Читать книгу The Santina Crown Collection - Кейт Хьюит, Пенни Джордан - Страница 27

WOULD this damned party never end?

In the softly lit anteroom of his friend’s palace, Sheikh Hassan Al Abbas let out an irritated breath and turned to the man standing a few deferential paces away from him.

‘Do you think there’s any chance I could just slip away and leave them to get on with it, Benedict?’ he demanded, knowing only too well how his loyal English aide would respond.

There was a pause. ‘Your absence would almost certainly be noticed, Your Highness,’ answered Benedict carefully. ‘Since you are one of the most esteemed guests present. And furthermore it would offend your oldest friend if he knew that you could not be bothered to stay to wish him happiness on the night of his engagement.’

Hassan’s fists clenched against the unaccustomed lounge suit which clothed his hard body, hating the strictures of collar and tie. He wished he was wearing soft and silken robes against his naked skin. That he was galloping free on his horse, with the warm desert wind blowing against his face. ‘And what if I believed deep in my heart that such a wish would not only be futile but hypocritical?’ he iced back. ‘That I think Alex is about to make the biggest mistake of his life?’

‘It is often difficult for two men to see eye to eye when it comes to the subject of women,’ answered Benedict diplomatically. ‘Particularly regarding the subject of marriage.’

‘It’s not just his choice of fiancée I don’t agree with!’ Hassan said, unable to contain the frustration which had been growing inside him since his oldest friend, Prince Alessandro Santina, had announced that he was to marry Allegra Jackson. ‘Though that is bad enough. Even worse is that he has abandoned the woman to whom he has been betrothed since he was born! A woman of noble birth, who would make a far more suitable bride.’

‘Perhaps his love is too strong to be—’

‘Love?’ interrupted Hassan, and now he could feel the bitter lump which had risen in his throat like a ball of nails. A brief yet undeniable pain clenched at his heart. For didn’t he know better than anyone that ‘love’ was nothing but an illusion which could wreck lives with its seductive power?

‘Love is nothing more than a fancy name for lust,’ he bit out. ‘And a ruler cannot allow himself to be guided by the stir of his loins or the beat of his heart. He must put duty before desire.’

‘Yes, Highness,’ said Benedict obediently.

Hassan shook his head in disbelief, still unwilling to accept that his high-born friend had let his standards dip so low. ‘Did you realise that Alex’s future father-in-law is some grubby ex-footballer with a long list of wives and mistresses he has been publicly unfaithful to?’

‘I had heard something along those lines, Highness.’

‘I cannot believe that he is willing to marry into such a disreputable family as these Jacksons! Did you see the way they were behaving at the ball? It turned my stomach to watch them quaffing champagne as if it was water and making fools of themselves on the dance floor.’

‘Highness—’

‘This woman Allegra cannot possibly become the wife of a Crown Prince!’ Angrily, Hassan slammed the flat of his hand against an adjacent table and its delicate frame juddered beneath the contemptuous force. ‘She is a tramp—just like her mother and her sisters! Did you witness the spectacle which brought me seeking refuge in here, when the sister with the voice of a crow stormed the stage and attempted to sing?’

‘Yes, Highness, I saw her,’ said Benedict softly. ‘But the Crown Prince has made up his mind that he will marry Miss Jackson, and I doubt whether even you will be able to change it. And should you not now return to the ballroom before your absence is commented upon?’

But Hassan was not listening—at least, not to his aide. He raised a hand for silence, his ears straining for the whispering of a sound. His body tensed. Had he heard something? Someone? Or had the recent harsh months spent in battle meant that he suspected danger lurking everywhere? Yet he could have sworn that the room had been empty when he’d come searching for an escape.

‘Did you hear something?’ he questioned as he felt the instinctive pricking of his skin.

‘No, Highness. I heard nothing.’

