expected, and if it didn’t apply to him, who actually cared? But, seeing a frown buckle the smooth, wide space between her eyes, the question that was forming, he cut her short with, ‘My father bought himself a plane,’ he said. ‘I wanted to be able to fly it so I took lessons.’

‘Oh.’ The frown remained. ‘But you said “this big”,’ she said, with a gesture that indicated the aircraft around them.

‘You start small,’ he confirmed. ‘It’s addictive, though. You keep wanting more.’

‘But you’ve managed to break the habit.’

‘Not entirely. Maybe you’d like a tour of the flight deck?’ he asked. She clearly had no idea who he was and that suited him. If she discovered that he was the CEO of a major corporation she’d want to know what he was doing playing bodyguard. ‘It sometimes helps ease the fear if you understand exactly what’s happening. How things work.’

She shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I’ll pass.’ Then, perhaps thinking she’d been less than gracious, she said, ‘I do understand that my fear is totally irrational. If I didn’t, I’d never get on one of these things.’ Her smile was self-deprecating. ‘But while, for the convenience of air travel, I can steel myself to suffer thirty seconds or so of blind panic, I also know that taking a pilot’s eye view, seeing for myself exactly how much nothing there is out there, will only make things worse.’

‘It’s really just the take-off that bothers you?’ he asked.

‘So far,’ she warned. ‘But any attempt to analyse my fear is likely to give me ideas. And, before you say it, I know that flying is safer than crossing the road. That I’ve more chance of being hurt going to work-’ She caught herself, for a fraction of second floundered. ‘So I’ve heard,’ she added quickly, as if he might dispute that what she did involved effort.

While opening the new wing of a hospital, attending charity lunches, appearing at the occasional gala might seem like a fairy tale existence to the outsider, he’d seen the effort Lucy put into her own charity and knew the appearance of effortless grace was all illusion.

But there was something about the way she’d stopped herself from saying more that suggested…He didn’t know what it suggested.

‘You’ve done your research.’

‘No need. People will insist on telling you these things,’ she said pointedly.

Signalling that the exchange was, as far as she was concerned, at an end, she returned to her book.

‘There’s just one more thing…’

She lifted her head, waited.

‘I’m sure that Lucy explained that once we arrive in Ramal Hamrah we’ll be travelling on to Bab el Sama by helicopter but-’

‘Helicopter?’

The word came out as little more than a squeak.

‘-but if it’s going to be a problem, I could organise alternative transport,’ he finished.

Lydia had been doing a pretty good job of keeping her cool, all things considered. She’d kept her head down, her nose firmly in her book even when Kal had settled himself opposite her. Stretched out those long, long legs. Crossed his ankles.

He’d removed his jacket, loosened his tie, undone the top button of his shirt.

What was it about a man’s throat that was so enticing? she wondered. Invited touch…

She swallowed.

This was so not like her. She could flirt with the best, but that was no more than a verbal game that she could control. It was easy when only the brain was engaged…

Concentrate!

Stick to the plan. Speak when spoken to, keep the answers brief, don’t let slip giveaways like ‘going to work’, for heaven’s sake!

She’d managed to cover it but, unless she kept a firm rein on her tongue, sooner or later she’d say something that couldn’t be explained away.

Lady Rose was charming but reserved, she reminded herself.

Reserved.

She made a mental note of the word, underlined it for emphasis.

It was too late to recall the ‘helicopter’ squeak, however, and she experienced a hollow feeling that had nothing to do with hunger as Kal, suddenly thoughtful, said, ‘You’ve never flown in one?’

She had never been in a helicopter, but it was perfectly possible that Lady Rose hopped about all over the place in one in order to fulfil her many engagements. Quite possibly with her good friend Princess Lucy.

She hadn’t thought to ask. Why would she?

After what seemed like an eternity, when she was sure Kal was going to ask her what she’d done with the real Lady Rose, he said, ‘So?’

‘So?’ she repeated hoarsely.

‘Which is it to be?’

‘Oh.’ He was simply waiting for her to choose between an air-conditioned ride in leather-upholstered comfort, or a flight in a noisy machine that didn’t even have proper wings. Her well-honed instinct for self-preservation was demanding she go for the four-wheeled comfort option.

Her mouth, taking no notice, said, ‘I can live with the helicopter.’

