Her Desert Dream

CHAPTER FOUR

TIRED as she was, Lydia didn’t sleep. Eyes closed, eyes open, it made no difference.

The hand Kal had kissed lay on the cover at her side and she had to press it down hard to keep it from flying to her mouth so that she could taste it.

Taste him.

His mouth had barely made contact and yet the back of her fingers throbbed as if burned, her body as fired up as if she’d had a faint electric shock.

In desperation she flung herself off the bed, tore off her clothes and threw herself beneath the shower, soaping herself with a gel that smelled faintly of lemons. Warm at first, then cooler until she was shivering. But still her skin burned and when Lydia lifted her hand to her face, breathed in, it was not the scent of lemons that filled her head.

It was nothing as simple as scent, but a distillation of every look, every word, the food they’d eaten, the mint tea they’d drunk. It had stirred the air as he’d bent over her hand, leaving her faint with the intensity of pure sensation that had rippled through her body. Familiar and yet utterly unknown. Fire and ice. Remembered pleasure and the certainty of pain.

Distraction.

She needed a distraction, she thought desperately as she wrapped herself in a fluffy gown, combed out her damp hair, applied a little of some unbelievably expensive moisturiser in an attempt to counteract the drying effects of pressured air.

She could usually lose herself in a book-she’d managed it earlier, even dozed off-but she’d left her book in the main cabin and nothing on earth would tempt her back out there until she had restored some semblance of calm order to her racketing hormones.

She chose another book from the selection Rose had packed for her and settled back against the pillows. All she had to do now was concentrate. It shouldn’t be hard, the book was by a favourite author, but the words refused to stay still.

Instead they kept merging into the shape of Kal’s mouth, the sensuous curve of his lower lip.

‘Get a grip, Lydie!’ she moaned, abandoning the book and sliding down to the floor where she sat cross-legged, hoping that yoga breathing would instil a modicum of calm, bring her down from what had to be some kind of high induced by an excess of pheromones leaking into the closed atmosphere of the aircraft.

Combined with the adrenalin charge of confronting the newsmen, tension at the prospect of facing airport security with Rose’s passport, then the shock of Kalil al-Zaki arriving to mess up all their carefully laid plans, it was scarcely any wonder that the words wouldn’t stay still.

That he was astoundingly attractive, took his duty of care to extraordinary lengths, had flirted outrageously with her hadn’t helped.

When they’d sat down to their dinner party in the sky, she’d been determined to keep conversation on the impersonal level she employed at cocktail parties, launches.

Kal had blown that one right out of the water with his reply to her first question and she’d forgotten all about the ‘plan’ as he’d in turn amused, shocked, delighted her with tales of his family life.

And made her envious at the obvious warmth and affection they shared. His might be a somewhat chaotic and infinitely extendable family but, as an only child with scarcely any close relations, she’d been drawn in by the charm of having so many people who were connected to you. To care for and who cared back. Who would not want to be part of that?

And that was only half the story, she realised. Sheikh Hanif was his cousin and there must be a vast Ramal Hamrahn family that he hadn’t even mentioned, other than to tell her that he and his family were personae non gratae at the Ramal Hamrahn court.

More, she suspected, than he told most people. But then Rose had that effect on people. Drew them out.

Instead, he had turned the spotlight on her, which was when she’d decided to play safe and retire.

There was a tap on the door. ‘Madam? We’ll be landing in fifteen minutes.’

‘Thank you, Atiya.’

She reapplied a light coating of make-up. Rose might want her picture in the paper, but not looking as if she’d just rolled out of bed. Brushed out her hair. Dressed. Putting herself back together so that she was fit to be seen in public.

The seat belt sign pinged as she returned to the cabin and she shook her head as Kal half rose, waved him back to his seat and sat down, fastening her seat belt without incident before placing her hands out of reach in her lap. Not looking at him, but instead peering out at the skein of lights skirting the coast, shimmering in the water below them.

