by Lynne Graham
‘It all happened very fast,’ Molly interposed. ‘I’m not sure I can believe it’s really happening...the wedding, I mean.’
‘I think those three bodyguards waiting for you in my hall say it’s happening all right.’ Jan laughed. ‘Clearly, Azrael either wants to ensure that you’re safe everywhere you go or that you don’t run away! I hope you appreciate that I didn’t say a word to the journalists when I was approached. You only worked for my cleaning firm part-time but I didn’t see that was anyone’s business but yours, and when I was asked about your family background I said they had all passed away before I even met you.’
‘Thanks but you needn’t have worried,’ Molly replied ruefully. ‘It’s this wretched hair. Someone recognised me from the photographs that were taken at the airport and phoned up the newspaper to say that I was a cleaner on the night shift where they worked. I wasn’t prepared for the cameras the day I arrived home and I looked such a mess—’
‘No, you didn’t. You simply looked surprised that anyone would bother taking a picture of you!’ Jan giggled. ‘But, Molly, you’re going to be a queen...of course the press is interested in who you are and where you came from.’
‘Let’s hope they don’t dig up any of my stepmother’s relatives or I’ll be christened a wild devil child,’ Molly groaned, grateful for the reality that the bodyguards Azrael had insisted travel with her kept the press at a safe distance.
‘It’s the Cinderella story, the rags-to-riches dream that draws them,’ Jan commented, shaking her head. ‘But I’m not sure I could face living in a foreign country for the rest of my days and, by all accounts, Djalia is a pretty backward place—’
‘No, it’s a country on the brink of transformation,’ Molly corrected without hesitation.
‘The women I saw in photographs were wearing ankle-length dresses,’ Jan protested in an aghast tone of voice.
‘Only because the former dictator imposed a modest dress code on women. Now the female population simply need access to shops to buy modern clothes. There’s a lot of work to be done in opening up the retail trade,’ Molly told her.
‘You sound like a politician,’ Jan whispered in dismay.
‘No, it’s not that. Azrael asked one of the diplomats to make up prompt sheets for me on the sort of facts I should know about Djalia and I’ve been memorising them and now my head is buzzing with all this random information,’ Molly confided ruefully.
‘He gives you prompt sheets the week before your wedding? Who is this guy?’
‘He was only trying to help me,’ Molly parried, registering in surprise that she had become very protective of Azrael. ‘If I get asked questions, I don’t want to talk nonsense now that I’m supposed to be representing Djalia with him.’
And it was true. Molly was feeling the pressure that she had not appreciated would go with the role she had accepted because she didn’t want to stumble and embarrass Azrael by saying or doing the wrong thing. It was the kind of responsibility she had never had before, the kind of responsibility she had belatedly realised that Azrael carried daily during the three days she had stayed at the palace before leaving for London.
He had not returned to the bedroom she had slept in, even though it was supposedly his bedroom. Butrus had casually let drop that Azrael often worked late into the night and slept on the couch in his office and that Prince Firuz, Tahir’s father, had kept Azrael up talking until the early hours that first night. Regardless, Molly had barely seen Azrael except at mealtimes while he racked up office hours dealing with his duties. She had slept alone, which she had told herself was a good thing. Sex would muddy the waters of their relationship, making it personal when it was supposed to be a practical arrangement to get Azrael out of a tight corner. In addition he was paying her for her services and she could hardly sleep with a man in that scenario and either still respect herself or feel that their relationship could have a future.
No, Molly believed that she was much more worldly wise than that and she was determined to protect herself from getting her heart broken. Beautiful Azrael was not going to settle for an ordinary woman, who had once cleaned and served drinks, as a wife. He had admitted that he felt trapped and resentful and when he felt the time was right and the bridal fuss was only a memory he would move on from her without a backward glance.
Looking a little awkward, Jan passed her a Sunday newspaper supplement. ‘I wondered if you’d seen this so I kept it for you...there’s an article about Azrael and Djalia.’
