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.
"Yes," she murmured, too stunned to think of anything else to say.
Idriss leant over her, his features hardened into a mask of bronze.
"So that's why you were so desperate for money. That's the only reason you agreed to organise those events, to come here with me."
Georgina pressed her lips together. She'd come with him to Messaira because she wanted to be with him, more than anything in the world. The promise of payment was just the excuse she needed. But she wasn't about to tell him that.
"I thought that with the fees for both parties I could clear Alex's debts, before he had to tell Daddy."
And it might have worked, just. But it wouldn't be enough to rescue the family firm. For that, she'd need her plan B. The one she'd formulated last night, after promising her father she'd return to England as soon as possible. The one that meant sacrificing everything.
Idriss snapped the laptop shut.
"You should have told me."
The reproach in his voice stung her. What right did he have to make demands?
"Why? You hate my family. Why would I share their secrets with you?"
He stilled, one hand on the computer.
"So that's how you see me? As your enemy?"
Georgina looked up at the dark, forbidding figure that loomed before her, and her heart shrank. How could she see him as anything else, when he behaved like this? He'd never trusted her, not even when he was holding her in his arms, whispering her name in the night. His eyes bore into hers, and she realised with a shock that something other than anger smouldered in the black depths. Hurt.
He stared down at her, and suddenly she couldn't read anything in his gaze any more. All emotions had vanished behind the coal-black irises. She gulped down some air. She had to run, now, before her courage failed her. If she spent any more time with him, she'd give in to her insane feelings for him. She'd stay, she'd accept whatever crumbs of attention he threw in her direction. She'd abandon her family and all honour for the sake of a man who would never see her as anything other than a Beaufort.
"I have to go," she said.
The words wrapped themselves around Idriss, hoovering the air from his lungs.
"Go where?" he asked, although he knew the answer.
He was playing for time, he knew it, but he couldn't let her walk away. Yes, she'd only come to him for the money, though he understood now it had never been for her, but for her brother. She didn't care for him, she didn't trust him. And none of it mattered, not next to the fiery torment that gripped him at the thought of her leaving. She could have been the most mercenary, hard-nosed, heartless Jezebel on the planet, and it wouldn't have mattered one jot.
She gazed at him with a wild look he'd never seen before, then turned and walked out, straight through the door that led to the courtyard. The howling wind slammed it behind her, so hard a piece of plaster fell from the wall. Idriss swore under his breath and wrenched the door open. Where did the mad girl think she was going?
Sand blasted his eyes, obscuring his vision. The desert had come to Messaira and was unleashing its fury on the palace, tossing branches and unsecured garden furniture in the air, battering the small figure in white who was wrestling with the gates at the other end of the courtyard.
"Zarba! Georgina, get back here, you'll get yourself killed!"
The storm took his words, or maybe she ignored him. But Hassan, bless him, had fastened the heavy gates tight, and it would take more strength than she had to unbolt them. A palm tree, next to her, let out an ominous crack as it bent under the wind's assault. Anxiety replaced anger as Idriss pounced across the courtyard and grabbed her by the waist.
"Let me go!" she roared. "I'm not staying another minute in here!"
He didn't bother answering, just swung her over his shoulder and carried her back to the safety of the palace, dumping her on a low sofa with no more ceremony than a bag of potatoes. She jumped to her feet, shouting louder than the wind outside.
"I've had enough of your caveman behaviour!"
He locked the door and pocketed the key. Let her try to get through that now, with him in the way. If she tried the other door, she wouldn't get any further than the hall; Hassan had seen many desert storms and wouldn't let anyone out of the palace until danger had passed. Now he had her safe, he gave his fury free rein.
"You could have got yourself killed! That tree was about to fall on you. You don't need to go into the desert to get in trouble. That wind can tear out half a roof and drop it on your head in seconds."
She paled a little, turning her eyes towards the shuttered window, which the storm gripped and shook as it sought a way in.
"I didn't think... I didn't realise the storm was so violent. I guess I should thank you."
The flat tone shocked him. Georgina didn't do flat. She twisted her hands, her eyes moving all over the room – anywhere except on him.
"How long will this storm last?"
Idriss glanced down at his laptop, but the screen had turned black.
"We've lost our internet connection. No idea. Could be hours, could be days. Don't worry, we're perfectly safe here. This palace has withstood many wars and earthquakes."
He gestured at the laptop on his desk, blank and innocuous now that the evil words had disappeared from the screen.
"You can't do anything about this now."
