Bundle of Brides

by Kay Thorpe

  She had started out wanting to apologise, to provoke a discussion at least. But Kahlil had rebuffed her. He’d preferred to eat in silence. Venting her frustration, she had complained about the high levels of security surrounding Edward, saying she feared they would intimidate him as he grew older and more aware.

  ‘My son will not be intimidated by anything,’ Kahlil had told her, stabbing a piece of omelette with his fork. ‘It’s time to grow up, Lucy,’ he’d snapped then, throwing down his cutlery as he stared at her. ‘Privilege has its price.’ Standing up, he’d thrust his chair back so violently it had made an angry, grinding noise on the wooden floor.

  And then Leila had walked in, and Lucy had asked her to take Edward into the nursery for his breakfast rather than subject him to his parents’ bickering. But Kahlil had walked out soon after that, brushing off her attempts to thank him for his wonderful gift. It was too late for thanks, he’d informed her coldly. And now Lucy felt as if she had never deserved to own the Hall in the first place…

  Glancing down at the gold band on the third finger of her left hand, she saw how shiny it was—shiny and new and undamaged. Unlike her relationship with her husband of just a few hours. She had spent most of the flight working out how many contracts she would have to win to pay Kahlil back—for she would pay him back. She had made that promise to herself this morning. The gift of Westbury Hall was far too great. And after their non-existent wedding night she felt more determined than ever not to be in his debt.

  She looked away as Kahlil flashed a glance at her. He looked unusually strained. She suspected the long celibate night had got to him every bit as much as it had got to her. If there was one thing that always went right between them it was sex. But there could have been so much more than that—if only Kahlil hadn’t been so proud, and she hadn’t been so defensive, so blinkered…

  ‘Lucy?’

  ‘Yes?’ Lucy looked up as Kahlil moved to sit across from her.

  ‘Is something wrong? I heard you sigh.’

  ‘Nothing,’ Lucy said quickly, dismissively. ‘It was nothing. I was just daydreaming.’

  ‘Then it is time you came to grips with reality,’ he observed dryly, making a signal to the flight attendant.

  Kahlil’s concern was nothing more than the concern of a responsible employer for a member of staff, Lucy thought as she listened to him giving instructions to the flight attendant for lunch in the same low tone. And perhaps she could learn something from him; perhaps the six-month marriage would pass more easily if they learned to act politely but unemotionally towards each other.

  ‘My wife and I will take lunch here,’ he was saying. ‘Everyone else will eat in the second compartment.’

  The man bowed and went about his duties, leaving them alone. And then Lucy saw the Council members gathering up their papers as they prepared to move to another section of the plane.

  ‘To us,’ Kahlil murmured sardonically, raising a glass of chilled champagne.

  Holding his gaze, Lucy took a sip. ‘To us,’ she repeated mechanically.

  Putting his glass down on the table again, Kahlil looked at her. ‘I have just finished dealing with a whole raft of problems, both large and small, troubling my employees. Would it help if I added yours to the mix?’

  ‘No, it would not help,’ Lucy said tensely. She was almost ready to accept the situation, but she wasn’t in the mood for his irony. ‘And as far as I am aware,’ she added, ‘I am no longer one of your employees. I am your wife.’

  ‘Really?’ Kahlil said, tilting his head to look at her. ‘Not yet, you’re not.’

  Lucy gasped at his bluntness, and in the same instant felt the familiar tug of desire.

  ‘And does your contract at the Golden Palace mean nothing to you?’

  The contract! Lucy realised she hadn’t even given it a thought…and there had been one or two minor complications that meant it might take longer than six months. ‘Kahlil, we need to talk,’ she said, putting down her glass.

  ‘Yes, we do,’ he agreed, crossing one lean denim-clad leg easily over the other and keeping his dark, watchful eyes trained on her face.

  ‘You know I have always intended to finish my work at the Golden Palace.’ With no effort at all, Kahlil had put her on the defensive again. But he gave a small nod of his head, encouraging her to continue. ‘And I will complete the contract,’ she said. ‘But I want neither your money nor your pity.’

