by Diana Fraser
“A deadline signifying a new Gharb Havilah, new beginnings, the end of the old.”
“You’re getting married, aren’t you? You’ve brought me here to rekindle something before you marry?”
He grunted an unamused laugh. Sometimes her perspicacity could be downright annoying. But he knew how to silence that sharp intellect, he knew how to subdue her. He rose from his chair, the legs grating against the stone-flagged floor, and stepped towards her. She looked up at him with startled eyes. He didn’t even need to touch her. She leaned back, gripping the table, and he watched that long neck swallow convulsively. He longed to kiss it. But he refused to indulge the impulse. No matter what she might think, he wasn’t going to take anything that wasn’t willingly given. But a small reminder of their chemistry was no bad thing.
His eyes roamed her face, re-acquainting his mind, his senses with her. “Maybe that’s wishful thinking?”
She couldn’t speak; she looked stunned. She shook her head in denial.
He raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “No? Are you sure about that?”
She shook her head again, repeating the movement, unaware that she was answering the opposite of her intention.
He grunted softly and stepped away. “Go now. Sleep well.”
He didn’t wait for her response. Instead, he opened the door for her where an assistant was waiting, and watched as she took a deep breath, rose, and walked to the door. She stopped beside him. “Nothing’s changed, Zavian. Nothing.” She continued through the door, and he closed it behind her with more force than he’d intended.
It wouldn’t take long to seduce her, because she was indeed mistaken. Everything had changed, and she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
* * *
As if in a daze, Gabrielle followed the assistant back to her suite of rooms. From the moment Zavian had stepped close to her, her body had betrayed her. It had dulled her mind until all she was aware of was him—his physicality, and desire for her. She couldn’t even remember what he’d asked her, all she’d been aware of were those narrow lips of his which others had always pronounced stern, but which she knew could create magic. His voice had played her senses, just as it ever had, his velvety rich tones vibrating to her core. His eyes had looked inside her and found her. She breathed deeply, trying to quiet her quickened heartbeat, seeking to extinguish the arousal that simply being with him had sparked back into life. Dammit, she’d sparked back into life.
She kept on walking, one foot in front of the other, her footsteps ringing out on the marble floor. She had only one month to endure, one month to keep herself safe from this man who’d trapped her simply to amuse himself, to retaliate for the fact that she’d left him. One month before she could free herself from this man whose future she could be no part of.
Chapter 3
Gabrielle scrolled through the list of bullet points in the email she’d received from the king’s office. Her work had been reduced to distinct black marks—like dark circles caused by gunshots—one after another, after another. It fitted somehow. Zavian was determined to show that no one took control of him, not his family, not his subjects, and not, apparently, his ex-lovers. Control by bullet point.
She scrolled back to the top of the list. Number one had been ticked off already. Planning meetings with the museum staff around the arrangements for the bi-millennial celebrations. It seemed she was hardly required for that. Everything was in hand, which brought her to number two. Now, this was a bit trickier. It had been decided—by whom, she didn’t know—that the exhibits needed more than simple dry descriptions. They needed stories giving their background and cultural significance, stories that would appeal internationally to the general public and which would make the pieces come alive.
Again, this was mostly in hand. Except for three pieces which had been earmarked for her. The Khasham Qur’an, pottery from an area in the desert which she and her grandfather had excavated, and a collection of poetry.
She sat back with a sigh, nibbling her fingertips as she contemplated why Zavian had selected these items for her alone. Because she did not doubt that he was behind this. Poetry, she could handle. She’d been raised by her poetry-loving grandfather and had helped him with his research. Pottery? Again, it wouldn’t be a stretch. She was more familiar with ancient Havilah pottery than the pots and pans in her small Oxford apartment. But what would be a stretch—a total stretch—was the Khasham Qur’an. There was nothing she didn’t know about it. And there was no way she could share all she knew with anyone, least of all, Zavian.
She sighed and tossed a pen onto the table. She closed her eyes and groaned. She couldn’t do it. It had been a spur of the moment decision to buy the Qur’an when it had come up for sale at auction in London. She’d pre-empted the auction with an offer which the owner—a dealer who’d preferred to take the offer than risk scrutiny for a higher price—had accepted with alacrity. As far as she was concerned, there was only one place the Khasham Qur’an should be, and that was in Gharb Havilah. She knew she could have purchased it for less, given the shady dealings of the seller. Still, she wanted the money she’d accepted from Zavian’s father to be gone from her account. She’d taken it for one purpose only—to convince Zavian that he should leave her alone. His country needed him, it didn’t need her. If she’d done as he’d wanted and stayed with him, it could have destroyed his country.
But it was her weakness in buying the Qur’an and returning it to its place of birth, which had found her out.
She jumped as the shrill ring of her phone broke her concentration. She peered at the screen. Few people knew she was here, but the screen revealed the caller was unlisted. She tapped the screen reluctantly.
“Hello?”
