Читать книгу Sleeping with the Sultan - ALEXANDRA SELLERS - Страница 10

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.”

Dana and Sheikh Ashraf had chatted more amiably for a few minutes, and then, mercifully, the conversation had opened up and become general around the table. Now the meal, delicious by any standards and stupendous compared to the food served at most other charity functions she had attended, was finished. Coffee and liqueurs had been served.

Now it was down to business.

“We have a wonderful evening lined up for you tonight….”

Dana absently sipped her Turkish coffee and let the voice of the master of ceremonies wash over her. The organizer was introduced, an earnest, small man talking about the drought and the famine it had caused. And, knowing his audience, making much of President Ghasib’s deliberate mismanagement of Bagestan’s agriculture and his habit of pocketing charity funds.

“But we have negotiated with Ghasib’s government to put our own representatives on the ground in Bagestan, and management of the funds raised tonight will never leave our control until it is safe in the hands of those who need it most….”

“I wonder if that’s true,” Dana murmured.

“Very difficult to manage, I should have thought,” Sir John Cross agreed in a low voice. “However, what else can one do? I think we must assume that some of the money gets through to those who actually need it.”

“And while we may hope and believe that we’re getting closer by the day to the moment when Ghasib’s government will be history, our priority toni—”

The audience interrupted him with applause. Dana shook her head and glanced towards Sheikh Ashraf. He was looking very sober, leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed. He was not applauding.

He turned his head and caught her eye with a dark, level gaze that seemed to probe and assess, and made her heart pound, but what he had gleaned from the examination, she couldn’t guess.

The organizer wisely kept it short and then the real star of the evening took the mike. Roddy Evans was a well-known and popular comedian, always in demand for events like this because of his ability to put people into a generous, good-natured mood and then get bundles of money out of them. Dana had always liked him.

“All right, I want every table to elect a captain, please!” he said, when his warm-up had reduced everyone to cheers, laughter and applause. “Just choose one person who’ll keep the rest of you in line this evening and take money from your wallets when instructed to do so….”

“I think it better be Dana!” someone announced. “If it comes to delivering money to the stage, she’s the one they’ll all want to see,” and the rest of the table quickly agreed.

“Sheikh Durran looks like a much better bet,” Dana protested, more out of curiosity to see how he would react than anything else. “He’s at least big enough to make any threat stick.”

“But one catches more flies with honey,” he said smoothly, waving a hand, and they all laughed and agreed.

Dana gave in with a threat.

“You’ll be sorry. Be afraid, be very afraid. I will soak you.”

Being captain turned out to be a not very onerous duty. At intervals throughout the evening, on instruction, Dana had to get a five-or ten-pound note from each of the people seated at her table and pass the money on to one of the roving hostesses. Most people were familiar with the format and had come with a supply of folding money as well as their chequebooks. In the meantime there was plenty of nonsense to keep people laughing and donating.

After a while came what most of the paying guests considered the high point—the auction. Tonight there were some real prizes. Top of the list was an all-expense-paid first-class two-week holiday at the Hotel Sheikh Daud in West Barakat, sponsored by Prince Karim.

But that would come near the end, as would the brand-new Subaru donated by Ahmed Bashir Motors. Before that there was some very exciting and somewhat drink-inspired bidding for weekends at country hotels, meals in restaurants, books, celebrity memorabilia, theatre tickets—whatever the organizers had been able to screw out of donors. The organizers here had clearly been top rank, and there was a stream of the kind of prizes that were often the top prize at lesser events.

Sprinkled among them were half a dozen “personal appearance” donations. Certain celebrities had agreed to spend an evening at a restaurant with whoever bid the highest for the honour. In the ruthless way of the entertainment industry, these prizes, like the others, were graded according to ascending value through the evening, because of the excitement the increasing amounts of money generated from the guests.

It was always interesting, and often salutary for those concerned, to see which celebrities were expected to bring in only a low bid, and which were saved to the end—with the other best prizes. The celebrities usually hated the whole process.

Most of such celebrities were women, and tonight all were, which Dana supposed was a comment on the way society was still run. She was always asked to participate in such an auction, and sometimes did, though always disliking it. If a man got you for too little, he treated you with contempt. If he paid a lot, often he thought he should be able to expect a little more than your face over the dinner table. Or, worst of all, he invited a whole horde of his friends along and expected you to act as his hostess for the evening.

But good charity organizers were ruthless, and this one had been prime, and Dana had given in.

Her name hadn’t been called yet. This was making her nervous, because although the early names didn’t usually get up in front of the crowd during the auction, the later names were often asked to do so. This let you in for even more potential humiliation if your drawing power wasn’t as strong as the organizers had assumed.

Jenny’s name had come up early. She stayed in her seat, but she had got a very respectable two thousand pounds from a real estate agent whose company name was called out at least eight times during the prolonged bidding by the savvy Roddy. Dana had expected to be the next celebrity auctioned after an interval of theatre tickets and a year’s membership to a top gym, but she wasn’t.

