Читать книгу Her Desert Dream - Liz Fielding - Страница 6

‘YOU’RE coming with me to Bab el Sama?’ she managed finally, knowing that she should be horrified by this turn of events. The frisson of excitement rippling through her suggested that she was anything but.

‘There and back,’ he confirmed. ‘My instructions are to keep you safe from harm. I have a letter of introduction from Princess Lucy, but the aircraft is waiting and the pilot will not wish to miss his slot. If you’re ready to board?’

Lydia just about managed a nod and the noise flooded back like a shock wave as, his hand curling possessively around her elbow, he walked her to the door, across the tarmac towards the plane. Where she received shock number two.

When Rose had explained that she’d be flying in a private jet, Lydia had anticipated one of those small executive jobs. The reality was a full-sized passenger aircraft bearing the royal livery.

She’d fantasized about being treated like a princess, but this was the real deal; all that was missing was the red carpet and a guard of honour.

If they found out she was a fake they were not going to be amused and, as Kalil al-Zaki’s touch sizzled through her sleeve, Lydia had to concentrate very hard on marshalling her knees and putting one foot in front of the other.

This was anything but a fairy tale and if she fell flat on her face there would be no fairy godmother to rescue her with the wave of a wand.

Concentrate, concentrate…

She’d already had an encounter with one of Rose’s security guards. He hadn’t looked at her the way that Kalil al-Zaki had looked and he certainly hadn’t touched. The closest he’d been was when he’d opened the car door and his eyes had not been on her, but the crowd.

No matter what he said about ‘keeping her safe’, it was clear that this man was not your standard bodyguard, so who on earth was he?

Should she have recognised his name?

Think…

He’d mentioned Princess Lucy. So far, so clear. She was the friend who’d lent Rose her holiday ‘cottage’ for the week. The wife of the Emir’s youngest son, who was the Ramal Hamrahn Ambassador to London.

Rose had filled her in on all the important background details, a little of their history, the names and ages of their children, so that she wouldn’t make a mistake if any of the staff at Bab el Sama mentioned her or her children.

But that was it.

This was supposed to be no more than a walkon role with only servants and the occasional telephoto lens for company.

A few minutes performing for a bunch of journalists, and getting away with it, had given her a terrific buzz, but playing the part convincingly under the eyes of someone like Kalil al-Zaki for an entire week was a whole different ball game.

Hopefully, the letter of introduction would fill in the details, she thought as his hand fell away at the top of the steps and she was greeted by the waiting stewardess.

‘Welcome aboard the royal flight, Lady Rose. I am Atiya Bishara and I will be taking care of you today.’ Then, looking at the flowers she was clutching like a lifeline, ‘Shall I put those in water?’

Lydia, back on more or less familiar territory, began to breathe again. This was the basic lookalike stuff she’d been doing since she was fifteen years old and she managed to go through the standard ‘How d’you do?’ routine as she surrendered the flowers and the dark pink leather briefcase that exactly matched her hat. The one Rose had used to conceal the cash she’d needed for her week away and which now contained Lydia’s own essentials, including her own passport in the event that anything went wrong.

‘Your luggage has been taken to your suite, Lady Rose. I’ll take you through as soon as we’re in the air,’ Atiya said as she led her to an armchair-sized seat.

A suite?

Not that familiar, she thought, taking out her cellphone and sending a one word message to Rose to let her know that she’d got through security without any hiccups. Apart from Kalil al-Zaki, that was, and Rose couldn’t do anything about that.

That done, she turned off the phone and looked around.

From the outside, apart from the royal livery, the aircraft might look much like any other. On the inside, however, it bore no similarity to the crammed-tight budget airlines that were a necessary evil to be endured whenever she wanted a week or two in the sun.

‘Would you like something to drink before we take off?’ Atiya asked.

Uh-oh.

Take and off, used in tandem, were her two least favourite words in the English language. Until now her head had been too busy concentrating on the role she was playing, enjoying the luxury of a chauffeur-driven limousine, free-wheeling around the unexpected appearance of Kalil al-Zaki, to confront that particular problem.

