by Abby Green
He had said he would meet her for lunch, but she didn’t believe that. Anyway, she was used to occupying herself.
But then Sharif said, ‘I’ll meet you there. Wait for me.’
He terminated the call and Liyah handed back the phone, a little stunned. And excited. She turned away from the security guard, who pocketed his phone again and resumed his stony-faced position. Liyah tried but failed to block out the fluttery feeling in her belly.
Sharif saw her before she saw him. She was sitting on a low wall facing the Eiffel Tower. She was wearing jeans, Chelsea boots, and a dark green turtleneck under a leather bomber jacket with a sheepskin lining. Her hair was pulled up into a bun, with curling wayward strands framing her face. She also wore sunglasses. No different to many of the monied tourists around her, but a world apart at the same time.
She was drawing attention just sitting still. Her natural beauty too obvious to ignore. But she appeared not to notice. Before, Sharif would have immediately been cynical about that, believing that she was well aware of the attention she attracted. But now...he couldn’t be sure.
He’d been right to investigate her more thoroughly. The fact that she’d flipped the tables on him again was becoming irritating in the extreme.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘HOW DID YOU get a table here at such short notice?’ Liyah asked, taking in the astounding views all around them from the ultra-exclusive restaurant in the Eiffel Tower. Then she rolled her eyes and answered herself. ‘Stupid question, don’t bother answering.’
She looked at Sharif, who was still in the three-piece suit that he’d changed into on the plane before landing. He looked as fresh as if he’d just woken from a ten-hour sleep.
The waiter came and took their orders. Even though they weren’t near the top, they were still high enough that people looked like ants down below, milling around at the bottom of the tower.
Liyah said, ‘I was only joking when I said that you should come. I didn’t mean to break up your day.’
‘I said I’d meet you for lunch.’
The waiter returned with white wine and poured two glasses. Sharif lifted his and said, ‘Santé.’
Liyah clinked her glass with his. ‘Santé.’
She took a sip, but was very aware of Sharif’s gaze, which had turned calculating. She suddenly felt nervous and had no idea why.
He said nothing at first. Over a delicious starter of asparagus, and a main course of chicken breast, he lulled Liyah into a false sense of security by conducting a light conversation regarding her likes and dislikes—everything from movies to books and art.
Apparently he too enjoyed twisty dark thrillers, and he revealed a surprisingly nerdy interest in comic books.
He said, ‘There were tons of them in my Scottish boarding school. I used to take piles of them and hide in one of the gardener’s sheds, and get lost in them for hours. It was worth the punishment when the staff thought I’d run away.’
Liyah gasped. ‘They punished you?’
Sharif’s mouth flattened. ‘It wasn’t a good place.’
He put down his glass of wine and leant forward.
Liyah was still thinking of that dark-haired young boy, being subjected to some awful humiliation, far from home, griefstruck, so when Sharif asked, almost idly, ‘When were you going to tell me that it isn’t you in those paparazzi shots?’ Liyah almost missed it.
Her skin went clammy. Maybe she’d heard wrong. She’d been distracted. ‘What did you say?’
‘You heard me. It wasn’t you in those paparazzi pictures.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I looked at them properly after I realised you weren’t behaving like a spoiled socialite. Far from it.’
Liyah felt as if a layer of her skin had been stripped back. Incredibly vulnerable.
Sharif sat back. ‘What I want to know is why you wouldn’t tell me the truth when I confronted you about it? Why pretend to be something you’re not?’
Liyah admitted defeat. ‘The day you brought it up...it seemed easier just to let you believe what you wanted. I barely knew you. Everything had happened so fast.’ She avoided his eye and plucked at her napkin. ‘I guess it felt like a kind of armour. I wasn’t ready to let you know who I was, and you didn’t seem inclined to want to know.’ She looked at him. ‘You were too busy telling me that I was pretty much a bought companion, purely for public appearances.’
