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She brushed her clammy palms down over her lemon-coloured uniform—a bad idea since it drew the attention of Madame Martin to her hips and instantly the Frenchwoman frowned.
‘Tiens!’ she exclaimed. ‘Your dress is a little tight, n’est ce pas?’
‘It’s the only one they had which fitted, Madame Martin,’ said Hannah apologetically.
The elegant woman who was in charge of all the domestic staff at Hotel L’Idylle raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows. ‘C’est vrai.’ She gave a resigned sigh. ‘You Englishwomen are... ’Ow you say? Big girls!’
Hannah’s smile didn’t slip because who was she to deny the truth behind Madame Martin’s words? She certainly wasn’t as slim as her continental peers. She liked her food, had a healthy appetite and wasn’t going to make any apology for it. Like much else, mealtimes had been unpredictable when she’d been growing up and you never forgot something like that. She’d never forget the dull gnaw of hunger, or how eagerly she’d seized on any scraps she’d managed to salvage to put together something resembling a meal. She didn’t spend her life picking at her food, that was for sure—unlike her sister, who seemed to think that eating was an unnecessary waste of time.
But she wasn’t going to worry about her sister, or dwell on the troubled times of their growing-up years. Hadn’t that been one of the reasons for leaping on this job so eagerly—even though she’d never even been out of England before? She had decided she was going to start living her life differently from now on and the first part of that plan was to stop worrying about her baby sister. Because Tamsyn wasn’t a baby any more; she was only two years younger and perfectly able to stand on her own two feet—except that was never going to happen if Hannah kept bailing her out every time she got herself into trouble.
So think about yourself for once, she reminded herself—and concentrate on the unbelievable bonus you’ve been offered for a few months of working in this Sardinian paradise.
‘What exactly did you wish to talk to me about, Madame Martin?’ she enquired eagerly.
The Frenchwoman smiled. ‘You are very good at your job, Hannah. It is why you were sent here by our London branch, but I have observed you myself and thoroughly approve of their choice. The way you fold a bedsheet is a joy to watch.’
Hannah inclined her head to accept the compliment. ‘Thank you.’
‘You are quiet and unobtrusive. You move comme une souris—like a mouse,’ Madame Martin translated in reply to Hannah’s confused look. ‘Put it this way—nobody would ever notice you in a room.’
‘Thank you,’ said Hannah again, rather more cautiously this time because she wasn’t sure if that really sounded like a compliment.
‘Which is why the management have decided to give you some extra responsibility.’
Hannah nodded, because this was something she was good at. Throw responsibility at her and she would soak it up like a sponge with water. ‘Yes, madame?’ she said and waited.
‘What do you know about Sheikh Kulal Al Diya?’
Hannah tried to smile, but it was difficult when an unwanted shiver was rippling its way down her spine. ‘He is the ruler of Zahristan, one of the biggest oil-producing countries in the world, but he’s a leading exponent of alternative energy. All the staff were briefed about him before he arrived,’ she added hastily, in response to Madame Martin’s look of surprise.
‘Bien,’ said the Frenchwoman approvingly. ‘It was he who organised this international meeting, which has brought so many prestigious leaders to the hotel and has done much to elevate the profile of our new conference centre.’
‘Yes, Madame Martin,’ said Hannah, still not quite sure where this was heading.
‘And you are perhaps aware that many people have been trying to seek out the Sheikh’s company,’ said Madame Martin slowly. ‘Since he is a man of great influence.’
‘I’m sure they do.’ Hannah noted the pause which followed and which she somehow got the idea she was expected to fill. ‘It was exactly the same in the London branch of the Granchester—the more powerful the guest, the more people want to get to know them.’
‘Especially if the man happens to be newly single and extremely good-looking,’ said Madame Martin, with a busy wiggle of her manicured fingers. ‘But His Royal Highness has no wish to be the focus of the attentions which someone in his position always attracts. It is why he occasionally chooses to travel with only a very modest entourage, but unfortunately that only makes him more accessible to the general public. Why, only last night, a well-known heiress managed to bribe her way past security and make her way to his table.’
Hannah winced. ‘Was there a scene, madame?’
‘I’m afraid there was, and we do not tolerate “scenes” here at L’Idylle. Which is why, for the remainder of his stay, Sheikh Al Diya intends to finish the rest of his business in the sanctuary of his suite, which is certainly big enough to accommodate his needs.’ There was a pause. ‘And why you are being assigned to work exclusively for him.’
Hannah screwed up her face in confusion. ‘You mean, I’m to make his bed and change his towels?’
‘Of course. But you will also serve His Royal Highness any meals he orders and make sure there are drinks and snacks for his guests. Keep the water in the flowers topped up. Tidy up after him and make sure that nobody unauthorised tries to gain entry to his rooms. Security here is tight, but there is no such thing as completely reliable security. Why, even in your famous Buckingham Palace, intruders have successfully gained access, is that not so?’ The Frenchwoman’s face grew stern. ‘Do you think you are capable of what I am asking of you, Hannah?’
Hannah’s first instinct was to say no. To protest that she was a chambermaid and nothing more. Someone who silently serviced the hotel bedrooms and learnt more about the guests than they would probably be comfortable with, if they only realised how many clues about themselves they left laying around the place. She wasn’t really confident enough to wait on a desert king, or to swish around topping up the water in expensive vases of flowers. She wasn’t really a maid.
‘Isn’t there someone else who would rather do it, Madame Martin?’ she questioned doubtfully. ‘Someone with a bit more experience of that kind of thing?’
‘Indeed there is.’ Madame Martin pursed her lips. ‘I am sure I could have the female staff queuing from here to our capital city of Cagliari, but none of them have your characteristics, Hannah. You are a young woman whose head is planted firmly on her shoulders, as you English say. You will not be seduced by a pair of flashing black eyes and a body which makes grown women shiver.’ Madame Martin seemed suddenly to realise what she was saying, and as she pulled herself together, she fixed Hannah with another stern look. ‘Can I rely on you to accept this task, so that I can report back favourably to your superiors in London?’
Hannah swallowed as she recognised it was going to be impossible to refuse—and why would anyone in their right mind want to? Surely a temporary promotion was a good thing. A chance to get the pay-rise she’d been hoping for. A pay-rise which might make it possible for her to one day buy a tiny place of her own.
A home of her own.
