George, had come to stand beside her, staring out of the window at the important arrival.
‘He is, love. The Sheikh of Barakhara.’
‘But he’s not wearing the right sort of clothes!’
‘No…’
A faint smile touched Abbie’s mouth, warming and easing a little of the anxiety from her grey eyes. At just twelve, George was still young enough to think in the simplest terms. Their imposing visitor was a sheikh and, as such, he should be wearing the flowing robes that were the traditional dress of men from his country. Instead, this sheikh was dressed in an immaculate steel-grey silk suit, superbly tailored, hugging the width of straight shoulders that had no need of extra padding to make them, or the chest beneath them, look broad and strong. The fine material slid over the powerful muscles of long, long legs, clung to the lean line of his hips, as he moved forward to where her father now stood on the doorstep, waiting to greet him. Under the afternoon sun, hair black as a raven’s wing gleamed glossily sleek and the hand that he lifted to brush it back from his wide forehead had the same smoothly golden bronzed tone as the skin on that devastating face.
‘So he’s not a real sheikh?’
‘Yes—yes, he is, sweetheart. But I think he only wears those robes in his own country.’
‘In the desert—when he’s riding on his camel?’
‘Yes, I expect so.’
Another wider smile curved her lips at her young brother’s innocent questions.
‘So he is a real sheikh—and he can help Andy?’
Abbie’s smile vanished, evaporating rapidly at this reminder of just why the Sheikh was here, and the seriousness of the situation that had brought about his visit.
‘Yes, George. I hope so. I really hope so.’
‘Daddy will talk to him,’ George asserted.
‘Daddy will talk to him,’ Abbie echoed.
But her voice didn’t have the conviction she wished for. Her shadowed eyes were watching the scene beyond the window, seeing the way that the Sheikh strolled towards the door, handsome head held arrogantly high, keen dark eyes scanning his surroundings assessingly.
He held out his hand to her father courteously enough and the clasp seemed firm and sure. But watching James Cavanaugh intently, sensitive to every move, every change of expression, Abbie saw the way the older man almost bowed, instinctively inclining his head in respect for his royal visitor. The gesture worried her. It made her fear that her father had been overawed by this much younger man. She didn’t want to think about the possible implications of that.
They needed her father to be fully in control of the situation. He had to be able to cope, to discuss the matter calmly and confidently. Andy’s future depended on it.
The thought of her brother, only just nineteen, alone and afraid, locked away in one of Barakhara’s darkest, most secure jails made her shiver in fear, her nerves tying themselves into tight, cruel knots in her stomach. Andy had been foolish, stupid, totally irresponsible—but he wasn’t bad. He’d made a mistake—a very serious one, admittedly, but a mistake was all it was. And if he was given a second chance…
He had to be given a second chance! After all, that was why the Sheikh was here.
Surely he wouldn’t have travelled all this way just to tell them that he wasn’t prepared to show her brother any leniency?
Leaning forward a little, she tugged slightly at the fall of the elderly lace curtain that shielded the window, twitching it aside so that she could see more clearly. Then froze as the small movement caught the corner of the Sheikh’s eye, causing him to turn his head sharply, narrowed eyes hunting the source of the distraction. In a heart-stopping second the black, black gaze locked with silver-grey—and held.
‘Oh, help!’ Abbie couldn’t hold back the exclamation of something close to horror.
If she had been a small scurrying mouse that had suddenly looked up and found itself the centre of the concentrated attention of some hunting hawk the shiver of apprehension that raced through her couldn’t have been any more fearful. Abbie felt her throat close on a spasm of pure panic and her nerveless fingers let the curtain drop as she stepped back sharply, dodging out of the firing line of that laser-like scrutiny as quickly as she could.
But even so she felt the burn of his gaze hot on her skin, the sense of shock and bewilderment lingering as the net curtain fell back into place, shielding her once again from those sharp, assessing eyes.
Dear God, please let these negotiations be over and done with soon, she prayed silently. For no logical reason whatsoever, she was suddenly assailed by the feeling that she would not be safe while this man was in the house.
She just wanted him to go—be on his way—and out of her life for good.
And yet…she admitted as she stepped back as far out of sight as possible.
And yet she had never seen a man like him in her life. In spite of her fears, she knew that she would find it impossible to erase the image of his stunning features that was etched onto her mind.
If only they could have met some other time, in some other way.
Who the devil was that?
Sheikh Malik bin Rashid Al’Qaim wasn’t a man easily distracted from his purpose. If an issue demanded his attention, it got it—wholeheartedly. And the subject he had to discuss with James Cavanaugh was one that needed wholesale concentration. But, just for a moment, the sudden flash of movement, the twitch of a net curtain over to his left had caught his eye. He had turned…
And found himself transfixed, his gaze caught and held by the blonde who was staring at him in open curiosity from the ground floor window.
A stunning blonde. Tall and slim, with sleek, smooth hair and a figure shapely enough to distract his attention even further just for a moment. Even the ridiculously old-fashioned and unflattering cotton apron wrapped around her and tied tightly at her slender waist couldn’t disguise the very sensual appeal of the feminine curves it covered.
Curves he would like a closer look at. Very much closer.
But even as the thought crossed his mind the blonde’s eyes widened in something like embarrassment and she stepped back hastily, letting the lace curtain drop between them once again, concealing her from him.
No matter.
Malik crushed down the sudden twist of disappointment, the murmur of protest from senses that had been woken by the swift glimpse of the unknown blonde. He had more important matters on his mind. The woman—clearly a maid or some other home help that the Cavanaughs employed—would keep.
‘Would you care for something to drink—some refreshment after your journey?’
Swiftly Malik turned his attention back to what James Cavanaugh—Sir James Cavanaugh, he reminded himself—was saying.
‘That would be very welcome,’ he acknowledged and allowed himself to be escorted into the cool shade of the big oak-panelled hall, their footsteps echoing on the ornately
