by Jane Porter
When he’d pictured Kasbah Jolie yesterday, he’d pictured a remote estate, someplace peaceful, and he’d imagined he’d arrive with very little fanfare, but the transfer in Gila had been anything but understated. The royal carpet, the line of dignitaries, the military guard behind, the royal helicopter itself. He hadn’t wanted any of it. His flight crew had contacted the executive terminal at Gila and arranged for a helicopter for the Earl of Langston, but at no time had they dropped his Mehkar title. They couldn’t have, as they didn’t know it.
Which meant someone at the Gila airport had contacted the palace, and the king had ordered the welcome.
Dal frowned, his chest as heavy as his gut.
His grandfather knew he was here, aware that Dal had not just come home, but had once again shut him out, choosing to retreat to the mountain palace rather than attempt any form of reconciliation.
Dal didn’t know why he was treating his grandfather the same way his father had—with callous contempt and utter disregard. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he be kind to the one man who’d always been kind to him?
Dal planned on accomplishing two things before he left Mehkar: he’d be married, and he’d finally make peace with his grandfather.
CHAPTER SIX
POPPY SETTLED DOWN to work at the desk in the library on the main floor. The room had a soaring, dark-beamed ceiling, arched windows and walls the color of deep red rubies. The beamed ceiling had been stenciled in gold, and the big light fixtures were gold, and then there were the floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with leather-bound books that looked to be hundreds of years old.
Poppy had discovered the room earlier this morning and couldn’t wait to return. She opened her laptop, checked the internet and was pleased to see that it worked just as well here as it did at home. It wasn’t long before she had accessed all her files through the cloud storage system on the laptop. All of Dal’s companies used the same cloud storage, making it easy to use any computer, anywhere.
She checked her email, and then scanned BBC’s news and then reached out by email to several prominent employment agencies, sharing the details about the secretarial position to be filled, and how they were hoping to fill the job as soon as possible.
She received a reply from each almost immediately. One wanted her to fill out a more complete questionnaire, while the other promised to begin forwarding résumés later that afternoon.
With no résumés to review yet, Poppy wasn’t quite sure what to do with her time next.
And then she thought of Sophie. Where was she? And how was she?
Poppy opened her email and sent Sophie a quick message.
I’m with Dal in Mehkar. Where are you? How are you? Fill me in, please!
And then, because her curiosity was getting the best of her, she went back online and studied Florrie and Seraphina’s social media accounts.
Florrie had shared a photograph taken outside Langston House before the wedding had begun. She was with Seraphina and several other beautiful girls and they were all smiling for the camera.
Seraphina was a dark brunette and Florrie was a golden blonde. They were both gorgeous and glamorous, and they knew how to wear clothes well.
But that didn’t make them good matches for Dal.
Poppy was staring at the photo hard, so hard, she didn’t hear Dal enter the library.
“Are you trying to decide which one is better for me?” he asked, leaning over her desk chair to get a better look at the photo of four smiling women.
She closed the computer quickly. “What are you doing here?”
“Checking on your progress. Any good résumés yet?”
“One agency asked me to fill out a questionnaire, while the other has promised to begin forwarding résumés straightaway.”
“Was the questionnaire complicated?”
“No.” She wiggled in her chair, not willing to admit that she’d somehow managed to forget all about completing the form. She didn’t know how she could forget.
“So you are all done with everything right now?”
“I’m caught up for the moment, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Yes. Great. I’d like your help in my search.” He lifted a hand to stop her when she started to protest. “And I know you don’t want to. Sophie was your friend and you’re very loyal to her, but Sophie is no longer in the picture and I need a wife.”
“But how can I help you when you won’t even help yourself?”
“What does that mean?”
“You can’t treat your next fiancé the way you treated Sophie. It was criminal. You were the King of Cold, the Master of Remote.” She shrugged at his frown. “It’s true, Dal. I’m telling you the truth. Please don’t propose to another woman without being willing to give her more.”
* * *
Dal couldn’t believe they were back to discussing this intangible “more” again. It was beyond infuriating.
It was also beyond infuriating to have to play this game with her. He wasn’t even considering Florrie or Seraphina as a future wife. There was only one woman on his list and that was Poppy. But if he told Poppy that, she’d have a nervous breakdown, and they didn’t need that. He had to get married, but he preferred marrying someone stable. And most days Poppy was stable. She was also dependable, and someone he trusted. Perhaps Sophie had done him a huge favor.
“I’m not sure I know how to go about demanding more,” he said flatly, battling to hide his irritation. “I am not sure I even know what this ‘more’ would look like.”
“More is just more, Dal. More companionship. More conversation. More laughter. Possibly more tears—”
“Not that, please.”
She sighed, but continued on. “More would also be more friendship, and more support, more encouragement, more happiness.”
“That’s a great deal of more.”
“Yes, it requires some thought and effort, but that’s how you develop a relationship. It’s how people get to know you, and you would get to know them. It takes time, too.” Her wide brown eyes met his. “And it’s not something money can buy. So you can’t throw money at it. If anything, money makes it worse.”
“How so?”
