‘SORRY... SORRY... HOW do I turn it off...?’ Abby picked up the loops of wire she’d sent flying and looked at the space-age machine lit up by red flashing lights.
Before Zain could respond to her frantic question the first white-coated figure burst through the door, several more followed in quick succession and the sheer volume of people pushed a bewildered Abby against a wall, where she stood watching as Zain responded to the medical attention with increasing irritation.
He raised his voice to be heard above the din of the alarms and the medical babble. ‘I’m not dead—the fact I’m breathing is the first clue. Will someone please turn that damned thing off?’
The sudden cessation of noise created a freeze-frame moment. Zain broke the silence to order the rapid departure of all the white coats and before she knew it Abby and Zain were alone once again.
‘Sorry about that.’ She lifted her chin in challenge. ‘I’m very clumsy.’ Surely he could see now that she was not princess material.
‘I noticed. Do you fall off the catwalk often?’
‘I’m a professional.’
‘Then direct the same professionalism to our contract and there will be no problem.’ He gestured towards the chair she had just vacated.
She didn’t accept the invitation but stood there, her hands clasped across her stomach and her brow pleated with a furrow of consternation. ‘You know this is crazy—people are never going to believe...’ Her hand moved in a descriptive arc from him to herself. ‘Nobody will believe that we are married.’
‘Why not? It’s true.’
A tiny flicker of a smile moved shadow-like across her face. ‘There were times when I convinced myself I dreamt it.’ Her chest lifted in a tiny little sigh of resignation. ‘So how would it work? What are you going to tell people?’
‘How will it work?’ he emphasised, before adding with some of the hauteur she remembered from their previous encounter, ‘My father is the only person I am required to explain myself to, and I will explain to him that you are my soulmate.’ His expressive lips curved into a cynical half-smile that left his eyes cold as he continued to reveal their fictional back story. ‘We fell in love, and there was a falling-out; I shall be vague on this but we are both, you see, passionate people and so these things happen...then the news of my accident had you rushing to my side because you realised that your life was nothing without me.’
‘You should write fiction...or fairy stories,’ she husked back.
‘Any good writer knows you target your story to your audience.’ His voice carried no discernible inflection but the cynicism in his azure stare was painfully pronounced as he explained, ‘My father is a firm believer in fairy tales. Are you?’
Unprepared for the abrupt and vaguely accusing addition, she looked confused. ‘Am I what?’
‘A believer in fairy tales, cara?’ he drawled.
She clenched her teeth. ‘What if I am? It’s not a crime,’ she shot back. ‘And will you stop calling me that—has someone told you Italian makes you sound sexy or something? For the record, it doesn’t!’ she lied.
After a startled silence his low, husky laughter rang out. ‘I wasn’t aware I was using it; I’ve recently spent some time with my mother...the language kind of rubs off.’ The long weekend in Venice had turned into a fortnight when the diva had been forced to cancel a booking at the Met due to a throat infection which she had been convinced was about to end her career. Her harassed, much younger live-in lover had been unable to cope with the dramatic declarations that her career was over and so had begged Zain to extend his stay.
Zain had taken pity on the guy because he’d lasted longer than most, and his mother was nobody’s idea of low-maintenance.
‘Your mother is Italian?’ Her brow speared into a speculative furrow. ‘Spend some time...?’ Her eyes flickered wide. ‘Does that mean—?’
‘She left when I was eight.’
‘She left you?’ Abby struggled not to sound shocked at the idea.
‘She considered it the unselfish thing to do.’ There was no inflection in his voice but the twist of his lips was ironic as he explained his parent’s motivation. ‘She could no longer deprive the operatic world and her public of her talent.’
Had she really said that to a little boy...? Abby couldn’t bring herself to ask...she wasn’t sure what shocked her most about the story—the seeming total lack of maternal feeling or the impression of total self-absorption.
‘So, you see, Italian is quite literally my mother tongue. Most people here in Aarifa speak French and Arabic and a good percentage speak English as well these days, though there are some schools that are giving Mandarin preference. So, to business. If you give Hakim the details of your grandparents’ account I will have the funds deposited by the end of the day.’
‘From a hospital bed?’
‘It is called delegation...cara.’
The addition was deliberate but her stomach gave a little kick anyway. ‘You’ve got this planned but aren’t you missing the details? You haven’t asked how much my grandparents need.’
