“I’m working on a project to renovate a 16th century walled garden on a massive estate; his estate.” I gestured towards the picture of the handsome looking man who’d appeared on her phone.
She seemed to be enraptured by the image, “I could so do that! Wow! Just look at him! And look at that house behind him. It’s a fucking mansion! Is that where you’re working? Do you need an assistant? Have you met him?”
Ignoring her questions and wanting to give the answers in my own way, I continued, “So, there I was, Soph, digging in a trench on the hottest day of the year so far. You can imagine the state of me; sweat pouring off me, my tank top sticking to my boobs. And you know what trouble I have with my fair skin—even Factor 50 hadn’t stopped me turning bright red.”
A chuckle. “You weren’t looking your best then, babe?”
I huffed. “About as far from it as you can frigging get! My hair was plastered to my forehead, and, I’d been digging down into the subsoil, so vile stinking mud covered me from the head to toe!” I wait for her snort. Soph, a fashion buyer for one of the top chain stores, had never understood my love for my profession that had me getting down and dirty, in a quite literal way. There it was! I smiled at her derisive sniff.
“Anyway,” I continued, “Suddenly I hear voices, and it’s him! And all I can think about is what I look like and how I must smell. I tried to hide, but Rod—he’s my boss—decides it’s an excellent time to introduce me.”
“You actually bloody met him? What’s he like?”
“Gorgeous!” I tapped my finger on her phone, “In his case, the camera doesn’t lie. And it certainly doesn’t show you his rather tight backside. Soph, his gluts are something else!”
Now her mouth hung open, “I’m surprised you noticed, Zoe! Go you!”
“Well, when he asks if I’m a woman labourer, Rod only bloody tells him I’m the landscape architect on the project!”
“I thought you were just an assistant?”
“I did, too. But Rod, bless him, has given me the project to manage, with him just overseeing I’m doing things right. Workwise it’s a tremendous opportunity, Soph!”
Her eyes narrowed as I deviated from what interested her most, “Hey, babe! Get back to the good stuff!”
“Okay, so he introduces me…”
“I got that bit, babe. Now get to the fucking part.”
My drink almost shot out of my mouth as I spluttered, “What the heck?” I gave her a long stare, and she returned a rueful smile. “So,” I ignored her interruption, “He introduces himself in this really upper-class cultured voice, you know, pronouncing his name as Ethan ‘sinjun’ Davies. I brush as much dirt as I can off my hands, and he holds his out for me to shake. Hah! Then I notice him wipe it off on his trousers. Don’t think he’s used to mud.”
“I doubt he ever gets his hands dirty, babe. According to this website he’s a billionaire and that is fucking multi-million-pound estate you’re working on. He’ll employ minions to do everything for him.” She tilted her head to one side, “So what happened next?”
Taking the opportunity to have a sip of my drink, I thought for a moment. Yes, I’d done internet searches too when I’d arrived home that day, and something inside of me tingled when I saw him described as one of the most eligible bachelors in the UK. I wasn’t going to tell Soph just how much he’d fuelled my fantasies over the last few days, and how many times I’d regretted he did not see me looking halfway decent! What girl could truthfully say she’s never wanted to be Cinderella?
“Nothing, Soph. He went his way, I went mine,” I told her, honestly. “To tell the truth, we’ve been working on the site for a month now, and that’s the first and only time I’ve seen him. I doubt I’ll see him again.” I pointed to her empty glass, “Another?”
Present day
“Why are you late, Zo?” His voice is calm, but the vein pulsing on his forehead betrays his false equanimity.
Knowing any embellishment is likely to be greeted with a sneer of disbelief, I offer him the pure and straightforward truth. “I had a tyre blowout, Ethan. On the M25.” A tremor comes naturally, “It was scary, but I managed to get onto the hard shoulder...”
Already he’s lost interest in my explanation. Instead, he’s looking down at the car. When he doesn’t immediately see anything amiss, he starts to walk around it. I see the moment he notices the space saver wheel on instead of the proper one as he begins to nod slowly. “Must have been frightening, Zo. Are you’re okay?”