‘No, I hadn’t seen it. I’ll read it when I get back to the hotel,’ Molly said, tucking it into her new capacious leather bag with enthusiasm.
‘It’s not very nice...the article, I mean,’ her friend admitted uncomfortably. ‘Please don’t be annoyed with me for giving it to you.’
‘Of course not.’ But Jan’s warning ensured that Molly had the magazine open even before the limousine carrying her set off back to the hotel.
The horrid photograph of her arriving back from Djalia featured and she groaned out loud. Her hair was frizzy because she hadn’t had conditioner when she’d washed it in Djalia. She wore no make-up because she hadn’t had any with her and the jeans and sweater she had travelled out there wearing were plain and serviceable rather than elegant. Frowning at that unflattering photo, she took a moment or two to appreciate that there was a photo of another woman alongside her own...a sort of comparison set-up, she registered in consternation. And, worst of all, the photo showed Azrael in profile with the glossy brunette.
The brunette was Princess Nasira of Quarein, the niece of Prince Firuz and the young woman whom Azrael had reportedly been expected to marry. Nasira had gorgeous almond-shaped eyes and elegant black hair in an up-do that glittered with diamond pins. Not only was she a beauty but she also had a degree in politics from the Sorbonne in Paris, spoke half a dozen languages and ran a children’s charity in Quarein. The contrast between Molly and Nasira and her many accomplishments, not to mention the Princess’s impeccable pedigree, could not have been more painful or obvious, the slant of the article suggesting that Azrael’s choice of a British bride was both controversial and surprising. Molly turned pale and chewed her lower lip, wondering why Azrael had never mentioned Nasira to her. He had asked Molly if she had anyone in her life! Why hadn’t it occurred to her to ask him the same question?
For pity’s sake, was that why Prince Firuz had visited the palace that very first evening? Had he arrived on behalf of his niece to demand an explanation from Azrael regarding his sudden acquisition of a foreign bride? Was that why Azrael had slept apart from her? Molly reddened, admitting that she was in conflict when it came to that issue. She had sat up waiting for Azrael to reappear that night and then had lain awake for hours mentally listing all the reasons why she should not have sex with him.
In fact she had been all worked up to give him those reasons when he finally reappeared but he had proved a no-show that night and for the two nights that had followed. She never had got to make the speech she had prepared and, although he had phoned her to chat every evening since she had left, it wasn’t really the sort of conversation she wanted to stage on the phone...was it?
* * *
On the same day as Molly struggled with her wildly see-sawing emotions and urges, Azrael was, most ironically, having a similarly disturbing experience. The British press had done an in-depth investigation into his bride’s modest background, which had provided an unpleasant surprise.
In the wake of all Molly had said concerning her ailing grandfather in his care home, Azrael had been extremely surprised to read that Molly’s maternal grandfather had died long before she was born and her paternal grandfather almost as long ago. He had instructed Butrus to carry out the same research and, to Azrael’s dismay, Butrus had confirmed the information.
Molly did not have a living grandfather, which could surely only mean that she had lied to Azrael. He had put a comparatively small amount of money in her bank account to enable her to make initial
payment arrangements with the care home she had mentioned. But if the grandfather didn’t exist, he could only assume that Molly had quite deliberately told him a sob story, intended to play on his sympathies. And the sob story had worked a treat, Azrael reflected grimly. He had been impressed that she was willing to make sacrifices to assist in the care of an elderly relative and he had not been suspicious when she’d insisted that she deal with the care home personally rather than allowing Azrael’s staff to contact the facility on her behalf.
Exactly when had he become so naïve and trusting? Azrael asked himself angrily. His sexual liaisons with women had taught him that his wealth did, if anything, matter more to those women than his looks or character and that the more expensive his gifts, the more they liked him and sought to please. That financial slant had turned him off, making him feel as if he was, in some sleazy way, paying for sex.
