by Heidi Rice
And she wanted to help him find that man again. Somehow.
But how could she do that, when she had no idea what he was struggling with? She knew he needed a friend, but how could she be a good friend if she didn’t know more about where that haunted look came from?
‘All I can tell you,’ Ameera began, ‘although you must not repeat this to anyone, for it is disrespectful to talk so of a king…’
Orla nodded, realising that Ameera was taking a risk by speaking to her so candidly about her former employer.
‘Is that King Abdullah, His Majesty’s father, was not a man made for marriage…’ Ameera paused as if looking for the right words. ‘Or, I think, for fatherhood. He could be harsh, as a husband. And also as a father. During the summers His Majesty Karim came back here to Zafar as part of the divorce settlement, they clashed often—especially as His Majesty got older—and the old King would have him punished severely for his disrespect.’
‘Oh, no.’ Orla felt her throat closing. Poor Karim, no wonder he was so conflicted now about assuming the throne. And still so angry with his father.
Although her relationship with her own father had become increasingly difficult after her mother’s death, he’d never been a violent man, or a cruel one, or not intentionally so—just increasingly absent.
She was getting the impression King Abdullah Zakar Amari Khan had been both.
‘It must be such a struggle for him to assume the throne if that’s his only role model,’ she murmured.
‘The new King’s advisors say he is very competent and has already made many good changes that are long overdue,’ Ameera interrupted Orla’s thoughts.
Orla’s heart stuttered at the odd wave of pride.
She could well imagine Karim would make a good monarch, he certainly made an extremely efficient businessman, although it wasn’t really what she’d meant.
As if guessing as much though, Ameera added, ‘But his manservant tells me he does not sleep well at night. That he wakes from nightmares and paces his chamber. They believe he is troubled, yes, but it is not their place to understand what is in His Majesty’s heart,’ she finished and Orla heard the soft note of censure.
No, it wasn’t the place of Karim’s advisors or servants to understand what was in his heart—nor could they help him wrestle his demons, whatever they were—because that wasn’t a job of an employee, it was a job of the woman he loved.
And okay, maybe she wasn’t actually that woman. But she was all he had at the moment.
Over the last seventy-two hours she’d been panicking about her own situation. Worrying about what it would mean if she and Karim were forced to go through with this wedding.
But she could see clearly now that Karim was the one who needed an anchor—even more than she did right now. Perhaps it was time to show Karim she could help out with more than just his father’s Arabian stallions.
‘I need to see the King now,’ she said.
Ameera frowned. ‘That is not good luck for your marriage, to see him so soon before the wedding.’
Right. So they had the same silly superstitions in Zafar as they did in Kildare. She sighed. ‘How about if I wrote a note?’ she asked. ‘Could someone deliver it?’
‘That would be very romantic.’ Ameera smiled, obviously pleased with the idea of her and Karim sending each other love notes. ‘I can deliver it, while the ladies prepare your bath.’
‘Grand,’ Orla said.
Now all she had to do was figure out what to write, so Karim would know she was ready to go along with the wedding if that was what he needed. And she was here for him, if that was what he needed, too.
‘Sheikh Zane and Queen Catherine of Narabia and Prince Kasim and Princess Kasia of the Kholadi tribal lands have just arrived at the palace with their entourages. Would you like me to have them taken to their rooms before you greet them?’
Karim glared at Saed Khouri, his head of household, and tried not to snap at the man—especially when the older man flinched and bowed deeply.
Perhaps it was time he admitted defeat. He’d been in negotiations with the Ruling Council for three days now, trying to be diplomatic as he arranged to postpone or cancel this damn wedding while also dealing with a million and one other issues—some large, some small, all urgent—and he’d got absolutely nowhere. While carrying out all his other orders and decrees, the council had effectively steamrollered over all his suggestions to do with the wedding, and now apparently they hadn’t even got around to cancelling the invitations to the neighbouring rulers and other VIP guests that had been sent without his permission.
No way was he going to be able to stop the wedding now.
‘Sure, you do that, Saed,’ he said, not making much of an effort to hide his frustration. ‘I’ll greet them properly in an hour,’ he said, distracted by the thought of the conversation he was going to have to have now with Orla. ‘Make sure they have everything they need in the meantime.’
Karim had met Zane Khan, a distant cousin, and his British wife, Catherine, a few times at events in London and New York and he’d had a few business dealings with Zane’s half-brother, Raif, aka Prince Kasim, but knowing both men and their wives and children had been invited to witness this fake event was not improving his temper.
Karim’s frontal lobe started to pulse as Saed left his study.
Somehow or other he was going to have to explain this whole mess to Orla, and ask her to go through with the wedding. Perhaps he could offer her the job she’d asked for at Calhouns, or something similar. And include the payment she’d originally turned down? A million euros would surely sweeten the prospect of having to pretend to be his Queen for any length of time. But even as he contemplated doing that, he felt the bitter taste in his mouth. How could he offer her money? When he still planned to have a wedding night with her? It was the only damn thing that made the thought of going through with this farce tolerable. Wouldn’t offering her money now be like paying her for sex? Of course, he’d had mistresses in the past, who he had supported financially… But his situation with Orla was not the same. Something about her had always been different from the other women he’d dated. He would certainly never have contemplated going through a marriage ceremony with any of them. Would never have trusted them not to take advantage of the situation. But strangely he did trust Orla. And he wasn’t even sure why.
