Surgeon Prince, Cinderella Bride

by Ann Mcintosh

  Uttam’s free hand sliced through the air, cutting off Farhan’s recitation. “Does she know she could be the rightful heir to the throne of Kalyana?”

  “It would be impossible for her to know.” Being on the receiving end of a quick, skeptical glare, Farhan explained, “When, as you requested, DNA was collected from Nargis’s remains the results were posted privately on a number of genealogical websites. That means any matches would be reported to me, as the administrator of that DNA sample, but not to the other parties. No matter what other familial matches Dr. Greer may make, the match with Nargis is the only one that could alert her to the royal bloodline, and she can’t see it.”

  His father’s back seemed to relax fractionally, but Uttam still didn’t turn around; just stood stroking the macaw’s head through the bars, making Sophie chuckle and coo with pleasure.

  Farhan exchanged a look with his brother, now seeing the same impatience he felt in Maazin’s expression. None of this was germane to the running of the country.

  Farhan was compelled to say, “Father, this is all ancient history, and since Dr. Greer will never know who she is, she’s no threat. On top of that, our constitution is clear: without documentation showing the direct lineage between her and Crown Prince Bhaskar, her claim, should she make one, would be denied.

  “Adoption records retrieved by the PI show Dr. Greer’s birth parents as Brian and Yasmine Haskell, residents of Fort McMurray, Canada, both deceased. Immigration records show the Haskells entering Canada in 1958 as citizens of Great Britain, although there are no records of either of their names in the British archives. Clearly Bhaskar must have had help creating a new identity, but unraveling that, at this stage, would be nigh on impossible.”

  He should have known better. His father was unmovable on the subject. The near rebellion caused when Uttam’s father had taken the throne had, it seemed, made him paranoid. He was absolutely sure one day some supporters of the missing Bhaskar would rise up to try to end his reign, and endanger them all.

  With a final scratch of Sophie’s head, Uttam turned to walk back to his desk.

  “We will not take the chance,” he said, as he settled into his chair. “This is a matter that must be dealt with, immediately.”

  Despite the return of his father’s usual stoic demeanor, Farhan was aware of an undercurrent beneath the cool declaration. Maazin shifted, as though suddenly uncomfortable, but before Farhan had a chance to react, Uttam continued.

  “Farhan, you will travel to Canada and marry this Dr. Greer; produce an heir to unite the two lines.”

  Once again he felt the icy fingers of disbelief run down his spine, just as they had then.

  The one thing he’d decided when Ali died was never to become a parent. His father had made it clear: the throne—the country—took precedence over everything. Farhan had no interest in producing a child only to have to sacrifice it on the altar of duty. He would do what he could to carry out the first part of his father’s order, if he could, but the second part wouldn’t happen.

  Ever.

  The door to the suite opened, rousing Farhan from his memories, and Kavan—his bodyguard, chauffeur, and friend—came in, rubbing his hands together.

  “How do people live in this weather all the time?” he grumbled. “It’s just gone four o’clock, and it’s already dark outside. Not to mention colder than normal people can bear, and the ice and slush is everywhere.”

  Only then did Farhan realize the murky sunlight had faded, and the street lights had come on. It was time to find and speak to Dr. Sara Greer.

  His heart stuttered, but he refused to let his trepidation show. Instead he stood and walked to the hall closet to pull out his wool coat, a warm silk scarf looped under the lapels.

  “There are benefits to living everywhere,” he replied, as he pulled on his winter wear. “This wouldn’t be my first choice, but it certainly is a beautiful country.”

  “In summer, perhaps,” Kavan said, pulling open the room door and holding it for Farhan to precede him out. “But ice should be in a glass, with Scotch on it, not under my feet.”

  And Farhan found himself chuckling, despite the apprehension gnawing at his insides.

  * * *

  I have to get my life together.

  The thought ran on a loop in Dr. Sara Greer’s head as she limped from the bus stop through slush and snow toward her home.