“Gabrielle.” Zavian’s easily recognizable voice spoke her name as if identifying her for the first time.
“Zavian,” she replied, with equal force. He hesitated a moment, and she suddenly realized that few people would call him by his given name, now that his close family had died. Her heart softened despite her intentions. “Was there something you wanted?” she added, in a more conciliatory tone.
“A meeting. With you. Now.”
“Hm,” she grunted, pulling the phone from her ear and looking at it briefly in surprise. She tapped the screen so she could hear him more clearly, wondering if she’d imagined the peremptory tone. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that.”
She distinctly heard the sharp intake of breath. “Gabrielle.” Her name rushed out on his breath, and she could have sworn she felt it tickle her skin. “A meeting in my office to discuss your work… if you’d be so kind,” he said, in a threatening undertone, which completely negated his words.
She folded an arm over her chest. “Of course, Your Majesty. I am yours to command,” she said, realizing her ironic tone was completely disregarded as she heard only the empty silence of the discontinued call.
He’d ordered her to him and had immediately hung up. What kind of man did that? She jumped up and glanced out the window in the direction of his office. But she knew the answer. A king, an autocrat, someone accustomed to being obeyed absolutely—this wasn’t the man she knew.
For a split second, she contemplated remaining in her office, considered not obeying the summons. But only for a second, because she soon foresaw what would happen. Humiliation as he—or his staff—came for her. She rose and shook her head. She couldn’t stand much more of this.
She’d arrived in Gharb Havilah, intending to hide what she’d done for as long as possible. But, she now realized, that would only protract things. She checked her reflection in the mirror. No, she just might do the opposite of what he expected, to put him off his guard and to get herself out of here.
Gabrielle unhooked her abaya and scarf, which she always had ready on the back of her door. While women could wear what they liked inside the palace, the majority tended to wear variations of the abaya and scarf to meetings and outside in the city. Besides, she felt at her most com
fortable in them.
When she opened her door, she found a security guard was waiting to take her to Zavian. They walked along a path beneath a colonnade providing shelter from the mid-day sun. The days were sweltering under the mid-summer sun. But the trickle of water never ceased, and the plants appeared immaculate, lush, and restful to the eye. Small birds flittered among the large vase-shaped flowers sucking the nectar before flying away, scarcely larger than an insect. Gabrielle had missed the beauty of this world. Its over-abundance, exuberance, and shimmering mystery and exoticism. For all of Oxford’s beauty, it seemed gray and lifeless after such a place as this, more ancient even than medieval Oxford.
As they moved through the palace corridors, the guard refused to converse with her, despite her many attempts. Instead, she found herself following his quick steps to a part of the palace she’d only ever been once before. The security guard stopped at a door.
She shook her head. “But this is the way to the—” Before she could finish her sentence, the guard opened the door to reveal a private study which was empty.
He smiled politely and left the room. She looked around, suddenly nervous. A large desk stood before the window, designed, no doubt, to awe the person entering the room. Apart from the walls of books, an informal space of two sofas and a couple of chairs surrounding a table completed the furniture. The last and only time she’d been here was when Zavian’s father had summoned her. It had been his private study, and was, no doubt, now his son’s.
She stood still, looking around, waiting for pieces of the puzzle to fall into place. Why had Zavian called her to this room to discuss work? Or was it a ruse simply to get her here? She drew in a calming breath, and then her eyes settled on a cabinet to one side. It was small and, from a glance, appeared to hold only a few select pieces.
But she knew their shape.
She’d been with Zavian when they’d found them. The memories shot at her like arrows piercing her veneer of protection. Without that defense, she felt the full force of that moment eighteen months ago, when she’d been alone with Zavian in the desert. The excitement of the find was eclipsed only by the lovemaking afterward. She closed her eyes against the full force of emotions, which rose like a tidal wave from deep inside her.
Suddenly she felt a prickle down her neck and back, which settled low inside. The silk of her abaya shimmered slightly as the air shifted. A door clicked closed, and she swung around. Zavian was formally dressed in a white robe, which made him appear even taller than he was. She’d always loved the traditional robes. They had a simplicity and a beauty which was timeless. Every eye in the room moved to Zavian when he wore European clothes, but the clothes of a king? He was not only magnetic, but awesome. This wasn’t a man to cross. This wasn’t her man any longer, not the man with whom she’d discovered the objects.
The prickle that had begun in her neck sunk lower into her gut as Zavian walked towards her.
“Zavian!” His name slipped from her lips before she could check it. She could feel the color rushing to her cheeks as he gazed at her with a hunger which made her feel weak. She couldn’t be sucked in by it, to forget why they could never be together. Somehow she found the control and stepped away, needing space between them. “Your Majesty.”
As she uttered the honorific, the look in his eyes changed, and the arrogant control that she’d witnessed on the first night returned.
“Dr. Taylor.”
His formality cut to the heart of her, but she refused to allow him to see it. As far as he was concerned she’d been bribed to leave him and his country, and she’d disappeared from his life without a farewell.