And was rewarded with another of those smiles that bracketed his mouth, fanned around his eyes, as if he knew just how much it had cost her.

‘It’s certainly simpler,’ he said, ‘but if I get scared you will hold my hand, won’t you?’

Lydia, jolted out of her determined reserve by his charm, laughed out loud. Then, when he didn’t join in, she had the weirdest feeling that their entire conversation had been leading up to that question and it was her breath that momentarily caught in her throat.

‘I don’t believe you’re scared of anything,’ she said.

‘Everyone is scared of something, Rose,’ he said enigmatically as he stood up. ‘I’ll leave you to enjoy your book. If you need me for anything I’ll be in the office.’

Showers, bedrooms, now an office…

‘Please, don’t let me keep you from your work,’ she said.

‘Work?’

He said the word lightly, as if it was something he’d never thought of, but a shadow, so brief that she might have missed it had she not been so intent on reading his thoughts, crossed his face and she felt horribly guilty at her lack of gratitude. No matter how inconvenient, this man, purely as a favour, had given up his own time to ensure she had the perfect holiday.

Or was he recalling her earlier slip?

‘For the next seven days you are my first concern,’ he assured her. ‘I’m simply going to check the weather report.’

Whew…

His first concern.

Wow…

But then he thought that she was the real thing. And when he turned those midnight-dark eyes on her she so wanted to be real. Not pretending. Just for a week, she thought, as she watched him stride away across the cabin on long, long legs.

No, no, no!

This was no time to lose it over a gorgeous face and a buff body and, determined to put him out of her mind, she turned back to her book. She had to read the same paragraph four times before it made sense, but she persevered, scarcely wavering in her concentration even when Kal returned to his chair, this time armed with a book of his own.

She turned a page, taking the opportunity to raise her lashes just enough to see that it was a heavyweight political treatise. Not at all what she’d expect from a man with playboy looks who’d told her that he did nothing ‘seriously’.

But then looks, as she knew better than most, could be deceptive.

Atiya appeared after a while with the dinner menu and to offer them a drink. They both stayed with water. Wasted no time in choosing something simple to eat.

But for the continuous drone of the aircraft engines, the cabin was quiet. Once she lifted her head, stretched her neck. Maybe the movement caught his eye because he looked up too, lifting a brow in silent query. She shook her head, leaned back against the thickly padded seat and looked down at a carpet of clouds silvered by moonlight.

Kal, watching her, saw the exact moment when her eyes closed, her body slackened and he caught her book as it began to slide from her hand. It was the autobiography of a woman who’d founded her own business empire. She’d personally inscribed this copy to Rose.

He closed it, put it on the table. Asked Atiya for a light blanket, which he laid over her. Then, book forgotten, he sat and watched her sleep, wondering what dreams brought that tiny crease to her forehead.

‘Sir,’ Atiya said softly, ‘I’ll be serving dinner in ten minutes. Shall I wake Lady Rose?’

‘I’ll do it in a moment,’ he said. Then, when she’d gone, he leaned forward. ‘Rose,’ he said softly. ‘Rose…’

Lydia opened her eyes, for a moment not sure where she was. Then she saw Kal and it all came rushing back. It hadn’t been a dream, then. She really was aboard a flying palace, one that wouldn’t turn into a pumpkin at midnight. She had an entire week before she had to return to the checkout.

‘What time is it?’ she asked, sitting up, disentangling herself from the blanket that Atiya must have put over her.

‘Seven minutes to eight in London, or to midnight in Ramal Hamrah if you want to set your watch to local time.’

She glanced at her wrist, touched the expensive watch, decided she’d rather do the maths than risk tampering with it.

‘Atiya is ready to serve dinner.’

‘Oh.’ Her mouth was dry, a sure sign that she’d been sleeping with it open, which meant he’d been sitting there watching her drool.

Memo to self, she thought, wincing as she put her feet to the floor, searched with her toes for her shoes. Next time, use the bed.

‘I apologise if I snored.’

His only response was a smile. She muffled a groan. She’d snored, drooled…

‘Late night?’ he asked, not helping.

‘Very,’ she admitted.

She’d had a late shift at the supermarket and, although her mother was determinedly independent, she always felt guilty about leaving her, even for a short time.

‘I was double-checking to make sure that I hadn’t left any loose ends trailing before taking off for a week,’ she replied.

Everything clean and polished.

