In The Arms Of The Sheikh. Sophie Weston
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the limousine drive off through the trees and found that her heart was sinking.
Natasha took hold of herself. Was she a woman or a wimp?
‘The butler probably has to fight his way out of the coffin to get to the front door,’ she told herself mordantly. ‘Great stuff, Izzy. A themed weekend!’
She pressed the doorbell again several times. Hard.
The feeling of being watched intensified. It was like standing in a spotlight. She tilted her head, listening…
Was that a noise…?
No, she told herself. No, not an actual noise. She could not hear anything but the wind in the trees. No steps on the raked gravel path. No breathing.
But something inside her knew he was there. Her blood seemed to get heavy; move more slowly. Her bones tingled.
Be careful.
Natasha swallowed. The Gothic atmosphere was really getting to her! She rang the bell again and again, heart beating hard.
Then, like a shot from a gun, there came the crackle of dry leaves underfoot.
She froze. Imagination was one thing. Instincts screaming at her to be on the alert were something totally different. Natasha had learned to trust her instincts. They had saved her life once. She whipped round.
‘Who’s there?’
She scoured the shadows as if each one hid a personal assassin.
The man emerged from the darkness between two huge bushes. He was not stealthy, but he walked lightly. He was tall, wearing something dark.
Natasha’s first impression was that he was very professional. Professional what, she was not sure. But, a professional herself, she recognised the characteristics: tense, focused, controlled. Her second impression, which blasted the first away like a firestorm—was total arrogance.
Natasha knew arrogance in all its forms. She worked with it every day and, once, it had nearly cost her her life. She detested it. On pure reflex, she went into defensive mode. Her backbone locked and her chin came up like a fighter plane taking off.
The man looked at her. He did not say anything. The reflected light from the porch picked up high, haughty cheekbones and eyes that pierced. Just for the moment she thought of a jungle cat, watchful and contained. And dangerous.
Dangerous? She fought with herself. This was a shadow of the past, pure and simple. Nothing more. She was not going to let paranoia get to her after all these years. She set her teeth.
‘Good evening.’ Her tone was pleasant—well, fairly pleasant. It said she reserved the right to lash out if he didn’t jump to attention. Close associates would have recognised that tone.
The man from the shadows was unmoved. More, he was unimpressed.
‘Yes?’ It was about as welcoming as a firestorm, too.
It would have intimidated a lesser woman. Natasha was almost certain it was meant to intimidate her.
It didn’t. She wasted no more time on civilities.
‘I’m expected,’ she said briskly.
That did not impress him either. ‘And you are?’
‘Ms Lambert to see Ms Dare.’ It was as curt as if she were calling at one of the big New York skyscrapers and he were a lowly reception clerk. ‘Do I have to repeat myself? I told you on the entry phone.’
He did not like that. He stiffened.
That gave Natasha some slight satisfaction. But not enough to compensate for standing out here in the cold November wind in a designer suit that was definitely aimed at the indoor market. She refused to shiver, though.
‘Lambert?’
‘Natasha Lambert.’ She was nearly snarling. ‘Ms Dare asked me for the weekend.’
He pretended to think about it—with insulting slowness. ‘That was the weekend that started last night? Or this morning at the latest?’
If it hadn’t been so cold, Natasha would have told him that her travel arrangements were her own business. But she was desperate to get indoors out of the biting wind.
‘I was held up.’ She gritted her teeth and tried hard to sound reasonable. She couldn’t quite manage apologetic.
But it did not seem that he was interested in an apology, after all.
‘Why?’ It shot at her like a bullet.
‘My client in New York demanded an extra meeting.’
He looked at her, but it was almost as if he did not see her. He frowned.
‘When was the meeting?’
A little gust of ice-fringed air sent the leaves dancing. Her interrogator did not even seem to notice. But it cut through Natasha’s fashionable suit like a laser ray.
This time when she gritted her teeth it was to stop them from chattering. ‘Thursday evening.’
‘Why didn’t you take an overnight flight?’
‘They were full. Then my flight was delayed, diverted due to fog—’ Natasha got her second wind. ‘Look, what is this? I’m supposed to be spending the weekend with friends. Not giving a rundown of my recent diary to—to—’ she looked at the height, the impassive face, the body impervious to cold, those eyes focused elsewhere, and the perfect insult leaped straight out of her childhood ‘—to Lurch the butler,’ she finished with relish.
‘What?’
He was looking at her now, all right. Right at her. Into her, almost.
Natasha saw him take in her beautifully cut black suit, the thin, ultra-smart New York shoes, the power blonde crop. And saw him decide he didn’t like the package one bit. She began to feel better, in spite of the cold.
‘I beg your pardon?’ he said, very slowly and distinctly.
‘You’re the butler, right?’ she said airily. ‘I mean, someone had to press the button to open those gates. You?’
He inclined his head. It was just about agreement.
‘So you have to know that I am expected,’ she pointed out triumphantly. She waved a hand at the case. ‘Would you take my luggage, please?’
He looked at it with—would that be astonishment?
She could not resist teasing all that glacial disapproval. ‘Hey, I travel light.’
His mouth set in a thin, ferocious line. It drove two deep clefts down his cheeks.
Ouch, thought Natasha. Maybe she had gone a bit far, calling him Lurch. Maybe he was sensitive about being a butler for some reason.
‘So where is Ms Dare?’ she asked in a friendlier tone. ‘Why can’t I get a rise out of the house? Have they decamped to the movies or something?’
He didn’t respond to friendliness. Hardly opening his lips, he said, ‘The party is in the garden.’
‘Well, thank God there’s some partying going on somewhere.’
He sent her a look of acute dislike. ‘You have some identification?’
‘Ident—?’ All desire to be friendly left Natasha abruptly. ‘You’ve got to be joking.’
But he strode forward, quick and sudden as that jungle cat she had thought him. He ran—no, surged like a tidal wave—up the steps. In spite of herself, Natasha retreated before him. It made her spitting mad but she couldn’t help herself.
She stopped just short of backing up against the studded door.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
He ignored that. He clicked