If she could she would have brushed them all aside and given him the peace and solitude he must want. Her own colleagues seemed oblivious to anything other than their own reasons for being in Amrah. It didn’t even seem to have occurred to them that Rashid was greatly inconvenienced by their being there.
They didn’t seem anything other than thrilled at the prospect of good sports facilities and a bar. Within minutes of noticing the sign they’d made plans for the rest of the morning, planning to meet as soon as they’d seen their luggage safely installed in their rooms.
‘You don’t like it here, do you?’ Rashid said, making her jump.
Polly pushed her sunglasses back up on her head. ‘It’s…it’s…er…’ She glanced round at the flame colours of the opulent furnishings, the gilt decoration and mock-sultan palace touches. ‘Do you?’
‘It wasn’t designed to impress for me.’
No, this was strictly for tourists. She glanced up at him. ‘I suppose I’ve seen the real thing. It’s not designed for someone like me either.’
Rashid’s eyes warmed. ‘Ah, but it has a licence to serve alcohol.’
‘Naturally important,’ Polly whispered back. ‘Alcohol is always a primary consideration when you’ve chosen to holiday in a “dry” country.’
He laughed quietly, holding out a swipe card. ‘You’ll need this to get into your room.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And the lifts are this way,’ Rashid said, pointing towards the left. ‘I will show you the way to your room.’
Her smile wavered as she struggled not to let him see how aware she was of the fact they were alone. Her stomach felt as though it were a mass of frothy bubbles and the thoughts running through her head were a confusing muddle of contradictions.
She wanted to tell him his kiss was the most erotic thing she’d ever experienced—and, of course, she wanted him to know it hadn’t bothered her at all. That she understood why he wouldn’t want a relationship with her—and to scream at him that he was missing something wonderful.
Because it would be wonderful between them. The air was so completely charged when they were together. That couldn’t just be one-sided. She didn’t believe it. Breathing in, she caught the scent of his skin mingled with a manly fragrance and a shiver whipped through her as his arm brushed against hers.
She had never reacted to a man like this before. She had never been in love before.
A glass lift wafted them up to the fifth floor. Polly cleared her throat as the doors parted on a whisper. ‘Are you on this floor, too?’
‘Two floors above.’
More thoughts crowded into her head. She wanted him to know she understood completely that he’d want to be alone—but that he didn’t have to be unless he wanted to. Sometimes, in the darkest times, you needed someone to sit with you, even though they were powerless to truly help.
Polly stepped out onto marble flooring. ‘I think I’m that way,’ she said, catching sight of the number 7.
‘Yes.’
If he needed a friend she could be that. When she reached her room she stopped, checking the number on the door against the one on her swipe card. ‘This is it.’
Did she ask him in now for a drink? Or did she offer to meet him for lunch? It felt different now they were in the hotel, as though Western rules applied. Not that that helped her much. It mattered too much to feel easy.
‘Do you know how these things work?’ she asked after her third try at opening her door.
His fingers brushed her hand as he took the swipe card and she swallowed hard.
‘Like this,’ he said, moving the card in front of a box, which flashed red. ‘Now you can turn the handle.’
The door immediately swung open, a tantalising glimpse offered of the room beyond.
‘I hope you will find the accommodation to your satisfaction.’
Polly closed her eyes and willed the words to leave her mouth. ‘Would you rather be by yourself or would you prefer company?’
‘Polly—’
‘You must be thinking about your father. About Bahiyaa…’
She heard him exhale and steeled herself to turn round.
‘It’s going to be a long day if you spend it all by yourself.’ She wished she had the right to walk into his arms and simply hold him. Hold him tight and make him feel loved, cared for and accepted. But she didn’t. She could only talk. Take his mind off what he couldn’t change.
Rashid’s indecision was obvious. His firm jaw was clenched hard, his hands balled into fists by his side. Polly turned away and left him to follow or not.