Sharif had the grace to look slightly discomfited. ‘Yes, well... I was still coming to terms with the fact that you, the mystery woman from the oasis, and my new wife were one and the same. And you have to admit that your behaviour that night—our behaviour,’ he amended, ‘didn’t exactly dissuade me from believing the worst.’
‘That was part of it too,’ Liyah admitted. ‘I didn’t think you’d believe me.’
‘So, if you weren’t tripping on and off yachts and spending up a storm and falling out of nightclubs, what were you doing?’
Sharif’s gaze was direct and unwavering. Liyah tipped up her chin. ‘I do like to dance, and I did go to nightclubs.’
‘But, like most people, you probably managed not to fall out of them. Who’s the girl in the pictures?’
‘She’s a Middle Eastern model. One of my sisters spotted that she looked like me. Same hair. Height...’
‘She’s totally different. She’s about half your weight and she has no breasts.’
He glanced at her chest, making Liyah all too conscious of her larger than fashionable breasts under the soft fabric of her sweater. And her nipples were reacting to his look right now, growing hard, tingling...
She said in a strangled voice, ‘I think we look totally different too, but she worked for what my father wanted and so he paid her to behave like a spoiled socialite and then tipped the press off that it was me.’
Sharif—thankfully—lifted his gaze back up to Liyah’s face. ‘Why would he do that?’
Liyah tried to ignore the familiar pang of hurt. ‘Because telling people I was misbehaving all around Europe was preferable to admitting that I had left Taraq to try and live an independent life, which is all I’ve ever wanted.’
‘What were you doing?’
Liyah’s heart was beating fast. She hated it that it mattered to her what Sharif thought. ‘I got a place at Oxford. I did a Master’s in Economic and Social History over two years.’
‘A Master’s? Had you done an undergraduate course?’
Liyah shook her head. ‘No, I’d studied for the Baccalaureate with a tutor in Taraq, and I did an interview, and they accepted me.’ Liyah’s mouth twisted. ‘I’m sure being an international student with ready funds helped.’
Sharif shook his head. ‘They’re more discerning than that at Oxford. How many languages do you speak?’
‘Arabic—obviously. English, French, and passable Italian and Spanish.’
‘And if you were here for the summer holidays, and not falling out of clubs and onto yachts, what were you doing?’
‘One summer I worked in a vineyard in France, picking grapes, and I also worked in the library at Oxford.’
‘And your family were angry that you were doing that?’
‘My father is conservative. He doesn’t approve of my desire for independence. To be honest, I didn’t expect them even to notice that I was gone.’
Liyah looked directly at Sharif, daring him to pity her. This wasn’t about self-pity—even if her family’s disregard for her had brought pain.
‘My father turned his back on me a long time ago—after my mother died. He moved on with his other wives and children.’
Sharif said tautly, ‘That’s why I have no intention of having children. I’ve only known a father to be a destructive force, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone else.’
Before, Liyah would have agreed with Sharif, but somethin
g rogue made her say now, ‘We’re not our fathers.’
‘Do you want children?’
In all honesty, Liyah wasn’t sure any more. ‘I want a life of freedom and independence. I don’t see how children fit into that. And I’m aware that’s selfish.’
Sharif shook his head. ‘It’s not selfish to want what most people take for granted. You’ll have all the freedom you want within a year at the latest, Liyah. You’ll be wealthy enough to do whatever you want, wherever you want.’
Once again, instead of relief, Sharif’s words precipitated an ominous ache inside her. It was the same hollow sensation she’d felt when he’d laid out so succinctly that he didn’t want a relationship...
There was a low beeping sound and Sharif picked up his phone, which had been face-down on the table. Liyah blinked and looked around. She’d been so caught in the bubble of Sharif’s focus that she hadn’t noticed that the restaurant had emptied around them.
He was speaking into his phone now. ‘Okay, we’ll see you there.’ He put his phone away and said, ‘That was my brother Nikos. He and his wife Maggie will also be at the charity ball tonight, so you’ll get to meet them.’
