* * *
Joanna glanced at her watch as she stepped from her taxi. Eight o’clock. Her timing was perfect. She put her hands to her hair, checking to see if the pair of glittery combs were still holding the burnished auburn mass back from her face, then smoothed down the skirt of her short emerald silk dress. She’d hesitated, torn between a Chanel suit and this, the one cocktail dress she’d brought with her, deciding on the dress because she thought the suit might make her look too severe, that it would be enough of a shock for the minister to find himself dealing with a woman without her looking like that kind of woman.
The doorman was watching her enquiringly and she took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and walked briskly towards him. She was nervous but who wouldn’t be? Everything she wanted—her father’s approval, the vice-presidency at Bennettco—hung on the next couple of hours.
‘Masa el-kheyr, madam.’
Joanna nodded. ‘Good evening,’ she said, and stepped through the door.
Soft, sybaritic darkness engulfed her, broken only by the palest glow of carefully recessed overhead lighting and flickering candlelight. Music played faintly in the background, something involving flutes and chimes that sounded more like the sigh of wind through the trees than anything recognisable to her Western ear.
‘Masa el-kheyr, madam. Are you joining someone?’
The head waiter’s smile was gracious but she wondered if he would continue smiling if she were to say no, she wasn’t joining anyone, she wanted a table to herself.
‘Madam?’
Joanna gave herself a little shake. The last thing she needed was to get herself into an antagonistic mood.
‘Yes,’ she said pleasantly. ‘My name is Bennett. I believe there’s a reservation in my name.’
Was it her imagination, or did the man’s eyebrows lift? But he smiled again, inclined his head, and motioned her to follow him. There was an arched doorway ahead, separated from the main room by a gently swaying beaded curtain. When they reached it, he drew the curtain aside and made a little bow.
‘The reservation request was for as private a table as possible,’ he said.
Joanna nodded as she stepped past him. A private alcove. That would be better. At least, she and Hassan wouldn’t have to deal with—
A man was rising to his feet from the banquette. Joanna’s eyes widened. He was thirty, perhaps, or thirty-five, tall, with a lithe body and broad shoulders contained within a finely tailored English suit. Her gaze flew to his face. His eyes were shockingly blue against his tanned skin. His nose was straight, his mouth full and sensuous. And he was smiling.
Joanna’s heart gave an unaccustomed thump. Lord, he was gorgeous!
She smiled back, flustered, then turned quickly to the head waiter.
‘I’m terribly sorry, but there must be an error.’
‘Yes.’ The man had spoken, and she looked back at him. His smile had grown, tilting a little with intimacy and promise. ‘I’m afraid the lady is right.’ His voice was soft, smoky, and lightly tinged with an indefinable accent. ‘If I were not expecting a gentleman to join me—’
The head waiter cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me, sir. I believe you said you were waiting for a Mr Joseph Bennett.’
‘Yes, that’s right. I am.’
‘Then there’s been no error, sir. This is the gentleman—uh, the lady—you were waiting for.’
Joanna’s eyes flew to the man’s face. They stared at each other in silence. This was Hassan, Minister to Prince Khalil? Oh God, she thought, as she saw his expression go rapidly from surprise to disbelief to fury, and she stepped quickly forward and shot out her hand.
‘Mr Hassan,’ she said with a big, determinedly cheerful smile, ‘what a pleasure to meet you. I’m Jo Bennett.’
He looked at her hand as if it were contaminated, then at her.
‘If this is an example of Western humour,’ he said coldly, ‘I should warn you that I am not amused.’
Joanna swallowed, dropped her hand to her side, and fought against the desire to wipe the suddenly damp palm against her skirt.
‘It’s not a joke, no, sir.’
Sir? Sir? What was going on here? Was she really going to permit this—this arrogant minister to a greedy despot to reduce her to a deferential schoolgirl? It was one thing to be nervous, but it was quite another to let the balance of power be stripped from her without so much as a whisper. Whether Mr Hassan liked it or not, they were here on equal footing. The sooner she reminded him of that, the better.