‘Juice? A glass of water?’

‘Water, thank you,’ she replied, forcing herself to concentrate, doing her best not to look at the man who’d taken the seat across the aisle.

And failing.

His suit lay across his broad shoulders as if moulded to him and his glossy black hair, brushed back off a high forehead curled over his collar, softening features that could have been chiselled from marble. Apart from his mouth.

Marble could never do justice to the sensuous droop of a lower lip that evoked such an immediate, such a disturbing response in parts of her anatomy that had been dormant for so long that she’d forgotten how it felt.

As if sensing her gaze, Kalil al-Zaki turned and she blushed at being caught staring.

Nothing in his face suggested he had noticed. Instead, as the plane began to taxi towards the runway, he took an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and offered it to her.

‘My introduction from Princess Lucy, Lady Rose.’

She accepted the square cream envelope, warm from his body, and although she formed the words, Thank you, no sound emerged. Praying that the dark pink net of her veil would camouflage the heat that had flooded into her cheeks, she ducked her head. It was embarrassment, she told herself as she flipped open the envelope and took out the note it contained.

Dear Rose,

I didn’t get a chance to call yesterday and explain that Han’s cousin, Kalil al-Zaki, will be accompanying you to Bab el Sama.

I know that you are desperate to be on your own, but you will need someone to drive you, accompany you to the beach, be generally at your beck and call while you’re in Bab el Sama and at least he won’t report every move you make to your grandfather.

The alternative would be one of the Emir’s guards, good men every one but, as you can imagine, not the most relaxing of companions.

Kal will not intrude if you decide to simply lie by the pool with a book, but you shouldn’t miss out on a visit to the souk—it’s an absolute treasure of gold, silks, spices—or a drive into the desert. The peace is indescribable.

Do give me a call if there is anything you need or you just need someone to talk to but, most of all rest, relax, recharge the batteries and don’t, whatever you do, give Rupert a single thought.

All my love,

Lucy

Which crushed her last desperate hope that he was simply escorting her on the flight. ‘There and back’, apparently, included the seven days in between.

And things had been going so well up until now, she thought as the stewardess returned with her water and she gratefully gulped down a mouthful.

Too well.

Rose’s grandfather had apparently accepted that taking her own security people with her would be seen as an insult to her hosts. The entire Ramal Hamrahn ruling family had holiday ‘cottages’ at Bab el Sama and the Emir did not, she’d pointed out, take the safety of his family or their guests lightly.

The paparazzi were going to have to work really hard to get their photographs this week, although she’d do her best to make it easy for them.

There had been speculation that Rupert would join Rose on this pre-Christmas break and if she wasn’t visible they might just get suspicious, think they’d been given the slip. Raise a hue and cry that would get everyone in a stew and blow her cover.

Her commission was to give them something to point their lenses at so that the Duke was reassured that she was safe and the world could see that she was where she was supposed to be.

Neither of them had bargained on her friend complicating matters.

Fortunately, Princess Lucy’s note had made it clear that Rose hadn’t met Kalil al-Zaki, which simplified things a little. The only question left was, faced with an unexpected—and unwanted—companion, what would Rose do now?

Actually, not something to unduly tax the mind. Rose would do what she always did. She’d smile, be charming, no matter what spanner had been thrown into her carefully arranged works.

Until now, protected by the aura of untouchability that seemed to encompass the Lady Rose image, Lydia had never had a problem doing the same.

But then spanners didn’t usually come blessed with smooth olive skin moulded over bone structure that had been a gift from the gene fairies.

It should have made it easier to respond to his smile—if only with an idiotic, puppy-like grin. The reality was that she had to concentrate very hard to keep the drool in check, her hand from visibly trembling, her brain from turning to jelly. Speaking at the same time was asking rather a lot, but it certainly helped take her mind off the fact that the aircraft was taxiing slowly to the runway in preparation for the nasty business of launching her into thin air. She normally took something to calm her nerves before holiday flights but hadn’t dared risk it today.