  It had been one of those days, starting from when she’d got up to find her roommate’s dog, Diefenbaker, had torn the insoles out of her shoes. The right one was salvageable. The left one, not at all. And who knew there was a metal bar just above the soles? She hadn’t until she’d seen it for herself. With no time to stop and buy an insole, she’d put two socks on that foot and, planning to run out at lunchtime and buy new shoes, hoped for the best.

  That idea went out the window when her sister, Mariah, turned up before the clinic even opened.

  “I need your car,” she said, making it a demand, rather than a request. “I have an appointment at ten on the other side of town.”

  “Use Mom’s, or Dad’s.” Yet, even as Sara tried to be firm, she knew it was probably a losing battle. “I have stuff I have to do at lunchtime.”

  “Dad’s gone to Clinton to work, and Mom has some errands to run, so I need your car.”

  Sara’s heart sank. Although her dad was a semi-retired farrier, “going to Clinton” usually meant more drinking beer than actual work, especially on a Friday during the London harness racing season. Not to mention the fact that Dad was notoriously horrible about getting people to settle their accounts. Even if he did work, he’d probably never see a dime.

  And despite their perennial need for money, Mom didn’t have the heart to nag him about his lack of financial acumen.

  Mariah turned from demanding to wheedling. “I’ll get it back to you before lunchtime. This is really important. A job interview.”

  “You could take the bus, you know. There’s plenty of time.”

  “Not when I have to go home and change first. I’d need to take two buses, and it looks like it’s going to rain. I’d be a mess when I get there, and it might cost me the job.”

  The thought of one of her sisters being gainfully employed was a heady one, given their propensity for drifting along, doing as little as possible to get by.

  “Okay.” Even as she capitulated, Sara knew she shouldn’t. “But, seriously, I need it back before lunch. I have to get new shoes, and I promised to check in on Nonni too.”

  Mariah wrinkled her nose, one corner of her lip curling.

  “I don’t know why you bother. Aunt Jackie is there all the time with her, and she was always so mean to you. You shouldn’t waste your time on her.”

  Sara hadn’t argued the point. Mariah was right about how cruel their maternal grandmother had been to her adopted grandchild, but whatever Sara did for the now senile old woman had nothing to do with Nonni. She was helping her aunt and mother, who had given her nothing but love and acceptance her entire life.

  “I promised I’d go, so make sure you bring the car back on time, okay?”

  “Sure, sure,” was her sister’s response but, up until the time Sara’s shift ended at four, she still hadn’t returned it.

  Then Cyndi, their younger sister, had started calling and texting at about eleven, as usual wanting Sara to intervene in one of her interminable arguments with their mother.

  “She won’t listen to me, Sissie.” Sara knew there was nothing but trouble ahead when Cyndi used that particular nickname. “I can’t get into the culinary course on time if Mom and Dad won’t pay for it now.”

  “I’m not getting involved, Cyndi. Sorry.”

  “But if you tell Mom it’s a good idea, she’ll listen.”

  Sara actually didn’t think it a good idea for Cyndi to sign up for yet another course, when she’d failed to fi
nish either of the other two she’d started over the last three years. Yet her saying so would only make Cyndi dig in her heels.

  “Listen, why don’t you save up some money and take the course the next time it’s offered? That way you don’t have to depend on Mom and Dad to be able to do it.”

  Cyndi didn’t even dignify that suggestion with an answer, just moved on to the next plan of attack.

  “Couldn’t you lend me the money? It’s only two thousand dollars.”

  Only? What world was Cyndi living in that two thousand dollars wasn’t a lot of money?

  “Firstly, I just made my student loan payment,” Sara told her. “I don’t have any cash to spare. Secondly, saying you want to borrow it really doesn’t fly, since I don’t see how you’d pay it back.” Not wanting a protracted argument, she finished up with, “I have to go back to work. Talk to you later.”

