Her Desert Dream. Liz Fielding

she wouldn’t be the victim this time. She would be the one in control, watching as the biter was, for once, bit.

      Then, as her hair tumbled down, bringing her out of a reverie in which Kal touched her hand, then her face, her neck, his lips following a trail blazed by his fingers she let slip a word that Rose had probably never heard, let alone used.

      It had taken an age to put her hair up like that and, unlike Rose, she didn’t have a maid to help.

      Just what she deserved for letting her fantasy run away with her. There was no way she was going to do anything that would embarrass Rose. Her part was written and she’d stick to it.

      She began to gather the pins, but then realised that just because Rose never appeared in photographs other than with her hair up, it didn’t mean that when she shut the door on the world at the end of the day—or embarked on an eight-hour flight—she’d wouldn’t wear it loose.

      She was, after all, supposed to be on holiday. And who, after all, knew what she did, said, wore, when she was behind closed doors?

      Not Kalil al-Zaki, that was for sure.

      And that was the answer to the ‘keeping up appearances’ problem, she realised.

      Instead of trying to remember that she was Lady Rose for the next seven days, she would just be herself. She’d already made a pretty good start with the kind of lippy responses that regulars on her checkout at the supermarket would recognise.

      And being herself would help with the ‘lust’ problem, too.

      For as long as she could remember, she’d been fending off the advances of first boys, then men who, when they looked at her, had seen only the ‘virgin’ princess and wanted to either worship or ravish her.

      It had taken her a little while to work that one out but, once she had, she’d had no trouble keeping them at arm’s length, apart from the near miss with the actor, but then he’d been paid to be convincing. And patient. It was a pity he’d only, in the end, had an audience of one because he’d put in an Oscar-winning performance.

      Kal, despite the way he looked, was just another man flirting with Lady Rose. That was all she had to remember, she told herself as she shook out her hair, brushed it, before she freshened up and put on the clothes Rose had chosen for her.

      So which would he be? Worshipper or ravisher?

      Good question, she thought as she added a simple gold chain and stud earrings before checking her reflection in a full length mirror.

      It wasn’t quite her—she tended to favour jeans and funky tops. It wasn’t quite Lady Rose either, but it was close enough for someone who’d never met either of them, she decided as she chose a book, faced the door and took a slow, calming breath before returning to the main cabin.

      In her absence the seats had been turned around, the cabin reconfigured so that it now resembled a comfortable sitting room.

      An empty sitting room.

      Chapter Three

      HAVING screwed herself up to be ‘relaxed’, the empty cabin was something of a let-down, but a table had been laid with a lace cloth and, no sooner than she’d settled herself and opened her book, Atiya arrived to serve afternoon tea.

      Finger sandwiches, warm scones, clotted cream, tiny cakes and tea served from a heavy silver pot.

      ‘Is all this just for me?’ she asked when she poured only one cup and Kal had still not reappeared.

      She hadn’t wanted his company, but now he’d disappeared she felt affronted on Lady Rose’s behalf. He was supposed to be here, keeping her safe from harm.

      ‘Captain Jacobs invited Mr al-Zaki to visit the crew on the flight deck,’ Atiya said. ‘Apparently they did their basic training together.’

      ‘Training?’ It took her a moment. ‘He’s a pilot?’

      Okay. She hadn’t for a minute believed that he was bothered by the take-off, but she hadn’t seen that coming. A suitable career for a nephew of an Emir wasn’t a subject that had ever crossed her mind, but working as a commercial airline pilot wouldn’t have been on her list even if she had. Maybe it had been military training.

      A stint in one of the military academies favoured by royals would fit.

      ‘Shall I ask him to rejoin you?’ Atiya asked.

      ‘No,’ she said quickly. She had wanted him to keep his distance and her fairy godmother was, apparently, still on the case. ‘I won’t spoil his fun.’

      Besides, if he returned she’d have to share this scrumptious spread.

      Too nervous to eat lunch, and with the terrifying take-off well behind her, she was suddenly ravenous and the temptation to scoff the lot was almost overwhelming. Instead, since overindulgence would involve sweating it all off later, she managed to restrain herself, act like the lady she was supposed to be and simply tasted a little of everything to show her appreciation, concentrating on each stunning mouthful so that it felt as if she was eating far more, before settling down with her book.

      Kal paused at the door to the saloon.

      Rose, her hair a pale gold shimmer that she’d let down to hang over her shoulder, feet tucked up beneath her, absorbed in a book, was so far removed from her iconic image that she looked like a completely different woman.

      Softer. The girl next door rather than a princess, because that was what she’d be if she’d been born into his culture.

      Was the effect diminished?

      Not one bit. It just came at him from a different direction. Now she looked not only luscious but available.

      Double trouble.

      As he settled in the chair opposite her she raised her eyes from her book, regarding him from beneath long lashes.

      ‘Did you enjoy your visit to the cockpit?’

      An almost imperceptible edge to her voice belied the softer look.

      ‘It was most informative. Thank you,’ he responded, equally cool. A little chill was just the thing to douse the heat generated by that mouth. Maybe.

      ‘Did your old friend offer you the controls?’ she added, as if reading his mind, and suddenly it all became clear. It wasn’t the fact that he’d left her side without permission that bothered her.

      The stewardess must have told her that he was a pilot and she thought he’d been laughing at her fear of flying.

      ‘I hoped you wouldn’t notice that little bump back there,’ he said, offering her the chance to laugh right back at him.

      There was a flicker of something deep in her eyes and the suspicion of an appreciative dimple appeared just above the left hand corner of her mouth.

      ‘That was you? I thought it was turbulence.’

      ‘Did you?’ She was lying outrageously—the flight had been rock steady since they’d reached cruising altitude—but he was enjoying her teasing too much to be offended. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve flown anything this big. I’m a little rusty.’

      She was struggling not to laugh now. ‘It’s not something you do seriously, then?’

      ‘No one in my family does anything seriously.’ It was the standard response, the one that journalists expected, and if it didn’t apply to him, who actually cared? But, seeing a frown buckle the smooth, wide space between her eyes, the question that was forming, he cut her short with, ‘My father bought himself a plane,’ he said. ‘I wanted to be able to fly it so I took lessons.’

      ‘Oh.’ The frown remained. ‘But you said “this big”,’ she said, with a gesture that indicated the aircraft around them.

      ‘You