Fortunately, ten years of ‘being’ Lady Rose came to her rescue. The moves were so ingrained that they had become automatic and instinct kicked in and overrode the urge to leap into his lap and lick his face.

‘It would seem that you’ve drawn the short straw, Mr al-Zaki,’ she said, kicking the ‘puppy’ into touch and belatedly extending her hand across the aisle.

‘The short straw?’ he asked, taking it in his own firm grip with just the smallest hint of a frown.

‘I imagine you have a dozen better things to do than…’ she raised the letter an inch or two ’…show me the sights.’

‘On the contrary, madam,’ he replied formally, ‘I can assure you that I had to fight off the competition.’

He was so serious that for a moment he had her fooled.

Unbelievable!

The man was flirting with her, or, rather, flirting with Lady Rose. What a nerve!

‘It must have been a very gentlemanly affair,’ she replied, matching his gravity, his formality.

One of his dark brows lifted the merest fraction and an entire squadron of butterflies took flight in her stomach. He was good. Really good. But any girl who’d worked for as long as she had on a supermarket checkout had not only heard it all, but had an arsenal of responses to put even the smoothest of operators in their place.

‘No black eyes?’ she prompted. ‘No broken limbs?’

He wasn’t quite quick enough to kill the surprise at the swiftness of her comeback and for a moment she thought she’d gone too far. He was the Ambassador’s cousin, after all. One of the ruling class in a society where women were supposed to be neither seen nor heard.

Like that was going to happen…

But then the creases deepened in his cheeks, his mouth widened in a smile and something happened to the darkest, most intense eyes she’d ever seen. Almost, she thought, as if someone had lit a fire in their depths.

‘I was the winner, madam,’ he reminded her.

‘I’m delighted you think so,’ she replied, hanging on to her cool by the merest thread, despite the conflagration that threatened to ignite somewhere below her midriff.

There had never been anyone remotely like this standing at her supermarket checkout. She was going to have to be very, very careful.

Kal just about managed to bite back a laugh.

Lucy—with Hanif’s unspoken blessing, he had no doubt—was placing him in front of the Emir, forcing his uncle to take note of his existence, acknowledge that he was doing something for his country. Offering him a chance to show himself to be someone worthy of trust, a credit to the name he was forbidden from using. And already he was flirting with the woman who had been entrusted to his care.

But then she wasn’t the least bit what he’d expected.

He had seen a hundred photographs of Lady Rose on magazine covers and nothing in those images had enticed him to use her friendship with Princess Lucy to attempt a closer acquaintance.

The iconic blue eyes set in an oval face, yards of palest blonde hair, the slender figure were, no doubt, perfect. If you liked that kind of look, colouring, but she’d lacked the dark fire, a suggestion of dangerous passion, of mystery that he looked for in a woman.

The reality, he discovered, was something else.

As she’d walked into the VIP lounge it had seemed to come to life; as if, on a dull day, the sun had emerged from behind a cloud.

What he’d thought of as pallor was, in fact, light. A golden glow.

She was a lot more than a colourless clothes horse.

The famous eyes, secreted behind the wisp of veil that covered the upper half of her face, sparkled with an excitement, a vitality that didn’t come through in any photograph he’d seen. But it was the impact of her unexpectedly full and enticingly kissable mouth, dark, sweet and luscious as the heart of a ripe fig, that grabbed and held his complete attention and had every red blood cell in his body bounding forward to take a closer look.

For the briefest moment her poise had wavered and she’d appeared as nonplussed as he was, but for a very different reason. It was obvious that Lucy hadn’t managed to warn her that she was going to have company on this trip. She’d swiftly gathered herself, however, and he discovered that, along with all her other assets, she had a dry sense of humour.

Unexpected, it had slipped beneath his guard, and all his good intentions—to keep his distance, retain the necessary formality—had flown right out of the window.

And her cool response, ‘I’m delighted you think so,’ had been so ambiguous that he hadn’t the least idea whether she was amused by his familiarity or annoyed.

His life had involved one long succession of his father’s wives and mistresses, a galaxy of sisters who ranged from nearly his own age to little girls. Without exception they were all, by turn, tempestuous, sphinxlike, teasing. He’d seen them in all their moods and it had been a very long time since he hadn’t known exactly what a woman was thinking.