Fridge and freezer stocked so that Jennie wouldn’t have to shop.

Enough of her mother’s prescription meds to keep her going.

The list of contact numbers double-checked to make sure it was up to date.

While Rose wouldn’t have been faced with that scenario, she’d doubtless had plenty of other stuff to keep her up late before she disappeared for a week.

And, like her, she would have been too wound up with nerves to sleep properly.

‘I’d better go and freshen up,’ she said but, before she could move, Kal was there to offer his hand, ease her effortlessly to her feet so that they were chest to chest, toe to toe, kissing close for a fraction of a second; long enough for her to breathe in the scent of freshly laundered linen, warm skin, some subtle scent that reminded her of a long ago walk in autumn woods. The crushed dry leaves and bracken underfoot.

Close enough to see the faint darkening of his chin and yearn to reach up, rub her hand over his jaw, feel the roughness against her palm.

She’d barely registered the thought before he released her hand, stepped back to let her move and she wasted no time putting some distance between them.

She looked a mess. Tousled, dishevelled, a red mark on her cheek where she’d slept with her head against the leather upholstery. She was going to have to duck her entire head under the cold tap to get it working properly, but she didn’t have time for that. Instead, she splashed her face, repaired her lipstick, brushed the tangles out of her hair and then clasped it at the nape of her neck with a clip she found in the case that Rose had packed for her.

Then she ran through the pre-gig checklist in an attempt to jolt her brain back into the groove.

Smoothed a crease in the linen trousers.

Straightened the fine gold chain so that it lay in an orderly fashion about her neck.

Rehearsed her prompt list of appropriate questions so that there would never be a lull in the conversation.

Putting the situation in its proper context.

It was something she’d done hundreds of times, after all.

It was just another job!

Kal rose as she entered the main saloon and the just another job mantra went straight out of the window. Not that he did anything. Offer her his hand. Smile, even.

That was the problem. He didn’t have to do anything, she thought as he stood aside so that she could lead the way to where Atiya was waiting beside a table that had been laid with white damask, heavy silver, crystal, then held a chair for her.

Like a force of nature, he just was.

Offered wine, she shook her head. Even if she’d been tempted, she needed to keep a clear head.

She took a fork, picked up a delicate morsel of fish and said, ‘Lucy tells me that you’re her husband’s cousin. Are you a diplomat, too?’

Conventional, impersonal conversation. That was the ticket, she thought as she tasted the fish. Correction, ate the fish. She wasn’t tasting a thing.

‘No.’ He shrugged. ‘My branch of the family has been personae non gratae at the Ramal Hamrahn court for three generations.’

No, no, no!

That wasn’t how it worked. She was supposed to ask a polite question. He was supposed to respond in kind. Like when you said, ‘How are you?’ and the only proper response was any variation on, ‘Fine, thanks.’

‘Personae non gratae at the Embassy, too,’ he continued, ‘until I became involved in one of Lucy’s charitable missions.’

Better. Charity was Rose’s life and, firmly quashing a desire to know more about the black sheep thing, what his family had done three generations ago that was so terrible-definitely off the polite questions list-Lydia concentrated on that.

‘You help Lucy?’

‘She hasn’t mentioned what I do?’ he countered.

‘Maybe she thought I’d try and poach you.’ Now that was good. ‘What do you do for her?’

‘Not much. She needed to ship aid to an earthquake zone. I offered her the use of an aircraft-we took it from there.’

Very impressively ‘not much’, she thought. She’d definitely mention him to Rose. Maybe they would hit it off.

She squashed down the little curl of something green that tried to escape her chest.

‘That would be the one your father owns?’ she asked. Again, she’d imagined a small executive jet. Clearly, where this family was concerned, she needed to start thinking bigger.

‘Flying is like driving, Rose. When you get your licence, you don’t want to borrow your father’s old crate. You want a shiny new one of your own.’

‘You do?’

A lot bigger, she thought. He came from a two-plane family.

Something else occurred to her.

He’d said no one in his family did anything seriously, but that couldn’t possibly be true. Not in his case, anyway. Obtaining a basic pilot’s licence was not much different from getting a driving licence-apart from the cost-but stepping up to this level took more than money. It took brains, dedication, a great deal of hard work.

And, yes, a heck of a lot of money.

‘You are such a fraud,’ she said but, far from annoying her, it eased her qualms about her own pretence.

