Читать книгу In The Arms Of The Sheikh - Sophie Weston - Страница 8

NEW YORK is paradise for insomniacs, thought Natasha Lambert. It never sleeps. Let’s hear it for New York!

She pressed her nose against the window of her hotel room and looked down twenty storeys. The November sky was as black as midnight. It was five in the morning. But cars’ headlights still swooped along the rain soaked street and there were people on the sidewalk.

Who were they? People going to work? People coming in from all-night clubbing? Natasha could see a couple emerging from the awning of the hotel, while a porter put a mountain of baggage in their cab.

A couple…In spite of the hotel’s admirable central heating, she found she was shivering. Stop that, she told herself.

Quickly, she went back to the high-concept executive desk that was the reason she had booked this luxury suite in the first place. Not that she looked like a high-concept executive at the moment, thought Natasha, grinning. Not in her sweats and beloved furry slippers with cat faces.

Her laptop stood open in a pool of light. Natasha sat down at it and wriggled her toes in their comforting fur, debating what colour to turn her presentation slides.

Blue? Too cold. Red? Too aggressive.

Just like me, she thought wryly. Her last boyfriend had delivered a comprehensive character analysis before they had stopped seeing each other. Heartless, he’d called her. It had driven him mad when she’d cheerfully agreed with him.

‘It’s not a compliment,’ he yelled.

‘Maybe not to you. I’ve worked hard to get like this.’

That was when he left, fuming.

Now the phone rang. Not taking her eyes off the screen, Natasha scooped it up.

‘Yup?’

‘Can I leave a message for Natasha Lambert, please?’

Natasha grinned. ‘It’s me,’ she said ungrammatically. ‘Hi, Izzy.’

There was an anguished screech. ‘Oh, no.’

Natasha’s grin widened. Izzy Dare was her very best friend.

‘Flattering,’ she remarked. ‘Aren’t you talking to me any more, Izzy? What have I done?’

But Izzy was too full of remorse to laugh. ‘I was trying to leave a message with the desk clerk. I never meant to wake you up.’

‘You didn’t.’

Natasha swirled a pie chart round on the screen. Both red and blue maybe? After all, cold and aggressive were often an advantage in business. Heartless, she might be, but she was very successful.

It was a long time since she had cared what people said about her. Anything was fine, as long as they also said she got the job done. And they did.

She stopped playing with her pie chart. ‘What can I do for you, Izzy?’

But Izzy was still worried. ‘You’re sure I didn’t wake you? But I thought New York was five hours behind London. What on earth is the time there?’

Natasha detached her eyes from the screen and cast a rapid look at her discreetly expensive platinum watch.

‘Just after five.’

‘And you’re up?’ Izzy was horrified.

‘Lambert Research never sleeps,’ said Natasha smugly.

‘But why?’

‘Breakfast meeting with the Head Honcho. They slipped it in at the last moment, so I’m reworking the presentation.’

‘Is he nice?’ said Izzy, temporarily sidetracked.

‘Who?’

‘The Head Honcho.’

Natasha choked at the thought. ‘David Frankel is a short, fat workaholic with a nasty sideline in groping if you let him get too close,’ she announced. ‘He’s also focused as a needle.’

‘Sounds horrid.’

‘That’s why he’s Head Honcho,’ said Natasha peacefully. ‘Powerful men are horrid. It’s part of their job description.’

Izzy protested.

Natasha was indifferent. ‘No sweat. I work with powerful men all the time. They cause a lot of work and I wouldn’t want to date one. But apart from that, they’re fine. Tell me what you want.’

Izzy sounded uncomfortable. ‘About the weekend—’

‘Oh, yes. I’m really, really looking forward to it. A girls’ getaway is just what I need. Especially after the week I’ve had.’

There was a microsecond’s pause, which would have been perceptible if Natasha hadn’t been tapping away adjusting the pie chart again.

This time she made it change to lime-green. The screen pulsed with virulent colour. Natasha put her head on one side. Young and exciting? Or too frivolous?

‘So what about the weekend?’

‘There’s been a change of plan.’

Natasha sighed. ‘That’s a shame. Okay, let’s take a rain check.’

‘No, not that sort of change. A—er—different venue.’

‘Okay,’ said Natasha without much interest. ‘Where?’

‘Well…’ Izzy sounded uncharacteristically embarrassed ‘…it’s a private house now. I’ve sort of borrowed it.’

‘Fine. Give me the address.’