‘Landing holds no terrors for you?’ Kal asked and she turned to glance at him. A mistake. Groomed to perfection he was unforgettable, but after eight hours in the air, minus his tie, in need of a shave, he was everything a woman would hope to wake up to. Sexily rumpled, with eyes that weren’t so much come to bed, as let’s stay here for the rest of the day.

As if she’d know…

Quickly turning back to the window as they sank lower and the capital, Rumaillah, resolved from a mass of lights into individual streets, buildings, her attention was caught by a vast complex dominated by floodlit domes, protected by high walls, spread across the highest point of the city.

‘What is that?’ she asked.

Kal put a hand on the arm of her chair and leaned across so that he could see out of her window, but he must have dialled down the pheromone count, or maybe, like her, he was tired because, even this close, there was no whoosh of heat.

‘It’s the Emiri Palace,’ he told her.

‘But it’s huge.’

‘It’s not like Buckingham Palace,’ he said, ‘with everything under one roof. The Emir’s palace is not just one building. There are gardens, palaces for his wives, his children and their families. The Emiri offices are there too, and his Majlis where his people can go and see him, talk to him, ask for his help, or to intercede in disputes.’

‘I like the sound of that. The man at the top being approachable.’

‘I doubt it’s quite as basic as it was in the old days,’ he replied. There was an edge to his voice that made her forget about the exotic hilltop palace and look more closely at him. ‘We’ve come a long way from a tent in the desert.’

We.

He might be excluded but he still thought of himself as one of them. She resisted the urge to ask him. If he wanted her to know he would tell her.

But, fascinated, she pressed, ‘In theory, anyone can approach him?’

‘In theory.’

There was something in his voice, a tension, anger, that stopped her from saying more.

‘And you said “wives”. How many has he got?’

‘The Emir? Just one. The tradition of taking more than one wife began when a man would take the widows, children of brothers slain in battle into his family. Then it became a sign of wealth. It’s rare these days.’ Then, with a curl of his lip that could have been mistaken for a smile if you hadn’t seen the real thing, ‘My family are not typical.’

‘And even they take only one at a time,’ she replied, lifting her voice a little so that it was gently teasing.

‘Legally,’ he agreed. ‘In practice there tends to be some overlap.’

‘And you, Kal?’

‘How many wives do I have?’ And this time the smile was a little less forced. ‘None, but then I’m a late starter.’

That she doubted, but suddenly the runway lights were whizzing past and then they were down with barely a bump.

Before she left the aircraft she visited the cockpit-now that it was safely on the ground-to thank the crew for a wonderful flight and, by the time she stepped outside into the warm moist air of the Gulf, her luggage had already been transferred to the waiting helicopter.

‘Ready?’ Kal asked.

She swallowed, nodded.

She’d been bold enough when the reality of committing her safety to what seemed to be a very small, fragile thing beside the bulk of the jet had been a distant eight hours away.

Now she was afraid that if she opened her mouth her teeth would start chattering like a pair of castanets.

Apparently she wasn’t fooling Kal because he said, ‘That ready? It’s not too late to change your mind.’

She refused to be so pathetic and, shaking her head once in a let’s get this over with gesture, she took a determined step forward. His hand at her back helped keep her moving when she faltered. Got her through the door and into her seat.

He said something to the pilot as he followed her-what, she couldn’t hear above the noise of the engine.

He didn’t bother to ask if she needed help with the straps, but took them from her and deftly fastened them as if it was something he’d been doing all his life. Maybe he had.

Then he gently lowered the earphones that would keep out the noise and allow the pilot to talk to them onto her head, settling them into place against her ears.

‘Okay?’ he said, not that she could hear, but she’d been sent on a lip-reading and signing course by the supermarket and had no problem understanding him.

She nodded and he swiftly dealt with his own straps and headset before turning in his seat so that he was facing her.

‘Hands,’ he said, and when she lifted them to look at them, not knowing what she was supposed to do with them, he took them in his and held them as the rotor speed built up.

