The Sheikh's Reward. Lucy Gordon

and a man emerged. He approached Ali, not appearing to notice Fran, and addressed him in a language she didn’t understand. While the two men talked she glanced through the doors and saw that the room was an office. The walls were covered with charts and maps, there were three fax machines, a row of telephones and a computer unlike any she had ever seen. Fran guessed that it was state of the art. So that was where he did the deals that earned him a million a day.

      Ali noticed the direction of her glance and spoke sharply to the man, who retreated into the office and closed the door. Ali put his arm about Fran’s shoulder, guiding her firmly away. He was smiling, but there was no mistaking the irresistible pressure he was exerting.

      ‘That is only my office,’ he said. ‘In there I do very dull things that wouldn’t interest you.’

      ‘Who knows? Perhaps I would be interested?’ Fran said provocatively.

      Ali laughed. ‘Such a beautiful woman need think only how to be more beautiful still, and to please the man who is enchanted by her.’

      How about that? Fran thought, annoyed. Prehistoric, male chauvinist—

      Ali threw open another set of doors and Fran gasped at the sight that met her eyes. It was a large, luxuriously decorated room with a bay window, in which stood a table laid for two. The plates were the finest porcelain with heavy gold bands around the edge. By each place stood three glasses of priceless crystal. The cutlery was solid gold.

      ‘It’s beautiful,’ she murmured.

      ‘For you, nothing is too good,’ Ali declared.

      For me—or for whoever you happened to pick up, Fran thought, determined to keep her wits about her. But aloud all she said was, ‘You’re too kind.’

      He led her to the table and pulled a chair out for her like the humblest of attendants. Part of the act, Fran decided, amused. All her journalistic instincts were on full alert, and while she seemed to be merely languidly accepting whatever happened she was actually observing every detail.

      At the same time, she couldn’t deny that she was enjoying herself. Ali was simply the most handsome man she’d ever seen. In the casino she’d seen him mainly sitting at the table, or at a distance. Now he was on his feet and close to her she felt the full impact of his magnificence.

      He was about six feet two in height, with long legs and broad shoulders. Yet he didn’t give the impression of being heavily built. He walked softly, making no sound, but nobody could have overlooked him. His movements had the lightness of a panther ready to spring.

      His face was more than merely good-looking. It was a study in contradictions. At first glance it was European, inherited from his mother. Yet his Arab father was also there. Fran had read about Prince Saleem, a fierce man who inspired terror and devotion among his people. He too was in Ali’s face in the dark chocolate eyes, the curved, stubborn mouth, and the air of proud authority.

      Yet Ali had more than looks. His charisma was so strong that it was practically a force field. He radiated strength and intensity. And, while some of it must have come from having been born to rule, her instincts told her that his vibrant, emotional power was all his own.

      He showed her to a seat, drawing the chair out and deferring to her. ‘I will serve you myself, if that is agreeable to you?’ he said smoothly.

      ‘I am honoured to be attended by a prince,’ Fran murmured.

      She saw him smile, and guessed what he was thinking: this woman had fallen for his line, just like all the others. Well, if he thought that, he was in for a shock.

      A heated trolley stood nearby, and he ladled a pale yellow liquid into a dish. It was thick, like porridge, mixed with rice, and it tasted delicious.

      ‘Pumpkin soup,’ Ali explained. ‘I have a weakness for it, so when I’m here my chef keeps some permanently ready.’ He served himself and sat facing her. The table was small, so even on opposite sides they were still close. ‘Have you ever tasted Arabic food before?’ he asked.

      ‘A little. There’s a restaurant I sometimes go to. It has the most delicious chicken with dates and honey, and I can’t resist it. But the surroundings are vulgar. The walls are covered with murals of the desert, with oases that light up in neon.’

      Ali winced. ‘I know the kind of place you mean. They make a great play of the desert, but none of them knows what the desert is really like.’

      ‘What is it like?’ Fran asked eagerly. ‘Tell me about the desert.’

      ‘How shall I know what to say? There are so many deserts. There is the desert in the evening when the sun turns to blood and is swallowed up by the sand. In England you have long twilights, but in my country it can be broad daylight, and then pitch darkness a few minutes later.

      ‘Then, in the early hours, dawn lays a cool light on the land for a few moments, then rises in pale glory, and we all give thanks for the renewed blessing. But at noon the desert can be a enemy, and the sun turns to a furnace, driving you back into the sand.

      ‘But they all have one thing in common, and that is the silence: a deeper silence than you can imagine. Until you have stood in the desert and watched the stars wheel overhead, you have never heard the silence of the earth as it spins on its axis.’

      ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘That’s what I thought.’

      Without her knowing, a dreamy, far-away look had come into her eyes. Ali saw it, and a small frown of interest creased his brows. ‘You thought?’ he asked.

      ‘I used to dream about places like that,’ she admitted. ‘When I was a child that dream was very important to me.’

      ‘Tell me,’ Ali said intently. ‘What happened in your childhood?’

      ‘It’s strange, but whenever I think about that time I remember rain. I suppose it couldn’t have rained every day, but all I can see is grey, drizzly skies, and people to match.’

      ‘People were unkind to you?’

      ‘No, I’m not being fair. After my parents died I was raised by some distant cousins on their farm. They meant well, but they were old and very serious, and knew nothing about children. They did their best for me, encouraged me to do well at school. But there was no excitement, and I longed for it.’ She gave a small embarrassed laugh. ‘You’ll probably think this is silly, but I started to read The Arabian Nights.’

      ‘I don’t think that’s silly. Why should I? I read it myself as a boy. I loved those fantastical tales, with their magic and drama.’

      ‘There was certainly plenty of that,’ Fran remembered. ‘A sultan who took a new wife every night and killed her in the morning.’

      ‘Until he found Scheherazade, who teased his mind with fantastic tales, so that he had to let her live to find out what came next,’ Ali supplied. ‘I loved the stories, but I loved Scheherazade’s wit even more.

      ‘I used to read that book in the desert, looking out at the horizon as the sun blazed its last before dying. How sad for you to yearn for the sun in this cold country.’

      She nodded. ‘Yes, and living in a chilly house, watching the rain outside, always short of pocket money because—I quote—“we mustn’t be extravagant”.’

      She hadn’t meant to make herself sound quite so deprived as it came out. Her elderly cousins hadn’t been mean, simply determined to teach her the value of money. While rebelling at their frugal standards she’d somehow imbibed them. She’d gone on to achieve a first-class degree in economics, but pure economics had been too dry for her. So she’d switched to journalism, specialising in stories where scandal mingled with money. She’d found the excitement she secretly yearned for through investigating the shady secrets of high-profile figures. But she couldn’t tell Ali Ben Saleem that.

      There was a great deal more she couldn’t tell him— like Uncle Dan’s teachings about ‘money and morality’. The God-fearing old man had