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‘You made it happen,’ he assured her, ‘and you will make it happen again.’
‘No, it was chance. You should stop now. Take it while you have it.’
His smile said that it was for petty men to worry about such things. Princes controlled their own fate. Under his hypnotic glance Fran found herself believing it.
‘Put it on for me again,’ he said. ‘All of it.’
Dazed, she piled up all his winnings and went to put them on—on—
‘I can’t decide,’ she said frantically.
‘What day of the month is your birthday?’
‘The twenty-third.’
‘Red or black? Choose.’
‘Black,’ she said recklessly.
‘Then black twenty-three it is.’
She watched in agony as the wheel began to spin.
‘Don’t look,’ he said, smiling. ‘Look only at me, and let the little gods of the tables take care of the matter.’
‘Can you make them do your pleasure as well?’ she whispered.
‘I can make anyone and anything do my pleasure,’ he said simply.
The wheel stopped.
Black twenty-three.
A prickle went up Fran’s spine. This was eerie. Ali saw her startled look and laughed.
‘Witchcraft,’ he said. ‘And you are the most beautiful witch of all.’
‘I—I don’t believe it,’ she stammered. ‘It can’t happen like that.’
‘It happened because you are magic. And I can’t resist magic.’
On the words he dropped his head and laid his lips against her palm. Instantly Fran felt as though she was being scorched, although the touch of his lips was teasingly soft. The sensation started in her skin and swiftly pervaded her. She had a sense of alarm and would have snatched her hand back, but she remembered in time that such gaucheness wouldn’t fit the role she was playing. She smiled, hoping she looked as though such tributes happened every day.
The croupier pushed over the winnings. ‘I’ll take them,’ Ali announced.
A man standing behind his chair counted up and wrote the total on a piece of paper. Fran gasped as she saw it.
While the man went to cash the chips Ali rose and drew Fran away from the table. ‘Now we will dine together,’ he announced.
Fran hesitated. Ancient female wisdom told her that it wasn’t clever to accept such an abrupt invitation from a man she’d known barely half an hour. But she was in pursuit of a story, and she wouldn’t succeed by refusing the first real break she’d been given. Besides, a restaurant was public enough.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Joey, his jaw dropping. She gave him a wink and swept out on Ali’s arm.
His Rolls-Royce was waiting outside, the chauffeur already standing with the door open. Ali handed her gallantly inside. The chauffeur got in and started the car without waiting for instructions.
When they were moving Ali turned to her, smiling mischievously, and reached into his pockets. From one he produced a necklace of priceless pearls, from the other, a diamond necklace.
‘Which?’ he asked.
‘Whi—?’
‘One of them is yours. Take your pick.’
She gaped. He carried such things around with him, in his pockets?
Feeling as though she’d been transported to another planet, she said, ‘I’ll take the diamonds.’ The voice didn’t sound like her own.
‘Turn your neck so that I can remove that gold pendant,’ he commanded. ‘The man who gives you such trumpery baubles doesn’t know how to value you.’
His fingers brushed her neck, and she took a shuddering, uncontrollable breath. This wasn’t how the evening was supposed to go. She’d come prepared to analyse Sheikh Ali, to dislike and despise him. But she hadn’t come prepared to be overwhelmed by him. It had simply happened.
She felt the chill on her flesh as he draped a king’s ransom in diamonds about her neck. His fingertips brushed against her nape and she had to struggle not to tremble at that soft, devastating impact. Then there was another sensation, so light that she couldn’t be sure of it. Had he kissed the back of her neck or not? How dared he? If he had…
‘They were made for you,’ he declared, turning her to face him. ‘No woman has ever looked better in diamonds.’
‘And you speak from a wide experience?’ she said demurely.
He laughed, neither offended nor ashamed. ‘Wider than you can imagine,’ he assured her. ‘But tonight none of the others exist. There is only you in the world. Now tell me your name.’
‘My name—’ She had a sudden inspiration. ‘My name is Diamond.’
His eyes lit up. ‘You have wit. Excellent. That will do for now. Before the night is over you will tell me your real name.’
He held her left hand in both of his and studied the fingers.
