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She opened her eyes and glanced down at what she had scribbled on a piece of paper. The times and the dates when Khalim could practically and realistically be in London in person. ‘Next week?’ she questioned. ‘Say, Friday?’
Darian’s eyes narrowed at her unexpected response. Friday? He hadn’t imagined that she would be so upfront as to say tonight, or even tomorrow night—but next week?
The instincts of the hunter in him were aroused. ‘You can’t make it a
ny sooner than that?’
She knew that she was playing this game well—too well, she thought bitterly—and that if she had suggested sooner then a bored note would have entered his arrogant voice.
‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ she said regretfully.
‘So where shall we meet?’ he demanded.
‘Would you like to come to the flat? Say, lunchtime?’
Lunchtime? Maybe she would be alone in the flat, with Jake Haddon away somewhere. A small smile of anticipation curved his lips as he flicked a glance at his diary and saw that he was busy. He scored through the appointments with a single stroke of his pen and added the words ‘cancel them’ for his secretary. ‘Sure,’ he said smoothly. ‘That sounds okay. About noon?’
‘Noon is fine.’ Lara swallowed, suddenly feeling assailed by nerves. ‘I’ll see you then.’
The week passed by in a curious state where time seemed either to be suspended in a state of utter unreality or to pass in a flurry of high-level communication with Maraban. Lara had the letter itself flown out to Khalim, and he acknowledged it in a telephone call, his voice sounding cool and thoughtful.
She half imagined that a small contingent of his armed guard might accompany him, but when the Prince arrived on Friday, just before midday, he was alone. Lara opened the door to him and blinked in surprise.
‘No guards?’ she questioned softly, once he had greeted her and she had closed the front door.
Khalim gave a brief smile. ‘My emissary and two others are waiting outside. They have orders not to disturb us.’
‘Would you like tea?’ Lara questioned shyly. ‘Mint tea?’
Khalim smiled. ‘You remembered!’
‘How is Rose?’ she demanded eagerly.
‘Rose is complaining that she is the size of an elephant! And I have photos to show you of my son.’ A frown crossed his dark face. ‘She does not know that I am seeing you. For if she did she would ask questions for which I do not yet have any answers.’
‘Oh,’ said Lara.
It seemed all so incongruously suburban. Khalim sitting on her sofa, drinking tea and proudly showing her photos of his wife and son. He was wearing Western regalia—a beautifully cut Italian suit in charcoal-grey, snowy shirt and a silk tie the colour of an emerald—and he looked just as much as ease in it as he did in his flowing garments of soft gleaming gold.
Outwardly, he seemed relaxed, but Lara could see the faint lines which fanned out from the jet-dark eyes. She wondered if he was worried about problems at home or simply about meeting Darian—but it seemed impertinent to ask.
She found herself comparing him to the man she was certain was his half-brother. Darian was taller and broader, his skin not so dark as Khalim’s, and his eyes were golden, not black, and yet there was an unmistakable similarity between the two men. You could see it in the firm and unblinking gaze, and in the almost tangible strength of character which emanated from them. What would happen when they met?
She shivered, and Khalim looked at her.
‘You are nervous, Lara?’
‘A little. Aren’t you?’
He shook his head. ‘In Maraban we have a saying: Life is like a narrow bridge—the most important thing is not to be afraid.’
‘He’s…he’s the same age as you, you know.’
‘And?’
‘What if he’s older? Won’t that make him the legitimate heir?’
‘But he is illegitimate, Lara,’ Khalim reminded her gently. ‘If indeed he is my brother.’
