Lucy was filled by a sense of both beauty and isolation as the servant led the way through the palace to her room. It was a world within a world. From the symmetry and control of the formal wing of the palace—with its over-sized marble fountains and clipped trees—to the older, more rambling parts of the palace, there was a quietness, a remoteness, which made Lucy uneasy.
She had the weird feeling that she might just disappear amongst the maze of colonnaded walkways, perfumed gardens and darkened doorways and never reappear. She shivered. Had Maia been here? Had she felt the same? Had she smelt these same fragrances, had she also tasted the lips of the sheikh?
Lucy felt the chill ache of poisonous self-recriminations in every fiber of her body. True, she hadn’t known his identity but equally true, she’d been a fool: too confident in her own ability to survive and too impetuous as usual. And she’d berated her sister for her impulsive ways. Lucy was as bad.
The servant stopped suddenly beside a large wooden door. “Here, madam. Here is your room.”
“Thank you.”
“If you need anything, please use the telephone. Please call at any time.”
“Any internet access?”
“No, madam. Only the office and the King have access to the internet.”
“Really?” Lucy couldn’t prevent incredulity from creeping into her voice.
“It was not something we had in this country until the new King took the throne.”
Lucy thought the woman’s tone sounded faintly disapproving. “You don’t know what you’ve been missing.”
The woman, for all her supposed lowly status, gazed pityingly at Lucy. “We managed well without it.” She paused briefly to collect herself. “If you wish to go anywhere, please use the telephone. Someone will come for you.”
“Thanks but I’m sure I won’t be needing you. I’ll find my own way about.”
“No, you must not do that. You could lose yourself.”
Or go where I’m not wanted, thought Lucy.
“Please call and either myself,” continued the maid, “or someone else will show you around, as you require. Until someone comes, you must wait.”
“Thank you,” Lucy replied ambiguously. She had no intention of calling anyone.
The woman retreated noiselessly on her soft sandals and Lucy entered the room, closing the door firmly behind her before leaning back on it and sighing with relief.
“Room” was not a word she’d have used to describe it. A small apartment was what she’d have called it. Being part of the older buildings the ceiling wasn’t as lofty as in the newer wing of the palace, but the decor was fabulous. The floor was covered with ancient grey and white geometric tiles that continued up the first quarter of the wall. Above them the stone walls were creamy white. Simple white curtains and fabrics swathed the windows and four-poster bed. But it was the view that attracted Lucy’s attention.
She walked across the room and opened the narrow French windows, revealing a small secluded garden, onto which only her room led. On two sides, stone walls rose, covered in climbing plants and on the fourth side a trellised wall backed onto what appeared to be an orchard. Within it was a small door. Here, the sounds of the palace and the city were muffled and distant, insignificant besides the soporific trickle of water that ran from a simple white marble spout before splitting into four rills of water that intersected the intricate tile pattern laid on the ground. Its geometric design was calming, as was the low, green light, from the sheltering canopy of interwoven trees above. It was simple, relaxing and magical.
She didn’t want magical. She didn’t want to be seduced either by a tall, dark, dangerous man or by her surroundings. She wasn’t used to luxury and she was scared of it: scared she’d be beguiled by it. She shook her head, as if to shed it of the lulling sound of the water, of the soft touch of the silk curtains beneath her fingers. She had to be strong—strong for Maia.
She skirted the seductive bed and sat on the upright chair in front of the small Louis XVI escritoire. She pulled the scarf from her head, pushed her fingers through her hair and held her head in her hands, as she tried to contain the conflicting feelings and thoughts that bombarded her. She had to focus.
She groaned. On one hand just the sight of this man whose lips she could still feel on her own, just the smell of his aftershave and his own masculine scent, just the feel of his presence had her body on fire for him. Yet on the other hand, this was the man who was her last clue to her sister’s whereabouts. Quite possibly, he was dangerous. She couldn’t let herself fall for him. And yet she couldn’t avoid him. She needed him to trust her; she needed him to like her. Yet she knew she could be burned if she came too close. But she had no choice.