‘Such devotion is remarkable. From my own experience of women in western society, I gathered that the old biblical attitude of—whither thou goest, there goest I—was no longer in play.’
‘Then I’d say your experience was askew. I think it’s still the natural thing for most women to go with the man they love. Certainly my sister did. When she married Malcolm, there was no question about her going to live with him on his farm in Zimbabwe. She just went.’
‘Where exactly in Zimbabwe is this farm?’
‘On what’s called The High Veld,’ Emily answered quickly, relieved to be moving onto a less sensitive subject. ‘Malcolm is the third generation working this family owned land and although so much has changed in Zimbabwe he wants to hang onto it.’
Zageo shook his head. ‘I doubt he will be able to. The process of reclaiming their country from foreign settlement is a priority with that government.’
Emily heaved a fretful sigh. ‘Hannah is worried about the future. Especially for the children.’
‘The two daughters.’
‘Yes. Jenny is getting to school age and the local school has been closed down. Sally is only three.’
‘Will both these young children be accompanying your sister to Zanzibar?’
Emily nodded. ‘That was the plan.’
‘How was this plan communicated to you?’
‘Through a contact address I’d set up on the Internet.’ The cloud of confusion that had made any clear path of action impossible suddenly lifted. ‘That’s what I have to do in Stone Town! Find an Internet Café!’
Zageo frowned at her. ‘If you had told me this last night, Emily, there are Internet facilities at the palace. All you had to do—’
‘I didn’t think of it,’ she cut in, throwing her hands out in helpless appeal. ‘It was quite a shock being hauled into a place that conjured up thoughts of fairy-tale Arabian Nights, not to mention being confronted and cross-examined by a…a sheikh.’
A tide of heat rushed up her neck, telegraphing her acute embarrassment at being so fixated on him she couldn’t even think sensibly, let alone logically. Horribly conscious of the scarlet flags burning in her cheeks, she swivelled in her chair to look out the saloon windows, ostensibly intent on watching their approach to Stone Town. The public harbour was coming into view and her whole body twitched with eagerness to get off the boat.
‘Excuse me while I arrange for a car to meet us at the dock,’ Zageo said.
‘A car?’ The pained protest burst from her lips and her gaze swung back to his, pleading for more freedom of movement. ‘Couldn’t we walk through the town to the inn? I’ve heard that the markets here are amazing. Besides, unless you know where an Internet café is…’
‘There is no need to find a café. I offer you the Internet facilities at The Salamander Inn. We can go directly there so you can check for some communication from your sister.’ He paused to underline the point before adding, ‘Is it not your top priority?’
‘Oh! Right! Thank you,’ she rattled out, knowing she was cornered again and telling herself there was no point in fighting his arrangements.
Nevertheless, having to get into the black Mercedes which was waiting for them at the dock made her feel even more like a prisoner, trapped in an enclosed space with her captor and being forcibly taken to the place of his choice. Never mind that she did want to check out The Salamander Inn and she did want to get onto the Internet, doing both of them under Zageo’s watchful eyes automatically held constraints she didn’t like.
Common sense argued to simply accept being his guest—just sit back and enjoy being driven around in a luxury car. Except he was sitting beside her, dominating her every thought and feeling, making her intensely aware that he was sharing this journey and was intent on sharing a much longer and more intimate one with her. Apparently she had no choice about that, either.
Emily’s nerves were so twitchy about the overwhelming nature of his current presence in her life, she evaded even glancing his way, staring fixedly out the tinted side-window, forcing her brain to register the images she saw in a desperate bid to wipe out the tormenting image of Sheikh Zageo bin Sultan Al Farrahn.
The problem was in its being far too attractive for any peace of mind; ridiculously attractive because he no more belonged in her world than she did in his; dangerously attractive because just the mental image of him was powerful enough to make her forget things she should be remembering.
‘Pyramids,’ she muttered, focusing fiercely on the market stalls lining both sides of the street on which they were travelling.
‘I beg your pardon?’
She heaved a sigh at having broken a silence that probably should have been kept if she was to succeed in keeping Zageo at a distance. ‘The stall keepers have stacked their fruit and vegetables into pyramids. I’ve never seen that before. I guess it must be some Egyptian influence. The people here seem to be such a melting pot of races,’ she babbled, not looking at him, keeping her attention fastened outside the car. ‘So far I’ve seen a Hindu temple, a mosque minaret and a Christian church spire, all in the space of a few hundred metres.’
‘Egyptians, Phoenicians, Persians, Indians, even Chinese visited Zanzibar and settled here, along with the East Africans and traders from South Arabia,’ Zageo informed her in a perfectly relaxed manner. ‘Then, of course, the Portuguese took control of the island for two centuries. They’ve all left their influence on the native life and culture, including religion.’
Emily’s mind seized on the Portuguese bit. She had thought Zageo looked Spanish but maybe his bloodline came from a neighbouring Latin country. ‘Are you part Portuguese?’ she asked, curiosity trapping her into looking directly at him.
He smiled, blitzing at least half her mind into registering that and nothing else, making her heart flip into a faster beat, causing her stomach to contract as though she had received a body-blow.
‘My great-grandfather on my mother’s side was Portuguese,’ he finally replied, having done maximum damage with his smile. ‘My great-grandmother was half-Indian, half-British. It makes for an interesting mix of races, does it not?’
‘Your father is an Arab?’ The half of her mind that was still working insisted that a sheikh couldn’t get to be a sheikh without having a father who was pure Arab.
He nodded. ‘Mostly. His grandmother was French. We are a very international family.’