Now, while the only thought in his own head should be danger, out of bounds, what he really wanted was for her to lift that seductive little veil and, with that lovely mouth, invite him to be really bad…

Realising that he was still holding her hand, he made a determined effort to get a grip. ‘You are as astute as you are lovely, madam,’ he replied, matching her own cool formality, as he released it. ‘I will be more circumspect in future.’

Her smile was a private thing. Not a muscle moved, only something in her eyes altered so subtly that he could not have described what happened. He’d felt rather than seen a change and yet he knew, deep down, that she was amused.

‘Rose,’ she said.

‘I beg your pardon, madam?’

‘According to her letter, Lucy thought you would make a more relaxing companion than one of the Emiri guard.’

‘You have my word that I won’t leap to attention whenever you speak to me,’ he assured her.

‘That is a relief, Mr al-Zaki.’

Lydia had to work a lot harder than usual to maintain the necessary regal poise.

She had no way of knowing on what scale Princess Lucy measured ‘relaxing’ but she must lead a very exciting life if spending time with Kalil al-Zaki fell into that category.

With his hot eyes turning her bones to putty, heating her skin from the inside out, relaxed was the last word she’d use to describe the way she was feeling right now.

‘However, I don’t find the prospect of an entire week being “madamed” much fun either. My name is…’ she began confidently enough, but suddenly faltered. It was one thing acting out a role, it was quite another to look this man in the eye, meet his dark gaze and utter the lie. She didn’t want to lie to him, to pretend…‘I would rather you called me Rose.’

‘Rose,’ he repeated softly. Wild honey…

‘Can you manage your seat belt, Lady Rose?’ the stewardess asked as she retrieved the glass. ‘We’re about to take off.’

‘Oh…’ Those words again. ‘Yes, of course.’

She finally managed to tear her gaze away from her companion—wild honey was a dangerous temptation that could not be tasted without getting stung—and cast about her for the straps.

‘Can I assist you, Rose?’ he asked as her shaking hands fumbled with the buckle.

‘No!’ She shook her head as she finally managed to clip it into place. ‘Thank you, Mr…’

‘Kal,’ he prompted. ‘Most people call me Kal.’ The lines bracketing his mouth deepened into a slow, sexy smile. ‘When they’re being relaxed,’ he added.

She just about managed to stifle a hysterical giggle. She hadn’t hesitated because she’d forgotten his name. He’d made an indelible impression…

No.

She’d been so busy worrying about whether he knew Rose personally, countering the effect of that seductive voice, that she’d overlooked the really important part of Princess Lucy’s letter. The bit where she’d mentioned that Kalil al-Zaki was her husband’s cousin. As she’d said the word ‘Mr’ it had suddenly occurred to her who he really was. Not just some minor diplomat who’d been given the task of ensuring a tricky visitor didn’t get into trouble while she was at Bab el Sama.

Oh, dear me, no.

That wouldn’t do for Lady Rose. Cousin of the Queen, patron of dozens of charities as well as figurehead of the one founded by her parents, she was an international figure and she was being given the full red-carpet treatment. Right down to her watchdog.

Kalil al-Zaki, the man who’d been roped in to guard their precious guest, was the cousin of the Ambassador, Sheikh Hanif al-Khatib. Which made him a nephew of the Emir himself.

‘Kal,’ she squeaked, slamming her eyes closed and gripping the arms of the chair as the plane rocketed down the runway and the acceleration forced her back into the chair, for once in her life grateful that she had her fear of take-off to distract her.

She was fine once she was in the air, flying straight and level above the clouds with no horizon to remind her that she was thirty thousand feet above the ground. Not that much different from travelling on a bus, apart from the fact that you didn’t have to keep stopping so that people could get on and off.

Until now, what with one thing and another, she’d been doing a better than average job of not thinking about this moment, but not even the sudden realisation that Kalil al-Zaki wasn’t plain old mister anyone, but Sheikh Kalil al-Zaki, a genuine, bona fide prince, could override her terror.

