Ten months later
EVEN IN AN area where conspicuous wealth and status symbols were the norm, the low-slung silver designer car sitting glinting in the afternoon attracted attention and covetous stares, but not as much attention or as many stares as the man who walked along the tree-lined boulevard towards it. Even had he been dressed in charity-shop rejects, the man would have stopped traffic. He had an almost tangible aura, authority mingled with masculinity in its most raw form.
Zain was oblivious to the swivelled heads and raised designer shades as his attention was focused not on the car, but on its owner.
He was a few feet away when the crowd of giggling young women that had surrounded the man when he got out of his car parted to reveal someone he didn’t immediately recognise.
When recognition did strike, his eyes widened behind the darkened lenses of his shades and he made a rapid mental calculation. In the—what?—six weeks since he’d last seen his brother, Khalid, whose dissipated lifestyle, lack of self-control and love of excess had made him pile on the pounds and look older than his thirty-two years, had lost a good twenty pounds.
Perhaps it was the speed of the dramatic weight loss that was responsible for the drawn look on his brother’s face, and Zain’s jaw tightened as Khalid curved his hand around the bottom of one of the giggling women. The waistline might have improved but clearly his brother’s morals had not, as, for better or most probably for worse, his brother was married.
So are you. Zain’s lips twisted into an ironic half-smile as he recognised the element of hypocrisy in his disapproval—or, at least, it would have been hypocrisy had his marriage existed anywhere but on a piece of paper signed under a desert sky.
There was an added irony to the situation in that he was the one brother who hadn’t actually cheated.
Of course, his fidelity was of the purely accidental variety and nothing to do with respecting his marriage vows or the lingering memory of the redhead he had married—that would have been insane. Instead his celibacy had been the consequence of a non-stop work schedule so intense that he hadn’t yet got around to doing something about the marriage certificate still sitting in his safe.
He had considered the simpler option of burning the offending sheet of paper but after a period of reflection he had opted to retain the document rather than destroy it. Less ‘doing the right thing’ and more the conviction that history was littered with men brought down not by the mistakes they made but the denial of their mistakes—the cover-ups and the lies that turned a minor blip into an earthquake of scandal.
Zain had never doubted there would be a scandal. The only question was the degree of damage caused by a story, so in the interests of damage limitation it had made sense to find out as much as he could about Miss Abigail Foster.
But so far there had been no approach from her agents, no tabloid headlines, no talk of book deals, no rumours circulating at all that he had been made aware of. The only reference to a rescue had been at a British Embassy dinner by one of the anonymous suits, who, letting him know he knew, had assured Zain of his complete discretion.
The man had also made a suggestion that might explain why there had been no attempt to cash in on the story.
‘I’m not sure that Miss Foster, a rather naïve young lady, I think, actually knew who you were.’
The image that floated into his head slowed his stride as he recalled the details of that perfect oval face, which was dominated by extraordinary eyes framed by dark lashes the same sooty black as the sweeping brows.
‘Zain, glad you could make it.’ Pushing away the distracting image, but not before his body had hardened in reaction, Zain held his brother’s eyes as Khalid slid an arm around the waist of the nearest blonde and, leaning in close, said something that made her giggle.
It took effort but Zain didn’t deliver the reaction the provocative action had been designed to shake loose and his facial expression stayed locked in neutral, the contempt in his eyes concealed by the mirrored lenses of his designer shades.
After a moment, Khalid let the girl go, his expression petulant as he nodded to one of the minders standing a few feet away, the man quickly reacting and ushering the fawning crowd away.
Khalid did not speak until the sound of their high heels had vanished.
He stood to one side and pulled open one of the doors, inviting his brother with a nod to look inside the interior of the expensive plaything. ‘So, what do you think? They have only made five of these beauties...’
‘I think that the people affected by the cuts to the health budget might question your priorities.’
Khalid’s laughter was not a pleasant sound and neither was the hacking cough that followed it.
As the paroxysm of coughs continued Zain’s brow creased in a frown of reluctant concern, though his eyes remained wary as he framed his brusque question. ‘Are you all right?’
A white linen handkerchief pressed to his mouth, Khalid straightened up, his eyes above the white filled with glittering black enmity that was in stark contrast to his words as he took away the handkerchief and made his response without answering his brother’s question. ‘So, you think the health cuts are a bad idea?’
Zain lifted one darkly defined brow. ‘And I’m meant to believe that you are actually interested in what I think?’
The handkerchief spoilt the line of his tailored trousers as Khalid shoved it back into his pocket and pulled the passenger door wide. ‘We don’t have to be enemies, do we?’ His sigh was deep and his tone wistful.