Georgina pressed her fists to her temples.
"As soon as it's safe to fly, I will go back to England."
He'd expected those words, and they still fell like hammer blows, smashing his heart to smithereens.
"What about the party?" he asked.
She blinked.
"Party?"
Irritation swelled again, washing over the other, toxic feelings that swirled inside him.
"The launch of my new hotels. Or had you already forgotten?"
Her shoulders slumped.
"I hadn't thought of that."
A crazy hope popped up, unwanted, in Idriss's brain. That she would change her mind, and stay. Then she let out a sigh.
"It'll be OK. Almost everything is arranged anyway. I'll brief the team on the last details, I can keep in touch with them by phone and email if necessary."
With them, not with him.
Idriss slammed the useless laptop shut.
"I don't understand. What do you hope to achieve by running back to London? You can't solve your father's cash flow problems or restore your brother's reputation."
She twisted her hands again, and he winced, in spite of himself, at the painful crack of her knuckles.
"But I can be with them and help them bear it all," she said.
He shook his head in frustration.
"I don't understand. They threw you to the dogs when you were in trouble. And now it's their turn to have problems, of their own making I might add, you drop everything and fly back to them?"
Georgina slammed her hand on the sofa, so hard she made a cushion jump.
"I won't abandon my family. And who are you to condemn them? How do you know their problems are of their own making?"
Her vehemence inflamed him further, and he embraced the anger. Shouts, insults, anything was better than silence. He would rather have her rage than her indifference.
"You never gambled," he reminded her. "You never made bad business decisions."
He'd hit a nerve, he could see it. Her transparent skin was betraying her once more, turning pinker by the second.
"That's why I can help them. How can you judge my father's management, you know nothing about his affairs! And how would you know what addiction is like?"
He almost laughed at that. He'd been in the grip of the worst sort of dependency ever since she'd burst into his life. And it seemed he couldn't free himself from it. He, who controlled so many things and so many people, couldn't even control himself. He was humiliating himself in front of a Beaufort girl. A Beaufort who, eyes blazing, was delivering her final blow:
"I'm not like you, Idriss. I can forgive."
The sentence was enough to smash his anger to pieces. Because it was true. Who had he been kidding when he'd called her mercenary? Because she didn't fall at his feet and worship him like other women, he'd decided she was hard-hearted. Nothing could be further from the truth. She was better than him.
Silence fell between them, but the noise from the storm outside rushed in to erase it. Idriss couldn't stop looking at her, couldn't stop filling his eyes with her tumbling hair and smoky eyes and the sheer damn loveliness of her. She looked so forlorn, stranded in the middle of the gilded room. It hurt him to see her like that, more than it should, more than he thought possible. He wanted to go to her, put his hand on her shoulder, but too many things lied between them, things said, and things unsaid.
His hand was smarting. He held it out, noticed that his nails had dug small red crescents into the palm. Zarba, he had to end this madness of his. Or at least get a break from it, until he could get his thoughts in order. The storm kept her here, it also provided him with the perfect excuse to do something practical, and physical, something that would distract him from the lunacy that raged inside his head.
"Stay here," he ordered. "Don't leave without my permission. I'm going to check on the rest of the palace, make sure everyone is safe, and contact my mother."
Georgina's head snapped up.
"Is she in danger? "
The anguish in her eyes touched him.
"Don't worry. Her house is as solid as this palace, she'll be safe."
And then he left. He'd rather face the storm outside than the one inside his mind. Later, they'd talk. Once he'd brought his emotions under control. Once he was capable of making decisions, without tearing himself apart over them.
Fatima. The vice around Georgina's heart tightened. Fatima had liked the young Georgina, but now she probably hated the Beaufort family as much as Idriss did. Perhaps Idriss had been protecting both of them from a painful confrontation. But then, why had he asked her to come to Messaira, knowing full well she could bump into his mother at any time? Surely he hadn't enticed her to his homeland just to get her into bed? He had women queuing around the northern hemisphere for a flash of his famous smile. Georgina punched a cushion in frustration. None of it made sense. The only man who could explain it all had just walked out of the room, leaving her alone with the storm.
She pulled her phone out. Still no reception. Perhaps the storm had knocked out the mobile phone masts. She couldn't even contact her father, share her plan, reassure him she'd soon be on her way. She couldn't go to Fatima, she'd no idea where she lived. She couldn't do anything except stew in this gilded cage.
She felt, all of a sudden, very, very tired. She rested her head on the dented cushion and closed her eyes.