His Desert Rose. Liz FieldingЧитать онлайн книгу.
know, I know.’ He waved impatiently. ‘He’s enjoying the freedom and he won’t want to come, but he can’t put it off any longer.’
‘He’d take it better from you, sir.’
‘Maybe, but the fact that I feel unable to leave the country will ram home the message more effectively than anything either of us can say.’
‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Tell him… tell him if he wants to keep his country, it’s time to come home before Abdullah takes it from him. I can’t put it plainer than that.’
He climbed from the limousine and strode towards the huge carved doors of the coastal watch-tower he had made his home, his feet ringing on the stone slabs of the courtyard.
‘And Miss Fenton?’ Partridge asked, his pace slower as he leaned heavily on his walking stick.
Hassan paused at the entrance to his private apartments. ‘You can safely leave Miss Fenton to me,’ he said sharply.
Partridge paled, swinging round in front of him and forcing him to a halt. ‘Sir, you won’t forget she’s been ill—’
‘I won’t forget that she’s a journalist.’ Hassan’s face darkened as he saw the anxiety in the man’s face. Well, well. Lucky Rose Fenton. Needed by a fabulously rich and totally powerful older man for her ability to make him look good, desired by a young and foolish one with nothing in his head but romantic nonsense. All in one day. How many women could start a holiday with that kind of advantage?
It occurred to him that Rose Fenton, blessed with both brains and beauty, probably started every holiday with that kind of advantage.
‘What are you planning to do, sir?’
‘Do?’ He wasn’t used to having his intentions questioned.
Partridge might be nervous, but he wasn’t cowed. ‘With Miss Fenton.’
Hassan gave a short laugh. ‘What do you think I’m going to do with her, man?’ The image of the book she had been holding swept into his mind. ‘Abduct her and carry her off into the desert like some old-time bandit?’
Partridge immediately flushed. ‘N-no.’
‘You don’t sound very certain,’ he pressed. ‘It’s what my grandfather would have done.’
‘Your grandfather lived in a different age, sir,’ Partridge said. ‘I’ll go and pack.’
Hassan watched him go. The young man had guts, and he admired him for the way he coped with disability and pain, but he wouldn’t put up with dissent from anyone. He’d do whatever he had to.
Thirty minutes later he handed Partridge the letter he had written to his young half-brother and walked with him to the Jeep that would take him down to the jetty. The courtyard was full of horsemen with hawks at their wrists, long-legged silky-coated Salukis at their heels. Partridge’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re going hunting? Now?’
‘I need to heat the London damp out of my bones and get some good, clean desert air in my lungs.’ And it occurred to him that if Abdullah was planning a quiet coup, it might be wise to take himself to his desert camp where his presence would be less noticeable. ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’
‘This is it.’
‘It’s beautiful, Tim.’ The villa was out of the town, set on the hillside overlooking the wild and rugged coast near the royal stables. Tim’s title might give him control of the country’s veterinary services, but his main concern was the Regent’s stud. Below them was a palm grove and around the house there were oleanders in flower, bright birds… ‘I expected desert… sand dunes…’
‘Hollywood has a lot to answer for.’ The door opened at their approach and Tim’s servant bowed as Rose crossed the threshold. ‘Rose, this is Khalil. He cooks, cleans and looks after the place so I can concentrate on work.’ The young man returned her smile shyly.
‘Good grief, Tim,’ Rose said, once she’d admired everything, from the exquisite rugs laid over polished hardwood floors to the small swimming pool in the discreetly walled garden beyond the French windows. ‘It’s a bit different from that scruffy little house you had in Newmarket.’
‘If you think this is luxury, just wait until you see the stables. The horses have a much larger swimming pool than me and I have a fully equipped hospital, anything I ask for—’
‘Okay, okay!’ She grinned at his enthusiasm. ‘You can give me the grand tour later, but right now I could do with a shower.’ She lifted her hair from her neck. ‘And I need to change into some lighter clothes.’
‘What? Oh, sorry. Look, why don’t you make yourself at home, have a rest, something to eat? Your room is through here.’ He shepherded her through to a large suite. ‘There’s plenty of time to see everything.’
She stopped in the doorway, but it wasn’t the splendour of her room that surprised her. It was the fact that every available surface was obscured by baskets full of roses. ‘Where on earth did all these come from?’
‘Wherever roses are grown at this time of year.’ Tim shrugged, obviously embarrassed by the excess. ‘I should have thought you were used to it by now. I don’t suppose anyone ever sends you lilies, or daisies or chrysanthemums. Do they?’
‘Rarely,’ she admitted, looking for a card, but finding none. ‘But they usually come in dozens. These appear to have been ordered by the gross.’
‘Yes, well, Prince Abdullah sent them over this morning so that you’d feel at home.’
‘He thinks I live in a florist’s shop?’
Tim pulled a face. ‘They do everything on a grander scale here.’ He glanced anxiously at his watch. ‘Rose, can you look after yourself for an hour or so? I’ve a mare about to foal…’
She laughed. ‘Go. I’ll be fine.’
‘If you’re sure? If you need me—’
‘I’ll whinny.’
His face relaxed into a smile. ‘Actually, I think you’ll find the telephone system is perfectly adequate.’
Alone, she turned back to the roses. Creamy white, perfect florist’s blooms. She resisted the urge to count them; instead she thoughtfully riffled the satiny petals of a half-open bud with the edge of her thumb. The flowers were beautiful, but scentless, a sterile cliché without any real meaning.
And her thoughts wandered back to Prince Hassan al Rashid. The playboy prince was something of a cliché too. But those grey eyes suggested something very different behind the façade.
Prince Abdullah might woo her co-operation with his private jet and his roses, but it was Hassan who had her undivided attention.
‘WHAT do you mean, you can’t find him?’ Hassan could barely contain his anger. ‘He has bodyguards who watch him night and day—’
‘He’s given them the slip.’ Partridge’s voice echoed faintly on the satellite link. ‘Apparently there’s a girl involved—’
Of course there would be a girl. Damn the boy. And damn those blockheads who were supposed to look after him…
Except that he’d been twenty-four himself, once, centuries ago, and remembered only too well how it felt to live every waking moment under watchful eyes. Remembered just how easy it was to lose them when there was a girl…
‘Find him, Partridge. Find him and bring him home. Tell him…’ What? That he was sorry? That he understood? What good would that do? ‘Tell him there isn’t much time.’
‘I’ll