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CHAPTER ONE
‘THANK you so much for your time, Your Highness.’ The journalist was practically curtseying to him. Something Karim really, really hated.
But he managed to stay polite. ‘No problem. Nice to meet you.’ He was aware that he was wearing just as false a mask as the journalist was.
No doubt she thought she had some great quotes to use in a diary piece. This was the kind of party that always made the gossip columns—high-level people from the business world, politicians and hotshot brokers and a sprinkling of actors and pop stars.
And he knew exactly what the spin was going to be where he was concerned. That His Royal Highness Karim al-Hassan had been partying hard, with a champagne reception every day for the last week and languorous lunch engagements that started before midday and never finished before three.
Five years ago, they might’ve been right. He’d partied with the best of them. Burned the candle at both ends.
But now…it was old news. Though in some respects it suited him—people were nowhere near as guarded with him when they thought he was just out for fun, a charming and sophisticated dilettante.
What the newspapers all missed was that Karim’s glass usually held sparkling mineral water rather than gin and tonic. That he had a retentive memory and didn’t need to make notes—he could recall every detail of a meeting and follow it up with letters or reports as necessary. And none of them had any idea that when he left a lunch meeting or a party, he’d be working on complicated figures or reading reports from focus groups until the early hours.
Since his father had entrusted him with such an important task—developing tourism and foreign investment in Harrat Salma—Karim had been more businessman than playboy. He’d done the research, met the right people, made the right contacts, written his business plans. And now he needed to make the most of it. He’d set up a series of meetings with people he knew would bring in investment that would help create more jobs, better infrastructures and the chance to develop sustainable energy sources in his country. All of which would help put Harrat Salma at the forefront.
Even as he chatted pleasantly among a group of people, smiling and making appropriate comments in the right places to show he’d been listening, Karim’s mind was working on his business plan. Though something nagged at him to turn round. Like a whisper in his head that wouldn’t go away.
Eventually, he gave in.
Turned round.
The woman across the other side of the room caught his attention immediately, despite the fact that she was clearly dressed to be invisible rather than to shine. Her hair was an ordinary brown, caught back at the nape. Her black shift dress was simple, elegant and very plain. Her shoes were low-heeled, rather than strappy high heels. She wore no jewellery, not even a watch. No make-up, unless she’d gone for the ‘barely there’ look that he knew from experience was incredibly high maintenance—though, given the rest of her appearance, he didn’t think so.
Odd.
She was the complete opposite of the women he usually dated. Given that she’d dressed to be ignored, he shouldn’t even have noticed her. Yet she was beautiful in her simplicity. And something about her drew him. As if there were some connection between them.
He’d never seen her before. He would’ve remembered her, he was sure. He had no idea who she was—but right at that moment he really wanted to know. And even though he was supposed to be networking, he could allow himself five minutes off. Just long enough to find out who she was and ask her out to dinner.
She was talking to Felicity Browne, the hostess. Karim quietly slipped away from the group and sauntered casually across the room towards the two women. When their conversation ended and she turned away, he quickened his pace slightly and intercepted her path. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello,’ she said politely.
She had a faint South London accent, he noticed. And up close he could see that her eyes were a serious, quiet grey-blue.
Serious and quiet. Definitely not like the women he usually dated.
‘You don’t have a drink,’ he said, shepherding her over towards a waiter bearing a tray of glasses.
‘Because I’m not really here,’ she said.
Although she was obviously aiming to sound cool and collected, Karim had trained himself to notice the little things—and he noticed that she was very slightly flustered.
Given that she’d been talking to Felicity, it was a fair bet that she was a member of Felicity’s staff. So it followed that she was probably worried about getting into trouble for hanging around at a party she really wasn’t dressed to attend—or invited to.
Well, he could fix that.
‘Let’s go somewhere quieter,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you a drink first.’
‘Thank you, but I don’t drink.’
‘Then have a mineral water.’ He took two glasses from the waiter’s tray and handed one to her. A quick check told him that the reporter had indeed left the party: good. Now he could relax. He tucked her free arm through his before heading for the French doors he knew led to a balcony.
Oh, help, Lily thought.
She’d only slipped into the room for a few moments—very quietly and discreetly—to check that Felicity was happy with everything. Then she’d intended to go straight back to the kitchen and sort out the puddings. She certainly hadn’t intended to let herself be waylaid like this.
Even if he was the most stunning man Lily had ever seen.
He was dressed like the rest of the male guests, in a dinner suit teamed with a white, wing-collar pleated-front shirt. His black silk bow tie was hand-tied rather than ready-made. A swift glance at his highly polished black shoes told her that they were handmade, and the cut of the suit was definitely made-to-measure rather than off-the-peg. Expensive made-to-measure, judging by the feel of the cloth against her fingers. Everything about him screamed class.
Well, it would. Felicity Browne was posh with a capital P, and her guests were the same.
Lily had met a few of them before—cooked for them, even—but she’d never met him. She would’ve remembered. He had the same accent as most of the men in the room—one she recognised as public school followed by Oxbridge—and his almost black hair was cut slightly too long with a fringe that flopped over his eyes. Definitely an upper-class playboy.
Though his olive skin and amber-coloured eyes were just a touch too exotic for him to be English.
‘I really shouldn’t b—’ she began
