The Sheikh's Convenient Princess Read online

  CHAPTER TWO

  A PING FROM her phone warning her of an incoming text broke the tension. Bram nodded and, miraculously, Ruby managed to pour mint tea into a tall glass set in a silver holder and place it in front of him without incident.

  As if he too needed a distraction, he reached for the card on which she’d written the hospital details, murmured something.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  He shook his head. ‘He’s in Gstaad. I broke my ankle there years ago.’

  ‘Remind me never to go there. It’s clearly a dangerous place,’ she added when he gave her a blank look.

  Her Internet search for information had thrown up dozens of photographs of him in skin-hugging Lycra, hurtling down vertiginous ski runs, and with the resulting medals around his neck.

  ‘Maybe,’ he said, his eyes distant, no doubt thinking of a different life when he’d been a champion, a media darling, a future king.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He didn’t ask her what she was sorry for and in truth she didn’t know. If he wanted to ski, play polo, there was nothing to stop him, other than shame for having disgraced his family. Was giving it all up, leaving his A-list social life in Europe to live in this isolated place, atonement for scandalising the country he had been born to serve?

  Or did he want the throne of Umm al Basr more than the rush of competition, the prizes and the glamorous women who hung around the kind of men who attracted photographers?

  Was the hunger at the back of his eyes the need for forgiveness or determination to regain all he had lost?

  He dropped the card back on the table.

  ‘Call the hospital. Make sure they have all the details of Peter’s medical insurance and tell them that whatever he needs above and beyond that he is to have. Talk to his mother,’ he continued as she made a note on her pad. ‘Liaise with her about flying him back to England as soon as he’s able to travel. Make sure that there is a plane at their disposal and arrange for a private ambulance to pick him up and take him wherever he needs to go.’

  She made another note. ‘Is there any message?’

  ‘You’re a clumsy oaf?’ he suggested, but without the smile that should have accompanied his suggestion.

  She looked up. ‘Will there be flowers with that?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  What she thought was that Peter Hammond hadn’t crashed his snowboard for the sole purpose of annoying his boss although, if she’d been him, she might have been tempted to take a dive into the snow rather than spend one more day working for Bram Ansari.

  What she said was, ‘Get well soon is more traditional under the circumstances, but it’s undoubtedly a man thing. I’m sure he’ll get the message.’

  She certainly did but, despite the cool reception, she had some sympathy. It was bad enough to have your routine disrupted by the drama of outside events without having a total stranger thrust into your life and, in Bram Ansari’s case, his home.

  He might be an arrogant jerk but she was there to ensure that Peter’s absence did not disturb his life more than absolutely necessary and she was professional enough to make that happen, with or without his co-operation. Not that she’d waste her breath saying so. The first few hours were show-not-tell time.

  ‘No doubt he’ll be as anxious to be back on his feet as you are for his return,’ she said as she picked up the card and tucked it into her notebook. ‘Unfortunately, bones can’t be hurried.’

  ‘I’m aware of that but Peter manages the day-to-day running of Qa’lat al Mina’a. Without him we don’t eat.’

  ‘Everything is flown in from the city, I imagine.’ She could handle that. It wouldn’t be the first time that running a house had come within the remit of an assignment. ‘What did people do here before?’

  ‘Before?’

  ‘Before there was a city with an air-conditioned mall selling luxuries flown in from around the world. Before there were helicopters to deliver your heart’s desire to places such as this.’

  He shrugged. ‘They fished, kept livestock and there were camels to bring rice, spices, everything else.’ He gave her another of those thoughtful looks. ‘Have you ever wrung a chicken’s neck, Ruby? Or slaughtered a goat?’

  ‘Why?’ she asked, not about to make his day with girlish squealing. ‘Is that included in the job description?’

  ‘There is no job description. Peter has an open-ended brief encompassing whatever is necessary.’

  He was challenging her, she realised. Demanding to know if she was up to the job.

  Clearly the quiet diligence she usually found most helpful when dealing with a difficult employer wasn’t going to work here, but they were stuck with each other until one of them cracked and summoned the helicopter.

  ‘You’re saying you make it up as you go along?’ she asked, lobbing it right back because it wasn’t ever going to be her. She couldn’t afford the luxury.

  ‘Is there a better way?’

  ‘Personally, I’m working to a five-year plan,’ she said, ‘but, for the record, exactly how many goats has Peter Hammond slaughtered?’

  A glint appeared in those amber eyes and a crease deepened at the corner of Bram Ansari’s mouth. Not a smile, nothing like a smile; more a warning that she was living dangerously. Not that she needed it. She’d been aware of the danger from the moment she’d first set eyes on him.

  ‘One?’ she suggested. Then, when he didn’t answer, ‘Two?’ Still nothing. ‘More than two?’

  ‘So far,’ he admitted, ‘he’s managed to dodge that bullet by ensuring that the freezer is always fully stocked.’

  ‘Much less messy,’ she agreed briskly, ‘and I’m sure the goats are grateful for his efficiency. If you’ll point me in the direction of his office I’ll attempt to follow his example.’ Apparently she’d won that round because his only response was to wave a hand in the direction of a pair of open glazed doors leading from the terrace. ‘And your office?’