She threw her handbag down on the king-size bed and fought an incongruous desire to laugh as she caught the full glory of the opulent crimson drapes tied back with oversized gold tassels. ‘And you really ought to see this,’ she said with the quickest of glances over her shoulder.
Rashid came in, the lines about his eyes deepening as he saw what she was pointing at.
‘I thought the flame-coloured tea lights downstairs were tacky. But that’s wonderful.’ She moved over to investigate the room’s tea and coffee facilities. ‘Oh, and look, I can even do my own version of gahwa!’
He smiled but it was clearly an effort.
‘I can be quiet, too,’ she said gently.
He shook his head as though to deny he thought she needed to moderate her behaviour for him. ‘Perhaps I ought to go? I am not very good company.’
‘Sit out on the balcony for a while.’
He hesitated.
She peeked inside the mini-bar. ‘I can offer you pineapple juice, orange juice, grape juice…with ice!’ Polly said, holding up a small bag of ice cubes. ‘Now, that’s good.’
Again a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Pineapple with ice would be lovely.’
‘This isn’t going to compete with the fresh fruit juices you’ve given me,’ she said, taking out two glass bottles. ‘This looks exactly like the bottles we have at home.’ Polly placed a handful of ice cubes in the bottom of two hi-ball glasses and poured the pineapple juice on top.
When she looked back Rashid had opened the French windows. He didn’t turn to smile as she came out to join him. In fact, he didn’t look at her at all. His eyes were fixed on a distant point and he looked indescribably weary.
Polly drew a quick shallow breath and then set the drinks down on the table. He’d chosen to stay with her rather than be alone.
‘Is there a set time when your brother will call with news?’
Slowly his eyes refocused on her. ‘He will ring each evening and, of course, earlier if there is anything to tell me.’ Rashid’s fingers circled on the rim of his glass.
‘And will he ring Bahiyaa or will you?’
‘I think we will both call.’ He paused, and then said, ‘This is…kind of you.’
‘This’ being the drink, the sitting alongside him, the being company. It felt as if someone had reached inside her and were squeezing her heart so that it cried blood.
‘I’m sorry you have to be here,’ she said huskily. ‘Babysitting us must be the last thing you want to be doing.’
‘It is needful.’
If they stayed with the revised itinerary he’d given to them he’d have at least five days in this hotel. Two in the Atiq Desert.
His father was dying. And he shouldn’t be here.
Polly let the silence stretch between them. He would talk if he wanted to and she wasn’t about to force a conversation on him. What she really wanted to do was tell him everything would be all right. But, of course, it wasn’t going to be. His father was going to die without Rashid having the comfort of a proper goodbye.
And she couldn’t hold him. She shouldn’t even reach out to hold his hand. The last time she’d done that it had snapped whatever semblance of control they’d had.
Rashid took a deep breath, seeming to make a conscious effort to rouse himself.
She smiled. ‘I suppose the sooner we get this thing shot, the sooner you can go home. I’m not sure the guys are going to want to leave here and go home, though. Pete thinks he’s stumbled into Eden and—’
Rashid leant across the table and captured her hand. His fingers interlaced with hers. Dark against the comparative paleness of her skin.
In such a short time she would be back at Shelton. Life would go on exactly as it had done for years. She would read about him, see photographs, but his life wouldn’t touch hers again.
He might never hold her hand again. She had to remember this.
CHAPTER EIGHT
RASHID wasn’t used to feeling so uncertain. He’d so much he needed to tell her—and the truth was he was reluctant to begin. Polly’s beautiful blue eyes were shining with unshed tears. Tears he knew were there for him. Because she cared. He could count on the fingers of one hand the people who really cared about him.
And he was about to shatter her faith in him. If he was truly honest he was going to have to tell her about the suspicions he’d harboured about her. The decisions he’d taken because of that.
He was going to have to tell her that her home would be sold piecemeal. That he knew Shelton’s famous Rembrandt was a copy, the original sold two years before. That it was quite possible the remaining Lovell family portraits, amassed over centuries, would be split up and sold to different collectors across the world.