‘They live in Paris?’
Sharif nodded as he gestured to one of the staff for the bill. ‘They also have a house in Ireland, and they spend a lot of time there. Maggie’s Scottish, but was brought up in Ireland. They have a son, Daniel, who is about eight months old, and Maggie is pregnant with their second child.’
Liyah squinted at Sharif. ‘So, you have a nephew and another one, or a niece, on the way?’
Sharif made a face. ‘It’s a girl, apparently. And my other brother Maks has just announced that his wife is pregnant too.’ He stood up. ‘I’m afraid I have to go back to the office, but my driver can take you to the apartment. We’ll leave for the ball at seven p.m.’
Liyah stood up too, still absorbing the fact that Sharif’s brothers seemed to be well on their way to creating families. Surely if they had only got married for appearances’ sake, like her and Sharif, they wouldn’t be actively having babies?
As they walked back outside Sharif put on his overcoat and sunglasses. Liyah saw the women nearby—and the men—doing double takes. And then third takes. She rolled her eyes.
Sharif said again, ‘Take my car.’
Liyah said, ‘It’s okay. I’ll walk back to the apartment.’
‘Suit yourself. A stylist will bring some dresses by for you to choose from. It’s a black tie event.’
Liyah was turning away when Sharif called her name. She stopped. He came and stood in front of her. She couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark shades.
He said, ‘Don’t let them touch your hair. Leave it loose.’
Liyah’s heart hitched. ‘Why? It’s so messy—’
‘Just...don’t touch it.’
He turned and walked away, long strides putting distance between them within seconds. Liyah looked after him, afraid of the very tender sensation she could feel near her heart because he wanted her to look like...her. Especially after what she had just revealed—the truth about her European trip. The truth of who she was.
A bit of an academic nerd. Someone who wanted to travel. And read. And be independent. Someone most of her family didn’t really care about.
The fact that Sharif had realised himself that she wasn’t the girl in the photos had hit Liyah in a very deep and secret place, where she hid her hurts and vulnerabilities. It was all too seductive to read a deeper meaning into Sharif’s comment about leaving her hair in its natural unstyled state.
But then Liyah castigated herself and turned abruptly and walked away in the opposite direction. She was being ridiculous. There was no deep or hidden meaning in Sharif wanting her to leave her hair alone. Absolutely none. No matter how much she might want there to be.
And that was something that she definitely was not going to acknowledge.
That evening, Liyah took a deep breath as she stood in front of the mirror. It was crazy—she knew she was a princess—but increasingly she actually felt like a princess.
The dress was strapless, with a sweetheart neckline and low back. How it stayed up was a feat of engineering and bodice work that Liyah didn’t understand, but it felt secure. It was in the most delicate shade of blush pink, almost nude with a golden embroidered overlay. It had a cinched-in waist and a full, long tulle skirt and a small train that made it dramatic without being too loud.
The dress shimmered and glistened when she moved, and with it she wore gold hued high heels.
A very nice girl had appeared with the stylist, to do her hair and make-up, and the stylist had brought her pink diamond earrings and a matching bracelet.
The women had left not long ago, and now Liyah looked at herself again. Her hair was down, as requested, and the girl had brushed it until it flowed like ripples of silk over her shoulders, the unruliness tamed somewhat.
There was a knock on the door. Liyah’s heart slammed against her breastbone. She opened it, and her eyes widened as she took in Sharif in a white tuxedo jacket, with a white shirt and black bow tie. He looked dark and sexy.
There was silence. And then Sharif said, ‘You look...stunning, Liyah.’
She felt shy. ‘Thank you. So do you.’
They went down to the foyer of the building, where the concierge held open the door and their driver was waiting, helping Liyah into one side of the car while Sharif got into the other.
The dress had a thigh-high slit and Liyah held the edges together over her thigh for the duration of the journey. Not that Sharif would even notice if she stripped naked, she was sure.
