by Leslie North
“How did you get here without knowing you were at the palace?”
She jutted her hip out a few inches, giving her throbbing left foot a break. “I was driving and ran out of gas out in the foothills. My phone—” This sounded ridiculous, even to her. “My phone’s battery died. I was only looking for help. I’m sorry.” She brushed her hair out of her face. She had to look windblown and disheveled, and here she was, standing in front of someone involved with the royal family. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I should go. It’s best if I leave now.” Laila turned on the ball of her foot, ache spreading through the arch and into her heel.
“Wait.”
She stopped dead at the command and faced him. “If you point me in the direction of the gate, I’ll get out of here. I’m assuming—I know there must be some kind of punishment for people who crash royal parties.”
“I’ll see to it that no harm comes to you.”
She gave a nervous laugh, her stomach turning. “How can you promise that?”
That smile flickered onto his face again and left on the breeze. “My opinion is highly valued by the family. Wait here. I’ll get you something to eat.”
“Oh, that’s really—all right.” He was gone before she finished speaking.
Laila eyed the path behind her and bounced on the balls of her feet. She could run. But where was the gate? And—of course—she’d pulled it shut behind her. It was probably locked. The only thing worse than having him come back to find her gone would be having him find her somewhere else in the garden.
“Lamb skewers,” he said, reappearing around a corner she hadn’t noticed before. “Rice. If this isn’t enough, there’s plenty more.”
He held out a plate, and Laila took it without hesitating. Her stomach had folded in on itself and wept at the aroma of the spices. The plate sat heavily in her palms, and the silverware, she saw, was silver. At least it was heavy and substantial and gleaming in the moonlight. The first forkful of food nearly sent her to heaven. The second sent her even higher.
She couldn’t stop herself, couldn’t slow down, and half the plate was gone before she could take a breath. Finally, she managed to put the fork on the side of the plate and look him in the eye. “I know how this looks. I don’t think I’ve been that hungry since I was a kid.” She took another steadying breath. “For whatever it’s worth, this is not my normal.”
“If it’s not your normal, what is your predicament?” His eyes zeroed in on hers. “It sounds a bit like you’re running from something.”
A bit. Her pulse raced, still sparkling with adrenaline. No way out of the garden except through this man, so…why not?
“I am,” she said, pressure releasing. “My grandfather—I went to his house today.” The whole story spilled out of her, one word after another. A few tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. She caught them on her knuckle and flicked them away. Crying? No. She’d gotten worked up, that was all. “So,” she finished, “I had to get away before they tried to force me into an actual wedding ceremony. Now, I guess my options are to get out of the contract or get out of Raihan.” And all that money she’d spent on the little studio and the apartment would go to waste. She ate the remaining food on the plate in a few hurried bites. “Unless the contract isn’t really valid after all. It can’t be valid, can it?”
He frowned. “It was signed by the head of your family here in Raihan?”
“Yes.”
“Then the contract is legal and binding.” She planted her feet and held herself upright, but the earth tilted underneath her. “If you were to leave Raihan, your grandfather would be guilty of breach of contract. In Raihani law, that comes with its own set of penalties.”
Laila closed her eyes. Open your eyes and face it. But she couldn’t. The walls pressed in on her, rough stone brushing against her shoulders, and squeezed tighter. No room to breathe.
Whatever the legal consequences were, her grandfather wasn’t in any position to face them. Not with his dementia. Not at his age. And certainly not because of Harb. How was she going to fix this?
Her heart beat with the question, again and again, painfully loud. How? How? How?
3
Zayid kept his face utterly impassive. At least, he hoped it was utterly impassive, because he felt like laughing. How could she not recognize the crown prince of Raihan? The royal family made a point of visiting with the public regularly. Though this woman was an American visiting from the States, according to her story. Still.
While she had her eyes closed, he took in her face. She had a delicate nose and dark hair that moved with the breeze. Even if she’d been walking for hours, like she said, it still looked silky and gorgeous. He wanted to run his fingers through it.
She opened her eyes again. “Well, I—” She let out a sigh that caught at something deep inside him. “I’m not sure what I’ll do, then.”
He waited a beat, expecting it to be a cover. A front for something else. The last month had been the most headache-inducing of his life. The entire country knew that the crown prince was in search of a wife. That meant that everywhere he went, another woman threw herself in his path. Every woman’s mother had the perfect reason why her daughter was the only one who could rise to the challenge of being his wife.
And nothing could be worse than tonight.
The setup couldn’t have been more gorgeous—a fully decorated ballroom, a mild night with a warm breeze, and three hundred glittering guests. Zayid could imagine a person might enjoy it. He might even have enjoyed it, if it weren’t for the fact that he was supposed to be the prize at the end of the night.
His parents had drawn serious inspiration from the Cinderella fairy tale and decided to throw a ball. With pressure mounting and time running out, they’d thought it was the fastest way to find a bride. But what Zayid had found was a seething crowd of women with nerves strung tighter than a guitar string. Nobody had enjoyed themselves from the minute they opened the front gate, least of all Zayid. Two separate women had burst into tears when they stumbled over a word or two after being thrust in front of him by a fawning female relative.
