Exotic Affairs: The Mistress BrideThe Spanish HusbandThe Bellini Bride

by Michelle Reid

  ‘A man who knew me well enough to know I would rather die than use those kind of tactics to trap him?’ Evie suggested.

  The sound of his sardonic huff of laughter had Evie spinning around to stare at him. ‘It seems to me that it is you who feels trapped by this situation, Evie, and that is what is really eating away at you.’

  Was it? she wondered. Then heavily admitted to herself that he was most probably right. She did feel trapped in a situation that there was no way out of unless she seriously took on board the only other option open to her.

  An ice-cold shudder went ripping through her; Raschid saw it and released a heavy sigh. ‘Look…’ he said, walking towards her. His hands came up, gripped her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry if I offended you earlier. But—don’t you think we have enough problems to deal with between us, without you and I fighting with each other?’

  ‘It all feels so ugly,’ she shakily confessed. ‘And it’s only promising to get uglier.’

  She meant once his father was involved, and Raschid instinctively understood that. ‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘I will turn this to our advantage if it is the last thing I do.’

  But at what expense? His father’s pride? His country’s pride? Their own wretched pride?

  ‘Already your dear mama is feeling most unexpectedly maternal,’ he added softly.

  Lifting her lashes, Evie found herself looking into warm, dark, wryly amused eyes.

  ‘Her final command to me before she left,’ he explained, ‘was to be sure I took precious care of her daughter or I would have her to contend with.’ He smiled. ‘I think we found a common ground for the first time ever when we both offended you as we did.’

  ‘You are both more alike than you think,’ Evie murmured. ‘You are both arrogant, both pushy, both too full of yourself.’

  ‘While you are nothing more than our tragically misunderstood victim; is that what you’re saying?’

  Evie grimaced. Put like that, she had made herself sound pathetic. ‘Your own father still has to have his say in this,’ she reminded him.

  ‘He isn’t some kind of ogre, Evie,’ Raschid replied soberly. ‘If the idea of you carrying a baby can soften your mother’s attitude towards me, then there is a good chance it can soften my father’s attitude to you.’

  ‘What—so we can all play happy families together?’ Her tone alone said she didn’t see much hope of that ever happening.

  ‘At least you can give him a chance before you completely condemn him.’

  A chance? Oh, yes, Evie could at least give him that. But she didn’t really hold out much hope for a happy ending to this.

  ‘So, what happens next?’ she asked.

  Raschid removed his hands from her and straightened his shoulders in a way that reminded Evie of those occasions she had watched him donning his official robes.

  ‘I go home to Behran to break the news to him,’ he replied.

  ‘What—now—today?’

  ‘Yes.’ He took a quick glance at his watch. ‘In the next ten minutes to be more precise.’ He looked at her then, golden eyes darkened by questions.

  ‘I really caused you a lot of problems when I didn’t tell you about the baby two weeks ago, didn’t I?’ she murmured penitently.

  His shrug said it all. ‘I could have diverted my father from this course he has taken if I had known then, yes.’

  ‘I was such a miserable coward,’ Evie admitted.

  ‘No, you were not,’ he denied. ‘You were shocked, you were anxious, and you were trying to do what you believed was the right thing with your brother’s wedding day so close.’

  ‘Trying to please everyone and pleasing none,’ she translated with a rueful grimace.

  ‘Well, please me now,’ Raschid requested. ‘And stay here while I am away. As it is, your personal possessions are on their way here from your cottage as we speak, and Asim has agreed to stay here with you. He will vet any visitors or telephone calls.’

  Be her guard, in other words. ‘Is he a eunuch?’ she asked dryly.

  ‘No.’ His mouth twitched appreciatively at the reference. ‘But I trust him with my life so I can therefore trust him with your virtue.’

  ‘But can you trust me with his?’ Evie threw back provokingly.

  His answer came quick and fast—so fast she didn’t even see it coming until she was locked in his arms and being utterly consumed by the kind of kiss only Raschid could issue.

