opened her mouth as if to contradict him then snapped it shut. ‘Thank you. And thank you for your hospitality. The rooms are marvellous. I feel very privileged to be able to stay in the palace while I research.’
Asim shook his head, watching dismay tighten her features. ‘Enjoy the accommodation but don’t thank me so soon, Ms Fletcher. You’ll be leaving tomorrow.’
He left before her inevitable protest. Yet he was surprised she didn’t scurry after him.
He carried the image of her hurt eyes until he finally slept. Then he dreamed of a slim, pale-skinned woman laid out on his bed, awaiting his pleasure. Her hair was the tawny colour of the Jazeeri lion for which the country was famous and her voice husky as she pleaded for him to do all the things his burning body desired.
* * *
Asim paced his grandmother’s sitting room. He’d slept badly and dealing with the Emir and his precious niece this morning had sapped his patience. He’d walked a razor-sharp line between hospitality and discretion and hadn’t relaxed until he’d finally farewelled his guests. The assembled crowd’s gaze had been like a dagger between his shoulders every time he’d even looked at the woman. She, devil take her, had cast him sultry looks and leaned close whenever they spoke.
He sighed and propped one arm on the window embrasure. It was a relief to have the woman out of his palace.
Now he just had one more female to eject.
If only his grandmother wasn’t so obstinate about keeping her.
‘It won’t work. It’s naïve to think she can remain if we want to protect Samira.’ This time he’d keep her safe, keep control of the situation.
‘Of course it will work. I’ll see to it. They’ll be in separate parts of the palace complex and Ms Fletcher will be busy with her research. She strikes me as a woman of considerable focus.’
Asim looked at the little dumpling of a woman from whom, he suspected, he’d inherited his determination. He wished she’d been here in the palace during his boyhood. She’d have been a welcome addition to their unstable household with her brisk common sense and kind heart. But his mother hadn’t taken to her so despite centuries of custom his grandmother had retired to a summer palace in the foothills.
Yet for once Asim felt in sympathy with his departed mother. The Lady Rania, once fixed on an idea, was hard to budge.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, summoning patience.
‘It’s a recipe for disaster, putting a journalist under the same roof as a beautiful princess who’s on the run from the press.’
‘Ms Fletcher isn’t that sort of journalist. She’s not interested in kiss and tell affairs. She’s here for a real story. I told you about the book she wants to write.’
Yes, he’d heard about the book. The table near his grandmother just happened to be littered with articles Jacqueline Fletcher had published about women’s lives in Africa and East Asia. Clearly the woman was a workaholic. Given her demanding news job, he wondered how she’d found time.
‘You really think there’s a difference between a “news” journalist and the paparazzi?’ He couldn’t believe her naivety. ‘Let either one sniff a story and they’ll be onto it in a flash. Right now, Samira is news.’
‘Samira is always going to be news.’ His grandmother folded her arms. ‘With her wealth and looks it can’t be avoided. It’s a matter of managing that.’
‘You think having that woman here will help her manage the fallout?’ He couldn’t believe what he heard.
His grandmother fixed him with a shrewd stare. ‘I think the two matters are quite separate. I see no reason for you to be concerned. I’ve already had a security assessment done on Ms Fletcher.’
‘You have?’ So his grandmother hadn’t been as blindly trusting as he’d thought.
She nodded. ‘Her life’s an open book, and most of the pages are about work.’ She paused. ‘This project is important to her. She wants very strongly to make it a success. She won’t jeopardise that by biting the hand that feeds her.’
Asim choked back a comment about taking the money and running. The press would pay handsomely for candid snaps of his sister right now, and even more for an insider’s story on her state of mind, true or not.
‘But why write this book? She’s used to the quick adrenalin fix and high profile of current affairs. Why walk away from that at just twenty-eight? She’s on the way to big things.’ He’d done more checking of his own last night. ‘It’s too convenient.’
‘You’re too concerned with conspiracy theories, Asim. She and I have corresponded for some time. Even before Imran...’ The old lady sucked in a shuddering breath. Her fingers knotted in her lap. ‘He’d suggested she contact me and I believe she views it as her duty to your cousin to see it through.’
‘Duty?’ Asim bit out. ‘It’s a little late for that now he’s dead.’
His grandmother shook her head. ‘You can’t blame her for what happened. You read the reports. You know she was as much a victim as Imran.’
Reluctantly he nodded. Logic told him the old lady was right. But Jacqueline Fletcher’s presence here still felt wrong.
Not to Lady Rania. ‘How can I turn my back on her when it was the last thing Imran asked of me?’
Asim watched his grandmother battle tears and his gut clenched. In seconds the clever, feisty woman he loved was gone, replaced by a fragile, grieving old lady whose distress tore at him. He felt as if someone was slowly disembowelling him with a rusty spoon. She’d always seemed indomitable but his cousin’s untimely death had aged her as not even the loss of her son and daughter-in-law had.
Imran’s loss had shocked them all. But for his grandmother it was a blow from which Asim feared she’d never recover. Unless she had something else to focus on.
With a sigh, he sank onto the arm of her chair and covered her age-knotted hands. He knew he’d regret this.
‘You really want Jacqueline Fletcher here?’
Her hands stilled. ‘I promised Imran.’
In their family a promise was an unbreakable bond.
Imran and Jacqueline Fletcher. Just how close had they been? The question had taunted him through the long night.
Asim closed his eyes, thrusting aside the futile wish that his grandmother’s peace of mind could be achieved through other means. The only way forward was to take control of the situation, however unpalatable, and mould it into what you wanted.
‘And if she proves unworthy of your trust?’
‘I may be getting on in years, Asim, but I’m not in my dotage.’ The indignation in her tone was a relief. ‘I’m still a good judge of character. And talent.’ She gestured to the papers on the table. ‘Read those and tell me she’s not gifted. She’s got a journalist’s instinct for a story, but it’s tempered with humanity and respect.’
‘Respect?’
