Desert King, Pregnant Mistress(3)

'That was the Nafir-'

'The what?'

'The  Nafir,' he said again. 'It's a horn.' He was finding it harder  every  moment to remain aloof from her infectious cheeriness. 'It's a  big horn  about three metres long made of copper. It utters a  single-note.'

'That's not much use, then, is it?'

He  drew himself up to his full height. 'On the contrary. The Nafir is   sounded on ceremonial occasions and will be played tonight to herald the   start of the Sheikh's birthday.'

'So that was a dress rehearsal?'

'I expect so.'

She  gave an exaggerated sigh. 'Well, that's a relief! I was thinking  Walls  of Jericho-you know? We wouldn't want that lot tumbling down on  us, now,  would we?' Hugging herself, she pulled a face as she stared up  at the  gigantic structure.

The Palace of the Moon had stood for  centuries as a symbol of Q'Adar's  pre-eminence in the Arab world, and  he'd never heard anyone make light  of it before. He didn't know what to  make of this young woman-except,  to say, she interested him. 'Don't you  think you should be getting  back?' He was conscious that she must have  duties, and he didn't want  her to get in trouble.                       
       
           



       

'Shouldn't you?' Cocking her head, she levelled a cheeky stare at him.

'Oh, I'm all right for a bit longer.'

'And so am I,' she said. 'There's ages to go before the ball.'

'So you're a waitress?'

She  laughed out loud. 'Goodness me, no! Can you imagine it? Canapés  flying  everywhere and drinks all muddled up? I'd never be asked to do  something  like that!'

'So, you're a guest?'

'There's no need to  sound quite so surprised,' she scolded him.  'Actually,' she confided,  touching his arm in her eagerness to make him  feel at ease. 'I'm halfway  in between.'

He felt her touch like a brand, and had to refocus to ask her, 'Halfway in between what?'


'Halfway in between being a servant and a guest,' she told him blithely. 'I do work for the Sheikh, but I'm insignificant.'

'Insignificant?'  he queried. Of all the adjectives he might have used  to describe this  young woman, 'insignificant' was not one of them. 'I  wouldn't call you  that.'

'That's very kind of you,' she said sincerely. 'But, I'd better tell you right away, I'm only a shop assistant.'

'Only?'  He thought about all the other sales assistants who worked for  him at  his luxury stores worldwide. They were the lifeblood of his  business. He  considered them to be the front line, and this girl was  the best of  them, he realised now as the mystery unravelled in front of  him. 'Tell  me more,' he said, wanting to hear her version of events.

'I won  best Shop Assistant of the Year for the Khalifa group, and this  is my  prize,' she said, gesturing around in a way he guessed was meant  to  encompass everything she had seen since arriving in Q'Adar.

'And do you like it?' She had already said she did, but he wanted to delve deeper into that quicksilver mind of hers.

'I love it. Who wouldn't? And they say the Sheikh's gorgeous!'

'Do they?' he said with surprise.

'I won't be able to pass an opinion on him until I see him tonight, but I'll let you know.'

'Would  you?' he said, containing his amusement. She was so very young,  he was  surprised when she leaned forward to confide in him.

'You know, I feel sorry for that sheikh … '

'Do you? Why?'

She  stood back a pace, and her face turned solemn. 'You probably think  he's  got everything, but a man like that is a hostage for life, isn't  he?'  And, without waiting for him to answer the question, she breezed  on with  concern. 'He can never do what he wants, can he? He can only do  what's  right for everyone else.'

He realised now that the inevitable  question with its confident answer  was part of her Liverpool charm.  'Can't they be one and the same  thing?' he said, marvelling at the fact  that he was entering into a  discussion with her. But, then, he couldn't  believe he was standing  here at all with a woman he didn't know.

She  stood and thought about it for a while. 'He'd have to be really  strong  to run a country, the Khalifa business, and find time for a  private  life.'

'And you feel sorry for him?' He felt faintly affronted.