An olive-branch moment. Logic and experience should have made Zain walk away, but he didn’t. Instead he called himself a fool and stood there thinking optimistically that maybe it was true what they said about blood being thicker than water. Either that or he was certifiable.
Zain dragged a hand across his dark hair, the action weary. ‘I’m not your enemy, Khalid.’ Something flashed in his brother’s eyes but it vanished too quickly for Zain to tell if it was anything more than a trick of the light.
‘I’ve always been jealous of you, you know. Your friends, your—’
‘You have friends.’
Khalid gave a hard laugh. ‘I buy people...that doesn’t make them my friends.’
Zain had never imagined his brother capable of such insight, let alone the courage to admit it aloud.
‘Come, let’s not argue. Take a drive with me.’ Khalid pulled the door wider. ‘I haven’t put her through her paces yet.’
After a pause, Zain got in.
‘All buckled up?’ Khalid asked, glancing at his brother. ‘You can’t be too careful. I thought we’d take the scenic route.’
Zain glanced at the speedometer as they hit the first bend. His brows lifted at the number on the dial, but he didn’t feel nervous—his half-brother was bad at many things but driving wasn’t one of them.
By the time they hit the third bend on a road famous for its hairpin turns and the crashes they had caused, a layer of tension had descended onto his shoulders.
‘Do you want me to slow down, little brother?’ Khalid mocked as he overtook a lorry on a bend, pulling in just in time to avoid a car coming in the opposite direction.
‘Are you high?’ Zain asked.
‘High on life...high on...actually I probably am, though the drugs don’t really work the same now. You see, little brother, I’m dying. I have lung cancer and it’s already spread. I’m terminal.’
‘Medical—’
‘Advances are made every day. I know. But I also know they won’t work for me.’ The low purr of the car became a growl as he floored it once more around the next bend.
‘It’s not too late for us to—’
‘Bury the hatchet? How heroically noble and so very Zain...’ he spat. ‘But it’s too late for that. Don’t look sad, brother, we all die. But knowing the when and the how...that changes things, gives you back the power. Yes,’ he said, watching with a smile as Zain’s hand moved to the door handle. ‘It’s locked, but going at this speed you’d die even if you could open it.
‘You know, the worst thing about learning I was going to die was knowing that you’d be there after me, taking my place on the throne...in my wife’s bed...but now it’s fine because I’ve realised that death is actually a gift. Because I can take you with me.’
Zain lunged to take the wheel but his brother kept the car on its trajectory, a trajectory that would send it sailing off the cliff and into space. Zain transferred his attentions to the door, slamming and kicking to gain his freedom.
‘Relax and enjoy it, little brother. I intend to.’ Khalid’s laugh turned into a cry of rage as the door finally gave and Zain threw himself through it.
* * *
Wide, cool corridors radiated out from the octagonal central atrium, where light from the glass dome sparked rainbow reflections off the water cascading from the fountain into a mosaic-lined pool.
It felt more like a five-star hotel than any hospital Abby had ever experienced, certainly nothing like the ones she remembered from her childhood. She’d been six when she had first arrived at one in the back of an ambulance. She remembered the rush of cold December air that brushed over her before the trolley she had lain on was pushed through a wide set of double doors and whisked along what had seemed a never-ending corridor. The lights shining down from the ceiling had made her head ache.
There was a gap in her recollections between that point and later when she’d found herself sitting in a hard-backed chair, her feet not touching the floor as she swung them. She had been counting in her head the trail of bright red splodges on the tiled floor that stopped at the curtain that hid from view the people who were making the loud noises, the people who were trying to save her parents.
They’d tried for a long time. Abby had climbed out of the chair and wandered off long before they’d admitted defeat. Her gran told the story of how she’d been found later, thumb in mouth, asleep on the floor of a sluice room.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’
Abby dropped the hand she’d raised to shade her eyes from the rainbow colours dancing on the water and turned, the motion displacing the silk scarf that her British escort had handed her before they stepped out of the car... Not essential but a nice gesture, he’d said.
She knew the green filaments in the scarf emphasised the deep emerald of her eyes and she adjusted it again over the burnished waves of her hair, which seemed determined not to be covered.
‘Will we be able to fly back tonight, Mr Jones?
‘We all want this situation to be resolved as swiftly as possible,’ came the frustratingly vague response.
His voice, like everything else about the man, was nondescript and unmemorable. Abby had only encountered him once before and if it had not been for the extraordinary circumstances under which they’d met, she doubted she ever would have remembered him. And circumstances didn’t get much more extraordinary than the ones that had preceded her arrival at the British Embassy in the Aarifan capital city ten months ago.
