Her Desert Dream

Checked her phone again. With nothing to read, no one to talk to, she switched to the Net and caught the urgent flash of a breaking news story and her blood ran cold.

Lady Rose kidnapped…

Rose…

But it wasn’t Rose.

Of course it wasn’t. It was her in the picture.

Make that a whole series of pictures.

Alone on the beach. Kal riding her down. Lifting her to his saddle. Disappearing into the distance.

The photographer hadn’t gone anywhere, she realised. Or had he been tipped off because he’d had all the time in the world to get the whole story in pictures…?

No question by whom.

There was only one person at Bab al Sama who wanted to be visible.

Well, two. She had wanted to be visible and maybe she’d given Kal the idea. Because when he’d realised that the princess wasn’t coming-Dena had no doubt had her own note from the palace and would certainly have told him-he must have been desperate.

Not for himself. Whatever happened, he’d thrown away his own hopes and dreams the minute he’d picked her up from the beach. The family name, the title, the bride. Five years of quiet diplomacy, of being invisible.

He’d done this solely out of love for his grandfather.

For love, she reminded herself as she stared at the pictures for one last moment.

One thing was certain-with the world’s press on the case, he was no longer invisible. The Emir could no longer pretend he did not exist. On the contrary, he had probably sent his guard to arrest him, lock him up. That would explain his lengthy absence. Why his phone was switched off.

And only she could save him.

She resisted the temptation to leave him to cool his heels for a night in the cells and went to find someone to take her to Rumaillah.

All he’d planned was a photo opportunity followed by a picnic. She was the one who’d got completely the wrong end of the stick, responding to his polite invitation to visit his family home with a declaration of eternity. Led all the way with her desperate ‘I’m starving…feed me’. What on earth was a man to do faced with that? Say no, thanks-again?

Once she was on her way-and had stopped blushing long enough to think straight-she called Rose. She couldn’t have picked up the story yet, or she’d have been on the phone herself. She growled with frustration as her call went straight to voicemail and she left a reassuring message.

Then she called her mother, not because she’d be worried, but because she really, really needed to hear her voice.

Kal left his beautiful Lydia sleeping. He could have asked for her things to be sent to Umm al Sama, but he wanted to visit the souk.

While she had clearly understood the significance of his taking her to Umm al Sama, that no one but his bride would ever sleep in that bed, he wanted to buy her at least one of the diamonds that he would shower on her.

He left Yatimah to pack their bags while he crossed the creek in search of a perfect solitaire. A stone that would say the things that words could never say. A pledge. A promise of forever.

Then he called his grandfather to tell him that he must not be in such a hurry to die. That, if he was patient, he would see not only a wedding at Umm al Sama but a great-grandson born there, too.

It was after lunch before he arrived home to be told that the sitti had insisted on being taken to Rumaillah. To the palace.

Rumaillah…

Had there been a call? A summons from the Princess? No. She would not have made a formal visit wearing a pair of cotton trousers and a shirt. This was something else. He took the stairs two at a time as he raced to the room where they had spent the night in blissful discovery of each other, certain that she must have left a message.

There was nothing.

Only the message he had left for her.

And a note from the palace with Princess Sabirah’s regrets…

Dena had told him that she’d been unwell; it was why she hadn’t come earlier. This must have been in Lydia’s pocket when he’d taken her from the beach. It couldn’t have anything to do with her racing off to Rumaillah.

Unless…

He flipped to the Net, saw the breaking news story. And swore long and inventively in several languages. He’d had the photographer warned off but he’d either come back or this was another one. It made no difference.

He knew exactly what Lydia must be thinking.

She’d assume that he’d known that the Princess was not coming and that he had used her to force the Emir to notice him.

That she’d trusted him with all that she was, given him her most precious gift, and he had betrayed her.

Lydia stood at the door to the majlis. She’d borrowed an abbayeh from one of the women at Umm al Sama but she was the only woman in the group of people who had arrived to petition the Emir. She was aware of a rumbling of disapproval, a certain amount of jostling, but she stood tall, refused to turn tail and run, and waited her turn.

The room was vast. At one end the Emir sat with his advisors. Along each wall men, drinking coffee from tiny cups, sat on rows of sofas.

As she kicked off her sandals, stepped forward, the abbayeh caught-or maybe someone was standing on it-and slipped from her hair and every sound died away.

The Emir rose, extended a hand in welcome and said, ‘Lady Rose. We were concerned for your safety. Please…’

He gestured her forward.

She walked the length of the room. Bowed. Said, ‘Thank you, Excellency, but as you see I am safe and well. If you have seized Kalil al-Zaki, have him locked in your cells, I must ask you to release him.’

There was a buzz, silenced by a look from the Emir.

‘Who is Kalil al-Zaki?’ he asked.

She gasped, snapped, ‘Who is he? I don’t believe you people! It’s been fifty years since his grandfather was exiled. Was stripped of everything he cared about. Your nephew has an apartment in this city, yet you treat him as if he did not exist.’

Now there was silence. Pin drop silence, but she was too angry to care that she was flouting royal protocol. Even an Emir needed to hear the truth once in a while.

‘Kalil al-Zaki is a man of honour, a man who cares for his family, who has built up an international business that would grace any nation. He wants nothing from you but to bring his grandfather home to die. You would grant that to a dog!’ Then, in the ringing silence that followed this outburst, ‘And, by the way, my name is Lydia Young. Lady Rose has taken a holiday in a place where she won’t be photographed twenty-four hours a day!’

Then, because there was nothing left for her, she sank to her knees before him.

‘The son of your great-grandfather is dying, Excellency. Will you not let him come home?’

Kal was too late to stop her. He was blocked at the doorway by the Emiri guard, forced to watch as she berated the Emir.

But, in the deathly silence that followed her appeal for mercy, even they were too stunned to stop him and he pushed the man aside, lifted her to her feet, then touched his head, his heart and bowed to her.

‘Ya malekat galbi, y a rohi, y a hahati. You are beautiful, my soul, my life. Ahebbak, ya tao’am rohi. The owner of my heart. Amoot feeki. There is no life without you.’ Then, ‘I did not know, Lydia. Please believe me, I did not use you. I did not know.’

She would have spoken, but the Emir stepped forward. ‘I have listened to your appeal, Lydia Young.’

That she was dismissed, neither of them were in any doubt, but as he turned to leave with her, caring only that she should believe him, the Emir said, ‘I have not heard from you, Kalil al-Zaki.’

She touched his hand, said, ‘Stay.’

‘No…’