  ‘Who said you could have either?’

  His eyes were narrowed, his firm, sensuous mouth curved in a cynical smile. He was playing her like a mouse, Lucy suspected. ‘I just don’t need a replay of Westbury Hall.’

  ‘Explain,’ Kahlil said, opening his hands.

  ‘I want to complete my contract on the Golden Palace without your interference. The recovery of my business, the payment of my debts—everything I thought I had achieved through my own efforts—was only made possible because of you, because of your over-generous payment for Westbury Hall.’

  ‘You built up your business before we met a second time,’ he argued. ‘I think you underestimate yourself.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  And as for the Hall—I paid what I thought it was worth.’

  ‘And now you’re giving it to me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lucy realised she had never felt so bad about anything. But was the Hall a gift or a pay-off, a bribe for six months’ good behaviour? Her thoughts started flying in all directions.

  ‘Was buying the Hall at an inflated price your way of paying me off?’

  ‘Be under no illusion, Lucy. I have never had to pay for sex in my life.’

  She believed him, and for a moment all she was aware of was Kahlil’s eyes searching her own.

  ‘Is that it?’ he said, breaking eye contact at last. ‘Or is there anything else you’d like to ask me?’

  Or any insults she’d like to fling at him? he seemed to imply. But what more could she say? He had deceived her over Westbury Hall, and she had made no attempt to track down Edward’s father. They were both in the wrong. Neither of them could deny what they had done.

  The tension between them lifted a little when the flight attendant returned with a platter of salad. Lucy knew she could either fight with Kahlil for six months, or she could try and reach some sort of accommodation with him. But in order to reach a compromise she had to state her terms clearly.

  ‘While we are married I will continue to work—’

  ‘You’ll certainly finish your contract,’ he said dryly, looking up from his fork at her through a fringe of black lashes.

  ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘And as for Westbury Hall—don’t talk about overpayment as if it is a crime. I may have behaved clumsily, but I was pleased to pay over the odds in order to ensure you did not suffer any more financial embarrassment. I wanted you to have the chance to get back on your feet—although you surpassed even my optimistic hopes for you by winning the design competition. No one was more surprised than me to see you in Abadan with a baby in tow.’

  ‘Our baby.’

  ‘Our baby,’ he granted. ‘My son.’

  ‘Our son.’

  Lucy gasped as Kahlil took hold of her upper arms in strong hands, and drew her to her feet in front of him.

  ‘It is time to stop playing games, Lucy,’ he said tensely. ‘You’re my wife now.’

  Desire flared between them, but Lucy was still haunted by the memory of a man called Kahl: a man who had taken his fill and then taken his leave without a single word of explanation. She was determined to hold on to her self-control.

  ‘So you get it all?’ she said coolly, meeting Kahlil’s gaze.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ he agreed. ‘I get my son, I get Westbury Hall, and I get a wife—quite a haul, don’t you think?’

  His arrogance was breathtaking. Who did Kahlil think he was? A pirate? A buccaneer who seized everything in his path that pleased him? ‘You haven’t got me yet,’ Lucy said with defianc
e, but the look in Kahlil’s eyes had changed subtly in a way that made her want to melt against him.

  ‘And you haven’t received your wedding present yet,’ he whispered, holding her so she couldn’t get away.

  ‘You gave me Westbury Hall—I don’t want anything else.’

  ‘You don’t want anything else?’ he repeated harshly. ‘Forgive me if I disagree, but I think you do.’

  Propelling her in front of him, Kahlil steered Lucy in the direction of his private quarters on board the royal jet.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THERE was a bed, a desk, and a sofa in Kahlil’s spacious private cabin.

  ‘Why have you brought me here?’ Lucy said, wishing there was some alternative to staring him in the face. But he had her pinned against the door, with one arm resting at the side of her head, and was quite happy to let the moment hang.

