by Lucy Monroe
He wasn’t denying it, but he wasn’t admitting anything, either.
“I know my daughter. She does not take the easy way out.”
“That is why she called our engagement off with a letter,” Zahir mocked.
How had she considered it unnecessary to speak to him personally? Had she thought her illogical claims in his study that night to be sufficient final word on their future?
If she did, it only showed how very little she truly understood the man who she would one day marry.
Cemal wasn’t buying it. “She called me and I’m confident she spoke directly to you.”
“Did she?” Faruq demanded of his son.
Zahir gave a jerk of his head. Regardless of whether he accepted that conversation as definitive word on the subject, obviously Angele had seen things differently. He ignored a curiously sharp pain in the vicinity of his heart at her easy dismissal.
“And you did not feel it politic to warn me, or her uncle?” Zahir’s father demanded, his own anger blatant and no distant relation to the emotionless facade he had always demanded of Zahir. “Adopted uncle,” Cemal stressed, once again entering the discussion. “And it’s not an engagement. Their relationship was never formalized. Not in ten years.”
“We all know the reasons behind that,” Zahir said.
“Camel dung.” Cemal made no attempt to hide his disgust. “You could have announced the formal engagement anytime, but you chose not to and my daughter got tired of waiting.”
“So, she thought to force my son’s hand with this?” Faruq asked in a deadly quiet voice.
Zahir’s father had taught him to negotiate, to manipulate and to retaliate. The man hated being on the receiving end of circumstances and manipulations out of his control.
Cemal’s expression turned even stonier than it had been as he’d voiced his accusation of Zahir’s neglect over his duty. No, he hadn’t labeled it as such, but each man in this room knew who was responsible for the ten-year-long “understanding.”
“On the contrary,” Cemal said, his voice just as cold as Zahir’s father’s had been. “This is my daughter making sure nothing can force her into honoring a contract she believes would sow nothing but unhappiness for her future.”
“That is ridiculous, my brother,” King Malik said, laying his own stress on the family claim along with a conciliatory hand on Cemal’s shoulder. “The girl is in love with Zahir and always has been. It’s as easy to read every time she is near him as the most basic of primary books.”
Zahir grimaced. “A woman in love does not break off an engage—” At Cemal’s narrowed eyes, Zahir amended his words to, “a contractual promise for future marriage.”
“She does if she believes her love will never be returned.”
Zahir wasn’t going there. “She is no starry-eyed teenager to expect flowers and poetry from a marriage such as ours.”
“I think you are missing the point here,” Cemal said. “There isn’t going to be any marriage.”
“And this pleases you?” Zahir accused, stunned by the possibility. He was no man’s idea of a poor son-in-law choice.
“Not at all, but I know my daughter well enough to know that once she sets a course of action, she sticks to it.”
Zahir didn’t disagree. Cemal and Lou-Belia had wanted Angele to attend finishing school in Paris rather than university in the States. Angele had gotten her degree from Cornell. Neither had approved her decision to get her own apartment, but Angele had lived on her own since her sophomore year at university.
Zahir had never given much thought to what he considered Angele’s minor rebellions, particularly when he had approved her choices both times. He had not wanted her to marry him without having had a chance to live at least something of a normal life.
Now, he thought he’d been a fool to encourage the blatant independence. Had he spent more time getting to know her, he would have realized what such choices might wrought.
“We can put out our own press release saying hers was a hoax, perpetrated by our enemies,” King Malik suggested.
Cemal shook his head. “She threatened to do a live interview if we did that.”
So, Cemal had tried to dissuade his daughter from her intended path.
And all Zahir could concentrate on was the truth that such persuasion should not have been necessary after the previous night. Those hours out of time fed Zahir’s anger and an unfamiliar tightness in his chest.
“So, we have no choice,” Faruq said with a worried glance at his son.
Zahir was no object of pity or concern and never would be. “There is always a choice. We will release our own statement.”
“And what will it say?” King Malik asked, hope gleaming in eyes reflecting a lifetime of power and even less tolerance for not getting his own way as Zahir’s father.
“That I recognize waiting so long to announce our formal engagement was a mistake. I will woo my bride-to-be. The country can expect announcement of my formal betrothal by the end of the year.”
If hearts and flowers were what she wanted, then they were what he would give his errant bride-to-be.
His father’s bark of laughter was tinged with no less disbelief than Angele’s actions had sparked. King Malik and Cemal merely stared at Zahir as if he’d taken leave of his senses.
“You doubt my ability to woo one innocent woman after witnessing my skills at negotiations with world leaders?” he demanded.
Cemal coughed. “A woman is not a world power.”
“No, but one day your daughter will be married to one.” Zahir bowed his leave-taking to his father and King Malik, inclining his head to Cemal. “If you will excuse me, I have a campaign to plan.”
If fury drove him more than desire, that was his own business.
His father frowned, but said, “If you are sure this is the course of action you want to take, I will have the press release with your apology and intentions drawn up and disseminated.”