‘Fraud?’

Kal paused with a fork halfway to his lips. It hadn’t taken Lucy ten minutes to rumble him, demand to know what he expected from Hanif in return for his help, but she knew the family history and he hadn’t expected his offer to be greeted with open arms.

He’d known the only response was to be absolutely honest with her. That had earned him first her sympathy and then, over the years, both her and Hanif’s friendship.

Rose had acted as if she had never heard of him but, unless Lucy had told her, how did she-

‘Not serious?’ she prompted. ‘Exactly how long did it take you to qualify to fly something like this?’

Oh, right. She was still talking about the flying. ‘I do fun seriously,’ he said.

‘Fun?’

‘Give me a chance and I’ll show you,’ he said. Teasing was, after all, a two-way street; the only difference between them was that she blushed. Then, realising how that might have sounded, he very nearly blushed himself. ‘I didn’t mean…Lucy suggested you might like to go fishing.’

‘Fishing?’ She pretended to consider. ‘Let me see. Wet. Smelly. Maggots. That’s your idea of fun?’

That was a challenge if ever he’d heard one. And one he was happy to accept. ‘Wet, smelly and then you get to dry out, get warm while you barbecue the catch on the beach.’

‘Wet, smelly, smoky and then we get sand in our food. Perfect,’ she said, but a tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth suggested that she was hooked and, content, he let it lie.

Rose speared another forkful of fish.

‘In her letter,’ she said, ‘Lucy suggested I’d enjoy a trip to the souk. Silk. Spices. Gold.’

‘Heat, crowds, people with cellphones taking your photograph? I thought you wanted peace and privacy.’

‘Even the paparazzi have children to feed and educate,’ she said. ‘And publicity oils the wheels of charity. The secret is not to give them something so sensational that they don’t have to keep coming back for more.’

‘That makes for a very dull life,’ he replied gravely, playing along, despite the fact that it appeared to fly directly in the face of what Lucy had told him. ‘But if you wore an abbayah, kept your eyes down, your hair covered, you might pass unnoticed.’

‘A disguise?’

‘More a cover-up. There’s no reason to make it easy for them, although there’s no hiding your height.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘It’s what I’m here for.’

‘Really?’ And she was the one challenging him, as if she knew he had an agenda of his own. But she didn’t wait for an answer. ‘So what did you buy?’ she asked.

He must have looked confused because she added, ‘Car, not plane. I wouldn’t know one plane from another. When you passed your test?’ she prompted. ‘A Ferrari? Porsche?’

‘Far too obvious. I chose a Morgan.’

Her turn to look puzzled.

‘It’s a small sports car. A roadster,’ he explained, surprised she didn’t know that. ‘The kind of thing that you see pilots driving in old World War Two movies? My father put my name on the waiting list on my twelfth birthday.’

‘There’s a waiting list?’

‘A long one. They’re hand-built,’ he replied, smiling at her astonishment. ‘I took delivery on my seventeenth birthday.’

‘I’ll add patient to serious,’ she replied. ‘What do you drive now?’

‘I still have the Morgan.’

‘The same one?’

‘I’d have to wait a while for another one, so I’ve taken very good care of it.’

‘I’m impressed.’

‘Don’t be. It stays in London while I’m constantly on the move, but for the record I drive a Renault in France, a Lancia in Italy and in New York…’ he grinned ‘…I take a cab.’

‘And in Ramal Hamrah?’ she asked.

Suddenly the smile took real effort.

‘There’s an old Land Rover that does the job. What about you?’ he asked, determined to shift the focus of their conversation to her. ‘What do you drive for pleasure?’

She leaned forward, her lips parted on what he was sure would have been a protest that she wasn’t finished with the question of Ramal Hamrah. Maybe something in his expression warned her that she was treading on dangerous ground and, after a moment, she sat back. Thought about it.

He assumed that was because her grandfather’s garage offered so wide a choice. But then she said, ‘It’s…’ she used her hands to describe a shape ‘…red.’

‘Red?’ Why was he surprised? ‘Good choice.’

‘I’m glad you approve.’

The exchange was, on the surface, perfectly serious and yet the air was suddenly bubbling with laughter.

‘Do you really have homes in all those places?’ she asked.