Joanna lifted her chin and forced a cool smile to her lips.
‘I am Joanna Bennett,’ she said calmly. ‘And I can understand that you might be a bit surprised, but—’
‘Where is Sam Bennett’s son?’
‘I’m his son.’ Joanna shook her head. ‘I mean, he has no son, Mr Hassan. I am—’
‘You are his daughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are Joe Bennett?’
‘Joanna Bennett. That’s right. And—’
He swung towards the head waiter. ‘Bring me the bill,’ he snapped. ‘For my apéritif, and for whatever the restaurant will lose on this table for the evening.’ He snatched a liqueur glass from the table, drained its contents, slammed it down, and made a mocking bow to Joanna. ‘Goodnight, Miss Bennett.’
Open-mouthed, she stared after him as he strode towards the beaded curtain, still swaying delicately from the waiter’s exit, and then, at the last second, she stepped out and blocked his path.
‘Just a minute, Mr Hassan!’
‘Step aside, please.’
It was the ‘please’ that was the final straw. The word was not offered politely, but was, instead, tossed negligently at the floor, as one might toss a bone to a dog. Joanna drew herself up.
‘And what will you tell Prince Khalil, Mr Hassan?’ Joanna slapped her hands on her hips. ‘That because you were narrow-minded, old-fashioned, petty and stupid—’
The dark blue eyes narrowed. ‘I advise you to watch your tongue.’
‘And I advise you to use your head,’ Joanna said sharply. ‘Prince Khalil sent you here to meet with me.’
‘I came here to meet with Sam Bennett’s son.’
‘You came to meet with his emissary, and that is precisely what I am!’
A muscle knotted in his cheek. ‘Whose idea was this subterfuge? Ellington’s? Or was it your father’s?’
‘There was no subterfuge meant, Mr Hassan.’
His smile was swift and chill. ‘What term would you prefer? Deception? Trickery? Perhaps “fraud” has a finer ring.’
‘At the worst, it’s just a misunderstanding.’
&nb
sp; He rocked back on his heels and folded his arms over his chest. ‘Please, Miss Bennett, don’t insult me with games of semantics.’
‘I’m simply trying to explain why—’
‘What sort of misunderstanding could possibly have led to your thinking I would even consider discussing your father’s greedy plans for my country with you?’
His disdain, his contemptuous words, were like a bucket of iced water. Joanna met his harsh gaze with unflinching directness.
‘Wrong on all counts, Mr Hassan. For starters, I did not wish to discuss anything with you. It was Prince Khalil I wished to meet this evening, remember? As for greed—it is not my father who’s standing in the way of progress and betterment for the people of Jandara, it’s your high and mighty ruler.’
Hassan’s brows lifted. ‘An interesting description of the Prince, Miss Bennett. Clearly, your father didn’t send you on this errand because of your subtlety.’
Joanna knew he was right. Her words had been thoughtlessly spoken but to back down now would be a mistake.
‘He sent me because I have his trust and confidence,’ she said. ‘And if my honesty offends you, I can only tell you that I see little value in not being as direct as possible.’
An unpleasant smile curled across his mouth. ‘How readily you use the word “honesty”—and yet here you stand, having lied your way into my presence.’
‘I did no such thing! I am who I said I was, Jo Bennett, the vice-president at Bennettco.’
‘And we both know that if you had identified yourself properly, this meeting would not have taken place.’
‘Exactly.’ Joanna smiled thinly. ‘I’m glad you admit it so readily. You and the Prince would have turned your noses up at the very idea of discussing business with a woman.’
‘Typical Western nonsense,’ he sneered. ‘A woman, taking a man’s name, trying to pretend she can do a man’s job.’
‘I haven’t taken anything,’ Joanna said coldly. ‘”Jo” is short for Joanna. As for a woman trying to pretend she can do a man’s job—I don’t know how to break this to you, but women don’t have to “pretend” such things any more, Mr Hassan. In my country—’