There was a brief silence before Hassan nodded, feeling some of the tension ease from his body as he allowed himself to be reassured by his aide. This might be the worst party in living memory, but at least security was tight. ‘Then let us return to this mockery of a reception. Let me see whether I can find anyone tolerably attractive enough to dance with.’ He gave a sardonic laugh. ‘A woman who is the very antithesis of Allegra Jackson and her vulgar family!’

With this, the two men swept from the softly lit room, while from her hiding place behind a carved chest in a corner of the vast chamber, Ella Jackson wished that she could open her mouth and scream with rage and frustration.

How dare he?

Waiting for a few moments to check that he really had gone, she stretched limbs which were cramped from sitting still for so long. Greedily, she sucked great gulps of air into her lungs because she’d had to keep holding her breath in case she was discovered. For a moment back then, she’d been sure he was going to find her. And something told her that she was lucky not to have been discovered by that arrogant beast of a man who had been so insulting—not just to Allegra and Izzy, but to the entire Jackson family.

The other man had called him ‘Highness’—and judging from the way he’d been calling all the shots, he had certainly sounded royal. His voice had been deep and faintly accented—not the kind of voice you heard every day. It had also sounded bossy and proud. Could that have been the powerful sheikh everyone had been banging on about? The groom-to-be’s oldest friend, who had been expected at tonight’s party and anticipated with the same kind of breathless excitement which might have greeted a movie star?

Uncomfortably, Ella rose to her feet. The beads of her elaborate dress were pressing painfully into her skin and her wild tangle of curls was desperately in need of a session with the hairbrush. She would have to do something drastic to repair her appearance before she thought about returning to the general scrum which was her sister Allegra’s engagement party to the Crown Prince of the Santina royal family. Even though she would have happily given a month’s salary not to have gone back into that ballroom.

Wasn’t it ironic that she had slipped away from the party for precisely the same reason as the sheikh? The moment her sister Izzy had staggered onto the stage to sing, Ella’s heart had hit her boots and she’d wanted to curl up and die. She loved Izzy. She did—but why did she have such a penchant for making a complete fool of herself? Why sing in public when you had absolutely zero talent?

Ella had slunk into this darkened anteroom and instinct had made her crouch down behind the concealing bulk of the chest when she’d heard the sound of approaching footsteps. There had been the sound of the door quietly clicking shut and then someone uttering a short, terse expletive. And that’s when she had heard the damning words of the accented man as he had torn her family to shreds.

Yet hadn’t he only been speaking the truth? Her father did have a long list of women he’d been intimate with. He had two ex-wives at the last count, and one of those he’d married twice. Plus all the mistresses on the side—some of whom were reported in the newspapers and some whom he’d managed to hush up.

Hadn’t her own mother’s life been blighted by her hopeless longing for a man who seemed to be incapable of any kind of fidelity? Her sweet, foolish mother, who’d never been able to see any fault in her errant husband, which was why she had been his bride twice over. And why she let him treat her like a complete doormat.

If ever Ella had needed to know how not to conduct a relationship, she’d never needed to look any further than the example set by her own parents. And hadn’t she vowed that she would never, ever let a man make a fool of her like that?

She reached down and picked up her handbag, extracting the wide-toothed comb which was the only implement which could ever come close to taming her soft but wayward curls. Dare she risk putting a brighter light on in here?

Why not? The outrageously opinionated sheikh didn’t sound as if he was in any danger of coming back. He was probably subjecting some ‘tolerably attractive’ woman to a dance. Poor her, Ella thought with a genuine trace of sympathy. Imagine dancing with someone who had an ego as big as his—why there would be barely any room left on the dance floor!

She clicked on a light which illuminated the regal splendour of the vast antechamber and hunted around until she found a mirror recessed in one of the alcoves. Stepping back, she surveyed herself with critical eyes.

Her silver-beaded dress was a little on the short side but it was extremely fashionable—and such a look was essential in Ella’s line of work. Her rather flashy clients expected her to reflect their values, to make a statement and not fade quietly into the background. As a party planner catering to the nouveau-riche end of the market, Ella had decided to cash in on her family’s notoriety by working for the kind of people who had plenty of money, but very little in the way of generally accepted ‘taste.’

