by Tessa Radley
In his heart he knew Tiffany had been an innocent—even though his brain was reluctant to accept it. Because that would mean that only he could be her baby’s father—that his judgment of her had been criminally wrong.
He was rarely wrong.
And Rafiq was not yet ready to concede that he’d erred in his judgment. Certainly not aloud—as Tiffany had clearly wanted him to do earlier. When the sparkle had gone out of her eyes, he’d wished he had.
Sitting up, he reached for his towel.
Nor did he want to examine too closely why he was reluctant to admit that he’d been wrong, why it shamed him to have judged her so harshly. He, Rafiq ibn Selim Al Dhahara, who had always been ruled by numbers and logic, had lost his head, and made a spectacular error.
And it all raised another interesting question…
One only Tiffany could answer. Rafiq paused in the act of toweling his hair. If she hadn’t slept with him because of money, then why had she done it? Why had she let a stranger take something so precious?
She accused him of keeping women at a distance, of being the last man she’d ever wanted to marry. So why sleep with him when there’d been little hope of seeing him again?
She wanted an ordinary man, a house with a white picket fence, and a pigeon pair. That’s what she’d harked back to every time—a fairy tale. He threw the towel to one side. They both knew he was as far from her ordinary prince as it was possible to get.
Water churned angrily as he pulled his legs out of the pool and rose to his full height.
The only answer that made any kind of convoluted sense gave him no comfort at all. Tiffany had gone for a man so far removed from everything she said she wanted because deep in her heart she had no intention of loving anyone. Ever. Not even the ordinary man he’d been so knotted up inside about.
She’d let him close only because he could never be her dream man.
He had to live with that. Or make her accept him as he was, royal prince, international banker, father of her child.
And most importantly, her husband.
Eleven
The Japanese restaurant Rafiq ushered Tiffany into the next day was decorated with deceptive simplicity. Low ceilings and white papered screens set in black lacquered frames gave the space intimacy, while gold-trimmed red wall banners and bamboo shoots in large ceramic pots emblazoned with gold pagodas added touches of luxury.
Rafiq was warmly welcomed by the elderly couple who owned the restaurant, whom he introduced to Tiffany as Mei and Taeko Nakamura.
To the Nakamuras he declared, “I have brought my wife to meet you.”
Taeko bowed politely in her direction yet Tiffany suspected it was Mei’s black-currant eyes that missed little.
“You said nothing of a wife when we saw you two weeks ago. I suppose this is the reason why you canceled your lunch last week. But shouldn’t we at least have read about your wedding in the papers?”
“It will be announced in tomorrow’s paper,” Rafiq promised, grinning down at the little woman, not looking the least bit chastened.
That was more than Tiffany knew. She opened her mouth to interrupt him, but Mei was already saying, “So we know a secret.” And her contemplative eyes settled on Tiffany’s midline. Yet, much to Tiffany’s relief, she didn’t ask the obvious question and led them instead to a table in a corner secluded by screens.
What surprised Tiffany was the way Rafiq’s austere features had lit up with pleasure at the sight of the elderly couple, making him appear quite different from the man who only ever presented an emotionless facade.
Nor did he need to order.
Taeko brought a platter of sashimi tuna and pink salmon, and it was quickly apparent that Rafiq was a frequent visitor, though Taeko produced a menu for Tiffany’s inspection.
Mei dug out a cell phone and passed it to Rafiq to admire the latest photos of her granddaughter. He made appropriate noises and asked questions about the child whose name appeared to be Keiko, revealing an intimate familiarity with the family. Tiffany couldn’t prevent a pang of sadness. If only he’d shown some of this easy joy when she’d shown him the scan images of their baby…
Instead he’d been horrified by the possibility that she might actually be pregnant with his child.
“The tuna is flown in daily,” Rafiq told her as Taeko brought the beef teriyaki she’d ordered. “I never eat anything else here.”
“I’ll stick to beef—rather than raw fish,” she said lightly, not wanting to make a point about her pregnancy. “Delicious,” she declared after the first mouthful of her meal.
As she tucked in, she couldn’t help wondering whether Rafiq would one day show the same interest in their child as he’d shown for Keiko.
How would she feel about that interest? Rafiq appeared reluctant for her to leave the country to visit her mother. If he grew invested in their daughter, it was possible that he would take over the decision making for her child and leave her with no say.
It was something Tiffany had not considered in any depth before.
Foolish, perhaps.
Given his opinion about her in the past, she’d never anticipated that Rafiq would want to marry her. When he’d proposed, it had been so clear that his major preoccupation was waiting for the baby to be born so that he could wiggle off the hook of paternal responsibility. She’d never contemplated that he might actually want their daughter…or be eager for input into her upbringing.
Tiffany bit her lip.
She’d wanted her daughter to one day have the right to know her father. She’d been prepared to allow some kind of visitation schedule. But she’d never intended to put her daughter within Rafiq’s total control.
Breathing deeply to control her rising panic, she tried to focus on what Mei was saying to Rafiq.
“How are Shafir and Megan? You have not brought them for a while.”
“They spend every spare moment at Qasr Al-Ward.” Rafiq rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “The price of love.”