  ‘I can trust you,’ he affirmed as he drew away.

  And why could he sound so smugly confident about that? Because she was clinging to him, lost in him, drowning in him—as always.

  But then Raschid had trouble dragging himself away from her, and it was some consolation to feel his mouth come back to hers for a hot, hungry, final kiss before he could bring himself to remove her hands from around his nape and reluctantly step away.

  ‘I must go,’ he said gently. ‘My flight plan has been filed and I dare not miss my slot.’

  Which meant he was intending to fly himself to Behran, Evie realised with a small shaft of alarm that had its roots in the frightening fear that, with their luck right now, anything might happen to him during the long flight.

  ‘Take care, won’t you? And call me, whenever you can!’

  ‘I’ll call,’ he promised. ‘And I will see you again within the week.’

  Fine words, sincere words. But he didn’t call her, and neither did she see him within the next two weeks.

  CHAPTER NINE

  BY THEN the isolation was beginning to get to her. She hadn’t dared to so much as step out of the apartment for fear of being waylaid by the press or people she did not want to see.

  Oh, her mother called her up every day on the telephone. In her own way, Lucinda was trying to be supportive, but it didn’t come easily to her. And really it was Evie who found herself ladling out calm reassurance to her mother when each new day went by without hearing a single thing from Raschid.

  ‘If he lets you down in this, I’ll kill him,’ Lucinda vowed when a full week had gone by with no word from Raschid.

  ‘Trust him, Mother,’ Evie replied. ‘I do. He loves me as much as I love him and he wants this baby. With that kind of incentive men can move mountains.’

  But, as the days went by without any word from Raschid, for the first time ever Evie found herself wishing the newspapers would give her some clue as to what was going on in Behran. But they were frustratingly empty of any reference to either Sheikh Raschid or Evie Delahaye for a change. It was a matter of priorities to them. A juicy scandal had suddenly blown up involving two government ministers and the media were busy covering that.

  Asim didn’t help. For he too clamped up whenever Evie tried to grill him, feigning no knowledge of what Raschid was doing and advising her to be patient. But he knew more than he was admitting to, Evie was absolutely sure about that, and the fact that he wasn’t prepared to speak could only mean the information filtering back to him from Behran had to be bad.

  Oh, he tried his very best to make the wait bearable. In fact, she and Asim became quite close friends during those two wretched weeks. He had duties to attend to at the Behran Embassy for part of each day, but otherwise he devoted his time exclusively to her.

  They walked together each morning on the roof garden attached to the apartment. And in the evenings he encouraged Evie to reacquaint herself with the game of chess—something she had played often with her father before he’d been tragically killed in a horse-riding accident when she was only ten years old.

  Her arm healed quickly under Asim’s care. He was a good man, a kind man, a pleasant companion, and it was during those two weeks that she began to understand why Raschid kept him close by all the time.

  He also talked freely and proudly about his country and all of the changes that had been made during the last twenty years. Life in Behran, she discovered, was not as totalitarian as she had believed it to be. The women were not kept hidden behind locked doors. It was no longer compulso
ry for them to cover themselves when they ventured out in public. Education was compulsory for both sexes, and women were beginning to find a place for themselves in all aspects of the working society.

  Only a very small section of the people wanted to keep things as they used to be, he’d told her. Most people saw the advantages in moving forward with the rest of the world rather than trying to pull against it.

  But the most curious point of all she learned from Asim during these talks they shared was that all of the changes made in Behran had been effected through Raschid’s father, which made his old-fashioned attitude towards marriage all the more confusing.

  But then, religion did that—divided and fragmented a human race that should be drawing closer together. Religion, colour, social tradition. Her own mother was guilty of discrimination in all three areas, so why should Evie expect Raschid’s father to feel any different?

  And Raschid’s father did not feel different—as Evie found out for herself soon enough.

  His feelings were made known to her via his personal envoy towards the end of the second week of her enforced isolation.