She’d quickly learnt the rules. But then, she was a quick learner—it came with the territory of being a survivor, of having lived with scandal and notoriety for most of her life. If a glamour-model bride wanted to arrive at her wedding in a dazzling diamante coach, she expected the woman organising the event to dazzle in a similar way. So dazzle Ella did. She’d got that down to a fine art. With her trademark slash of scarlet lipstick accentuating her wide mouth, she wore the on-trend clothes which so impressed her clients. She turned heads when she needed to.

But all that was for show. She kept the real Ella locked away where no one could find her. Or hurt her. Underneath the dazzling exterior, when she was dressed down and chilled out at home, it was a different story. There she could be the person her family had always teased her for being. Bare of makeup, wearing old jeans and a T-shirt—sometimes with paint underneath her fingernails. She wished she was there right now, instead of having to endure the longest evening of her life. A night she would never have believed could happen.

A member of her family was marrying into one of the Mediterranean’s oldest and most revered royal families—and the knives were out. Hadn’t she just heard for herself, via the arrogant sheikh, how the entire Jackson clan were being judged and found wanting? Weren’t the sly eyes of various members of the press watching every move they made, to report with glee how ill-equipped the Jacksons were to mix with the aristocracy?

Well, Ella would show them. She would show them all. Their cruel comments wouldn’t get to her because she wouldn’t let them. She bit her lip, for once feeling vulnerable about the charges which were always levelled at her and her siblings. She worked hard for her living—she always had done—and yet her Jackson surname made people pigeonhole her. They thought she just lay around all day, drinking champagne and generally whooping it up, and yet nothing could be further from the truth.

Raking the comb through her red-brown curls, she checked for any stray smudges of mascara and then applied a final, defiant coat of scarlet lipstick.

There.

Her dangling earrings were swaying in a sparkling cascade and even her blue eyeshadow had bits of glitter in it. Her shiny armour was firmly in place and she was ready to face the braying masses. Let anyone dare try to patronise her!

The sound of music and chatter grew louder as she clattered along the marble corridor in her new shoes. In glossy black patent, with towering silver heels which were wonderfully flattering to the legs, they were a fashionista’s dream and an orthopaedic surgeon’s nightmare. But they made her walk tall and stand straight and tonight she needed that more than anything.

The ballroom was crowded and noisy and Ella’s eyes skimmed the dance floor. The place was packed. Royals mingled with minor television stars, and one-time Premier League footballers who’d worked with her dad were propping up the bar. She could see various members of her family partying away with enthusiasm. Rather too much enthusiasm. Her father was downing a flute of champagne, her mother hovering nearby with an ever-hopeful smile on her face. Which meant that she was worried he was going to get drunk. Or make a pass at someone young enough to be his daughter.

Please don’t let him get drunk, thought Ella. And please don’t let him make a pass at someone else’s girlfriend. Or wife.

There was her sister Izzy dancing, grinding her hips in a way which made Ella turn away with embarrassment. Knowing there was no point in trying to reason with her wayward sibling, she redirected her gaze to the dance floor. Her heart suddenly beginning to pound as her eyes came to rest on a man whose exotic looks marked him out from everyone else.

She blinked. In a room which wasn’t exactly short on the glamour quotient, he drew the eye irresistibly. And yet he looked totally out of place among the glittering throng and she couldn’t quite work out why. It wasn’t just that he was taller than any other man there or that his muscular body was all hard, honed muscle. He looked hungry. Like he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in months. Ella’s gaze roved over his face. A cruel face, she thought with a sudden shiver. His black eyes seemed devoid of emotion and his sensual mouth was curved into a cynical smile as he listened to his blonde dance partner as she lifted her chin to chatter to him.

Ella’s heart missed a beat. It was him. Instinct told her so. The man who had been so unspeakably rude about her family when she’d been hiding in the anteroom. The man she had silently cursed as being arrogant and judgemental. And yet now that she’d seen him, she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from him.