  The electricity between them was incredible, and Lucy suspected Kahlil enjoyed watching her suffer. It pleased him to look at her this way, watching her cheeks grow red with desire and her eyes darken with passion. She wanted him. She ached for him. Her whole body was on fire. She wished life could be simple! If it was Edward’s happily married parents would on their way back with him now to a glowing future in Abadan. Instead of which—

  ‘Why do you think we are here?’ Kahlil’s thoughts cut into hers like a knife. And then, before she could reply, he said, ‘I’ve given you everything you asked for. Isn’t it time you gave me something in return?’

  Lucy went cold. All her passion subsided. She was his wife, and she had agreed to six months of married life to establish Edward’s legitimacy. That was the price she had agreed to pay. But she had assumed it would be a marriage in name only, followed by a pain-free divorce. However much she wanted Kahlil, sex could never be something she made available on demand.

  But she had misjudged him again, Lucy realised, as with one final assessing look Kahlil pulled away from her and walked across to the slim desk against the wall, where several documents were awaiting his attention in a pile.

  ‘Come here,’ he said, selecting one of them. ‘You need to sign this.’

  Lucy went to join him and, forced to lean over his shoulder, read the introduction. It was the contract she had never signed.

  ‘You don’t think a lot of me, do you, Lucy?’ Kahlil said, swinging round to look at her.

  On the contrary, Lucy thought. Her husband was an awe-inspiring individual by any measure. She would have been proud to acknowledge him as the father of her son without all the accoutrements of immense wealth, let alone the title he bore. Kahlil was exactly the type of man she would have chosen to father Edward. It was she who could never be a suitable wife for the future ruling Sheikh of Abadan.

  ‘Pen?’ he prompted. ‘You should have signed this before the wedding and saved yourself a lot of unnecessary grief. I expect you haven’t even read it through.’

  Lucy couldn’t meet his gaze.

  ‘Just as I thought,’ Kahlil said. ‘You chose not to read it. You chose to think the worst of me.’

  ‘A marriage contract seems so cold-blooded,’ Lucy said honestly.

  ‘Not in our case, surely? Did you expect romance?’ he said when she didn’t answer. ‘Read it now,’ he said, pulling out a chair for her to sit on.

  Almost at once Lucy realised that the contract was weighted heavily in her favour. Her freedom from a loveless marriage was guaranteed after six months. She could even leave Kahlil sooner than that, should she choose to do so.

  ‘No strings—no commitment,’ he said, handing her a fountain pen.

  The way Kahlil wanted it, she thought. ‘Couldn’t I have signed this out there?’ she said, indicating the main cabin.

  ‘Even my ministers do not know of our arrangement,’ Kahlil said. ‘It would undermine Edward’s position if gossip spread.’

  That made sense, Lucy conceded, signing the document. ‘Thank you,’ she said, returning the pen to Kahlil.

  ‘You should feel reassured now,’ he said, going to the door to open it for her.

  She had been wrong about him all along, and now it was too late to make things right, Lucy realised. Her glance brushed the bed. The covers were pristine, untouched—and likely to remain that way for ever as far as she was concerned. Kahlil had given her everything she’d asked for and more: shared custody of Edward, freedom to continue working and providing for her son. Additions she hadn’t even asked for included her own suite of rooms at the Golden Palace, and all the honour due to a princess of Abadan for the rest of her life. And he had given her the greatest gift of all: her freedom. But instead of feeling elated she felt beaten for the first time in her life.

  ‘There is one more thing,’ Kahlil said, picking up a bunch of keys from a table by the door. ‘These belong to you now.’

  The keys felt heavy and cold in Lucy’s hands. ‘Westbury Hall?’ she murmured, staring down at them.

  Kahlil inclined his head in assent.

  Now she really did have everything she wanted, Lucy thought. And now she understood how little comfort bricks and mortar offered in place of the man she loved. ‘Have you finished with me now?’ she said faintly.

  ‘Should there be more?’ Kahlil said.

  ‘No, of course not. I’ll go and see Edward now.’

  ‘Yes,’ Kahlil said, making no move to follow her as Lucy returned to the main cabin. ‘Go to your son.’