  Asim was out attending to his duties as was his habit during the middle part of the day. Evie hadn’t been feeling too well that morning—sickly and aching as if she might be going to come down with a bug.

  ‘You are unwell, Miss Delahaye?’ he’d enquired when she’d declined their usual walk on the roof garden before he’d left her.

  Evie had just sent him a rueful look. ‘You’re the doctor,’ she’d said dryly. ‘You tell me why I feel sick all the time.’

  Asim had grimaced his understanding of her condition, and left her lounging on one of the living-room sofas, apparently content to read a book, which she did, in a halfhearted kind of way—until the sound of steps in the hallway brought her jackknifing to her feet.

  Since no one else but Asim had access to the apartment, and he wasn’t due back for ages yet, she thought it was Raschid returning at last. So her eager expression reflected that assumption as the living-room door swung firmly inwards—only to cloud in confusion when two complete strangers stepped boldly into the room.

  Two Arabs, to be precise, dressed in smart western suits and looking about as innocuous as two gangsters.

  ‘Miss Delahaye?’ the taller, sharper-looking of the two enquired.

  Evie’s stomach muscles contracted, her shoulders straightening slightly as if in readiness to receive a dreadful blow. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘What are you doing here?’

  She was offered an obsequious bow, and Evie didn’t like it. It sent an icy shiver chasing down her spine, as if the cold hand of fate had just touched her shoulder.

  ‘My apologies for this intrusion,’ the spokesman murmured politely. ‘My name is Jamal Al Kareem. I am come bearing messages for you from Crown Prince Hashim,’ he explained.

  ‘And Prince Raschid?’ Evie questioned. ‘Is he not with you?’

  ‘Prince Raschid is engaged on—official business,’ she was informed. ‘In our neighbouring state of Abadilah.’

  Abadilah… That cold hand touched her shoulder again. Abadilah was the state Aisha’s father ruled.

  ‘Then how did you gain access to this apartment?’ she asked coldly.

  ‘As the Crown Prince’s head of security I have access to all Royal residences. It is, I am afraid, a necessary evil for powerful families to take special precautions to protect themselves,’ he explained, moving ever closer to her as he spoke. ‘For power brings with it its own enemies, and those enemies may decide that trouble can best be served from within, so to speak.’

  He came to a stop at the rear of the sofa where Evie had been sitting. In response, Evie found herself taking a defensive step backwards, something in his super-polite, very silky tone making her feel threatened. As if he was subtly informing her that she was classed as an enemy here.

  ‘Y-you said Crown Prince Hashim sent you,’ she prompted, utilising a cool aloofness in an attempt to offset whatever it was this horrible man was giving off.

  Another bow—another shiver. ‘The Crown Prince is most concerned about the—predicament you find yourself in at present,’ the messenger confirmed. ‘He wishes me to relay to you his most sincere apologies for any—distress you have been forced to endure due to his premature announcement to the media.’

  ‘Th-thank you,’ Evie said, her eyes flicking nervously to where the other man was standing by the door—half in and half out of it as if he was on alert, listening for Asim’s return. ‘But you may assure Crown Prince Hashim that no apology was necessary.’

  ‘He will be most humbly grateful for your gracious understanding,’ the spokesman returned courteously. ‘But the Crown Prince is—disturbed that your feelings were not taken into account when he released the statement about his son’s forthcoming marriage. It was—insensitive of him, as his revered son pointed out. Now he wishes to make recompense for any distress caused to yourself…’

  Watching him lift a hand to his inside pocket, Evie felt the muscles in her shoulders tighten just a little bit more. What she thought he was going to withdraw from that pocket she wasn’t quite sure, but what she didn’t expect to see him holding out towards her was a slender slip of paper.

  Wary, confused, instinctively suspicious of what was taking place here, Evie stepped forward so she could take the piece of paper, then stepped quickly back before letting her eyes drop from Jamal Al Kareem’s expressionless face to check out what she was holding. And felt a sense of chilling horror slide slowly through her blood.