  Undeterred, Cyndi sent so many texts, the tone increasingly desperate, that Sara had ended up turning off the ringer on her phone.

  To make it all worse, the freezing cold January rain and ice mix Mariah had predicted had waited to start until Sara was standing at the bus stop. With the exception of her jacket, all the rest of her winter gear—boots, gloves and toque—was in her car. After all, she hadn’t expected to have to take the bus or walk to get home.

  Really, though, she shouldn’t be surprised. Her family, sisters in particular, seemed to feel it was Sara’s responsibility to do whatever was necessary to make their lives more comfortable, and Sara let herself be a pushover.

  She remembered when Mariah had been born. Sara had already been seven when her mother had got pregnant, despite the doctors saying it would never happen, and she’d been so excited to go from lonely only to big sister. When the baby had come home, she’d eagerly helped her mother and father, and somehow it seemed she’d never stopped.

  It often felt there was no time for herself, to work toward her own dreams and goals. Being viewed as an easy mark was one thing, but when you added being caught in a tug of love between Cyndi and her mom, and looking after Nonni, it often felt like too much. The emotional strain and financial pressure had stressed her to the point of a functional gastrointestinal disorder. Sometimes just seeing one of her family members’ numbers pop up on her phone made her stomach roil and burn, her teeth clench.

  That wasn’t something she shared with her family, though. Since childhood everyone had commented on how independent and reliable she was, and, as she finally opened her front door, Sara reflected that there were far worse ways her family could think of her.

  Her relief at finally getting home evaporated when, calling out to the French bulldog jumping up and down in the kitchen, she saw the note from her roommate.

  Sara, going to be late. Walk Dief for me.

  Not even a “please” or a “thank you.”

  But it wouldn’t be fair to take out her bad mood on the dog by refusing to walk him when he’d been locked up by himself all day.

  “Well, Dief, since I’m already wet, we might as well go for that walk now.”

  And she had to giggle when, hearing her say “walk,” the dog danced on his hind legs, turning in circles.

  After changing into a pair of dry sneakers, Sara let him out of the kitchen and hooked his leash to his collar.

  “Walkies,” she sang, loving the way he pirouetted on the way back to the front door. “Walkies,” she sang again, as she pulled the door open...

  And walked straight into the man standing on her doorstep.

  The air left her chest in a whoosh, and when she gasped to inflate her lungs again her head filled with the most delectable male scent she’d ever encountered. Firm fingers gripped her upper arms, steadying her as she wobbled.

  Quickly stepping back and pulling a now barking Diefenbaker with her, Sara looked up.

  And lost her breath all over again.

  Dark yet somehow cool eyes stared down at her from a face too pretty to be traditionally handsome and yet too roughly hewn to be beautiful. Toffee-toned skin stretched over an undeniably masculine bone structure. Midnight-black hair waved back from a wide forehead, which was balanced by a strong jawline and ever so slightly hooked nose. And his unsmiling but deliciously shaped lips made her legs suddenly weak.

  Her heart started racing, not in fright but with the intense sensation of recognition firing through her body, making her head spin. Although she could swear she’d never seen him before, something in his inscrutable gaze, the set of his head, the scent still lingering in her nostrils called to her primal, feminine core.

  Then common sense returned.

  Snapping her gaping mouth shut, she tugged Dief close to her side. Looking down at the dancing, yapping Frenchie gave her welcome respite from staring at the man before her.

  “Diefenbaker, enough. Sit.”

  Giving her a doleful glare, the little dog did as she commanded, his barking replaced by little rumbles in his throat.

  Steeling herself, Sara looked back up and stuttered, “C-can I help you?”

  Great. Not only was she a bedraggled mess, but she couldn’t even speak to the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen without sounding like a dork.

  “Dr. Sara Greer?”

  It was only nominally a question. His deep, accented tones made it more of a haughty statement, and Sara just stopped herself from shyly dipping her chin. Instead, she forced herself to look directly into his eyes.

