The Scandalous Collection. Кейт Хьюит
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She closed her eyes. She wasn’t going to take herself there. It had been … well, it had been absolutely fantastic. But she wasn’t going to read too much into it, not at this stage. All she wanted was to get back to her family as soon as possible, and she needed his help to do that.
‘Hassan!’ Her voice was louder now but there was still no reply, when just at that moment came a rap at the door.
What should she do?
Ignore it? Wait for Hassan to come out of the bathroom and deal with it himself? Surely, the fewer people who saw her here, the better.
But the rap was repeated and there came the distinct and undeniable sound of someone saying her name.
‘Miss Jackson?’
Ella screwed up her nose in confusion. That was her. No way on earth she could deny it. How the hell did they know she was here? Wrapping the sheet around her like a fancy-dress version of a Grecian goddess, she padded barefoot to the door, pulling it open and gazing suspiciously through the small crack. Outside stood a tall man she didn’t recognise, with a polite smile on his face and what looked like some dry-cleaning hanging over his arm.
‘Miss Jackson?’ he said again.
Ella screwed her eyes up. ‘Who are you?’
‘You don’t know me. My name is Benedict Austin and I work as an aide to Sheikh Hassan Al Abbas. He asked me to make sure that you got this.’
With this, he handed her the package and Ella blinked. ‘What is it?’
‘You’ll find some clothes in there. The sheikh was most insistent that you have them, since I understand that you …’ He hesitated. ‘Spilt some wine down your dress last night.’
Ella could feel herself blushing since she suspected that this man knew very well what had really happened to her dress. And in that moment, she felt furious. Why couldn’t Hassan have had the decency to hand over the clothes himself instead of sending one of his puppets to do the deed? She looked the aide straight in the eye. ‘Do you have any idea where he is?’
‘The sheikh?’ The aide gave an apologetic shrug as if this was a question he had been asked by indignant women many times during his career. ‘I’m afraid he had to fly back to Kashamak with some urgency. There were pressing affairs of state which he needed to attend to.’
Ella had thought it wasn’t possible to feel any worse than she already did, but this new piece of information just went to show how wrong she could be. So he had done a runner. He had left without even bothering to say goodbye.
Humiliated, she wanted to tell this Benedict Austin just what he could do with his clothes, but pride told her that was a luxury she couldn’t afford. What had happened was bad enough, but if she was seen slinking out of the palace wearing a tattered version of last night’s dress then she might as well carry a banner, announcing to the world how she’d spent the night.
‘Thank you,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster, before taking the proffered package and quietly closing the door on him.
Some women might have cried, but not Ella. She was a survivor. She wasn’t about to waste her tears on someone as unworthy as Hassan Al Abbas. Instead she concentrated on making herself presentable enough to find her way out of the strange palace.
A shower and vigorous hair wash got rid of every last trace of the sheikh’s scent from her body, even if the memory of him wasn’t quite so easy to shift.
She stared at herself in the mirror, reading the bewilderment which had darkened her blue eyes and wondering why she had behaved like that.
Hadn’t she spent her whole life despairing at how easily her mother had capitulated to the whims of her straying ex-husband, allowing him back in her life whenever it pleased him? Time and time again she had begged her mum to grow a little backbone and stand up to the man who’d made such a fool of her. But once she’d realised that her mother would listen to nothing except the demands of her own heart, Ella had vowed that she would be different. She would always be cool-headed when it came to men. She would regard them with the same impartiality as she would a prospective business deal.
Up until now, she’d never had a problem with that strategy, but then, up until now she’d never met a man like Hassan Al Abbas. Nor ever felt as if she were a slave to her body. The only sexual experience she’d had prior to last night had been an unmitigated disaster, mainly consisting of her lying looking wide-eyed up at the ceiling, wondering what all the fuss was about.
Well, last night she’d found that out for herself. And suddenly she understood. Suddenly she could see why people took such huge risks when it came to sex. Why they made complete fools of themselves. She felt as if she had been initiated to a secret club, without having decided whether or not she really wanted to be a member.
With trembling fingers, she opened up the package which Hassan’s aide had brought with him. Inside lay a cool white dress and a pair of panties nestling among sheets of tissue paper. But while the dress was a fairly respectable length, the panties were nothing but a peach-coloured thong, a sexy little garment which revealed more than it concealed. The thin, satin string made her bottom look almost bare and the filmy peach fabric at the front showed the dark fuzz of hair through which Hassan had hungrily tangled his fingers only hours before.
Her skin felt tainted as she put it on, yet what choice did she have but to wear it? Had he chosen it, she wondered, or did he usually leave that kind of thing to his aide?
Slapping on some makeup from her purse and a defiant slash of scarlet lipstick, she stuffed her ruined silver dress into the bathroom bin, sickeningly aware that there were tiny beads lying all over the floor. And then, having forced her feet into what was quite clearly a pair of evening shoes, she let herself out of the suite, momentarily trying to get her bearings.
Heading towards a wide corridor hung with lavish chandeliers she caught a glimpse of perfectly manicured grass in the distance and realised that she must be near the palace gardens. Could she find some passing member of staff and ask them to arrange a car to take her back to the hotel? Was that possible?
‘Miss Jackson? Miss Jackson, isn’t it?’
The icily cultured voice behind her made Ella freeze in horror because she couldn’t fail to recognise those aristocratic tones. Oh, please don’t let it be Queen Zoe, she prayed silently, her hopes crumbling as she turned round to stare into the cold features of her sister’s future mother-in-law.
Awkwardly, Ella bobbed a curtsey, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. ‘Er, good morning, Your Majesty.’
‘It’s Ella, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, Your Majesty.’
The queen raised her eyebrows. ‘Forgive me for being a little surprised to see you here at such an hour. I thought that you and your family were staying at the hotel?’
Ella hoped her grimace resembled a smile. What could she do, other than be evasive? Tell the queen that she’d spent the night with the sheikh? Wasn’t the fact that she was creeping around the corridors wearing new clothes which didn’t match last night’s shoes evidence enough? ‘I … I fell asleep,’ she said lamely.
There was a silence while Ella dared the queen to ask just where she’d fallen asleep. But fortunately, good breeding must have stopped her, for the older woman simply gave a disapproving look, as if she didn’t believe a word of it.
‘I see. And have you had breakfast?’ asked the queen.
‘Er, no. I’m not really very hungry, Your Majesty. In fact, I really ought to be getting back to the hotel. My mother will be wondering where I am.’
‘Yes, I can imagine she will be,’ answered the queen drily. ‘Well, speak to one of the staff and they will arrange a car for you.’
‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’ Ella gave the deepest curtsey she could manage and waited until the queen gave a