A Cinderella for the Desert King

by Kim Lawrence

  The image that floated into his head slowed his stride as he recalled the details of that perfect oval face, which was dominated by extraordinary eyes framed by dark lashes the same sooty black as the sweeping brows.

  ‘Zain, glad you could make it.’ Pushing away the distracting image, but not before his body had hardened in reaction, Zain held his brother’s eyes as Khalid slid an arm around the waist of the nearest blonde and, leaning in close, said something that made her giggle.

  It took effort but Zain didn’t deliver the reaction the provocative action had been designed to shake loose and his facial expression stayed locked in neutral, the contempt in his eyes concealed by the mirrored lenses of his designer shades.

  After a moment, Khalid let the girl go, his expression petulant as he nodded to one of the minders standing a few feet away, the man quickly reacting and ushering the fawning crowd away.

  Khalid did not speak until the sound of their high heels had vanished.

  He stood to one side and pulled open one of the doors, inviting his brother with a nod to look inside the interior of the expensive plaything. ‘So, what do you think? They have only made five of these beauties...’

  ‘I think that the people affected by the cuts to the health budget might question your priorities.’

  Khalid’s laughter was not a pleasant sound and neither was the hacking cough that followed it.

  As the paroxysm of coughs continued Zain’s brow creased in a frown of reluctant concern, though his eyes remained wary as he framed his brusque question. ‘Are you all right?’

  A white linen handkerchief pressed to his mouth, Khalid straightened up, his eyes above the white filled with glittering black enmity that was in stark contrast to his words as he took away the handkerchief and made his response without answering his brother’s question. ‘So, you think the health cuts are a bad idea?’

  Zain lifted one darkly defined brow. ‘And I’m meant to believe that you are actually interested in what I think?’

  The handkerchief spoilt the line of his tailored trousers as Khalid shoved it back into his pocket and pulled the passenger door wide. ‘We don’t have to be enemies, do we?’ His sigh was deep and his tone wistful.

  An olive-branch moment. Logic and experience should have made Zain walk away, but he didn’t. Instead he called himself a fool and stood there thinking optimistically that maybe it was true what they said about blood being thicker than water. Either that or he was certifiable.

  Zain dragged a hand across his dark hair, the action weary. ‘I’m not your enemy, Khalid.’ Something flashed in his brother’s eyes but it vanished too quickly for Zain to tell if it was anything more than a trick of the light.

  ‘I’ve always been jealous of you, you know. Your friends, your—’

  ‘You have friends.’

  Khalid gave a hard laugh. ‘I buy people...that doesn’t make them my friends.’

  Zain had never imagined his brother capable of such insight, let alone the courage to admit it aloud.

  ‘Come, let’s not argue. Take a drive with me.’ Khalid pulled the door wider. ‘I haven’t put her through her paces yet.’

  After a pause, Zain got in.

  ‘All buckled up?’ Khalid asked, glancing at his brother. ‘You can’t be too careful. I thought we’d take the scenic route.’

  Zain glanced at the speedometer as they hit the first bend. His brows lifted at the number on the dial, but he didn’t feel nervous—his half-brother was bad at many things but driving wasn’t one of them.

  By the time they hit the third bend on a road famous for its hairpin turns and the crashes they had caused, a layer of tension had descended onto his shoulders.

  ‘Do you want me to slow down, little brother?’ Khalid mocked as he overtook a lorry on a bend, pulling in just in time to avoid a car coming in the opposite direction.

  ‘Are you high?’ Zain asked.

  ‘High on life...high on...actually I probably am, though the drugs don’t really work the same now. You see, little brother, I’m dying. I have lung cancer and it’s already spread. I’m terminal.’

  ‘Medical—’

  ‘Advances are made every day. I know. But I also know they won’t work for me.’ The low purr of the car became a growl as he floored it once more around the next bend.

  ‘It’s not too late for us to—’

  ‘Bury the hatchet? How heroically noble and so very Zain...’ he spat. ‘But it’s too late for that. Don’t look sad, brother, we all die. But knowing the when and the how...that changes things, gives you back the power. Yes,’ he said, watching with a smile as Zain’s hand moved to the door handle. ‘It’s locked, but going at this speed you’d die even if you could open it.

  ‘You know, the worst thing about learning I was going to die was knowing that you’d be there after me, taking my place on the throne...in my wife’s bed...but now it’s fine because I’ve realised that death is actually a gift. Because I can take you with me.’

  Zain lunged to take the wheel but his brother kept the car on its trajectory, a trajectory that would send it sailing off the cliff and into space. Zain transferred his attentions to the door, slamming and kicking to gain his freedom.

  ‘Relax and enjoy it, little brother. I intend to.’ Khalid’s laugh turned into a cry of rage as the door finally gave and Zain threw himself through it.

  * * *

  Wide, cool corridors radiated out from the octagonal central atrium, where light from the glass dome sparked rainbow reflections off the water cascading from the fountain into a mosaic-lined pool.