She tried to smile but this was far worse than in a passenger aircraft. Everything-the tarmac, the controls, the reality of what was happening-was so close, so immediate, so in your face.

There was no possibility of pretence here.

No way you could tell yourself that you were on the number seven bus going to work and, as the helicopter lifted from the ground, leaving her stomach behind, she tightened her grip of his hands but, before the scream bubbling up in her throat could escape, Kal leaned forward and said, ‘Trust me, Rose.’

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was powerful, strong, demanding her total attention and the soaring lift as they rose into the air, leaving the earth far behind them, was echoed by a rush of pure exhilaration that flooded through her.

This was flying. This was living. And, without a thought for what would follow, she kissed him back.

Kal had seen Rose’s momentary loss of courage as she’d looked across the tarmac from the top of the aircraft steps to the waiting helicopter, followed by the lift of her chin, an unexpectedly stubborn look that no photographer had ever managed to capture, as she’d refused to back down, switch to the car.

It didn’t quite go with the picture Lucy had painted of the gentle, biddable girl-woman-who’d lovingly bowed to the dictates of her grandfather. Who was desperate for some quiet time while she fathomed out her future.

That was a chin that took no prisoners and, certain that once she was airborne she’d be fine, he hadn’t argued. Even so, her steps had faltered as they’d neared the helicopter and as they’d boarded he’d told the pilot to get a move on before she had time for second thoughts.

This was not a moment for the usual round of ‘Lady Rose’ politeness, handshakes, introductions. All that could wait until they arrived at Bab el Sama.

And he’d done his best to keep her distracted, busy, her eyes on him rather than the tarmac.

But as the engine note changed in the moment prior to take-off, her hands had gripped his so hard that her nails had dug into his palms and he thought that he’d completely misjudged the situation, that she was going to lose it.

Hysterics required more than a reassuring hand or smile, they needed direct action and there were just two options-a slap or a kiss.

No contest.

Apart from the fact that the idea of hitting anyone, let alone a frightened woman, was totally abhorrent to him, letting go of her hands wasn’t an option.

His ‘Trust me’ had been a waste of breath-she couldn’t hear him-but it had made him feel better as he went in for the kiss, hard and fast. This wasn’t seduction, this was survival and he wanted her total attention, every emotion, fixed on him, even if that emotion was outrage.

He didn’t get outrage.

For a moment there was nothing. Only a stunned stillness. Then something like an imperceptible sigh breathed against his mouth as her eyes closed, the tension left her body and her lips softened, yielded and clung to his for a moment, warm and sweet as a girl’s first kiss. Then parted, hot as a fallen angel tempting him to sin.

At which point the only one in danger of losing anything was him.

How long was a kiss? A heartbeat, minutes, a lifetime?

It seemed like all three as his hands, no longer captive, moved to her waist, her back, drawing her closer. A heartbeat while he breathed in the clean, fresh scent of her skin; minutes as the kiss deepened and something darker, more compelling stirred his senses; a lifetime while his hormones stampeded to fling themselves into the unknown without as much as a thought for the consequences.

Exactly like his grandfather. Exactly like his father.

Men without a purpose, without a compass, who’d put their own selfish desires above everything.

That thought, like a pitcher of cold water, was enough to jar him back to reality, remind him why he was here, and he drew back.

Rose took a gasping, thready little breath as he broke the connection. Sat unmoving for long moments before her lids slowly rose, almost as if the long, silky lashes were too heavy to lift.

Her lips parted as if she was going to speak but she closed them again without saying a word, instead concentrating on her breathing, slowing it down using some technique that she’d probably learned long ago to manage nerves.

When she raised her lashes again, she was sufficiently in control to speak.

He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she mouthed the words so carefully that he could lip-read enough to get the gist, which was, as near as damn it, ‘If you were that scared, Kal, you should have told me. We could have taken the car.’