‘No rings,’ he observed. ‘You are neither married nor promised, unless you are one of those modern women who scorn to tell the world that you belong to a man. Or maybe you scorn to let yourself belong?’
‘I belong to no man,’ she said. ‘I belong to myself, and no man will ever own me.’
‘Then you have never known love. When you do, you’ll find that your aloof ideas mean nothing. When you love, you will give, and it must be all of yourself, or the gift means nothing.’
‘And who do you belong to?’ she demanded with spirit.
He laughed. ‘That is quite another matter. But I could say that I belong to a million people.’ Kamar had a population of one million. ‘No part of my life is entirely my own. Even my heart is not mine to give. Tell me about the little man with you. I wondered if he might have been your lover.’
‘Would that have made any difference to you?’
‘None at all, since he made no effort to protect you from me. A man who cannot hold onto his woman is no man.’
‘Do I need protecting from you?’ Fran mused, teasing him with her eyes.
He laid his lips against her hand. ‘I wonder if we’ll discover that we each need protection from the other?’ he said thoughtfully.
‘Who knows?’ she murmured, replying as she felt her role required. ‘The pleasure will come in discovering.’
‘And you are a woman made for pleasure.’
Fran drew a slow breath, shocked at how much the words affected her. She was used to hearing her brains praised. Howard admired her looks but was just as likely to acclaim her common sense. And her common sense told her that, while passion mattered, it wasn’t the whole of life. Suddenly she was no longer sure of that.
He listened to her silence and added, ‘You’re not going to pretend not to know what I mean.’
‘There are many kinds of pleasure,’ she fenced.
‘Not for us. For you and I there is only one kind— the pleasure to be shared by a man and a woman in the heat of desire.’
‘Isn’t it a little soon to be thinking of desire?’
‘We were thinking of desire the moment our eyes met. Don’t try to deny it.’
She couldn’t have begun to deny it. The truth was shocking but it was still the truth. She wondered wildly if she could jump out of the car and flee, but he was holding her hand in a grip that was only superficially gentle. Underneath, it was unbreakable.
He touched her face with his fingertips. The next thing she knew, his lips were on hers in the lightest kiss she’d ever known. It was so light that it might not have happened, except that it was followed by another on her chin, her jaw, her eyes, and again on her lips. She barely felt them, but she felt their effects in the tingling excitement they produced all over her body.
This was alarming. If he’d tried to overwhelm her with power she could have defended herself. But Sheikh Ali was an artist, putting out all his artistry to bring her under his spell. And there seemed to be no defence against that.
She moved helplessly against him, neither returning his kisses nor fending him off. He looked down into her face, but it was too dark in the car for him to find what he wanted to know. Nor could she see the little frown of uncertainty between his eyes.
The long, sleek car glided to a halt in a quiet street in London’s most exclusive area. Slowly he released her. The chauffeur opened the door and Ali took her hand to assist her out. Then she was stepping out onto the pavement, and realising what she ought to have thought of before—that he had brought her not to a restaurant but to his home.
She knew this was the moment when she should act sensibly and run, but what kind of journalist ran away at the first hint of danger?
She gave herself a little shake. Of course there was no danger. What had put that thought into her head?
The tall windows of the mansion were filled with light. One on the ground floor had the curtains pulled back, revealing crystal chandeliers and lavish furnishings.
Slowly the front door opened. A tall man in Arab robes and headdress stood there massively.
‘Welcome to my humble home,’ said Prince Ali Ben Saleem.
CHAPTER TWO
AS SHE entered the house Fran blinked at her gorgeous surroundings. She was in a large hallway, dominated by a huge, sweeping staircase, and with double doors on either side. There were exotic tiles beneath her feet, and more of them covering the walls. It was bewildering but gorgeous.
Every set of doors leading off the hall was closed, but at that moment one pair was thrown open and a man emerged. He approached Ali, not appearing to notice Fran, and addressed him in a language she didn’t understand. While the two men talked she glanced through the doors and saw that the room was an office. The walls were covered with charts and maps, there were three fax machines, a row of telephones and a computer unlike any she had ever seen. Fran guessed that it was state of the art. So that was where he did the deals that earned him a million a day.