  ‘My office is wherever I happen to be.’

  Having dished out the if-you’re-so-damned-good-get-on-with-it treatment, he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

  She wasn’t entirely convinced by his relaxed dismissal—she had won that round on points—but she picked up her glass, crossed the terrace, flipped on the light and kicked off her shoes as she entered Peter Hammond’s office. She half expected to find a man cave but it was uncluttered, austere in its simplicity.

  A huge rug, jewel-coloured and silky beneath her feet, covered the flagstone floor. The walls were bare ancient stone, hung with huge blow-ups of stunning black and white photographs: weathered rock formations; the spray of a waterfall frozen in a moment in time and so real that if she put a hand out she might feel it splashing through her fingers; a close-up of the suspicious eye of a desert oryx.

  The only furniture was a battle-scarred desk and a good chair. The only item on the desk was a slender state-of-the-art laptop which, no doubt, had the protection of an equally state-of-the-art password.

  She put her cup and bag on the desk, opened up the laptop and, sure enough, she got the prompt.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d been faced with this situation and she reached for the pull-out ledge under the desk top—the classic place to jot down passwords.

  Nothing. While she approved of Peter Hammond’s security savvy, on this occasion she would have welcomed a little carelessness. No doubt Bram Ansari was, at that moment, lying back in his recliner amusing himself by counting down the seconds until she called for help.

  She sat down, checked the drawers.

  They were not locked, but contained nothing more revealing than the fact that he had a weakness for liquorice allsorts and excellent taste in pens and notebooks.

  A walk-in cupboard at the rear of the office containe
d shelves holding a supply of stationery on one wall and a neat array of box files. Against the other wall was a table containing a printer and a scanner.

  She took down the file labelled ‘Medical Insurance’, carried it to the desk and, having found the relevant paperwork, discovered that there wasn’t a phone. Of course not. There was no landline here—Bram had been holding the latest in smartphones, the same model as her own—and Peter would have his mobile phone with him.

  Not a problem. She took her own phone from her bag—the cost of her calls would be added to his account—and saw the waiting text. Number unknown.

  She clicked on it and read.

  Amanda gave me your number, Ruby, so that I could give you the password for Peter’s laptop. It’s pOntefr@c! Can you let me have the details of his medical insurance when you have a moment? Good luck! Elizabeth Hammond.

  She grinned. Pontefract—where the liquorice came from.

  She tried it and was in.

  ‘Bless the man!’ she said and called Elizabeth Hammond to pass on the insurance details, along with the rest of Bram Ansari’s instructions.

  ‘Heaven’s, that was quick, Ruby. You’re clearly as hot as Amanda said.’

  If only the rest of the ‘open-ended brief’ was as simple...

  ‘If there’s any other information you need just call me on this number,’ she said. ‘How is Peter?’

  ‘Sore but the breaks were clean and should heal without any permanent damage.’

  ‘That is good news. Sheikh Ibrahim said to tell him that he’s a clumsy oaf, which I assume is man-speak for get well soon.’

  ‘It’s going to be weeks, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Weeks?’

  ‘Can you manage that? Bram Ansari is...’ She paused, called out to someone that she was coming, then said, ‘I’m sorry, Ruby, but I ordered room service and it has just arrived. Thanks again for all your help.’

  Ruby, phone at her cheek, wondered what Elizabeth Hammond had been about to say when she’d been interrupted.

  Bram Ansari is difficult to work for? Bram Ansari is a pain in the butt? Bram Ansari is very easy on the eye?—a fact which did not cancel out the first two. She knew, no one better, that attractiveness, charm, in a man could hide a multitude of sins.

  Obviously, she had no concerns on the charm front.

  * * *

  Bram watched from beneath hooded lids as Ruby Dance picked up her glass and disappeared into Peter’s office.

  Something about her bothered him and it wasn’t just that first shocking moment when he’d thought she was Safia. It was nothing that he could put his finger on. She was clearly good at her job if a little waspish. No doubt she was simply responding to his own mood; Jude Radcliffe, not a man to bestow praise lightly, had said that he was very lucky that she’d been free. Apparently she had a memory like an elephant, was cool-headed in a crisis and was as tight-lipped as a clam. She certainly hadn’t been fazed by his clumsy attempt to unsettle her, to get a feeling for the woman hiding behind that cool mask.

  On the contrary, he felt as if he’d been in a fencing match and was lucky to have got away with a draw.

  Only once he’d caught a momentary flash of irritation in those cool grey eyes. Such control was rare, a learned skill. That she’d taken the trouble to master it suggested that she had something to hide.

  He thumbed her name into a search engine but all he came up with was a dance studio. That, too, was unusual. His curiosity aroused, he called up the security program he used when he ran an initial check on someone who was looking for financial backing. Again nothing.

  No social media presence, no borrowing, not even a credit rating, which implied that she didn’t have a credit card. Or maybe not one in that name. It was definitely time to go and check what she was up to in Peter’s office.

  He’d just swung his feet to the floor when his phone rang.

  ‘Bram?’

  The voice was sleepy, a bit slurred, but unmistakable.