Izzy did. ‘And there’s something else—’

At last Izzy’s hesitation got through. Natasha stopped playing with the mouse. ‘Okay, Izzy. Spit it out. What’s the problem? The place is falling down? There’s no central heating? It’s so deep in the country, I’ll have to hire a helicopter to get there?’

‘You would too, wouldn’t you?’ Izzy sounded odd.

‘Whatever it takes,’ said Natasha briskly. ‘All for one and one for all. You’re my best friend and I haven’t seen you for six months.’ Her fingers twitched. She left the mouse where it was. But it was an effort. ‘Am I going to have to find me a pilot?’

‘No. By car, it’s an hour tops from the airport.’

‘Then there isn’t a problem.’

‘Okay, get back to your work, and I’ll see you tomorrow. You’re still on the overnight flight?’

‘Yup.’

‘That’s good. Gives us the whole day to talk before the others get here.’

Natasha frowned. She turned her back on her laptop. This sounded serious. ‘You in trouble, Izzy?’

Her friend gave the ghost of a laugh. ‘No, no, it’s just that—’ Izzy stopped. Then she went on in a high, unnatural voice, ‘Serenata Place is a bit difficult to find.’ It was as if she wanted to say something else and couldn’t screw her courage up. ‘I’ll email you a map,’ she said with desperate brightness.

Natasha’s frown deepened. She had never heard Izzy sound like that before. Well, not since—

She pulled her mind away from the dark memories. The bad time was three years past. Gone. She and Izzy had got out of the jungle alive and well and so had everyone else. All was well that ended well, in fact. The nightmares would go too, in time.

But that didn’t explain why Izzy sounded so stiff and false.

She said sharply, ‘What’s wrong, Izzy?’

Izzy made an odd sound, half laugh, half sob.

‘I’m getting married.’

‘You’re what?’

‘Married,’ said Izzy, gabbling. ‘I know. I know. It’s very sudden. You don’t know him. Only he’s going away and…this weekend is our engagement party.’

Natasha frowned at the phone for a long moment. Izzy was a practical, strong-minded woman, but she had her area of vulnerability. And Natasha knew exactly where it was. Izzy was at work. She worked with her cousin Pepper in a bright, fashionable office. It was open-plan and anyone could listen to everyone’s conversations. Would Izzy want to discuss everything with her co-workers listening in? No, she would not.

‘Look—I’ll see you on Friday and tell you everything. Have a good flight.’ Izzy rang off.

Okay, she would wait until their tête-à-tête on Friday. But then, she resolved, Izzy was going to tell, and tell everything.

Meanwhile, there was no point in thinking about it. Izzy’s sudden marriage could go on hold for a few hours. Natasha, the professional, had a presentation to finalise.

She turned back to the laptop and, with a savage stab at the keyboard, sent her pie chart purple.

The throne room at the palace was a hotchpotch of magnificence and sheer eccentric indulgence. The Emir of Saraq sat on a French brocade chair that would have looked more at home in Versailles and waved the new arrival onto a minimalist Swedish sofa. The Emir had commissioned it personally.

‘You don’t command me, Grandfather,’ said the new arrival, without emotion. He was tall with decided eyebrows and a great haughty beak of a nose. His stark white robe was creaseless. He did not sit down.

‘You are here,’ the Emir pointed out with a touch of defiance.

‘For the moment.’

Their eyes clashed: the Emir’s fierce; the watcher’s unreadable. He had had a lot of practice at masking his feelings. He was good at it.

The Emir’s gaze was the first to fall.

‘Don’t let’s argue, Kazim. This is important.’

The placatory tone was out of character. But his grandfather was a consummate actor, thought Kazim, and as wily as a hunting falcon. He stayed watchful.

‘Is this about another arranged marriage?’

The Emir’s eyes flashed. But almost at once he curbed himself.

‘No. I have agreed. You will decide for yourself when you marry.’ It sounded as if every word were dragged from him, but he still got it out.

It was not enough. Kazim stayed implacable.

‘If I marry,’ he corrected.

The old man did not like that, either. ‘If you marry,’ he agreed reluctantly.

Kazim was remorseless. ‘And who I marry.’

‘And who you marry.’ It was said through gritted teeth.

His grandson nodded slowly, like a general accepting surrender. ‘I will.’

They eyed each other like duellists.

The Emir said something explosive under his breath.

Kazim decided not to hear it. Sometimes it was the only possible move in the prolonged chess game of their relationship.

‘You break with every tradition and listen to nobody—but you do get things done.’

Kazim’s lips twitched. ‘Thank you—I think.’

