Surgeon Prince, Cinderella Bride

by Ann Mcintosh

  With exaggerated patience he replied, “In a nutshell, you’re part of the Kalyanese royal family. A part that was thought to have died off.”

  “But I looked at my adoption records. My father was Brian Haskell, not this...”

  “Bhaskar Ahuja,” he helpfully supplied.

  “Right. Him. So I can’t be who you think I am.”

  “According to the DNA results, you’re definitely the granddaughter of Queen Nargis, and Bhaskar was her only child. Ergo...”

  She shook her poor befuddled head.

  “This is crazy. And how does any of this relate to your proposition that we marry?”

  Just saying the words made her blood pressure skyrocket, bringing a slow-building headache.

  “Through your father, you could, if you wish to exercise it, have a claim to the throne. Should certain factions find that out, you may be used as a rallying point for a revolution.”

  “I—I don’t want the throne,” she’d said, quite sure it would be the end of the conversation. The craziness.

  But Crown Prince Farhan had simply shaken his head.

  Apparently, in the worlds of royalty and politics, nothing was that simple. She wouldn’t even have to participate in the rebellion, could denounce it, and that still wouldn’t be enough.

  Farhan wrapped long, nimble fingers around the disposable cup half-filled with coffee and leaned closer across the small table. At that distance, in the garish light, she realized his eyes weren’t as dark as she’d thought.

  Or as cold.

  In the rich brown tones there was, she thought, a hint of sympathy, although what she interpreted as determination took precedence.

  “Even though there is no way to connect Brian Haskell with Bhaskar, except through your DNA, some might consider you the true Queen of Kalyana. My father hopes that, should your lineage become public knowledge, uniting the bloodlines through our marriage would appease those inclined to overthrow his reign.”

  At least some semblance of her logical brain was still functioning. Not that she knew much about royalty and rights of inheritance, but she did know enough to ask, “But don’t thrones pass from father to son? And if my father ran off rather than take the throne, shouldn’t he be considered to have abdicated?”

  He surprised her with the briefest hint of a smile. Just enough to chase the solemn, arrogant expression from his face and create deep, slashing laugh lines in his cheeks. With just that small change his face, already gorgeous, became shockingly beautiful.

  Tingles of awareness shot through her veins, and heat settled low in her belly.

  “Not in Kalyana. It’s always been the oldest child, irrespective of gender. And there are people who might say Bhaskar was forced to run away by my family, rather than him leaving of his own accord.”

  A little chill ran up her spine at his words, and she had to ask, “Could there possibly be any truth to that? And if we’re both part of the royal family, aren’t we related?”

  His face tightened, became forbidding, yet he replied, “No, we’re not related and I think it doubtful my grandfather even knew he was next in line, since we’d cut off all contact with the kingdom by that point. My branch of the family had left Kalyana about a century before, and was living prosperously in Australia. By all accounts, my grandfather, his wife and children underwent great upheaval when he agreed to take the throne. And their transition was difficult, because of the suspicion surrounding your father’s disappearance.”

  Her mind was going a million miles an hour, and she latched onto a subject that felt distant enough to be tenable. “How old was your father when they moved there?”

  His eyebrows rose slightly, as though the question caught him off-guard. “About nine or so, I think.”

  “Poor soul,” she murmured, imagining herself at that age moving halfway across the world into a new and hostile environment. She’d had life changes happen at about the same age, and the effects still lingered, even after so many years. “That must have been rough on him.”

  Prince Farhan’s eyes widened slightly, then he dropped his gaze to his cup, not replying.

  There were too many threads to unravel, but one thing was foremost in her mind.

  “Why can’t I just sign a document saying I promise not to try to take over the country? Wouldn’t that work as well?”

  He looked up at her again, but it felt as though he’d pulled his mind back to their conversation from somewhere far away.

  “The vast majority of the Kalyanese people have no problem with the monarchy. However, even after more than fifty years, the suspicions about my family have lingered, so having you aligned with our side of the family would...should...put all that to rest, once and for all.”

  It was too much to take in, and she struggled to contain her anxiety, the panic making her pre-ulcerous stomach burn and her hands shake.

  Sara wasn’t impulsive. She’d had neither the luxury nor the inclination to be. In life, and particularly in her job, she was cautious and deliberate, to the point where the manager of the walk-in clinic often asked her speed up diagnosing and treating patients.

  And yet here she was, seriously considering his proposition.

  It wasn’t just the money, although the lump sum he’d offered, along with an amount he’d called a monthly stipend but had sounded like a yearly salary to her, would definitely be a godsend. More than that, though, the gorgeous man sitting across from her seemed to embody adventure, and offer her a chance to see her ancestral home. He was also dangling a chance to play a fairy-tale role in front of her like the ultimate carrot.

  Her. Plain, unremarkable, sensible and reliable Sara Greer, contemplating running off into the sunset with a real life prince to become a princess in her own right?

  She must be losing her mind.

  As though to distract her, her brain went off at a tangent and she heard herself say, “You sound Australian, but Kalyana is in the Indian Ocean. Have your family kept their accents after all this time?”