  It was a cheque made out to the World Aid Foundation for two million pounds.

  ‘The Crown Prince is aware of the good work you do for this particular charity,’ the messenger explained while Evie just stared unblinkingly down at the cheque. ‘He begs you will accept this small donation as a—gesture of atonement. And in the light of events,’ Jamal Al Kareem smoothly continued, ‘he feels sure you will understand the sad necessity for him to also offer you—this…’

  Evie blinked, glancing up rather dazedly to find yet another offering was being held out to her. It was a business card; she could see that even before she stepped forward to take it.

  But it was only as she lowered her eyes and found herself staring at the famous logo of a very exclusive private clinic right here in London that the full horror of what was really being relayed to her here finally hit her.

  ‘The Crown Prince is, of course, confident of your continued discretion during this—delicate time,’ Jamal Al Kareem silkily concluded. ‘In anticipation of your understanding, he remains your most humble servant, and hopes this will put an end to the matter…’

  An end to the matter—an end to the matter. Those few terrible words went round and round in Evie’s head as she stared at that wretched business card while her two visitors made their bows and left her to it.

  She didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t do anything at all as far as she was aware. She felt strange, separated from herself almost. As if she were now standing where Jamal Al Kareem had been standing and was observing from a distance someone who looked like her, staring down at the cheque and the business card she was holding in her hands with absolutely no reaction at all.

  Her face was very white, her lips cold and bloodless. Her eyes were lowered so she couldn’t tell what they were doing, but her chest wasn’t moving, as if her heart and lungs had simply stopped functioning, effectively cutting the oxygen off from her brain so that it couldn’t even attempt to think.

  Because thinking meant pain—the worst kind of pain. The pain of knowing that this truly was the—end of the matter.

  No hope left. No more waiting. No chance that Raschid was going to walk through that door at any moment now and tell her that everything had been sorted in their favour.

  For Raschid was in Abadilah, with Aisha.

  And Evie should not be standing here in his apartment.

  From that very cold, distant place she seemed to have retreate
d into, she watched her other self open her fingers and let both the cheque and the card drop to the floor. Then that person simply turned and walked away—out into the hallway, out of the apartment and into the waiting lift. It took her downwards. She didn’t even stop when the concierge called out to her sharply.

  Outside, the good weather was still holding. London was baking beneath a heatwave that had most people walking around in shirt-sleeves. So she didn’t look out of place in her pale blue knitted top and casual white cotton trousers as she joined the lunchtime rush taking place on the pavements.

  A car followed her for a while, though she didn’t know that, its two occupants pacing her progress along the embankment until she turned onto a paved walkway where a car could not go.

  An hour later—maybe two—and she was still walking. It must have been instinct that eventually made her aware of where she was, because she suddenly found herself standing outside her mother’s apartment.

  She rang the bell, and her mother’s disembodied voice sounded in the communication box.

  ‘It’s Evie,’ she heard herself say. ‘Can I come in?’

  There was a moment’s surprised silence, then the buzzer sounded to tell Evie she could open the front door now. Her mother’s apartment was on the first floor. She was already standing at the flat door when Evie got there. Lucinda took one look at her daughter and went as white as a sheet.

  ‘Oh, my God, Evie,’ she gasped in shaken dismay. ‘You’re bleeding!’

  Evie barely heard her; she was too busy fainting at her mother’s feet.

  It was very late that same evening and Lucinda was sitting beside her daughter’s hospital bed when the door suddenly swung open and Sheikh Raschid Al Kadah stepped into the room with his faithful servant crowding right behind him.

  He took one look at Evie lying so still in the bed and strode urgently forward. Only to pull to a halt when Lucinda Delahaye jumped to her feet and placed herself firmly between him and her daughter.

  For once, Lucinda looked less than her usual immaculate self. Her hair was untidy, silken threads of gold were tumbling around her face where they had escaped from the elegant chignon they were supposed to be contained in. She had aged decades, her usually alabaster-smooth skin scored by lines of strain.