The Emir stopped muttering and rearranged the fold of his white robe over his knees. He was obviously making a great effort to appear reasonable. ‘I wanted to see you because there has been a warning.’

Suddenly, all Kazim’s wariness dissolved in concern. ‘You mean threats? Against you?’

The Emir permitted himself a thin smile. ‘No. You.’

For a moment Kazim’s face was wiped absolutely clear of expression. He did not answer. The atmosphere in the throne room was suddenly charged with electricity.

‘So you knew,’ said the Emir softly.

Kazim was disturbed. He had not meant to give so much away. The old man was too good at this. Or I’m losing my touch. Not a good thought, that. He buried his unease, professional that he was, and shrugged.

‘There are always crackpots. Threats come with the territory.’

‘And you’re setting yourself up as a target for them,’ said his grandfather with sudden anger.

Kazim sighed. This was not new. His grandfather wanted him home and safe in Saraq, not continent-hopping involved in peace talks.

The old man grunted. ‘This International Reconciliation Council of yours is a great idea. Very high-minded.’ He paused for his effect. ‘In about fifty years’ time.’

‘We haven’t got fifty years,’ said Kazim, a touch wearily. They had had this argument before, many times; most explosively the day he’d left a year ago. He braced himself to argue the case.

But for once the Emir was not after a good argument. ‘That doesn’t matter.’

Kazim was astonished. ‘Excuse me?’

‘You’ve got yourself on an assassination list,’ the old man told him brutally.

Kazim stood like a rock. ‘Your spies are very efficient,’ he said politely.

The Emir glared. ‘You’re very cool about it.’

Kazim shrugged again. ‘I take reasonable precautions.’

‘No, you don’t.’

That made Kazim blink. ‘What?’

‘Getting rid of your security and even your servants for a whole weekend is not taking reasonable precautions,’ announced the Emir.

Kazim was thunderstruck.

‘Isn’t that what you’re going to do?’

‘Invasion of privacy is an alien concept to you, isn’t it?’ said Kazim grimly.

‘I look out for my own.’

‘By keeping them under twenty-four-hour surveillance?’

The Emir ignored that. ‘If it’s a woman, bring her here, where you’ll be safe. You can have the Sultana’s Palace and all the privacy you want.’

A muscle worked in Kazim’s jaw. ‘It is not a woman,’ he said in a goaded voice.

It took a lot to get under controlled Kazim’s skin these days. For the first time in the interview the Emir grinned.

‘Better if it were. You work too hard.’

They both knew that Kazim had not visited his allotted rooms in the Emir’s palace for years. He had come straight from the airport to this meeting and the Emir knew that, in all probability, the private jet was being refuelled even as they spoke.

The Emir had learned the hard way that if it came to a battle of wills between them, Kazim would walk away without a backward look if he thought he was in the right. But this was more than their usual battle of wills. Suddenly he was not the Emir; he was just a man, desperately worried for his grandson’s safety.

‘At least keep up security at Serenata Place.’ It was as close to a plea as the old autocrat could manage.

Kazim was still smouldering at the thought of being spied on. ‘My arrangements to entertain my friends are my own business.’

His grandfather exploded. ‘Friends! What sort of friends want to put you in danger?’

‘Ordinary friends,’ retorted Kazim.

‘Pah!’

But there was a note of real despair in the old man’s voice. Kazim paused, then sat on the sofa and leaned forward slightly.

‘It is only for the weekend,’ he said in a softened voice.

‘Duration is irrelevant,’ said the Emir. ‘It would take a sniper less than a minute to kill you.’ He glared at Kazim as if he hated him.

‘I’ll have Tom do a complete sweep before the guests arrive on Friday,’ Kazim said gently. ‘And I’ll get the full security team in when the servants come on duty again.’

The Emir made a noise of undisguised contempt.

Kazim became noticeably less gentle. ‘But I can’t have my best friend’s engagement party spoiled by men with headsets and professional paranoia.’

‘A party! Have you even checked the guest list?’

Kazim was suddenly every inch the desert prince. ‘Dominic is my friend.’

‘I thought not,’ said his grandfather with angry satisfaction.

Kazim unbent a little. ‘Grandfather, try to understand. Dom and I go climbing together. He has held my life in his hands and I his. Of course I haven’t run checks on his friends.’

‘Cancel this party!’

Kazim’s gaze was level. ‘In my place, would you?’

He knew a lot of stories about his grandfather’s youth. Courage and loyalty featured highly. So did sheer wilfulness.