Essentially, Molly was no different from those avaricious women, he registered with innate revulsion. She was obviously determined to enrich herself as much as possible from their marriage and the story about the non-existent grandfather and the care home had merely been utilised to impress him and give her a means to demand the money she wanted. Absurdly, from his point of view it was a derisory amount of money, he acknowledged ruefully, but possibly, having come from a less privileged background, it seemed like a lot of money to Molly. Even so, it wasn’t the amount, it was the means she had employed to get that money. He was disappointed in her, furious that she had put together so elaborate a lie and more disturbed by the lying, the greed and the calculation involved than the actual cash.
Why had he expected her to be perfect? No man and no woman was perfect, he told himself logically. She had fooled him, however, and the bitter sense of disgust lingered with him, no matter how hard he tried to shake it off. How the hell could he stay married to a woman with such low principles? And yet, he really did not have a choice on that score...
* * *
Early evening, Molly returned to the building which Butrus studiously referred to as a palace and Azrael called a castle. She grinned at the recollection, recognising that Azrael was blunt in his opinions in comparison to the older man and liking that trait in him. He hadn’t phoned her before her departure from London and she had wondered why, and had even been a little disappointed not to hear his voice, but she had simply assumed that he was too busy to call her. Having taken pains with her appearance, Molly realised that she was quite ridiculously eager to see Azrael again and she scolded herself for feeling what she knew she should not feel. But nothing could slow the fast beat of her heart or the butterflies penned up in her stomach as, with a warm smile at the staff waiting to greet her, she hurried on and sped upstairs to what she now knew to be the private royal wing of the castle.
‘Where’s Azrael?’ she asked Butrus breathlessly after her whirlwind search of those rooms failed to reveal a keen bridegroom awaiting the woman due to become his bride the following day.
His benevolent face somewhat stiff, Butrus forced a smile. ‘The King is in his office, Your Majesty.’
‘Molly will do, Butrus,’ she said comfortably. ‘We don’t need to be formal behind closed doors.’
Butrus nodded while Molly smoothed damp palms down over the fitted green dress she had purchased in a high street store. The dress might have cost more money than Molly had ever spent on one item before and the shoes almost as much but she had an almost overwhelming need to look her very best at her next meeting with Azrael. After all, he had first seen her unconscious and he had never seen her either wearing make-up or dressed up. If it was possible, and she was mortified by her own vanity, she wanted to blow him away...
Azrael glanced up from his laptop when Molly walked into his office without even knocking. He would make her knock in future, he thought sternly, dark as night eyes flaring gold as he took in her altered appearance. She looked spectacular, her shapely figure and terrific legs delineated in a figure-hugging dress and high heels. He went rigid as he connected with bright green eyes full of warmth and vivacity and the smile on that luscious pink mouth. Sexual hunger flooded him with such intensity, he snatched in a fracturing breath, battling the desire that his gold-edged cloak would conceal to stand up.
Molly’s face lit up the instant she saw him, the excitement she couldn’t control flying up inside her like fireworks shooting across the heavens. He should have seemed so foreign to her in his traditional clothing, she told herself weakly, but when she laid eyes on his lean, darkly beautiful face, he was simply Azrael and nothing could detract from the surge of heat and happiness travelling through her. Yet this same man had not even come to welcome his bride back to Djalia, her brain reminded her stubbornly, and she struggled to control her fiery emotions.
‘I can see that you’re busy as usual,’ she said lightly, recognising his Mr Grumpy expression for what it was. ‘But you should have at least come to say hello.’
‘Should I have?’ Azrael countered in a steely tone she had not heard from him before because he was determined to confront her with her dishonesty.
‘Yes, you should’ve done,’ Molly responded simply. ‘It was sort of a little disrespectful that you didn’t make the effort and I’m sure it looked strange to the staff—’
‘My staff do not judge me and I am not disrespectful,’ Azrael parried with hauteur.
‘Obviously you’re not in the best mood,’ Molly remarked frankly, fully registering that reality from his rigid stance and forbidding expression. ‘And I’m not very good with moody people. I was taught that it’s bad manners to take your moods out on other people.’