  It felt more like a five-star hotel than any hospital Abby had ever experienced, certainly nothing like the ones she remembered from her childhood. She’d been six when she had first arrived at one in the back of an ambulance. She remembered the rush of cold December air that brushed over her before the trolley she had lain on was pushed through a wide set of double doors and whisked along what had seemed a never-ending corridor. The lights shining down from the ceiling had made her head ache.

  There was a gap in her recollections between that point and later when she’d found herself sitting in a hard-backed chair, her feet not touching the floor as she swung them. She had been counting in her head the trail of bright red splodges on the tiled floor that stopped at the curtain that hid from view the people who were making the loud noises, the people who were trying to save her parents.

  They’d tried for a long time. Abby had climbed out of the chair and wandered off long before they’d admitted defeat. Her gran told the story of how she’d been found later, thumb in mouth, asleep on the floor of a sluice room.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’

  Abby dropped the hand she’d raised to shade her eyes from the rainbow colours dancing on the water and turned, the motion displacing the silk scarf that her British escort had handed her before they stepped out of the car... Not essential but a nice gesture, he’d said.

  She knew the green filaments in the scarf emphasised the deep emerald of her eyes and she adjusted it again over the burnished waves of her hair, which seemed determined not to be covered.

  ‘Will we be able to fly back tonight, Mr Jones?

  ‘We all want this situation to be resolved as swiftly as possible,’ came the frustratingly vague response.

  His voice, like everything else about the man, was nondescript and unmemorable. Abby had only encountered him once before and if it had not been for the extraordinary circumstances under which they’d met, she doubted she ever would have remembered him. And circumstances didn’t get much more extraordinary than the ones that had preceded her arrival at the British Embassy in the Aarifan capital city ten months ago.

  She’d told her story to at least half a dozen people before Mr Jones appeared, and over another cup of tea she had related her tale yet again. He had listened, then pressed her on a
few specific points. Had she actually read the document she’d signed? Had the man who’d come to her rescue given his name?

  His gentle persistence had sent alarm bells ringing in her head.

  ‘I’m not actually married though, right? It wasn’t real...?’

  He’d been very soothing on that point and told her absolutely not. He’d then advised her to forget what had happened and to go home and get on with her life.

  So Abby had. Well, she had got on with her life. Forgetting was another thing. Her memories had taken on a surreal dream-like quality, the man who rescued her the stuff fantasies were made of.

  Fantasies had no place in Abby’s life though; she was too busy for that nonsense. Though the tall fantasy figure did insert himself into her dreams, and even then she frequently didn’t recall the details of the dreams he’d invaded but she’d know he’d been there by the heavy, nameless ache in the pit of her stomach that lingered when she awoke...too soon, it always felt.

  Mr Jones had been the last person she had expected to see waiting outside her flat door when she arrived home yesterday afternoon after a particularly depressing appointment with the agents selling her grandparents’ old home.

  The timing couldn’t have been worse. She had just about put together enough money for the deposit and she had a mortgage in place... She’d assumed all she’d have to do was sign on the dotted line. The man had not laughed outright in her face, but he had come close.

  ‘I’m afraid, Miss Foster, that the housing market has been buoyant since your grandparents sold. The present vendors are asking—’ He scrolled down the page on his tablet and read out a number so crazy that initially Abby thought he was joking. Sadly, he wasn’t.

  Mr Jones also hadn’t been joking when, flanked by two men in Arab robes, he explained that it turned out she was married after all and her ‘husband’ was the younger son of the Sheikh Aban Al Seif, the ruler of Aarifa.

  And all before she’d even got through the door!

  Abby was still assimilating this news when, seated on her sofa that was badly in need of reupholstering, Mr Jones worked his way up to his next big reveal, fortifying himself first with a Rich Tea biscuit.

  ‘There is no need to be upset, Miss Foster; the mistake was little more than an unfortunate clerical error.’

  ‘So, can I sign something?’ she asked.

  ‘Ah, well, there is the rub. Normally I would be able to say yes but, well, the accident means that the doctors are unlikely to agree to Zain Al Seif travelling for some weeks, and the legal process means that your signatures both need to be witnessed by...’

  One word in the bland, meandering explanation had leapt out at Abby as an image flashed into her head so real that, for a moment, Zain seemed to be standing there, physically imposing, the same way he’d looked when she had first seen him striding into the encampment—a beautiful man exuding an arrogance and command that was mesmerising. ‘What do you mean, “accident”?’

  ‘Yes, both Zain and his elder brother, Khalid, were involved in a crash in... I believe they call it a super car.’

  The buzz in Abby’s head had got louder as the blood drained from her face...not just her face—even her oxygen-deprived fingertips tingled.

  ‘I do not know the extent of the younger Prince’s injuries but sadly his brother died, which means that the man you...married,’ he gave a light laugh, ‘is now the heir.’

  ‘So how is...?’ she’d paused, unable to reconcile the idea that her rescuer was also a royal prince, let alone put a name to the man who for so long had been anonymous ‘...he?’ she’d finished weakly.

  ‘The hospital is unwilling to reveal details to anyone but relatives.’

  * * *

  ‘Miss Foster?’

