The Sheikh. Anne Herries

It was only because I was interested…’ She faltered as he frowned again. ‘Not in politics. I have an interest in Arabic literature…poems, to be exact. You quoted something from Umar Ibn Abi Rabia, whose work was disapproved of by more pious scholars. That was what caught my eye.’

      ‘Ah, yes, the love poems.’ His brows lifted. ‘I would hardly have thought you a scholar of Arabic, Miss Randall?’

      ‘I am not, of course. I wish I could claim to be that clever. I can recognise a few words here and there—but there are some wonderful poems and other forms of literature that have been translated into English and French. I am making a collection. One day, I may inquire if anyone would like to publish them as a book. You see, I think other people might like them if they were readily available—especially some of the love poems. They are so beautiful…’

      Her cheeks were on fire as she finished. He looked amused but also approving, and something about him at that moment was making her stomach tie itself in knots. She was finding it a little difficult to breathe—foolish girl!

      ‘Yes, they are,’ he agreed. ‘And it is a shame that so much of merit languishes unread for want of interest. Some of the most beautiful prose and poetry were originally written in Arabic—there is a sensuality about the language that flows from the tongue.’

      And about his mouth! How attractive he was when he looked at her like that.

      Chloe checked her unruly thoughts. What on earth was going through her mind? She was an incurable romantic!

      ‘I have often wished that I could read the original but, as I said before, I am not clever enough.’

      ‘That is because no one has taught you,’ he said, and there was a look in his eyes that sent an odd little tingle down her spine. ‘Perhaps you will tell me more of what you have discovered as we walk back to the hotel, Miss Randall?’ His dark eyes met hers in a challenge.

      ‘You know of the Rubaiyat, of course.’

      ‘Oh, yes, I know some of it by heart…’ She faltered as his brows quirked, and then closed her eyes. ‘It begins… “Wake! For the sun, who scattered into flight…”’

      “‘The Stars before him from the Field of Night,

      Drive Night along with them from Heav’n and strikes

      The Sultan’s turret with a Shaft of Light.’”

      ‘Oh, yes,’ she breathed as he stopped and arched his brows at her. ‘I thought I must be the only one who had learned that verse. Most people only seem to know the bit about the cup of wine and thou.’

      ‘But you are different,’ he suggested. ‘You intrigue me, Miss Randall. Tell me more.’

      Chloe looked shyly at him. ‘I’ve never talked about my work before. Daddy calls it my little hobby, and my friends don’t understand why I find the study of Arabic literature interesting. Justine says there are already too many English poets to bother with something in an impossible language that no one can understand.’

      ‘Justine is your exuberant friend from the ship?’

      ‘Yes. I am sorry that she ruined your suit—and that I made it worse.’

      ‘I am not sure that once something is ruined you can make it worse.’

      ‘You’re laughing at me!’ Chloe accused.

      ‘Yes, and it is very unkind of me,’ he replied with a twist of his mouth—a mouth she again realised was very attractive. ‘But it is good to laugh sometimes. Believe me, I have not wanted to laugh for a long time.’

      ‘May I ask why?’

      ‘Someone I cared for died.’

      ‘Oh, I see—I am very sorry. I know that hurts. I was devastated when my mother died.’

      He nodded, but did not elaborate. Clearly his grief was private, and still too raw to be discussed.

      ‘May I ask your real name?’

      ‘You could not remember—even though you saw the newspaper article?’

      ‘No. I thought it might be Hassan—or Pasha?’

      ‘It is Pasha,’ he said. ‘Pasha Ibn Hasim—can you be trusted to keep that to yourself, Miss Randall? I would prefer that it did not become common knowledge at the hotel—or anywhere.’

      ‘Yes, of course—if you wish,’ she said and frowned. ‘I expect you have a good reason for using a false name.’

      ‘Armand is my maternal great-grandmother’s name. She was French—and her father was called Philippe. I have a British passport in that name so it is not entirely false.’

      ‘Oh…’ Chloe felt her cheeks getting warm again. ‘I didn’t mean to imply anything.’

      ‘You did, of course, but no matter. I do have very good reasons for travelling under an assumed name. My father was assassinated in Algeria when I was a child of nine years. My uncle sent me to England to be educated because he believed I would be safer in a foreign country—and, as my mother was English, I had relations there.’

      ‘Your father was… I am so sorry! I had no idea.’ Chloe was appalled. She had never heard anything so dreadful and it had completely shocked her. ‘That’s why…I mean, I shan’t say a word about what you’ve told me to anyone. Are you an important Sheikh or something?’

      Pasha laughed. ‘Not important in the way you mean, merely wealthy. However, someone in my family is very important.’

      ‘Please don’t tell me any more,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I ought to know. In case I inadvertently say something I shouldn’t.’

      ‘I had no intention of telling you anything that might compromise his safety—or your own.’

      Chloe’s eyes were wide with wonder. ‘You really are important, aren’t you? You must be if your…friend might be in danger through something I might accidentally learn from you.’

      Pasha didn’t answer and she felt that he had withdrawn from her once more, but she no longer wondered at it or that he should look so stern at times. He had a great deal on his shoulders, and his life could not be easy. She saw that they had almost reached the hotel, and turned to him.

      ‘Thank you for helping me. I can manage now.’ She hesitated. ‘In case we don’t meet again—good luck.’ And then without knowing why she did it, she leaned towards him and softly kissed his cheek. ‘Stay alive, Pasha Ibn Hasim. Goodbye.’

      Chloe turned quickly away before he could answer, running into the hotel without looking back. She had acted impulsively and was already regretting what he must see as very forward behaviour.

      She had no idea why she had done it, except that the little he had told her made her feel he might be in danger himself, and for some reason she couldn’t begin to explain, she couldn’t bear for him to be assassinated like his father.

      Chloe looked for Pasha at dinner that evening, but he wasn’t in the hotel dining room. Nor was the film crew, and Amelia told them that she had earlier seen the actress and Brent Harwood being called for in a large, expensive car.

      ‘I think they have been invited to dine with some local bigwig,’ she said. ‘There’s quite a buzz going round over this film they are making. Apparently, it’s going to be shot mainly in Morocco, but they are doing some of the scenes here at the hotel—and they think it will make them famous.’

      ‘The manager hopes it will bring new visitors to his hotel,’ the professor said. ‘Can’t see it myself—never been to one of those films in my life and don’t care to. Give me a good German-made film—or the French make some decent artistic stuff.’

      ‘Daddy won’t go to a German film on principle,’ Chloe said. ‘Because of the war. But Justine and I went to one—it was