“This way,” he said, changing direction and moving down another corridor. This one was lined with plum coloured carpet, and here the walls were pure gold.
“The family’s wing,” he said unnecessarily. “I grew up here.”
There were paintings on the walls, and she slowed when she reached one of Zamir. It was a stunning likeness, though he had been younger when he sat for it. Beside it hung a full length painting of Ra’if.
She smiled to see them together like that. Two brothers, so much more alike than they realised.
Zamir saw her reaction and misinterpreted it. His frustration grew in leaps and bounds.
“Would you like me to have it moved into my room where you can study it full time?”
She whipped her head around and the pained shock was impossible to miss. “You’re behaving like a child,” she responded finally, her voice hoarse.
He turned away from her. She was right, and that only made him feel worse.
He walked quickly; she would have had to run to keep up. So she walked. Slowly, sedately and with as much dignity as she could mottle together, given the circumstances.
At the end of the corridor, he pressed a button on the wall, and two gold and glass doors swept inwards. The apartment beyond was clearly palatial in size and décor, but it also appeared to be private.
“My residence,” he confirmed with a curt nod. He stood back and waited for her to precede him.
Olivia moved inside with caution, and then finally, several metres in the door, she whipped around. “So?” Her breathing was ragged, her expression difficult to interpret.
Zamir stared at her as though she was something new and strange; a curio he could not quite piece together.
“So,” he repeated, evidently not experiencing any of the upheaval she was navigating.
Olivia compressed her lips. She was desperate for the bathroom, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to ask this man for anything.
“You and my brother.”
“Oh my God.” It was a garbled sound of disbelief. “You’re like a broken record.”
“Can you imagine for a moment what it felt like to see you there with him? So comfortable? And to see him so happy and at ease with you, a woman who had gone straight from my bed to …”
“Don’t.” She held up a hand to silence him, and her eyes flashed with intensity. “Don’t say it. You cheapen everything you and I were to imply that I could replace you with your brother. That I would want to after what we … after what I thought we shared.” She swallowed convulsively. “Do you have a bathroom in this place?”
“A bathroom?”
“Yes,” she hissed. And now she was powerless to stop the tears that were on her eyes from sparkling down her cheeks, like trails of diamond dust. “A bathroom. I was up late last night. Or whenever the hell it was. I’ve lost track. And I had a long drive out to see your brother. And I spent the day with him. And then you abducted me. And I don’t remember the last time I ate, or used a bathroom, and I want to wash my face, and drink some water. So can you stop accusing me of everything you want to believe me capable of, and just leave me alone for a while? I need a minute. I need a minute to get up to speed on what’s going on.” Her voice cracked as she spoke. She walked slowly away from him and sunk into a chair. She dipped her head into her hands. “I need a minute.” She rocked back and forth, shaking her head. “I need a minute. I don’t understand.” And she lifted her head then and fixed him with a sad, confused stare. “What did I do to you? What did I ever do to you?”
Zamir was the one on a tidal surge of confusion. He was being drowned on all sides by waves, and he had no strength left to stay afloat. He stared at the broken shell of this woman. She was a shadow of her former self. And he heard her words and had no answer left. What had she done to deserve this fate?
“I loved you, Zamir. That’s all. I met you, and I loved you. And you left me. And now you’re treating me like … like …”
Like what? Why was he so angry with her? Why had he barrelled her sleeping frame over his shoulder and onto his jet? Why had he refused to speak to her properly?
Because he had thought she had moved on to Ra’if, and had been driven senseless with jealousy.
“Why have you brought me here, of all places? Where you told me your father would hate me and your people would hate me and your servants would hate me?” She sobbed and buried her head again. “I need a minute.”
Zamir was drowning now. The water was over his head. He stared at her, lost and on edge. She was so beautiful, but so frail. He ached to pull her to him, but to what end?
“When you are ready, there is a bathroom you may use. Down that corridor, and on the right.”
She stared at him, her eyes huge in her face. What was she hoping he would say? What was she hoping to see in his expression? Contrition? Pity? Apology? She stood numbly and walked past him.
He let her go without another word. Only when she had clicked the door closed did he dip his head forward and release the oath he’d been silently swearing.
The bathroom, like everything else she’d seen in the palace, was exquisite. Olivia took her time freshening up, and it was such a relief to wash her face and run her fingers through her hair. She contemplated showering, but with no fresh clothes to change into, she decided to delay that pleasure.
Until when?
She frowned grimly. Until she knew just what he meant by bringing her to Dashan, she had no bloody clue.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Being a damsel in distress was a role that sat ill on Olivia’s shoulders.
All her life, she’d fought for everything she wanted, whether it was clothes or a new job or the opportunity to travel.
But here in Dashan, she was completely dependent on the kindness of Zamir.
Just two days after stepping off his luxurious jet, and having seen him for only a handful of minutes in that time, she had come to understand that nothing happened within the walls of his palace without his express approval.
The night they’d arrived, he’d disappeared while she showered.
A beautiful dinner of rice and spiced fish was brought to her room almost immediately after she had emerged, and she’d eaten it sparingly.