  Late spring in Abadan had to be one of the most beautiful times of the year, Lucy thought as she sat on a ledge by the open window in her bedroom at the palace. And the silver dawn was definitely the most beautiful time of day.

  Today was her wedding day—her Arabian wedding day. And this time she had no expectations, no false hopes. Kahlil had been as good as his word, leaving her to her own devices, not intruding on her work or her time with Edward. She should be satisfied. But instead she felt completely empty.

  She was just starting to pull away from the window when something drew her back again. And then she saw Kahlil, dressed in riding breeches, striding across the courtyard flanked by his ministers. Time passed, but everything remained the same, Lucy mused, watching the same intense little man scurrying along by Kahlil’s side, trying to keep up with him. Kahlil seemed to have a lot of instructions for him today, she noticed. But of course it was Kahlil’s wedding day too—a thought so obvious, and yet incredible. He was like a stranger to her, a stranger she was about to marry—unless she took the initiative and changed the situation…

  Impulsively, Lucy raced across the room to the ante-room where her clothes were kept. ‘Where the hell…?’ she muttered impatiently, slamming things back on the rails as she hunted for her jeans.

  The royal stables were within easy walking distance of the main palace—the way Kahlil liked it. He could always clear his mind, think things through, relax and expend any excess energy he might be harbouring with a good gallop. And it was exactly what he needed now.

  He had no idea how he was going to go through with it. The civil ceremony in England had been one thing—the dignitaries, the pomp and ceremony had meant nothing to him…not in his heart, not where it really mattered. But here, here in the vast burning truth of the desert, the simple ceremony in front of his people—people who trusted him, people who expected the best of him—

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said in Abadanese, when a groom hurried out to await his orders. ‘I’ll saddle him myself.’

  He looked with pride at his stallion, Helix. The horse was perfectly proportioned, and hard, like a spring wound up to its limit. Just as he was, Kahlil reflected, slapping the flank of the magnificent black stallion to show his affection. The mighty creature nuzzled his shirt, hunting for the mints he kept there as he slipped a bridle over the proud head.

  ‘He’s beautiful.’

  ‘Lucy!’ Kahlil murmured in astonishment. And then, when his heart-rate had steadied a little, he added with concern, ‘Shouldn’t you be back at the palace, preparing yourself for the we
dding? Several of our top beauticians have been brought in to wait on you.’

  ‘Am I so ugly?’

  The sudden humour threw him for a moment. ‘No, no, of course you’re not,’ he said wryly.

  ‘So I’m just vain?’ Lucy suggested, playing along with him.

  Kahlil shrugged as he tightened the girth. ‘I thought you would like it—I thought they might help you to relax.’

  ‘Could I ride with you?’

  ‘Ride with me?’ he said in astonishment. He hesitated with his hand on the saddle. It was the last thing on earth he had been expecting. ‘Why not?’ he murmured. And then he looked down the line of open stable doors, where several inquisitive heads were leaning out, ears pricked. ‘A quiet gelding, perhaps?’

  ‘What about this beautiful boy?’

  ‘Helix? Don’t be silly.’

  ‘Silly?’ Lucy queried, head on one side. ‘Why, Kahlil? Is Helix a man’s horse?’

  ‘Well, yes…’ Kahlil stopped. He could tell she was teasing him. And he could see where it was leading. ‘He’s a very strong horse—hard to handle. Your physical strength—’

  ‘Would not be equal to the task?’ Lucy challenged, staring up at him steadily. ‘I’ve seen your jockeys, Kahlil. They are all smaller than me.’

  ‘And stronger.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  They stared at each other head-on for a few seconds, then Kahlil spoke to the groom still hovering close by. ‘Bring out Terco for me to ride.’ And without another word he began to shorten the stirrups for Lucy, while the magnificent stallion snorted and raked the ground in anticipation of his morning gallop.

  ‘Terco means tough in Spanish, doesn’t it?’ Lucy remarked, following Kahlil round. ‘And stubborn is an alternative meaning, I believe. I think it’s perfect that you should ride Terco,’ she teased lightly when Kahlil had finished and turned to give her a look. ‘But why does he have a Spanish name?’