would much rather state his business and get the whole thing out into the open so that they each knew where they stood, he reflected as he followed the older man through a door on the left and into a large bay-windowed room. A room that had obviously once been elegant and luxurious, but which now showed every sign of the sort of neglect and decay into shabbiness that came from a lack of ready cash to put things right.
He had spotted these indications of disrepair everywhere on the approach to this house. The ornate wrought iron gates had not had a coat of paint in years and were rusting and falling into decay, the fountain in the courtyard was coated in green moss and the flower beds were obviously unweeded and uncultivated.
The house itself might be huge and elegant, showing the way that this family had once held power and status in English society, but clearly the upkeep of their stately home was now beyond the means of the very limited income they possessed.
Which would make his task easier, he decided, watching his host fuss over his comfort in a way that did little to conceal the way that James was clearly a bundle of nerves. They would have little choice but to accept the offer he was here to make, and be grateful for it.
Malik just wished they didn’t have to go though this pantomime of welcome and polite small talk first. The friendliness his host was now displaying would vanish soon enough. James Cavanaugh was not going to like what he had to say—not one little bit.
But if James wanted to see his son again this side of young Andrew’s fortieth birthday then he would have no alternative but to agree to the conditions he was being offered.
Whether his daughter would go along with them was quite another matter.
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS like waiting for the countdown to an explosion, Abbie told herself as she headed up the stairs to change, moving as quietly as possible past the library in the hope of hearing what was being said behind the closed door. But the only sound that came through the thick wood was the muffled murmur of voices, too blurred to make out any words, let alone decide how things were going.
She could tell which was her father’s voice and which their visitor’s but that was all. The rich, accented tones of the Sheikh’s words carried even if their meaning didn’t—and it appeared that he was doing all the talking.
Which seemed terribly ominous, she admitted, the thought draining all the strength from her legs so that she had to force herself to keep moving, holding on to the carved wooden banister for support. Had her father run out of things to say already? Or had the Sheikh rejected every suggestion put to him and was now laying down the terms on which he would help them?
Or, worse, was he making it plain that he had no mercy to offer? That her brother must serve out the sentence that had been passed on him, without any hope of remission?
‘Oh, Andy!’
Bitter tears of despair burned in Abbie’s eyes and, as she reached the half-landing, she sagged against the wall, covering her face with her hands.
Her brother had been a delicate child. He suffered badly from asthma and had often been in hospital or just sick at home. As a result he’d missed a lot of schooling so that he was young for his age and very naive. The trip to Barakhara had been his first experience of being abroad on his own. Now he was locked in some foreign prison and in the single brief phone call they had had from him, arranged with a lot of difficulty by the British Ambassador, he had quite obviously been terrified, begging them to get him out—to let him come home.
Frantic diplomatic efforts had followed and the Sheikh’s visit was the result of that. It was their only chance. It couldn’t fail. It just couldn’t!
The sound of movement in the room below jolted her upright in haste. Someone was coming to the door—opening it.
Her father appeared in the hall below. He paused, looked back at the man inside.
The Sheikh, Abbie reminded herself. The man of power who held the future happiness of their family in the palm of his hand.
In the palm of his arrogant hand, a spark of defiance added, recalling the way that the man had turned to look at her in the moment of his arrival. The assessing way those dark eyes had scanned her.
‘I’m sorry, but I must take this call.’
It was her father who spoke, his voice floating up to where she stood.
‘I won’t be long…’
He hurried off in the direction of the kitchen and Abbie watched him go. From her position here, higher up on the landing, even her father’s powerful figure looked shortened, smaller somehow and reduced. The sight of him wrenched at Abbie’s heart, making her bite her lip hard against the distress that threatened to choke her.
‘Oh, Andy…’ she began again, then caught herself up sharply.
It wasn’t all Andy’s fault! Okay, so her brother had been silly—downright stupid—but surely what he’d done hadn’t been all that bad! Other boys his age had done as much, worse even! In England, pocketing some items from the archaeological dig he was working on would just be petty theft—wouldn’t it? So what right did this sheikh have to lock her brother up and throw away the key?
Anger made her heart swell. A sense of bitter injustice made it beat at twice the speed as before, sending the blood coursing through her veins so fast that it made her head spin.
Who did he think he was? How dared he…?
She hadn’t even realised that she was moving until she found herself halfway down the stairs again—heading in the direction of the hallway and the room her father had just left. She didn’t know what was going to happen, had no idea what she was going to say. She only knew that she was going to say something.
The library door was still partly open, just as her father had left it. There was nothing there to make her stop, or even pause to think. The impetus that had taken her down the stairs had built up into almost a run, taking the last couple of steps two at a time, and sending her hurtling into the room before she had a chance for second thoughts.
Or before she had a chance to think of anything to say.
So there she was, suddenly face to face with the man—the sheikh—who had come to make demands of her family. Who was, in most respects, holding her younger brother to ransom, and was now letting them know just how they would have to pay.
Here she was, face to gorgeous face…
Oh, no, heaven help her, she didn’t want to think of how stunning he was close up. How devastatingly dark and sexy. Just seeing him scrambled her thoughts until she had to fight against the urge to say something that was the complete opposite of the anger that had brought her in here.
He was lounging comfortably at his ease, damn him, in one of the big, well worn, soft leather armchairs that flanked the big open fireplace. His handsome head leaned comfortably against the studded leather back, soft blue-black hair brushing equally soft chestnut leather. His long, long legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, revealing superbly crafted handmade boots. One hand held a teacup, the finest bone china looking absurdly small and delicate, impossibly white, against the burnished bronze strength of his broad palm, the powerful fingers of the other hand resting negligently on the arm of his chair, totally relaxed.