‘Just a mews cottage in London. My mother, my father’s first wife, was a French actress. She has a house in Nice and an apartment in Paris. His second wife, an English aristocrat, lives in Belgravia and Gloucestershire. His third was an American heiress. She has an apartment in the Dakota Building in New York and a house in the Hamptons.’

‘An expensive hobby, getting married.’ Then, when he made no comment, ‘You stay with them? Even your ex-stepmothers?’

‘Naturally. They’re a big part of my life and I like to spend time with my brothers and sisters.’

‘Oh, yes. I didn’t think…’ She seemed slightly flustered by his father’s admittedly louche lifestyle. ‘So where does Italy come in? The Lancia?’ she prompted.

‘My father bought a palazzo in Portofino when he was wooing a contessa. It didn’t last-she quickly realised that he wasn’t a man for the long haul-but he decided to keep the house. As he said, when a man has as many ex-wives and mistresses and children as he has, he needs a bolt-hole. Not true, of course. It’s far too tempting a location. He’s never alone.’

He expected her to laugh. Most people took what he said at face value, seeing only the glamour.

‘From his history, I’d say he’s never wanted to be,’ Rose said, her smile touched with compassion. ‘It must have been difficult. Growing up.’

‘Life was never dull,’ he admitted with rather more flippancy than he felt. Without a country, a purpose, his grandfather had become rudderless, a glamorous playboy to whom women flocked, a lifestyle that his father had embraced without question. His family were his world but after one relationship that had kept the gossip magazines on their toes for eighteen months as they’d followed every date, every break up, every make up, he’d realised that he had no wish to live like that for the rest of his life.

‘You didn’t mention Ramal Hamrah,’ she said, ignoring the opportunity he’d given her to talk about her own grandfather. Her own life.

Rare in a woman.

Rare in anyone.

Most people would rather talk about themselves.

‘Do you have a home there?’

‘There is a place that was once home,’ he told her because the apartment overlooking the old harbour, bought off plan from a developer who had never heard of Kalil al-Zaki, could never be described as the home of his heart, his soul. ‘A faded photograph that hangs upon my grandfather’s wall. A place of stories of the raids, battles, celebrations that are the history of my family.’

Stories that had grown with the telling until they had become the stuff of legend.

It was an image that the old man looked at with longing. Where he wanted to breathe his last. Where he wanted to lie for eternity, at one with the land he’d fought for.

And Kalil would do anything to make that possible. Not that sitting here, sharing a meal with Lady Rose Napier was as tedious as he’d imagined it would be.

‘No one has lived there for a long time,’ he said.

For a moment he thought she was going to ask him to tell her more, but all she said was, ‘I’m sorry.’

She was quiet for a moment, as if she understood the emptiness, the sense of loss and he began to see why people, even those who had never met her, instinctively loved her.

She had an innate sensitivity. A face that invited confidences. Another second and he would have told her everything but, at exactly the right moment, she said, ‘Tell me about your brothers and sisters.’

‘How long have you got?’ he asked, not sure whether he was relieved or disappointed. ‘I have one sister, a year younger than me. I have five half-sisters, three half-brothers and six, no seven, steps of both sexes and half a dozen who aren’t actually related by blood but are still family.’

She counted them on her long, slender fingers.

‘Sixteen?’ she asked, looking at him in amazement. ‘You’ve got sixteen brothers and sisters? Plus six.’

‘At the last count. Sarah, she’s the English ex, and her husband are about to have another baby.’

Lydia sat back in her chair, stunned. As an only child she had dreamed of brothers and sisters, but this was beyond imagining.

‘Can you remember all their names?’ she asked.

‘Of course. They are my family.’ Then, seeing her doubt, he held up his hand and began to list them. ‘My sister is Adele. She’s married to a doctor, Michel, and they have two children, Albert and Nicole. My mother has two other daughters by her second husband…’

As they ate, Kal talked about his family in France, in England and America. Their partners and children. The three youngest girls whose mothers his father had never actually got around to marrying but were all part of a huge extended family. All undoubtedly adored.

His family, but nothing about himself, she realised. Nothing about his personal life and she didn’t press him. How a man talked about his family said a lot about him. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that he was a loyal and caring son. That he loved his family. It was there in his smile as he told stories about his mother in full drama queen mode, about his sister. His pride in all their achievements.

If he’d had a wife or partner, children of his own, he would certainly have talked about them, too. With love and pride.