Ali noticed the direction of her glance and spoke sharply to the man, who retreated into the office and closed the door. Ali put his arm about Fran’s shoulder, guiding her firmly away. He was smiling, but there was no mistaking the irresistible pressure he was exerting.
‘That is only my office,’ he said. ‘In there I do very dull things that wouldn’t interest you.’
‘Who knows? Perhaps I would be interested?’ Fran said provocatively.
Ali laughed. ‘Such a beautiful woman need think only how to be more beautiful still, and to please the man who is enchanted by her.’
How about that? Fran thought, annoyed. Prehistoric, male chauvinist—
Ali threw open another set of doors and Fran gasped at the sight that met her eyes. It was a large, luxuriously decorated room with a bay window, in which stood a table laid for two. The plates were the finest porcelain with heavy gold bands around the edge. By each place stood three glasses of priceless crystal. The cutlery was solid gold.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she murmured.
‘For you, nothing is too good,’ Ali declared.
For me—or for whoever you happened to pick up, Fran thought, determined to keep her wits about her. But aloud all she said was, ‘You’re too kind.’
He led her to the table and pulled a chair out for her like the humblest of attendants. Part of the act, Fran decided, amused. All her journalistic instincts were on full alert, and while she seemed to be merely languidly accepting whatever happened she was actually observing every detail.
At the same time, she couldn’t deny that she was enjoying herself. Ali was simply the most handsome man she’d ever seen. In the casino she’d seen him mainly sitting at the table, or at a distance. Now he was on his feet and close to her she felt the full impact of his magnificence.
He was about six feet two in height, with long legs and broad shoulders. Yet he didn’t give the impression of being heavily built. He walked softly, making no sound, but nobody could have overlooked him. His movements had the lightness of a panther ready to spring.
His face was more than merely good-looking. It was a study in contradictions. At first glance it was European, inherited from his mother. Yet his Arab father was also there. Fran had read about Prince Saleem, a fierce man who inspired terror and devotion among his people. He too was in Ali’s face in the dark chocolate eyes, the curved, stubborn mouth, and the air of proud authority.
Yet Ali had more than looks. His charisma was so strong that it was practically a force field. He radiated strength and intensity. And, while some of it must have come from having been born to rule, her instincts told her that his vibrant, emotional power was all his own.
He showed her to a seat, drawing the chair out and deferring to her. ‘I will serve you myself, if that is agreeable to you?’ he said smoothly.
‘I am honoured to be attended by a prince,’ Fran murmured.
She saw him smile, and guessed what he was thinking: this woman had fallen for his line, just like all the others. Well, if he thought that, he was in for a shock.
A heated trolley stood nearby, and he ladled a pale yellow liquid into a dish. It was thick, like porridge, mixed with rice, and it tasted delicious.
‘Pumpkin soup,’ Ali explained. ‘I have a weakness for it, so when I’m here my chef keeps some permanently ready.’ He served himself and sat facing her. The table was small, so even on opposite sides they were still close. ‘Have you ever tasted Arabic food before?’ he asked.
‘A little. There’s a restaurant I sometimes go to. It has the most delicious chicken with dates and honey, and I can’t resist it. But the surroundings are vulgar. The walls are covered with murals of the desert, with oases that light up in neon.’
Ali winced. ‘I know the kind of place you mean. They make a great play of the desert, but none of them knows what the desert is really like.’
‘What is it like?’ Fran asked eagerly. ‘Tell me about the desert.’
‘How shall I know what to say? There are so many deserts. There is the desert in the evening when the sun turns to blood and is swallowed up by the sand. In England you have long twilights, but in my country it can be broad daylight, and then pitch darkness a few minutes later.
‘Then, in the early hours, dawn lays a cool light on the land for a few moments, then rises in pale glory, and we all give thanks for the renewed blessing. But at noon the desert can be a enemy, and the sun turns to a furnace, driving you back into the sand.
‘But they all have one thing in common, and that is the silence: a deeper silence than you can imagine. Until you have stood in the desert and watched the stars wheel overhead, you have never heard the silence of the earth as it spins on its axis.’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘That’s what I thought.’
Without her knowing, a dreamy, far-away look had come into her eyes. Ali saw it, and a small frown of interest creased his brows. ‘You thought?’ he asked.
