Lydia just about managed a nod and the noise flooded back like a shock wave as, his hand curling possessively around her elbow, he walked her to the door, across the tarmac towards the plane. Where she received shock number two.

When Rose had explained that she’d be flying in a private jet, Lydia had anticipated one of those small executive jobs. The reality was a full-sized passenger aircraft bearing the royal livery.

She’d fantasized about being treated like a princess, but this was the real deal; all that was missing was the red carpet and a guard of honour.

If they found out she was a fake they were not going to be amused and, as Kalil al-Zaki’s touch sizzled through her sleeve, Lydia had to concentrate very hard on marshalling her knees and putting one foot in front of the other.

This was anything but a fairy tale and if she fell flat on her face there would be no fairy godmother to rescue her with the wave of a wand.

Concentrate, concentrate…

She’d already had an encounter with one of Rose’s security guards. He hadn’t looked at her the way that Kalil al-Zaki had looked and he certainly hadn’t touched. The closest he’d been was when he’d opened the car door and his eyes had not been on her, but the crowd.

No matter what he said about ‘keeping her safe’, it was clear that this man was not your standard bodyguard, so who on earth was he?

Should she have recognised his name?

Think…

He’d mentioned Princess Lucy. So far, so clear. She was the friend who’d lent Rose her holiday ‘cottage’ for the week. The wife of the Emir’s youngest son, who was the Ramal Hamrahn Ambassador to London.

Rose had filled her in on all the important background details, a little of their history, the names and ages of their children, so that she wouldn’t make a mistake if any of the staff at Bab el Sama mentioned her or her children.

But that was it.