‘So is it work? Or a holiday?’
‘Oh, work. I’ve, er, been asked to find someone to head up their oil refinery.’
She could hear the frown in Jamie’s voice. ‘Really? But I thought you only worked in advertising?’
‘Usually I do.’ She scowled in the mirror again as if Khalim’s reflection was mocking back at her. ‘But this is special, or rather the client is. He’s a…um…he’s a prince.’
‘Sorry? Must be a bad line—I thought you said he was a prince.’
How far-fetched it sounded! Her voice sounded almost apologetic. ‘I did. He’s Prince Khalim of Maraban.’
There was a moment of astounded silence before she could hear Jamie expelling air from between pursed lips—an expression of bemusement he had had since he was a little boy. Then he said, ‘Wow! Lucky girl!’
‘Aren’t I?’ she agreed, just hoping that it sounded convincing, because most women would be thrilled and excited by the idea, wouldn’t they? ‘You can tell all your friends I’m going to stay in a palace!’
‘Heck,’ he said softly, still sounding slightly stunned.
‘And the other thing—’
‘Mmm?’
‘It’s just that Lara’s going to be away filming, and I just wondered whether you would pop your head into the flat on your way home from work—just check that there aren’t any free newspapers or letters making it look like the flat is empty?’
‘Course I will,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘You should try living somewhere that doesn’t have such a high quota of burglars!’
‘I know.’ Rose let out a small sigh. ‘Listen, thanks, Jamie.’
‘Sure.’ There was another pause. ‘Rose, this trip—it is all perfectly above board, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is! What else would it be? It’s business, Jamie, strictly business.’
But as she replaced the receiver, Rose wondered if she had been entirely honest with her brother…
The following morning, she opened the door and her mouth fell open when she discovered that it was Khalim himself who stood there.
He saw the pink pout of her lips and smiled a predatory smile. ‘Surprised?’ he murmured. ‘Were you expecting Philip?’
Well, yes, she was surprised, but not because he hadn’t sent his emissary to collect her. Mainly because he had switched roles again. Gone was the exotic-looking businessman in the beautifully cut suit. Instead, he was dressed in a variation of the outfit he’d been wearing at the wedding—a flowing, silken top with loose trousers of the same material worn underneath. But today the robes were more silvery than gold. A colder colour altogether, providing an austere backdrop to the dark, proud features. Oh, but he looked magnificent!
‘You’ve ch-changed,’ was all she could breathlessly manage.
‘Of course I have. I’m going home,’ came the simple reply. ‘Are you ready?’
She’d packed just one suitcase, and it stood in readiness in the hall. She gestured to it and
then was surprised when he picked it up.
He saw the look and correctly interpreted it. ‘You imagined that I would send someone up to collect it? That I should never carry anyone else’s bags?’
‘I suppose I did.’
Astonishingly, he found that he wanted to enlighten her—to show her that he was not just a man who had been cosseted by servants from the moment of his birth.
‘There were reasons behind me being sent to boarding-school other than to learn to blend into both societies,’ he told her softly. ‘Like cold showers and rigorous sport and the discipline of learning to stand on my own two feet.’
She stared at him, all too aware of the dark luminosity of his eyes. ‘And was it hard?’ she questioned. ‘To adapt to a new culture and all that went with it?’
Her direct questions went straight to the very heart of the matter; impossible to ignore or to brush aside. He shrugged. ‘Little boys can be cruel.’