by Leslie North
“You sound like my father.” She folded her arms. “I’ll have you know I have contacts. Offers, even. I’d be starting at the bottom, but I’d work my way up.”
“Oh? You have something on paper?”
“Not yet. But I will.” Fiona rolled her eyes. That got Bas’s ire up, and his cock along with it. He shifted to hide his body’s reaction. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, though she was. It was that fire in her belly. He couldn’t remember wanting anything so badly, badly enough to defy his father for it. To throw everything over for it. She had a hunger about her, and it was awakening his own. He straightened up, away from her.
“You are a spectacular painter,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”
“What?”
“You’re an excellent painter.” Bas grinned, relishing Fiona’s surprise. She was staring, tense and wary, as if she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. He pressed his advantage, determined to bring that blush back to her cheeks. “There isn’t any ‘but’ coming. This isn’t one of those compliments with a barb in its tail.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You were thinking it. But there was life in that painting, the one on your easel. Like those birds might flap their wings and fly away.”
Fiona didn’t blush, but her eyes lit up. “It’s hard to keep that going,” she said. “The more detail you add, the more energy you lose. You lose the movement of the brushstrokes, so if your lines aren’t strong—” She coughed, clearly flustered. “I mean, thank you.”
“Learn to take a compliment. Confidence is appealing.”
For a moment, Fiona looked offended. Then she burst out laughing, her whole body shaking with mirth. She swayed in her seat, leaning toward him, and Bas moved away. He didn’t trust himself, if they touched. If the contact was as electric as he feared.
A horn blatted nearby, signaling their arrival in the capital. White sandstone buildings rose to greet them, and Bas swallowed a sigh of relief. Ten minutes, and he’d be safe in a cold shower. This was temporary insanity, nothing more. He didn’t have time for affairs, for flirtations. Not only that, but a flirtation between a guardian and his ward would break every rule there was. The scandal would ruin him, to say nothing of her.
Fiona was off limits, and he knew it. This was his body reminding him he was human. It could’ve happened with anyone. Anyone at all. Tomorrow, he’d dine with her, and she’d just be a face across the table.
“Bas?”
He glanced at her. Those lips…
These next four months would be torture.
3
Bas caught his breath as Fiona stepped onto the terrace. He’d purposely set their meeting for lunch instead of dinner so she wouldn’t dress up. So she wouldn’t look the way she did now, luminous in white silk. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, setting off the diamond pendant that sat perfectly in the hollow of her collarbone. It was provocative, inappropriate—deliberate. It had to be. He focused on a fleck of paint on her fingernail, hoping to distract himself, but the imperfection only inflamed his desire.
“Help yourself,” he said, gesturing at the table. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I had the kitchen prepare a little of everything.” He frowned, not wanting to sound overly casual. There was business to attend to. “Anyway. Sit down.”
Fiona sat. Bas watched the fountain as she filled her plate. Watching her lean over the table in that dress would be uncouth. Unacceptable.
“Oh, stuffed peppers. I love these.”
He stole a glimpse anyway. Fiona licked lemon juice off her thumb. Whose brilliant idea had it been to serve finger food?
“You do eat meat, then,” he said, mostly for something to say.
“I eat everything.” She broke off a piece of pita and dragged it through her mutabal, and somehow, she made even that sexy.
“Good, then.” Bas spooned lamb onto his own plate. He’d lost his appetite, but he’d look strange just sitting there. “How are you settling in?”
“Comfortably enough.” Fiona leaned back, toying with her pendant. “I’ve been exploring your gardens, the aviary, in particular. What are those chatty pink birds?”
“Galahs from Australia.” Bas felt himself relaxing. This was safe ground. “My grandfather used to travel, and he’d always come back with a bird. My father kept it going, and now we’re overrun.”
“You don’t seem too upset.”
“I’m not.” He took a bite of lamb. “They’re like old friends at this point. Always pleased to see me.”
“Unlike me, you mean?”
“I didn’t say that. Though, I do have some news….”
