door.
The moment she was out in the hallway she could hear clearly what was being said.
‘Love?’ her mother was deriding icily. ‘Love doesn’t take and take without giving back! What have you given back during this affair, Sheikh Raschid?’ she demanded. ‘For I don’t see your reputation lying in shreds at your feet, or you becoming the object of everyone’s pity!’
Pity? White-faced and shaken to the roots by the very sound of the word, Evie pulled to a halt beneath the open archway that connected the sumptuous living room with the hallway which led to all the other rooms in Raschid’s vast apartment.
Her mother was standing there wearing a snow-white suit that was so dramatically effective against her milk-white skin and pale blonde hair—while Raschid was draped from neck to ankles in the flowing dark blue robes of his native culture.
And the two of them were facing up to each other like two very dangerous substances that should never, ever be allowed to mix. Mutual hostility and dislike was rife.
‘Yesterday was supposed to be a very special day for my family,’ Lucinda Delahaye continued angrily. ‘And, to give Evie her due, she tried her level best to make it that! But you had to come. You had to upstage the bride and groom by getting yourself in the papers as usual. You calmly danced with my daughter while the rumours flew thick and fast about your coming marriage to another woman. And if that wasn’t enough your own father had made sure the whole world knew what a gullible little fool Evie is where you are concerned!’
‘Try trusting her judgement for a change,’ Raschid coolly suggested. ‘You never know, you may find that Evie can pleasantly surprise you.’
‘Not while she continues this shameful affair with you, she won’t.’
‘Our shameful affair is none of your business.’
‘Why don’t you just go home to your oil-rich desert—marry your cousin of a cousin and leave my daughter alone?’ her mother cried.
To Evie’s horror, Raschid laughed. ‘If only you knew,’ Raschid murmured dryly.
‘Frankly, I don’t want to know,’ her mother said dismissively. ‘All I want to do is speak to my daughter.’
‘Evie is resting.’ Raschid refused. ‘She was feeling—unwell,’ he explained. ‘She—’
‘I’m here,’ Evie said, quickly cutting off whatever Raschid might have been going to say by stepping into the room.
They turned together—and slid their gazes over her together, the cold blue eyes in stinging condemnation, while the gold ones were carefully hooded so she couldn’t read what they were seeing as they checked her out.
Still, it was like being scrutinised by two tough critics.
So much so that one hand went up to clutch at the gaping lapels of her robe while the other hand ran self-conscious fingers through her tumbled hair.
‘What’s supposed to be wrong with you?’ her mother demanded with deep suspicion.
‘N-nothing,’ Evie replied, carefully avoiding Raschid’s gaze as she stepped further into the room. ‘I w-was tired, that’s all. Wh-what do you want, Mother?’ she asked.
‘What do I want?’ Lucinda repeated. ‘I want to know what you think you are doing, lying in this man’s bed while he plans his wedding to another woman! Have you no pride—no shame? Have you even bothered to consider what it has done to your reputation to have openly come here with him today knowing full well what he intends to do?’
‘Your tone, Lady Delahaye, leaves a lot to be desired,’ Raschid inserted grimly.
‘My tone, young man,’ Evie’s mother countered haughtily, ‘is none of your business. I was talking to my daughter, not to you.’
If the antagonism between the two of them got any worse, Evie had a horrible feeling they would start telling each other what they really thought, and she didn’t think she could cope with that right now.
‘Raschid…’ It was to him that she turned to plead anxiously. ‘Would you mind giving us a few minutes alone—please?’
He didn’t look happy. In fact, he didn’t look anything but hard and cold and utterly offended by the request. But Evie couldn’t let herself be moved by that look. She might not have the perfect relationship with her mother, but she had no wish to see her demolished by him, which Lucinda certainly would be if Raschid decided to take her on.
‘If you wish.’ He agreed to her request with an icy politeness that made Evie shiver. And with a stiff bow of his head in her mother’s direction he strode from the room, leaving the kind of tension behind him that threatened to suffocate.
‘That man is so arrogant, he makes my blood boil,’ Lucinda said tightly.
‘Your own arrogance wouldn’t pass scrutiny,’ Evie returned heavily. ‘This is Raschid’s home,’ she pointed out. ‘Yet you treated him as if he were the intruder here.’
Stiffening slightly, her mother had the grace to take the criticism without defending herself. ‘I don’t like him,’ was all she said.
And the feeling, Evie thought, is entirely mutual.
‘He treats you terribly and you let him get away with it.’
‘He treats me beautifully,’ Evie declared. ‘It’s just that you choose not to see it.’
Sighing because this encounter had no hope of being anything but hostile as things presently stood, Evie moved off towards the well-equipped drinks bar and bent to open the chiller door to extract a bottle of still water for herself.
‘Can I get you anything, Mother?’ she asked as she straightened.
‘No, thank you,’ her mother replied. Then, on a heavy sigh of her own, Lucinda unbent a little and tossed her white clutch purse to one side before deciding to take an interest in her surroundings.
There was nothing in the room that could be called brash, excessive or lacking taste. The floors were polished maple scattered with beautiful Persian rugs, the furniture a clever mix of off-white fabric and polished stone that was gentle on the eye. And the plain-papered oatmeal walls were hung with a rich display of original oils, mostly depicting sights and scenes from Raschid’s own country.
Walking over to one of these paintings, her mother studied it carefully while Evie poured the water into a glass.
‘Is this his palace?’ Lucinda enquired curiously.
‘Yes,’ Evie confirmed. ‘Or one of them,’ she then added.
The Al Kadah family owned several impressive-looking homes similar to the one her mother was studying. But that particular one belonged exclusively to Raschid.
‘It possesses a rather dramatic beauty, doesn’t it?’ her mother opined—a trifle reluctantly. ‘All those different shades of gold set against the blue of the ocean and the sky while the place itself seems to rise quite naturally out of the desert as if it has been put there by a force more powerful than man…’
Evie was staring down at the glass. Her mouth felt parched, but her stomach was still queasy enough to make the act of actually swallowing the water a thing she had to convince herself she needed to do.
But she looked up in surprise at her mother’s words. ‘Raschid designed it himself,’ she said, smiling slightly at her mother’s sudden start. It didn’t particularly please her to discover she had been unwittingly complimenting the enemy. ‘He had it built to his own design several years before I met him,’ she explained. ‘It nestles in the foothills of their mountains where the desert crowds in on two sides and the Persian Gulf on the other…’
‘Oh,’ was all her mother could think of replying to that. ‘The man must have hidden talents.’
More hidden