Maybe it was that moment when she had told him she trusted him? Or maybe it had happened before that, perhaps when she had responded with such artless abandon in his arms in the car journey from Hammonds? Or was it that first night, when she had clung to him and looked to him for protection? And for one terrifying moment, all he’d wanted to do was keep her safe.
It would be deeply ironic—that a woman he was being forced to marry had come to mean more to him than any other woman before her—if it weren’t so damn disturbing. How did you tell someone you actually respected, and who you cared enough about not to use, that you were going to have to use them anyway? He had no idea, as he’d never allowed anyone to get so close to him before. And now he was going to be forced—thanks to what he was sure was the deliberate intransigence of his Ruling Council—to let Orla get closer still.
Karim paced the length of the ornate room, and finally let go of the curse word that had been building inside him.
He had forced himself not to see Orla again before he could give her a definitive answer about the wedding. But he wasn’t sure going to her now was a good idea. After the agony of spending eight hours in a plane with her and two hours in a car—on the journey here—and not being able to put his hands on her, perhaps they both deserved the chance to savour the moment, to spend a long, indulgent night together once this farce was done with?
The knock on the door of his chambers dragged his attention back to the present, but did nothing to stem the hot pulse of heat that tormented him whenever he thought
of her.
‘Who is it?’ he shouted out.
‘Your Majesty, it is Hakim,’ his young manservant called out. ‘I have a message for you delivered by Ameera, your fiancée’s lady-in-waiting.’
Karim frowned. This had to be from Orla, demanding to know what the hell was going on. And how could he blame her? ‘Bring it in.’
The young man came in and bowed, then handed him a handwritten note. He recognised Orla’s swirling handwriting on the envelope, even though he’d only seen it once—when she had signed their engagement contract.
How had so much changed, in so short a time?
The ache in his crotch throbbed as he took the envelope off the silver salver and caught a lungful of her scent, which clung to the paper. He ripped open the envelope. He read the message and felt the vice around his ribs squeeze.
Karim,
I know you’re super-busy at the moment, but I just wanted to tell you however you need to handle our ‘situation’ today, I’m good with it.
BTW, I’m also a great listener. I know ours is not a conventional engagement, but sometimes grief can surprise us and we need a friend.
Orla x
Karim stared at the note. The simple compassion in the words made the hollow ache that had dogged him ever since he had learned of his father’s sudden death turn into a gaping hole in the pit of his stomach.
How did Orla know that he needed her?
He tensed—suddenly feeling more transparent, more vulnerable than he had since he was a boy. And he’d sat in the cold church, staring at the wicket casket covered in flowers, the heavy perfume of the late summer blooms masking the musty smell of old hymnals, his legs dangling from the pew, as tears stung his eyes and he tried to figure out why his mother had left him, when he’d tried so hard to make her happy.
‘Your Majesty, do you have a reply I can give Ameera?’
He looked up to find the young man watching him expectantly. The brutal heat flared into his cheeks as he recognised the hollow ache for what it was. A weakness he could not afford to indulge. And could not allow anyone to see.
He crushed the note in his fist. Leaning on Orla was not an option.
He shouldn’t want her care or her compassion. He couldn’t accept it. Because it would turn him into that defenceless child again—frightened and alone.
‘Yes,’ he said, the grim determination in his words not helping to fill the hole in his stomach. Returning to his desk, he jotted down a note on a piece of paper and folded it, sealed it in an envelope and handed it to the servant.
‘Tell Ameera to give this to Miss Calhoun.’
As Hakim nodded and left, Karim picked up the phone and asked to have his call connected to Carstairs in London.
He needed to arrange to have Orla returned to Kildare as soon as possible after the ceremony. He could then have the marriage annulled discreetly in a few months’ time. There would be questions at first about the Queen’s absence, but his course was clear. He was being forced to go through with this ceremony, but that was all he could go through with. He couldn’t risk making this relationship any more real than it already was. She’d slipped under his guard somehow. And he had to minimise the damage.
She had come to mean too much to him.
Perhaps it was just sexual frustration, the rare chemistry that he had struggled to control, the strange circumstances of their situation, or simply the stress of being forced to assume a legacy he had always believed he would be able to avoid—and the nightmares that had assailed him ever since his return to his father’s home. But whatever the reason, Orla was not the solution to controlling emotions he had thought dead and buried a lifetime ago.
He explained the situation to Carstairs and listened to the man’s stunned surprise at his decision to end his contract with Orla—‘Damn, that’s a shame, Karim, you two looked so good together.’
But the hollow ache, and the inconvenient heat, refused to subside, convincing him that tonight was going to be the longest, most agonising night of his life.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘YOU LOOK BEAUTIFUL, ORLA,’ Ameera murmured as she rolled the veil over Orla’s face.