Relief seeped through Tiffany as she watched him joking with the Nakamuras.
Rafiq was no threat to her…or her daughter. He wasn’t a monster. He was only a man. A busy man, a banker of international repute. A desert prince. With a family who were loving.
Why would he want to take over the life of the daughter he’d disputed was his? Even when the tests proved he was the father, it was unlikely that he’d have the time—or the interest—to be a hands-on father.
As the reality of the situation sank in, she started to relax.
Taeko gave a sharp bark of laughter at something Rafiq said. He replied in Japanese, his eyes crinkling, and Mei swatted his arm with the white linen napkin she held.
Rafiq was laughing, his ebony eyes gleaming with mirth.
“You speak Japanese,” Tiffany blurted out.
“He speaks German and a bit of Spanish, too.” Mei gave her an odd look, and Tiffany felt herself coloring. What kind of wife lacked such basic knowledge about her husband?
She’d been so caught up in her own situation, her pregnancy, her parents’ problems, their hasty marriage, she’d barely bothered to learn much about her new husband.
He smiled across the table at her, and her heart leaped at the understanding in his eyes. “What languages do you speak, Tiffany?”
“English and French.”
Mei glanced at him in astonishment. “You don’t know? Rafiq! What have you two been talking about?”
“Important things!” Rafiq’s eyes held a wicked gleam, and Taeko roared with laughter.
Tiffany’s flush deepened. Rafiq knew she spoke French. He’d covered up for her. She could’ve kissed him for making it clear that she wasn’t the only one who had been neglectful.
“We will leave the two of you alone to learn more important things about each other.” Mei took her husband by the arm and steered him away.
Once the incorrigible pair had departed, Tiffany asked, “How did you meet them?”
“T
hey came to the bank one day needing a loan against the business.” His eyes grew somber.
His expression sent a chill down Tiffany’s spine. She waited, knowing there must be more to the story.
“Mei had grown so upset that security had to be called to calm her. I heard the commotion, and went to see what it was about. After all, I am ultimately responsible for the safety of everyone in the building.”
“What was she upset about?”
“Their granddaughter needed a bone-marrow transplant. It was a procedure that was not available in Dhahara at the time. They needed to go to America. The business was already heavily in debt because of Keiko’s medical bills.”
“You helped them.”
“I never said that.”
He didn’t need to. Tiffany studied him. “That was very generous of you.”
“It wasn’t only me—others helped, too. Children like Keiko are the reason I’m so involved in fundraising for the hospital.” He glanced away from her intense gaze. “After lunch I am taking you shopping.”
“Shopping?” The sudden transition to something so inconsequential confused her. “For Keiko?”
“No, for the press conference in the morning where our marriage will be formally announced and for tomorrow night’s banquet. We agreed you needed clothes. You’ll need something suitable to wear.”
“Press conference?” The thought of the all-too-familiar paparazzi flashlights that dogged her parents’ every step filled her with horror. “Can’t we just release a statement?”
He shook his head. “This is part of my duty to the people of my country.”
Just thinking about a press conference made her stomach sink. Thankfully, she hadn’t been photographed for years—her parents had protected her from the relentless glare of Hollywood publicity. And living in Auckland had helped. Now that anonymity would prove a blessing. It was highly unlikely that the press would connect Tiffany, née Smith, wife of Sheikh Rafiq ibn Selim Al Dhahara, with Tiffany Smith, daughter of notorious film director Taylor Smith.
But Rafiq was newsworthy.
And Tiffany knew what would happen if her father glimpsed the photos. He would swoop, and try and take over running her life. She already had enough doubts about her own ability to run it, so she certainly didn’t need her father wading into the fray.
Laying trembling fingers on his, she murmured, “Rafiq, what if the press report who my father is?”
He closed his free hand over the top of hers. “You need to reconcile with your father. Wait—” he said when she would’ve interrupted him. “Not for his sake but for your own peace of mind.”
Tiffany stared at him rebelliously. “That’s all very well, but what do we do if anyone asks today?”
He patted her hand. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll take care of everything. You worry about looking like a princess. Now let’s go buy clothes.”
Tiffany fought the urge to tell him she didn’t need any clothes. Swiftly she reviewed the contents of her luggage. The long, slim gray skirt and white shirt she’d worn the day she’d arrived would not be glamorous enough for the media baying for photos of the royal sheikh’s new bride. Her classic black trousers were not feminine enough and neither of the two maxi dresses she’d packed would be formal enough. And the white dress she’d worn the day she’d met his family was far too unsophisticated for the banquet in the evening—even if it had been created by a young designer whose dresses she loved. And the long dress with gold embroidery that Rafiq had produced for the wedding was far too elaborate for a morning press conference.
It galled her to admit Rafiq was one hundred percent right. None of the clothes she’d brought with her could be described as suitable.
Finally she said, “Okay, let’s go shopping.”
A discreet bronze wall plaque identified the high-end fashion house Rafiq took her to as Madame Fleur’s. It would not have been out of place on Rodeo Drive. The interior of beech-and-chrome cabinetry with glass shelves and black marble floor tiles gave it a sophisticated edge. The black-and-silver labels on the meager range of garments on the racks held no prices. But the cut and quality of the clothes assured Tiffany the cost would be exorbitant.