She’d told her story to at least half a dozen people before Mr Jones appeared, and over another cup of tea she had related her tale yet again. He had listened, then pressed her on a few specific points. Had she actually read the document she’d signed? Had the man who’d come to her rescue given his name?
His gentle persistence had sent alarm bells ringing in her head.
‘I’m not actually married though, right? It wasn’t real...?’
He’d been very soothing on that point and told her absolutely not. He’d then advised her to forget what had happened and to go home and get on with her life.
So Abby had. Well, she had got on with her life. Forgetting was another thing. Her memories had taken on a surreal dream-like quality, the man who rescued her the stuff fantasies were made of.
Fantasies had no place in Abby’s life though; she was too busy for that nonsense. Though the tall fantasy figure did insert himself into her dreams, and even then she frequently didn’t recall the details of the dreams he’d invaded but she’d know he’d been there by the heavy, nameless ache in the pit of her stomach that lingered when she awoke...too soon, it always felt.
Mr Jones had been the last person she had expected to see waiting outside her flat door when she arrived home yesterday afternoon after a particularly depressing appointment with the agents selling her grandparents’ old home.
The timing couldn’t have been worse. She had just about put together enough money for the deposit and she had a mortgage in place... She’d assumed all she’d have to do was sign on the dotted line. The man had not laughed outright in her face, but he had come close.
‘I’m afraid, Miss Foster, that the housing market has been buoyant since your grandparents sold. The present vendors are asking—’ He scrolled down the page on his tablet and read out a number so crazy that initially Abby thought he was joking. Sadly, he wasn’t.
Mr Jones also hadn’t been joking when, flanked by two men in Arab robes, he explained that it turned out she was married after all and her ‘husband’ was the younger son of the Sheikh Aban Al Seif, the ruler of Aarifa.
And all before she’d even got through the door!
Abby was still assimilating this news when, seated on her sofa that was badly in need of reupholstering, Mr Jones worked his way up to his next big reveal, fortifying himself first with a Rich Tea biscuit.
‘There is no need to be upset, Miss Foster; the mistake was little more than an unfortunate clerical error.’
‘So, can I sign something?’ she asked.
‘Ah, well, there is the rub. Normally I would be able to say yes but, well, the accident means that the doctors are unlikely to agree to Zain Al Seif travelling for some weeks, and the legal process means that your signatures both need to be witnessed by...’
One word in the bland, meandering explanation had leapt out at Abby as an image flashed into her head so real that, for a moment, Zain seemed to be standing there, physically imposing, the same way he’d looked when she had first seen him striding into the encampment—a beautiful man exuding an arrogance and command that was mesmerising. ‘What do you mean, “accident”?’
‘Yes, both Zain and his elder brother, Khalid, were involved in a crash in... I believe they call it a super car.’
The buzz in Abby’s head had got louder as the blood drained from her face...not just her face—even her oxygen-deprived fingertips tingled.
‘I do not know the extent of the younger Prince’s injuries but sadly his brother died, which means that the man you...married,’ he gave a light laugh, ‘is now the heir.’
‘So how is...?’ she’d paused, unable to reconcile the idea that her rescuer was also a royal prince, let alone put a name to the man who for so long had been anonymous ‘...he?’ she’d finished weakly.
‘The hospital is unwilling to reveal details to anyone but relatives.’
* * *
‘Miss Foster?’
Abby started, her skittering glance moving from the Englishman to the two daunting figures in flowing Arab dress pretty much identical to those worn by the four who had shadowed her ever since she’d left her London apartment yesterday.
‘I just want to confirm...you told no one, no one at all, about the...marriage document?’
‘No one.’ There had obviously been a lot of interest when she had had to recount the story but she’d played the kidnap down, preferring to turn the incident into a joke gone wrong rather than admit to the visceral, gut-churning nightmare it had been.
Her lashes flickered downwards as she ran her tongue across her lips to moisten them. She purposely kept her expression impassive even though inside her heart was thudding, the memory of visceral fear metallic on her tongue.
She pushed hard at the memory as she exerted control just as she’d practised. The memory belonged in another world a million miles from her own, where a disaster was a facial blemish—imagined or otherwise—that would spoil a fashion shoot.
‘Excellent.’ He turned his head as another robed figure approached. ‘Will you excuse me?’
Abby watched as the men spoke for a few moments before Mr Jones returned. She had the immediate sense that under the emollient smile he was not happy.
‘It seems that you may go in.’ He gestured to the new arrival, who tipped his head in Abby’s direction. ‘Abdul will show you the way.’
‘Aren’t you coming in with me?’ Abby asked, struggling to conceal her panic at the prospect of facing her ‘husband’ alone.
Beneath the little moustache the man affected, his lips thinned. ‘It seems not.’