Ignoring his faked concern for my wellbeing, it’s a game he likes to play, I answer him nonetheless. “I’m fine. Shaken, but not hurt. It could have been worse.”
“Good. That’s very good, Zo.”
I hate the way he shortens my name, but wouldn’t dare pull him up on it. The first time he used it I had butterflies in my stomach, thinking it signified that I was important enough for him to give me a unique nickname, but now I’ve learned to be wary. Ethan doesn’t do nice. Or hasn’t done, for a very long time.
“Come, dinner’s waiting, but it will probably be ruined by now.” He puts his arm around my shoulders in an affectionate gesture.
I make every effort not to flinch, and somehow the words come out of their volition as he mentions the spoiled meal, “I’m sorry…” Shit! Never apologise.
“Well, it can’t be helped, can it?” he acknowledges mildly.
Have I got away with it? Surely not! He won’t let an opportunity like this pass by.
I scarcely dare to breathe as he leads me into the stately home that has been my home for almost a year and a half now. We enter via the grand front entrance and cross the spacious hallway with its impressive staircase leading to the upper floors. He helps me off with my coat, and hangs it up, a demonstration of his well-bred manners. His hand goes to the small of my back in a gentlemanly fashion as he guides me into the formal dining room. Why he insists on always eating here, I’ll never understand. The long antique table, dating from the sixteenth century, could easily seat twenty people, and we look lost sitting opposite, one at either end. Early on I took an instant dislike almost bordering on hatred, to the portraits of his ancestors hanging on the walls which seem to look down on me with censure, their creepy eyes following me wherever I go as if wondering how I, a mere commoner, dare to eat in this room. As usual, I keep my eyes downcast and try to ignore them.
A long sideboard takes up one side of the room, the top of which currently covered by tureens on warmers. Ethan takes me straight over to the food, only letting go of me to lift the lids of the containers. In one, there’s Coq Au Vin, usually a favourite of mine, but tonight does nothing to tempt me, I’ve no appetite. In another, there are roast potatoes, and the last holds mixed vegetables. The latter have suffered from being left too long, runner beans, carrots and peas well past their best, shrivelled and dried. Ethan fills two plates, piling one high with a generous helping of the ruined veg as if to make a point. Then he nods to my usual seat and puts the overfilled plate in front of me. He pours red wine into a glass for himself then, with a sneer, pours a glass of white for me. Red wine gives me a nasty headache, and he only indulges me at home. In public, I have to drink the right wine with the meal.
We eat in silence for a moment, or in my case; I pick at my food.
“Lucky I took out AA membership for you.” Again, his voice is reasonable and calm.
I swallow rapidly, almost choking on the piece of chicken I’d been chewing. Ethan knows! I look up to see his piercing eyes staring at me as if he can see the thoughts in my head. With a sneer that I don’t understand, he turns back to his food, clearing his plate. My own is still almost full.
Suddenly he holds something up and waves it at me. “Explain this!” His shout echoes around the room.
I can see what it is from here; it’s the business card my saviour Josh gave me. He must have got it out of my pocket. Shit! I look up at him. “He was very helpful to me, Ethan. He’s a mechanic. When he saw I’d broken down,
he stopped and changed the wheel for me.”
Ethan’s face darkens, “And you were going to tell me this, when?”
With a feeling of dread, I keep silent knowing I’d already missed my chance to come clean.
His face tightens as he glowers, “What other services did he offer you?”
I shake my head. Remaining calm and keeping my voice even is hard, but I call on the months of practice to help. “None, I had a blowout as I said. He pulled up behind me and offered to sort it out for me. He was very quick. I thought it would be faster than waiting for the AA.” My eyes, meeting his at last, silently plead for him to believe me.
“Get me your phone.” His voice is cold, icy.
He means immediately. Putting down my cutlery, I go out into the vast hall and collect my bag. Pulling out my iPhone, I hand it to him before retaking my seat at the opposite end of the table, needing to retain the distance between us. He puts in my passcode that he knows by heart.