The next morning, a personal shopper had come to take Olivia’s measurements and investigate her preferences when it came to styles and colourings of clothes.
Hours after the stylist had left, a hairdresser appeared, and then a beautician, employed to match a palette of makeup and create a bespoke range for Olivia’s use.
The clothes were excellent. But they were no substitute for the wearing of freedom.
Olivia was all too aware that she was essentially a prisoner, albeit one with a spectacularly gilded cage. And as seconds bonded into minutes, and minutes morphed into hours, and hours dragged into lonely days and nights, Olivia was left to wonder: why?
Why had he brought her here, if only to ignore her?
On the third morning, she woke early. An odd pre-sentiment was tingling down her spine, and she rose with an increasing sense of unease.
All of the clothes she’d been provided with were exceptional quality and undoubtedly expensive. They were also unstintingly modest, in what she presumed was a necessity in Dashan.
She pulled on an olive-green dress that fell to the floor and had wide bell-shaped sleeves all the way to the wrists. Despite the fact it covered her whole body, it was surprisingly cool, no doubt because of the linen fabric.
There were some books in a shelf across the room. She’d looked at all of them previously and dismissed them as too bland. But now, desperation and a gnawing sense of anxiety nipped at her heels.
When the door peeled inwards a little before noon, Olivia was not surprised. She’d been waiting. For what, she couldn’t have said. But the air had been thick with expectation all day.
Marook stood there, his expression neutral. Only his eyes seemed to smile at her with some of the kindness she remembered from
their time in Vegas.
“Hello,” she was friendly. Perhaps too friendly, given that he was complicit in this little saga. But Olivia had scarcely spoken to a soul for days, and even Marook was a welcome break to her solitude.
“Good morning, Miss Henderson.”
“Please, call me Olivia,” she invited, moving quietly towards him.
“Olivia,” he repeated with a nod. “His royal highness, Sultan Faisal Fayez has requested an audience with you.”
Her heart dropped to her knees. “With me?” She repeated, her brows knitting together as she contemplated just what the heck Zamir’s father could have to say to her.
Marook nodded. “Immediately.”
“Oh.” She looked at him beseechingly. “Will Zamir be there?” And though she was furious with him, and felt sure she hated him in that moment, she was desperately hopeful he would be.
“My understanding is that he doesn’t even know this meeting has been requested.”
“Oh.” Great. A kaleidoscope of butterflies was bursting through her stomach.
What had Zamir said? That his father would feel betrayed by what he would view as Zamir’s disrespect in bringing Olivia to Dashan. And yet, here she was. Against her will, and his better judgement.
Marook led the way from Zamir’s apartment, back down the burgundy and gold corridor she’d seen days earlier, and into yet another wing of the palace. This one with cream tiles and gold and white walls, and large pillars that stretched all the way to the ceiling. There were marble statues along its length, and at the end, a window the size of the wall that framed the view of the glistening desert beyond. There was a small collection of buildings far off in the distance, simple and low-lying, with cream-coloured walls and holes for windows.
“An old village,” Marook explained, when he saw the direction of her gaze.
“Do people still live there?”
“Yes, though more and more villages such as this are being deserted for the cities.”
“It’s so far from anything.”
“That, Miss Henderson, is part of its charm. Until you have had dined and slept in a clay hut, and stared out at the stars above, you have not lived.”
She arched a brow at him, though she wanted to smile and ask him to go on. The old Olivia – the version of herself she’d been before meeting Zamir – would have laughed and linked arms with him regardless of his position within the royal family. She would have been uncaring for such boring considerations as etiquette and causing offence.
But now, she had a weight of expectation pressing on her shoulders.
So she fell back into step beside Marook, moving silently through the palace as though she belonged in its exquisitely designed walls.
Marook paused eventually outside a glossy cream door. There were marble statues on either side. He spoke into a small device at his wrist and the doors opened inwards.
There was so much light in the room that Olivia was momentarily blinded. She had to blink for a moment to let her vision adapt. The source of the light was the windows that ran the whole length of the room, on two walls. The midday sun beat in unrelentingly, but it was beautiful and warming, rather than over-hot.
His royal highness Faisal Fayez was standing with the aid of a cane, looking unflinchingly towards the door. His bearing was very like Ra’if’s. Far more so than Zamir’s.
His eyes though were pure Zamir. Heavily specked with amber and gold, they regarded her as though she were a fascinating specimen of insect. “Leave us.”
Marook did so immediately and without a word; Olivia was sorry to see him go. Though she didn’t know him well, she still considered him to be a sort of ally, and his presence had been slightly mollifying.
“So. You are the American.”
She nodded, though she was no such thing. He had an air of authority that was humbling and awe-inspiring.
“Come closer.”
She swallowed then took a step, and another, and another after that, moving forward nervously. She had no idea what a picture she made, lit up like gold dust and flickering flame, as she glided gently over the marble floor. The dress brought out the green of her eyes and her hair, silky and fair, had been braided into a long rope down her back. She was beautiful and she was vulnerable, and despite himself, and his intention to berate the woman who was making his son miserable, Faisal felt an unfurling of pity. For if Zamir was miserable, so too was this woman.