'Yes, I do,' she said candidly.

Before  he could argue with her premise, she shook her head. 'It must be   hideous, having people bow and scrape around you all day without  knowing  who to trust.'

'Maybe the Sheikh is shrewder than you think.'

Her  face brightened. 'I agree. He must be, mustn't he? Look what he's  done  with his business, for a start-and the other sheikhs wouldn't have  voted  him in if he wasn't exceptional. I like that, don't you?' she  demanded  without pausing for breath.

'What do you mean?'

'The way  all the other sheikhs voted for him. And, of course, we  couldn't be more  thrilled back home that it's our sheikh that's going  to be the ruler of  Q'Adar. Except we're all worried now that he might  sell off the Khalifa  stores.'                       
       
           



       

'Why would he do that?'

'He might lose interest in business when he has the running of a country on his mind.'

'There's no danger of that.'

'You  sound very sure.' Interest coloured her voice. 'You have the  inside  track, don't you?' And, when he didn't answer, she pressed him  eagerly.  'You're someone important, aren't you?'

'I hear things on the palace grapevine,' he explained with a dismissive gesture.

'Of  course you do-and it's the same for us back at the store. We always  get  to hear what's going on. What he's like?' she said after a  moment's  pause.

'The Sheikh?'

'You must know him if you work for him. I was off with flu last time he visited Khalifa in Liverpool, worse luck. Is he stern?'

'Very.'

'He's not mean to you, is he?'

'We have a good working relationship,' he reassured her.

'Oh,  well, I'd better get a move on,' she said, heading off in the  direction  of the palace. 'Thanks for the chat. Are you coming?' she  said, turning  to face him. 'Only, I have to go now and put my glad rags  on.'

'For  the Platinum and Diamond Ball? Of course … ' He had almost  forgotten. He  had allowed himself to be distracted by a pair of slender  legs showing  their first hint of tan, along with fine-boned hips and a  hand-span  waist. The unaffected friendliness in the young girl's eyes  was so  refreshing, he allowed himself another moment's indulgence. 'Are  you  looking forward to the ball, Cinderella?'

Her face turned  serious. 'Don't call me that. I'm not Cinderella; my  name is Beth. Beth  Tracey Torrance.' And then, taking him completely by  surprise, she held  out her tiny hand for him to shake. 'And I'm not  waiting around for some  fairy godmother to come and save me. I make my  own luck.'

'Do  you indeed?' he said, releasing her hand, which was soft and cool  in  spite of the heat, and delivered a surprisingly firm handshake. 'And  how  do you go about that?'

'Hard work,' she said frankly. 'I read  something once written by Thomas  Edison. You know-the light-bulb man?  I've never forgotten it, and it's  become my motto.'

'Go on … ' His  lips were threatening rebellion, but he managed somehow to  control them  and confine himself to a brief nod of encouragement.

'Thomas Edison said, "opportunity is missed by most people because it comes dressed in overalls and looks like work".'

'And you agree with that?'

'Yes.'  She drew the word out, as well as up and down the vocal  register, for  even more emphasis. 'It's worked for me. But then I love  my work.'

'You do?'

'I  love people,' she said, eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. 'I love  seeing  their faces when I find something in the store that's going to  make a  difference to their lives. Maybe it's a gift, or a treat they're  buying  for themselves-it doesn't matter. I just want to see the look  transform  their faces … '

And now her face was transformed with a smile. 'So the look's your secret of success?'

'Oh, there are others on the floor just as good as me,' she told him. 'Sales figures are all a matter of luck, aren't they?'

After  what she'd told him, he very much doubted it. The horn sounded  again,  and this time she didn't jump. 'Isn't this romantic?' she said  instead.

They  both gazed up at the towering ramparts, where pennants were being   raised in his honour. The sun had sunk low enough to turn the walls of   his citadel a soft shade of rose madder, which, yes, he supposed could   be called romantic by those with a vivid imagination and time enough to   look.