The Unlikely Mistress

‘Shouldn’t you have checked with me first to check that I don’t have any food allergies?’ she said, annoyed by yet another display of his presumption and arrogance. ‘Since I don’t actually eat meat.’

‘Well, isn’t that a coincidence? Neither do I,’ he responded silkily, sitting down at the table, his powerful frame seeming to completely dwarf the gilt chair. ‘At least that’s one thing we do have in common. Sit, Jane.’

As she lowered herself stiffly into the chair opposite him, Zayed leaned back to study her a little more, still unable to believe just how drab she looked. He thought about his mistress in New York and how she might have appeared if she had been invited to dinner at his club—with her creamy breasts spilling out of one of those ‘bandage’ dresses she was so fond of, her slim legs encased in silk stockings and heels so high they should have carried a health warning.

But despite her bare face, her tied back hair and her appalling clothes sense, there was an intelligence about Jane Smith’s eyes which was rare to behold. She had an undiscernible air of complexity about her—as if there were layers to this woman which he’d never encountered before.

He shook his head, reminding himself that her peculiarities were as inconsequential and as forgettable as a brief breeze which wafted through the high heat of summer. She was a means to an end and nothing more. He gestured for the main course to be carried in and nodded as it was placed in front of them, for he had decided against an appetiser. Why drag out this meal for longer than was necessary when all he needed to do was to get her to agree to his plan?

He waited for her to come out with some nicety. Maybe some shy little question about why he wanted to see her, but to his annoyance she didn’t seem to be paying him any attention. Even her plate of food was barely touched as she peered over his shoulder and he had to turn round to discover that she was staring at a painting on the wall behind him and not at him.

‘Is that the Kafalahian desert?’ she questioned.

He nodded. ‘Indeed it is. I donated it to the club,’ he conceded reluctantly.

‘I thought I recognised it. That’s Tirabah in the distance, isn’t it? You can just about see the three blue towers, if you look carefully.’

Zayed was torn between admiration for her obvious love of his country and irritation that she was effectively ignoring him. Because he wasn’t used to being ignored. He ate a couple of mouthfuls of the spiced rice, pistachio and pomegranate dish—his favourite and one specially prepared for him whenever he came here—before laying down his fork. He noticed she wasn’t eating, but that didn’t surprise him. Women were often too awed to be able to consume food in his presence.

‘Tell me about yourself, Jane Smith,’ he said suddenly.

Jane put her fork down and looked up at him, grateful to be able to give up her pretence of eating. The food smelt delicious but she was still so churned up with anxiety for Cleo that it had ruined her appetite. She gazed at him suspiciously. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Because I do,’ he answered unhelpfully.

She pursed her lips. ‘Are you unhappy with my work?’

/> ‘No, Jane—but I am growing increasingly unhappy about your inability to answer a straight question.’

She stared at him, willing herself not to be mesmerised by the ebony gleam of his eyes but that was pretty much impossible. She wondered how it was that you could be repulsed and infuriated by a man and yet still your heart would pound like a piston whenever you looked at him.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘How you ended up working in my embassy and having an unrivalled knowledge about my country.’

Ignoring her champagne flute, Jane took a sip of water, slightly confused about where exactly to begin. Did she tell him that she’d been a quiet and serious child who used to lose herself in the world of books? That she’d been more like her academic father than the beautician mother who had been his surprising choice of wife?

No. Zayed Al Zawba wasn’t interested in the personal. He wanted to know about her qualifications—and if she was planning to ask him for a pay-rise, or a loan, then wouldn’t it be in her best interests to be honest about them for once, instead of playing down her achievements for fear that it might come over as boasting?

‘I studied at the School of Oriental and Asian Studies in London and it was there that I became aware of some of Kafalah’s great lyric poets. I became obsessed with one in particular and it was he who inspired me to learn your language so that I could translate his verses.’ She smiled as she thought about the impact those poems had first had on her. The sudden realisation of just how powerful words could be. ‘You will, of course, be familiar with the work of Mansur Beyhajhi?’

‘I have no interest in poetry,’ he said carelessly. ‘That was more my father’s line.’

Jane tried not to wince at his reaction but she wasn’t sure if she managed it. But even though she was appalled at his cavalier dismissal of the greatest poet his country had ever produced, she shouldn’t have been surprised. He hardly had a reputation as a man of great sensitivity, did he? He was known for racing fast cars and flying in private jets, as well as his legendary sexual consumption of beautiful women. And yes, everyone knew he was a wizard at playing the stockmarkets which added even more to the financial reserves of his oil-rich country—but that didn’t stop Jane from sometimes thinking it was a pity that Kafalah had such a barbarian for a ruler. Had the early deaths of his parents contributed to his insensitivity—or had the responsibilities of having to rule at such a young age hammered them out of him?

Try to make allowances for him, she thought.

‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘For a moment I quite forgot that you are a man of action, rather than a man of letters.’

There was a slow intake of breath from the other side of the table, a low hissing—not unlike how she imagined a striking snake might sound.

‘You make me sound like an intellectual and cultural lightweight. Was that your intention, Miss Smith?’

‘I thought we were supposed to be talking about me, Your Serene Highness, not you.’

His black eyes narrowed. ‘And I note you’ve neatly avoided answering my question.’

Jane nodded. Keep him sweet, she urged herself. Whatever it takes, just keep him sweet. ‘You are a desert sheikh whose role is to work for his country,’ she said boldly. ‘It is not necessary for you to love poetry.’