that’s not enough time,’ she managed, past the constriction in her throat. What exactly had she just agreed to? Because she was starting to feel like a mouse again. A very timid, overwhelmed mouse, in the presence of a large, extremely predatory lion.
‘Anything you need will be provided for you,’ he said, cutting off any more protests by lifting the phone back to his ear and striding away down the corridor, with the two bodyguards flanking him.
Cat watched his tall figure disappear round the corner, her breath locked in her lungs and her stomach free-falling off the cliff without the rest of her.
Problem was, she hadn’t had the chance to jump off this particular cliff—because she’d just been pushed.
CAT ARRIVED AT the private airfield outside Cambridge four and a half hours later, still dazed from her meeting with the Narabian ruler.
Is this actually happening?
The arc lights from the airfield hangar illuminated a sleek private jet painted in the gold and green colours of the desert kingdom’s flag.
The driver, who had arrived on the dot of eight o’clock at her flat on campus, hauled her borrowed rucksack out of the back of the limousine and escorted Cat across the airfield to the plane’s steps.
A man appeared at the aircraft’s door, dressed in a robe and a traditional Narabian headdress. He lifted the battered bag off the chauffeur’s shoulder and ushered her onto the plane, introducing himself as Abdallah, one of the Sheikh’s personal servants.
She was led through the cabin—the plush leather seats and polished teak tables offset by thick wool carpeting—into a private bedroom at the end of the plane.
‘You will be served dinner in here once we are airborne,’ the man said in perfect English, putting her bag onto one of the cabin’s armchairs. She stifled the sting of embarrassment at the sight of the hastily packed rucksack marring the butter-soft leather upholstery. ‘Suitable clothing has been made available for your stay in Narabia,’ Abdallah announced, his gaze flicking discreetly over her attire—and making her acutely aware of the battered boots, jeans and second-hand sweater she hadn’t had a chance to change out of. There was no censure in his tone, but still she felt impossibly awkward and ill-prepared. Especially when the servant slid open the door of a built-in wardrobe to reveal an array of dark flowing robes.
‘His Excellency, His Divine Majesty, has asked that you dress appropriately when leaving the plane—and limit your questions to myself or the other palace staff at all times.’
Cat nodded mutely, her nervousness accompanied by a tingle of irritation. It seemed His Divine Majesty was used to giving orders and having them obeyed without question. But how was she going to be able to do the research she needed to do on Narabia’s customs and culture if she was not able to be a free agent?
‘Is Mr Khan on the plane?’ she asked.
The man’s eyebrows rose a fraction before he spoke. ‘His Excellency, His Divine Majesty, the Sheikh of Narabia is flying the plane, Dr Smith. He has asked me to assist you in any way you desire.’
The tightness around her ribcage eased at the thought she wouldn’t have to see Zane Khan again until they landed. But then she felt disappointed in herself.
This was going to be an adventure. An adventure she would one day be able to tell her grandchildren. Events had moved much faster than she was comfortable with. But was that really a bad thing?
Impulsiveness was a trait she’d quashed throughout her childhood and teenage years—and she’d persuaded herself it was a good thing she hadn’t had the chance to quash it this time.
Unfortunately, that didn’t make what lay ahead of her any less intimidating or overwhelming. And Zane Khan’s presence did make it that much harder to process, because she didn’t seem to be able to breathe properly when he was near her—let alone process her thoughts. But his decision to start dictating her every move before they’d even left the UK did not bode well for her work.
She wanted to do a thorough job. Which meant she would have to get up the guts to confront His Divine Majesty if she had to.
‘We will be landing in Narabia at eight tomorrow morning,’ Abdallah informed her, his implacable gaze revealing nothing. ‘His Excellency, His Divine Majesty, will speak with you then, before we proceed to the Sheikh’s palace.’
Cat’s pulse hammered her collarbone. The Sheikh’s palace had been built over five hundred years ago on a natural spring, and its architectural splendour was rumoured to rival that of the Taj Mahal, but no photographs existed of it. Only a few pencil drawings done by a British explorer in the nineteen twenties.
She would be the first outsider to see it in generations. She took a deep breath and let it out again to contain the leap of excitement.
Strike one for impulsiveness.
‘Thank you, I look forward to seeing it,’ she said, barely able to stifle her grin as Abdallah excused himself and left.
Her breathing clogged again though, as the plane’s engines rumbled to life. She strapped herself into the leather passenger seat and imagined Zane Khan’s long fingers handling the controls. Her stomach lifted into her throat as the plane raced down the tarmac and rose into the night sky above Cambridge.
There was a three-hour time difference between the UK and Narabia, which gave her approximately nine hours to figure out how she was going to handle her interaction with His Divine Majesty the next time she saw him.
She counted her breaths in and out, as the lights of Cambridge disappeared under the cover of clouds.
Not hyperventilating would be an excellent start.
After a three-course dinner—consisting of Narabian delicacies in a tantalising combination of African and Middle Eastern flavours—Cat managed a fitful four hours’ sleep on the luxurious bed. The last time she woke, to the efficient purr of the plane’s engines, the desert landscape was visible through the cabin windows, only a few thousand feet below.
With only an hour till they landed she rushed her shower—while struggling to get her head around the idea of having a shower on a plane—then dug out her meagre supply of make-up. She rarely wore it, but in this instance the smudge of eyeshadow and the slick of lip gloss should help boost her confidence and her courage.
Donning one of the robes proved a great deal more challenging. The flowing floor-length garment was made of gossamer-thin black silk with stunning gold embroidery at the cuffs and hem. The fitted bodice hooked up the front right to the neck, and included a matching scarf. But what exactly was she supposed to wear underneath it? Was the robe supposed to be worn as a dress or an overgarment?
Even in spring, the desert kingdom would be extremely hot. But the only other items in the closet were other similar robes and an array of delicate underwear. Heat incinerated her cheeks as she ran her fingertips over the transparent lace.
Just the thought of wearing the skimpy undergarments with only a thin layer of silk to cover them in front of Zane Khan had her hyperventilating again.