  Farhan shook his head. “I don’t sound like the rest of my family because I went to medical school and practiced in Australia up until a year or so ago.”

  In the midst of all the nonsense, she’d forgotten he was a doctor too. Somehow knowing that made her relax fractionally.

  “What is your specialty?”

  “I’m a general surgeon. My brother, Maazin, is one as well, although, having trained with the Royal Guard, his experiences have been far more interesting than mine.”

  “Do you have a practice in Kalyana now?”

  His expression was rueful as he replied, “I keep my hand in, but it feels as though I do more administrative work than actually practicing medicine. I’ve been trying to upgrade the medical systems, which has turned out to be more difficult than I’d imagined.”

  “I’d need to work, if I agree to come with you.”

  The words fell between them, were followed by a thick silence. Farhan’s eyes narrowed, and Sara knew why.

  Despite the ambivalence of the statement, it sounded like capitulation.

  Hadn’t she recently been thinking how much she wanted to see the place her ancestors came from? Wasn’t she longing for adventure, for a chance to advance, to make things better?

  I’m going to do this.

  And it was, as the old saying goes, all over bar the shouting at that point.

  * * *

  Somehow, before going to Canada to find her, when reading the PI’s report and looking at the photographs accompanying it, Farhan had felt he knew who Sara Greer was. Quiet and serious. Competent medically, but socially withdrawn. Nothing fun or fancy about her.

  Yet when she’d tugged open her door before he could knock, and he’d seen her in the flesh for the first time, shock had fired through his system.

  Damp and flushed, laughing down at the dog caperin
g around her ankles, the sight had almost made him smile despite the stress he’d been under. But when their bodies had collided and she’d looked up, her gleaming brown eyes widening in shock, all his amusement had fled, replaced with a jolt of desire.

  It still simmered beneath his skin, and he found himself taking in her every expression, every gesture, trying to parse them, wanting to understand what each one meant.

  Not the most auspicious start to what was supposed to be strictly a business arrangement. This sudden surge of attraction was unwanted, as was the tug of sympathy he felt toward Sara Greer. Even as a child, he’d recognized the subtle danger of allowing himself to feel too much for others. Ali had been the golden son, Maazin the baby. Farhan had felt lost in the shuffle, ignored until he did something wrong. He’d craved his mother’s love, his father’s approval, but their attention had rarely strayed his way. Withdrawing into himself and avoiding emotional involvement had served him well.

  A marriage of convenience, especially of a short duration, would suit him perfectly. With his need to serve his country foremost in his mind, he had no time for complications and messy relationships.

  And it was time he made that aspect of it absolutely clear.

  “What I propose is that we marry, and agree to stay together for at least a year.” Something in the way her cheeks pinked up made his pulse escalate, but he kept his face expressionless, and his voice level. “Obviously, this won’t be a union based on emotion and, while I’m content with that, I doubt you’d want to be locked into such an arrangement long term.”

  “How would a short-term marriage help the situation, though?”

  “If within the year no one finds out about your lineage, I’d think it would be safe to part ways, and the chances of anyone finding out who your father was are nil. I’m sure if anyone knew Bhaskar was alive all those years, they would have said something.”

  The skeptical look she gave him made him impatient. She’d seemed set to agree to his terms, and now he felt victory slipping away.

  “Look,” he said, leaning closer over the table, trying to ignore the way the lights made her eyes seem speckled with gold dust, “I’m doing this because my father ordered me to. He’s not been well, and I think he’s trying to wrap up loose ends as best he can, although I suspect he’ll live for many years to come. In his mind, a marriage of convenience is perfectly acceptable and you should be happy to become a part of a wealthy, royal family. He entered into such a marriage, and I knew eventually I would also, but trying to explain to him that modern women, like you, would find it strange and potentially insulting did no good.

  “So I’m following his orders in the best way I know how, trying to be fair to you in the process. As Bhaskar’s daughter you would probably have inherited a bankrupt country, as my grandfather did, but I believe you’re still due compensation as his heir, so think of the lump sum in that light, even though it comes with strings. The monthly stipend will be for the sheer upheaval moving and playing your part will bring.”

  He wouldn’t tell her the deal he offered wasn’t sanctioned by his father, who believed theirs would be a true, lasting union, not the limited one Farhan envisioned.

  Sara still looked unsure, however, so he continued, “If after a time we part ways, my father won’t be happy, but that wouldn’t be his decision to make. He can order me to marry, but he can’t order you to stay in the marriage if you don’t want to.”

  “That makes sense,” she said, shifting her empty cup back and forth between her hands. Then she cleared her throat, the blush now suffusing her entire face, but she bravely held his gaze as she said, “Before I agree, I have to ask: would you be expecting me to fulfill all the usual roles as your wife?”

  He knew what she was asking; would have found her delicacy amusing if it weren’t for the ramifications of even thinking that way, coupled with the rush of heat up his spine at the thought of having her in his bed.

  “No,” he said, quickly enough that her blush deepened. “Us being intimate isn’t part of the bargain.”

