* * *
Jemma had more than half a brain. She actually had a very good brain. And a very good imagination, which made the walk to the tent excruciating.
What was going to happen to her? What were the official charges? And what would the punishment be?
She tried to calm herself. She focused on her breathing, and clamped down on her wild thoughts. It wouldn’t help her to panic. She knew she’d entered the country illegally. She’d willingly agreed to work on a shoot that hadn’t been condoned by the government. And she’d shown her breasts in public, which was also against Saidia’s law.
And she’d done it all because she hadn’t taken money from her family since she was eighteen and she wasn’t about to start now.
She was an adult. A successful, capable woman. And she’d been determined to make it without going to her family begging for a handout.
In hindsight, perhaps begging for a handout would have been wiser.
In the wardrobe tent, Jemma shrugged off the heavy fur coat, and slipped a light pink cotton kimono over her shoulders, tying the sash at her waist. As she sat down at the stool before the make-up mirror, she could hear the sheikh’s voice echo in her head.
You’ve done everything wrong...
Everything wrong...
He was right. She had done everything wrong. She prayed he’d accept her apology, allow her to make amends. She hadn’t meant to insult him, or disrespect his country or his culture in any way.
Jemma straightened, hearing voices outside her tent. The voices were pitched low, speaking quickly, urgently. Male voices. A single female voice. Jemma recognized the woman as Mary Leed, Catwalk’s editorial director. Mary was usually unflappable but she sounded absolutely panicked now.
Jemma’s heart fell all over again. Bad. This was bad.
She swallowed hard, her stomach churning, nerves threatening to get the better of her.
She shouldn’t have come.
She shouldn’t have taken such risks.
But what was she to do otherwise? Crumble? Shatter? End up on the streets, destitute, homeless, helpless?
No.
She wouldn’t be helpless, and she wouldn’t be pitied, or mocked, either.
She’d suffered enough at the hands of her father. He’d betrayed them all; his clients, his business partners, his friends, even his family. He might be selfish and ruthless and destructive, but the rest of the Copelands weren’t. Copelands were good people.
Good people, she silently insisted, stretching out one leg to unzip the thigh-high boot. Her hand was trembling so badly that it made it difficult to get the zipper down. The boots were outrageous to start with. They were the stuff of fantasy, a very high heel projecting a kinky twist, just like the fashion layout itself.
They would have been smarter doing this feature in Palm Springs instead of Saidia with Saidia’s strict laws of moral conduct. Saidia might be stable and tolerant, but it wasn’t a democracy, nor did it cater to the wealthy Westerners like some other nations. It remained conservative and up until two generations ago, marriages weren’t just arranged, they were forced.
The tribal leaders kidnapped their brides from neighboring tribes.
Unthinkable to the modern Western mind, but acceptable here.
* * *
Jemma was tugging the zipper down on the second boot when the tent flap parted and Mary entered with Sheikh Karim. Two members of the sheikh’s guard stood at the entrance.
Jemma slowly sat up, and looked from Mary to the sheikh and back.
Mary’s face was pale, her lips pressed thin. “We’ve a problem,” she said.
Silence followed. Jemma curled her fingers into her lap.
Mary wouldn’t meet Jemma’s gaze, looking past her shoulder instead. “We’re wrapping up the shoot and returning to the capitol immediately. We are facing some legal charges and fines, which we are hoping to take care of quickly so the crew and company can return to England tomorrow, or the next day.” She hesitated for a long moment, before adding even more quietly, “At least most of us should be able to return to England tomorrow or the next day. Jemma, I’m afraid you won’t be going with us.”
Jemma started to rise, but remembered her boot and sat back down. “Why not?”
“The charges against you are different,” Mary said, still avoiding Jemma’s gaze. “We are in trouble for using you, but you, you’re in trouble for...” Her voice faded away. She didn’t finish the sentence.
She didn’t have to.
Jemma knew why she was in trouble. What she didn’t know was what she’d be charged with. “I’m sorry.” She drew a quick, shallow breath and looked from Mary to Sheikh Karim. “I am sorry. Truly—”
“Not interested,” he said curtly.
Jemma’s stomach flipped. “I made a mistake—”
“A mistake is pairing a black shoe and a blue shoe. A mistake is forgetting to charge one’s phone. A mistake is not entering the country illegally, under false pretenses, with a false identity. You had no work permit. No visa. Nothing.” Sheikh Karim’s voice crackled with contempt and fury. “What you did was deliberate, and a felony, Miss Copeland.”
Jemma put a hand to her belly, praying she wouldn’t throw up here, now. She hadn’t eaten much today. She never did on days she worked, knowing she photographed better with a very flat stomach. “What can I do to make this right?”
Mary shot Sheikh Karim a stricken glance.
He shook his head, once. “There is nothing. The magazine staff must appear in court, and pay their fines. You will face a different judge, and be sentenced accordingly.”
