might give her other ideas. Even if she had a mind to. After all, a one-to-one interview with the media-shy Regent would be a serious scoop for any journalist, no matter how formidable her reputation.
Hassan wasn’t as enamoured of journalists as his aide, even when they came packaged like the lovely Rose Fenton.
He changed tack. ‘Tell me, Partridge, since you’re so well informed, what entertainments has my cousin arranged to keep the lady amused while she’s here? I imagine he does have plans to keep her amused?’ The idea was distasteful, but he knew that if Abdullah admired the lady it was for her lovely face and fiery red hair rather than her journalistic skills. Partridge’s quick flush demonstrated exactly the effect Miss Fenton produced on susceptible males. ‘Well?’
‘There have been some activities arranged,’ he confirmed. ‘A dhow trip along the coast, a feast somewhere in the desert, a tour of the city…’
‘She appears to be getting the full red carpet treatment.’ Although he suspected her feet wouldn’t touch the ground long enough for her to feel it. ‘Anything else?’
‘Well, there’s a cocktail party at the British Embassy, of course…’ Then he hesitated.
‘Why do I have the feeling that you’re saving the best until last?’
‘His Highness is hosting a reception at the palace in her honour.’
‘Practically a State visit, then,’ he said, all his worst fears confirmed. ‘But rather an exhausting schedule for a woman convalescing from pneumonia, wouldn’t you say?’
‘She has been ill, Excellency. She collapsed reporting to camera from somewhere in Eastern Europe. I saw it happen. She just pitched forward… for a moment I thought she’d been shot by a sniper. How did she look?’ He asked anxiously, ‘You did see her on the plane?’
‘Only briefly. She looked…’
Hassan paused briefly to consider exactly how Rose Fenton had looked. A little flushed, perhaps. The ruffled collar of her white blouse had provided a frame for a face that was a little thinner than the last time he’d seen her on a satellite news broadcast. Maybe that was why her dark eyes had seemed so large.
Dressed for warmth against the raw chill of the weather, she’d been wearing a scarlet sweater that should have clashed horribly with her red hair, but hadn’t. On the contrary; the effect had been riveting.
She’d looked up from a book she was holding and met his glance with frank curiosity; it had been a confident look that avoided being in any way flirtatious but had still managed to convey the suggestion that she’d welcome his company to while away the tedious hours in the air.
Honesty forced him to concede that he’d been tempted, his own curiosity thoroughly roused by her presence on his cousin’s private jet. And he was not impervious to the pleasure of a beautiful woman’s company to help pass the time.
At one point he’d got as far as summoning the steward to invite her forward. In the few seconds it had taken the man to respond, common sense had reasserted itself.
Mixing with journalists was not a good idea. A man just never knew what they’d print next. Or rather he did know. Too late, he’d learned that it was far easier to gain a reputation than lose it, especially if the reputation suited a certain highly placed individual.
And Abdullah would certainly hear about any conversation they’d shared the minute the wheels touched down. Being seen with him would do her no good at all in palace circles.
She’d be safer sticking to her book, no matter how unexpected her choice. Fantasy was always less dangerous than the real thing.
He realised that Partridge was still waiting for his answer. ‘She looked well enough,’ he said irritably.
Rose Fenton stopped to catch her breath as she stepped out of the chill of the air-conditioned arrival hall of the airport and into the midday heat of Ras al Hajar.
Despite the brave show of daffodils in the parks, London hadn’t quite made spring, and Rose had been bundled up in thermal underwear and a heavy sweater by her unusually anxious mother.
‘Are you all right, Rose? You must be tired from the journey.’
‘Don’t fuss, Tim.’ Her brother’s anxious query made him sound exactly like their mother and she wasn’t used to being fussed over. It made her realise just how sick she’d been. She peeled off the sweater. ‘I’m not an invalid, just hot,’ she snapped, her irritability a sure indication that she wasn’t feeling quite as lively as she would have everyone believe. She’d been very bad-tempered the week before she collapsed with pneumonia, but Tim’s obvious concern made her instantly contrite. ‘Oh, heck, I’m sorry. It’s just that for the last month Mum’s been treating me like some nineteenth-century heroine about to expire from consumption.’ Her smile took on a slightly mischievous slant as she hooked her arm through his. ‘I thought I’d escaped the leash.’
‘Yes, well, I have to admit you don’t look quite as bad as I’d expected from the way she’s been fretting,’ he retaliated, easily slipping into the old habit of brotherly teasing, not in the least in awe of her distinguished reputation as a foreign correspondent. ‘I was beginning to wonder if I should rent a bath-chair for your visit.’
‘That really won’t be necessary.’
‘Just a walking stick, then?’
‘Only if you want me to beat you with it.’
‘You’re definitely on the mend,’ he said, laughing.
‘I had two choices: recover quickly, or die of boredom. Mum wouldn’t let me read anything more taxing than a three-year-old magazine,’ she told him as he ushered her in the direction of a dusty dark green Range Rover. ‘And when she discovered I was watching the news, she threatened to confiscate my TV.’
‘You’re exaggerating, Rose.’
‘As if I would!’ Then she relented. ‘Well, maybe. Just a bit.’ And she grinned. ‘But I’m not tired, really. Travelling in the Emir’s private jet had about as much in common with flying economy as a bicycle has with a Rolls Royce.’ She grinned. ‘It’s flying, Tim, but not as we know it.’ She breathed in the warm desert air. ‘This is what I need. Let me get out of these thermals,’ she said, ‘and you won’t be able to stop me.’
‘I warn you, I’m under strict orders to keep you from doing anything too physical.’
‘Spoilsport. I was banking on being whisked away on a fiery black stallion by some hawk-nosed desert prince,’ she teased, but, since her brother looked less than impressed with that idea, she squeezed his arm reassuringly. ‘Just kidding. Gordon gave me a copy of The Sheik to read on the plane.’ Her news editor’s idea of a joke, no doubt. He had an odd sense of humour. Or maybe it had been an excuse to hand over the book-shop carrier that contained all the information he’d been able to dig up on the situation in Ras al Hajar right under her mother’s watchful eyes. She patted the bag slung over her shoulder. ‘I’m not sure whether it was meant as inspiration or warning.’
‘You mean you actually read it?’
‘It’s a classic of women’s fiction,’ she protested.
‘Well,