His olive skin gleamed, as if he’d been cast from some precious metal, instead of flesh and blood. She watched as a beautiful redhead brushed past him, saw the way he automatically glanced at her bursting décolletage without missing a beat.

He was danger and sexuality mixed into one potent masculine cocktail—the kind of man most people’s mothers would warn you to steer clear of. Ella felt a debilitating kick in her belly, as something deep inside her responded to him. As if on some instinctive level, she had discovered something she hadn’t even realised she’d been looking for.

He raised his head then and she saw the way he stilled. The way his black eyes narrowed as he moved his gaze around the ballroom until at last it came to alight on her.

Like a hunter, she thought.

Ella felt as if she had been caught in a dark yet blinding spotlight. She could feel herself flush—a slow heat which started at the top of her head and seemed to work its way right down to her toes. Had he known she’d been staring at him? Look away, she urged herself furiously. Look away from him right now. But she couldn’t. It was as if he had cast some powerful spell over her which was making it impossible for her to tear her gaze away.

From across the dance floor, his black eyes grew slightly amused as their overlong eye contact was maintained. A pair of ebony brows were raised at her in arrogant question, and when still she did not move, he bent to whisper something into the blonde’s ear.

Ella was aware of the woman turning and glaring at her and of the man with the black eyes beginning to walk towards her. Run, she urged herself. Get away from here before it’s too late.

But she didn’t run. She couldn’t. It was as if she’d been turned into a tree and was rooted to the spot. Now he was almost upon her, and his physical presence was so overwhelming that she felt the breath dry in her throat. His shadow moved over her as he approached, enveloping her—and suddenly it was as if every other person in the crowded ballroom had ceased to exist.

There was a pause while he let his eyes rove unashamedly over her face and then her body, just as he’d done when the big-breasted redhead had passed him by.

‘Have we met somewhere before?’ he questioned.

Ella didn’t have to hear his deep, accented voice to know that she had been right. It was him. The opinionated man who’d been so rude about her family. She’d already decided that he was proud and arrogant, but she hadn’t expected this level of charisma. Nor for him to have such an overwhelming effect on her that she could barely think straight. And she needed to think straight. Now was not the time to demonstrate that her tingling body seemed to have taken on a greedy life of its own. All she needed was to remember his unforgettable insults.

‘Not until now,’ she said, injecting a noncommittal note into her voice and hoping it sounded convincing.

Hassan’s eyes flicked over her, interested at the play of emotions on the Madonna-like oval of her face. She had been staring at him as if she’d like to rip his clothes off with her teeth! Not an uncommon reaction from a woman, it was true—and she was pretty enough for him to have given the idea a moment’s consideration. But her initial hungry look had been replaced by one of wariness and suspicion. He felt the faint prickle of hostility emanating from her, and that was novel enough to arouse his interest.

‘Are you sure about that?’ he murmured.

She thought how incredibly well he spoke English, despite the sexily accented voice. It seemed to whisper over her skin with its velvet caress, and inexplicably she started wondering what it would be like to have that voice murmur sweet nothings in her ear. ‘Positive,’ she replied coolly.

‘Yet you were staring at me as if you knew me.’

‘Aren’t you used to women staring at you, then?’ she questioned innocently.

‘No, never happened to me before,’ he drawled sardonically, wondering what was making her blow so hot and cold. He looked at the provocative scarlet gleam of her lips and felt a sudden rush of desire. ‘What’s your name?’

Ella wished that her breasts would stop tingling and likewise the molten throb of lust deep in her belly. She didn’t want to feel like this about a man who had talked about her family in a way which had made them all sound like some sort of gutter animals. She stared at him, defying him to contradict her. ‘My name is … Cinderella.’