Hence his escape to the gardens. The ballroom had been rendered entirely airless by the pressure in the room. Zayid prided himself on being the kind of person who could stand up to stressful situations, but even he had his limits.
He hadn’t expected to find a woman here, too. The gardens had been sealed off from the guests, but one of his guards had clearly left an opening—an outer gate left open, not any of the palace exits.
“Is there—” She grinned, wrinkling her nose. “Is there any more food?”
“Of course.” He took the plate from her and returned to the server he’d stationed around the corner. The man took off at a run and brought back a heaping plate, and Zayid found himself walking faster than his usual measured pace on his way back to the mystery woman. “Is this enough?”
“Oh, yes. I don’t need any more than this.” She really could eat. “I never thought I’d be in the position of climbing out my grandfather’s window and going on a chase through the foothills. Not that they were chasing me at the time. They might be now, for all I know. And when my car broke down, I thought, Laila, you’re going to have to tough it out. I didn’t realize...” She groaned, the sound featherlight on the breeze. “I didn’t know that contract could possibly be valid. That changes things.”
“And here I thought the party was the most complicated part of my day.”
Laila—her name was Laila. Zayid had access to the country’s most secret information, but knowing her name felt like a special privilege.
She flicked a glance up at him between bites. “What’s the party for? A birthday, or a national holiday?”
“The crown prince is searching for a wife,” he said casually. “Do you know of the crown prince?”
“I know there is a crown prince, but I don’t know anything about him.” Her tone was light and easy, as if they were friends, or at least acquaintanc
es and not standing in an off-limits garden together. “But I don’t follow royalty. Of any country. I do wonder why he needs to throw himself a party in order to find someone to marry. He must be incredibly full of himself to think that a bevy of women are just going to line up for him to choose from.” Her mouth sprang into an O. “I’m—wow. I’m sorry, that was—that was completely inappropriate.” She lay the fork on the plate and bit her lip. “This obviously isn’t the place to say things like that.”
“Your words are safe with me.” He stifled another smile. “Do you have any idea what you might do now? Given that the contract is legal.”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t know. I’m not going to get anywhere with an empty gas tank, but I have to figure this out. I can’t leave my grandfather to deal with the fallout alone. I was just trying to get some space and time to think.” Determination flashed in her eyes. “Maybe I can challenge it in court.”
“That may not be the safest route for you,” he warned. An American in Raihan, with only one elderly relative to vouch for her? And that relative had dementia and had signed a marriage contract on her behalf? “This is likely to be complex, given the nature of the situation.”
“Well, I’m not going to marry a creep, so what choice do I have?” She wrung her hands. “This was supposed to be a research trip. I’m here to learn about Raihani pottery. The pottery here—” She gazed up at the sky, looking almost rapturous. “It was legendary in my master’s program in London. This was going to be the foundation of my career, really. I’m particularly interested in a modern potter from this era.” Laila’s eyes lit up. “She—at least I think it’s a she—signs an intricate symbol into her work instead of a name. I was hoping to learn—” She laughed. “Sorry—it’s beside the point, and you don’t care about any of this.”
He opened his mouth to tell her the truth—that he did care. He planned to leave out the fact that he had no explanation for why he was so drawn to her, and how he wanted to listen to her talk for much longer than would be appropriate on a night like this one. But footsteps on the path cut him off. Footsteps, coming fast.
“Prince Zayid.” The aide wore the staff’s fanciest livery for the party, a white suit with silver trim that made him easily identifiable. No doubt the man had already been accosted by several people wanting a word with the crown prince. “Prince Zayid, your absence—” It was two aides, both in the same uniform, and they both skidded to a stop a few feet away from where he stood with Laila. “Your absence has been noted at the party.”
“Let them note it, then.” He waved them away with one hand. “I’m in conversation.” Not only was he in conversation, he was in conversation with perhaps the only woman on the planet who didn’t care that the hunt for a bride was on. Talking to Laila the Garden Trespasser was far more restorative than even the fresh night air and solitude. Give that up to go back into the party? No, thank you.
“We’ve been sent by Queen Aanisah. She’s requested your presence with the other guests,” said the second aide. A loud crash swept his retort from his mind.
Laila stood in the path, hands still hovering in the air as if she hadn’t dropped the plate. The royal china lay shattered on the cobblestones, the fork topping the mess. Her pretty lips had dropped open.
“Oh, no,” she whispered. “Oh, no.”
4
The crown prince. The crown prince. Of course—how could she have so badly misunderstood her conversation with none other than Zayid Hasan, first in line to the throne of Raihan? She’d seen a picture of him in the in-flight magazine on the way over. Hmm, she’d thought. He’s attractive. But she’d been so excited to travel that she’d put it out of her mind. What were the chances she’d end up at the palace? Slim to none, she’d thought. She’d been so, so wrong.
Zayid looked from her to the aides. God, she must look like a mess. All three of the men wore white—suits for the aides, and a crisp shirt for Zayid. How could she ever have thought he was anything less than a prince? He seemed to make a decision, his dark eyes snapping back to hers for one more fleeting second. Look back at me, something inside of her cried. Even though it’s a rush so intense I could die from it.