‘Then tell me.’
She took a breath and said the sum she was short of for the house purchase and her grandparents’ pension pot very quickly, but it still sounded an awful lot. She looked at him warily through her lashes.
‘Per week, it sounds reasonable.’
She looked him as though he were mad. ‘Week!’ she yelped. ‘Are you insane?’
He shook his head. ‘I really hope you have an agent for your modelling work, otherwise you’d be paying them.’
Abby watched as he reached for the phone that lay on the locker beside the bed and punched in a number while she stood there wondering what the hell she had signed herself up for as he spoke quickly to someone at the other end.
‘Well, that is organised,’ he said, sliding seamlessly into English as he finished the call. ‘Hakim has just arrived at the hospital. He was bringing me some personal items,’ he added by way of explanation. ‘He will escort you back, and have Layla, my housekeeper, settle you in.’
‘Take me back where?’
He looked surprised by the question. ‘To the palace.’
‘Right now...?’ Panic gave her question a shrill edge.
‘What if I see someone, what do I say, and Mr Jones is waiting...he...?’
‘I will attend to Mr Jones, and I imagine you will see several people. None of them will ask you any difficult questions; they are there to make you comfortable. If you need anything just ask Hakim.’
‘You’re not giving me time to think,’ she protested weakly. ‘And who is Hakim?’
As if on cue there was a knock on the door before it opened to reveal a man who was so broad you didn’t immediately notice he was not above average height.
‘This is Hakim, my right hand.’
Excluded as Zain slid into what appeared to be a mixture of Arabic and French—presumably he was issuing instructions because the other man nodded several times—it wasn’t until after Zain had finished speaking that Hakim turned and bowed his head once again, this time to her.
‘I hope you will enjoy your stay with us, Your Royal Highness.’
‘Thank you...’ Her glance skittered towards Zain lying in the bed—his position did not stop him manipulating everyone like some sort of chess master but her little blip of resentment faded as she saw the lines of fatigue around his eyes.
‘You should get some sleep,’ she scolded, missing the thick-set man’s startled expression when she added sternly, ‘And don’t do anything really stupid like getting out of bed!’
* * *
Zain did close his eyes after the door closed...and lay there wondering if he’d done something very stupid. Did she have the faintest clue of what she had agreed to?
Though present, the doubts tinged with guilt flickering through his head did not last. Doubts were a luxury, a weakness he could not afford. Opposing a forced marriage to Kayla and making enemies along the way would expend time and energy he also could not afford. His father may have lost sight of the fact that in their position of privilege a personal life must always be secondary to duty, but Zain had not.
He knew it was essential that, as heir apparent, he must establish his authority without delay if he was to stand any chance of bringing about the reform the country needed.
And it did need it.
Always held up as a shining example of liberal thinking and progress over the past few years, Aarifa, without a strong figurehead, was increasingly becoming a country run on a system of patronage and tribal alliances between the ruling families. Corruption was already rampant and worst of all it was becoming an accepted business practice. Zain had watched from the sidelines, painfully aware of the decline but impotent as the younger son to do anything to prevent what was happening. He had watched while the country’s oil wealth was siphoned off into tax-haven accounts, while the growing inequality caused discontent and unrest.
For those who would resist his reforms Zain knew the scandal of his mother would resurface and they would try to smear him by association. There was nothing he could do about that but he could stop them weaponising his single state. A temporary marriage of convenience was the obvious solution even if that did mean throwing Abby Foster into the palace life of intrigue and deception...how would she cope?
He ground his teeth as he brushed away the question but not before his thoughts had been infiltrated by guilt once more. She would not lose out by this situation, he reminded himself, and in eighteen months when he had established his authority she would be free to take up her life once more without the burden of debt hanging over her head. She would have the freedom to choose, something that Zain knew he had lost in the moment of his brother’s death.
He dug his head a little deeper into the pillow and reached behind his head with a grunt of effort to switch off the oxygen and the irritating hiss. Settling back, he closed his eyes.
Behind his flickering eyelids his thoughts continued to swirl until he closed them down, refusing to allow emotions to rule his actions the way his father always had. He fell asleep not thinking of reform but of a woman with green eyes smiling at him while she wrapped her fiery hair and her slim arms around his body.