Polly raised a hand up to her forehead. Blood was pulsing in her temples and she felt as if an iron band were tightening around her chest. She couldn’t breathe in the heat. There was only an overwhelming need to lie down. To sleep. To…
‘Polly.’
She heard Bahiyaa’s voice as though it were some way away. And then there was nothing.
Rashid was on his feet.
‘She’s fainted.’ Bahiyaa looked up, Polly’s wrist held in her hand. ‘It must have been the heat.’
He stood back as water was brought in a large iced jug and placed on the central table.
‘Polly? Can you hear me?’
There was no sign of life other than the gentle rise and fall of her breasts. Her blond hair was splayed out across the ruby fabric of the couch. She looked pale and vulnerable. Beautiful. Rashid clenched his hands into fists by his side. His sister was certainly right in thinking that Polly had fainted, but he was less certain the cause was the heat.
Whatever it was that had passed between them was mutual. He’d seen the open desire in her eyes, read her thoughts as clearly as if she’d spoken them aloud. He’d seen the surprise in them, too, and knew she wasn’t used to reacting to a man the way she did to him.
He watched her eyelids flutter and the soft parting of her lips. ‘Gentlemen, might I suggest I show you the rose garden while Ms Anderson recovers?’ he said, his voice clipped. ‘My sister will stay with her.’
The words were sensible, but Rashid stayed looking down at Polly.
‘I will come and tell you how she is later,’ his sister promised, brushing a gentle hand across Polly’s forehead.
He wanted to push her aside. If there were no one in this room it would be his hand touching her face… And he wanted that with an intensity that amazed him.
‘Rashid.’
Still he hesitated.
‘Rashid,’ Bahiyaa prompted again, ‘you have guests.’
It had been no part of his plan to find Polly Anderson sexually desirable. And, yet, in that moment when he’d looked at her bravely drinking her first cup of gahwa he’d felt something shift.
He swore silently. No, before that. He’d felt it back in Shelton Castle. It was why Polly was in Amrah now when the sensible course of action would have been to refuse their application to film.
They were here because she fascinated him. Against all logic.
And his sister knew that. Her dark eyes looked up at him, a soft smile on her lips. She knew.
Rashid forced his hands to relax by his sides. It was the lure of the forbidden and he would master it. He had no place in his life for a woman like PollyannaAnderson—even if she were not related by marriage to a man he fully intended to ruin.
‘I’m sure my sister will manage better alone.’ Abruptly he turned and moved towards the garden.
CHAPTER FOUR
POLLY awoke in a comfortable bed, cool cotton covering her, and it took a moment for her to realise where she was. Not at Shelton. Not any more. She was in Rashid’s home. Rashid Al Baha’s palatial home.
Her eyes took in the strange room. Presumably she’d been carried here because she sure as heck couldn’t remember walking. Carried.
Polly raised a hand to shield her eyes, as though that would block out the image of that. Who had carried her? One of her colleagues? Rashid?
The last thing she actually remembered was the world slipping away and the overwhelming feeling of sickness that had accompanied it.
‘There is nothing to worry about,’ a female voice spoke softly. ‘You fainted in the heat.’
Polly took her hand away and looked across the shadowy room to where Princess Bahiyaa was sitting reading by soft lamplight. Rashid’s sister set the book down on the small hexagonal table and stood up.
‘The heat and humidity here in Samaah is very different from anything in England. I should have arranged for refreshments to be served in an airconditioned part of the palace,’ she said, pouring out a glass of water from the jug set out beside the bed. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Polly raised herself up on her elbow and pulled the pillow up behind her, only then noticing she was still in her clothes. Time to be grateful for small mercies. ‘Carried’ was humiliating enough, ‘undressed’ would have been terminally mortifying.
She brushed her hair off her face. ‘I’ve never fainted before. I’m really embarrassed.’
‘There is no need. The fault is mine.’
It wasn’t. Polly knew it wasn’t, but then it hadn’t been her fault either. Nor had it been Rashid’s, but his blue eyes were the last thing she remembered.
‘Shukran,’ she said, accepting the glass Bahiyaa gave her.
‘Do you speak Arabic?’