“The two of you, take Ms....”
“Tindall,” she supplied.
“Take Ms. Tindall to one of the sitting rooms in my private wing.” Then he was gone, disappearing around a corner of a garden path. His voice carried back to her. “And get me someone from security.”
The private wing of the palace. Laila’s hands shook with nerves as she followed one of the aides through the labyrinth of the garden paths and up to a wide set of double doors. The aide stepped up to the doors—tall, thick wood banded with gold—and opened them for her, then ushered her in as if entering a royal palace were no big deal.
“This way, Ms. Tindall,” he said. She shut her wide-open mouth and tore her gaze away from the art on the walls. They’d stepped into a hallway—but it was the nicest hallway Laila had ever seen in her life. Plush carpet dipped beneath her feet. Everything smelled new, like fresh paint, but ancient at the same time—was it the stones? She didn’t know. And the art. The art. Gilded frames, yet somehow still understated. She resisted the urge to brush her fingers against the wallpaper surrounding the frames. Such exquisite patterns. Instead she followed the aide through the halls of the palace. To the private wing.
Two turns later, he led her through a door halfway down another hall.
Laila sucked in a breath. The opposite wall of the sitting room—and sitting room hardly did it justice—was taken up by a huge picture window looking over Raihanabad, sparkling in the distance. She could see the main palace perching at one end of the city, tiny from this distance.
“The prince will be with you shortly,” the aide said, and the door shut behind her with a soft click.
“Thank you,” she said, too late. Sheer, heady anticipation warred with a hint of irritation. The prince...
Laila had never wanted to look out a window more in her life, but the inside of the room caught her attention. Delicate furniture upholstered with fabric in pinstriped patterns. A fireplace surrounded by white paneling. Soft lamplight from round globes on shelves in the corners. And in that lamplight—pottery.
The red-and-gold toned vase had its own stand in the corner, and she leaned in close, holding her breath. It looked awfully close to the style of the mystery painter. Laila’s palms ached to pick it up and flip it over, just to see. She got an inch closer. It reminded her very much of the photos she’d seen and the two pieces in the museum in London. In which case...it was priceless.
Laila stepped back from the vase, giving it a wide berth. She didn’t want the prince to catch her touching it. His dark eyes popped into her mind, sending a shiver down her spine. How he’d so easily caught her wrist in midair. Where had he gone? Back to the party?
She sat down on an overstuffed sofa and stood up again. He’d called for security, too. She sent up a quick wish to the universe that he wasn’t, for some reason, locating Harb.
No. He wouldn’t. He hadn’t looked like he would betray her that way. And that brought her back to his eyes.
The party seemed like it might be breaking up. A pair of voices—perhaps a pair of older women—passed the door. Maybe people were going to their rooms. Laila couldn’t tell how long she’d been thinking of those dark eyes in the night.
The door opened, and she jumped back, catching her breath. Zayid stepped into the room, followed closely by the two aides. “Prince Zayid,” she said. “You’re—you’re back.”
He shot her a look with those dark eyes, and heat trickled down her spine. “Leave us.”
“Sheikh Zayid, we’re not supposed to—”
“Leave. Us.” He folded his arms across his chest and didn’t look at the other two men to see if they would obey. After the barest hesitation, they did. She was alone with a prince. “Sit.” He gestured to the low sofa in front of her.
He was so handsome, with those cut ch
eekbones and tight muscles, that she wanted to swoon onto the sofa like a lady in an old movie. Keep it together.
“I’m not sure if that’s the best idea.” She met his eyes. “You weren’t honest with me in the garden. You—you let me believe you weren’t anyone of major significance. I told you all about my problems.” A pinprick of fear burrowed into the back of her neck. Her adrenaline was fading. Reality was setting in.
“Let me begin again.” He dropped his arms and lifted his chin a fraction of an inch, and it took her breath away again. This man was going to become a king. “I’m Sheikh Zayid Hasan, crown prince of Raihan. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He came to her and lifted her hand easily in his and brushed his lips across her knuckles. “And I’d like to remind you that I never uttered a lie. You believed only what you wanted to believe.”
“Laila Tindall,” she said, an electric pleasure moving through her at his touch. She pulled her hand away. “But you stood there while I gave you...intimate details of my life. That man might be waiting outside the door right now.”
“Sit down, Ms. Tindall.”
“Oh, if you’re going to kiss my hand, call me Laila.” Her heart refused to settle down. “But I prefer to receive bad news standing up.” She planted herself in front of the sofa. “Go ahead, Prince Zayid. Say it.”
Fear glistened in her eyes, which Zayid could now see were a startling shade of green—but there was ferocity, too. He should have expected that. She’d walked alone across the foothills at night and come in through an open gate. Laila Tindall clearly wasn’t a pushover.
“Stand, then.” His own pulse throbbed at the corner of his neck. Zayid almost felt that he was the one being chased in the dark. “I’ve come up with a plan that will help us both.”
She opened her mouth as if she was ready to argue but cocked her head to the side. “Help us both?”