he slid noiselessly from the bed. Silently, he collected his discarded clothes, but not before he noticed the silver beads from her ripped dress which lay scattered on the marble floor. With a shudder he imagined the reaction of the palace maids when they arrived to clean his room in the morning. But what was the alternative? That he should start crawling around on his hands and knees, trying to pick them up himself?
In the seclusion of the bathroom, he rapidly pulled on his clothes and from there he made a call to his aide.
Benedict picked up on the second ring. ‘Highness?’
Hassan’s voice was low. ‘Prepare the plane for a flight back to Kashamak. I want to leave as soon as possible.’
‘But, Highness, you’re supposed to be attending the lunch tomorrow.’
‘Well, I won’t be,’ said Hassan flatly. ‘I’ll email Alex when I get back. Oh, and Benedict, one more thing.’
‘Highness?’
‘Have someone bring some women’s clothes to my suite first thing in the morning, will you? And before you make any wisecracks, no, I haven’t suddenly acquired an appetite for cross-dressing.’
Benedict didn’t miss a beat. ‘Anything in particular you require, Highness?’
‘Something which would be suitable for the lady in question to wear back to her hotel,’ said Hassan, pausing as an inconveniently erotic stab of memory made him recall the naked body currently sprawled out on his rumpled sheets. ‘American dress size six, I’d imagine.’
CHAPTER FOUR
ELLA stirred, lost in that disorientating split second between sleeping and waking. Where was she? Luxuriously, she stretched her arms above her head. Certainly not at her house in Tooting, that was for sure, because the thunder of lorries past the window was noticeably absent.
The trill of birdsong alerted her at exactly the same time as she registered the soft, moist ache between her legs. And the warm sunlight which bathed her skin. Giving a dreamy little murmur of contentment, she glanced down to see that she was completely naked, and that there were tiny blue marks blooming on her breasts, as if someone had been grazing at them with their teeth. And that was when her memory came rushing back.
Someone had been grazing them with their teeth! And a lot more besides.
Sheikh Hassan Al Abbas, to be precise.
With a sharp intake of breath, she grabbed the sheet and pulled it up to her chin. Lying perfectly still, she listened for the sound of movement. Her eyes stole to the other side of the enormous bed, to the rumpled indentation, where Hassan had lain.
So she hadn’t imagined it.
Heat flared over her bare skin as vivid images clicked their way into her mind. The way she’d writhed beneath him and begged him to make love to her. The way she’d shuddered out his name as he’d made her climax.
She flushed with remembered pleasure. The first and only man ever to have brought her to orgasm and it had to have been him.
Her heart pounded. So where the hell was he now?
The bathroom, most probably. She raked her fingers through her tousled hair as she prepared herself for an embarrassing encounter with the man with whom she’d had wild sex the night before.
How could she? How could she have fallen into bed with a man who’d made no secret of his contempt for her and her family? Why, he’d barely had to try before she’d allowed him to practically rip her clothes off. Her eyes travelled to the silver dress which lay in a sad little heap on the floor, looking like last year’s Christmas decoration, the tiny beads scattered in all directions.
And yet, hadn’t he been the most fantastic and unselfish lover, hadn’t he destroyed all her doubts and uncertainties along the way? Beneath his expert caresses and amazing lovemaking, he’d made her feel things she’d never felt before. Desire and hunger and fulfilment. Like a real woman instead of the frozen and uptight version she’d believed herself to be.
She glanced at the watch which was still on her wrist, appalled to see that it was gone nine. How ironic that the longest sleep she’d had in years should be on the morning when she wasn’t even supposed to be in the royal palace. She was supposed to be tucked up in that fancy hotel with the rest of her family. What on earth would they say when she didn’t turn up for a post-mortem of the party over their breakfast eggs?
Where was he?
But even as the true extent of the situation in which she now found herself sank in, Ella made a decision. It had happened and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. It had been amazing and unexpected and she wasn’t going to act all shame-faced and cowed. They had both been responsible for what had taken place last night.
And if he decided that he had enjoyed it so much that he wanted to do it all over again, what then? Ella stared at the ceiling, unable to prevent the rush of memories from flooding back. Wouldn’t she be only too happy to start over, so they could prove to each other that first impressions needn’t necessarily count?
‘Hassan?’ she called softly.
No answer.
She wondered if he was in the shower, perhaps lathering creamy soap over that honed, olive skin. Suddenly, she could imagine only too well what that might look like. The hard, flat planes of his body. The powerful legs, the taut stomach and the dark mass of hair which grew around his manhood. She closed her eyes. She wasn’t going to take herself there. It had been … well, it had been absolutely fantastic. But she wasn’t going to read too much into it, not at this stage. All she wanted was to get back to her family as soon as possible, and she needed his help to do that.
‘Hassan!’ Her voice was louder now but there was still no reply, when just at that moment came a rap at the door.
What should she do?
Ignore it? Wait for Hassan to come out of the bathroom and deal with it himself? Surely, the fewer people who saw her here, the better.
But the rap was repeated and there came the distinct and undeniable sound of someone saying her name.
‘Miss Jackson?’
Ella screwed up her nose in confusion. That was her. No way on earth she could deny it. How the hell did they know she was here? Wrapping the sheet around her like a fancy-dress version of a Grecian goddess, she padded barefoot to the door, pulling it open and gazing suspiciously through the small crack. Outside stood a tall man she didn’t recognise, with a polite smile on his face and what looked like some dry-cleaning hanging over his arm.
‘Miss Jackson?’ he said again.
Ella screwed her eyes up. ‘Who are you?’
‘You don’t know me. My name is Benedict Austin and I work as an aide to Sheikh Hassan Al Abbas. He asked me to make sure that you got this.’
With this, he handed her the package and Ella blinked. ‘What is it?’
‘You’ll find some clothes in there. The sheikh was most insistent that you have them, since I understand