After a second, he looks up. “You didn’t even try to ring the AA. Were you with this man? Did you let him touch what is mine?” His voice has deepened, his face glowing red; the first familiar signs he’s starting to lose control.
“No! Of course, not!” I deny it as forcefully as I can, while still trying to keep my voice relaxed. If I show my fear, he’ll interpret it as guilt. “It happened just the way I said. He pulled up before I could get a chance to ring anyone, and I wanted to get home to you as quickly as possible. I thought it was the fastest way. I didn’t want to be late, Ethan. I know how that disappoints you.” My heart’s beating so frantically I think it’s going to jump out of my chest. I’ve tried like I always try, but whatever the truth of the matter I know that he’ll choose not to believe me. What he thinks could have happened is sufficient for him. I start to feel sick, the small amount of food I’ve managed to swallow churning inside of me. How bad will it be?
“You didn’t tell me about him. You left that little tidbit out, didn’t you? You tried to keep it from me. Now that makes me very suspicious, Zo. Very.” His words come out fast as he stands up and marches to my end of the table, pulling me roughly to my feet. Without giving me time to prepare, his fist goes hard into my face; I hear a crunch, and see stars. Jesus! Has he broken my nose?
I reel, but he holds me tight, not letting me go. Hanging onto my arm he drags me towards the door. Once there was a time he was much more careful about leaving marks where people could see them, not wanting others to see the damage he’d caused, but recently his brutality has been growing steadily worse. Now he no longer cares, and right at this moment, I’m about as scared as I’ve ever been.
I should know better after all this time, should be aware that making any protest or trying to fight the inevitable will only enrage him further, but maybe the blow to my head dazes me. Instead of giving in and letting him take me where he wants to, I yell, “No!” and put my free hand on the door-jamb, holding onto it with all my might as he tries to pull me through,.
I could have so easily missed the glint of glee in his eyes as he lets go of the heavy door, pushing against it to slam it closed. The thick wood smashes against my wrist, and I let out a blood-curdling scream as I’m immersed in pain so bad I pass out for a fleeting moment. When he opens the door, he’s laughing as he starts to haul my almost limp body across the floor, out into the hallway. No, not now, please, I can’t take it! Full senses returning I protest, “Ethan, please, no!” My voice is a wail as I cry out through my tears.
He ignores my pleadings, dragging me with one hand while the other extracts a key from his pocket. In my agony, I’ve no option but to go with him downstairs to the basement, to that dreaded room he calls his play room, the place I’ve come to call my torture chamber. Opening the door, he manhandles me inside, throwing me across the spanking bench, but not tying me down. He doesn’t have to; I’ve no fight left in me. All I can do is hope that what he’s going to do won’t be unbearable.
Reaching round my waist he undoes my button and zip, yanking my trousers down to the floor and ripping off my lacy underwear. Cruelly his hand crushes my naked mound, his fingers invading me, “This is MINE! You let another man touch it.” He smacks his hand down hard, once, twice, and then again.
“No, I didn’t!” I scream out, “He didn’t touch me!” But it wasn’t worth my breath to voice the denial. As one firm hand holds me down, I try in vain to struggle knowing he’s not going to believe my innocence. It suits him not to credit the truth.
Another harsh spank, his palm hitting with enough force to bruise, “You’re MINE! This belongs to ME, no one else. I’m going to remind you of that,” he tells me, then adds, as I hear him lowering his zip, “I’m taking what belongs to me.”
Chapter 2
Kadar
Head bowed, I stand by the unmarked grave almost hidden in the grounds of the great palace in Al Qur’ah, the country’s capital. The grave which contains a man who I’d thought too larger than life to die. A man who I expected would be around so much longer than the sixty-three years Allah had allotted him.
Who would have thought a brain aneurysm would have taken Emir Rushdi as fast as a lightning strike? And who’d have thought that I, at just thirty-four years old, would be picking up the reins of the country; becoming Absolute Monarch of Amahad, a small but strategically placed Arab state with a coastline on the Persian Gulf? Stunned at the loss of the man I called father, I’m nowhere near ready to take his place. Despite training me to follow in his footsteps since the day of my birth, he’d died long before I felt sufficiently prepared to take on his role. But now, by chance of birth, I’m the ruler.