“I see you’ve been admiring some pieces from my private collection.”
She gasped as he lifted his hand and reached past her. She froze, all her senses acutely attuned to him, wondering what he was going to do. But he simply retrieved one of the objects she’d been looking at and held it up to the light, twisting it in his strong hands, hands whose sensitivity she remembered well.
“I admire this piece for its simplicity.”
Taking advantage of his switch in focus, she exhaled lightly and composed herself. “I… I’ve never considered it to be simple.”
The corners of his lips tweaked slightly, but he didn’t shift his gaze from the piece. “Its contours are regular, its shape standard for its type. How could it not be considered simple?” he asked, passing it to her, their fingers touching.
“Because…” She paused, willing herself to focus on the piece, not him. “Because every time I look at it, I see something different.” She twisted the piece in the light. “A shade, a line, a ridge, a measurement of time etched into its fabric. Something beautiful, and yet flawed, all together in one piece.”
She looked from the piece to him. He’d lowered his eyes, which were now focused on her lips. When he raised them again, their chestnut hue was darker than before. “You always did make something simple, complex.”
“Perhaps because it was never simple.”
A muscle flickered in his jaw, but he said nothing. “You’re wrong. Everything is simple. Everything can be reduced to essentials.”
“Why is that so important to you?”
“Because only then can you judge it, only then can you assess it for what it is.”
He was too near for her to think clearly. His eyes roamed her face as the silence lengthened, deepened, and became unbearable. She swallowed and stood a little straighter.
“Well, I wish you luck with that. What is it you wanted to see me about, Your Majesty?” She hoped by using his title she’d remind them both that the intimacy of their conversation needed to stop.
“I paid a lot of money to bring you here, and yet you demand to know why I wish to meet you?” His eyes hooded, and he cocked his head a little to one side. “I thought you knew all about the power of money.”
She wished she didn’t blush so easily, but his comment sent the blood pulsing through her, branding her with guilt. But there was nothing she could do to defend herself. She needed to be guilty in his eyes. “Indeed.”
“And the person with the money has the control, isn’t that so?”
She nodded. His proximity was making it hard for her to think straight. “Sometimes,” she muttered.
“I think you’ll find it’s true all the time. Otherwise, why would you be here?”
“But why me? Others could have done this job. Others without the complications I bring.”
“Sometimes, unfortunately, complications cannot be avoided. They have to be faced to make things simple once more. There are things, Gabrielle, I need to know. Beginning with this.” He picked up a remote control and pressed a button. A part of the wall slid away, revealing the Khasham Qur’an.
Stunned, she stepped back as if pushed by a force field. She’d assumed it had been locked away somewhere in the most secure part of the museum. She’d assumed wrong. She was faced with her weakness—a way to absolve herself from accepting the bribe, a way to return a treasure to its rightful place, a way she’d thought had been anonymous.
Maybe it was fake? She walked up to it, heartbeat quickening, but could see at a glance it was genuine. While the binding was more recent—echoing the ochre and brilliant indigo of the pages within the book itself—there was no doubting the gilded angular Kufic script, laid down using a solution in which gold was suspended. And, as she cocked her head to one side, the uneven pages which carried the discoloration of centuries confirmed it. She closed her eyes and drew in a breath—despite the glass case in which it lay, she knew its smell. She’d held it and knew the musty aroma of antiquity and desert.
It all proved it was the original, which meant someone had linked her to it. She swallowed down the lump which had appeared from nowhere and blinked back the tears. The Qur’an was set well. The background was the bleached stone color of the hammada plains, and the light above it was clear, revealing everything there was to be seen in the illuminated decorations of the most valuable
Qur’an to come out of Gharb Havilah. But not so bright as to damage the piece, which she knew had lain hidden near a cave for a thousand years, buried alongside the king who’d ordered its creation. She knew this because her grandfather had told her often enough about how he’d discovered it and how subsequently it had gone missing. Missing until six months ago when it had reappeared and she’d bought it. The note on the piece identified the donor as anonymous.
When she looked back at Zavian, his eyes had changed. He knew. He absolutely knew. He might be inscrutable, but she was an open book to him. He motioned her to sit at the table, in front of the Khasham Qur’an. She had no option but to do so, to sit and look at the object which had betrayed her.
He stood beside her. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said, from between tight lips.
“And mysterious.”
She twisted her lips closed as if scared the truth would come tumbling out.
“Don’t you agree?”
“Not really. We know where it came from.”
“Yes, but we don’t know how it came here, do we?”
She shrugged. “I don’t see how I can help you.” She kept her eyes firmly on him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking away. Still, all the while knowing that her bright red cheeks betrayed her.
“Do you not?”
She shrugged. “The provenance is well known.”
“Not to me.”
“It was found not far from here, I believe.”
“Among the ruins of Khasham. Yes, thank you. That much, I do know.”
“And then it went missing.”