  ‘Peter...’ No point in asking how he was; he would be floating on the residue of anaesthesia. ‘I suppose you were trying to impress some leggy chalet maid?’

  ‘You’ve got me,’ he said, a soft chuckle abruptly shortened into an expletive as his ribs gave him a sharp reminder that it was no laughing matter. ‘Next time I’ll stay in bed and let her impress me.’

  ‘Good decision. What’s the prognosis?’

  ‘Boredom, physio, boredom, physio. Repeat until done... What’s the Garland Girl like?’

  ‘Garland Girl?’

  ‘That’s what they were called before it became politically incorrect to call anyone over the age of ten a girl. She did turn up, didn’t she? I told Amanda that it was urgent. Tried to tell you but your phone was busy and then...’ He hesitated, clearly trying to remember what had happened next.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. She’s here and right now staring at your laptop wondering where you hid your password. I was on my way to rescue her when you rang.’

  ‘She won’t need you to rescue her,’ he said. ‘Garland temps are the keyboard queens, the crème de la crème of the business world. Her job is to rescue you. Ask m’father,’ he said. ‘M’mother was one...’ He coughed, swore again. ‘She sends her love, by the way.’

  ‘Please give her my best wishes. Is your father there?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s at the UN until next week. Why?’ he said, suddenly sharper. ‘Is there a problem?’ When he was too slow to deny it Peter said, ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Well, the good news is that I have received an invitation to my father’s birthday majlis.’

  ‘And the bad news is that Ahmed Khadri will gut you the moment he sets eyes on you.’

  ‘Apparently not. Hamad phoned to warn me that my father has done a secret deal with Khadri. Safia hasn’t given my brother a son and they’re impatient for an heir with Khadri blood. The price of my return is marriage to Bibi Khadri, Safia’s youngest sister.’

  Peter’s soft expletive said it all. ‘There’s more than one way to gut a man...’

  ‘He wins, whichever way I jump. If I go, he has more influence in court as well as the eye-watering dowry he will demand from me. If I stay away, my father will take it as a personal insult and any chance of a reconciliation will be lost. I doubt Khadri can make up his mind which outcome would please him most.’

  ‘Who knows about this?’

  ‘No one. Hamad only found out because Bibi managed to smuggle a note to her sister.’

  He was not the only one to be horrified by such a match.

  ‘Okay... So if you turned up with a wife in tow—’

  ‘You’re rambling, Peter. Go to sleep.’

  ‘Not a real wife. A temp,’ he said. ‘And, by happy coincidence, you happen to have one handy... Ask the Garland Girl.’

  * * *

  Ruby put the phone down, turned to the laptop and began to go through Peter’s diary, printing off each entry for the following week. She had collected the sheets from the printer, sorted them and clipped them into a folder when a shadow across the door warned her that she was no longer alone.

  ‘I realised that you didn’t have the password to Peter’s laptop but I see that you’ve found it. Did he have it written down somewhere obvious?’ he asked.

  She counted to three before she looked up. Bram Ansari was leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded, but there was an intense watchfulness in his eyes that belied the casual stance.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘No, not obvious?’

  ‘No, he didn’t have it written down.’

  ‘And yet you are in. Should I be worried?’

  Ruby was seriously tempted to leave it at that and let him wonder how she’d done it. She resisted. He’d taken his time about it but he had event
ually turned up and playing mind games was not the way to build a working relationship. She took pride in the fact that when she had worked for someone she always got a call back.

  ‘I’m good, Bram, but I’m not that good. Peter asked his mother to text it to me.’

  ‘I was just talking to him. He didn’t mention it.’

  ‘Maybe he forgot. Or maybe he wanted to make me look amazingly efficient. How is he?’

  ‘High on the lingering remains of anaesthetic. Talking too much when he should be resting.’

  ‘Did you rest?’ she asked. ‘When you broke your ankle?’

  His shoulders moved in the merest suggestion of a shrug. ‘Boredom is the mother of invention.’

  His smile was little more than a tug on the corner of his mouth, deepening the droop, but it felt as if he had included her in a private joke and her own lips responded all by themselves. And not just her lips. Little pings of recognition lit up in parts of her body that had lain dormant, unused, not wanted in this life. Definitely not wanted here.

  ‘He rang to make sure that you’d arrived safely and to tell me how lucky I am to have you.’

  ‘What a nice man,’ she said. ‘I’ll send him a box of liquorice allsorts.’

  ‘It didn’t take you long to discover his weakness.’

  ‘One I confess that I share.’ He didn’t respond and, feeling rather foolish, she said, ‘I’ve spoken to Mrs Hammond and passed on all the information she needed.’ He nodded. ‘It’s going to be weeks before Peter will be able to manage all these steps.’

  ‘He won’t be coming back.’ She frowned. ‘His father was Ambassador to Umm al Basr when Peter was a boy. He loves the desert and when he dropped out of university, didn’t know what to do with himself, I asked him if he wanted to come here and give me a hand. I’d given financial backing to a friend who wanted to go into commercial production with winter sports equipment—’

  ‘Maxim de Groote.’

  ‘Is that in your file too?’ he asked.