“Do you have another suggestion?”
“You could let her go.”
“I cannot. In waiting too long to finalize our engagement, I failed Angele. I will not do so again through inaction.” Besides, they had already had their wedding night.
There would damn well be a wedding.
“Good luck,” Cemal said, sounding like he meant it.
King Malik nodded. “My staff and family are at your disposal. I will have my wife create a dossier most likely to help you in your cause.” King Malik turned to Cemal. “She will draw upon Lou-Belia’s knowledge of her daughter as well.”
Cemal nodded. “Good. Her mother knows Angele better than anyone else.”
“Thank you.” Not that Zahir doubted his ability to convince Angele to marry him.
However he would take what help was offered. After all, he had been certain that after the previous night she would never have gone through with this farce of denying him to begin with.
He understood his intended’s motivations a thousand-fold better several hours later. He’d finally returned to his rooms only to find a thick envelope with his name on it and stamped with a red Private prominently in several places.
The letter was somewhat illuminating, but coupled with the pictures, Zahir realized he was damn lucky Angele had handled breaking the contract the way she had. Acknowledging that did nothing to improve his black mood.
The fury he’d felt at her defection was nothing compared to the incendiary rage he experienced knowing she had been subjected to blackmail.
Looking through the pictures, he had no doubts about who had taken them and used them for monetary gain, either. There could only be one person. Only Zahir had thought Elsa too smart to risk something like this. She stood to lose far more than she could ever hope to gain.
Regardless of who the culprit was, though, Angele should have brought the problem directly to him. Instead she had paid the money.
They were not close, but she had to have known that he would deal with the problem.<
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The fact Angele had paid money to keep his name out of the tabloids boggled his mind. It simply was not the way things were done. She had to have known he would have safeguards in place in just such an event.
She certainly expected him to be able to take care of it now, or so her letter suggested.
Nevertheless, her loyal, if foolish, actions were further indication that she was indeed in love with him. Or believed herself to be. He gave very little credence to love and all it entailed, but her feelings for him should make his wooing a simple matter.
A little voice amidst all his anger reminded him that he’d thought his seduction and lovemaking would have prevented her leaving in the first place. His father wanted to know why not just let her go?
It was simple really. Zahir didn’t lose. Ever.
Equally as important, Zahir accepted that he owed his future bride a courtship. He was furious with her, but his own inaction in regard to their betrothal and ill-advised relationship with Elsa had driven Angele to her recent actions.
Zahir had failed in his duty to her and that was worse than losing. That was a blow to his integrity he simply would not accept.
First, he had to handle Elsa and her threats. She must be made to understand that Angele was and forever would be off-limits.
Then Zahir would go after his reluctant bride.
Sitting at her desk at the magazine, Angele read the article her mother had sent her the link for. Confusion slowly morphed to sheer, unadulterated anger.
That arrogant idiot.
Even after seeing the pictures she’d been sent, Zahir thought he could convince her to go through with the wedding contract. Did he have no idea how hopeless that belief should be?
Apparently not.
He was quoted as saying he’d been neglectful and planned to rectify that. Really? When? After all, she’d been home for two weeks and he’d not so much as called her in all that time.
Typical.
A couple of days ago, she’d received a short note, in his own handwriting. It had stated that the “picture problem” had been taken care of and that he hoped to see her soon. Like that made everything better. The excitement she’d felt at seeing the return address on the stationery, quickly followed by her disappointment there hadn’t been anything more personal in the short missive, and then the tiny curl of hope at his professed desire to see her soon had made her mad.
And disgusted with herself.
Almost as disgusted as she was with him right now.
What really had her blood pressure rising was his statement his countrymen could expect announcement of a wedding date by the end of the year.
Not merely the formal engagement, but the actual wedding date.
If she’d been reading a printed newspaper she could have thrown it down. Would have thrown it right into the garbage. As it was, all she could do was glare at her computer monitor while a growingly familiar nausea rolled over her in a clammy wave.
She was sprinting for the bathroom moments later, anger at Zahir vying for supremacy at upset at her own colossal stupidity.
Zahir arrived at the magazine’s offices late Friday afternoon, six weeks after Angele had left Zohra. He was in search of the woman he had spent far too many sleepless nights thinking about over the past weeks.
It was his guilt at putting his duty off that kept him awake. He wasn’t happy that his inaction had led to the need for this dramatic wooing.
He liked the fact his and her names had featured prominently in the media since she’d felt the need to back out of the contract even less. First, speculation on her motives and then his reaction had kept the gossips busy. Then reaction to his own press release had been flurried and florid.
Finally the long-distance wooing he’d done while preparing his offices for his absence had sparked several articles and numerous requests for interviews. He’d turned them all down—well, all but one. However, he’d allowed details of the gifts he’d showered his fiancée-to-be with to leak.