He lowered his eyes. ‘Everything I am I have inherited from my illustrious forebears,’ he murmured, the picture of a dutiful descendant.

The Emir narrowed his eyes. ‘There’s such a thing as being too clever,’ he said obliquely. ‘One day you’ll fall flat on that smug face of yours.’

Kazim’s dark eyes, so like the Emir’s, lit with sudden humour. ‘When that happens, I’ll make sure you know immediately,’ he assured his grandfather.

And took his leave.

His personal assistant was waiting for him beside the air-conditioned four-wheel drive in the palace’s security yard when Kazim emerged. His angry strides made his white robe billow.

‘Well?’

‘The old man has a spy in my household,’ said Kazim between his teeth. ‘He wants me to fill Serenata Place with twenty-four-hour security. Give me the keys.’

Martin’s heart sank. But he handed over the keys. Most of the time Kazim was open to reason, but these encounters with his grandfather tended to ignite his temper. He had been known to smoulder for days.

Martin fell into step beside him, shaking his head. ‘This is about Dominic’s weekend, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, he has a point.’

They had reached the car. Just about to swing himself up behind the steering wheel, Kazim paused.

‘Listen to me, Martin,’ he said deliberately. ‘I spend my public life surrounded by bodyguards and security timetables. Just once, I want to give a party like an ordinary man.’

Martin had worked for Kazim a long time. He knew when his boss was not going to change his mind.

They all did, the people who worked for Kazim. The households dreaded it; the office dealt with it; his personal staff called it Kazim in sheikh mode. It didn’t happen often. But when it did, he was immoveable.

Martin sighed. ‘It’s your decision.’

They got into the car. Kazim started the engine, checking the Global Positioning Unit.

‘If I can’t trust a man I climb with, I can’t trust anyone.’

Martin was sympathetic. But it was his job to remind Kazim of unwelcome truths. ‘You haven’t climbed with the girlfriend. Or the girlfriend’s girlfriends.’

Kazim turned his head in pure astonishment. ‘You think the Sons of Saraq will send some London fashionista to assassinate me?’

Martin gave a crack of laughter. ‘Put like that it doesn’t seem likely,’ he admitted.

Kazim put the car in drive. For the first time in days, his eyes were dancing. ‘All I can say is, she’d better be blonde!’

He stayed in that frivolous mood all through the flight back to London, to the despair of Martin and Tom Soltano, Kazim’s American Head of Security. By the time they had been in the air an hour, Martin Page was holding onto his temper so hard it squeaked. And then Kazim said something so outrageous that he exploded.

‘You are joking?’

Kazim raised his haughty profile from the file he was frowning through and his eyebrows rose.

‘I never joke about the diary.’

It was all too nearly true. In the last crowded years, Kazim had shuttled round the world, bringing his particular brand of high intellect and measured calm to conflicts from desert to inner city. It was an important schedule and a responsible one. But it did not make for a lot of laughs.

Martin, who organised most of it, knew all about that. Now he jumped up and flung a poster sized chart down on the table in front of Kazim. It showed his appointments, day by day, for six months ahead. Martin stabbed a finger at the week Kazim had been talking about. ‘Just look. You haven’t got time.’

Kazim stayed serene, as he always did. It was one of his most irritating characteristics. ‘Then I will make time.’

Martin swung round and looked at him broodingly. ‘Maybe you’re so good at making peace because everyone in the room ends up hating you.’

Tom Soltano gave a choke of laughter, which he converted quickly into a cough.

Kazim said calmly, ‘There is always a solution.’

But Martin was too wound up to stop. ‘Look at that month. New York, Paris, Saraq, Indonesia, Turkey. You can’t be certain you will even make Dominic’s wedding, let alone run the show.’

Kazim smiled. He had a beautiful smile. It lit his eyes, turning the stern face to melting charm in the flick of an eyelash. That smile made women adore him. Martin regarded it with deep suspicion.

‘But I am not going to run Dominic’s wedding,’ said Kazim mildly. ‘He has asked me to be his best man. That is all. I gather I stand there holding the wedding rings. How time-consuming can it be?’

Martin stared at him, speechless. American Tom was more forthright.

‘Have you been to an English wedding?’

Kazim al Saraq was brilliant and powerful, with an arrogantly sculpted profile and enough oil wells to mean that people generally did not argue with him. But the other two were his closest associates. They never remembered the oil wells and ignored the profile.

After a few seconds in which he tried and failed to outstare them, Kazim became ever so slightly defensive. ‘An English wedding? Naturally.’