Her brows pulled, her expression troubled. “Money is power, and power thrives on inequality. True friendship, just like true love, doesn’t care about position, or prestige. It wants what is best for the other person.”
Her words grated on his nerves, putting an uncomfortable knot in his chest. He didn’t know why her thoughts bothered him so much, but it took every bit of his control not to retort sharply, mockingly. He didn’t like the world of feelings and emotions. He didn’t enjoy the company of emotional people. Poppy was the sole exception, and maybe that was because at work he could normally steer her in a different direction, and she’d oblige him. But here, here was proving to be a different matter.
“Please don’t make me lose all respect for you,” he said with a hard, sardonic smile. “Feelings are massively overrated.”
“But I didn’t specifically say feelings,” she answered quietly. “I was very careful not to use the word feelings. Apparently, that’s all you heard, though.”
“I think I stopped listening when you said I couldn’t solve the problem by throwing money at it.”
“You can make all the jokes you want, but you can’t change the truth, and the truth is, you have to open up more, and give more and be present in the lives of those who love you.”
He shot her a wry glance. “You make me sound like an ass.”
“Well, you can be intolerable at times.”
“And yet you’re still fighting to save me.”
“Just for another two weeks.”
“So altruistic, then, trying to whip me into shape for the next secretary.”
“I’m more concerned about the
next fiancée. She’s the one that would get the short end of the stick because she will expect a relationship. The secretary won’t.”
“Have you always been so pragmatic?”
“Charity girls can’t afford to wear rose-colored glasses.”
And yet Poppy did. Poppy was the least practical, most idealistic woman he’d ever met. He functioned best when his world was cool, precise and analytical...the complete opposite of the world Poppy inhabited.
“Perhaps you didn’t get the memo,” he answered, aware that she’d had a difficult past. Poppy had lost her mother to cancer and then her father died ten years later, leaving Poppy all alone. Or, she would have been alone if it wasn’t for Sophie. “You love your fairy tales and rainbows.”
“You forgot lemon drops and fireworks. I love those, too.” Then she shrugged. “I know it’s hard for you to stomach, but my parents met in school, fell in love and never dated anyone else. They were totally devoted to each other, as well as really happy together...despite Mum’s cancer, and the creditors constantly calling.”
Her shoulders shifted. “And then when they were both gone, Sophie gave me a second home. She looked after me and showed me what real friendship is. I learned that love isn’t just a romantic thing. Love is kindness and commitment and doing what’s best for the other person. And that’s what I want for you. I want you to have a kind wife. A woman who will commit to you and do what’s best for you, and in return, you would be kind to her, and loyal to her and put her needs first, too.”
“If you care so much about my happiness, why not just marry me? Wouldn’t that be the simplest thing to do?”
For a long moment she said nothing, and then her throat worked and her voice sounded low and rough. “I’ve never had much in life in terms of material things, but I was loved, dearly, by my parents, and if I ever marry, it will be for love. A marriage without love is doomed from the start.”
* * *
By the time Poppy made it back to her room, she was absolutely worn out.
These intense conversations with Dal drained her, and part of her wanted to just give up on him and stop trying to help, but the only way she could handle the idea of leaving him was by thinking she was leaving him better off than he was now.
The man didn’t need more money. The man didn’t need more people to bow and scrape. What Dal needed was honesty. He needed someone to care enough about him to tell him the truth. He needed to be pushed to try harder and give more and be more...and she knew he could, because during the past four years she’d seen a softer side of him. She’d experienced his kindness and patience firsthand. He knew how to talk and be good company, too. But she also knew that it had to be his choice, on his terms, or he’d just shut you out and become that remote, unfeeling ice man that Sophie dreaded.
Poppy showered and then wrapped a cotton robe around her and headed to the wardrobe to see what she’d wear for dinner.
Poppy knew from this morning that the wardrobe was full of long tunics in every color of the rainbow. She’d stroked the vivid fabrics, pausing at a brilliant green gown with gold embellishments from the plunging neckline all the way down the gauzy fabric, and then an ivory one, and another ivory one this time with hot pink fringe all around the sleeves and edges of the long, narrow skirt. The dresses were like art, each unique but stylish and impossibly pretty. Poppy didn’t know how she was supposed to choose just one to wear when they were all so beautiful.
She now flipped through all the dresses again, this time stopping at a rich gold dress with full three-quarter sleeves. The sleeves were dotted with a graphic black-and-white sunburst pattern, with black-and-white trim down the front, and along the hem of the straight gold skirt.
But Poppy’s favorite part of the dress were the two playful black-and-white fringe pom-poms that hung from the V-neckline.
“Would be beautiful on you, my lady,” a soft voice said from behind her in slow, broken English.
Poppy turned around and smiled as she spotted Izba in the doorway.
“These gowns are exquisite,” Poppy said.
Izba stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. “His Highness Talal’s mother designed them,” she said, crossing to the wardrobe and reaching into the closet to draw out a white lace kaftan with coral-red embroidery on the shoulders and vibrant coral-red fringe at the sleeves and hem. “She thought clothes should make a woman happy.”
