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There was a pause. ‘Because he was willing to lend to me—why else? I’m not like you, Jane. I don’t think everything through to within an inch of its life. I don’t spend my life wading through dusty textbooks and wearing thrift shop clothes and letting life pass me by. So I...’ Cleo’s voice faltered. ‘I decided I wanted to see the world. I went on a fancy cruise and bought myself a wardrobe to match and I...’
‘You pretended to be someone you weren’t,’ said Jane slowly, because this was a familiar pattern going right back to their childhood. Gorgeous Cleo who wanted to be a famous model—only she wasn’t quite tall enough or thin enough. Cleo who had been the apple of their mother’s eye. Who had been so devastated when Mum died that everyone had gone out of their way to cushion her from the tearing pain of her emotions. Maybe they had tried too hard, Jane conceded now. Made too many allowances. Bailed her out one time too many. Accepted with a resigned shrug when Cleo dropped out of yet another course and just gone ahead and enrolled her on another—as if they were all waiting for some magic solution to fix her life for her. It had become even worse after their father had died and Jane had been left feeling like the responsible one, the one who needed to take care of Cleo. But that was the story of her life, wasn’t it? Everyone leaned on Jane. Good old reliable Jane.
Closing her eyes, she pressed the phone against her ear. ‘How much do you owe, Cleo? And I don’
t want rough estimates designed to shield me from the truth. How much exactly?’
The sum her sister mentioned made Jane feel quite sick and for a minute she actually thought her knees might give way. ‘You’re kidding?’ she questioned hoarsely.
‘I wish I was. Oh, Jane, what am I going to do?’
It was an all too familiar cry and what could Jane do but respond to it, as she had responded so many times before? Tightly, she gripped her phone. ‘You’re going to sit tight and wait for me to get back to you.’
‘But you haven’t got that kind of money.’
‘No. I haven’t.’ Jane swallowed as an image of Zayed’s face swam before her eyes—all flashing black eyes and cruel, mocking lips. ‘But I know somebody who does.’
Slowly, she put the phone down. Did she dare ask the impossibly wealthy Sheikh for some kind of loan to help tide her sister over? A loan which she could pay back over the next however many years? She was so lost in thought that she didn’t realise the time until she heard the clock chime out seven times and realised that Zayed’s car would be here in less than an hour.
Dashing into the shower, she sluiced tepid water over her fleshy body realising that she’d been so worried about her sister that she’d barely stopped to wonder just why Zayed had been so insistent about taking her out for dinner. No doubt she would find out soon enough. Opening up her wardrobe, she cast an uninterested eye over its contents but clothes had never been important to her and, anyway, she doubted the arch-seducer Sheikh would notice what someone like her was wearing. She gave a faint shudder of distaste as she thought about the Kafalahian ruler’s reputation with women, before pulling on a warm sweater and thick tights to go with her tweed skirt—because the autumn evening had a decided nip to the air.
There was a knock at the door and Jane didn’t miss the chauffeur’s look of astonishment when she opened it, though—to the man’s credit—he instantly tried to disguise it with a polite smile, especially when she greeted him in fluent Kafalahian. Looking glaringly out of place, the royal limousine was parked outside the small house owned by a college friend of hers, which had been divided into two apartments—the top one of which Jane rented. Still. At least her friend was working abroad and not around to witness the bizarre spectacle of a Kafalahian flag on the bonnet of the car, flapping in the light breeze.
It felt weird to have the driver open the door for her and for her to slide somewhat awkwardly onto the soft leather seat, because she’d never travelled in one of the royal cars before. There was a small fridge in situ, along with a glittering row of crystal glasses—as well as a TV screen much bigger than the one in her apartment. Jane stared out of the window at the darkening evening, wondering just what she was going to do about Cleo. Maybe she could ask Zayed for some sort of pay-rise. She bit her lip. It would have to be a fairly hefty pay-rise and she would need to have it immediately in order to bail her sister out.
‘We’re here, miss.’
The driver’s voice broke into her troubled thoughts and Jane blinked. The journey had been so smooth that she hadn’t even noticed the car gliding to a halt and suddenly the door was being opened again—this time by a uniformed porter, who was ushering her into an exclusive members’ club, discreetly positioned in a wide street not far from Leicester Square Tube station. A mighty door clanged shut behind her as she stepped into an interior of pure opulence and grandeur—a cavernous hall lined with dark oak panelling and more paintings on the walls than you’d see in one of the nearby national art galleries. As Jane followed the porter inside, she became aware of several older women decked in dazzling jewels, who were peering at her as if she were a curiosity, with no right to be there.
In truth, she did feel more than a little out of place because even she, with her practically zero experience of social occasions, could tell that she’d woefully misjudged the occasion. There was nothing wrong with her knee-length tweed skirt or sweater, but they looked ridiculously understated in this grand and formal setting. And then another door was being flung open and there was Zayed, standing beside a carved marble fireplace, in which scented logs smouldered and crackled. He was wearing a flowing thawb in palest gold, which emphasised the burnished gleam of his skin and the raven blackness of his thick hair. Jane felt an unwelcome punch to her heart and the flicker of something warmer, low in her belly, as she met his flashing black eyes—though he did nothing to disguise the contemptuous curve of his lips as he stared at her.
‘Is this some kind of joke?’ he demanded.
She honestly didn’t know what he was talking about—and she was still so preoccupied with Cleo’s worries that she couldn’t work it out. ‘A joke, Your Royal Highness? I don’t understand.’
‘Really?’
His tone was imperious now, managing to be both haughty and condescending. She had never seen him pulling out all the royal stops before and Jane was suddenly reminded of why he was known as Zayed The Majestic in his homeland.
‘Yes, really,’ she said.
His eyes narrowed, throwing into relief his dark winged brows as his disbelieving gaze skated over her. ‘I invited you for dinner,’ he bit out. ‘Told you to take the rest of the day off in readiness and yet you turn up to my club looking like some suburban housewife on the school run!’
Jane felt her cheeks flush with colour but she kept her gaze steady as she returned his. ‘I don’t have any fancy clothes or jewels,’ she said stiffly.
‘But you have a hairbrush, don’t you? And a pretty dress? And surely it isn’t outside the realms of possibility that you might have reddened your lips and darkened your eyes so that it might please me to look upon you.’
‘I don’t particularly want you to look upon me and I certainly don’t care about pleasing you!’ Jane retorted, before she had time to think about her words. And then she wished she could have bitten them back because she was planning on asking him a favour, wasn’t she? Not making his face grow even darker with anger. She sucked in a breath and adopted a smile which felt as forced as the first Christmas decorations which had started appearing in the stores at the beginning of September. ‘I... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude.’
‘No? Then I’d certainly hate to hear what you might come out with if you were.’
He seemed to be making a conscious effort not to lose his temper and very briefly Jane wondered why—because Zayed was not a man known for his patience.
‘Why don’t you try to relax and enjoy yourself?’ he continued condescendingly. ‘And I shall get someone to bring you a glass of champagne.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she didn’t really drink champagne—apart from that cheap fizz she’d had on the night of her eighteenth and which had made her wake up with a splitting headache. Why would she drink something associated with glamour? She wasn’t Cleo. But she took a foaming crystal goblet, which had been brought in on a tray by a butler, who had appeared as if by magic.
‘I have ordered food for us,’ said Zayed airily. ‘Since I do not wish to waste any more time than is necessary with you fussing over the menu.’
