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which he needed to attend to.’

      Ella had thought it wasn’t possible to feel any worse than she already did, but this new piece of information just went to show how wrong she could be. So he had done a runner. He had left without even bothering to say goodbye.

      Humiliated, she wanted to tell this Benedict Austin just what he could do with his clothes, but pride told her that was a luxury she couldn’t afford. What had happened was bad enough, but if she was seen slinking out of the palace wearing a tattered version of last night’s dress then she might as well carry a banner, announcing to the world how she’d spent the night.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster, before taking the proffered package and quietly closing the door on him.

      Some women might have cried, but not Ella. She was a survivor. She wasn’t about to waste her tears on someone as unworthy as Hassan Al Abbas. Instead she concentrated on making herself presentable enough to find her way out of the strange palace.

      A shower and vigorous hair wash got rid of every last trace of the sheikh’s scent from her body, even if the memory of him wasn’t quite so easy to shift.

      She stared at herself in the mirror, reading the bewilderment which had darkened her blue eyes and wondering why she had behaved like that.

      Hadn’t she spent her whole life despairing at how easily her mother had capitulated to the whims of her straying ex-husband, allowing him back in her life whenever it pleased him? Time and time again she had begged her mum to grow a little backbone and stand up to the man who’d made such a fool of her. But once she’d realised that her mother would listen to nothing except the demands of her own heart, Ella had vowed that she would be different. She would always be cool-headed when it came to men. She would regard them with the same impartiality as she would a prospective business deal.

      Up until now, she’d never had a problem with that strategy, but then, up until now she’d never met a man like Hassan Al Abbas. Nor ever felt as if she were a slave to her body. The only sexual experience she’d had prior to last night had been an unmitigated disaster, mainly consisting of her lying looking wide-eyed up at the ceiling, wondering what all the fuss was about.

      Well, last night she’d found that out for herself. And suddenly she understood. Suddenly she could see why people took such huge risks when it came to sex. Why they made complete fools of themselves. She felt as if she had been initiated to a secret club, without having decided whether or not she really wanted to be a member.

      With trembling fingers, she opened up the package which Hassan’s aide had brought with him. Inside lay a cool white dress and a pair of panties nestling among sheets of tissue paper. But while the dress was a fairly respectable length, the panties were nothing but a peach-coloured thong, a sexy little garment which revealed more than it concealed. The thin, satin string made her bottom look almost bare and the filmy peach fabric at the front showed the dark fuzz of hair through which Hassan had hungrily tangled his fingers only hours before.

      Her skin felt tainted as she put it on, yet what choice did she have but to wear it? Had he chosen it, she wondered, or did he usually leave that kind of thing to his aide?

      Slapping on some makeup from her purse and a defiant slash of scarlet lipstick, she stuffed her ruined silver dress into the bathroom bin, sickeningly aware that there were tiny beads lying all over the floor. And then, having forced her feet into what was quite clearly a pair of evening shoes, she let herself out of the suite, momentarily trying to get her bearings.

      Heading towards a wide corridor hung with lavish chandeliers she caught a glimpse of perfectly manicured grass in the distance and realised that she must be near the palace gardens. Could she find some passing member of staff and ask them to arrange a car to take her back to the hotel? Was that possible?

      ‘Miss Jackson? Miss Jackson, isn’t it?’

      The icily cultured voice behind her made Ella freeze in horror because she couldn’t fail to recognise those aristocratic tones. Oh, please don’t let it be Queen Zoe, she prayed silently, her hopes crumbling as she turned round to stare into the cold features of her sister’s future mother-in-law.

      Awkwardly, Ella bobbed a curtsey, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. ‘Er, good morning, Your Majesty.’

      ‘It’s Ella, isn’t it?’

      ‘That’s right, Your Majesty.’

      The queen raised her eyebrows. ‘Forgive me for being a little surprised to see you here at such an hour. I thought that you and your family were staying at the hotel?’

      Ella hoped her grimace resembled a smile. What could she do, other than be evasive? Tell the queen that she’d spent the night with the sheikh? Wasn’t the fact that she was creeping around the corridors wearing new clothes which didn’t match last night’s shoes evidence enough? ‘I … I fell asleep,’ she said lamely.

      There was a silence while Ella dared the queen to ask just where she’d fallen asleep. But fortunately, good breeding must have stopped her, for the older woman simply gave a disapproving look, as if she didn’t believe a word of it.

      ‘I see. And have you had breakfast?’ asked the queen.

      ‘Er, no. I’m not really very hungry, Your Majesty. In fact, I really ought to be getting back to the hotel. My mother will be wondering where I am.’

      ‘Yes, I can imagine she will be,’ answered the queen drily. ‘Well, speak to one of the staff and they will arrange a car for you.’

      ‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’ Ella gave the deepest curtsey she could manage and waited until the queen gave a brief nod before walking off.

      It took her a while, but eventually she found someone and made herself understood well enough to order a car.

      Minutes later she was being driven along a picturesque coastal road, grateful to put miles between herself and the Santina royal palace. But Ella’s stomach was in knots and she barely noticed the deep sapphire of the sea or the perfect blue of the sky. For once, the island’s scenic beauty left her cold.

      All she could think about was the way she’d behaved. It was not only completely uncharacteristic, it was also shameful, because she had chosen the worst man in the world with whom to be sexually rampant. She’d been given the perfect opportunity to prove to Hassan Al Abbas that his bias against the Jackson family was unfair and unfounded. Yet instead, she had simply reinforced all those prejudices with her own behaviour. He’d accused the women in her family of behaving like cheap tramps and hadn’t she gone ahead and done just that?

      Ella bit her lip as the car began to snake down the road towards the hotel. She’d let everyone down. But most of all, she’d let herself down.

      And she was the one who had to live with what she’d done.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      ‘I DON’T care how you do it. Just do it!’ The woman’s voice was shrill and insistent. ‘It’s my wedding day and I’ve dreamt about it for too long to make any kind of compromise.’

      ‘I’ll work something out,’ promised Ella, replacing the phone with a heavy sigh, which wasn’t entirely due to the latest unreasonable request from one of her high-profile clients. Since the earliest days of her thriving events company, Cinderella-Rockerfella, she’d been asked for many bizarre things, and usually she took them all in her stride. But usually she wasn’t feeling a mixture of guilt and general queasiness, the way she’d been feeling nonstop since she’d returned from her sister’s royal engagement party.

      Nothing she did seemed to help. She found herself wishing she could forget the sheikh who had given her so much pleasure when he’d taken her to his bed. But what she wished even more was that she could rid herself of the nagging fear which was growing by the day. The fear which this morning had manifested itself in bringing up her breakfast only minutes after she’d eaten it.

      With an effort, she forced the

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