Jemma sat very still. “So I’m to be separated from everyone?”
“Yes.” The sheikh gestured to Mary. “You and the rest of the crew, are to leave immediately. My men will accompany you to ensure your safety.” He glanced at Jemma. “And you will come with me.”
Mary nodded and left. Heart thudding, Jemma watched Mary’s silent, abrupt departure then looked to Sheikh Karim.
He was angry. Very, very angry.
Three years ago she might have crumbled. Two years ago she might have cried. But that was the old Jemma, the girl who’d grown up pampered, protected by a big brother and three opinionated, but loving, sisters.
She wasn’t that girl anymore. In fact, she wasn’t a girl at all anymore. She’d been put to the fire and she’d come out fierce. Strong.
“So where do felons go, Sheikh Karim?” she asked quietly, meeting the sheikh’s hard narrowed gaze.
“To prison.”
“I’m going to prison?”
“If you were to go to court tomorrow, and appear before our judicial tribunal, yes. But you’re not being seen by our judicial tribunal. You’re being seen by my tribe’s elder, and he will act as judge.”
“Why a different court and judge than Mary and the magazine crew?”
“Because they are charged with crimes against Saidia. You—” he broke off, studying her lovely face in the mirror, wondering how she’d react to his news, “You are charged with crimes against the Karims, my family. Saidia’s royal family. You will be escorted to a judge who is of my tribe. He will hear the charges brought against you, and then pass judgment.”
She didn’t say anything. Her brow creased and she looked utterly bewildered. “I don’t understand. What have I done to your family?”
“You stole from my family. Shamed them.”
“But I haven’t. I don’t even know your family.”
“Your father does.”
Jemma grew still. Everything seemed to slow, stop. Would the trail of devastation left by her father’s action never end? She stared at Mikael suddenly afraid of what he’d say next. “But I’m not my father.”
“Not physically, no, but you represent him.�
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“I don’t.”
“You do.” His jaw hardened. “In Arabic society, one is always connected to one’s family. You represent your family throughout your life, which is why it’s so important to always bring honor to one’s family. But your father stole from the Karims, shamed the Karims, dishonoring my family, and in so doing, he dishonored all of Saidia.”
She swallowed hard. “But I’m nothing like my father.”
“You are his daughter, and you are here, unlawfully. It is time to right the wrong. You will make atonement for your disrespect, and your father’s, too.”
“I don’t even have a relationship with my father. I haven’t seen him in years—”
“This is not the time. We have a long trip ahead of us. I suggest you finish changing so we can get on the road.”
Her fingers bent, nails pressing to the dressing table. “Please.”
“It’s not up to me.”
“But you are the king.”
“And kings must insist on obedience, submission, and respect. Even from our foreign visitors.”
She looked at him, seeing him, but not seeing him, too overwhelmed by his words and the implication of what he was saying to focus on any one thing. It didn’t help that her pulse raced, making her head feel dizzy and light.
The grim security guard at Tagadir International Airport had warned them. Had said that His Highness Sheikh Karim was all powerful in Saidia. As king he owned this massive expanse of desert and the sand dunes rolling in every direction, and as their translator had whispered on leaving the airport, “His Highness, Sheikh Karim, isn’t just head of the country, he is the country.”
Jemma exhaled slowly, trying to clear the fog and panic from her brain. She should have taken the warnings seriously. She should have been logical, not desperate.
Desperate was a dangerous state of mind.
Desperate fueled chaos.
What she needed to do was remain calm. Think this through. There had to be a way to reach him, reason with him. Surely he didn’t make a habit of locking up American and British girls?
“I’d like to make amends,” she said quietly, glancing up at Sheikh Karim from beneath her lashes, taking in his height, the width of his shoulders, and his hard, chiseled features. Nothing in his expression was kind. There was not even a hint of softness at his mouth.
“You will,” he said. “You must.”
She winced at the harshness in his voice. Sheikh Mikael Karim might be as handsome as any Hollywood leading man, but there was no warmth in his eyes.
He was a cold man, and she knew all too well that cold men were dangerous. Men without hearts destroyed, and if she were not very careful, and very smart, she could be ruined.
“Can I pay a fine? A penalty?”
“You’re in no position to buy yourself out of trouble, Miss Copeland. Your family is bankrupt.”
“I could try Drakon—”
“You’re not calling anyone,” he interrupted sharply. “And I won’t have Drakon bailing you out. He might be your sister’s ex-husband, but he was my friend from university and from what I understand, he lost virtually his entire fortune thanks to your father. I think Drakon has paid a high enough price for being associated with you Copelands. It’s time you and your family stopped expecting others to clean up your messes and instead assumed responsibility for your mistakes.”
“That might be, but Drakon isn’t cruel. He wouldn’t approve of you...of you...” Her voice failed her as she met Mikael’s dark gaze. The sheikh’s anger burned in his eyes, scorching her.