She’d have plenty of time to worry about how ‘charming’ he’d prove to be if he discovered that she was a fake when they were safely airborne.

But just when she’d reached the point where she forgot how to breathe, long fingers closed reassuringly over hers and, surprised into sucking in air, she gasped and opened her eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ Kal said as she turned to stare at him, ‘but I’ve never liked that bit much.’

What?

His expression was so grave that, for just a moment, she wasn’t sure whether or not he was serious. Then she swallowed.

Idiot.

Of course he wasn’t serious. He was just being kind and, for once in her life, she wished she really was Lady Rose. Because then he’d be looking at her like that…

‘You’ll be all right now?’ she managed, still breathless when, minutes later, the seat belt light pinged out. Doing her best to respond in kind, despite the fact that it was his steadying hand wrapped around hers. That she was the one who’d experienced a severe case of collywobbles. Wobbles that were still rippling through her, despite the fact that they had left the earth far beneath them.

‘I believe so,’ he replied gravely, but in no rush to break contact.

It was perhaps just as well that Atiya reappeared at that moment or they might have flown all the way to Ramal Hamrah with their hands intertwined.

Not that there would have been anything wrong with that…

‘Shall I show you to your suite so that you can change before I serve afternoon tea, Lady Rose?’

‘Thank you,’ she said, using her traitorous hand to pull free the seat belt fastening so that she could follow Atiya. Straighten out her head.

Not easy when she discovered that the sumptuously fitted suite contained not only a bed, but its own bathroom with a shower that lent a whole new meaning to the words ‘freshen up’.

‘Would you like help changing?’ Atiya offered, but Lydia assured her that she could manage and, once on her own, leaned back against the door, rubbing her palm over the hand Kal al-Zaki had held. Breathing slowly until her heart rate returned to normal. Or as near to normal as it was likely to be for the next week.

Kal watched Rose walk away from him.

His grandfather, a man who’d lost a throne, lost his country—but not the fortune that his father had hoped would compensate him for choosing his younger brother to succeed him—was a man without any purpose but to enjoy himself. He’d become part of the jetset, a connoisseur of all things beautiful, including women.

Kalil’s father had, as soon as he was old enough, taken the same path and Kalil too had come dangerously close to following in their footsteps.

His boyhood winters had been spent on the ski slopes of Gstaad and Aspen, his summers shared between an Italian palazzo and a villa in the South of France. He’d gone to school in England, university in Paris and Oxford, postgrad in America.

He had been brought up in an atmosphere of wealth and privilege, where nothing had been denied him. The female body held no mystery for him and hers, by his exacting standards, was too thin for true beauty.

So why did he find her finely boned ankles so enticing? What was it about the gentle sway of her hips that made his hand itch to reach out and trace the elegant curve from waist to knee? To undress her, slowly expose each inch of that almost translucent peaches and cream skin and then possess it.

Possess her.

‘Can I fetch you anything, sir?’ the stewardess asked as she returned.

Iced water. A cold shower…

He left it at the water but she returned emptyhanded. ‘Captain Jacobs sends his compliments and asked if you’d like to visit the flight deck, sir. I’ll serve your water there,’ she added, taking his acceptance for granted.

It was the very last thing he wanted to do, but it was a courtesy he could not refuse. And common sense told him that putting a little distance between himself and Rose while he cooled off would be wise.

He’d reached out instinctively when he’d seen her stiffen in fear as the plane had accelerated down the runway. It had been a mistake. Sitting beside her had been a mistake. His brief was to ensure her security and, despite Lucy’s appeal to amuse her, distract her, make her laugh, that was it.

Holding her hand to distract her when she was rigid with fear didn’t count, he told himself, but sitting here, waiting to see if he’d imagined his gutdeep reaction to her was not a good idea.

Especially when he already knew the answer.

Then the name registered. ‘Jacobs? Would that be Mike Jacobs?’

‘You are in so much trouble, Lydia Young.’

She hadn’t underestimated the enormity of what she’d undertaken to do for Rose and they’d gone through every possible scenario, using a chat room to brainstorm any and all likely problems.