‘A big one? With aunts in hats? Mothers in tears?’ pressed his security adviser with feeling.

Kazim’s lips twitched. ‘Weddings aren’t so different across cultures,’ he said dryly. ‘Mothers in tears are standard from Bombay to Baffin Island.’

All three men contemplated the thought. All three shuddered.

Then Tom pulled himself together. ‘I guess you’re right about mothers,’ he admitted. ‘But the British best man is unique. And it’s a lot more than holding a couple of rings, believe me. I’ve done it.’

Martin nodded. ‘Listen to the man.’

Kazim smiled reluctantly. ‘Okay. Go ahead. Terrify me.’

The other two looked at each other.

‘Well,’ said Tom with relish. ‘You’re responsible for the groom. I mean responsible. You have to give him the party of his life. Even when he’s married he supposed to look back on it as his last days of freedom. That sort of party.’

‘And then you sober him up the next day and get him to church,’ interjected Martin.

Kazim waved that aside. ‘Dominic will be in training for his South Pole expedition. There will be no drunkenness. So no sobering up.’ There was a gleam of fun that they hadn’t seen for ages. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

‘Okay,’ said Martin. ‘How’s this? He’ll have all his mates acting as ushers. You won’t know them and half of them won’t know each other, but you have to tell them what to do. And keep control of the pageboys and flower girls and bridesmaids.’

‘You mean: run the show,’ said Kazim, still infuriatingly calm. ‘I can do that. What else do I do with my life?’

Martin cast his eyes to heaven.

Tom said kindly, ‘You tell Martin and me what to do and we run the show.’

Martin stopped looking heavenwards. ‘That is so true.’

Tom was earnest. ‘Best man is a hands-on kinda thing, Kazim. I’d have to advise against it. You’d be out there as a sitting target.’

Martin nodded. ‘And you wouldn’t be able to wave a hand and say, “Let it be so”, either. You’d have to roll up your sleeves, spit on your hands and get stuck in yourself. No one to delegate to.’

Kazim remained unmoved.

Martin almost danced with irritation. But the Princeton man stuck to his point. ‘Like—you have to run the speeches at the meal after the ceremony,’ he pursued. ‘Hell, you have to make the worst one yourself.’

Kazim was suddenly frosty. ‘I make speeches all the time.’

‘Not like this,’ said Martin with feeling. ‘You have to tell jokes.’

For a moment Tom forgot about the threatening email in his Immediate Action folder. ‘Do you know any stories about Dominic Templeton-Burke that will make a bunch of strangers laugh, Kazim?’ he asked curiously.

For the first time, Kazim paled. The other two saw it with satisfaction.

‘And what about bridesmaids?’ added Tom, beginning to enjoy himself. ‘You do know you’re supposed to escort the chief bridesmaid down the aisle after the bride and groom and all the aunts say what a lovely couple you make.’

‘Yup,’ said Martin with relish. ‘There’ll be a party afterwards, right? Okay, then. You have to dance with the ugliest bridesmaid. And keep on dancing with her whenever she’s on her own.’

‘Make sure none of the pageboys throws up over the wedding presents,’ added Tom, who had indeed been a best man several times. ‘Introduce people. Keep the two mothers-in-law from each other’s throats and the fathers-in-law from the brandy bottle. Send the happy couple off with a smile, having made sure that nobody vandalises their car first.’

Kazim looked appalled. But he gave an uneasy laugh. ‘You’re exaggerating.’

Martin shook his head. ‘Not a word of a lie.’

Kazim straightened his shoulders. ‘Tom did it and survived. It can’t be that bad.’

The other two looked at each other again.

‘Worse,’ they said in unison.

They spent an enjoyable ten minutes telling him the worst wedding disasters either of them could remember.

‘Don’t think you can fly in, stand at the altar beside Dom for ten minutes and then fly out,’ Tom warned earnestly. ‘Can’t be done.’

‘Call him and tell him to get someone else,’ said Martin, not laughing any more. ‘It’s the only answer.’

But Kazim’s chin lifted. ‘I have given Dom my word.’

‘Yeah, but you weren’t thinking,’ began Tom.

‘My word.’

Martin knew that was the end of it. If Kazim made a promise, then nothing would sway him. Ever.

‘If I cannot do this, I am a smaller man than I should be.’

There was a little silence. The other two recognised defeat.

‘You’re a good man, Kazim,’ said Tom, moved.

Martin was no less moved. But he was still practical. ‘Frankly, my sympathies are with the ugliest bridesmaid.’