‘As was I,’ Azrael gritted, fighting a very strong urge to grip her by the shoulders and demand to know how she could smile and act hurt when she had been lying to him almost from the moment he had met her.
‘Clearly it didn’t work in your case,’ Molly muttered hesitantly, reluctant to have a row with him the night before the wedding and deciding that sometimes the best policy was to retreat rather than to fan the flames. ‘Look, I’ll go back upstairs, leave you to work in peace—’
Azrael settled sizzling dark golden eyes on her troubled face. ‘You lied to me!’ he accused with staggering abruptness, unable to restrain his fury any longer.
Hugely taken aback by the accusation and with her hand already on the door knob, Molly frowned. ‘I’ve never lied to you about anything—’
‘I have found you out. There is no grandfather in a care home!’ Azrael ground out in condemnation. ‘He doesn’t exist...you made him up!’
Molly was in shock, her lashes fluttering up and down on his lean, darkly angry face as she wondered wildly if he had been drinking, or if indeed there was a whole other crazy side to Azrael that she was only now seeing. She had never seen him that angry and it was more than a little unnerving, she was willing to admit. A very strong sense of self-preservation made her flip open the door and head straight back to the stairs.
‘Come back here!’ Azrael called after her.
Azrael was shouting where he could be heard, Molly registered in disbelief. Azrael, who was very courteous, well-disciplined and always conscious of listening ears. It freaked Molly out. Thoroughly disconcerted by his uncharacteristic behaviour, Molly fled up the stairs as though all the hounds of hell were on her tail. What did he mean that her grandfather didn’t exist? How could he make such an insane allegation?
‘I will bring coffee to the salon, Your Majesty,’ Haifa assured her at the top of the stairs.
‘Not now, thank you,’ Molly muttered, nervously conscious that Azrael was thundering up the stairs behind her and hastening on down the corridor.
Behind her she heard him rap out a staccato instruction to the housekeeper and she kept on moving, finally darting into the reception room at the foot of the corridor that opened out onto a charming rooftop garden. The French windows stood wide on the sunlight and, mindful of Azrael’s mood, Molly hastily slammed them shut.
‘You will explain
yourself right now!’ Azrael launched at her wrathfully, lodging in the doorway like an immovable rock.
Molly flipped round, her slight body whip taut with tension. The unvarnished anger he could not hide disturbed her because she could not understand what could possibly have changed between them while they had been apart. ‘How can I explain myself when I don’t understand what you’re talking about?’
‘Of course you know what I’m talking about!’ Azrael thundered back at her with conviction.
‘Do I?’ Molly’s own temper was finally beginning to rouse in the face of his seething animosity. And the shock of such a welcome when she had naïvely hoped for a much warmer reception was affecting her outlook as well. She was learning that she didn’t know Azrael as well as she had fondly believed and she wasn’t enjoying what she was discovering. She was even reconsidering what she had read about Princess Nasira and wondering just how much she could trust Azrael. That was a serious question that went right to the heart of their relationship.
‘Do I have to spell out what you have done in words of a single syllable?’ Azrael demanded.
‘Yes,’ Molly traded sharply. ‘How could you possibly say that my grandfather doesn’t exist when I visited him every day I was in London?’
‘Your background was exhaustively researched by the British press and I read the article,’ Azrael informed her. ‘Certain facts about your family tree emerged. You don’t have a living grandfather—’
‘Maurice may be a little confused but I can assure you that he is very much alive and kicking!’ Molly slammed back at him in bemusement.
‘Both your grandfathers are dead, the first before you were born, the second when you were a child,’ Azrael enumerated grimly. ‘So, you lied to me!’
‘No, I didn’t... I have never lied to you!’ Molly flung back at him full volume as the first glimmerings of his misapprehension began to connect the dots for her. ‘And to accuse me of making up a story that I had a grandfather in a care home... I mean, why on earth would I do that?’