Hassan gave a slow smile. ‘Is it now?’ So she wanted to play, did she? Well, that was fine by him. He liked games—particularly of the flirty, sexual nature. And particularly with nubile young women with glossy, red lips and firm bodies which had been poured into a shiny silver dress which emphasised their every willowy curve. As a child, the only female role models he’d known had been servants and as an adult he had discovered that women were usually predatory and nearly always beddable.

He felt the sudden beat of anticipation as he looked at her. ‘Then I think the fairy tale must have just come true, Cinderella,’ he said. ‘Because you’ve just met your prince.’

It was the corniest line Ella had ever heard and yet, somehow, it worked. For some insane reason it made her want to smile—a little I’m-so-pleased-with-myself sort of smile to accompany the embarrassing rise of colour to her cheeks.

But she didn’t fall for meaningless chat-up lines, did she? Hadn’t she learnt—from the humiliating example set by her own father—that men spent their lives saying things to women that they didn’t mean? And hadn’t she vowed never to become one of those women who drank up worthless compliments and then let their hearts get broken as a result?

Drawing back her shoulders, she stared at the exotic-looking man, pleased that she’d worn such ridiculously high heels which meant that their eyes were almost on a level. ‘So you’re a real live prince, are you?’

‘Indeed I am.’ For a moment, Hassan felt a flicker of impatience, acknowledging his own obstinacy. He didn’t like being recognised for his royal blood and yet he found it faintly irritating when his regal status was not alluded to. He wasn’t expecting her to curtsey—which was a good thing, since she clearly had no intention of doing so!—but a little deference surely wouldn’t have gone amiss? Surely she could have allowed a small amount of awe to creep into an English accent which he found oddly difficult to place. ‘In fact, I am a sheikh,’ he expanded proudly. ‘My name is Hassan, and I am a prince of the desert.’

‘Wow!’

Hassan’s eyes narrowed. Was that sarcasm he had heard tingeing her voice? Surely not. People were always impressed by his sheikhdom, indeed being ravished by a sheikh seemed to be the number-one sexual fantasy among most of the Western women he met. Yet the uncertainty of her response fired his blood into a slow, pulsing heat. The cat-like slant of her blue eyes was very appealing and he felt another kick of lust as he imagined those eyes growing opaque in time to the powerful thrust of his body. He swallowed, for his groin had grown exquisitely hard in conjunction with his thoughts.

‘And now I think we are supposed to dance,’ he said unevenly. Slowly, he allowed his gaze to travel all the way down her legs to where her feet were encased in a pair of toweringly high stilettos. ‘Before you run off as the clock strikes midnight, and leave one of those gravity-defying and very sexy shoes behind.’

Ella’s heart hammered. Of course she knew the shoes were sexy—you didn’t wear heels this high because they were comfortable. But it came as something of a shock to hear him come right out and say so like that. There was something very blatant about his remark. It made her feel … weird…. As if she was something she wasn’t. As if she’d worn them so that an arrogant sheikh might look at her legs with unashamed appraisal. And she had certainly not done that.

Every instinct she possessed was screaming out to her to get away from him. But even as the adrenalin pumped around her body, wasn’t there a contrary instinct urging her to do precisely the opposite? Didn’t she have some insane desire for him to take her into his arms and pull her against his powerful body to see whether he felt as good as he looked?

‘I’m not really that into dancing,’ she said truthfully.

‘Ah, but that’s because you’ve never danced with me,’ he drawled as he took her by the hand and led her onto the dance floor. ‘Once you have, you’ll change your mind. You’ll become an instant convert, believe me.’

Ella swallowed. What an arrogant boast to make! Now was the moment for her to wrench her hand away from the firm grip of his fingers and walk away from him and these confused emotions she was experiencing.

So why was she letting him lead her to a spot where the overhanging chandeliers spilled their fractured diamond spangles onto the glossy dance floor? Because she liked his touch, that was why. It was that simple and that complex and it was doing strange things to her. Making her feel light-headed and excited. Making her heart race as if she had just endured an hour’s hard workout at the gym.