Fiona stiffened. She set her pita down and wiped her hands on her napkin. “Ah. It’s that kind of lunch, then.”
“You knew this was coming.” Bas reached for a blue folder and pulled it toward him. In truth, its contents repulsed him. He couldn’t help but grimace. Fiona was an intelligent, sensitive woman, and here he was, treating her like chattel. An expedient marriage, her father’s will had said, quick and advantageous. And if he failed in this mission—a mission he shouldn’t have—her future would be bleak. He scowled, feeling sick. “You probably know your father designated mine as your guardian—they were friends from childhood. They died so close together, your father didn’t have time to change his will, and the guardianship passed to me with the throne. Your father was determined you marry well. It’s my duty to see his wishes carried out.”
“And mine? What about my wishes?”
Bas couldn’t quite meet her eye. He coughed, dry-mouthed. “A number of bachelors have expressed an interest. These are men of quality, successful, well bred. Is it so hard to imagine you might find your prince among them?”
Fiona eyed the folder, lips drawn taut.
“Won’t you look, at least?” He tried a smile. “If you don’t, I’ll have no choice but to invite them all. Frogs included.”
“You’d marry me to a frog?” She laughed without humor. “What if I can’t stand any of them?”
“Then I’ll find you some better ones. There’s no shortage of bachelors in Al-Mifadhir.”
“All right.” Fiona reached for the folder with a grimace. “Let’s get this over with.”
Fiona’s hand felt clammy as she reached across the table. She was trembling, sweating, and she was sure Bas could see it. He was watching her with those dark, flinty eyes—judging her, she was sure. Weighing her every movement. It made her want to impress him, and she hated that, hated her own weakness. Hated the flutter in her belly when their fingers brushed, the sparks that crackled down her spine. She’d thought of him in the night, and she hadn’t stopped there. She’d let her fingers wander, let her breathing grow heavy at the thought of his weight on top of her.
He wanted her with another man.
She hated him.
It wasn’t fair, how hot he was. If only it’d been his father on the other side of that table, haggard and wrinkly and more beard than man. That, she could’ve handled, but this felt ridiculous, being ordered around by a man her own age. Bas was doing his duty, she knew, but she could’ve sworn she’d felt something in the car, an electricity in the air. She thought he’d felt it too, the way he’d avoided her eye, but maybe he’d just been embarrassed for her.
She looked at the folder and thought of her parents’ cold marriage and the silence in the house once they’d retreated to their separate wings. The same future awaited her between those covers: a man she didn’t love, a life she hadn’t chosen. Passion turned to venom in her heart. Underneath his pretty packaging, Bas was just like her father, stiff and narrow-minded. Hung up on tradition.
Fiona took a deep breath, flipped the folder open. “Oh, you can’t be serious.” She spun the first photo around. Bas stared at it, blank-faced.
“Look at him.” She tapped on the page. “I mean, are those ears or jug-handles?” In truth, the man was quite handsome, but she couldn’t make it easy.
Bas looked a
way, a smile tugging at his lips. “Conch shells, I think.” He cleared his throat. “Swipe left, then?”
She snorted, surprised. “You know about swiping left?”
“I don’t live under a rock.”
She pushed the picture to one side and glanced over the next profile. “This one’s not hideous, but…oh, God, he’s into taxidermy? Can you picture his house, all those creepy glass eyes?”
“I’d rather not.” Bas held up the next. “What’s wrong with him? A surgeon, a philanthropist—”
“—two ex-wives and a wine cellar the size of my house.” This one scared her a little, and she was relieved when Bas nodded.
“Fair,” he said. “You’re as swift with your words as you are with your brush. I’d hate to hear your verdict on me.”
Fiona bit her tongue. Her verdict on him? A stiff. A stuffed shirt. A sour, salty despot in a man-candy shell. “I hardly know you,” she said.
“That hasn’t stopped you so far.” He pulled the folder back his way. “Joking aside, you have to meet some of them.”
Fiona’s heart sank as he rifled through the pile. For a moment, she’d thought she’d seen something in him, his humanity shining through, but the soulless king was back. He picked out a photo with a self-satisfied nod.
