CHAPTER THREE

      SARAH glanced anxiously at her watch. The drive into the city had taken over two hours. The morning was slipping away from her. It was almost eight o’clock and she was still locked in Melbourne traffic. A sleepless night and a heavy weight of worry wasn’t doing much for her judgment on which were the faster transit lanes, either.

      She’d left Werribee as early as she could but not as early as she would have liked. It had taken time to instruct one of the stable hands in the house routine so he could look after the children until the foreman’s wife could come. It wasn’t the best arrangement but this was an emergency situation.

      Her main fear was the possibility she was already too late to make any difference to Tareq’s decision. He may have acted yesterday, lining up another trainer to take his horses. Or he could be at Flemington right now, discussing business. The Spring Carnival wasn’t over yet. It was Oaks Day tomorrow. Many owners gathered with trainers at the racetrack at dawn each morning, watching the form of favoured horses.

      On top of which, even if Tareq was at his hotel, there was no guarantee he would see her. Or talk to her. Let alone listen to what she had to say. All Sarah could do was hope and pray for a chance to change his mind before his decision became irreversible.

      When she finally reached the Como Hotel, she did a double take. Despite its being in South Yarra, outside the main city area, she had expected a big, plush, ostentatiously luxurious establishment, the kind of place one automatically associated with oil-wealthy sheikhs. The Como was relatively small, almost boutique size. Sarah hoped it meant Tareq was more approachable.

      She found a parking station just off Chapel Street, left the jeep there, and walked back to the hotel.

      The moment she entered it, the decor screamed class—quiet, exclusive class—marble floors, black leather sofas, floral arrangements worthy of being called exquisite modern art. It might not be ostentatious luxury but it was just as intimidating to anyone who didn’t belong to the privileged people.

      Sarah could feel herself bridling against its effect and mentally adopted a shield of untouchability to carry her through gaining entry to Tareq’s presence. She knew from experience with her mother’s high-strata world that her appearance would not be a critical factor. The dark brown corduroy jeans and fawn skivvy would pass muster anywhere these days. The wind had undoubtedly tossed her unruly curls but that didn’t matter. Neither did the fact she wore no make-up. “Being natural” could be just as fashionable as designer clothes.

      The concierge directed her to the reception area, around to the left and down a flight of steps, privacy from the street effectively established. One elegant freestanding desk was apparently enough to serve the guests. The woman behind it smiled invitingly. Sarah willed her to be obliging, too.

      “I’ve come to call on Sheikh Tareq al-Khaima. Is he in?”

      “Yes, Ma’am. Whom should I say is calling?”

      “If you’ll just give me his suite number...”

      “I’m sorry, ma’am. That’s against our security rules. I can call up to his suite for you. What name should I give?”

      Security. Of course. This place was probably as tight as Fort Knox—no unwanted visitors allowed past the steel doors of the elevator. “Sarah Hillyard,” she stated flatly, resigning herself to the inevitable. If Tareq didn’t want to see her, she couldn’t force him to.

      Her nerves knotted as the call was made and the message passed on. There seemed to be a long hesitation before an answer was given. Sarah’s tension eased slightly when the receptionist smiled at her, indicating no problem.

      “He’s sending Mr. Larsen down to fetch you. It should only be a minute or two, Miss Hillyard.”

      “Fetch me?”

      “There’s a special key for the executive floor. The elevator won’t take you up without it.”

      “Oh! Thank you.”

      Relief poured through her. Past the first hurdle. Though Mr. Larsen, whoever he was, might prove to be another barrier. She wondered how big Tareq’s entourage was. He wouldn’t have come alone to Australia and might well have taken over the whole hotel. Such information hadn’t been of interest to her until now and it was too late to ask her father or Susan for more facts.

      When the steel doors opened, a tall, fair-haired man, impeccably dressed in a silver-grey suit, emerged from the elevator. His face was thin and austere; high cheekbones, long nose, small mouth, and very light eyes. He looked to be in his early thirties and carried an air of lofty authority. He inspected Sarah as though measuring an adversary; a swift, acute appraisal that left her highly rattled.

      One eyebrow was slightly raised. “Miss Hillyard?”

      “Yes. Mr. Larsen?”

      He gave a slight nod and waved her into the elevator. No smile. His eyes were a silver grey like his suit. Very cold. He didn’t speak as he used a key