Excerpt of In the Arms of the Sheikh by Sophie Weston

NEW YORK is paradise for insomniacs, thought Natasha Lambert. It never sleeps. Let's hear it for New York!

She pressed her nose against the window of her hotel room and looked down twenty storeys. The November sky was as black as midnight. It was five in the morning. But cars' headlights still swooped along the rain soaked street and there were people on the sidewalk.

Who were they? People going to work? People coming in from all-night clubbing? Natasha could see a couple emerging from the awning of the hotel, while a porter put a mountain of baggage in their cab.

A couple… In spite of the hotel's admirable central heating, she found she was shivering. Stop that, she told herself.

Quickly, she went back to the high-concept executive desk that was the reason she had booked this luxury suite in the first place. Not that she looked like a high-concept executive at the moment, thought Natasha, grinning. Not in her sweats and beloved furry slippers with cat faces.

Her laptop stood open in a pool of light. Natasha sat down at it and wriggled her toes in their comforting fur, debating what colour to turn her presentation slides.

Blue? Too cold. Red? Too aggressive.

Just like me, she thought wryly. Her last boyfriend had delivered a comprehensive character analysis before they had stopped seeing each other. Heartless, he'd called her. It had driven him mad when she'd cheerfully agreed with him.

"It's not a compliment," he yelled. "Maybe not to you. I've worked hard to get like this." That was when he left, fuming.

Now the phone rang. Not taking her eyes off the screen, Natasha scooped it up.

"Yup?" 'Can I leave a message for Natasha Lambert, please?" Natasha grinned. "It's me," she said ungrammatically. "Hi, Izzy."

There was an anguished screech. "Oh, no."

Natasha's grin widened. Izzy Dare was her very best friend. "Flattering," she remarked. "Aren't you talking to me any more, Izzy? What have I done?"

But Izzy was too full of remorse to laugh. "I was trying to leave a message with the desk clerk. I never meant to wake you up."

"You didn't."

Natasha swirled a pie chart round on the screen. Both red and blue maybe? After all, cold and aggressive were often an advantage in business. Heartless, she might be, but she was very successful.

It was a long time since she had cared what people said about her. Anything was fine, as long as they also said she got the job done. And they did.

She stopped playing with her pie chart. "What can I do for you, Izzy?"

But Izzy was still worried. "You're sure I didn't wake you? But I thought New York was five hours behind London. What on earth is the time there?"

Natasha detached her eyes from the screen and cast a rapid look at her discreetly expensive platinum watch.

"Just after five." 'And you're up?" Izzy was horrified. "Lambert Research never sleeps," said Natasha smugly. "But why?" 'Breakfast meeting with the Head Honcho. They slipped it in at the last moment, so I'm reworking the presentation."

"Is he nice?" said Izzy, temporarily sidetracked. "Who?" 'The Head Honcho."

Natasha choked at the thought. "David Frankel is a short, fat workaholic with a nasty sideline in groping if you let him get too close," she announced. "He's also focused as a needle."

"Sounds horrid." 'That's why he's Head Honcho," said Natasha peacefully. "Powerful men are horrid. It's part of their job description."

Izzy protested.

Natasha was indifferent. "No sweat. I work with powerful men all the time. They cause a lot of work and I wouldn't want to date one. But apart from that, they're fine. Tell me what you want."

Izzy sounded uncomfortable. "About the weekend —" 'Oh, yes. I'm really, really looking forward to it. A girls' getaway is just what I need. Especially after the week I've had."

There was a microsecond's pause, which would have been perceptible if Natasha hadn't been tapping away adjusting the pie chart again.

This time she made it change to lime-green. The screen pulsed with virulent colour. Natasha put her head on one side. Young and exciting? Or too frivolous?

"So what about the weekend?" 'There's been a change of plan."

Natasha sighed. "That's a shame. Okay, let's take a rain check."