Far more than she could afford to be indebted to Rafiq at present.
“Rafiq, I don’t think—”
“Don’t think. Madame and I will take care of everything, won’t we?” From where he’d sunk onto a black velvet couch, Rafiq cast the charming smile that Tiffany was starting to recognize at the elegant middle-aged woman whose straight black skirt and black flounced shirt shrieked “French fashion.” Predictably, Madame almost swooned and hurriedly agreed.
Tiffany’s mouth tightened.
“I can choose my own clothes.” It annoyed her that he thought she had no taste, no sense of style.
Swooping on a rack of satin and silks, she selected a dress that wasn’t quite the shade of gold or honey or amber, but a mix of all three. At the sight of the cut, she hesitated. Only a woman with supreme self-confidence would wear a dress like this.
“I was thinking of something darker, more formal,” Rafiq said, rising from his position on the couch. He picked a wooden hanger off a rack and held up a black satin dress with layered flounces from the hip down. “This is perfect.”
“The black dress is beautiful, so elegant,” Madame said after a rapid, assessing glance at Rafiq’s face.
And very expensive.
Madame was determined to make a sale.
Tiffany suppressed a growl. Did everyone do exactly as he wanted?
“This one.” Stubbornly Tiffany pointed to the dress she’d picked, her momentary hesitation forgotten.
“I don’t think—” Rafiq paused. Passing the black dress into Madame’s waiting arms, he smiled and came toward her with long, pantherish strides. Putting his hands on her shoulders he gazed down into her eyes, his own filled with velvety admiration. “You will look beautiful in whatever you wear. I want people to see you as I do—and black suits you.”
“Okay, I’ll try it first,” she found herself saying. A hint of spine had her adding, “But I do prefer the other dress.”
He brushed his lips against her forehead. “Thank you for trying on the black.”
Rafiq knew he’d made the right choice. The dress Tiffany had chosen would be too garish. Black was sedate. Black befitted the wife of a prince of Dhahara.
When the curtains parted, she reappeared looking exactly as he’d expected. Elegant. Untouchable. Suitable.
“Excellent.” He turned to Madame. “We’ll take it.”
Tiffany’s expression grew rebellious. “Hang on. I don’t often wear black.”
He approached her and stroked her cheek. Lowering his voice so only she could hear, he murmured, “You were wearing black the night I met you.”
She shuddered. “And what a mistake that was.”
He couldn’t deny that the cheap, shiny fabric of the too-tight dress with its short skirt and tight layers had been a little tacky. But she hadn’t had the benefit of his—and Madame’s—discerning taste. Although he had to admit that since that night Tiffany had worn surprisingly conservative clothes.
“That was Renate’s dress—not mine.” She spun away, and his fingers fell to his side. “Now I’ll try the other dress.”
Inside the dressing-room cubicle Tiffany found that she was trembling. Not with fear but frustration…and rising fury. She put her hands over her face. How could she have chickened out like that? Why hadn’t she told Rafiq she wanted to select her own dress, something she liked? If he wanted to choose her clothes, he should wear them!
She gave a snort of angry laughter.
All her life she’d let people run her life—make choices and decisions for her. Her father. Her teachers. Imogen. Renate.
It wasn’t happening anymore.
Her hands fell away from her face, and she stared at her image in the mirror with new eyes. She was pregnant. Soon she’d be a mother. She was in charge of
her own life…and her daughter’s. For a couple of minutes out there she’d wimped out when she’d agreed to try on the dress Rafiq had picked—and now he thought he’d won.
He almost had.
Yanking the zipper down, she slid the black dress over her hips and stepped out of it, then hung it on a padded wooden hanger.
The cubicle door opened and Madame swayed in, holding the dress that had caused all the trouble.
“Thank you.” Tiffany gave the designer a demure smile as she took the dress. Her most charming smile—she could take a leaf out of Rafiq’s book. She had no intention of allowing Rafiq to step in and take over—even if he was her husband. He might be rich. He might be a sheikh. He might be a royal prince. But she wasn’t going to let him strip her of the independence and self-respect she’d managed to salvage in the past few months. If she did, she might as well go back home. And tell her father that he had won: she’d come home pregnant, penniless and needing someone else to take charge of her future.
This was no longer about a dress—whatever the darned color.
It was about her…her baby…and their future.
Rafiq had no faith in her taste. Based on Renate’s dress, she couldn’t really blame him. But none of the clothes he’d seen her in since had remotely resembled that awful outfit.
As the dress slithered over her head, Tiffany hoped wildly she had not miscalculated. Too late. She couldn’t fold and let Rafiq choose what she was going to wear for the rest of their lives; she had to show him that unlike all the other women he knew, he couldn’t simply get what he wanted from her with a charming smile or a fake caress.
Behind her Madame eased the zipper up. Tiffany heard her gasp.
“Très magnifique.”
Tiffany spun around. The mirror showed a different woman to the black-clad one who had stood in front of it only minutes ago. This woman was young and vibrant…with a touch of vulnerability and an understated earthiness.