“Now, what about this one? He’s an architect, so he must draw. You’d have that in common, and look. He’s a patron of the arts. Got his own private museum in Dubai.”
Fiona glanced at the profile. She hated to admit it, but Bas was right. The man was older, pushing forty, but he had a kind face, a friendly smile. And he might be worth knowing, spark or no spark. The big auction houses ran on money. If she came with a patron in her pocket, she might jumpstart her career.
“Swipe right,” she said. Bas looked surprised, but he nodded.
“And just to show I’m reasonable, we’ll say goodbye to Mr. Mole.” He held up the worst photo yet. “Unless suspicious growths are your thing?”
“They’re not.” She snatched the picture away and flipped to the next profile. “An Englishman.” The man was good looking, tall and well built. He was smiling into the camera so cheerfully she couldn’t help but smile back. “I like this one. He’s handsome.”
She held it out for Bas to see, but his lip curled.
“What’s the matter?”
“This isn’t a game. Don’t just go by the surface.” He tore the photo in half, then in half again. “I’m not sure how he made the cut. He has a reputation for, ah, conduct unbecoming his station. Can’t keep his hands to himself.”
Fiona raised a brow. A stray lock of hair had fallen in his eyes, lending him a boyish charm. She smiled, sweet as treacle. “Should I spurn all the hot ones, then?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Bas studied his hands, looking annoyed. “And he wasn’t that good looking. Didn’t you see his hair?”
“What, those luscious blond curls?”
“Like a dandelion on his head.”
Fiona bit back a snicker. This was almost fun. She caught Bas smiling too, hiding it behind his hand.
“Excuse me, Your Majesty.” A servant appeared in the doorway, bowing low. “The Minister of Agriculture is in the drawing room.”
“Thank you.” Bas stood up, straightening his lapels. "Well, you know what you’re looking for,” he said. “Leave your picks with my secretary. I’ll arrange visits for next week.”
Fiona’s smile evaporated. Bas didn’t seem to notice. He turned and strode off, never once glancing back. He already had his phone out, tapping away at the screen. It shouldn’t have hurt so much, the way he brushed her off in an instant, but it did. She’d felt something there, something warm, something companionable, but the moment work had come calling, it was as if she didn’t exist. His joking, his show of jealousy, had it all been to soften the blow? And she’d played right into his hand. Was he aware of her attraction, using it to bend her to his will?
Pathetic. She pushed back from the table, heart racing. What was she thinking, bargaining with her future to appease a man who had no interest in her well-being, much less anything else she had to offer? It was childish. Naïve. All the things she’d protested she wasn’t.
She hurried from the room. She’d play Bashar’s game, but this was a run-out-the-clock situation. Four months from now, she’d have her inheritance and her independence, and this would all be a bad dream.
4
The first of Fiona’s suitors drifted into the palace on a cloud of cologne and attended by three attachés and a woman whose only function seemed to be carrying his coat. He made a beeline for Bas, ignoring Fiona entirely. She might’ve been insulted, but watching Bas’s face as he fought back a sneeze was well worth the slight.
“Ambassador—ah! So good of you to come.” He blinked hard, eyes visibly watering. “It’s been some time, hasn’t it?”
“Since your coronation, Your Majesty, and might I say you were born to rule?” He bowed low, sending Bas into a fresh fit of wheezing. Fiona caught his eye and pinched her nose. He scowled and beckoned her forward.
“Miss Nadide, won’t you join us?”
Fiona obeyed, breathing shallowly. Even on the balcony, with the breeze stirring the ivy, the scent was overpowering.
“This is Kadir bin Abdulaziz, our ambassador to Libya. Kadir, meet Fiona Nadide.”
Kadir looked her over, lips pressed together. “A pleasure,” he said, turning to Bas. “I hoped we might set up a dinner later, perhaps at the Palms?”
“Well, you’d have to ask Miss Nadide, but I’m sure she’d consider it.”