Nor was she the next, nor the next.

She began to feel really uncomfortable. She was not a movie star, after all; they were the ones who pulled in the really big sums. She was a mere soap star with only a couple of film credits, and if she went up after high bids and scored much less than the previous celeb, it would be embarrassing.

Next up was a gorgeous, big-breasted but brain-dead television presenter, who was called up onstage for the auction and who, after a long and well-hyped bidding war between a Harley Street cosmetic surgeon and a new car dealer, pulled nearly five thousand pounds. It was a figure which impressed the whole room.

A set of golf clubs came next, but it was clear all the real emotional heat this time had become focussed on the human portion of the auction. A very well-known middle-aged movie actress who had been included in last year’s Honours List and was now a Dame raised just over six thousand pounds. Dana started to feel very uncomfortable. Why had this woman been listed before her? It was ridiculous. Dana didn’t have anything like her pulling power.

Maybe Dana’s name had just been forgotten by the organizer. She certainly hoped so.

“It’s a bit like a slave auction,” the journalist across the table observed dispassionately, making Dana cringe even more. “I wonder why they do it?”

“Because we are made to feel, by whoever is pressuring us, that it is a small thing to ask and everyone else has agreed and we are selfish and smug if we refuse,” Dana said clearly.

And just then Roddy cried, “…a dinner date at the fabulous Riverfront Restaurant with our very own favourite bitch, Reena! Otherwise known as Brick Lane star Dana Morningstar! And she’s here tonight, ladies and gentlemen, so will you come up here, Reena, I mean, Dana, and let the folks take a look at the merchandise?”

Dana lifted her eyebrows at the journalist as one of the ever-present assistants dashed in to hold her chair and escort her to the stage amid an enthusiastic round of applause and cheers.

She smiled and twinkled her fingers as she stepped up under the lights, and wondered whether her dress was opaque or transparent at the moment.

“…and together you’ll dine on caviar, lobster and champagne provided by the fabulous Riverfront Restaurant, which as you all know is one of London’s most fabulous eateries! It’s moored right on the Thames, and you’ll be driven home afterwards in a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce provided by Launcelot Limos!

“So now, what am I bid for a delightful evening in Dana Morningstar’s company? You might even learn from her the secret of Reena’s demise before it’s broadcast! Do I hear five hundred, ladies and gentlemen?”

“Five hundred!”

“Oooh, quick off the mark there, Harold. That’s Harold McIntosh, ladies and gentlemen, not short of a bob or two when you run a Mayfair car dealership, now, are you? Five hundred, do I hear—”

“One thousand!”

“Ah, ha! Well, this promises to be a very exciting auction, ladies and gentlemen, not reticent at all, are we? That’s a thousand bid from—”

“Ten thousand pounds.”

It wasn’t a shout, but somehow the voice cut through the chatter and was heard by everyone. There was a collective gasp all over the room. Not only because of the enormous leap in the bidding, but because of the quality of the voice. Firm, assured, brooking no interference. And not at all the worse for drink.

Sheikh Ashraf Durrani’s voice.

Dana felt her cheeks flame. She bit her lip. She had never had to work so hard to force a smile in her life, but she managed it. She even managed to fake a little wide-eyed, excited grimace.

“Ten thousand pounds, ladies and gentlemen! Well, now we’re getting serious. And who is going to take that higher, I wonder? Jeremy, accountant to the stars, you’re in this league, do I hear a raise on ten thousand for an evening with Dana Gorgeous Morningstar? What about you, George—”

“Ten thousand one hundred!” cried a slightly inebriated voice.

“Ah ha! We’re really cooking with—”

“Fifteen thousand pounds.”

It was the sheikh again, speaking as flatly as if he were giving an underling an order. The skin on Dana’s body shivered into goose bumps. He was making it so obvious.

“Well, well, Sheikh Durran! I see you’re pretty determined to get what you want. Do I hear any bids over fifteen thousand?” cried Roddy, just a little nonplussed, because it suddenly was difficult to inject the humour and good-natured ribaldry he was such at expert at into the proceedings. The room was filled with an excited buzz. Dana, standing in a bright spot, just kept smiling.

It was a struggle. What on earth did the man think he was doing? To be the highest bidder was one thing. To carry on like this meant everyone would be talking! They’d be the subject of endless speculation, and the story would probably make it into the tabloids. They’d never get any peace if they appeared in public.

And yet part of her couldn’t resist the lure of being thought so attractive. Fifteen thousand pounds in a couple of minutes! And such a powerful, influential man! It was like a fairy tale.

She saw Jenny and the others at the Brick Lane table gazing at her in blank, slightly reproachful astonishment, as if a secret part of her life had been revealed and they felt they should have known about it.

“…and gone! To Sheikh Ashraf Durran. I’m told you’re one of Prince Omar of Central Barakat’s most trusted advisors, Sheikh Durran, and I’m sure he’ll agree you’ve shown excellent judgement tonight!”

