Rachid's suite.' She prodded the bell on her desk. 'Suite 1101 please!'
'No—wait! That is‑' Abby glanced about her in embarrassment now. 'I was supposed to meet—to meet Prince Rachid here, in the lobby.'
The receptionist's supercilious gaze returned to her anxious face. 'You're sure you are Princess Hiriz?'
'Of course.' Abby was impatient now.
'Then surely you know that Prince Rachid was taken ill yesterday evening, and hasn't left his suite since?'
CHAPTER FOUR
Abby's heated cheeks lost a little of their hectic colour. 'No,' she said definitely, shaking her head. 'No, I didn't know. I—er—I saw Prince Rachid yesterday evening and he seemed all right then.'
The receptionist shrugged. 'He left word that you were to be shown up to his suite upon your arrival. Do you wish me to arrange this or not?'
Abby shifted uncomfortably. 'You're sure he is ill?' she ventured, and then cringed at the look the other girl gave her. She was vaguely aware that one of the porters had come to stand beside her, no doubt acting upon the receptionist's instructions, and with a gesture of defeat, she gave in. 'Thank you,' she murmured, essaying her permission, and with a polite inclination of his head the man indicated the lifts.
They wafted up to the eleventh floor, the smoothness of their ascent cushioned by air pressure. There was a lingering aroma of perfume in the lift, evidence of its previous occupants, and the floors they passed in swift succession were discreetly-lit windows through the meshed glass doors.
All too soon, it seemed, they had reached their destination, and Abby stepped out on slightly unsteady legs on to the softly-woven carpet of the corridor. The porter led the way, and they traversed its honey-gold surface until they reached double-panelled white doors, edged in gilt. The numbers 1101 were secured in gold also, and at the porter's summons the doors were opened.
It was the man Karim, resplendent in his white robes and matching kaffiyeh. He bowed politely in Abby's direction, pressed a note of some denomination into the porter's hand, and then ushered his guest into the sitting room behind him.
It was a spacious apartment, carpeted in green, with yellow and cream striped sofas and chairs, and little polished tables holding vases of flowers. The room was redolent with their scent, a heady mixture to someone whose senses were already reeling from this unexpected turn of events.
'Princess!' Karim bowed again, and realising this might be her only opportunity to question him, Abby hurried into speech.
'The Prince,' she said, 'your master—is he really ill?'
'Did you doubt it?'
The voice came from behind her, and for a moment she was totally disorientated. Then, identifying those dark, liquid tones, she spun round to find Rachid standing in the doorway to what was most likely his bedroom. He was dressed like Karim, in the robes of his forefathers, but without the encompassing headdress. The combination of East and West was doubly disturbing, and Abby glanced about her nervously, wondering exactly what Rachid's intentions were.
'They told me you were ill,' she said now, summoning all the anger and resentment she could gather, and he inclined his head in silent assent.
'Karim!' He snapped his fingers in sharp dismissal, and after the servant had left them he went on: 'It is true. I have been unwell. Something I ate, perhaps.'
Abby was still suspicious. 'You look all right to me,' she retorted, pushing her hands into the pockets of her sheepskin jacket, ignoring the fact that he did look a little pale.
'In any case, you're not incapacitated. You could have come downstairs.'
Rachid straightened from the lounging position he had adopted and came fully into the room. 'I was advised to rest,' he replied quiedy. 'And as I did not wish to postpone your visit, I saw no reason why we should not enjoy our meal here.'‑|
Abby pressed her lips together. 'I'd rather not. I think it would be better if we arranged
'No—wait! That is‑' Abby glanced about her in embarrassment now. 'I was supposed to meet—to meet Prince Rachid here, in the lobby.'
The receptionist's supercilious gaze returned to her anxious face. 'You're sure you are Princess Hiriz?'
'Of course.' Abby was impatient now.
'Then surely you know that Prince Rachid was taken ill yesterday evening, and hasn't left his suite since?'
CHAPTER FOUR
Abby's heated cheeks lost a little of their hectic colour. 'No,' she said definitely, shaking her head. 'No, I didn't know. I—er—I saw Prince Rachid yesterday evening and he seemed all right then.'
The receptionist shrugged. 'He left word that you were to be shown up to his suite upon your arrival. Do you wish me to arrange this or not?'
Abby shifted uncomfortably. 'You're sure he is ill?' she ventured, and then cringed at the look the other girl gave her. She was vaguely aware that one of the porters had come to stand beside her, no doubt acting upon the receptionist's instructions, and with a gesture of defeat, she gave in. 'Thank you,' she murmured, essaying her permission, and with a polite inclination of his head the man indicated the lifts.
They wafted up to the eleventh floor, the smoothness of their ascent cushioned by air pressure. There was a lingering aroma of perfume in the lift, evidence of its previous occupants, and the floors they passed in swift succession were discreetly-lit windows through the meshed glass doors.
All too soon, it seemed, they had reached their destination, and Abby stepped out on slightly unsteady legs on to the softly-woven carpet of the corridor. The porter led the way, and they traversed its honey-gold surface until they reached double-panelled white doors, edged in gilt. The numbers 1101 were secured in gold also, and at the porter's summons the doors were opened.
It was the man Karim, resplendent in his white robes and matching kaffiyeh. He bowed politely in Abby's direction, pressed a note of some denomination into the porter's hand, and then ushered his guest into the sitting room behind him.
It was a spacious apartment, carpeted in green, with yellow and cream striped sofas and chairs, and little polished tables holding vases of flowers. The room was redolent with their scent, a heady mixture to someone whose senses were already reeling from this unexpected turn of events.
'Princess!' Karim bowed again, and realising this might be her only opportunity to question him, Abby hurried into speech.
'The Prince,' she said, 'your master—is he really ill?'
'Did you doubt it?'
The voice came from behind her, and for a moment she was totally disorientated. Then, identifying those dark, liquid tones, she spun round to find Rachid standing in the doorway to what was most likely his bedroom. He was dressed like Karim, in the robes of his forefathers, but without the encompassing headdress. The combination of East and West was doubly disturbing, and Abby glanced about her nervously, wondering exactly what Rachid's intentions were.
'They told me you were ill,' she said now, summoning all the anger and resentment she could gather, and he inclined his head in silent assent.
'Karim!' He snapped his fingers in sharp dismissal, and after the servant had left them he went on: 'It is true. I have been unwell. Something I ate, perhaps.'
Abby was still suspicious. 'You look all right to me,' she retorted, pushing her hands into the pockets of her sheepskin jacket, ignoring the fact that he did look a little pale.
'In any case, you're not incapacitated. You could have come downstairs.'
Rachid straightened from the lounging position he had adopted and came fully into the room. 'I was advised to rest,' he replied quiedy. 'And as I did not wish to postpone your visit, I saw no reason why we should not enjoy our meal here.'‑|
Abby pressed her lips together. 'I'd rather not. I think it would be better if we arranged
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