off the restlessness which had haunted her since the night they’d had dinner with Zahid. Up until that point, she had been relatively contented with her lot. She’d been anticipating being a new wife, with a new life ahead of her—but now everything had changed and, deep down, she knew exactly why. It was all because she had seen the dashing desert king again, after years of absence.
Images of his hawklike features kept flashing into her mind at the most inopportune moments. She had found herself filling up her car at the petrol station and wondering if Khayarzah might have supplied the fuel. Last night she’d even dreamt about him—some stupid, schoolgirlish fantasy which seemed to involve him riding in the desert on one of his favoured black stallions and scooping her into the saddle in front of him …
And this morning she had woken up with her heart racing and an odd, squirmy feeling at the pit of her stomach—plus a terrible feeling of guilt that she could feel that way about him, when she was planning to marry Simon.
She prepared for Zahid’s visit with the same care she’d employed when she’d been growing up and he and his father used to stop by. Nowadays she was rather more efficient at cleaning the house, and the home-made cake which filled the kitchen with the smell of lemons didn’t have a great big crater in the centre.
The pale roses which Simon had bought were already dead and so Frankie put on her old raincoat and went outside to look for something to replace them. Although she hadn’t dared tell her fiancé, she much preferred home-grown flowers to the forced, hothouse variety—and you could always find something suitable which was already growing in the garden.
Especially this garden, she thought as she looked around and breathed in the damp, autumnal air. How she loved this garden—and how she would miss it when she moved into the town house which Simon had his eye on, where they all had nothing but a small, paved ‘easy-care’ patio area.
The misty atmosphere of the November day had created diamonds on the cobwebs and fallen leaves lay like scattered toffee wrappers on the wet grass. Taking out her pair of secateurs, she began to snip at some of the hips and berry laden branches and soon her basket was half-full. She would cram them in that big copper pot and the dark green foliage and scarlet berries would contrast against it quite perfectly and brighten up the kitchen.
The sound of a powerful engine disturbed her thoughts and, turning round, she saw Zahid’s sports car growling its way up the drive before coming to a halt next to her own, rather beaten-up old car.
Frankie watched as he got out—and once again she was reminded of his chameleon-like capacity. Today’s look was casual and expensive and very, very compelling. Faded blue jeans clung to his powerful legs and beneath his leather jacket she could see a dark cashmere sweater, which echoed the coal-black of his hair. She let her gaze linger on his stern expression and her heart gave a curious little flutter before her fingers curled tightly around the secateurs she was holding. What kind of a disloyal and horrible woman was she, if the sight of a man who wasn’t her fiancé should fill her with an overwhelming sense of excitement? What was the matter with her?
Putting her basket down, she went across the damp grass to meet him, her smile feeling forced. ‘Hello, Zahid.’
‘Francesca.’ He looked down at her, thinking how young and innocent she looked today. And much more like the Francesca he knew of old, with that big old raincoat and a pair of wellington boots which had seen better days. But the dark, mist-sprinkled hair still hung in a silken fall over her shoulders and her eyes were still that newly discovered shade of blue. And she was no longer young, he thought grimly. Nor innocent. He felt an odd twist of his heart and a sense of anger building inside him, but he forced himself to control it. ‘Has Simon recovered after the other night?’
‘Yes, he was fine. Had a bit of a headache the next day. He says to say thank you for dinner—and hopes he wasn’t out of order.’
Black eyes bored into her. ‘Does he always drink that much?’
‘Of course he doesn’t!’ She saw the look of censure on his face and wondered why he had to be so judgemental—had he never had a few drinks too many? She supposed he hadn’t—for none of the Al Hakam family drank alcohol, did they? ‘He was probably just nervous, meeting you. You must be used to that, Zahid—it’s not every day that someone like Simon gets to have dinner with a real-live sheikh.’
‘Maybe not—but it was naïve and inappropriate behaviour in the circumstances. Especially for a man of—how old is he, Francesca?’
‘He’s twenty-eight—he’s hardly about to start drawing his pension!’ Frankie frowned when he gave no answering smile. ‘Have you come here today just to talk about Simon?’
‘Actually, yes. I have.’
She stared at him. ‘Well, if we’re talking inappropriate—then wanting to discuss my fiancé with me behind his back surely falls into that category? Okay, so he got a little drunk—big deal! These things happen sometimes—they probably happen in Khayarzah, if you only knew it!’
‘But nobody there would dare to get drunk in front of the king!’ Zahid snapped, before drawing in a deep breath, reminding himself that he had come here today with a purpose. Not a particularly palatable one, it was true—but he needed to muster up every diplomatic atom in his body if he was to limit the emotional damage his discovery was going to have on Francesca. ‘Shall we take a walk around the garden?’
At this, she smiled. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to go inside, into the warmth? I’ve made you a cake.’
He felt the unfamiliar stab of guilt. She’d spent the morning making him a cake—just like old times. While he had spent the morning accruing information which would …
‘No cake, thank you.’ He saw the brief look of hurt which flitted over her pale face and forced himself to breathe out a platitude. ‘I’m sorry if you went to any trouble.’
‘Not even your favourite lemon?’
‘Francesca—’ He paused, reluctant to open the can of grotesquely wriggling worms he was in possession of. ‘Tell me how you met Simon.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ Couldn’t he let this go? ‘Does it really matter?’
‘Yes.’ His gaze was steady. ‘It matters a lot.’
She stared at him, remembering about what he’d said the other day. Something about it being his ‘duty’ to meet Simon. And if that was the case, then wasn’t he taking duty a little too far? ‘Is this another quasi-paternal question?’ she questioned.
Paternal? Zahid winced. God help him but he didn’t feel in the least bit paternal at the moment—not when those wide-spaced eyes looked so blue and so deep that he felt he might be able to dive into them. ‘Just answer the question,’ he said unevenly.
She sighed, giving into the inevitable—sensing that he wouldn’t give her any peace until she provided him with the information he wanted. ‘I met him when he came to the house after my father died.’
Zahid nodded. ‘So he knew your father? He came to pay his respects?’
Francesca bit her lip because the next piece of information had never sat very easily with her—even when Simon had explained that people in the business world needed to be outgoing in order to keep themselves afloat.
‘Not
