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Yet as much as he told himself he’d be good for her, he couldn’t quite dismiss the possibility he might end up hurting her. Badly. And hurting Sarah would be like hurting a child.
Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep.
If she equated sex with a promise of love…a promise of commitment…
He couldn’t lie to her.
Which left what…being honourable?
Tareq was grimacing at this unpalatable line of logic when Sarah made her entrance to the sitting room. Her appearance brought his pacing to an abrupt halt. It blotted out everything else on his mind. It shot a bolt of fire to his loins. It flipped his heart.
She looked utterly, stunningly beautiful, a picture of style and elegance, and so gut-wrenchingly sexy Tareq didn’t trust himself to move. One step towards her and he’d be hauling her off to bed like a caveman.
“Will I do?” she asked, slowly pirouetting to give him the full effect of her outfit.
A long tunic made of some soft, clinging fabric moulded every line and curve of her figure like a second skin. The high round neckline and long sleeves accentuated the effect of a total body covering stretched around her flesh to faithfully outline her femininity. It was overwhelmingly sensual yet undeniably modest. Youthful.
The green floral pattern on a background of pure white had the fresh appeal of spring, and this was highlighted by a single white silk flower, perched on one shoulder, close to the curve of her throat. No jewellery to diminish the effect.
The tunic was slit on both sides to mid-thigh, and she wore long white satin trousers underneath it, giving an Eastern flavour to the outfit, making it even more alluring.
“Well?” she prompted, her eyes uncertain, seeking approval.
Her vulnerability pierced his heart. His plans—everything he’d thought in coming to some solution that would suit him—suddenly seemed terribly wrong. There was no clear course except…to protect her. Even from himself.
He took a deep breath, banking down the fire within. She was waiting for an answer. He should let her go…out of his too complicated life…yet deep inside him screamed a need to keep her with him.
“Perfect!” he declared—a perfect torment of seductive innocence.
“I know it’s right for me,” she said artlessly. “I loved it from the moment I tried it on when I went shopping in Naples. But is it right for tonight?”
She would stand out like a spring flower amongst hothouse roses, Tareq thought, and the imagery instantly inspired the only course for him to take…if he was to keep her in his life…a bit longer anyway…long enough to make sense of everything.
“Perfect!” he repeated, smiling reassurance as he walked towards her. “You look so very lovely, I consider it an honour to be escorting you tonight.”
She flushed at the compliment, pleasure warming her eyes.
He lifted one of her hands to his lips and bestowed a soft kiss of homage. Gallantry was not dead. Tareq had just resurrected it.
London
14th December
Dear Jessie,
It hasn’t snowed here yet but the weather people are forecasting a white Christmas in England. It’s bitterly cold outside, much colder than Washington and New York. Lucky for us, Tareq’s house in Eaton Place has good central heating. I do miss the sun, though. I guess I was spoiled by the two weeks we had in Florida.
SARAH STARED AT the words on the computer monitor screen and was struck by the sheer inanity of bumbling on about the weather. It was what people did to evade touching on anything more sensitive. It filled in space that couldn’t be filled with anything else. Certainly not the truth. Impossible to confide the truth to a ten-year-old child.
The acute sense of loneliness that she’d hoped to allay by writing to Jessie became more acute. She was hopelessly in love with Tareq al-Khaima and there was no one she could talk to about how she felt, no one she could turn to for advice. Certainly not her mother.
The day after arriving in London she’d telephoned Marchington Hall to ask that the clothes she’d left there in storage be sent to her. Amongst them were her good cashmere cape and some classic woollens that never went out of fashion.
“What number did you say in Eaton Place?” her mother had queried.
Sarah had repeated it and the Countess of Marchington had gloatingly pounced. “I know that address. It’s Tareq al-Khaima’s residence. What are you doing there, Sarah?”
There was no point in denial. Her mother was like a ferret when it came to finding out what she wanted to know about noteworthy people. “I met up with Tareq in Australia and he invited me to travel with him. I’m his guest at the moment,” Sarah had rattled out, trying to make it all sound blithely innocent.
“What a clever girl you are! Do try to hang on to him, darling. He’s fabulously wealthy. And so gorgeous!”
The avid note in her voice had been enough to turn Sarah off saying anything more. Everything within her recoiled from having what she felt tarnished by her mother’s values. She’d swiftly ended the call, though she suspected her mother would now plot a meeting to check out the possibilities. That had to be blocked at all costs. It would be hideously embarrassing and humiliating.
Sarah gritted her teeth against a rise of bitterness and forced her mind back to the letter.
Washington…the word leapt out at her from the screen. She’d sent Jessie postcards of the White House, Arlington Cemetery, the Ford Theater where President Lincoln had been shot, the Air and Space Museum which had housed so many marvels from the first plane flown by the Wright Brothers to the Apollo space capsule carrying models of the astronauts; all the places she had visited during the day when Tareq was busy with meetings. But the nights…
It had been both daunting and exciting accompanying Tareq to the dinners and parties where his VIP status was awesomely in evidence. He was courted by politicians, lobbyists, diplomats, not to mention their wives who were very solicitous of his pleasure. No one mentioned horses or property developments. The oil markets and Middle East politics were the hot topics and Tareq handled them with an authoritative ease that demonstrated another dimension of the man.
He handled everything masterfully, from fending off fawning women to rescuing Sarah from sticky questions and ensuring she was not exposed to problems or unpleasantness by the simple but effective measure of not allowing anyone to take her from his side. Even pre-arranged places at tables were rearranged to accommodate his insistence on their not being separated.
It was stamped on every mind that Sarah Hillyard was to be respected as Sheikh Tareq al-Khaima’s companion and under his protection and woe betide anyone who put a foot wrong with her or slighted her in any way. His manner to her was courteous, gentlemanly, above reproach in word and deed. In short, he treated her like a princess and subtly forced others to do the same.
It made her feel cosseted, valued, cared for as though she was precious to him. This was heightened by his air of possessiveness. Only he took her arm. Only he rested a light hand on her waist. Only he danced with her. It was heady stuff for Sarah who found it more and more difficult to keep her feet on the ground.
At first she had thought Tareq was treating her as he believed she wanted to be treated, a cynical display of his reeducation. But there was nothing even slightly sardonic in his behaviour towards her. Then she had reasoned Washington was a hotbed of political gossip and Tareq’s public performance was probably being reported to the embassy which served his country and thus back to his uncle. Perhaps she was being convincingly set up as the woman in his life so she would come as no surprise at his half-brother’s