Sharon Kendrick Collection. Sharon Kendrick
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not just by title. He oozed it from every autocratic pore of his body.
His nose was a cruel, hard curve, and so was his mouth, and something about his whole rather rich and haughty demeanour made Sabrina feel slightly panicky with nerves as she recalled the restaurant booking she’d made. What had she done?
As Guy opened the door he felt Sabrina shiver beside him, and he glanced down at her, his mouth tightening. So the old knockout Khalim effect was having its usual reaction, he thought cynically.
‘Don’t worry, he likes blondes,’ he told her cryptically. ‘So you should be on to a winner!’
‘But I’m a strawberry-blonde!’ she objected, stung by that critical note in his voice. ‘That’s different.’
‘And strawberries are rich and luscious,’ Guy answered softly. ‘Be careful, Sabrina—he eats women like you for breakfast.’
Sabrina glared at his back as he stepped from the car and the two men greeted each other like the old friends they were.
‘Guy!’ said Khalim, the hard lips curving into a smile.
Guy jerked his head in the direction of the suits. ‘Are you bringing this lot with you?’
Khalim glanced a flickering look at the back of the car, where Sabrina was sitting frozen with nerves. The black eyes narrowed.
‘They will follow behind us,’ he said, ‘but they will sit outside in the car. They shall not bother us while we are eating.’ His voice softened as another dark, enigmatic glance was directed at the car. ‘And who do you have sitting and waiting so beautifully for us, Guy?’
Guy felt an unwelcome flicker of irritation. This was Khalim, Khalim whom he had known since school—when they’d forged an instant friendship after Guy had beaten him at chess. Khalim had never been beaten by anyone before—but, then, as Guy had coolly pointed out, he’d been brought up in an environment where letting Khalim win was paramount.
The two boys had fallen with fists on one another, and had had to be pulled apart—both snarling and glaring like young tiger cubs. And then one of them—they’d each taken the credit afterwards—had started laughing, and the laughter had been contagious and had created a bond which had never been broken down the years.
Khalim’s father had given Guy his first big break, and Guy had never forgotten that.
So why did he now feel like the small boy who’d wanted to pulverise his schoolmate?
‘This is Sabrina,’ said Guy shortly.
He pulled open the car door and Khalim slid inside next to Sabrina, the silken fabric of his robe whispering and clinging to the lean definition of his muscular legs. ‘Sabrina Cooper.’
‘And Sabrina is your…?’ Khalim paused delicately, as if searching for the right word.
‘Friend,’ said Guy instantly, because in that instant no other word seemed to do. ‘She’s staying in my flat for a few weeks.’
‘Indeed?’ murmured Khalim.
Sabrina felt the slow thudding of disappointment. Every word Guy had said was true—but, oh, if he’d wanted to emphasise that their love affair was dead, that her role in his life only transitory, then he couldn’t have done it more succinctly. Or more cruelly.
‘That’s right,’ she said staunchly, and attempted to echo his casual tone. ‘I’m just passing through.’
‘Indeed?’ murmured Khalim again. Black eyes glinted as he raised her hand and lightly brushed his lips against the fingertips. ‘Khalim,’ he purred. ‘And I am charmed.’
It was difficult not to be charmed herself by such quaintly old-fashioned manners. And the sight of Guy glowering from the other side of the car had her smiling back at the Prince.
‘I’ve booked the restaurant for tonight,’ she babbled. ‘I do hope I’ve made the right choice.’
The curved smile edged upwards. ‘Water and bread can be sustenance enough,’ said Khalim softly, ‘when the company is this spectacular.’
Guy turned his head to look out of the window, thinking that he just might be sick. He’d heard Khalim’s chat-up lines over the years—and as far as he knew—they had a one hundred per cent success rate. But this…this…outrageous flirting was really too much.
Sabrina had given the restaurant address to the driver when she’d made the phone booking for the car, but as it negotiated its way through Notting Hill and drew up outside a small, colourful café, her heart sank.
The signs, it had to be admitted, didn’t look very promising. There was a garish awning outside, beneath which the sign read, THE PIE SHOP.
Guy’s eyes narrowed incredulously. ‘Just what is this place, Sabrina?’
‘It got a very good review in the papers,’ she defended, determined not to flinch beneath the quiet look of fury in his eyes. ‘And I thought it would be…different.’
‘It is certainly different,’ said Khalim, his voice tilting with amusement. ‘Come, let us go and see what delights The Pie Shop has to offer.
It was the kind of place which employed out-of-work actresses as waitresses—so at least the glamour quotient was high. But Khalim didn’t seem at all interested in the nubile specimens who ushered them inside. In fact, his attention seemed to be all on Sabrina.
Almost worryingly so, she told herself as they were given a table in the corner.
There were no menus, just a huge blackboard with the dishes of the day printed on it in chalk.
‘I’m surprised there isn’t sawdust on the floor,’ said Guy acidly, but Khalim was gazing around him with the air of a man who had stepped into a different world.
‘No, but it is charming,’ he murmured. ‘Quite charming. And the smell of the food delicious. Every summer my mother used to take me and my sisters into the mountains, and we would eat a meal with an old man who had spent his life caring for the goats and living in a simple dwelling. This place reminds me of that.’
Oh, great, thought Guy. He frosted a look at Sabrina across the table. ‘Khalim hasn’t eaten red meat for years.’ He gave a pointed stare at the dish of the day—shepherd’s pie. ‘Any suggestions, Sabrina?’
She thought that she’d never seen him quite this grumpy before, but it occurred to her that if he hadn’t wanted her to come along, then he shouldn’t have asked her. ‘How about fish pie?’ she suggested brightly.
‘Fish pie,’ echoed Khalim, as if she’d just proposed a lavish banquet. ‘Do you know—I haven’t eaten fish pie since we were at school. Do you remember, Guy? Always on Fridays.’ And he gave a wistful smile, which briefly softened his hard, proud face.
How did she do it, wondered Guy distractedly. How had she unerringly hit on the one dish which would produce a rare state of nostalgia in a man who’d very probably been offered every delicacy under the sun?
‘Three fish pies,’ he said to the waitress, and Sabrina, who’d been about to order the shepherd’s pie, hastily shut her mouth. It might be considered bad manners to eat meat in front of the Prince.
It wasn’t the easiest meal she had ever sat through, mainly because Guy would hardly meet her eye, just chatted to Khalim about the paintings he’d seen recently in Paris.
Khalim listened and ate his meal slowly and with evident pleasure. Occasionally he would turn to Sabrina and fix her with that hard, black stare as he asked her about her work in the bookshop as if it were the single most fascinating subject in the world.
And Sabrina smiled and tried to look attentive, while miserably ploughing her way through the fish pie.
After she’d pushed her plate away, Khalim leaned forward, his fingertips brushing against the bright glitter of her necklace.