Orla breathed out a nervous sigh, far too aware of the butterflies going berserk in her stomach as the sound of the waiting guests and dignitaries could be heard in the courtyard beyond. Night had fallen a few minutes before, casting a golden glow over the large antechamber where she had spent several hours being dressed and primped and perfumed and styled to within an inch of her life by a small army of hair and make-up professionals.
‘Thanks, Ameera,’ she said, catching a glimpse of herself in the silver standing mirror near the door.
Her gaze stared through the veil at the stunning red and gold silk dress embroidered with a thousand tiny gems that draped over her figure like a whisper, to reveal the fitted bodice and skirt beneath of traditional Zafari royal wedding attire. Her usually mad hair had somehow been tamed into a cascade of curls, while her eyes had been made up with black kohl to look huge. The make-up artist might as well not have bothered, because her eyes widened to the size of saucers all on their own when she heard the crowd being quietened in the courtyard beyond. A crowd packed with kings and queens, princes and princesses, heads of state and dignitaries from Zafar and its neighbouring countries—all people she didn’t know, and who didn’t know her.
She could hear the announcement of the wedding being made in Zafari and then English by the man who had come to speak to her in detail about the ceremony a few hours ago—right after Karim’s note had arrived, the contents of which continued to whirl round and round in her head.
Orla,
I’m afraid we will have to go through with this farce of a wedding, but I have already made arrangements for your return to Kildare.
In the circumstances, I think it best we don’t share a chamber after the ceremony, so that we may obtain an annulment quickly.
K
The butterflies turned into dive-bombers in her stomach as she forced herself to draw several steadying breaths and ignore the foolish well of disappointment and sadness.
Why was she getting so freaked out?
He hadn’t rejected her, he’d simply stated how things would have to proceed.
But why then couldn’t she get rid of the sharp stab of inadequacy?
Ameera finished adjusting the veil, as the wedding music began and the dive-bombing butterflies threatened to explode out of the top of her head.
‘It is time, Your Highness,’ Ameera squeezed her hand. ‘Do not fear, you will make His Majesty a wonderful bride.’
Except he doesn’t want me as a bride, or anything else.
‘Thank you, Ameera,’ she said, gripping her friend’s fingers back.
The huge brass-panelled doors to the room opened and she was forced to let Ameera go.
Clasping her hands together, she stepped out into the courtyard, flanked by the Queen’s honour guard—who were dressed in long red robes embroidered with gold thread.
Just keep going. And don’t trip.
She forced her feet to move in the red silk slippers along a path lit by torchlight and strewn with rose blossoms leading into the palace’s central garden. She could see faces, so many faces staring back at her. She tried to take some of them in to calm down the dive-bombing butterflies and the pain in her stomach.
A striking man dressed in black tribal wear cradling a beautiful toddler in his arms bowed his head as she passed, while his equally stunning and heavily pregnant wife, who held an identical toddler’s hand, curtsied and sent her a sunny smile.
That smile helped to get Orla past the next line of lavishly dressed diplomats and dignitaries, their critical gaze making her certain they must be able to see what a fraud she was. Then she passed another equally handsome man and his three children of varying ages—who had to be royal t
oo—and his beautiful wife. The woman winked at her as she curtsied and whispered in a British accent, ‘Keep going, Your Highness, you’re nearly there.’
A nervous smile tugged at Orla’s lips, but then she rounded the corner, and the smile died.
Her breath caught in her lungs and her steps faltered as her gaze landed on Karim standing at the end of the line of guests.
He stole the last of her breath; his tall, muscular build made even more overwhelming, if that were possible, by the gold and silver robes of the King and the fierce planes and angles of his face only made more dramatic by the ceremonial headdress.
Royalty totally suited him, she thought, desperately trying to tame the giddy leap of her heart and the now flame-grilled dive-bombing butterflies.
His golden eyes locked on her face, then flared with heat as she approached. The weight of arousal dropped deep into her sex and tangled with the stabbing pain of his rejection.
His shoulders tensed, his sensual lips pressed into a firm line and a muscle in his jaw twitched as he reached out a hand and captured her trembling fingers.
‘Orla…’ he murmured, his voice so husky it seemed to stroke every inch of exposed skin. He blinked as if collecting himself then said so low only she could hear it, ‘This won’t take long.’
But I don’t want it to end.
She stifled the foolish romantic thought.
What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she get this whole thing in perspective? How could she wish for more when she’d always known this wasn’t real?
He drew her to his side and folded his arm under hers to hold her steady, as the officiant began to read out the marriage rites. She had been told the ceremony itself would be brief, but somehow she lost track of time, the force of him beside her completely overwhelming her senses.
She couldn’t hear the officiant’s words over the punch of her own heartbeat. Couldn’t smell the delicate garden perfumes of orange and jasmine and rose over the intoxicating musk of man and soap. Couldn’t feel anything but the strength of his big body next to hers, his thumb absently stroking her knuckles and making the pounding in her sex painful. And couldn’t see anything but the blur of colours through the jewelled veil and the commanding aura of this man who was about to become her husband… And yet not.