  If his father had his way it would have been written into the contract. Uttam had gone so far as to say he would give Sara a million dollars to produce an heir within the first year, saying it might, “smooth the way to compliance.” Farhan found his father’s suggestion offensive in every way, and had no intention of telling her about it. Ever.

  She looked back down at her cup, and he held his breath. He’d thought it would take weeks, perhaps even months to convince her to marry him, but beyond the shyness and anxiety in her gaze there was also curiosity and something akin to excitement. Farhan hoped it would be enough to get her to agree to his terms.

  “Okay, but I’ll need time to get everything sorted out.”

  Outwardly calm, but inside doing fist pumps and cartwheels, he said mildly, “That’s good. You won’t regret it.”

  Then, with ruthless efficiency, he steamrollered over every objection that would delay their return to Kalyana, or make her change her mind as the reality of her agreement set in.

  No, she didn’t need time to give notice or to pack. He was royalty, and rich. They’d hire people to deal with those pesky details.

  “You can leave all that to me, and we’ll be on our way in two weeks.”

  Eyes wide, she’d gasped. “Wait. You’re kidding, right?” Waving her hands, she continued, “I don’t know anything about being royalty; what to do or say. It’ll be a disaster, and an embarrassment. I can’t do it.”

  “I’ll arrange for you to learn whatever you need to know, as well as make sure you’re completely kitted out for the part. If we get everything squared away here over the next week or so we’ll go to Toronto, get married there, and then head to Paris or Milan to get you a new wardrobe.”

  The mingled horror and shock on her face was obvious, yet she didn’t object again. Instead she muttered, “And what the heck do I tell my family?”

  “The truth?” he ventured, only to be met with a scathing glance.

  “Oh, heck, no. All this princess business would blow their minds.”

  “They’ll find out sooner or later that you’re marrying a prince, albeit one from a tiny kingdom.”

  She nibbled at the corner of her lip, and then replied, “And we’re going to have to come up with a realistic backstory about how we met, and why we’re marrying in such a rush.”

  He shrugged, and gave her a smile. “I came to Canada on business. We met and I fell head over heels for you. I refused to go home without you, and you finally gave in.”

  Her scathing glance and answer made him smile.

  “You’re going to have to come up with a better story than that. No one would believe you’d fall for me like that.”

  “We’ll see,” was all he said, rising to get another coffee, which he found to be surprisingly good. “Want another drink?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  FOR THE LAST month and a half Sara had lived in a fog of unreality, waiting for—no, expecting—someone to jump out of the bushes, or a doorway, or her closet, and yell, “Surprise! Got you good, didn’t we?”

  Even now, thousands of feet in the air aboard a luxurious private jet, and more than seven thousand miles from her home in Canada, she was quite sure it was all a crazy dream.

  But the huge ruby winking from the third finger on her left hand seemed to slyly assure her it wasn’t. And the still unaccustomed feeling of a horrendously expensive silk dress and amazingly comfortable, not to mention incredibly beautiful, leather shoes also hinted that what was happening wasn’t an elaborate—and totally impractical—practical joke.

  “We should be landing in thirty minutes, Your Highness. Can I get you anything more?”

  And then there was that.

  The title still made her want to look around to see who the other person was speaking to.

  Oh, yeah. It’s me.

&
nbsp; “No, thank you, Juana,” she murmured, giving the other woman a little smile.

  Anything more than that tiny upward tilt of her lips was beyond her just now.

  Farhan was seated at a table on the other side of the cabin with his PA, Seth Lee, official documents spread out before them. Looking over at him only made her already collywobble-infested stomach give another twist.

  On the rare occasion Sara had thought of a possible husband, she’d pictured someone as ordinary looking as herself, not a man so handsome it almost made her eyes hurt just to look at him.

  Even standing in front of the justice of the peace in Toronto and saying, “I do,” felt like part of a dream. Farhan had tried to make it less clinical than it was in reality. The ceremony had taken place in their suite at the opulent hotel where they’d been staying, the entire living area beautifully decorated. Her cream crêpe de Chine dress had been simple but elegant, and she’d held a bouquet of vanilla orchids, their delicate petals almost the same shade as her dress but with a slightly more yellow tone. She’d learned afterwards they were the national flower of Kalyana, and Farhan, resplendent in a dark blue suit that fit his muscular form to perfection, had worn one as well, as a boutonnière.

  He’d even asked if she wanted her family in attendance, but she’d declined his offer. They were already in too much of a tailspin as it was.

  As though sensing her gaze, Farhan met it with his own. Cool, dark, and unfathomable, his autocratic expression only intensified her anxiety and fear. After a second, the corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. No doubt supposed to be reassuring, instead it washed her with heat and upped her stress quotient.

  When he looked away, Sara drew in a shaky breath and turned her head, as though looking out at the clouds below.

  Had it really only been just over a month since he’d entered her life, turning it upside down? It felt like much longer since her orderly, if stressful life had come crashing to a halt.

  “Are you sure he isn’t a sex trafficker? This is all so very sudden.”