by Unknown
“What did she want?” Emily nervously asked because, despite his calm voice, she could hear the rapid thud of his heart.
“My father has asked that the plane turn around.”
“Can he do that?”
“He is king,” Ashim said. “He could order it to turn around but instead he has offered a request.” Ashim lay there a moment, letting the news sink in and then he shared it. “He has asked that I bring myself and the future Queen of Alzaquan home.”
“You knew that he would!” Emily sat up. “You knew he’d change his mind and yet you had me lie on the bed….”
“Good, wasn’t it?” Ashim grinned and pulled her back down to his arms. “There are going to be so many good times, Emily.”
She didn’t need to ask Ashim what his answer had been to the king’s request.
It was a night made for flying.
She felt the delicious tip to the right as the plane commenced its long turn in the dark sky and she felt it for the first time—a better feeling than relief.
Ashim was taking her home.
Epilogue
Ancient and modern married well.
Ashim had always had visions for his beautiful land, but no clear vision for himself or his chosen bride.
They had married and not behind closed doors.
Instead, they had stood in the fragrant gardens of the palace and then left for the desert to the cheers of the people.
They had honeymooned there, made endless love there, and explored together deep, dark desires and she had returned with a tiny secret that had grown.
Ashim woke long before dawn to the stir of his very pregnant wife and he felt her taut stomach and then, as it softened, he felt the small kick of their baby.
Ashim’s father and the princes and kings before him had been informed that their wife was in labor and kept abreast of details.
Not this prince. This prince would remain by his wife’s side throughout the labor and birth.
He rang down for breakfast.
Their favorite.
Pancakes with a light fruit syrup and berries and they shared a tender breakfast in bed as Emily’s labor slowly progressed.
“I want to stay here,” Emily admitted as the pains deepened.
That was the ways of old, though, and Ashim had changed yet another rule.
Ashim could remember the cries of his mother filling the palace followed by the cries of Khalid.
And then the wails of the king when he had been informed that his wife, the queen had not survived the birth.
“It’s time to go to the hospital,” Ashim said.
There was a different prince in the palace now and changing rules.
Sheikh Ashim Al Raquar, Crown Prince of Alzaquan, told his aide to ready a car and, as was protocol, to inform the king.
And then he lay beside her for another moment.
“Are you nervous?”
“No,” Emily said. “I want to meet our baby.”
She had lied, even to herself, for she had wanted this day for a very long time, the feel of her baby in her arms.
Jamal ran a bath, fragrant with oils that would relax, and Emily lay there and looked out to the desert that had blessed their love.
She stepped out into a warm robe and then she was dressed as carefully as if she were going out for a formal evening rather than the hospital to give birth.
She wore a robe of silver and her hair was plaited and then Jamal handed her a silver scarf and helped her into slender, jeweled slippers. Ashim came in the room as another contraction hit and he rubbed the small of her back firmly.
“We need to go,” Emily said.
“Then we shall.”
Emily walked down the stairs with Ashim’s support and then she paused midway. Not because she was having a contraction, she stopped because Ashim did.
Both were stunned that there, waiting at the bottom of the stairs with a smile on his face, was the king.
Oman had never thought he might be happy again, yet he was.
Oh, he missed his wife and forever would, but he spoke about her at times with Emily.
They both had known grief and had survived.
“There will be the sound of a baby crying in the palace again,” the king said as Emily and Ashim joined him, “and then there will be laughter.”
God willing.
Hope resided in all their hearts now.
The king saw them to the car and watched till it had left the palace.
“He’ll be pacing,” Ashim said. “I never thought he would come out to wish you well.”
So much had changed.
It was rush hour and the streets between the palace and the Alzaquan had been closed off so that the car could make its way speedily if required and the people knew why the roads had been closed. But, instead of waiting for the formal announcement that usually took place the dawn after a royal birth, they chose not to wait.
They got out of their cars and homes and lined the streets for a glimpse of the happy couple.
They liked the glamour of the prince and princess. How they travelled often yet came back smiling to Alzaquan. They liked how Emily wore pregnancy and they especially liked that their once serious prince was attentive and kind to his wife and looked at her so tenderly.
“Oh…” Emily looked out of the car’s window to the cheers and smiling faces that greeted them as they turned in for the hospital.
“We’ll go to the tunnel,” Ashim said.
“No,” Emily didn’t mind in the least, she had never been happier and wanted to share her joy.
Ashim stepped out and then, as he helped his wife out of the car, Emily gave all the gathered people a wave, which was unprecedented but joyously returned a thousand fold.
But then people and position were all forgotten as she entered the royal wing of the hospital and the delivery room and then got down to the gritty business of giving birth with her husband by her side.
She pushed and bore down for what felt like hours.
And then, when it ran into hours, she saw the concern in the royal doctor’s eyes.
“Wide shoulders,” the royal doctor said, just as Ashim’s had been and Khalid’s, too.
Ashim better understood what had happened now.
