Cinderella and the Sheikh. Natasha Oakley
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had become her raison d’être.
And, the truth was, it wasn’t hers to love. It was Anthony’s. His birthright. His privilege to nurture and succour the castle for future generations. And if she didn’t manage to detach herself she would eventually be left with nothing.
Minty watched her with narrowed eyes. ‘We agreed. It’s time you left Shelton.’
They had agreed that.
‘And way past time you did a job for which you’re being properly paid.’
Also true. Her head agreed. It was her heart that was more difficult to control.
‘You’ve got no savings, no pension, no career structure—’
‘I know.’ And she did. It wasn’t something that kept her awake at night, but she did know she’d allowed herself to drift for too long.
And she knew Amrah could be the answer. The first real attempt she’d made to cut the umbilical cord that tied her to the castle.
‘Well, then, be nice to Sheikh Rashid and I’ll have you on a plane within twenty-four hours of getting the paperwork through.’
‘Be nice to Sheikh Rashid.’ That was easier said than done. There was no getting near the man. Polly moved back to conceal herself behind an extravagant white floral display of alstromeria, lisianthus and roses so she could watch him more easily. Or, more accurately, so she could watch him without anyone noticing that was what she was doing.
Sheikh Rashid sat facing out across the ballroom. As he’d done all evening. His long legs stretched out in front of him, a look of faint boredom on his face. Silent. Arrogant. And rude, if she was honest.
From the very first moment he’d arrived he’d been permanently surrounded by women who looked as if they’d stepped out of a Bond movie, but they could have been invisible for all the attention he paid them. Perhaps he was so used to it he didn’t notice they were there?
But it was rude all the same. And, speaking as someone who’d often been all but invisible, she didn’t like it.
Of course, they should have moved away rather than continue to try to attract his attention. That would have been classier, but they didn’t. Of course they didn’t. They hovered about, smiling and laughing. Hoping he might notice them.
All of which made Minty’s cunning plan just that little bit more difficult to bring to fulfilment and left Polly stuck behind a large floral arrangement completely uncertain what to do next.
Polly bit her lip. Minty would have powered her way across the ballroom and flicked aside all competition like flies off a trifle, but she wasn’t Minty.
And he wasn’t the kind of man she’d ever be comfortable approaching. Contact lenses in, she was able to confirm her initial assessment of His Highness Prince Rashid bin Khalid bin Abdullah Al Baha as sex on legs. Or would be, if you liked that kind of thing. Which she didn’t.
He was all too much. Too tall. Too handsome. Too…powerful. He looked like the kind of man who could crack a nut with his bare hands and wouldn’t hesitate to do the same to people if he had to. And, from all she’d read, he came from a long line of men who’d had to. Centuries of tribal disputes, years of colonial occupation and violent coups had shaped Amrah into the country it was. They’d shaped the men who ruled it, too.
It was strange to think her great-great-grandmother had been an active participant in all that history. Or a small slice of it at least.
‘Something wrong?’
Polly turned to look down at her mother. ‘No. Why?’
‘You’re frowning. I wondered if the ice sculpture was melting or the fireworks had got damp,’ she said, bringing her wheelchair into line. ‘It’s not often I see you frowning.’
‘Nothing like that. As far as I know.’ Polly smiled and set her glass of untouched champagne down on the window sill behind her. ‘But I ought to stop standing about and check.’
‘Polly—’
She stopped.
‘I just wanted to say you’ve done a beautiful job tonight. Again.’ Her mother reached out and lightly touched her hand. ‘I know Anthony doesn’t appreciate the work that goes into something like this, but I do.’
‘I know.’ Polly spontaneously bent down and placed a kiss on her mother’s cheek. ‘Have you got everything you need? Can I get you a drink?’
The dowager duchess laughed. ‘I’m fine. Any more champagne and I’ll be arrested for being drunk in charge of a wheelchair. You do what you need to do, darling.’
‘Get someone to come and find me if you want to go to bed,’ she said, taking in her mother’s tired face. ‘There’s no need for you—’
‘Stop fussing. I’ll be fine.’ Then, her attention snagged, ‘Who’s that man? I don’t recognise him.’
Polly followed the direction of her mother’s eyes.
‘With the Duke of Aylesbury? Front table, beneath the Mad Duchess oil painting?’
‘That’s—’ She stopped as Rashid’s eyes met hers. The sensation was akin to how she imagined it would feel if you stuck a wet finger into an electrical socket. He was quite, quite still…and, heaven help her, he was definitely watching her.
What was more he’d probably seen her watching him. Polly straightened her spine and summoned up her ‘perfect hostess’ smile, resisting the temptation to check that her hair was still firmly pinned in its chignon. Then, abruptly, he leant forward and spoke to the Duke of Aylesbury sitting immediately to his left.
She forced her chin that little bit higher as Sheikh Rashid’s blue eyes locked with hers once more. It had to be pure imagination that made her stomach clench in…
God only knew what. The word that had sprung into her mind had been fear. Except that didn’t make any sense.
‘He looks so angry.’
‘That’s His Highness Prince Rashid bin Khalid bin Abdullah Al Baha.’ His formal title came easily from her lips, absolutely no trace of the uneasiness she felt appearing in her voice. She dragged her eyes away. ‘Why do you think he’s angry?’
‘I just did,’ her mother said slowly, and then smiled. ‘For a moment. He has a very uncompromising face.’
That was one way of putting it. It seemed to Polly he had an uncompromising everything.
Her mother released the brake on her wheelchair, apparently having lost interest. ‘I hope Anthony isn’t intending to do business with him. I don’t think that would be a good idea at all.’
On that slightly obscure observation the dowager duchess moved away, her gloved hands moving lightly on the wheels of her chair. Polly watched her for the shortest of moments and then, deliberately not looking back at the Amrahi prince, walked towards the Long Gallery.
Or tried to. Every step she felt as though his eyes were boring into her back. All of a sudden it became difficult to walk in a straight line. She felt conscious of how her arms swung in relation to her legs. Wondered what would be the best thing to do with her hands. She hadn’t felt so self-conscious since she’d left puberty.
Polly slipped out into the Long Gallery and pulled the door shut behind her with a satisfying click. She rubbed a hand over the goose bumps on her forearm. What was the matter with her? Surely if she’d learnt one thing in the last six years it was not to let these people get to her. They could look down their long patrician noses any which way they wanted. It didn’t touch her. Couldn’t, if she didn’t let it.
But…
Still the words she needed to put a frame around what she was feeling eluded her. There was something. Something she couldn’t