"No, not that sort of change. A — er — different venue." 'Okay," said Natasha without much interest. "Where?" 'Well…" Izzy sounded uncharacteristically embarrassed '…it's a private house now. I've sort of borrowed it."

"Fine. Give me the address."

Izzy did. "And there's something else —" At last Izzy's hesitation got through. Natasha stopped playing with the mouse. "Okay, Izzy. Spit it out. What's the problem? The place is falling down? There's no central heating? It's so deep in the country, I'll have to hire a helicopter to get there?"

"You would too, wouldn't you?" Izzy sounded odd. "Whatever it takes," said Natasha briskly. "All for one and one for all. You're my best friend and I haven't seen you for six months." Her fingers twitched. She left the mouse where it was. But it was an effort. "Am I going to have to find me a pilot?"

"No. By car, it's an hour tops from the airport." 'Then there isn't a problem." 'Okay, get back to your work, and I'll see you tomorrow. You're still on the overnight flight?"

"Yup." 'That's good. Gives us the whole day to talk before the others get here."

Natasha frowned. She turned her back on her laptop. This sounded serious. "You in trouble, Izzy?"

Her friend gave the ghost of a laugh. "No, no, it's just that —" Izzy stopped. Then she went on in a high, unnatural voice, "Serenata Place is a bit difficult to find." It was as if she wanted to say something else and couldn't screw her courage up. "I'll email you a map," she said with desperate brightness.

Natasha's frown deepened. She had never heard Izzy sound like that before. Well, not since —

She pulled her mind away from the dark memories. The bad time was three years past. Gone. She and Izzy had got out of the jungle alive and well and so had everyone else. All was well that ended well, in fact. The nightmares would go too, in time.

But that didn't explain why Izzy sounded so stiff and false. She said sharply, "What's wrong, Izzy?" Izzy made an odd sound, half laugh, half sob. "I'm getting married." 'You're what?" 'Married," said Izzy, gabbling. "I know. I know. It's very sudden. You don't know him. Only he's going away and…this weekend is our engagement party."

Natasha frowned at the phone for a long moment. Izzy was a practical, strong-minded woman, but she had her area of vulnerability. And Natasha knew exactly where it was. Izzy was at work. She worked with her cousin Pepper in a bright, fashionable office. It was open-plan and anyone could listen to every-one's conversations. Would Izzy want to discuss everything with her co-workers listening in? No, she would not. "Look — I'll see you on Friday and tell you everything. Have a good flight." Izzy rang off.

Okay, she would wait until their te˄te-à-te˄te on Friday. But then, she resolved, Izzy was going to tell, and tell everything.

Meanwhile, there was no point in thinking about it. Izzy's sudden marriage could go on hold for a few hours. Natasha, the professional, had a presentation to finalise.

She turned back to the laptop and, with a savage stab at the keyboard, sent her pie chart purple.

The throne room at the palace was a hotchpotch of magnificence and sheer eccentric indulgence. The Emir of Saraq sat on a French brocade chair that would have looked more at home in Versailles and waved the new arrival onto a minimalist Swedish sofa. The Emir had commissioned it personally.

"You don't command me, Grandfather," said the new arrival, without emotion. He was tall with decided eyebrows and a great haughty beak of a nose. His stark white robe was creaseless. He did not sit down.

"You are here," the Emir pointed out with a touch of defiance. "For the moment."

Their eyes clashed: the Emir's fierce; the watcher's unreadable. He had had a lot of practice at masking his feelings. He was good at it.

The Emir's gaze was the first to fall. "Don't let's argue, Kazim. This is important." The placatory tone was out of character. But his grandfather was a consummate actor, thought Kazim, and as wily as a hunting falcon. He stayed watchful.

"Is this about another arranged marriage?"

The Emir's eyes flashed. But almost at once he curbed himself.

"No. I have agreed. You will decide for yourself when you marry." It sounded as if every word were dragged from him, but he still got it out.