She felt a brief flash of shame but still she didn’t move. And she knew she was about to betray her family by dancing with a man who despised them.

Without warning, Hassan took her into his arms and his presence enveloped her, just as his shadow had done earlier. His body felt as warm and as hard as she’d imagined and she moved closer to him, as his hands splayed possessively across her back.

Remember all those things he said about your family, she reminded herself dazedly. About Izzy sounding like a crow and them all being nothing but tramps.

And yet it was difficult to remember the insults when he was holding her in his arms like this. Difficult to do anything other than melt against him.

‘You smell beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘Of summer meadows in the sun.’

With an effort, Ella lifted her head to stare at the proud jut of his jaw. ‘What do sheikhs know of summer meadows?’

‘Plenty. When I was a boy, I used to come and visit Alex and sometimes we would go to England, to play the polo at which we both excelled. It was there that I learned that the smell of newly mown grass was one of the most seductive smells in the world.’ He smiled against her hair. Particularly if there was a nubile and willing female lying in it, with most of her clothes undone.

Ella could now feel the gentle caress of his fingertips on her bare skin and she knew she had to stop this before it went any further. Before his sexy voice and sure touch made her do anything else she regretted. Turning her face up, she flashed him a smile which was completely insincere. ‘You must have been amazed to find someone tolerably attractive to dance with among all these women here tonight,’ she observed. ‘Should I be flattered?’

Hassan frowned at the unexpected change of topic, some subtle emphasis in her words nudging at a faint memory. ‘Perhaps you should.’ He moved his hand to allow his fingers to tangle briefly in the spill of curls which danced around at the base of her waist. ‘Though I imagine that flattery is something you’re quite used to.’

The easy compliment slipped off his tongue and it helped fuel her indignation. Ella wriggled a little in his arms. ‘Are you always this predictable when you talk to women?’

‘Predictable? You want me to be a little more original, do you, Cinderella?’ he questioned, feeling the provocative thrust of her beaded breasts pressing into his chest. ‘But that would be exceedingly difficult with someone who looks like you. What can I tell you that countless men haven’t said before? You must be bored with hearing that your eyes are the blue of a summer sky. Or that your hair is so lustrous that if I moved a little closer, I’d swear I’d be able to see my face in its reflection.’

He positioned his head as if he intended to do just that, but instead he found that his eyes were closing and that he was breathing her in and pulling her against his body. And that suddenly he wanted her very much. It had been, he realised achingly, a long time since he’d held a woman in his arms. Particularly a woman who sent out messages as conflicting as this one …

Ella felt his arms tighten around her and was appalled at how much she wanted to sink further into that embrace. To feel the beat of his heart and to listen to those admiring comments which he probably said to every woman and which meant precisely nothing.

‘Hassan,’ she said, realising how thready her voice sounded. But why wouldn’t it sound like that when he had just splayed his hands so proprietarily over her back? She was wearing a dress which left a lot of skin on show. Skin to which he now had access. She felt the almost imperceptible caress of his fingers and she shivered with a strange kind longing. She had to stop this.

‘Or the most beautiful pair of lips I’ve ever seen. Tell me, does that lipstick come off when a man kisses you and does it taste of roses, or berries?’

‘Hassan,’ she said again, more weakly this time.

‘Mmm? I like it when you say my name. Say it again. Say it as if you want to ask me a big, big favour and let me see if I can guess what that favour might be.’

With an effort, she ignored the shockingly erotic command and pulled away from him so that she could see his reaction. ‘What do you think of the bride-to-be?’

A look of displeasure crossed his face as the sensual mood was broken by her unexpected question. For a moment back then, he’d almost forgotten where he was—and he did not care to be reminded. ‘I don’t think you want to know,’ he said, an unmistakable note of finality in his voice warning her that he did not wish to pursue the topic.

‘Oh, but I do,’ argued Ella. ‘I’m fascinated to hear your opinion. I’m sure it’ll be really enlightening.’