It was the response of a woman who, with ten years of interaction with the public behind her, knew exactly how to rescue an awkward moment, who could put anyone at ease with a word.

It put a kiss that had spiralled out of hand into perspective, allowing them both to move on, forget it.

Well, what had he expected?

That she’d fall apart simply because he’d kissed her?

She might-or might not-be a virgin princess, but she’d already proved, with her dry and ready wit, that she was no shrinking violet.

He knew he should be grateful that his rescue mission had been recognised for what it was. Received with her legendary good humour, charm.

But he wasn’t grateful. Didn’t want to forget.

He wanted to pull her close, kiss her again until that classy English cool sizzled away to nothing, her ‘charm’ shattered in a pyrotechnic blaze that would light up the night sky and this tender Rose, nurtured under glass, broke out and ran wild.

It wasn’t going to happen.

Even if had been an appropriate time or place, their destinies were written. Even if she rejected the Earl in waiting her grandfather had lined up to walk her down the aisle and chose someone for herself, it was never going to be the scion of a disgraced and dispossessed exile.

And when he took a bride, it would not be in response to carnal attraction, the sexual chemistry that masqueraded as love, stealing your senses, stealing your life. His marriage would be an affair of state that would cement an alliance with one of the great Ramal Hamrahn families-the Kassimi, the Attiyah or the Darwish. The surrender of one of their precious daughters an affirmation that he had restored his family to their rightful place.

Had brought his grandfather home.

But time was running out. He had been infinitely patient and he no longer had years. His grandfather was already on borrowed time, stubbornly refusing to accept the death sentence that had been passed on him until he saw his grandson married as a Khatib should be married. Could die in peace in the place where he’d been born.

An affair that would cause scandalised headlines worldwide would do nothing to help his cause. He had to keep himself focused on what was important, he reminded himself, even while he held Rose, could feel her corn silk hair tumbling over his hands, her soft breath upon his cheek.

Fight, as he’d always fought, the demanding, selfish little gene he’d inherited, the one telling him to go for it and hang the consequences. The knowledge that she wanted it as much as he did. The pretence that it would just be a holiday romance, wouldn’t hurt anyone.

That wasn’t true. You could not give that much and walk away without losing something of yourself, taking something of the other with you. Already, in the closeness of the hours they had spent together, he had given more than he should. Had taken more. He concentrated on the clean, vast infinity of the night sky-diamonds against black velvet-until it filled his head, obliterating everything else.

Lydia wanted to curl up and die with embarrassment. Not because Kal had kissed her. That had been no more than straightforward shock tactics, designed to prevent her from doing something stupid.

And it had worked.

She hadn’t screamed, hadn’t tried to grab the pilot and make him stop.

Why would she when the minute his lower lip had touched hers, she’d forgotten all about the fact that they were rising from the ground in a tiny glass bubble?

Forgotten her fear.

Forgotten everything as the warmth of his mouth had first heated her lips, then curled through every part of her body, touching the frozen core that had remained walled up, out of reach for so long. As it felt the warmth, whimpered to be set free, he’d drawn her close and the kiss had ceased to be shock tactics and had become real, intense.

A lover’s kiss, and as her arms had wrapped themselves around his neck she hadn’t cared who he thought she was. He was kissing her as if he wanted her and that was all that mattered, because she wanted him right back.

She hadn’t cared that he thought it was Rose who’d reacted so wantonly. Who’d wanted more. Who would still be kissing him as if the world was about to end if he hadn’t backed off.

He was still holding her, still close enough that she could feel him breathing. Close enough that when she was finally brave enough to open her eyes she could see the what-the-hell-happened-there? look in his eyes. She wanted to explain that it was okay. That she wasn’t Rose, just some dumb idiot girl who was having a very strange day.

That he could forget all about it. Forget about her.

But that was impossible.

She had to put things right, restore Rose’s reputation. Instead, she closed her eyes again and concentrated on her breathing. Slowing it down. And, as her mind cleared, she realised that the answer was simple. Fear.