It was not enough. Kazim stayed implacable. "If I marry," he corrected.

The old man did not like that, either. "If you marry," he agreed reluctantly.

Kazim was remorseless. "And who I marry." 'And who you marry." It was said through gritted teeth. His grandson nodded slowly, like a general accepting surrender. "I will."

They eyed each other like duellists.

The Emir said something explosive under his breath. Kazim decided not to hear it. Sometimes it was the only possible move in the prolonged chess game of their relationship.

"You break with every tradition and listen to nobody — but you do get things done."

Kazim's lips twitched. "Thank you — I think."

The Emir stopped muttering and rearranged the fold of his white robe over his knees. He was obviously making a great effort to appear reasonable. "I wanted to see you because there has been a warning."

Suddenly, all Kazim's wariness dissolved in concern. "You mean threats? Against you?"

The Emir permitted himself a thin smile. "No. You." For a moment Kazim's face was wiped absolutely clear of expression. He did not answer. The atmosphere in the throne room was suddenly charged with electricity.

"So you knew," said the Emir softly.

Kazim was disturbed. He had not meant to give so much away. The old man was too good at this. Or I'm losing my touch. Not a good thought, that. He buried his unease, professional that he was, and shrugged.

"There are always crackpots. Threats come with the territory." 'And you're setting yourself up as a target for them," said his grandfather with sudden anger.

Kazim sighed. This was not new. His grandfather wanted him home and safe in Saraq, not continent-hopping involved in peace talks.

The old man grunted. "This International Reconciliation Council of yours is a great idea. Very high-minded." He paused for his effect. "In about fifty years' time." 'We haven't got fifty years," said Kazim, a touch wearily. They had had this argument before, many times; most explosively the day he'd left a year ago. He braced himself to argue the case.

But for once the Emir was not after a good argument. "That doesn't matter."

Kazim was astonished. "Excuse me?" 'You've got yourself on an assassination list," the old man told him brutally.

Kazim stood like a rock. "Your spies are very efficient," he said politely.

The Emir glared. "You're very cool about it."

Kazim shrugged again. "I take reasonable precautions." 'No, you don't."

That made Kazim blink. "What?" 'Getting rid of your security and even your servants for a whole weekend is not taking reasonable precautions," announced the Emir.

Kazim was thunderstruck. "Isn't that what you're going to do?" 'Invasion of privacy is an alien concept to you, isn't it?" said Kazim grimly.

"I look out for my own." 'By keeping them under twenty- four-hour surveillance?" The Emir ignored that. "If it's a woman, bring her here, where you'll be safe. You can have the Sultana's Palace and all the privacy you want."

A muscle worked in Kazim's jaw. "It is not a woman," he said in a goaded voice.

It took a lot to get under controlled Kazim's skin these days. For the first time in the interview the Emir grinned.

"Better if it were. You work too hard."

They both knew that Kazim had not visited his allotted rooms in the Emir's palace for years. He had come straight from the airport to this meeting and the Emir knew that, in all probability, the private jet was being refuelled even as they spoke.

The Emir had learned the hard way that if it came to a battle of wills between them, Kazim would walk away without a backward look if he thought he was in the right. But this was more than their usual battle of wills. Suddenly he was not the Emir; he was just a man, desperately worried for his grandson's safety.

"At least keep up security at Serenata Place." It was as close to a plea as the old autocrat could manage.

Kazim was still smouldering at the thought of being spied on. "My arrangements to entertain my friends are my own business."

His grandfather exploded. "Friends! What sort of friends want to put you in danger?"

"Ordinary friends," retorted Kazim. "Pah!" But there was a note of real despair in the old man's voice. Kazim paused, then sat on the sofa and leaned forward slightly.

"It is only for the weekend," he said in a softened voice. "Duration is irrelevant," said the Emir. "It would take a sniper less than a minute to kill you." He glared at Kazim as if he hated him.