The Sheikh's Reward. Lucy Gordon
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looks with a new wardrobe, but it had taken many earnest discussions before Dan could be brought into the right frame of mind. The local charities had done well that summer.
They were both dead now, but their austere, kindly influence lingered. Fran had a passion for lovely clothes, but she never treated herself without also giving to a good cause. It was bred in the bone, and she wouldn’t have known how to stop. It was hardly surprising that Sheikh Ali’s lifestyle roused her to indignation.
‘I know what you mean about restaurants that play up to stereotypes,’ Ali said. ‘I’ve been in places over here called Ye Old English Waterwheel, with waiters dressed as yeomen, tugging their forelocks, and saying, “What be thoy pleasure, maister?”’ His stage yokel accent was so talented that Fran bubbled with laughter. He laughed with her and added, ‘I nearly told them my pleasure would be to have them vanish from the face of the earth.’
‘I suppose we both suffer from that kind of cliché about our countries,’ Fran said.
‘But England is also my country. I have an English mother, I attended Oxford University and learned soldiering at Sandhurst.’
She almost said, Yes, I know, but stopped herself in time. It wouldn’t do to let him know she’d done her homework on him.
They had finished the pumpkin soup and Ali indicated a choice of dishes.
‘If I had known your preference, I would have arranged for chicken with dates and honey,’ he said. ‘I promise it shall be served the next time we dine. Until then, perhaps you can find something in this humble selection.’
‘This humble selection’ stretched right down a long table. Fran was almost overwhelmed with choice. At last she picked a dish of long green beans.
‘It’s very hot,’ he warned.
‘The hotter the better,’ she said recklessly.
But the first bite told her she’d made a mistake. The beans were spiced with onions, garlic, tomatoes and cayenne pepper.
‘It’s—it’s delicious,’ she said valiantly.
Ali grinned. ‘You have steam coming out of your ears. Don’t finish it if it’s too much for you.’
‘No, it’s fine.’ But she accepted some of the sliced tomatoes he pushed over to her, and to her relief they quenched the fire in her mouth.
‘Try this instead,’ Ali suggested, helping her to another dish. It was a cod liver salad and presented no problems. She began to relax even more. It was tempting to give herself up to the night’s seductive spell.
And then, without warning, something disastrous happened. Glancing up, Fran met his eyes and found in them the last qualities she would have expected: real warmth, charm and—incredibly—a sense of fun. He was smiling at her, not seductively or cynically, but as though his mind danced in time with hers, and he was glad of it. And suddenly she suspected that this might be a truly delightful, great-hearted, funny, entrancing man. It was total disaster.
She struggled to clear her mind, but it persisted in lingering on the curve of his mouth, which was wide and flexible and made for kisses. It was smiling at her now in a special way that started a glow inside her.
And when she forced her attention away from his mouth his eyes were lying in wait to tease and entice her. There was a wicked promise in them and it was tempting to speculate what would happen to a woman who called that promise in. Of course, that could never be herself. She was here on serious business. But some lucky woman…
She pulled herself together.
‘You have a lovely home,’ she said, sounding slightly forced.
‘Yes, it’s beautiful,’ he agreed. ‘But I’m not sure it could be called a home. I have many dwellings, but I spend so little time in each one that—’ He finished with a shrug.
‘None of them is home?’ Fran asked.
He gave a rueful smile. ‘I feel like a small boy saying this, but wherever my mother is feels like my home. In her presence there is warmth and graciousness, and a sense of calm benevolence. You would like her very much.’
‘I’m sure I should. She sounds like a great lady. Does she live in Kamar all the time?’
‘Mostly. Sometimes she travels, but she doesn’t care for flying. And—’ he looked a little self-conscious ‘—she doesn’t approve of some of my pleasures, so—’
‘You mean like going to the casino?’ Fran supplied, laughing.
‘And other small indulgences,’ he said outrageously. ‘But mostly the casino. She says a man should have better things to do with his time.’
‘She’s right,’ Fran said immediately.
‘But how could I have spent this evening better than in meeting you?’
‘You’re not going to start telling me it was fate again, are you?’
‘Have you suddenly become a cynic? What about all that Arabian folklore you used to enjoy? Didn’t it teach you to believe in magic?’
‘Well,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘it taught me to want to believe in magic, and that’s almost the same thing. Sometimes, when life was very dull, I’d dream that a flying carpet was going to come through the window and carry me off to the land where genies came out of lamps and magicians cast their spells in clouds of coloured smoke.’
‘And the magic prince?’ he teased.
‘He came out of the smoke, of course. But he always vanished in the smoke again, and the dream ended.’
‘But you never stopped hoping for the flying carpet,’ Ali said gently. ‘You pretend to be very sensible and grown-up, but in your heart you’re sure that one day it will come.’
She blushed a little. It was disconcerting to have him read her thoughts so well.
‘I think that for you,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘the carpet will come.’
‘I don’t believe in magic,’ she said, with a little shake of her head.
‘But what do you call magic? When I saw you standing there tonight, that was magic far more potent than casting spells. And from that moment everything went well with me.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘Do you know how much your witchcraft made me win? One hundred thousand. Look.’
Ali reached into his inside pocket, drew out a cheque book and calmly proceeded to write out a cheque for the full amount.
‘What are you doing?’ Fran gasped.
‘I am giving you what is rightfully yours. You won this. Do with it as you will.’
He signed it with a flourish, then looked up at her, his eyes teasing. ‘Who shall I make it out to? Come, admit defeat. Now you will have to tell me your name.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ she mused. She raised the glass, letting her eyes flirt with him over the rim. ‘I’d be very foolish to give in right this minute, wouldn’t I?’
‘But I must have a name to put on the cheque.’
She shrugged.
‘Without a name I can’t give it to you.’
‘Then keep it,’ she said with an elegant gesture. ‘I didn’t ask you for anything.’
His eyes showed his admiration. ‘You’re not afraid to play for high stakes.’
‘But I’m not playing for anything,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I’ve lived very happily without wealth and I can go on doing so.’
He cast a wry glance at her neck which wore a fortune in diamonds. Without hesitation Fran removed the necklace and set it beside him. ‘Just so that there’s no misunderstanding,’ she said. ‘I seek nothing from