CHAPTER TEN

KHALIM stayed with her for most of the night, but slipped out as dawn began to paint a pink and golden light on the horizon.

He swiftly dressed, then bent his head to kiss her, his lips lingering regretfully on her pouting mouth. ‘The plane leaves at midday,’ he murmured. ‘Be ready to leave at ten.’

‘Mmm?’ she questioned groggily.

It had been the night of her life. His love-making had known no boundaries—nor hers, either. She’d given herself to him without inhibition. But with love, she realised with a sinking heart as she acknowledged the emotion which had first crept and then exploded deep inside her.

She loved him.

The realisation gave her no real pleasure—for what pleasure could ever be gained from a love which was doomed right from the start? But she had taken him on her terms, and she did want him, and because of that she pinned a sleepy smile onto her face.

‘Mmm?’ she questioned again, stalling for time, time to be able to react in the way expected of her, and not with the gnawing feeling of insecurity which had started to overwhelm her every time she thought about losing him.

‘Be ready by ten,’ he instructed softly, wishing that he could lie with her here until the morning sun filtered its way in precious golden shafts through the shutters.

She nodded and watched him go, all elegance and grace as he swished out of the room in the silken robes.

She ate the fruit and bread which Fatima brought to her room for breakfast and was ready by nine when there was a knock on the door and she opened it to find Khalim standing there, changed from his robes into one of his impeccably cut suits, ready for the flight back to London, and with an unusual expression on his face.

He looked perplexed.

‘What is it?’ she asked him quickly.

He shrugged. ‘My father has requested that he meet you.’

Rose opened the door a little wider. ‘You sound surprised.’

He was. Exceedingly. It was inconceivable—to his mind, in any case—that his father should express a wish to meet his Western blonde. B

ut he would not tell Rose that.

‘He is so frail,’ he told her truthfully, ‘that he sees few visitors.’

Except for prospective brides, thought Rose bitterly—bet he sees loads of those. ‘Then I must be honoured,’ she answered.

He nodded absently, his mind far away. ‘I will arrange to have your bags taken out to the car,’ he said. ‘Now, come with me.’

She thought how distracted he seemed as he led her through the maze of marble corridors into a much larger and grander part of the palace. Past silent figures who watched them with black eyes which were unreadable, until at last an elaborately ornate door was flung open and they were ushered into a bedchamber.

At the far end of the room was a large and lavishly decorated bed, and, lying on it, a man whose unmoving rigidity proclaimed the severity of his illness.

‘Come,’ said Khalim softly.

By his father’s bed sat his mother, her face troubled, and she nodded briefly at Khalim and then, not quite so briefly, at Rose.

‘Father,’ said Khalim. ‘This is Rose Thomas.’

In a face worn thin by illness, only the eyes remained living and alert. Keen, black eyes, just like his son’s. He gave a small smile and Rose was overwhelmed by the graciousness of that smile.

‘So,’ he said slowly. ‘I believe that I must thank you for confirming Khalim’s chosen successor for the oil refinery.’ Another smile, this time rather more rueful. ‘An opinion which differed from my own. And therefore Khalim said that we must bring in an independent arbitrator to decide.’

Rose looked up at Khalim in surprise, and met a mocking glance in return.

‘Thank you. It is a great honour to meet you, sir,’ she said quietly, and bowed her head.

The old man nodded and said something very rapid to Khalim, in Marabanese, and then Khalim tapped her arm. ‘Come, Rose,’ he said. ‘Will you wait in the outer chamber while I bid my father farewell?’

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