His Desert Rose. Liz Fielding

had fixed her with a look that had brought a flush of colour to her cheeks and made her want to tug her calf-length skirt closer to her ankles. It was a look that had left her feeling entirely female, entirely vulnerable in a way that for a twenty-eight-year-old journalist was almost embarrassing.

      A twenty-eight-year-old journalist, with one marriage, one war and half a dozen in-depth interviews with prime ministers and presidents behind her.

      But she was quite capable of recognising a seriously dangerous man when she saw one, and his photograph, a posed, expressionless, formal portrait, hadn’t even come close to the real thing.

      What, if any, impression she had made upon him was impossible to tell. In the few moments before the door had been closed discreetly between them, his expression had given nothing away.

      It was her first taste of purdah and, despite the fact that she’d been treated throughout the flight like a princess, she didn’t much like it. She knew that, by his own standards, Prince Hassan was showing her far more respect by ignoring her presence than if he had joined her, but as a journalist she could scarcely help being disappointed. It was her disappointment as a woman that disturbed her more.

      Besides, such respect seemed strangely at odds with his reputation as a playboy prince whose wealth, according to gossip, was pumped straight from his country’s oil wells to the wrists and necks of beautiful women, and the world’s most exclusive gaming tables.

      But at home in Ras al Hajar he apparently chose to at least nod to convention. When he had disembarked before her, to be greeted by the officials lined up on the tarmac, he had dispensed with the expensive Italian tailoring and was wearing the trappings of a desert prince. A black prince.

      The breeze had tugged impatiently at the gossamer-thin camel hair cloak thrown over his black robes, at the black keffiyeh held in place by a simple, unadorned camel halter. And she had sensed his own impatience with the ceremonial honour paid him as each man stepped forward to take his hands and bow deeply over them.

      Tim saw her glance drawn to the limousine as the morning sun flashed from the darkened windows. ‘Prince Hassan,’ he murmured.

      ‘Prince who?’ she asked, feigning ignorance. She had long since learned that people told her far more that way.

      But Tim did not leap in with the local gossip as she had hoped. ‘No one for you to get worked up about, Rose. He’s only the local playboy.’

      ‘Really? From all the bowing and scraping when he got off the plane, I thought he must be next in line to King around here.’

      ‘He’s not next in line to anything.’ Tim shrugged. ‘Hassan warrants all that “bowing and scraping”, as you so eloquently put it, because his father took a bullet meant for the old Emir. Several bullets, in fact.’

      ‘Oh?’ Act dumb, Rosie, just act dumb. ‘He was shot?’

      Tim’s disbelieving glance warned her that she might have gone a bit over the top, but he indulged her curiosity. ‘Yes, he was shot, and his reward for a bullet in the shoulder and a smashed leg was the hand of the old Emir’s favourite daughter and a life of ease. Not that he lived long enough to enjoy it.’

      ‘He didn’t survive the attack, then?’

      ‘He made a pretty fair recovery, by all accounts, but he was killed in a car accident a few months after the wedding.’

      ‘How terrible.’ Then, ‘Was it an accident?’

      Her brother’s mouth straightened in a knowing grin. ‘Quick for a girl, aren’t you?’ Then he shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine and that’s all anyone can do—guess.’

      ‘Well, he lived long enough to father a son,’ she said, regret stirring at deeply buried memories. ‘That’s as close to immortality as any of us ever gets.’

      ‘Rose,’ Tim prompted gently.

      She responded with a distracted, ‘Mmm,’ as she continued to watch the limousine speed away from the airport. It might be her job to be interested in anyone who was so close to the throne yet could never aspire to it, but something else was prompting her curiosity about the man behind those grey eyes.

      She’d met men who could command the most undisciplined rabble with no more than a look from eyes like that. It wasn’t the colour that mattered, it was the strength, the conviction behind them. His weren’t the eyes of a playboy. And if he was pretending? The thought strayed into her head and stirred the down on the nape of her neck.

      Then, realising that Tim was still patiently holding the door for her, she smiled. ‘So, I like a good human interest story. Tell me about him. His father must have been dead before he was born.’

      ‘He was. Perhaps that’s why Hassan was so indulged by the old man. He was raised as a favourite.’ Tim glanced back at the limousine, disappearing at speed in the direction of the open desert. ‘Too much money, too little to do; it was bound to lead to trouble.’

      ‘What kind of trouble?’

      He shrugged. ‘Women, gambling… But what can you expect? A man has to do something, and despite the title he’s effectively barred from palace politics.’

      ‘Oh? Why’s that?’ She was too quick with the question and Tim suddenly realised that he was being pumped for information.

      ‘Leave it, Rose,’ he said firmly. ‘You’re here for rest and recuperation, not to ferret out a non-existent story.’

      ‘But if you don’t tell me why he can’t get involved in politics I’ll just worry about it,’ she said, quite reasonably, as Tim helped her up into the air-conditioned comfort of the four-wheel drive. ‘I just won’t be able to help myself.’

      ‘Try. Very hard,’ he suggested. ‘This isn’t a democracy and nosy journalists are not welcome.’

      ‘I’m not nosy,’ she said, with a grin. ‘Just interested.’ Prince Hassan interested her a lot. Men with eyes like that didn’t waste time playing… not without good reason.

      ‘And I’m Charley’s Aunt. You’re here as Prince Abdullah’s guest, Rosie. Break the rules and you’ll be on the first flight out of here. And so will I, so drop it. Please.’

      It was years since Tim had called her Rosie, and she suspected that this was his way of reminding her that, despite the fact that she was a well-known and respected journalist, she was still his little sister. And this was his territory. So she shrugged and let the subject drop. For now. Besides, she knew, or suspected she knew, the answer to her question. Hassan’s father might have been a hero, but he’d been a foreigner, a Scot who’d been drawn to the desert. She had the press cuttings to prove it.

      But it wouldn’t do to let Tim know that. ‘Sorry, it’s just force of habit. And boredom.’

      ‘Then we’ll have to make sure that you don’t get bored. I’ve arranged a small party to introduce you to some people, and Prince Abdullah has pulled out all the stops to make sure you have a good time.’

      Rose allowed Tim to run on about the receptions and parties lined up and waiting for her pleasure, not pushing the subject she was most interested in. After all, receptions and parties were the places to hear all the latest gossip and, with luck, meet the local playboy.

      ‘What was that about a reception at the palace?’ she asked, tuned in for the important words even while her brain was thinking about something else.

      ‘Only if you feel up to it,’ he added. He glanced across at her and pulled a little face. ‘I should warn you that the ride in Abdullah’s private plane might have strings attached. He’s not above trying to charm you into recording a flattering interview with him.’

      ‘Well, he’s out of luck,’ she said, mentally scratching the interview with Abdullah, number two on her Ras al Hajar must-do list. A pity, but it would give her more time to concentrate on Prince Hassan. After all, she was on holiday and entitled