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Dr. Farhan Alaoui.” He paused almost expectantly, his gaze watchful. “Crown Prince of Kalyana.”

  For a long moment the words sounded like gibberish. Of course she’d heard them loud and clear, but they made no sense to her on an intellectual level.

  Had she fallen on the way home, hit her head and lapsed into some kind of concussed dream? That seemed more likely than a man claiming to be a crown prince standing on her doorstep.

  “Wh-who?”

  Obviously sensing her rising anxiety, Dief stood up and growled. Sara bent to scoop him up. The little dog was trembling—or was it her shaking that way?

  “Dr. Farhan Alaoui. Crown Prince of Kalyana,” he repeated, tipping his head back so he was looking down that impressive nose at her, and enunciating every syllable as though speaking to a child.

  “D-don’t b-be ridiculous.” She could hardly catch her breath, between the pounding of her heart and rising nausea. “Is this some kind of joke? Who put you up to this?”

  Her mind was spinning as she tried to figure out what was going on. There were only three people she’d shared her DNA results with, all trusted family members. Would any of them play such a cruel hoax on her?

  “No joke, Dr. Greer.” The corners of his lips twitched downward, reminding her of her least favorite lecturer at university. The one for whom she could do no right. “I’ve come to offer you a job.”

  “A job?” she repeated, still trying to sort through the chaos in her head. She peeked around his broad-shouldered frame, expecting to see Cyndi or maybe Mariah behind him, holding a camera and giggling. “A-as what?”

  His lips tightened, and she actually heard him inhale before he said, “My wife.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  OF COURSE SHE thought he was crazy, although she was intrigued enough to put aside her skepticism and at least listen to what he had to say.

  If even two months earlier someone had said her roots lay in the small kingdom of Kalyana, she wouldn’t have had a clue where they were talking about. After getting her DNA results she’d had to look it up online.

  Lying on her bed, computer on her lap, she’d fallen in love with the pictures of the country and the faces of the people. A chain of thirty-plus small islands in the Indian Ocean, it was a melting pot, she’d learned from her research. A mixture of Indian, Arab, African and European, which lent her DNA breakdown credence.


  The need to understand where her ancestors came from had been growing inside her for a long time, and had become a compulsion. It wasn’t anything she could discuss with her adoptive parents or younger sisters. How could she explain, although they were her family, the yearning to have a biological connection to other people, to an ancestral home, was overwhelming? Although they knew she’d looked up her birth parents’ names and had done the DNA test, it wasn’t something they’d talked about much, as though it wasn’t that important.

  Her parents had a commendable, egalitarian outlook on life.

  “Everyone’s the same, under their skin,” was one of her mom’s favorite sayings, but knowing that hadn’t helped Sara when she’d been a kid, going to school, trying to field questions about her origins.

  With her burnt-caramel skin tone, thick, kinky black hair, dark brown eyes and plump build, she’d stood out, especially when compared to her tall, thin, fair-skinned, blonde sisters. There had been a few other children of color in the schools she’d gone to, but the difference had been that they had all known what their roots were. Sara never had.

  It had left a hole inside; empty spots in her soul.

  Crown Prince Farhan seemed able to fill in some of those blanks, although she found it difficult to comprehend what he was saying.

  “Explain it to me again,” she said.

  Sitting in a slightly seedy coffee shop down the road from her house, she was supremely aware of the man across the table, and the avid stares of the other early evening customers. Who could blame them for being curious?

  With his beautifully fitting coat, even in jeans and with a silk scarf looped informally around his throat, there was nothing casual about the overall effect Crown Prince Farhan projected.

  Everything about him, from his aura of wealth to the bodyguard, who he’d introduced as Kavan, sitting at an adjacent table, was beyond Sara’s, and no doubt the other patrons’, ken.

  It made her aware of the slightly rundown aura of her blue-collar neighborhood. Heightened her discomfort and confusion.