Theatre was ready for Emily and he had never been more grateful for his decision to change the rule that royal babies were born at the palace.
“Try and relax,” the doctor said and two nurses held her leg far back but Ashim’s wide shoulders and strong arms held her firm enough to allow Emily to relax through the difficult maneuver, enough for their child to be safely delivered.
Long and tall, he let out a lusty cry even before he was fully born and Emily was now the mother she had never thought she would be.
Emily stared into the dark eyes of her newborn son and then kissed his cheek. She held him and relished him and then she handed him to the safe arms of his father for Ashim’s first hold.
The changes he had made and would continue to make, he quietly swore, were for his son, his family, his people.
They had spoken of names and had narrowed it down to a few but Ashim knew his son’s the moment he held him.
“Ayman,” Ashim said and then looked to his wife. “It means blessed, it means fortunate.”
As were they.
The End
Read on for a preview from
Born to be Bad
An International Bad Boys novella
Carol Marinelli
Copyright © 2014
“Roman’s here!”
Milly felt her breath catch in her throat as her manager, Simon, came into the small kitchenette and informed her that Roman Zaretsky had just arrived at the exclusive Club Lounge of Ravello’s—a luxurious London hotel where Milly worked serving their most esteemed guests.
How Milly wished that she had made just a little more effort with her appearance tonight. The cream suit that was her uniform was unflattering for her plump figure, thou
gh there was nothing she could do about that. Still, had she known that seriously gorgeous Roman would be in tonight then Milly would have, as she usually did, taken the time to straighten her long red curls and worn just a little bit more make up. Instead, she had stayed a little too long visiting her mother in the nursing home. It had been nice to see her mother, Catherine, in such a good mood and reminiscing about when Milly’s father had been alive. So much so that, instead of dashing home to her small studio flat to get ready for work, Milly had spent time chatting with her mother. She had got caught in a spring shower on her way to work and had arrived a little breathless, her hair damp, but just on time for her evening shift.
“I thought that Roman was supposed to be at his uncle’s funeral today,” Simon commented.
“That was this morning,” Milly said, because she had watched the coverage on the news. “It’s now eight at night.”
“Which is rather tame by Zaretsky standards,” Simon said as Milly went over to a small mirror to refresh her make-up. She pinned a couple of stray curls back into place and reapplied her coral lip-gloss.
As if Roman would even notice, Milly thought. He dated seriously glamorous women.
Well, dating was probably a bit of an overstatement.
Still, as she took the shine off her nose, her two-minute make-over made her feel a little more ready to face him.
“Dear shy, sweet Milly.” Simon said as he watched her. “Roman Zaretsky would crush you in the palm of his hand.”
“I know that he would,” Milly smiled.
“What a way to go though!” Simon, who was very camp, sighed. “He’s completely divine.”
“I thought that you didn’t like him?” Milly frowned. Simon always groaned whenever Roman came into the Club Lounge and was on tenterhooks until he left.
“Oh I like him. In fact, I have a huge crush on him,” Simon corrected. “I just don’t like having a ticking time bomb sitting in my Club. He’s already pissed. Be mean with his drinks, Milly—I want to get out of here bang on time tonight. I certainly don’t want to be filling out incident reports because Roman’s decided to trash the place.”
“He’ll be fine,” Milly said.
“Maybe he shall. He does seem to behave for you. Hey, did you see that Isaak has gone and got engaged?”
Milly had! Roman’s brother’s surprise engagement was all over the news and Internet.
Roman and Isaak Zaretsky were notorious for their bad boy ways and were more known for their reputation with women than their amazing business successes. Roman had actually been married for a short while, but his pregnant wife had died a few months ago in a car crash and it still hadn’t made it to yesterday’s news. In a bid to escape the frenzy of the press, Roman had checked into Ravello’s under a pseudonym.
Everyone knew who he was though.
Since his arrival at Ravello’s, there had been many wild parties held in the presidential suite that had Roman’s signature all over them. He merely paid for the damage and then proceeded to do it all over again.
A little more satisfied with her appearance, Milly tried to concentrate on pouring two glasses of champagne over strawberries for a couple who were here on their honeymoon. Knowing Roman had arrived though, meant that her hands were shaking and the bubbles cascaded over the side of the glasses.
“Milly!” Simon scolded.
She went to tip the drinks down the sink but Simon told her to leave them at the side and they shared a little smile.
One of the perks of the job was the leftovers! When the complimentary drinks and hors d’oeuvre finished at nine pm—and once they’d set up for breakfast, Milly and Simon would be eating the leftovers and drinking, the best, albeit flat, French champagne.
Milly picked up the glasses to head out there.
“Remember to call him Mr. Mason, or Andrew,” Simon warned and Milly nodded.
As she walked out and saw Roman sitting staring out of the window in a black suit, so palpable was his grief that Milly ached to go over and offer condolences, but instead she took the newly-weds their drinks and made a little small-talk with them about the stunning view of London.
