The Sheikh's Guarded Heart. Liz Fielding

to say before the words left his mouth.

      ‘Sir, I’ve had a signal from the Emir’s office.’

      No one had been here in months so this was no coincidence; it had to be something to do with Lucy Forrester.

      ‘Who is it?’ he asked. ‘Who is coming?’

      Was it the man—he was certain it would be a man—she’d been so desperate to reach?

      ‘It is the Princess Ameerah, sir.’

      Not her lover, then, but nevertheless Lucy Forrester was the direct cause of this invasion.

      ‘I am to have a chaperon, it would seem. You wasted no time in reporting last night’s event to my father, Zahir.’

      ‘Sir,’ he protested. ‘I did not. I would not…’ Then, ‘Your father is concerned for you. He understands your grief but he needs you, Han.’

      ‘He has two other sons, Zahir. One to succeed him, one to hunt with him.’

      ‘But you, Han…’

      ‘He can spare me.’

      Zahir stiffened. ‘You were not recognised at the hospital, I would swear to it, but the removal of Miss Forrester by your staff would not have passed without comment. Sir,’ he added, after a pause just long enough to indicate that he did not appreciate his loyalty being doubted. ‘It was only a matter of time before news of it reached your father.’

      ‘He will want to know why the news did not come from you.’

      ‘You undertook a simple act of charity, Excellency. I did not believe the incident was of sufficient importance to interest His Highness.’

      ‘Let us hope, for your sake, that His Highness takes the same view,’ Hanif replied wryly, briefly touching the young man’s shoulder in a gesture that they both understood was an apology. ‘I would hate to see him replace you with someone less concerned about bothering him.’

      Or was that what Zahir was banking on? Did he consider the chance of returning to the centre of things worth the risk of irritating the Emir?

      ‘I think I should warn you, Zahir, that the arrival of the princess would suggest otherwise.’

      ‘It may be a coincidence.’

      ‘I don’t believe in coincidence.’ Undoubtedly his father was making the point that if he could take in and care for some unknown foreign woman, he could spare time for his own daughter. He turned away. ‘Make the necessary arrangements to receive the princess.’

      ‘It has been done, Excellency.’ Zahir raised his voice as the helicopter appeared overhead, shaking a storm of blossom from the trees. ‘Will you come and greet her?’

      ‘Not now. She’ll be tired from her journey. Maybe tomorrow,’ he said when his cousin looked as if he might press the point.

      He’d had three years of tomorrows. One more wouldn’t make any difference.

      CHAPTER THREE

      LUCY had refused the painkillers Han offered, but he’d left the two capsules beside the bed with a glass of water in case she changed her mind, and a small hand bell that she was to ring if she needed anything, before leaving her to rest.

      She was, she had to admit, feeling exhausted, but it wasn’t just the effects of the accident. She hadn’t slept since the second credit card statement had arrived. The first she’d assumed was a mistake, had emailed Steve and he’d said he’d sort it out. When the second one had arrived a couple of days later she’d known that the mistake was all hers.

      Her body jabbed her with irritable reminders of what she’d put it through with every movement, but for the moment she’d chosen what passed for clear-headedness over relief.

      She needed to think, try and work out what to do. How much to tell Hanif al-Khatib. She didn’t want him to get into trouble, but neither did she relish the thought of being turned over to the authorities, which was what he would have to do once he knew the truth.

      Her research on the Internet at the library had informed her that Ramal Hamrah was a modern state that paid due respect to human rights; what that meant in terms of punishment for car theft, justifiable or otherwise, she had no idea. And actually she was finding it hard to convince herself that her actions were justifiable.

      Gran wouldn’t have thought so, but then she’d taken an unshakeable Old Testament line when it came to sin. Thou shalt not…

      The only certainty in her own life these days was that she’d behaved liked an idiot. If she’d gone to the police, instead of taking off after Steve like some avenging harpy, she wouldn’t be in this mess. Now she’d lost the moral high ground, had put herself in the wrong.

      Maybe a good lawyer could get her off on the grounds that the balance of her mind had been disturbed, she thought. Hold him responsible for everything. Make a counter-claim against him, at least for the fraud.

      But what good would that do? Even if she could afford a lawyer, Steve wouldn’t be able to repay her if he was in jail.

      Besides, it was no longer just about the money.

      That was what was so unfair. When she’d taken the 4x4 and set off to look for him it hadn’t been herself she’d been thinking of. All she’d wanted was for him to put things right…

      As if.

      That was the point at which she decided that a clear head was not so very desirable after all but, as she reached for the painkillers, she realised that she was not alone.

      ‘Hello.’ Lucy forced her swollen face into a smile. The tiny girl, exotic in bright silks, half hiding behind the open door, didn’t move, didn’t speak, and she tried again, using her limited Arabic. ‘Shes-mak?’ What’s your name? At least she hoped that was what it meant since the child’s only response was a little gasp of fright before she took off, tiny gold bangles tinkling as she ran away.

      Her place in the doorway was immediately taken by a breathless figure, a lightweight black abbeyah thrown over her dress, who paused only long enough to gasp her own quickly muffled shock before murmuring, ‘Sorry, sorry…’ before disappearing as fast as her charge.

      Did she look that bad?

      There must have been a mirror in the bathroom—there was always a mirror above the basin, even in her grandmother’s house where vanity had been considered a sin.

      Maybe some inner sense of self-preservation had kept her from examining the damage but now she wondered just how grotesque she looked. Was she going to be permanently scarred?

      She raised her hands to her face, searching for serious damage. Everything was swollen—her lips, her eyes, the flesh around her nose. None of her features felt…right, familiar.

      Han had moved the crutches, the plastic splint, had propped them up out of the way on the far side of the room. It didn’t matter, she had to know the worst. Putting her sound foot down, she heaved herself upright, grabbing the night table for support.

      For a moment every muscle, every sinew, every bone, complained and it was touch and go whether the table would fall or she would.

      She didn’t have a hand to spare to catch the painkillers as they spilled on to the floor, or the glass which followed them, toppling over, spilling water as it spun before falling on to the beautiful silk carpet. Then the bell succumbed to gravity, landing with a discordant clang, followed by the crash of the telephone.

      There was nothing she could do about any of it; all she could do was hold on tight and pray.

      Apparently that was enough.

      After a moment the room stopped going round and, since she wasn’t sure what would happen if she put her weight on her damaged ankle, she used her good one to hop across the room, hanging on to the table, the wall, the door, jarring every bone in her body,