‘Everything’s fine,’ Ruby said quickly. ‘The flight went without a hitch but my arrival has come as something of a surprise. It seems that Sheikh Ibrahim did not get the message about Peter’s accident.’
‘What?’ Amanda was clearly shocked. ‘I’m so sorry, Ruby. Is there anything I can do? Do you want me to speak to the Sheikh?’
‘All I need is an update on Mr Hammond’s condition.’ Amanda gave her the details. ‘And which hospital...? Thanks—that will be perfect. I’ll speak to you later.’ She disconnected.
‘Well?’ he demanded as she turned to him, keeping her gaze fixed on his face. Tawny eyes, a hawkish nose, a mouth with a one-sided tug that gave it a cruelly sensuous droop—
‘Peter has broken his left leg in two places, torn a ligament in his wrist and cracked some ribs,’ she said, blotting out the thoughts that had no place in a business environment—thoughts that she didn’t want in her head. ‘They’ve pinned him back together and he’ll be flown home in a day or two. Amanda is going to text me contact details.’
‘Who is Amanda?’
Hello, good to meet you and thank you for rushing to fill the gap would have been polite. Thank you for putting my mind at rest was pretty much a minimum in the circumstances. But Ruby had long ago learned to keep her expression neutral, to never show what she was thinking or feeling, and she focused on the question rather than his lack of manners.
‘Amanda Garland.’ The name would normally be enough but Sheikh Ibrahim did not work in London, where it was shorthand for the best in business and domestic staff. There was no smile of recognition, no gratitude for the fact that his injured aide’s first thought had been to summon a replacement. ‘The Garland Agency supplies temps, nannies and domestic staff to an international clientele. Amanda is also Peter’s godmother.’ She returned her phone to her bag and took out the heavy white envelope that she’d sent with the driver who’d picked her up. ‘When he sent an SOS for someone to hold the fort, she called me. I have her letter of introduction.’
She’d already had her hand ignored once and did not make the mistake of offering it to him so that he could ignore the letter too, but waited for him to reach for it.
‘A letter of introduction from someone I don’t know?’
‘Perhaps Mr Hammond thought you would trust his judgement.’
‘How good would your judgement be if you were lying in the snow with a broken leg?’ he demanded.
‘Since that’s never going to happen, I couldn’t say.’ Her voice was deadpan, disguising an uncharacteristic urge to scream. She’d been travelling for hours and right now she could do with a little of the famous regional hospitality and a minute or two to gather her wits. ‘All I know is that his first concern was to ensure that you weren’t left without assistance.’
His only response was an irritated grunt.
Okay, enough...
‘Your cousin, His Highness the Emir of Ras al Kawi, will vouch for her bona fides,’ she assured him, as if she was used to casually bandying about the names of the local royals. ‘Her Highness Princess Violet entrusted Amanda with the task of finding her a nanny.’
‘I don’t need a nanny.’
‘That’s fortunate because I’ve never changed a nappy in my life.’ Her reputation for calm under pressure was being put to the test and there had been an uncharacteristic snap to her response that earned her the fractional lift of an insolent brow. ‘Miss Garland’s note contains the names of some of the people I’ve worked for, should you require reassurance regarding my own capabilities,’ she continued, calling on previously untested depths of calm.
‘Will I have heard of them?’ he asked, with heavy emphasis on them.
Since she had no way of knowing who he’d heard of, she assumed the question was not only sarcastic but rhetorical. Choosing not to risk another demonstration of the power of that eyebrow, she made no comment.
In the face of her silence he finally held out his hand for the letter, ripping open the flap with the broad tip of his thumb.
His face gave nothing away as he scanned the contents but he turned to the man holding her suitcase, spoke to him in Arabic before, with a last thoughtful look at her, he said, ‘I’ll see you in my office in fifteen minutes, Miss Dance.’
With that, he turned away, his leather flip-flops slapping irritably as he crossed the stone terrace before disappearing down steps that led to a lower level.
Shakily, Ruby let out her breath.
Whew. Double whew, with knobs on. Forget the grateful thanks for dropping everything and flying here at a moment’s notice—that had been tense. On the other hand, now that he’d taken his naked torso out of sight and she could think clearly, she could understand his reluctance to take her at face value.
It wasn’t personal.
Doubtless, there had been attempts to breach his security in the past, although whether for photographs of his isolated hideout, gossip on who he was sharing it with, or insider information on who was about to get the golden touch of Ansari financial backing was anyone’s guess.
Any one of them would be worth serious money and an unexpected visitor was always going to get the hard stare and third degree. She, more than anyone, could understand that.
Easy to say—as she followed the servant through an ancient archway and down a short flight of steps, her skin was goosebumped, her breath catching in her throat—but it felt very personal.
At the bottom of the steps, sheltered from the sea by stone walls and from the heat of the summer by pergolas dripping with blue racemes of wisteria, scented with the tiny white stars of jasmine, was a terrace garden.
She stopped, entranced, her irritation melting away.
‘Madaam?’ the servant prompted, bringing her back to the reason she was there, and she turned to him.
‘Sho Ismak?’ She asked his name.
He smiled, bowed. ‘Ismi Khal, madaam.’
She placed her hand against her chest and said, ‘Ismi, Ruby.’ Then, with a gesture at the garden, ‘This is lovely. Jameel,’ she said, calling on the little Arabic she’d learned during working trips to Dubai and Bahrain and topped up on the long flight from London.
‘Nam. It is beautiful,’ he said carefully, demonstrating his own English with a broad smile, before turning to open the door to a cool tiled lobby, slipping his feet from his sandals as he stepped inside.
She had no time to linger, admire the exquisite tiles decorating the walls, but, familiar with the customs of the region, she followed his example and slipped off her heels before padding after him.
He opened the door to a large, comfortably furnished sitting room, crossed the room to draw back shutters and open a pair of doors that led onto a small shaded area overlooking the sea. There was a rush of air, the scent of the sea mingled with jasmine and, despite the less than enthusiastic welcome and her own misgivings about coming here, she sighed with pleasure.
When Amanda had explained that Sheikh Ibrahim was sitting out his exile in a fort in Ras al Kawi, his maternal grandmother’s native home, she had imagined something rugged, austere. It was all that, but below the ancient fortress a home, a garden, had been carved from the shelter of the hillside.
The man might be a grouch but this place was magical.
Khal was all set to give her the full guided tour of the suite, starting with the tiny kitchen, but she had just a few minutes to freshen up and get her head straight before she had to report to Sheikh Ibrahim.
‘Shukran, Khal.’ She tapped her watch to indicate that she was short of time. ‘Where... Ayn...?’ She mimed typing and he smiled, then took her to the