Izba spoke with a quiet sincerity that put a lump in Poppy’s throat. “Talal’s mother was very talented,” Poppy answered huskily.
The elderly woman’s dark brown eyes shone and she carefully hung the white lace gown up. “She was most beautiful woman in Mehkar, but with the most beautiful heart in the world.” She turned around to look at Poppy. “Which dress you wish to wear for tonight?”
“I don’t know which one to pick. What do you think I should wear?”
Izba’s lips pursed and her dark gaze swept Poppy before she faced the closet again. She studied the rack for a long moment, cheeks puffing, until she reached in and lifted out a dark cherry gown with big cheerful silver flowers embroidered across the bodice before becoming delicate trailing flowers down the skirt. The sleeves were plain except for a thick silver bank of embroidery at the cuff.
“These are poppies,” Izba said in her careful, stilted English. “Just like your name, yes?”
Poppy didn’t know why she wanted to cry. Instead, she nodded and smiled. “That’s perfect.”
“Perfect,” Izba echoed carefully, smiling affectionately. “Once you are dressed, I will fix your hair.”
“Oh, I don’t need help with my hair.”
“His Highness expects us to help you.”
“Yes, but his—” Poppy broke off, unable to call Randall anything remotely like His Highness, and she searched for the right words. “His...your Prince Talal...knows I am accustomed to taking care of myself. I prefer taking care of myself.”
Izba’s already wrinkled brow creased further. “But as his wife—”
“Oh! No. No. I think there’s been a mistake, and I understand the confusion, but I’m not his wife. I work for Talal. I’m his secretary.”
Izba stared at her, dark eyes assessing. “You are not just friend. You are to marry the prince.”
“No! Oh, Izba, no.” Poppy swallowed hard, thinking this was incredibly uncomfortable but she had to make the older woman understand. “Believe me, I am not marrying Prince Talal. I serve as his secretary, nothing more.” She drew a quick breath. “I’ve agreed to help him find a wife, but Izba, it’s not me.”
Before they came to Jolie, Dal would have described Poppy as pretty, in a fresh, wholesome, no-nonsense sort of way with her thick, shoulder-length brown hair and large, brown eyes and a serious little chin.
But as Poppy entered the dining room with its glossy white ceiling and dark purple walls, she looked anything but wholesome and no-nonsense.
She was wearing a silk gown the color of cherries, delicately embroidered with silver threads, and instead of her usual ponytail or chignon, her dark hair was down, and long, elegant chandelier earrings dangled from her ears. As she walked, the semi-sheer kaftan molded to her curves, highlighting her full, firm breasts and swell of hips.
“It seems I’ve been keeping you waiting,” she said, her voice pitched lower than usual and slightly breathless. “Izba insisted on all this,” she added, gesturing up toward her face.
At first Dal thought she was referring to the ornate silver earrings that were catching and reflecting the light, but once she was seated across from him he realized her eyes had been rimmed with kohl and her lips had been outlined and filled in with a soft plum-pink gloss. “You’re wearing makeup.”
“Quite a lot of it, too.” She grimaced. “I tried to explain to Izba that this wasn’t me, but she’s very determined once she makes her mind up about something and apparently
, dinner with you requires me to look like a tart.”
Dal checked his smile. “You don’t look like a tart. Unless it’s the kind of tart one wants to eat.”
Color flooded Poppy’s cheeks and she glanced away, suddenly shy, and he didn’t know if it was her shyness or the shimmering dress that clung to her curves, outlining her high, full breasts, but he didn’t think any woman could be more beautiful, or desirable than Poppy right now. “You look lovely,” he said quietly. “But I don’t want you uncomfortable all through dinner. If you’d rather go remove the makeup I’m happy to wait.”
She looked at him closely as if doubting his sincerity. “It’s fun to dress up, but I’m worried Izba has the wrong idea about me.”
“And what is that?”
“She seems to think you’re going to...marry...me.”
When he said nothing, she added, “I know I’m not on your ‘list’ anymore, and so I’m not suggesting you’re encouraging her, but it’s awkward trying to convince her that I’m not going to be your new wife.”
“I’ll have a word with her,” he said, and he would have a word with Izba, but not about this. The fact was, Poppy would be his wife. She was going to marry him. He knew exactly how to get her acquiescence. Women thought they needed words. But even more than language, they needed touch.
He was trying to hold off on seduction, though. He didn’t want to trick her into being his wife, nor did he want to use her body against her. But she would capitulate, if he seduced her. She was already his even without a single touch.
His goal was to get her to think marriage was her idea. It was far better to let her believe the idea was hers. She’d be a far happier, and more malleable bride that way.
“Thank you.” She glanced down, fingertips grazing the silver beadwork near her shoulder. “Did you know this is your mother’s design?”
“What do you mean?”
“Every dress in the wardrobe in my room was designed by your mother. Izba said she was an aspiring fashion designer when she married your father.”
“I didn’t know,” he said after a long moment. “I had no idea.” He frowned at the candle on the table, surprised that such a little detail should knock him off guard, but it did. It might be a small thing, but it said so much about who she was, and the dreams she’d had.