A woman deserved others to know she was appreciated and Zahir was doing his best to express that appreciation for Angele. It had taken a while, a couple of weeks in fact, for his fury at her defection to simmer down to the point he could focus on wooing rather than reading his errant bride-to-be the riot act. He was proud that none of the short notes accompanying his gifts and flowers held any sort of recriminations in them.
He’d even agreed to do an interview and photo spread for her magazine. He’d allowed the magazine’s photographer into his offices at the palace in Zohra and agreed to pictures both in his robes of state and wearing designer suits custom tailored to his tall frame for the fashion magazine’s feature article.
His every overture, including that one, had been met with a frustrating silence.
Now that his schedule was cleared, the time had come to step up his game.
Accompanied by his personal bodyguard and security detail and dressed in his best Armani and over robes of his office, Zahir carried a bouquet of yellow jasmine into Angele’s office building. The receptionist looked up, her eyes going wide as he approached the large half-moon shaped desk in the center of the large lobby.
Giving one of his practiced political smiles, he asked, “Can you direct me to Angele bin Cemal al Jawhar’s office?”
The young woman’s eyes went even wider as she scrambled for some papers she nearly knocked from her desk, without looking away from Zahir and his security men. “Um…I don’t…let me just make a call.”
She scrabbled for her phone, her cheeks going a rosy-pink. She dialed and then started speaking rapidly almost immediately.
“Yes, there’s a…I mean I think he’s a sheikh, or something. I don’t think he’s dangerous, but he’s got these scary-looking men with him. He’s looked for Angele. I think it’s Angele anyway. He called her Bin-something, but we’ve only got one Angele, right? I mean, there’s an Angie in accounting, but no one else called Angele…”
He could hear the sound of someone speaking on the other end of the line, the deep tones indicated a male, but Zahir could not be sure.
“Yes. Oh, probably. He’s carrying a bouquet of those exotic flowers Angele’s been passing out to whoever would take them over the past few weeks.”
Zahir’s brows drew together as the implications of the receptionists words sank in. Angele had been disposing of the flowers he sent her by giving them away to all and sundry? What had she done with the jewelry, then? Pawned it?
His annoyance must have shown on his face because the receptionist flinched and the papers she’d managed to save went sweeping to the floor. It was probably a good thing she wore an earpiece for the phone, or the receiver probably would have gotten dropped as well.
Zahir took a step back from the desk as he schooled his features into impassivity.
The receptionist was nodding at whatever she was hearing over the phone, though she hadn’t said anything for several seconds.
She jumped. “Um…yes, of course I was listening. I’ll call her extension. Right now, sir.”
The flustered woman pressed a button and then three more. “Um…Angele? Well, yes, I did mean to dial your extension. It’s just there’s a man down here that looks like, well he could be dangerous, or something, but he’s got flowers.” The woman turned away, making some effort to whisper, though her words were still clear. “You’re sure he’s not dangerous?”
Zahir managed to keep the scowl he felt off his features, but it was a close thing.
“All right. I’ll tell him you’ll be down shortly. It will be shortly, won’t it?”
Apparently even Angele’s patience had worn thin with the young woman because there was clearly no reply. The receptionist looked up and then flinched, her face blanching as she must have realized he could hear every word she’d spoken.
“Uh…Angele said she’ll be down soon. You can…you should probably wait for her over there.” The young woman waved toward some chairs by the window on the far side of th
e large lobby. Zahir nodded stiffly and led his security detail to the other side of the lobby.
“Hello, Zahir.”
He turned at the sound of Angele’s voice, his smile of greeting sliding right into a concerned frown.
Her usually honey-gold skin was wan and she had circles under her eyes not hidden by her makeup. She also looked like she’d lost weight; her pale cheeks were hollow.
“Are you well?” he asked and then could have bitten his own tongue. He knew better than to make queries of this type in a public place.
“I’m fine.” She smoothed her hand down the front of her sheath dress.
The color of eggplant, the dark purple was usually a complimentary color for her, but today it only served to enhance the washed-out tone of her skin. Nevertheless, she wore it with stylish élan, her accessories and hair as well put together as any of the models her magazine photographed.
Regardless, she really had no business being at work if she was not feeling well. She needed to be home in bed, being pampered and coddled. His plans for the evening took a sudden shift.
“It is good to see you.” Bowing slightly, he offered her the bouquet of yellow jasmine.
She simply shook her head, making no effort to take the flowers. “I’m cleared to leave. Did you have a destination in mind for this conversation?”
There was something off about Angele’s attitude, but he had no time to ponder it as she turned and began walking toward the front doors. He handed the flowers off to one of the security guards to deal with. And then, he caught up to Angele with his longer strides and they exited the building together.
His limousine waited by the curb. She headed toward it without hesitation. Bemused by her assertive and frankly, unexpectedly cooperative behavior, he followed.
They were in the limo when she turned to him and asked, “Where are we going?”
“We have reservations at Chez Alene.” But he did not think they should keep them.
“My favorite restaurant.”