“Begging your pardon, Majesty. I meant you and me. To discuss—"
“Ah.” Bas’s lip twitched. “My secretary handles my schedule. I’m sure your office has his number.” He glanced at his phone. “I have some business to attend to, but should you require anything at all—” He gestured at the battalion of servants hovering in the wings, backing away as he did. About three paces past the curtain, he sneezed, leaving Fiona to hide her laughter in her sleeve.
“Well.” Kadir sat down with a huff. He helped himself to a square of baklava, took a bite, and set it aside. “Mm. A bit dry.”
“Try the coffee cake, maybe?” Fiona slid the plate his way, but Kadir turned up his nose.
“I’m not much for desserts,” he said. He peered at his watch. “You’ll excuse my manners. His Majesty’s been evading me for some time. I’d hoped this might be my foot in the door.”
Fiona laughed aloud, surprised by his frankness. “So you’re just here for—?”
“Afraid so.” He peered at her over his glasses. “I hope you hadn’t got your girlish heart set on me.”
“Hardly.”
Kadir chuckled at that, and the tension went out of his frame. He crossed his legs at the ankles and leaned back in his chair. “My niece is going through the same thing. Thirty years old and her father’s tearing his hair out. Really, I think she prefers flowers to men, if her greenhouse is anything to go by.”
“And how’s she holding up?”
“Oh, she’s a sport, I’ll give her that. She smiles, goes through the motions. For a while, we thought she was sweet on some English fellow, the earl of somewhere, but it turned out she was…what are the kids calling it?” He scratched his chin. “His beard.”
Fiona snickered. “Not a bad idea, though, drawing it out. Taking the heat off.”
“Not that I’m suggesting you try it, should His Majesty ask.”
“Of course not.” Fiona mimed zipping her lips, and the rest of their visit passed pleasantly enough. Kadir wasn’t much on the arts, but they found a common interest in gardening, and they parted with a smile.
Ibrahim was was a good-looking man, tall and tanned, with slate-gray eyes. He was the seventh son of a minor sheikh, according to his profile, a man of modest means hoping to make his fortune in real estate. He wasn’t an art lover, as far as Fiona could tell, but his father had a famous collection. As contacts went, she could do worse.
Ibrahim greeted Fiona warmly, and even charmed Bas, who joined them both for a tour of the aviary.
“You know, I used to be terrified of birds,” he said, holding out his hand to let a finch perch on his finger. “Even the little ones. I’d see one and run for cover. One time in school, I got trapped in the pool house by some scavenging crow. The kids had been feeding it, and it wouldn’t go away.” He tickled the finch under the chin. "Hungry boy…”
Fiona smiled. Ibrahim was easy to like, as charming as he was handsome. “How’d you get over it?”
“My father put a parrot in my room. Not even caged, just on a perch, and he said it would stay till I let it eat from my hand.”
“And where is it now?”
“Still there. I got attached.” The finch flew away, and he leaned on a willow tree, looking out over the pond. Bas had made his way over the bridge, where the petrels stood guarding their chicks. Ibrahim’s smile faded as Bas moved out of earshot. “Listen, I don’t want to give you the wrong idea.”
“Oh?”
“This is awkward.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I’d hoped to speak up sooner, but it hardly seemed appropriate with the king at my elbow.”
“What didn’t?” Fiona frowned, annoyed. Ibrahim had been laying it on thick, beyond the call of politeness. Wherever this was headed, she was sure she wouldn’t like it.
“I’m in love with someone else,” he said. “She has nothing to give but her heart, and I’ve given her mine. My father insists I marry well, but I’ll never leave her. You and I would be married in name only.”
Fiona’s blood turned to ice. “Get out.”
“Well, you don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do.” She turned away, blinking back tears. Her parents’ affairs—first her father’s, then her mother’s—had broken her heart. Watching them live like strangers had filled her with a loneliness she couldn’t describe. She’d loved her parents, loved them so much it hurt, and their antagonism had cut her to the quick. She couldn’t bring children into a home full of secrets, knowing they’d stumble on them in the end.