And every step of the way Rose had given her the opportunity to change her mind. Back out. Unfortunately, she was long past the stop the plane, I want to get off moment.

It had been too late from the moment she’d stepped out of that hotel room wearing Lady Rose’s designer suit, her Jimmy Choos, the toes stuffed with tissue to stop them slipping.

Not that she would if she could, she realised.

She’d had ten years in which being ‘Lady Rose’ had provided all the little extras that helped make her mother’s life easier. She owed Rose this. Was totally committed to seeing it through, but falling in lust at first sight with a man who had flirtation down to an art was, for sure, not going to make it any easier to ignore what Kalil al-Zaki’s eyes, mouth, touch was doing to her.

‘Come on, Lydie,’ she said, giving herself a mental shake. ‘You don’t do this. You’re immune, remember?’

Not since she’d got her fingers, and very nearly everything else, burnt by a stunningly goodlooking actor who’d been paid to woo her into bed. She swallowed. She’d thought he was her Prince Charming, too.

It had been five years, but she still felt a cold shiver whenever she thought about it.

Pictures of the virginal ‘Lady Rose’ in bed with a man would have made millions for the people who’d set her up. Everyone would have run the pictures, whether they’d believed them or not. Covering themselves by the simple addition of a question mark to the ‘Lady Rose in Sex Romp?’ headline. The mere suggestion would have been enough to have people stampeding to the newsagents.

She, on the other hand, would have been ruined. No one would have believed she was an innocent dupe. If it had been anyone else, she wouldn’t have believed it either.

She looked at the bed with longing, sorely tempted to just crawl beneath the covers and sleep away the next eight hours. No one would disturb her, expect anything from her.

But, since sleeping away the entire seven days was out of the question, she needed to snap out of it.

She’d been knocked off her feet by the heightened tension, that was all. Unsurprising under the circumstances. Anyone would be unsettled. Kal al-Zaki’s presence had been unexpected, that was all. And she turned to the toilet case and overnight bag that had been placed on a stand.

The first was packed with everything a woman could ever need. The finest hairbrush that money could buy, the best skin care products, cosmetics, a selection of sumptuous scents; a perfect distraction for out of control hormones.

She opened one, sighed as she breathed in a subtle blend of sweet summer scents, then, as she sprayed it on her wrist, she caught an underlying note of something darker that tugged at forbidden desires. That echoed the heat in Kal al-Zaki’s eyes.

Dropping it as if burned, she turned to the overnight bag. On the top, in suede drawstring bags, were the cases for the jewellery she was wearing, along with a selection of simpler pieces that Lady Rose wore while ‘off duty’.

There was also a change of clothes for the long flight. A fine silk shirt the colour of champagne, wide-cut trousers in dark brown linen, a cashmere cardigan and a pair of butter-soft leather loafers in the right size. Supremely elegant but all wonderfully comfortable.

Rose had also packed a selection of the latest hardback best-sellers to while away the long flight. But then she hadn’t expected that her stand-in would be provided with company.

Or not. According to Princess Lucy, it was up to her.

While she’d urged Rose to allow him to show her the sights, she’d made it clear that if she preferred to be alone then Kal would not intrude.

Not intrude?

What had the woman been thinking?

Hadn’t she looked at him?

Anyone with half a brain could see that he wouldn’t have to do a damn thing. One smile, one touch of his hand and he was already indelibly imprinted on her brain. In her head for ever more.

Intrusion squared.

In fact, if she didn’t know better, she might be tempted to think that the Princess had planned a holiday romance as a little treat for her friend.

The idea was, of course, patently absurd.

Not that she didn’t deserve a romance. A darkeyed prince with a killer smile who’d sweep her off her feet.

No one deserved a little fun more than Rose, but anyone who knew her would understand just how impossible a casual, throwaway romance would be for her. And that was the essence of a holiday romance. Casual. Something out of time that had nothing to do with real life. That you left behind when you went home.

Anyone who truly cared for her would understand that.

Wouldn’t they?