The applause was thunderous as Dana was escorted back to her seat, a follow spot on her all the way.

“Whew!” exclaimed Roddy, wiping the not-so-imaginary sweat from his brow. “Ladies and gentlemen, what can we do to beat that? You’ll have to work hard and bid high! And that won’t be too difficult for our next prize—Prince Karim of West Barakat himself has actually donated this one, ladies and gentlemen. It’s the one you’ve all been waiting for—well, except for a certain fairly obvious exception, who’s already snaffled his prize! Here it is, a two-week holiday for two in the fabulous…”

“What on earth did you do that for?” Dana hissed, as she sank into her chair. Everyone at the table was gazing at them in slightly stunned speculation. They must now believe one of two things—that Dana and the handsome sheikh already had a relationship, or that the sheikh was smitten and they were about to have one.

Nothing she could say was going to convince anyone otherwise, she was sure, but the moment she looked into his eyes she realized that it wasn’t true. Whatever his reasons were, she knew damned well that Sheikh Ashraf Durran was anything but smitten with her. The expression in his eyes was anything but sexual interest.

A little seed of anger was born then.

He shrugged, and his next words confirmed her suspicions. “Why not? That is what we are here for, to raise money.”

Inarguable. “Well, after a display like that, I will not go out with you!” she retorted childishly, in a low voice meant for his ears alone. “We’d have every paparazzo in the city following us!”

He lifted his hands in a gesture that said it mattered not a jot whether she did or did not. “Things are rarely what they promise to be. Buyer Beware I am sure is the first rule at such auctions.”

She could not get lighthearted about it. “You have not bought me.”

He looked at her. “No? But you were for sale, were you not? Or should we say for rent?”

That made her grit her teeth. “I’ll speak to the organizer, and you won’t have to—”

He lifted a hand, cutting her off. “Don’t trouble, Miss Morningstar. I will not in any case be in the country beyond tomorrow. Take a friend and enjoy the lobster and the limousine without me.”

This made her even angrier, though she could dimly see that it shouldn’t. She should have smiled graciously and said how generous he was and how the starving children in the Qermez Desert at least would benefit and that was what mattered. But she couldn’t get the words past her teeth.

Maybe because she was gritting them.

“More coffee, Miss Morningstar?”

She was grateful for the excuse to turn her head. She nodded, and the waiter poured more sweet black sludge into her little cup. There was a plate of sugary Turkish delight which she had previously avoided, but now her irritation drove her to pick up a little cube. She bit it irritably in half. It was an unreal bright pink.

Meanwhile the holiday in Barakat was going for at least as much as it was probably worth.

She really couldn’t have said why she was so irritated with him. To throw fifteen thousand pounds away like that—well, of course at first she had imagined it was because he was interested. And of course that had piqued her own interest. But why should she care if all he was interested in was making a show of his wealth while passing on money to charity?

The auction was over, but the wine was still flowing and there were more high jinks in store. People joined in with delight.

Not Dana. And not the stone-cold-sober Sheikh Ashraf. They stood up and sat down as instructed, and put their hands on their heads or their bums, and paraded around. But she noticed that when he turned out to be one of the group of men instructed to drop their trousers to their ankles and shuffle up onto the dance floor, he did not comply, and no one at the table even thought of challenging him on his dereliction.

But everybody else was having a marvellous time with all the nonsense, and the money was rolling in.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, a little earlier in the evening, you were all handed out cards asking how much you would donate to Bagestan Drought Relief for the fun of a kiss. Yes? You were given the names of our six magic couples tonight—the men who bid for an evening with our lovely actress volunteers—and you voted for the couple you would most like to see kiss.”

Dana felt a prickling of her skin, like a warning of doom. She flicked a glance at Sheikh Durran, and saw his mouth tighten. He knew, too. And was looking forward to it as much as she was.

“Now, while we’ve all been having such a fabulous good time, volunteers have been adding up all the votes and tallying them.”

She had agreed to it—of course they wouldn’t pull a thing like this without getting all the actresses’ permission first. But she had agreed with a shrug, thinking it would be just one more thing. A one-in-six chance of having to kiss some smitten stranger in public—how bad could it be? No worse than the auction itself.

But it was going to be a whole lot worse.

“And ladies and gentlemen, at the risk of shattering some delicate egos, I can tell you, it was no contest. The pair you most want to see giving each other a kiss, ladies and gentlemen, is Dana Morningstar and Sheikh Ashraf Durran!”

The bright light of the follow spot fell on them. Sheikh Ashraf was sitting like a statue. Dana realized suddenly that he of course had not been consulted. For the sheikh this was coming totally out of left field.

And he liked it even less than she did. She knew that by his face. Sheikh Ashraf Durran looked like nothing so much as the masks of Hawk her Ojibwa grandfather carved.

But this was a pressure even the coldly disapproving sheikh would not be able to resist.