  Abby started, her skittering glance moving from the Englishman to the two daunting figures in flowing Arab dress pretty much identical to those worn by the four who had shadowed her ever since she’d left her London apartment yesterday.

  ‘I just want to confirm...you told no one, no one at all, about the...marriage document?’

  ‘No one.’ There had obviously been a lot of interest when she had had to recount the story but she’d played the kidnap down, preferring to turn the incident into a joke gone wrong rather than admit to the visceral, gut-churning nightmare it had been.

  Her lashes flickered downwards as she ran her tongue across her lips to moisten them. She purposely kept her expression impassive even though inside her heart was thudding, the memory of visceral fear metallic on her tongue.

  She pushed hard at the memory as she exerted control just as she’d practised. The memory belonged in another world a million miles from her own, where a disaster was a facial blemish—imagined or otherwise—that would spoil a fashion shoot.

  ‘Excellent.’ He turned his head as another robed figure approached. ‘Will you excuse me?’

  Abby watched as the men spoke for a few moments before Mr Jones returned. She had the immediate sense that under the emollient smile he was not happy.

  ‘It seems that you may go in.’ He gestured to the new arrival, who tipped his head in Abby’s direction. ‘Abdul will show you the way.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming in with me?’ Abby asked, struggling to conceal her panic at the prospect of facing her ‘husband’ alone.

  Beneath the little moustache the man affected, his lips thinned. ‘It seems not.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  ABBY TOOK A deep breath, lifted her chin and walked through the door held by someone who looked more Security than medical, and who bowed low as she passed.

  The soft, respectful murmur as she walked down the hallway seemed to be addressed to her. It would have been disconcerting had she had any thoughts to spare for anything but the question of what waited for her inside the room she was about to enter.

  She slipped inside and as she closed the door behind her she hitched in a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and turned, wishing in that moment that she had asked more about Zain’s condition. She had no idea what she was about to be confronted with—tubes, machines...was he even conscious?

  Her sense of disorientation deepened as she found herself looking at what appeared to be an office, an office where a meeting seemed to be in progress at a long, rectangular table between several men wearing traditional Arab dress, and several more wearing business suits.

  One of the men stood in front of what appeared to be a PowerPoint presentation, but moved towards Abby, who was already backing away mumbling apologies when he noticed her.

  ‘Sorry. I think must be in the wrong...’

  The man bowed and, after a momentary pause, the other men seated around the table got to their feet and followed his example.

  This situation was just getting weirder, she thought, fighting the urge to curtsey or something.

  ‘Not at all. This way, Amira...please...’ His attitude deferential, he gestured for her to precede him towards a half-open door.

  After a pause, she responded to the softly spoken invitation, even though as she approached the door the conviction that this was a case of mistaken identity grew stronger.

  Then say something, idiot!

  She half turned, ready to explain that this was a mistake, but her guide was backing out of the room with his head bent in a bow and it was hard to explain anything to someone you couldn’t make eye contact with.

  Her nerves were so stretched by this point that the soft sound of the door closing with a definitive click was enough to make her jump. Ignoring the chill of trepidation skittering down her spine, she turned.

  This second room was not as large as the one she had entered, but still, was not small. It had the look of an upmarket hotel bedroom complete with a TV covering half of one wall and leather sofas around a glass coffee table covered with artistically stacked books.

  The only th
ing that suggested she should not ring for Room Service was the hospital bed. It was empty, though the rumpled condition of the sheets and the drops of blood standing out against the white linen suggested it had been recently occupied by someone who had been attached to the bag of fluid that hung empty on a stand beside it.

  She released a sigh, tried not to look at the blood and walked warily across the room towards the bed. Without thinking she put her hand on the sheets...they still retained the body heat of their recent occupant.

  Abby clutched her head—all she wanted to do was get this over with and go home and she couldn’t even find the man! ‘Where the hell is he?’ she murmured to herself.

  ‘Behind you.’

  At the sound of the soft, deep voice Abby jumped a foot off the floor as if a starting pistol had been unexpectedly fired in the room. She spun around, the action causing the silk veil on her head to slide off the slippery satin of her fiery curls.

  She blinked and fought against the urge to retreat as the owner of the voice took a single step through a doorway that was half-concealed behind a screen and, without taking his eyes from her face, casually captured the fluttering fabric in his hand.

  While his reflexes were clearly in excellent shape, Zain’s bruised and battered body was not. Though he clenched his teeth against the pain zigzagging through his body as he straightened up, a muffled groan escaped his compressed lips.

  The shock that had frozen her to the spot disappeared and was instantly replaced by concern. Abby laid a hand on his arm, her eyes widening as she registered the tense, rock-hard muscle through the fine fabric of his white shirt—more blood was spattered down one arm. Her stomach tightened before she looked away.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Ah, well, someone always had to ask the stupid question. Might as well be her.

  One hand pressed to his ribs, Zain lifted his eyelids and produced a look that managed to be both ironic and lazy through eyes that were every bit as blue as she remembered. They were shaded by lashes which looked almost ridiculously long and dark against the pallor that had robbed his vibrant, toned skin of its usual golden colour.