‘You’re so lucky having a big family,’ she told him as they laughed at a story about one of the boys causing mayhem at a party.

‘That’s not the half of it,’ he assured her. ‘My grandfather set the standard. Five wives, ten children. Do you want their names, too? Or shall I save that for a rainy day?’

‘Please tell me that it doesn’t rain in Ramal Hamrah.’

‘Not often,’ he admitted.

Neither of them said anything while Atiya cleared the table, placed a tray of sweet things, tiny cakes, nuts, fruit, before them.

‘Can I bring you coffee or tea?’ Atiya asked.

‘Try some traditional mint tea,’ Kal suggested before she could reply. He spoke to Atiya in Arabic and, after a swift exchange, which apparently elicited the right answer, he said, ‘Not made with a bag, it will be the real thing.’

‘It sounds delicious.’

‘It is.’

He indicated the tray, but she shook her head.

‘It all looks wonderful but I can’t eat another thing,’ Lydia said. ‘I hope there’s a pool in Bab el Sama. If I keep eating like this I won’t fit into any of my clothes when I get home.’

‘I don’t understand why women obsess about being thin,’ he said.

‘No? Have you never noticed the way celebrities who put on a few pounds are ridiculed? That would be women celebrities,’ she added.

‘I know. Adele went through a bad patch when she was a teenager.’ He shook his head. Took a date, but made no attempt to push her to eat. Instead, he bestowed a lazy smile on her and said, ‘Now you know my entire family. Your turn to tell me about yours.’

Lydia waited while Atiya served the mint tea.

Completely absorbed by his complex relationships, the little vignettes of each of his brothers and sisters that had made them all seem so real, she had totally forgotten the pretence and needed a moment to gather herself.

‘Everyone knows my story, Kal.’

Kal wondered. While he’d been telling her about his family, she’d been by turns interested, astonished, amused. But the moment he’d mentioned hers, it was as if the lights had dimmed.

‘I know what the press write about you,’ he said. ‘What Lucy has told me.’

That both her parents had been killed when she was six years old and she’d been raised by an obsessively controlling grandfather, the one who’d taken a newspaper headline literally and turned her into the ‘people’s angel’.

‘What you see is what you get,’ she replied, picking up the glass of tea.

Was it?

It was true that with her pale hair, porcelain skin and dazzling blue eyes she could have stepped out of a Renaissance painting.

But then there was that mouth. The full sultry lips that clung for a moment to the small glass as she tasted the tea.

A tiny piece of the crushed leaf clung to her lower lip and, as she gathered it in with the tip of her tongue, savouring the taste, he discovered that he couldn’t breathe.

‘It’s sweet,’ she said.

‘Is that a problem?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t usually put sugar in mint tea, but it’s good.’ She finished the tea, then caught at a yawn that, had she been anyone else, he would have sworn was fake. That she was simply making an excuse to get away. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Kal, it’s been a long day and I’d like to try and get a couple of hours’ sleep before we land.’

‘Of course,’ he said, easing her chair back so that she could stand up and walking with her to the door of her suite, unable to quite shake the feeling that she was bolting from the risk that he might expect the exposure of her own family in return for his unaccustomed openness.

Much as he adored them, he rarely talked about his family to outsiders. He’d learned very early how even the most innocent remark to a friend would be passed on to their parents and, in a very short time, would appear in print, twisted out of recognition by people who made a living out of celebrity gossip.

Rose, though, had that rare gift for asking the right question, then listening to the answer in a way that made a man feel that it was the most important thing she’d ever heard.

But then, at the door, she confounded him, turning to face him and, for a moment, locked in that small, still bubble that enclosed two people who’d spent an evening together, all the more intimate because of their isolation as they flew high above the earth in their own small time capsule, neither of them moved and he knew that if she’d been any other woman, if he’d been any other man, he would have kissed her. That she would have kissed him back. Maybe done a lot more than kiss.

She was a warm, quick-witted, complex woman and there had, undoubtedly, been a connection between them, a spark that in another world might have been fanned into a flame.

But she was Lady Roseanne Napier, the ‘people’s angel’. And he had made a promise to his grandfather that nothing, no one, would divert him from keeping.

‘Thank you for your company, Rose,’ he said, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips, but his throat was unexpectedly constricted as he took a step back. He added, ‘Sleep well.’

It was going to be a very long week.