“Of what, Miss Copeland?” he asked softly, a hint of menace in his deep voice.
“What won’t he approve of?” he persisted.
Jemma couldn’t answer. Her heart beat wildly, a painful staccato that made her chest ache.
She had to be careful. She couldn’t afford to alienate the sheikh. Not when she needed him and his protection.
She needed to win him over. She needed him to care. Somehow she had to get him to see her, the real her, Jemma. The person. The woman. Not the daughter of Daniel Copeland.
It was vital she didn’t antagonize him, but reached him. Otherwise it would be far too easy for Sheikh Karim to snap his fingers and destroy her. He was that powerful, that ruthless.
Her eyes burned and her lip trembled and she bit down hard, teeth digging into her lip to keep from making a sound.
Fear washed through her but she would not crack, or cry. Would not disintegrate, either.
“He wouldn’t approve of me flaunting your laws,” she said lowly, fighting to maintain control, and cling to whatever dignity she had left. “He wouldn’t approve of me using my sister’s passport, either. He would be angry,” she added, lifting her chin to meet Sheikh Karim’s gaze. “And disappointed.”
Mikael Karim arched a brow.
“In me,” she added. “He’d be disappointed in me.”
And then wrapping herself in courage, and hanging on to that fragile cloak, she removed her boot, placing it on the floor next to its mate, and turned to her dressing table to begin removing her make-up.
Copyright © 2015 by Jane Porter
WELCOME TO
Dear Ms Marinelli,
We are delighted that you have booked your room to stay at The Chatsfield. And, because we pride ourselves on creating the most unique and bespoke services during your stay, we have a few questions that we’d like to ask.
What time will you be checking in? Can I have an early check in, please?
Will you be checking in alone? Yes.
What morning paper would you like delivered? I try not to look at the news when I’m near the end of a book—nor magazines.
We would like to arrange some music for your listening pleasure. Is there a particular album or selection of music you would like to listen to in your room during your stay? No music or television. Silence, please.
We know that you may be working during your stay, and we are aware of how important it is for you to have all your creature comforts around you. In order to ensure that your stay is as fulfilling as possible...
We have a wide selection of food available for room service delivery. What would your most decadent meal be and why?
I don’t really like meals being delivered to my room. I’d like coffee (sweet and strong) delivered at six, but I’d prefer to come down for all my meals. I’ll be down at 6:00 p.m. for some bubbles and something nice to eat.
Do you have any special requests for your stay at our hotel?
Chocolate, wine and firm pillows so I can sit up in bed and write. Please don’t come every day and check the bar fridge. I hate being disturbed. Please make up my room at 9:00 a.m. when I am down for breakfast, so that I come back to it nice and fresh and I shan’t be interrupted.
What is your worst habit when writing?
That I ignore everybody and everything and then have to say sorry afterwards, when the story is told.
Do you have a writing routine? If so, could you share a bit about it with us?
It depends where I am with a story. At the beginning I am very organised, and stay on top of things, but closer to the end everything slides and basically I disappear for hours on end. I swear it will be different every time I start a new story, but the need for peace and solitude is a hard habit to break.
If you could write anywhere in the world, where would it be?
Any nice hotel and I’m happy. I think you get a very clean slate in a nice hotel room and that is all any writer wants. There simply aren’t the day-to-day distractions and that is invaluable.
We can tell from your recent published book that you have a vested interest in our very own hotels! So (curious minds want to know!) are you team Chatsfield or Team Harrington?!
Well, my
characters stayed at both, but I think I’m Team Chatsfield.
What did you most love about writing this story?
Well, I struggled, because James did something that is a no-no in all the books I have written. I was going to change it to make him completely redeemable. I paced for about forty-eight hours and then decided that if I changed that about him, then I’d take away the person he had started this journey as. I think I loved pushing myself a little out of my comfort zone. I loved my heroine’s justifiable anger and how she had to work her way back from that.
What has been your best hotel experience and what made it memorable?
Too many to list. I love staying at hotels, whether with company or alone. There is always something going on and I love having a little snoop and finding out the gossip.
What has been your most unusual hotel experience and why?
Not telling :)
If you could have given your hero or heroine a piece of advice before they started on their journey in your story, what would it have been?
Oh, so many pieces of advice (er...James, use a condom). But then they wouldn’t have made the mistakes they did and might not have got their happy-ever-after.
Thank you for answering our questions. We very much hope you enjoy your stay!
WELCOME TO
Dear James,
To ensure that your stay at the Chatsfield is as exclusive and private as possible, we will need to ask you a few questions of perhaps a delicate nature, to ensure that our private security team will be best placed to support you.
If you had to pick your most public scandalous moment, what would it be?
Finding out that the woman I had a one-night stand with is in fact a princess and now pregnant.
Was there an even more scandalous event that didn’t make it into the press?
She was most definitely a virgin.
Princess's Secret Baby Page 16