maid.
The villa obviously stretched back from its frontage to a depth she had not suspected, Mariella acknowledged ten minutes later, when she had followed the maid through several enormous reception rooms and up a flight of stairs, and then along a cloistered walkway through which a deliciously cool breeze had flowed and from which she had been able to look down into a totally enclosed private courtyard, complete with a swimming pool.
‘This is the courtyard of Sheikh Xavier,’ Hera had whispered to her, shyly averting her gaze from it and looking nervous when Mariella had paused to study it.
‘Normally it is forbidden for us to be here, as the women of the household have their own private entrance to their quarters...’
‘Let me take Fleur,’ Mariella told her, firmly taking her niece back into her own arms and relishing the deliciously warm weight of her.
A door at the end of the corridor led to another cloistered walkway, this time with views over an immaculate rose garden.
‘This was the special garden of the sheikh’s grandparents. His grandmother was French and the roses were from France. She supervised their planting herself.’
For Mariella the rigid beds and the formality of the garden immediately summoned up a vivid impression of a woman who was very proud and correct, a true martinet. Her grandson obviously took after her!
The women’s quarters, when they finally got to them, proved to be far more appealing than Mariella had expected. Here again a cloistered walkway opened onto a private garden, but here the garden was softer, filled with sweet-smelling flowers and decorated with a pretty turreted summer house as well as the customary water features.
They comprised several lavishly furnished bedrooms, each with its own equally luxurious bathroom and dressing room, a dining room, and a salon— Mariella could think of no other word to describe the delicate and ornate antique French furniture and decor of the two rooms, which she suspected must have been designed and equipped for Xavier’s French grandmother.
On the bookshelves flanking the fireplace she could see leather-bound books bearing the names of some of France’s most famous writers.
‘The sheikh has said that you will wish to have the little one in a room next to your own,’ Hera was telling her softly. ‘He has made arrangements for everything that she will need to be delivered. I am not sure which room you will wish to use...’
Ignoring the temptation to tell her that she wished to use none of them, and that in fact what she wished to do was to leave the villa with Fleur right now—after all, none of this was Hera’s fault and it would be unfair of her to take out her own resentment on the maid—Mariella gave in to her gentle hint and quickly inspected each of the four bedrooms.
One of them, furnished in the same Louis Fifteenth antiques as the salon, had quite obviously been Xavier’s grandmother’s and she rejected it immediately. Of the three others, she automatically picked the plainest with its cool-toned walls and simple furniture. It had its own private access to the gardens with a small clear pool only a few feet away and a seat next to it from which to watch the soothing movement of the water.
‘This room?’
When Mariella nodded, Hera smiled.
‘The sheikh will be pleased. This was his mother’s room.’
Xavier’s mother’s room! It was too late for her to change her mind, Mariella recognised.
‘What...what nationality was she?’ she asked Hera, immediately wishing she had not done so.
‘She was a member of the tribe... The sheikh’s father met her when he was travelling with them and fell in love with her...’
Fleur was beginning to make hungry noises, reminding Mariella that it was her niece she should be thinking about and not Xavier’s family background.
CHAPTER EIGHT
M ARIELLA stared worriedly at her mobile phone. She had just tried for the fourth time since her arrival at the villa to
The villa obviously stretched back from its frontage to a depth she had not suspected, Mariella acknowledged ten minutes later, when she had followed the maid through several enormous reception rooms and up a flight of stairs, and then along a cloistered walkway through which a deliciously cool breeze had flowed and from which she had been able to look down into a totally enclosed private courtyard, complete with a swimming pool.
‘This is the courtyard of Sheikh Xavier,’ Hera had whispered to her, shyly averting her gaze from it and looking nervous when Mariella had paused to study it.
‘Normally it is forbidden for us to be here, as the women of the household have their own private entrance to their quarters...’
‘Let me take Fleur,’ Mariella told her, firmly taking her niece back into her own arms and relishing the deliciously warm weight of her.
A door at the end of the corridor led to another cloistered walkway, this time with views over an immaculate rose garden.
‘This was the special garden of the sheikh’s grandparents. His grandmother was French and the roses were from France. She supervised their planting herself.’
For Mariella the rigid beds and the formality of the garden immediately summoned up a vivid impression of a woman who was very proud and correct, a true martinet. Her grandson obviously took after her!
The women’s quarters, when they finally got to them, proved to be far more appealing than Mariella had expected. Here again a cloistered walkway opened onto a private garden, but here the garden was softer, filled with sweet-smelling flowers and decorated with a pretty turreted summer house as well as the customary water features.
They comprised several lavishly furnished bedrooms, each with its own equally luxurious bathroom and dressing room, a dining room, and a salon— Mariella could think of no other word to describe the delicate and ornate antique French furniture and decor of the two rooms, which she suspected must have been designed and equipped for Xavier’s French grandmother.
On the bookshelves flanking the fireplace she could see leather-bound books bearing the names of some of France’s most famous writers.
‘The sheikh has said that you will wish to have the little one in a room next to your own,’ Hera was telling her softly. ‘He has made arrangements for everything that she will need to be delivered. I am not sure which room you will wish to use...’
Ignoring the temptation to tell her that she wished to use none of them, and that in fact what she wished to do was to leave the villa with Fleur right now—after all, none of this was Hera’s fault and it would be unfair of her to take out her own resentment on the maid—Mariella gave in to her gentle hint and quickly inspected each of the four bedrooms.
One of them, furnished in the same Louis Fifteenth antiques as the salon, had quite obviously been Xavier’s grandmother’s and she rejected it immediately. Of the three others, she automatically picked the plainest with its cool-toned walls and simple furniture. It had its own private access to the gardens with a small clear pool only a few feet away and a seat next to it from which to watch the soothing movement of the water.
‘This room?’
When Mariella nodded, Hera smiled.
‘The sheikh will be pleased. This was his mother’s room.’
Xavier’s mother’s room! It was too late for her to change her mind, Mariella recognised.
‘What...what nationality was she?’ she asked Hera, immediately wishing she had not done so.
‘She was a member of the tribe... The sheikh’s father met her when he was travelling with them and fell in love with her...’
Fleur was beginning to make hungry noises, reminding Mariella that it was her niece she should be thinking about and not Xavier’s family background.
CHAPTER EIGHT
M ARIELLA stared worriedly at her mobile phone. She had just tried for the fourth time since her arrival at the villa to
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