“Sit. Please.” He gestured to one of the cream chairs before him.
She did so, and her anxiety was a cloak that draped around her as she clasped her fingers in her lap and held his eyes with obvious effort. It was an effort he admired, for it was brave and determined.
“You are Olivia Henderson.”
She nodded and then cleared her throat. “Yes, sir.”
Faisal eased himself into the chair opposite, wincing a little as his body made its complaint felt.
“I understand you have taken great pains to make my oldest son comfortable.”
She stared at him for a moment, not comprehending what he meant.
“Ra’if speaks very highly of you,” he added.
“Oh.” Her smile now was natural, and it transformed her face into, perhaps, one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. “He’s just being kind.”
“No, he’s not.” Faisal’s laugh was a hoarse bark. “He is rarely generous with praise. But he seems to have only good thoughts for you.”
She tilted her head to the side. “It’s mutual. I enjoyed spending time with him.”
“Yes. Why did you?”
Her feet were nudging closer to dangerous ground.
“I’m sorry, sir, I’m not sure I understand.”
“Zamir believes you might be interested in marrying Ra’if.”
Her mouth dropped open at the very idea. Of course, she knew that Zamir had been jealous, but not that he would go so far as to spread his nonsensical theories as fact.
“Zamir is wrong,” she spoke matter-of-factly despite the pangs of hurt clawing into her heart. “I spent time with Ra’if, initially, because I thought he might be lonely after Zamir left. We became friends.”
“And you claim that friends is all you are to each other?”
“Yes.”
“I understand you have been an excellent companion to Ra’if. It seems strange that you would choose to spend your time with a man like him.”
Offense coursed through her. “A man like him? Your son is wise and kind, funny and sweet. Of course I spent time with him.” She bit down on her lower lip. “He’s doing so well now. I imagine you’ll find him almost like his old self, when he returns.”
Faisal ran a hand over his chin. “This pleases me,” he assured her, but he found himself confused by her staunch defence. “I still do not understand why you sought this relationship.”
Because Zamir loved him. And that mattered to me. “Zamir was seeing Ra’if every day. He left Las Vegas abruptly and I thought … I knew Ra’if would feel his absence. I worried it might even derail his recovery.”
“And so you stepped into Zamir’s shoes?” He prompted dubiously.
“It was good for both of us,” she admitted with a tone that didn’t invite further questioning.
“Yet you have no romantic interest in Ra’if.”
She nodded.
Faisal’s gaze narrowed. “You are in love with my other son, then.”
“No.” She swallowed, and flicked her eyes down to her lap. “And I beg your pardon, sir, if it’s not the done thing to say what I’m about to. But none of this is something I wish to discuss with you.”
“My sons are my future; the country’s future. It is for this reason I am asking you these personal questions,” he explained, his fascination with her increasing.
“Yes, but I have told you, I have nothing to do with either of them. You don’t need to be worried that you’ll end up with me in the palace permanently.”
“Yet you are here now.”
She tilted her chin defiantly, and the barrage of insults she wanted to level at this man about his heavy-handed son ran through her mind. But she didn’t give in to the temptation as she wanted to. Instead, she nodded slowly. “Not for much longer, I promise you, sir. I’ll be gone before you know it.”
“I see.” His smile was thoughtful. “Where are you from?”
“A little town outside of Perth.” He scanned her face and she laughed, despite herself. “I was nervous before. I didn’t want to correct you.”
He had that effect on many people; he was used to it. “You live in America now?”
“Not really.” She shrugged. “I guess you could say I’m of no fixed abode.” She smiled weakly. Yet another reason she was far from the kind of woman he would accept as his daughter in law. “I like to travel. I have wanderlust.”
A word he hadn’t heard in a very long time. He seemed to transform into a stone in his chair. Olivia saw it, and she moved quickly, kneeling before him. Fear that he was in the midst of another episode flooded her and she was on the brink of running for help when he put a hand out and touched hers. “I’m sorry.” He blinked. “I …” He lifted a hand and wiped it across his brow. He was pale.
“I’ll get Marook.” She stood and walked quickly, but Faisal called after her.
“No. Please. Come back.”
She turned on the spot, uncertain as to how to proceed.
“I was only surprised. I have not … heard that term in many, many years.”
“Which term?”
His voice was thin. “Wanderlust.”
“Oh.” She moved back to him slowly, a frown on her features.
“Yes,” he nodded slowly. “You are right to be perplexed. You know, I presume, that my wife is dead.”
She nodded, her expression one of empathy.
“She was a tourist in Dashan when I picked her out of a crowd. We had known each other for one week when I married her.” His smile was ethereal as he remembered the joy of that time. “She had wanderlust. That is what she always said. It brought her here to the palace, and to me. And then, she said, she was cured. She had wandered and wandered and lusted no more. She was home.”
The Sheikh's Convenient Mistress: What he needed from her went well beyond the call of duty... (The Henderson Sister Series Book 2) Page 12