Yesterday, alongside my brothers I bathed our father’s cold body, washing him three times as is our fashion, feeling no emotion. Even after we wrapped his remains in a shroud and buried him in the earth, my heart remained numb. Then, today, the new deference proffered to me by the senior government officials as well as the household staff brought home my great loss. With it came the realisation that I am the emir, and there’s no one else to whom I can turn or pass this burden. The resulting tide of grief drove me here to my father’s graveside, this pile of earth which will soon become overgrown, any sign that anyone had ever been buried here hard to find. No tomb, no mausoleum, nothing to mark the passing of a monarch. Our way of showing even a ruler is simply a man, destined just like anyone else, to return to dust.
Here I stand, paying my last respects to the man who sired me, and who had left me such a legacy. An inheritance I’ve never been certain I wanted, and one which, without doubt, I’m not yet ready to collect.
The warm desert air whispers around me, and I strain to hear just one final word from the former ruler. But there’s nothing. He left everything unfinished; letters half-written, contracts waiting to be signed. Meetings arranged with foreign dignitaries, negotiations due to be held with the Amahadian tribes. These are just some of the balls I now have to pick up and run with. Me. No one else. The overwhelming responsibility is mine alone.
It’s now my duty to keep the desert sheikhs united and supporting the Crown; a formidable task when even at the late emir’s funeral there were sideways glances and overheard comments that I was too young to lead. And decision making starts now, today.
Do I rule like my father and continue to put barriers in the way of progress? Or govern as I would want to, exploiting our new found oil wealth to modernise the whole country? An ominous cloud hangs over me, and an air of uncertainty sweeps throughout our lands. Amahad, a country of two halves; the progressive and multicultural north always at odds with the desolate desert of the south, where life is harsh and steeped in traditions of the past. Even if I give my all to succeed, others are just waiting for me to fail. And the result of failure would be the loss of my throne—if I’m lucky I’ll be deposed, if I’m not, I could face assassination. It’s a dangerous legacy that I’ve been left.
“Why, father? Why did you leave me now?” The cry escapes me almost as a howl, but I ne
ed not suppress my feelings here; for this short space of time I’m left alone and given privacy to grieve. Sinking to the ground, I let handfuls of earth run through my fingers. “I’m not like you; I’m not strong enough.” I let my head fall forward, the last gesture of obeisance towards the man who I admired not, perhaps, for the manner in which he did things, but how he managed to keep everything tightly controlled. I have to follow in his footsteps, but I’m not sure the shoes will fit.
****
The palace of Amahad is vast. With so many of the ancient rooms fallen into disuse, some have now been repurposed to serve more modern functions. One such area, located on the lower floor, has been turned into a gymnasium and is reserved for the use of the royal family. As my brothers and sister have made their homes elsewhere, it’s not unusual that I have the massive space to myself. Especially since my preference is to get my workout completed in the early hours before most of the palace is awake.
Even as Crown Prince the work demands were substantial and now more so that I’m the emir. While I’d have loved to have had the time to devote to more pleasurable ways of keeping fit— riding, one passion of mine which I never now seem to have occasion to enjoy—I need to maximise the benefits, while minimising the time taken, to maintain my level of fitness. My physical capability to protect myself essential, particularly now I’ve taken the throne.
This morning, a week to the day after the death of my father starts like any other. Changing into my exercise gear, I first complete my warm up then start the programme of exercises my personal trainer had compiled for me. Sweat starts to build as I perform the series of lunges, squats, and bench presses and the range of other activities in their prescribed order, and then repeat them again. I begin to feel the rush of endorphin release as I push my body to its limits, the exertion helping to focus my mind. As usual, the despondency with which I start my exercise is replaced by a more positive attitude as my brain clears, allowing solutions, not problems to take the fore.
Second Chances (Blood Brothers #3) Page 2
