CHAPTER FIVE
SAPPHIRES DRIFTED IN a shimmering stream from the Sheikh’s fingers. Backlit by candlelight, the precious gems blazed with blue fire, dazzling fifteen-year-old Millie Dillinger. Seeing her mother cuddled up to the Sheikh had the opposite effect. Toad-like and repellent, he was hardly the dashing hero Millie had imagined when her mother had said they were both to be guests at a most important royal engagement.
Millie had just stepped on board the Sheikh’s superyacht after being brought straight from school in a limousine with diplomatic plates, and found this a very different and frightening world. Sumptuous yes. Everywhere she looked there were more obvious signs of money than she’d seen in her entire life, but, like the Sheikh, the interior of his vast, creaking superyacht was sinister, rather than enticing. She kept glancing over her shoulder to check for escape routes, knowing it wouldn’t be easy to go anywhere with heavily armed guards, dressed in black tunics and baggy trousers, standing on either side of her, with yet more posted around the room.
Much in Millie’s life was uncertain, but this was frightening. Her mother was unpredictable, and it was always up to Millie to try and keep things on an even keel. That meant getting them out of here, if she could. This big room was known as the grand salon, but when she’d seen pictures in magazines of similar vessels, they were light and elegant, luxurious spaces, not dark and stale like this. Heavy drapes had been closed to shut out the light, and it smelled bad. Like an old wardrobe, Millie thought, wrinkling her nose.
The Sheikh and his guests were staring at her, making her feel she was part of a show, and it was not a performance she wanted to take part in. Seeing her mother in the arms of an old man was bad enough. He might be royalty, and he might be seated in the place of honour on a bank of silken cushions beneath a golden canopy, but he was repulsive. This had to be their host, His Magnificence Sheikh Saif al Busra bin Khalifa. Millie’s mother, Roxy Dillinger, had been hired to sing at his party, and had asked Millie to join her. Why? Millie wondered.
‘Hello, little girl.’ The Sheikh spoke in a wheedling tone that made Millie shudder. ‘You are most welcome here,’ he said, beckoning her closer.
She refused to move as her mother prompted in a slurred stage whisper, ‘Her name is Millie.’
As if names were unimportant to him, the Sheikh beckoned again, and more impatiently this time. Millie stared at her mother, willing her to make her excuses so that they could leave. Her mother refused to take the hint. She was still so beautiful, but sad for much of the time, as if she knew her days in the sun were over. Millie wanted to protect her, and quivered with indignation when some of the guests began to snigger behind their hands. Sometimes it felt as if she were the grown up and her mother the child.
‘See, Millie,’ her mother exclaimed as she raised and slopped a glass of champagne down an evening dress that had seen better days. ‘This is the type of life you can have if you follow me onto the stage.’
Millie shrank at the thought. Her dream was to be a marine engineer. This was more like Walpurgis Night than a theatrical performance, with every witch and warlock gathered to carouse and feast at the feet of the devil. Candlelight flickered eerily over the faces of the guests, and an air of expectation gripped them. What were they waiting for? Millie wondered. She didn’t belong here, and neither did her mother, and if her mother started to sing it would be worse. A careless approach to her health had ruined Roxy Dillinger’s renowned singing voice. She had squeezed herself into a shoddy and revealing floor-length gown, but Millie knew that the best she would be able to manage was a few cigarette-scarred songs for people who didn’t care that Roxy had once been known as the Nightingale of London.
Millie cared. She cared deeply and passionately for her mother, and her protective instinct rose like a lion for its cub. Ignoring the impatience of the Sheikh, she held out her hands. ‘It’s time to go home. Please, Mum—’
‘Roxy,’ her mother hissed, shooting a warning glance at Millie. ‘My name is Roxy.’
‘Please... Roxy,’ Millie amended reluctantly. Whatever it took, she would get them out of here somehow.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ her mother snapped, staring round at her less than admiring public. ‘I haven’t sung yet. Tell you what,’ she said in a change of tone. ‘Why don’t you sing for us, Millie? She has a lovely voice,’ she added to the Sheikh. ‘Not as strong and pure as mine, of course,’ she added, snuggling up to him.
The way the Sheikh was looking at Millie made her skin crawl, but she refused to back down. ‘If you come home with me now, I’ll buy cakes on the way,’ she coaxed her mother.
Unpleasant laughter greeted this remark. A gesture from the Sheikh silenced his guests. ‘I have world-renowned pastry chefs on board, little girl. You and your mother can eat your fill—once you’ve sung for your supper.’
Millie suspected the Sheikh had something else in mind other than singing. With her plaits, spectacles and serious demeanour, she would certainly be a novelty for his sophisticated guests, who had started to chant her name. Far from this being encouragement, as her mother seemed to think, Millie knew it was mockery of the cruellest kind. Her neck burned with embarrassment as she begged, ‘Please, Mum. You don’t need the Sheikh’s money. I’ll take an extra shift at the laundry—’
Screeches of laughter drowned out her voice. Desperate now, she glanced longingly in the direction