Clifford, a judge who stayed at the hotel during the week when he was overseeing a trial, was clamouring for her attention. Clifford gave her the creeps and was always a touch too suggestive. Milly was more than used to it. Some of the upper-class guests assumed that because she worked here and was paid to be friendly, this meant that there might be favours later. It happened with some of the other staff—she was quite sure it happened with Simon—but Milly was blushing and shy around men, though she did her level best not to show that at work.
“I’ll be with you in a moment, Clifford,” Milly sweetly smiled and recalled her mother’s oft-repeated words when she was growing up—you should be an actress, Milly.
Here, in The Club, her acting ability got her through.
Tomorrow, in real life, she might actually become one! Milly used to work here by day, and perform in small productions by night. Painfully shy in real life, on stage—behind the mask of make-up and costume—Milly came alive, but she had had to give up that dream to look after her mother. With her mother now in a home, slowly the dream was coming back and she had an important audition tomorrow.
Milly made her way over to Roman. His black tie was loosened and his long legs were stretched out and he was strumming the table with his fingers. He really was incredibly beautiful, with solemn grey eyes and a full sulky mouth. His brown hair was brushed back and tousled. There was so much restrained energy to him, so much tension, that it might merit Milly being a little nervous in her approach but, unlike Simon, she wasn’t fazed by Roman.
“Good evening, Mr. Mason.” Milly smiled her corporate smile to Roman. “It’s nice to see you back.”
“Milly.” Roman nodded in brief response.
They had established their routine the night Roman had first checked in and she had gone over and introduced herself and asked if she could get him a drink.
“Vodka.” He had given a one-word response and had offered no please, and no thank you when she had brought it to him. That first night she had placed his drink on a small coaster that bore the hotel crest, and as she had turned away almost immediately, he had called her back and had given a brief nod to his now empty glass. Milly had removed it and brought him another drink and Roman had told her that in future he would prefer the vodka to be kept in the freezer and the glasses to be kept cold.
They never deviated from their routine and Milly wasn’t expecting to tonight.
“May I get you a drink?” Milly offered.
“Apple juice.”
He watched as Milly blinked and then she gave a small nod and headed over to another guest.
Roman sat idly watching Milly.
She looked amazing tonight, her hair was a little wild and pinned up and he would love to take it down.
Milly, Roman knew, was the reason that he was here tonight.
Ivor’s funeral had been hell. Returning to the cemetery where Ava had been buried a few months ago, had done nothing to help his dark mood.
Somehow, Milly soothed him.
It was a surprise to Roman that he admitted it even to himself.
He knew how shy she was. Occasionally, they ran into each other in the corridor when he came down to Club and she was on her way into work—her face would redden and she could barely manage to say hi. Sometimes, if he was at the elevators when she came out at the end of her shift, Milly would take the stairs rather than stand with him and wait.
Here, at work, she was outwardly confident, but Roman knew otherwise.
There was little reason to be staying now at Ravello’s—he owned several hotels in London, yet had chosen to come here, initially for the anonymity and that he didn’t want his own staff watching him go under. The press all knew that he was here now and sat within legal distance of the hotel, waiting for him to appear. Or for news to leak that he had trashed yet another room, or go
t into a fight, or was dating again, as only the Zaretsky brothers could date. He still could not bear to go back to his penthouse where the final fight with Ava had taken place.
Milly was the reason he was here.
There was a certain comfort to her. Her scent was a familiar one, though last night she had changed her perfume and he had commented on that. She had blushed and said it was a present.
He wondered from whom.
He liked the way she did not intrude upon him. She was as polite as the other staff, yet there was no stuffiness to her. Milly did not make unnecessary small talk, nor was she anxious around him in the way that the manager Simon was. Roman knew that Simon watched him like a hawk, terrified that his reputation would catch up with him in the quiet elegance of the Club Lounge.
It just might tonight, Roman thought, as he watched a portly elderly man eye Milly’s rather generous bottom when, having taken the man’s order, she walked off. Roman felt his hands ball into fists, but he held onto his temper, aware that he had had far too much to drink at his uncle’s funeral.
God, but he’d miss Ivor.
Ivor had saved both he and Isaak’s lives.
Literally.
Roman had been more than used to beatings by his father Boris. The last time though, a decade ago, an eighteen-year-old Roman had returned from a stint living on the streets of Moscow to check on his mother, who had begged him to return home. That night he had been hauled from sleep and met with fists and boots and beaten so badly that he had ended up in hospital. Bruised, fractured, he had lain there staring at the ceiling, his tongue feeling the gap where his front teeth had once been, every breath agony with seven fractured ribs. Roman had decided to return to the streets. He wanted to stay and protect his mother, but was quite sure that if he returned home the next beating would kill him. Isaak had contacted their uncle, Ivor, who had flown back to Russia from London and had come to visit Roman in hospital.
Ivor had repeatedly asked them to join him in London and start a new life.
This time the brothers had agreed.
Roman did everything he could to forget the brutality of his childhood, but he just couldn’t run from the memory of it tonight.
