Chosen as the Sheikh's Wife

Seeing her, crumpled up like some broken, wounded creature, a man would have had to have had a heart of flint not to act as he had done, and everyone would understand that.

But there were consequences. It had not been a private matter. Too many of his staff had seen him holding her.

Everything else might have been accepted, even the kiss, but not that intimacy, and he had no doubt that his grandfather would hear of it long before he reached home. This would not be treated as some minor indiscretion to be overlooked; not when the consequences would suit the old man so well.

If she'd been anyone else it would not have mattered. As a foreign woman it would have been understood that she did not live by their rules. If she'd remained in London, even, it might have been possible to brush it aside.

But by taking her home, presenting her to his grandfather, he was giving her the status to which she was entitled, and as far as the court was concerned his marriage to Violet Hamilton would be a foregone conclusion.

To offer her anything less would be an insult to her and would certainly outrage the Sayyid family, happy to use whatever insult that came to hand in pursuit of discord. Even when it was an insult to the offspring of a daughter who had shamed them.

They'd gladly use it to manufacture a schism that they could use to drive the country apart and fuel their grab for control of the oil revenues that were-for the moment-pouring into the country.

The offer, with a dower fit for a princess, would have to be made, and in truth it was a marriage that would serve every imaginable purpose. From an aristocratic family, Violet was returning the symbol of their country's origins, redressing an old wrong with no thought of reward. Restoring her family's honour. Neutralising the Sayyid threat.

It was a marriage that would delight his grandfather and give Fayad a wife of great character, great beauty, while reuniting two great tribes who had for far too long been enemies beneath the diplomatic display of unity.

All attributes that made it a perfect match for him. Except one.

He dragged a hand over his face as if to wipe away the memories that haunted him. The loss of his wife, his son, had ripped the heart out of him and, despite all efforts to tempt him to offer for the treasure of one of the carefully nurtured daughters who would doubtless have made the perfect wife, he had been immune.

His family had been in danger and he had not been there to keep them safe. No man could live through that and be whole ever again…

Violet Hamilton was a chance to redeem himself, and in that first moment when he had set eyes on her, when she'd opened the door thinking it was just another day and looked up at him, any man would have responded to her as the desert to rain.

Even now he could feel the warmth of her body as he'd held her close, the softness of her breasts against his chest, the scent, the silk of her hair against his cheek.

Feel the soft tug of her lips against his…

'Sheikh?'

He looked up to see his aide regarding him anxiously and he shook his head, dismissing his concern with a gesture. Drank from the glass of water at his hand. It made no difference.

Violet woke to the steady thrumming of the aircraft's engines, for a minute completely disoriented. Then, as she rolled over, luxuriating in the feel of the finest linen sheets, it all came back with a rush.

The khanjar.

Her home.

Sheikh Fayad.

She was flying to Ras al Kawi in the kind of luxury that she could only ever have dreamed of. She concentrated on that rather than the horror she'd left behind.

'You are awake, sitti…' Leila placed a tray on the table beside the bed containing orange juice, fresh figs, small cakes. 'We will be landing in an hour,' she said, with a shy smile. 'Sheikh Fayad asked if he might be permitted to join you before we touch down?'

Be permitted? Then, as she sipped at the orange juice, her brain caught up. Obviously the meaning had become distorted in translation.

'I imagine he wants to drill me in the rules of court etiquette,' she said, putting two and two together and coming up with a little inventive translation of her own. 'Teach me when to curtsey and remind me that princesses only speak when they're spoken to.' And who could blame him?

Leila looked shocked. 'No! That would be most…'

'What?'

'Everything will be very different for you in Ras al Kawi, I think.'

'No doubt,' she said, swinging her legs to the floor. 'But even a girl from the wrong side of Camden Market knows that rule number one is never keep a sheikh waiting.'

Leila giggled. 'A woman must always keep a man waiting.'

'Really?'

'Until he has…' She sought for a word. 'Overwhelmed her and he is her lord.' And she blushed, leaving what she meant by 'overwhelmed' crystal-clear.

'Okaaay,' Violet said, lost for any other response. 'I'll, um, just freshen up, and then you can help me pick out something suitable to wear.'

That brought a smile to the girl's face. 'I have already chosen,' she said.

'Oh, right.' Well, she'd had plenty to choose from. It was obvious that whoever had packed had emptied her wardrobes. Brought everything.

Left to her own devices, she'd have chosen her denim ankle-length skirt and a fine knitted top that covered her arms. Maximum skin coverage. She knew better than to offend Fayad's grandfather with some flighty western garment. A bare midriff. Too much leg.

But apparently that didn't come close to what Leila considered appropriate. Given the run of Violet's wardrobe, she'd picked out one of her student design pieces. A richly decorated evening outfit that she'd made for an end-of- term college fashion show.

'This is very beautiful,' Leila said. 'It will be perfect for your arrival in Ras al Kawi.'

'This' was a long skirt in a curious shot silk that in one light was blue-grey, in another a soft turquoise, that the stallholder-and he was a smooth-tongued man if ever there was one-had sworn matched her eyes exactly.

The fabric had been way beyond her budget, but, totally unable to resist something so gorgeous, she'd traded half a dozen of her precious one-off embroidered T-shirts, made for the co-operative stall she'd set up with some of her college mates.

She'd appliqued the skirt with a fan of velvet and silk peacock 'eyes', free-hand embroidered the fine feathers using her sewing machine.

She hadn't had enough material to make a jacket, but had instead made a neat little waistcoat which, for the fashion show, she'd worn with one invisible hook at the breast and nothing else. It had been a huge success with the audience, if not with the avant garde college lecturers, who'd pronounced it too 'conservative'. Too 'wearable'. But then that was all she'd ever wanted to design and make-clothes that women longed to wear.

But a few days later she'd come home from a meeting of the co-op, full of their plans to expand, set up a proper business, to find her grandmother collapsed with the first of her strokes.

Three years on from college, her outfit, like her plans, her first step on the way to her own fashion label, seemed like a fantasy. Rich, gorgeous, but not the sort of thing you'd actually wear except to a pretty

fancy party. Even with the co-ordinating top that she'd made to wear beneath the waistcoat.

Struggling to bite back the I don't think so which flew to her lips, she said, 'It seems rather exotic, Leila. Do you really think it would do?'

'Oh, yes,' she said, with absolute confidence. 'It is quite perfect.'

In that case she was in trouble, she thought as Leila produced the hair straighteners to tidy up the curls that had made a bid for freedom while she slept. Then tutted as she insisted on applying the minimum of make-up herself.

'You need kohl to emphasise your eyes and your hands should be hennaed,' she insisted, and maybe she was