About to remove the pin that fastened the tiny hat to her chignon, she paused, sank onto the edge of the bed as a phrase in Lucy’s letter came back to her.

Don’t give Rupert a single thought…

She and Lucy were in total agreement on that one. Rose’s grandfather, the newspapers, even the masses out there who thought they knew her, might be clamouring for an engagement, but she’d seen the two of them together. There was absolutely no chemistry, no connection.

Rose had made a joke about it, but Lydia hadn’t been fooled for a second. She’d seen the desperation in her face and anyone who truly cared for her would want to save her from sleepwalking into such a marriage simply because it suited so many people.

Could Princess Lucy have hoped that if she put Rose and Kalil together the sparks would fly of their own accord without any need to stoke the fire? No doubt about it, a week being flirted with by Kal al-Zaki would have been just the thing to bring the colour back into Rose’s cheeks.

Or was it all less complicated than that?

Was Lucy simply relying on the ever-attendant paparazzi, seeing two young people alone in a perfect setting, to put one and one together and make it into a front page story that would make them a fortune?

Who cared whether it was true?

Excellent plan, Lucy, she thought, warming to the woman despite the problems she’d caused.

There was only one thing wrong with it. Lady Rose had taken matters into her own hands and was, even now—in borrowed clothes, a borrowed car—embarking on an adventure of her own, safe in the knowledge that no one realised she’d escaped. That she could do what she liked while the world watched her lookalike.

Of course there was nothing to stop her from making it happen, she thought as she finally removed the hat and jewellery she was wearing. Kicked off her shoes and slipped out of the suit.

All it would take would be a look. A touch. He wasn’t averse to touching.

She began to pull pins from her hair, absently divesting herself of the Lady Rose persona, just as she did at the end of every gig.

And she wouldn’t be the victim this time. She would be the one in control, watching as the biter was, for once, bit.

Then, as her hair tumbled down, bringing her out of a reverie in which Kal touched her hand, then her face, her neck, his lips following a trail blazed by his fingers she let slip a word that Rose had probably never heard, let alone used.

It had taken an age to put her hair up like that and, unlike Rose, she didn’t have a maid to help.

Just what she deserved for letting her fantasy run away with her. There was no way she was going to do anything that would embarrass Rose. Her part was written and she’d stick to it.

She began to gather the pins, but then realised that just because Rose never appeared in photographs other than with her hair up, it didn’t mean that when she shut the door on the world at the end of the day—or embarked on an eight-hour flight—she’d wouldn’t wear it loose.

She was, after all, supposed to be on holiday. And who, after all, knew what she did, said, wore, when she was behind closed doors?

Not Kalil al-Zaki, that was for sure.

And that was the answer to the ‘keeping up appearances’ problem, she realised.

Instead of trying to remember that she was Lady Rose for the next seven days, she would just be herself. She’d already made a pretty good start with the kind of lippy responses that regulars on her checkout at the supermarket would recognise.

And being herself would help with the ‘lust’ problem, too.

For as long as she could remember, she’d been fending off the advances of first boys, then men who, when they looked at her, had seen only the ‘virgin’ princess and wanted to either worship or ravish her.

It had taken her a little while to work that one out but, once she had, she’d had no trouble keeping them at arm’s length, apart from the near miss with the actor, but then he’d been paid to be convincing. And patient. It was a pity he’d only, in the end, had an audience of one because he’d put in an Oscar-winning performance.

Kal, despite the way he looked, was just another man flirting with Lady Rose. That was all she had to remember, she told herself as she shook out her hair, brushed it, before she freshened up and put on the clothes Rose had chosen for her.

So which would he be? Worshipper or ravisher?

Good question, she thought as she added a simple gold chain and stud earrings before checking her reflection in a full length mirror.

It wasn’t quite her—she tended to favour jeans and funky tops. It wasn’t quite Lady Rose either, but it was close enough for someone who’d never met either of them, she decided as she chose a book, faced the door and took a slow, calming breath before returning to the main cabin.

In her absence the seats had been turned around, the cabin reconfigured so that it now resembled a comfortable sitting room.

An empty sitting room.