When they arrived at a seriously opulent-looking hotel, Sharif got out and came around, opening her door. He helped her out and kept hold of her hand, leading her onto the red carpet.
They stopped for the ubiquitous pictures. Liyah tried not to flinch every time a flash went off, wondering if she’d ever get used to it.
Beside her, Sharif said, sotto voce, ‘That was one of the first things to make me suspect that perhaps there was more to you than you’d told me.’
‘What was that?’
‘Your lack of ease in front of the photographers. I noticed it at the Met.’
She looked up and met his gaze. A moment passed between them—a sense of affinity, delicate and ephemeral. His eyes moved to her mouth and he lifted a brow in question. Liyah knew what he was asking and she gave one tiny nod, her skin prickling all over in anticipation.
His head descended and his mouth brushed hers, light enough to tease, but strong enough to make her move closer, making a small sound. Her free hand went to his chest and he caught it there.
Then he pulled back. The world was a deafening clatter of sound and flashing lights.
‘Mr Marchetti, another kiss, please!’
‘Princess Aaliyah—over here. Who are you wearing?’
Liyah felt dizzy, but she watched as Sharif calmly faced the photographers and said, ‘Mrs Marchetti is wearing Elie Saab couture.’
He moved forward and Liyah followed unsteadily, trying to get her hammering heart back into a normal rhythm. He’d barely kissed her, and it had been purely for the cameras, but she was reduced to jelly. What would happen if he kissed her in private?
Not going to happen, she reminded herself.
By the time they reached the main reception she was marginally under control again.
Sharif stopped suddenly and said something in Italian that she didn’t catch. Then he turned to her, pulling his phone out. ‘There was something I wanted to show you before we left the apartment, but I got distracted.’
Liyah’s heart sped up again. Had she distracted him? She hoped so, because he distracted her all the time.
He handed her his phone. It was a press release, headed with the Marchetti Group’s logo.
W
e accept the apology from Celebrity! Magazine, which published photos of a woman last year, claiming them to be of Princess Aaliyah Binte Rashad Mansour.
It was, in fact, a model called Ameera Sayam.
Celebrity! Magazine have agreed to donate an undisclosed amount of money to a charity chosen by the Marchetti Group, and extend their apologies for having caused Mrs Aaliyah Marchetti any distress.
The words swam ominously in front of Liyah’s eyes and she quickly blinked. Until that moment she hadn’t realised how hurtful it was that her own father had betrayed her in such a way. And now Sharif had gone out of his way to clear her name.
She handed back his phone. ‘Thank you...you didn’t have to do that.’ Her voice was husky.
‘I did, actually. Your reputation now affects me and the Marchetti Group.’
Liyah’s emotions shrivelled. He’d done it for pragmatic reasons. Not for her. ‘Of course.’
A waiter approached and Sharif took two glasses of champagne, handing Liyah one. She avoided his eye and took a quick sip, hoping he wouldn’t notice anything. What was it about this man? She’d been more aware of her emotions in the past couple of weeks than she had her whole life.
And of your desires, pointed out a wicked inner voice.
Sharif took her hand again and led her into the crowd. She’d never seen so many beautiful people in her life. Women in shimmering dresses like hers. Blinging with jewels... The smell of perfume was almost overwhelming...
And then from behind them Liyah heard a voice.
‘There they are! Sharif!’
Sharif turned around and Liyah followed him to see a man approaching. He was as tall as Sharif and very dark, with thick curly hair. He was also astonishingly good-looking, with a classical beauty that reminded Liyah of a Greek statue. She recognised Nikos from the pictures she’d seen on the internet.
And the woman beside him. Tall—as tall as Liyah, if not taller—and very pale, with golden russet hair piled high, huge blue eyes.
She looked at Liyah and exclaimed, ‘You must be Aaliyah!’ She stuck out a hand. ‘I’m Maggie. It’s so nice to meet you.’
