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There was silence as Saladin felt a flicker of exasperation. It was an accusation levelled at most people born to royal status, but never usually voiced in his presence because usually people didn’t dare. Yes, he was unimaginably rich—but did she think that he had grown up in a bubble? That he’d never had to fight for his country and his people? That he’d never known heartbreak, or stared into the dark abyss of real loss? Once again, Alya’s beautiful and perfect face swam into his memory, but he pushed it aside as he met the Englishwoman’s quizzical gaze.
‘Materially I do not deny that I have plenty,’ he said. ‘But what about you? You’re not exactly on the breadline, are you, Livvy? This place is hardly your average house. You, too, have known privilege.’
Livvy wished he would move away from her, because his presence was making her feel distinctly uncomfortable. As if her plaid shirt had suddenly become too small and her breasts were straining against the tightening buttons. As if those watchful eyes could somehow see through her clothes to the plain and functional underwear that lay beneath.
‘It’s a rare Georgian house,’ she agreed, her fingers playing with the top button of her shirt. ‘And I’m lucky to live here. It’s been in my family for many years.’
‘But the maintenance costs must be high,’ he mused.
‘Astronomical,’ she agreed. ‘Which is why I open the house to paying guests.’
He was glancing up at the ceiling now. Had he noticed the ugly damp stain then, or did the firelight successfully hide it? His gaze was lowered and redirected to her face, where once again it seemed to burn its way over her skin.
‘So how’s business, Livvy—generally?’
Her smile was bland. ‘Business is good.’
‘Your guests don’t mind the fact that the paint is peeling, or that the plaster is crumbling on that far wall?’
‘I doubt it. People come looking for history, not pristine paintwork—you can find that almost anywhere in some of the cheaper hotel chains.’
‘You know, I could offer you a lot of money,’ he observed, after a moment or two. ‘Enough to pay for the kind of work this place is crying out for. I could throw in a little extra if you like—so that you could afford the holiday you look as if you need.’
Livvy stiffened. Was he implying that she looked washed out? Almost without her thinking, her fingers crept up to her hairline to brush away a stray strand that must have escaped from her ponytail. It was true she hadn’t had a holiday in ages. And it was also true that her debts continued to grow, no matter how many new bookings she took. Sometimes she felt like Canute trying to turn back the tide, and now she couldn’t remember how Canute had actually coped. Had he just admitted defeat and given up?
She wished Saladin would stop looking at her like that—his black eyes capturing her in their dark and hypnotic spotlight. She wasn’t a vain woman by any definition of the word, but she would have taken a bit more trouble with her appearance if she’d known that a desert sheikh was going to come calling. Suddenly her scalp felt itchy and her face hot, and her shirt still felt as if it had shrunk in the wash.
‘Is that your answer to everything?’ she questioned. ‘To write a cheque and to hell with anything else?’
He shrugged. ‘Why wouldn’t it be—when I have the capability to do exactly that, and money talks louder than anything else?’
‘You cynic,’ she breathed.
‘I’m not denying that.’ He gave a soft laugh. ‘Or maybe you’re just naive. Money talks, Livvy—it talks louder than anything else. It’s about the only thing in life you can rely on—which is why you should do yourself a favour and come with me to Jazratan. My stable complex is the finest in the world and it would be interesting for you to see it.’
He smiled at her, but Livvy sensed it was a calculating smile. As if he had only produced it because it would add a touch of lightness to conversation that wasn’t going the way he intended.
‘Come and work with my horse and I’ll give you whatever you want, within reason,’ he continued. ‘And if you cure Burkaan—if you ensure that a gun will not be held to his head while I am forced to stare into his trusting and bewildered eyes as the life bleeds out of him, you will walk away knowing that you need never worry about money again.’
The heartfelt bit about the horse got to her much more than the financial incentive he was offering. In fact, she hated the mercenary progression of his words. As if everything had a price—even people. As if you could wear them down just by increasing the amount of money on the table. Maybe in his world, that was what happened.
But despite her determination not to be tempted, she was tempted. For a minute she allowed herself to think what she could do with the money. Where would she even start? By tackling the ancient wiring in some of the bedrooms, or sorting out the antiquated boiler that badly needed replacing? She thought about the icy corridors upstairs and the lack of insulation in the roof. Most of the heat was pumped into the guest bedrooms, leaving her own windows coated with a thin layer of ice each morning. She shivered. It had been a bitter winter and they were still only a third of the way through it, and she was getting fed up with having to wear thick socks to bed at night.
‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I have guests who are due to spend the holidays here who are arriving in a couple of days. I can’t just cancel their Christmas and New Year when they’ve spent months looking forward to it. You’ll just have to find someone else.’
Saladin’s mouth tightened, but still he wasn’t done. Didn’t she realise that he would get what he wanted in the end, no matter how he had to go about it? That if it came to a battle of wills, he would win. Spurred on by the almost imperceptible note of hesitation he’d heard in her voice, he got up from his chair and walked over to the window. It was almost dark, but the heavy clouds had already leached the sky of all colour and all you could see was snow. It had highlighted all the leafless trees with ghostly white fingers. It had blanketed his parked car so that all that was visible was a snowy mound.
His eyes narrowed as fat flakes swirled down, transformed into tumbling gold feathers by the light streaming from the window. He ran through the possibilities of what he should do next, knowing his choices were limited. He could go and get his car started before the snow came down any harder. He could drive off and come back again tomorrow. Give her time to think about his offer and realise that she would be a fool to reject it. Or he could have his people deal with it, using rather more ruthless back-room tactics.
He turned back to see her unsmiling face and he was irritated by his inability to get through to her. Logic told him to leave, yet for some reason he was reluctant to do so, even though she had started walking towards the door, making it clear that she expected him to trail after her. A woman who wanted him gone? Unbelievable! When had any woman ever turned him away?
He followed her out into the wood-lined corridor, which was lit by lamps on either side, realising that she was close enough to touch. And bizarrely, he thought about kissing her. About claiming those stubborn and unpainted lips with his own and waiting to see how long it would take before she was breathlessly agreeing to anything he asked of her.
But his choices were suddenly taken away from him by a dramatic intervention as the lights went out and the corridor was plunged into darkness. From just ahead of him, he heard Livvy gasp and then he felt the softness of her body as she stumbled back against him.
CHAPTER THREE
AS THE CORRIDOR was plunged into darkness, Saladin’s hands automatically reached out to steady the stumbling Livvy. At least, that was what he told himself. He thought afterwards that if she’d been a man he wouldn’t have let his hands linger on her for quite so long, nor his fingers to grip her slender body quite so tightly. But Livvy Miller was a woman—and it had been a long time since he had touched a woman. It had recently been the anniversary of Alya’s death and he always shied away from intimacy on either side of that grim date, when pain and loss and regret overwhelmed him. Because to do so felt like a betrayal of his wife’s memory—a mechanical act that seemed like a pale version of the real thing. With other women it was just sex—something a man needed in order to function properly. A basic appetite to be fed—and nothing more. But with Alya it had been different. Something that had captured his heart as well as his body.