He drew back. She was enchanting in her own way, but he thought that she was in danger of overstepping the mark. Didn’t she realise that if he wanted a subject closed, then it was closed? Immediately. And that persisting with her girlie questionnaire to test out his views on marriage—which was clearly what this was all about—would put a complete dampener on the rest of the evening? Because if he told her the truth—that marriage was not for him—wouldn’t her beautiful scarlet lips inevitably crumple with disappointment?

He wanted to dance with her, to feel the softness of her skin and the press of her flesh against his. If she continued to please him, then he might later take her to his bed, but she must quickly learn that his word was law.

‘I think that the less said about the bride-to-be, the better, don’t you?’ he drawled dismissively.

‘No, I don’t, actually.’ Ella saw the spark of warning glittering in the depths of his black eyes and a sudden, heady power infused her. Was he so spoiled that he was used to people just falling in with his wishes every time he snapped his fingers? Yes, he probably was. She recalled the words of his aide. The smarmy way he had tried to talk him round. Ugh! She leaned forward, her voice probably not as low as it should have been but her rage was so profound that she didn’t care. ‘But then you’ve probably exhausted the topic since you’ve already said quite a few nasty things about Allegra, haven’t you?’

He stiffened. ‘I beg your pardon?’

He had relaxed his hold on her and Ella took the opportunity to step away from the distraction of his touch, staring fearlessly into the ebony glitter of his eyes. ‘You heard me,’ she said. ‘But perhaps you’re suffering from some sort of short-term memory loss and need me to remind you of the things you said. Shall I do that?’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

Ella began to count the facts off against her fingers. ‘Let’s see, you think she’s highly unsuitable and that Alex shouldn’t be marrying her. Didn’t you describe her as a “tramp”—just like her mother and sisters? And didn’t you say that you considered the whole Jackson family far too “vulgar” ever to be related to the Crown Prince of Santina?’

‘Where the hell did you hear all this?’ he demanded.

‘I notice that you don’t deny it!’ she accused, her voice growing louder as several of the other dancers turned their heads to see what was going on. She could see the dawning light of recognition in his eyes and she leapt in for the final thrust, a fierce protectiveness sweeping over her as she thought of her wayward family. ‘You delivered your damning verdict on people you have never met, didn’t you? And then you left to find someone “tolerably attractive” to dance with. And that someone just happened to be me!’

There was a split second of a pause before his eyes narrowed as he looked at her. ‘You’re one of the Jacksons?’ he guessed.

‘Oh, bravo, Sheikh Hassan! Prince of the desert! It took you long enough to work it out, didn’t it? Yes, I’m one of the Jacksons!’

Resisting the desire to show her just how speedy his responses could be, he glared at her. ‘You were eavesdropping in the anteroom!’

‘And if I was?’

‘Eavesdropping!’ he repeated contemptuously. A slow anger began to build inside him as he met the defiant light in her blue eyes. But in truth, he was furious with himself for not having followed his own instincts. He had thought that he’d heard something, and yet he had allowed himself to be convinced otherwise. And wasn’t that lazy and dangerous behaviour from a king, especially one who had just left behind a war zone? Was he getting complacent now that he was away from the battlefields?

He lowered his voice to an angry hiss. ‘That’s exactly the kind of vulgar attitude I would have expected from a family such as yours, and one which completely vindicates my belief about your general unsuitability to be mixing in royal circles. I rest my case.’

It wasn’t so much the hateful things he was saying which made Ella’s blood boil, but the sanctimonious way he was saying them. As if he was in the right and she was in the wrong! As if he was allowed to say what he pleased and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. Her blood was pounding in her veins as she felt her rage rise, and an odd kind of hurt and frustration come bubbling to the surface.

People were staring at them quite openly now, but she didn’t care.

‘Unsuitability?’ she declared. ‘I’ll show you unsuitability if you want!’ Almost without thinking, she grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waitress and tossed it over his dark, mocking face before turning to push her way through the throng of openmouthed spectators.