‘Only a few words and I’m not sure how useful they’ll be.’ She took a sip of water. ‘“Ma-atakallam arabi” might be, I suppose, but there’s not a lot of point in saying “I don’t know much Arabic” in anything other than English.’
Bahiyaa laughed. ‘It is lovely that you have tried. May I?’ she asked, indicating the side of the bed.
Polly nodded.
‘While you were sleeping I arranged for some of my clothes to be brought for you. I saw that much of what you have will be uncomfortably warm even at this time of the year.’
Princess Bahiyaa had seen the contents of her suitcase. Oh…hell! Polly’s toes squirmed at the thought of how she’d packed her case: socks balled down the sides and underwear she really should have binned months ago tucked inside her interpretation of ‘modest and conservative’ clothing. ‘I couldn’t, I—’
‘It is no matter. Please.’ Bahiyaa smiled. ‘And it is my pleasure. And maybe you would like a refreshing shower,’ she said, pointing at a door in the far corner, ‘before having a little to eat? You will feel much better, I think.’
Polly glanced down at her wristwatch. She made a quick mental calculation. Five o’clock UK time would mean it was a little past nine in Amrah. Too late to be asking her hosts to organise food…
But…the prospect of food was too tempting to put up a really convincing fight. And a shower would be wonderful.
‘I will organise it now and be back shortly.’
Polly waited until Bahiyaa quietly shut the door before setting her glass down on the side table and gingerly pushing back the light covering that had been placed over her. The floor beneath her feet was tiled and cool. The room was impossibly beautiful, with dark wood furniture that was so burnished it seemed to shimmer.
Carved wooden screens were at the windows and bright jewel-coloured fabrics were draped over the most enormous bed. Polly bit back a smile. There’d be room for a sheikh and his entire harem in a bed that size. It was incredible and, if she set her English reserve to one side for a moment, wasn’t it just the most exciting thing to stay in an Amrahi palace rather than some impersonal hotel?
Her great-great-grandmother would certainly have thought so. Elizabeth would probably have had no hesitation in borrowing Princess Bahiyaa’s clothes either, Polly thought, fingering the silk of the pale pink tunic laid out across the foot of the bed. For just this little while wouldn’t it be wonderful to set aside all of her inhibitions? To live boldly?
Polly let the tunic drop back on the bed and padded over to where Bahiyaa had said she’d find a shower. She stopped on the threshold, stunned by the acres of black marble and a highly decadent sunken bath.
Aware Rashid’s sister could return at any moment, Polly opted for a shower, and in the quickest time possible, before scurrying back to the bedroom. Bahiyaa’s clothes were waiting for her. Tempting her. The silver threads in the fabric glinting in the lamplight. She felt as if she’d got the devil himself sitting on her shoulder whispering, ‘Just do it.’
Polly picked up the silk…trousers and stepped into them. She supposed that was what they were called. They were loose fitting with a drawstring waist and came in tight around the ankles. And were incredibly comfortable. Already she could feel that the fierce heat of Amrah’s sun would be more bearable without a tight waistband.
And the tunic felt like gossamer. She’d never worn a fabric so light, or decorated with such exquisite embroidery. Minty’s instruction to dress ‘conservatively’ and ‘modestly’ had suddenly taken on a whole new meaning. This outfit was far sexier than anything she’d worn before.
It was the colours, the geometric patterns in the embroidery and the way the silk caressed her skin. It was…glamour with a capital ‘G’.
Taking the path of least conflict at Shelton meant she had precious little experience of that. The knack of survival had been to blend into the background as much as possible and no one wearing something like this could ever hope to do that.
She felt beautiful in it. She felt as if she really had wandered into an Arabian adventure. She felt like someone else and that was exciting.
There was a soft tap at the door.
‘May I come in?’ Bahiyaa called.
‘Yes.’ Polly moved to open the door. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘That pink is a wonderful colour for you,’ Bahiyaa said, coming into the room. ‘I thought it would be. It makes your pale skin bloom.’
If any woman had said that to her in England Polly would have found it strange, but coming from Bahiyaa it was charming. She smiled. ‘You’re very kind to lend—’