She turned Marac and headed back to the stables. Mum would offer the potentate some tea so she, Kate, would have time to give the horse a good rub-down and settle him in his stall before the inspection party arrived.

Cantering back down the hill, watching the cars wending their way down the drive, she wondered about the future. If the potentate saved the stables, would she go back to the US, to Mark? Could she go back to a man with so little empathy?

She’d been home two months now, time enough to see the man she’d thought she loved through clearer eyes. No, going back to Mark was not an option.

But, then, if this potentate didn’t buy Tippy, she wouldn’t have to think about options.

Kate tried to see her home through the visitors’ eyes: the lush paddocks shaded by wide spreading gum trees and filled with spectacular horses; the green fields; the placid stream running through the valley; the old stone and bleached-wood stables; and, by the stream, the house, built from stones hauled from the creek over a hundred years ago …

Her mother’s—no, in fact, it was Billy’s heritage …

CHAPTER ONE

THE IMAGE OF the girl on the horse was still vivid in Fareed’s mind as the vehicles rolled to a stop in a big paved area outside the stone-built house. A middle-aged woman had been waiting at the gate and she stepped forward as the entourage began to emerge from the vehicles.

And Fareed wondered again about his uncle’s insistence on travelling everywhere with this entourage. Surely Ibrahim and the stud manager, with Fareed tagging along, could manage to buy a horse. But, no, a fleet of vehicles seemed to accompany them everywhere, with dour-faced palace guards, who probably hated green as much as he did, hovering protectively around his uncle at all times.

Preventing an attack from a rabid kangaroo?

The driver was already opening the door for Ibrahim, while the men in their unaccustomed garb of dark suits alighted from the other cars and stood erect, in a kind of deferential arc around where Ibrahim would appear.

Did he do it to impress people?

Fareed doubted that, for Ibrahim was the most modest of men, and rarely made a show of his position. No, there was definitely some hidden agenda in this trip to Australia, and he, Fareed, was completely in the dark about it. He stood beside his uncle as the woman approached, wishing he could read what was going on behind the bland but still charming smile.

‘I’m Sally Walker. Welcome to Dancing Waters Stud. The river runs over rounded granite stones on the bend below the house and the waters seem to dance, which is where it got its name.’

She sounded nervous and her arm shook slightly as she offered her hand to Ibrahim. To Fareed’s surprise, his uncle not only took it but raised it to his lips for a swift courtly kiss.

Sally Walker blushed a fiery red and Fareed felt a momentary pang of pity for her.

‘Sultan Ibrahim ibn—’ His uncle broke off the recitation of his name and smiled at her. ‘You do not need to know the rest. We call ourselves son of our father—that is the “ibn”—then “ibn” again because he was the son of his father, and I could go on until next week just saying my name. You must call me Ibrahim.’

Hmm! Ibrahim at his most charming!

Fareed’s suspicions grew.

‘You would like tea or coffee, or a cool drink?’ their hostess offered.

‘Perhaps later, my dear,’ Ibrahim said. ‘But first the horses.’

The woman led the way to the stables, explaining as she went.

‘The property was developed by my great-grandparents, and while their main interest was in breeding, my grandfather decided to try his hand at training and did very well. Not many horses, because the breeding side of the business was still important, but he found a special thrill in training his own horses, and that must have passed down in the blood to my father and myself.’

They reached the door of the long, low building, redolent of horse and hay and tack and polish. Some trick of the sun’s position sent a beam of light into the dark shadows at the end, catching a slim, lithe woman bending and straightening as she brushed down the palomino Fareed had seen earlier. Caught in the ray of light, the pair took on a shining luminosity—something from a painting by an old master, Titian perhaps, given the colour of her hair coming alive in the light.

Fareed paused, riveted by the sight, while beside him Ibrahim seemed to suck in his breath. The girl straightened up and Fareed noticed Ibrahim nod to himself, as if satisfied about something—very satisfied …

The mystery of this trip to Australia deepened.

Damn, they were here before she’d finished. Never mind, she’d give Marac another rub this afternoon.

Kate straightened up, aware she’d have wisps of straw in her hair and smudges on her face and would smell of horse, but knowing she needed to be by her mother’s side through this fraught process.

She led Marac into a stall, checked he had food and water, half shut his door, then rubbed her handkerchief over her face and hands and went to meet the visitors.

There was a phalanx of dark, swarthy men around a slightly shorter man. All wore immaculately tailored suits and stern expressions. Except for one, taller than the others—tall, dark and handsome personified, in fact—whose expression was more one of disdain. And his suit was better cut, though he didn’t owe those broad shoulders to his tailor. She checked his face again and saw a classic profile—long, straight nose, broad forehead and a firm chin.

You missed the lips, a voice inside her head whispered, but she hadn’t missed the lips, not in any way. In fact, it had been the lips that had drawn her attention …

He was still looking disdainful, she reminded herself.

Perhaps he felt visiting a small horse breeder’s property was beneath him?

‘This is my daughter, Kate,’ Sally said. ‘Kate, this is Sultan Ibrahim and a lot of other names he says we needn’t bother with.’

Kate approached the group and held out her hand to the sultan—didn’t sultans wear golden turbans?—then remembered where she’d been and withdrew her hand.

‘Sorry, I smell of horse. I really thought I’d be done earlier and cleaned up before you came, but Marac needed the extra run and it was such a beautiful morning, I couldn’t resist.’

She smiled hopefully at the sultan, who not only returned her smile but didn’t back away from her eau de horse.

‘Well, don’t let me keep you from your tour of inspection. I’ll tag along behind in case Mum needs anything.’

She slid past the men, telling herself not to look at faces, but how could she not just sneak a peek now she was closer to Mr Handsome—fine-cut features, a long aquiline nose, cheekbones as sharp as razors, lips—best she didn’t check out the lips …

She couldn’t help glancing up as she passed him, drawn by something more than his expression. Drawn by something she didn’t really understand, though it felt vaguely like attraction. Think about the disdain, she told herself, although perhaps it was disgust, not disdain, probably because of the pervading odour of horse that hung around her?

Could she dash up to the house and shower? So she wouldn’t smell like horse if she was close to the man again? Was she mad? Attracted to a man like that? And, anyway, she couldn’t leave the party now.

Not really, not if Mum might need her.

Or Billy.

Where was Billy?

The ache that rarely went away, tucked into a corner of her heart—the ache that was Billy, gentle, sensitive, slow-to-develop Billy—reminded her of the problems that lay ahead.

Face troubles when they come, girl, she remembered her father telling her, and although he always took the words a little too literally, she felt somehow comforted.