The Sheikh's Forbidden Jewel

Part 12-Chapter 11

Something was wrong.

Georgina sat up, her confused mind tried to work out where she was. She must have fallen asleep, fully clothed, out of sheer exhaustion. The soft sheets under her hands confirmed that she was on her bed, in Idriss's palace. But it was so dark, too dark, and a noise she'd never heard before filled the room with menace. She groped for the light switch, pressed it down. Nothing.

Struggling against her panic, she jumped to her feet, somehow managed to find her robe, and stumbled to the door. The corridor outside was lit, thank God, with an old fashioned oil lamp that someone had placed on the floor. Then her sleepy mind woke up, and she recognised the noise. Wind. But not just any wind. That wind sounded as though demons were massing against the palace, and were about to launch an attack that would raze it to the ground. It hissed around the walls and rattled the windows, as she searched the rooms and corridors for someone, anyone. She finally saw Hassan, the butler, come in from the courtyard, a china plant pot in his arms.

"Hassan, do you know where Idriss is?"

The old man gave her a harried look and muttered:

"The sheikh is in his office, Madame."

He sped away before she could ask him any more questions, barking instructions at the servants. The whole palace was battening down the hatches before the impending storm.

Idriss's office door was closed. She hammered on it. No answer. She pushed it open.

He was standing behind his mahogany desk, staring hard at his laptop screen.

"Idriss?"

The full force of his glare hit her like a stone.

"Come in, Georgina."

She moved forward, dragging feet which felt like lead at the end of her legs. He jerked his head at the screen.

"Beaufort firm hit by scandal, on the brink of collapse," the headline proclaimed in blood-red letters.

Georgina's stomach turned.

"Why didn't you tell me?" asked Idriss.

She gripped the edge of the desk to steady herself.

"I didn't know until tonight," she said, through the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her.

Idriss raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"Your family let the papers publish this before they told you?"

She shrugged, helpless.

"Daddy probably didn't want to worry me. He only told me because I would have seen it in the papers."

Her father was too proud, she thought with a pang. He couldn't bear to admit the truth to anyone: that his beloved business, his life's work, was losing money. He hadn't sought help, he'd tried to solve the problem by himself, and failed.

Idriss's eyes shone like hard-edged diamonds.

"And your brother's gambling addiction? I suppose you didn't know about that, either?"

She couldn't help the strangled cry that escaped her.

"The media got hold of that story, too?"

Her legs were buckling, she had to sit down on the nearest chair. Did her father know his son's disgrace was plastered all over the tabloids? He must know, even if he hadn't mentioned it on the phone. He'd tried to protect her, again, not realising that she already knew everything.

"Did you know about your brother?"

Idriss's voice hissed through her thoughts like a sharpened blade.