Sleeping with the Sultan. ALEXANDRA SELLERS
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She smiled and twinkled her fingers as she stepped up under the lights, and wondered whether her dress was opaque or transparent at the moment.
“…and together you’ll dine on caviar, lobster and champagne provided by the fabulous Riverfront Restaurant, which as you all know is one of London’s most fabulous eateries! It’s moored right on the Thames, and you’ll be driven home afterwards in a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce provided by Launcelot Limos!
“So now, what am I bid for a delightful evening in Dana Morningstar’s company? You might even learn from her the secret of Reena’s demise before it’s broadcast! Do I hear five hundred, ladies and gentlemen?”
“Five hundred!”
“Oooh, quick off the mark there, Harold. That’s Harold McIntosh, ladies and gentlemen, not short of a bob or two when you run a Mayfair car dealership, now, are you? Five hundred, do I hear—”
“One thousand!”
“Ah, ha! Well, this promises to be a very exciting auction, ladies and gentlemen, not reticent at all, are we? That’s a thousand bid from—”
“Ten thousand pounds.”
It wasn’t a shout, but somehow the voice cut through the chatter and was heard by everyone. There was a collective gasp all over the room. Not only because of the enormous leap in the bidding, but because of the quality of the voice. Firm, assured, brooking no interference. And not at all the worse for drink.
Sheikh Ashraf Durrani’s voice.
Dana felt her cheeks flame. She bit her lip. She had never had to work so hard to force a smile in her life, but she managed it. She even managed to fake a little wide-eyed, excited grimace.
“Ten thousand pounds, ladies and gentlemen! Well, now we’re getting serious. And who is going to take that higher, I wonder? Jeremy, accountant to the stars, you’re in this league, do I hear a raise on ten thousand for an evening with Dana Gorgeous Morningstar? What about you, George—”
“Ten thousand one hundred!” cried a slightly inebriated voice.
“Ah ha! We’re really cooking with—”
“Fifteen thousand pounds.”
It was the sheikh again, speaking as flatly as if he were giving an underling an order. The skin on Dana’s body shivered into goose bumps. He was making it so obvious.
“Well, well, Sheikh Durran! I see you’re pretty determined to get what you want. Do I hear any bids over fifteen thousand?” cried Roddy, just a little nonplussed, because it suddenly was difficult to inject the humour and good-natured ribaldry he was such at expert at into the proceedings. The room was filled with an excited buzz. Dana, standing in a bright spot, just kept smiling.
It was a struggle. What on earth did the man think he was doing? To be the highest bidder was one thing. To carry on like this meant everyone would be talking! They’d be the subject of endless speculation, and the story would probably make it into the tabloids. They’d never get any peace if they appeared in public.
And yet part of her couldn’t resist the lure of being thought so attractive. Fifteen thousand pounds in a couple of minutes! And such a powerful, influential man! It was like a fairy tale.
She saw Jenny and the others at the Brick Lane table gazing at her in blank, slightly reproachful astonishment, as if a secret part of her life had been revealed and they felt they should have known about it.
“…and gone! To Sheikh Ashraf Durran. I’m told you’re one of Prince Omar of Central Barakat’s most trusted advisors, Sheikh Durran, and I’m sure he’ll agree you’ve shown excellent judgement tonight!”
The applause was thunderous as Dana was escorted back to her seat, a follow spot on her all the way.
“Whew!” exclaimed Roddy, wiping the not-so-imaginary sweat from his brow. “Ladies and gentlemen, what can we do to beat that? You’ll have to work hard and bid high! And that won’t be too difficult for our next prize—Prince Karim of West Barakat himself has actually donated this one, ladies and gentlemen. It’s the one you’ve all been waiting for—well, except for a certain fairly obvious exception, who’s already snaffled his prize! Here it is, a two-week holiday for two in the fabulous…”
“What on earth did you do that for?” Dana hissed, as she sank into her chair. Everyone at the table was gazing at them in slightly stunned speculation. They must now believe one of two things—that Dana and the handsome sheikh already had a relationship, or that the sheikh was smitten and they were about to have one.
Nothing she could say was going to convince anyone otherwise, she was sure, but the moment she looked into his eyes she realized that it wasn’t true. Whatever his reasons were, she knew damned well that Sheikh Ashraf Durran was anything but smitten with her. The expression in his eyes was anything but sexual interest.
A little seed of anger was born then.
He shrugged, and his next words confirmed her suspicions. “Why not? That is what we are here for, to raise money.”
Inarguable. “Well, after a display like that, I will not go out with you!” she retorted childishly, in a low voice meant for his ears alone. “We’d have every paparazzo in the city following us!”
He lifted his hands in a gesture that said it mattered not a jot whether she did or did not. “Things are rarely what they promise to be. Buyer Beware I am sure is the first rule at such auctions.”
She could not get lighthearted about it. “You have not bought me.”
He looked at her. “No? But you were for sale, were you not? Or should we say for rent?”
That made her grit her teeth. “I’ll speak to the organizer, and you won’t have to—”
He lifted a hand, cutting her off. “Don’t trouble, Miss Morningstar. I will not in any case be in the country beyond tomorrow. Take a friend and enjoy the lobster and the limousine without me.”
This made her even angrier, though she could dimly see that it shouldn’t. She should have smiled graciously and said how generous he was and how the starving children in the Qermez Desert at least would benefit and that was what mattered. But she couldn’t get the words past her teeth.
Maybe because she was gritting them.
“More coffee, Miss Morningstar?”
She was grateful for the excuse to turn her head. She nodded, and the waiter poured more sweet black sludge into her little cup. There was a plate of sugary Turkish delight which she had previously avoided, but now her irritation drove her to pick up a little cube. She bit it irritably in half. It was an unreal bright pink.
Meanwhile the holiday in Barakat was going for at least as much as it was probably worth.
She really couldn’t have said why she was so irritated with him. To throw fifteen thousand pounds away like that—well, of course at first she had imagined it was because he was interested. And of course that had piqued her own interest. But why should she care if all he was interested in was making a show of his wealth while passing on money to charity?
The auction was over, but the wine was still flowing and there were more high jinks in store. People joined in with delight.
Not Dana. And not the stone-cold-sober Sheikh Ashraf. They stood up and sat down as instructed, and put their hands on their heads or their bums, and paraded around. But she noticed that when he turned out to be one of the group of men instructed to drop their trousers to their ankles and shuffle up onto the dance floor, he did not comply, and no one at the table even thought of challenging him on his dereliction.
But everybody else was having a marvellous time with all the nonsense, and the money was rolling in.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, a little earlier in the evening, you were all handed out cards asking how much you would donate to Bagestan Drought