She could put it all down to her fear. Or his, she thought, remembering how he’d pretended to be the one who was scared as they’d lifted off.

If she could make him laugh it would be all right. They would be able to move on, pretend it had never happened.

But he hadn’t laughed; there was no reaction at all and she realised that just because she could lip-read didn’t mean that he could, too. He hadn’t a clue what she was saying.

She took her hands from his shoulders, tried to concentrate on what he was saying as he looked up, beyond her. Shook her head to indicate that it hadn’t got through.

He turned, looked straight at her as he repeated himself. ‘And miss this?’

What?

She didn’t want to take her eyes from him. While she was looking at him, while he was still holding her, she could forget that there was nothing but a thin wall of perspex between her and the sky.

But he lifted one of his dark brows a fraction of a millimetre, challenging her to be brave, and she finally tore her gaze from him, turned her head.

In the bubble of the helicopter they had an all round view of the sky which, away from the light pollution of the airport, the city, she could see as it was meant to be seen, with the constellations diamond-bright, the spangled shawl of the Milky Way spread across the heavens.

It was an awe-inspiring, terrifying sight. A reminder of how small they were. How vulnerable. And yet how spectacularly amazing and she didn’t look away. But, although she wanted to reach back, share the moment with Kal, she remembered who she was supposed to be.

Not the woman on the checkout who anyone could-and did-flirt with. Not Lydia Young, who had a real problem with leaving the ground, but Lady Rose Napier, who could handle an unexpected kiss with the same natural charm as any other minor wobble in her day.

Instead, she concentrated on this unexpected gift he’d given her, searching for constellations that she recognised until she had to blink rather hard because her eyes were watering. At the beauty of the sky. That was all…

Kal must have said something. She didn’t hear him, just felt his breath against her cheek, then, as he pointed down, she saw a scatter of lights below, the navigation lights of boats riding at anchor as they crossed a wide creek.

As they dropped lower, circling to land on the far bank, Lydia caught tantalising glimpses of the domes, arches of half a dozen or more exotic, beautiful beach houses. There was a private dock, boats, a long curve of white sand. And, behind it all, the dramatic, sharply rising background of jagged mountains, black against a sky fading to pre-dawn purple.

While she had not been fooled by the word ‘cottage’, had anticipated the kind of luxury that few people would ever experience, this was far beyond anything she could have imagined.

It reminded her of pictures she’d seen of the fantasy village of Portmeirion, more like a film set, or something out of a dream than anything real, and by the time the helicopter landed and she’d thanked the pilot, her heart was pounding with excitement, anticipation.

She’d been so determined to keep her reaction low-key, wanting to appear as if this was what she was used to, but that wasn’t, in the end, a problem. As Kal took her hand and helped her down, she didn’t have to fight to contain a wow. The reality was simply beyond words.

There was an open Jeep waiting for them, but she didn’t rush to climb in. Instead, she walked to the edge of the landing pad so that she could look out over the creek. Eager to feel solid earth beneath her feet. To breathe in real air laden with the salty scent of the sea, wet sand, something else, sweet and heavy, that she did not recognise.

It was still quite dark, but all the way down to the beach lights threaded through huge old trees, shone in the water.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful,’ she said as Kal joined her. ‘I expected sand, desert, not all this green.’

‘The creek is in a valley and has a microclimate of its own,’ he said. ‘And Sheikh Jamal’s father began an intensive tree planting programme when he took the throne fifty years ago.’

‘Well, good for him.’

‘Not everyone is happy. People complain that it rains more these days.’

‘It rains more everywhere,’ she replied, looking around for the source of the sweet, heady fragrance filling the air. ‘What is that scent?’ she asked.

‘Jasmine.’ He crossed to a shrub, broke off a piece and offered it to her with the slightest of bows. ‘Welcome to Bab el Sama, Lady Rose,’ he said.