gesture— because how could she tell Kat what was troubling her, and what could she tell her?
Oh, I had a fling with a sheikh until he discovered that I’d done some topless photos, and then he…he…
Little beads of sweat studded her forehead and she wiped them away with an angry hand. How awful it sounded when pared down to the basic facts.
She wouldn’t tell Kat. Because if she told Kat about Hashim then that would give him an identity which would live on for ever. Kat would want to know all about him—who wouldn’t? No, she wouldn’t tell anyone. She would do what he wanted her to do and then hopefully he would leave her alone.
Hopefully?
That was part of the trouble, too. He had forced her into this corner and yet a part of her wanted to impress him. To engineer the most wonderful dinner party for him and dazzle him—leaving him with an altogether better memory of her than he currently had.
And wasn’t there another part of her—a stubborn and stupid and romantic one—which wished that she could just go back and rewrite history?
Sometimes she started thinking about how it might have been if she’d never done those photos—but then she made herself stop. Thinking like that was a pretty pointless exercise. If she hadn’t been able to come up with the money quickly then her mother’s life would have collapsed around her—and how could she have lived with that?
And even if he hadn’t found out it would never have been anything more than a fling—for how could it have been? What had she been imagining—that he’d buy her a whopping great ring and marry her, take her back to Qudamah as the Sheikh’s wife? Sienna took a mouthful of too-hot coffee and winced.
‘Steady,’ warned Kat, only half jokingly.
‘Oh, listen—there’s that wretched phone again!’ Sienna leapt to her feet and gave her housemate an expression which said sorry. But in truth she was glad to get away—to keep herself busy instead of fending off Kat’s concerned questions.
‘Posh Parties,’ she said as she picked the phone up, and then gripped onto it with whitening knuckles.
‘Hello, Sienna,’ Hashim said softly.
He had the kind of voice which made your skin shiver in spite of yourself, and Sienna closed her eyes in despair. She hadn’t spoken to him since that night in the restaurant, and sometimes she had half imagined that she’d dreamt the whole thing up.
But life was rarely as kind as that.
‘Hello, Hashim,’ she said calmly.
Most people might have asked if it was convenient to talk, but not him.
‘It is done?’ he questioned, watching as a blonde on the other side of the foyer crossed one slim, silk- stockinged leg over another and slanted him a smile.
‘Everything is arranged,’ she said mechanically. ‘You got my photos of the venue?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you are happy with the menu plans?’
‘Perfectly happy.’
‘Drinks seven-thirty to eight, dinner at eight-thirty.’ She hesitated. ‘Obviously I will be down there earlier, to oversee everything—but do you…do you want me to stay until the end?’
‘Most assuredly I do,’ he said smoothly, and unseen a slow smile of anticipation curved the cruel line of his mouth. ‘And you will dress to party, Sienna. I want you to blend in. Or stand out,’ he added mockingly, a jerk of longing arousing him as he imagined her baring her white and perfect breasts. And she would. Oh, she would…. ‘The choice is yours.’
She opened her mouth to tell him that she didn’t need advice on what to wear—until she realised that antagonising him would get her nowhere. Grit your teeth and bear it, and it will soon all be over.
‘I shall look forward to it,’ she said crisply.
Hashim’s smile became hard-edged. He could see the blonde sliding her tongue wetly over her lips but he turned away. He had never been turned on by the very obvious—and besides, his thoughts were given over to one seduction alone.
‘Let’s hope it lives up to our expectations,’ he murmured, and his black eyes dilated, like a cat’s. ‘I’ll see you on Saturday.’ Abruptly he terminated the connection, before the sultry throb of desire could be transmuted to his voice. Because he wanted her to be relaxed, her guard down.
Sienna replaced the phone and stood staring at it for long, countless moments. After Saturday it would all be over.
And suddenly she couldn’t wait.
Clunking up the grand drive in her battered old car, Sienna arrived at Bolland Hall just after teatime and let herself in.
‘Hello!’ she called, but there was no response. She walked through the arched hallway into the dining room and saw the table laid for dinner. She was unable to resist a smile of satisfaction. It was perfect.
Beside Georgian silver and priceless crystal, crisp damask napkins were folded into pristine rectangles and tall candles were ready to be lit.
Everything was as it should be.
There was a stunning floral centrepiece. Fragrant flowers of pink and ivory, dotted with the occasional yellow rose—chosen especially because they were the Sheikh’s colours. The colours his jockeys wore. The colour of the Qudamah flag—pink and cream, with a tiny splash of gold in one corner. She breathed in their scent appreciatively.
Similar arrangements of flowers were dotted around the place, and Sienna made her way through the silent house, briefly wondering where all the staff had disappeared to—but they were probably having a well-earned break, since they had clearly been busy.
In the vast kitchen, berry-dark and luscious individual summer puddings lay cooling in the fridge, along with marinades and champagne. Crisp meringues sat snowy-light on a tray next to a bunch of perfect grapes and a dish of white peaches. Several bottles of claret had already been decorked, ready to be carefully poured into the eighteenth-century crystal decanters.
Sienna smiled again. Let Sheikh Hashim Al Aswad try to find any fault with her arrangements!
She heard the crunch of gravel on the drive and wondered if the staff were back. She glanced at her watch. Probably. But as she glanced out of the window she saw a low and screamingly expensive black sports car drawing to a halt. Well, if that was one of the staff then she needed to switch career—and sharpish!
She clip-clopped her way into the hall as the doorbell rang and pulled open the door, her face and her body freezing as she saw Hashim himself standing there, a lazy smile touching the corners of his lips.
Sienna swallowed. She had somehow expected to see him clad in an impeccable dinner jacket, with black tie and snowy white shirt, and dark, tapered trousers which would make his legs look endless. The Western style he seemed to favour the majority of the time.
But he was not. Tonight he was dressed in clothes which heralded far more exotic climes…in fine silk the colour
