The Sultan's Heir. Alexandra Sellers

reached for a sponge.

      Next thing she knew, he was in the doorway, still holding the rose ornament. With forced calm, Rosalind wiped up the spilled grounds, dusted the residue from her pale blue shirt, rinsed her hands and the sponge under the tap.

      As she carefully measured another scoop of coffee into the cafetière, she said, “I knew Lamis, yes.” How much would Lamis have told him? “She’s your sister?” she repeated, carefully wiping all expression from her voice.

      He nodded. Rosalind swallowed. This was a complication she didn’t need. She would have to be careful. She lifted the kettle and poured boiling water over the grounds. The scent of coffee rose strong in the air.

      “Why don’t you have the same name?”

      He waved his hand as if the answer would entail some obscure cultural explanation that wasn’t worth the trouble.

      “You must be from Barakat, then? Jamshid told me once that other branches of the family were in Bagestan and the Barakat Emirates.”

      He hesitated. “Yes. We are in Barakat. My mother was half sister to Jamshid’s father. But the family is Bagestani originally.”

      She wondered if he had mentioned Lamis as a way of gaining her trust. If so, it was having the opposite effect. She would have to be on her guard with him.

      She lifted the tray, and he backed out of the doorway to let her pass. She carried it into the sitting room and set it on the low black table as they sat again.

      “Jamshid was from Bagestan originally? He never told me that.” She poured coffee into the delicate cream-coloured porcelain cup, set a spoon in the saucer and passed it to him.

      “He was born there,” Najib said briefly. He noted the hesitation that had crept into her manner. So she did know something. The mention of Bagestan had made her wary. He stirred sugar into his cup, laid the little spoon on his saucer, accepted a sweet biscuit from the plate she offered.

      “Really! And what made the family leave?” she asked, in a light, false voice.

      Overdoing the ingenuousness, he advised her silently.

      “Lamis is married now, with a young child. She works in television in Barakat.” He lifted the little rose again. “She collects ornaments like this.”

      A fact Rosalind knew well. The ornament was not in the same style as the others on her table. The others were mostly her own choice, a carved jade figurine, a chunk of raw amethyst, a polished rose crystal set in an antique wooden tripod, a decorated egg, but… Think of me when you look at the rose, Rosalind.

      “I am on a permanent commission to buy her a new one every time I come to Europe.” She was hiding something, that much was obvious. You rushed her, he told himself. Relax. Let her tell you in her own time.

      She gazed for a moment at the perfect red rose, with its little translucent drop like a tear on one petal. Rosalind had never really liked the idea of the rose being imprisoned. Like a woman in purdah. It was natural to think of Lamis when she looked at the rose: Lamis was the rose.

      “My sister was not the same woman when she returned from her time in England,” Najib murmured. “Do you know what happened while she was here to change her?”

      The black gaze seemed to probe her. Rosalind dropped her eyes and nervously adjusted one of the other ornaments on the table, then forced herself to meet his gaze again. She shrugged. “What, for example?”

      “I never knew. She never spoke of it. But she had been a carefree young woman. She came home marked by…suffering.” He set down the glass ball with a kind of protective care, as if the rose, or the thought of his sister, called up an instinctive tenderness for anything weaker than himself.

      Rosalind felt almost hypnotized by the gentle voice, the dark, dark eyes, the strong, sensitive hands. He sounded like a man in touch with life. It would be a relief to confide in him, but… The corners of her mouth pulled down to signal ignorance, she shook her head.

      “Maybe it was because of the war,” she said.

      But he only shook his head in his turn, still watching her, and somehow Rosalind felt compelled to speak.

      “We heard a rumour that Lamis went home under a bit of a cloud,” she offered, a little desperately. “Gambling, or something. They said she lost an absolute bundle in some Mayfair casino and her family had to bail her out.”

      “That was true.” He sipped his coffee. “But such a thing as this could not have caused the change I am speaking of.” His eyes were on her again, as if he knew she knew.

      “But you were here yourself. Surely you would have known if anything happened?”

      “I went home, like Jamshid, just before the Kaljuk War. Lamis remained to complete her studies.”

      She said, “Did Lamis ever mention me?”

      “She never talked about her time here. Did she know of your marriage?”

      Rosalind shrugged, not sure what to say. “People generally did,” she temporized.

      He nodded, drained his coffee cup, set it down.

      “Well, it is no surprise if she was afraid to tell my grandfather. The messenger’s fate is well-known. Perhaps you will enjoy making her acquaintance again.”

      “Oh, sure!” Rosalind smiled to hide her racing thoughts, her quickened heartbeat. “When is she coming to England?”

      He frowned at her.

      “Do you have no intention of visiting East Barakat to inspect your inheritance and meet the family, Rosalind?”

      Once she had dreamed of such a trip. But that was long ago.

      Rosalind hesitated. “I don’t know,” she began. She glanced at her watch and leapt in sheer horror when she realized what time it was.

      “Oh!” she cried, slamming down her cup so that it rattled. “I’m sorry, I completely forgot! I—have an appointment.” She jumped to her feet. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’m very late.”

      He obediently slipped the papers back into his case, snapped it shut and got to his feet. He followed her to the door. She was practically running.

      “Goodbye,” she said quickly.

      “We will talk again,” he said.

      “Yes,” she babbled. “Yes, give me a call….”

      She opened the door, but he did not step through. Instead, Najib al Makhtoum bent to set down his case beside the cheerful plastic dinosaur on wheels. He straightened, and Rosalind’s breath caught in her throat as his hands grasped her shoulders.

      He stared down into her face. For a strange moment, his mouth above hers, they seemed to slip into some other reality, a reality where they knew each other very well, where he had the right to kiss her. Rosalind had the crazy thought that by putting the ring on her finger he had opened a door onto another life, and tendrils of that other possibility were now reaching for them. His black gaze pierced her, searching for her soul, and her lips parted involuntarily.

      They blinked, and the world shook itself back into place. She is a complete temptress, he told himself. You will have to be on your guard every moment. Jamshid’s behaviour was a mystery no longer. His judgement must have been derailed as powerfully as if he were drugged.

      “Rosalind, this is of immense importance,” he said. “You cannot guess how vital it is that you tell me the truth. Do not allow an old grievance to affect you any further. Did you give birth to Jamshid’s son?”

      His long fingers were painful on the soft flesh at her shoulders. The look in his eyes frightened her.

      “Why is it so important?”

      “I am not at liberty to explain. But I ask you to believe that it is.”

      It