Sleeping with the Sultan. ALEXANDRA SELLERS

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      There had been many more than the twelve in the Company, of course. Others recruited had been made Honorary Companions. So it wasn’t foolish to ask, “Are you one of his Cup Companions?”

      He replied with a little nod. She should have guessed before. But she’d forgotten until now that Cup Companions from Parvan and the Barakat Emirates were supposed to be attending tonight.

      “What’s your interest in the al Jawadis?” she pressed.

      He eyed her consideringly for a moment. “Prince Omar is related to the al Jawadi through the Durrani. I, too, am a Durrani.”

      “And you want to help the al Jawadi back to the throne?”

      His raised his eyebrows. “Tonight we are here to raise money not for the al Jawadi, but for the victims of the drought which Ghasib’s insane agricultural policies have created.”

      “Maybe, on the surface, but you know and I know that tonight there are going to be lots of under-the-table donations to the al Jawadi campaign as well.”

      “Do we?”

      The waiter had refilled her wineglass and she took another sip. There was juice on the table for non-drinkers, but she noticed Sheikh Durran stuck to water. But refusing alcohol didn’t prove he was a good man. No doubt her father was doing the same.

      “Born in Barakat, you said. Are you Bagestani by blood?” Not all the refugees from Ghasib’s regime had fled to England or Canada, by any means. More had gone to Parvan and Barakat.

      “I am half Barakati, half Bagestani,” he said, after a pause in which he seemed to calculate.

      “Ah! So you’re one of those who never stopped believing in the fairy tale?”

      His lips twitched again. “You might say that. And you, Miss Morningstar—you do not believe anyone is capable of removing Ghasib from power?”

      “Salmon or chicken?” the waiter interrupted, and quickly set down what she asked for.

      She chose automatically and scarcely noticed the interruption.

      “Well, there’s always the possibility that another ambitious nephew may one day be successful in some renewed assassination attempt, I suppose,” she allowed, helping herself to the beautifully cooked vegetables offered. “Or the Islamic militants may pull it off. But Ghasib does seem to deal with both those possibilities in a very convincing way, doesn’t he? I can’t help feeling that anyone with their eyes on power, even a prince, if there is one, might be content to wait until natural causes win the day for them.”

      He concentrated on the vegetables for a moment. “You think the fear of death makes cowards of us all?”

      His part of the conversation so far seemed to consist entirely of questions. “Maybe. It’s the undiscovered country, isn’t it? ‘Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all,’” she recited.

      His mouth went up on one side. It was the first smile she had had from him. “And who said that?”

      “Hamlet. Isn’t that who you were paraphrasing?”

      This produced a small laugh. Humour transformed him, she found. The fire in his eyes turned to sparkle, and he suddenly seemed much younger. Now she would place him at well under thirty-five.

      “I was not paraphrasing anyone.” The flow to the new conversation was seamless as he pursued, “You know the play well?”

      “I starred in a school production.”

      “Interesting—I thought the star part was Hamlet himself.”

      “It is the star part.” She grinned, but still did not feel easy with him. “I was at a girls’ school.”

      “And you were the tallest girl?”

      It occurred to her suddenly that he did not know who she was. That was why he had called her by her father’s name. Well, no surprise if a man like him didn’t watch the soaps, and she hadn’t yet landed a major film part.

      She laughed. What did it matter? “Yes, I was the tallest girl by a long way,” she said. “I was a natural for the part.”

      Three

      “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.”

      Dana and Sheikh Ashraf had chatted more amiably for a few minutes, and then, mercifully, the conversation had opened up and become general around the table. Now the meal, delicious by any standards and stupendous compared to the food served at most other charity functions she had attended, was finished. Coffee and liqueurs had been served.

      Now it was down to business.

      “We have a wonderful evening lined up for you tonight….”

      Dana absently sipped her Turkish coffee and let the voice of the master of ceremonies wash over her. The organizer was introduced, an earnest, small man talking about the drought and the famine it had caused. And, knowing his audience, making much of President Ghasib’s deliberate mismanagement of Bagestan’s agriculture and his habit of pocketing charity funds.

      “But we have negotiated with Ghasib’s government to put our own representatives on the ground in Bagestan, and management of the funds raised tonight will never leave our control until it is safe in the hands of those who need it most….”

      “I wonder if that’s true,” Dana murmured.

      “Very difficult to manage, I should have thought,” Sir John Cross agreed in a low voice. “However, what else can one do? I think we must assume that some of the money gets through to those who actually need it.”

      “And while we may hope and believe that we’re getting closer by the day to the moment when Ghasib’s government will be history, our priority toni—”

      The audience interrupted him with applause. Dana shook her head and glanced towards Sheikh Ashraf. He was looking very sober, leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed. He was not applauding.

      He turned his head and caught her eye with a dark, level gaze that seemed to probe and assess, and made her heart pound, but what he had gleaned from the examination, she couldn’t guess.

      The organizer wisely kept it short and then the real star of the evening took the mike. Roddy Evans was a well-known and popular comedian, always in demand for events like this because of his ability to put people into a generous, good-natured mood and then get bundles of money out of them. Dana had always liked him.

      “All right, I want every table to elect a captain, please!” he said, when his warm-up had reduced everyone to cheers, laughter and applause. “Just choose one person who’ll keep the rest of you in line this evening and take money from your wallets when instructed to do so….”

      “I think it better be Dana!” someone announced. “If it comes to delivering money to the stage, she’s the one they’ll all want to see,” and the rest of the table quickly agreed.

      “Sheikh Durran looks like a much better bet,” Dana protested, more СКАЧАТЬ