Exotic Affairs: The Mistress BrideThe Spanish HusbandThe Bellini Bride

by Michelle Reid

  ‘Did I ask you to do all that?’ Evie countered tersely.

  ‘Yes!’ he declared. ‘Every time you told me you loved me, you asked me to do those things!’ he rasped. ‘Every time we simply look at each other, we are demanding from the other that we go to any lengths necessary to be together!’

  He got up, the passion sounding in his voice reflected in the angry movement of his body as he walked across the room to stand glaring out of the window.

  While Evie sat, stunned into utter silence by his vehemence.

  And the worst of it was that he was right! The kind of love they had shared during the last two years had demanded that they go to any lengths to hold on to it!

  But not any more, Evie thought on a shudder. Recent events had gone too far and turned too nasty to hang on to romantic ideals that had no place in reality.

  ‘I can learn to live without your love,’ she told him huskily. ‘I can even live without people’s respect!’ Hadn’t she been doing that very successfully for two whole years now? ‘But I’ve discovered that I cannot live with hatred.’

  ‘My father doesn’t hate you,’ he sighed. ‘He simply saw you as a pawn he could use in the battle he was waging with me.’

  ‘That makes it all right, does it?’ Evie flashed back bitterly.

  ‘No,’ he heavily conceded.

  ‘And I wasn’t the real pawn,’ Evie added. ‘My baby was.’

  ‘Our baby,’ Raschid grimly corrected.

  But Evie shook her head. ‘No matter how you want to cover it up, Raschid, your father wanted this baby dead. I can’t forgive that. I refuse to forgive that! So as far as I am concerned for him this baby is dead,’ she announced. ‘I will not acknowledge you as his father, and he will not bear your name. I will not place his life at risk like that from anyone again.’

  ‘And I have no say in this? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I am saying,’ Evie wearily asserted, ‘that if you care for this child then you will do the right thing by him and forget you ever conceived him.’

  He didn’t say anything for a long time after that. And the silence pealed like the toll of a funeral bell while Evie waited to find out what he was going to do.

  And he looked every inch the heir to a kingdom, she noted helplessly. Body straight, chin high, that lean dark aquiline profile revealing absolutely nothing when in actual fact she knew she had just cut deep into the very heart of him with those brutal words.

  ‘So be it,’ he said suddenly, turned and walked stiffly to the door.

  It came as such a shock, such a terrible, terrible shock to have him concede defeat like that that it literally smashed her control to smithereens.

  And her shrill cry of, ‘Raschid—no!’ filled the room with more agonised despair than it could accommodate.

  It made him reel around in its shock-waves, dark face certainly showing emotion now as he strode back to the bed and bent over her, his skin wiped clear of any colour, golden eyes ferocious.

  ‘I should damn well think so!’ he ground out savagely. ‘I am your other half—don’t you dare discard me like that again!’

  Her arms were already clutching at his shoulders, his sliding beneath her so he could scoop her out of the bed.

  ‘Now we talk sense,’ he gritted, sitting down on the bed with her then, using hard fingers to angle her face so she could see the power of his fury. ‘For if you think I have risked so much only to concede surrender to your sudden cowardice, then you don’t know me as well as you ought to do by now!’

  ‘You set me up!’ she sobbed out accusingly. ‘I am supposed to avoid that kind of stress!’

  ‘Your stress,’ he said angrily, ‘was there because you were playing the ice-princess to the hilt again!’

  His chest heaved on a taut rasp of air; Evie clutched all the harder at him. ‘What your father did was unforgivable!’ she choked.

  ‘Then don’t forgive him!’ he declared with a shrug that completely dismissed the problem. ‘But you will marry me, Evie,’ he grimly ordained. ‘Proudly and openly. We will bring up our child together and he will bear my name!’

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘YOU look stunning, Evie,’ her brother murmured huskily. ‘Raschid is a very, very lucky man.’

  Is he?

  Standing there gazing at herself in the mirror, Evie wondered if Raschid was feeling lucky to be marrying her today.

  Oh, he was quick to say all the right things to pronounce his good fortune. No one but no one could deny that Sheikh Raschid Al Kadah had been very vocal about his good luck when he’d announced his forthcoming marriage to Evangeline Delahaye to the world’s press three weeks ago.

  But did he feel lucky, when there was so much he was placing at risk by marrying her?

  And, more to the point, did she feel lucky? Just because, three weeks ago in that hospital bed, she had finally come to terms with the knowledge that she couldn’t let Raschid go no matter what that decision was going to mean to both of them, it did not automatically follow that all the concerns she had been struggling with then had melted away.

  And as she stood here now, in her old bedroom at Westhaven, alone with her brother because the rest of her family were already making their way to the registry office where she was to marry Raschid in less than an hour’s time, it was those concerns that came back to haunt her.

  Like the worrying ring of tight security Raschid had thrown around Westhaven when it was decided that she would come here to convalesce until they married.

  Funny really, she mused, but having been with Raschid for two years and having always been aware that he was an exceedingly wealthy man in his own right, she had never known him make such a dramatic show of that wealth—until they’d come to Westhaven.

  But that wealth had certainly been put on show in the very high-profile cordon that secured both the grounds and the property. Even Julian had found it necessary to prove his identity before he could gain access to his own home!

  The curious press loved it; her mother serenely ignored it. Evie, on the other hand, was horrified by it.

  ‘Is there something going on that you aren’t telling?’ she’d demanded of Raschid when he’d come down to Westhaven to join them for dinner one evening. ‘Am I still at risk—is that what all this security is for?’

  ‘No,’ he’d denied. ‘But I learn my lessons the first time they are taught to me, and by leaving only Asim to take care of you at my apartment I devalued your importance to me in the eyes of those who gauge worth by the strength of its protection.’

  ‘The Arab mentality, you mean.’

  ‘If you wish to call it that,’ he’d conceded, refusing to take up the provoking derision pitched into the remark. ‘But it is an impression that has now been rectified. No one will ever dare to approach you again in threat.’

  ‘Does that mean I have my eunuch at last, sneaking up to guard my bedroom door every night after I’ve retired?’ Again the remark had been sharp with acid.

  ‘Quite obsessed with this eunuch thing, aren’t you?’ he’d drawled, a sleek black eyebrow arching in amused mockery at that suggestion. ‘Could it be you have been weaving secret fantasies in your lonely bed at night? Maybe as a punishment to me because I refuse to share it?’

  His determined abstinence in this area of their lives was just another form of protection he imposed on her that Evie found worrying. In all their two years he had never been able to resist her—she only had to remember that brief episode in her bedroom at Beverley Castle to prove that point!

  But now, suddenly, Raschid rarely even laid a finger on her. Why? What could he possibly hope to gain by his abstinence now, when the damage of their loving had already been done with the conception of their baby?

  He had, until now, avoided the question whenever she had challenged him with it. And it was just another worry she was having to contend with as she stood here staring at herself in the mirror.

  ‘If you were me, Julian,’ she burst out suddenly, s
pinning round to look anxiously at her beautifully tanned brother who had not long been back home from his month-long honeymoon sailing round the Caribbean, ‘would you be marrying yourself to an Arab who lives in a Muslim state?’

  ‘I thought true love could conquer all,’ he replied with a teasing grin.

  But Evie was in no mood to be teased. ‘His family don’t want me to be his wife,’ she explained tautly. ‘His people don’t want me! For all I know, I may be walking myself straight into purdah!’

  ‘Or simply suffering from a bad case of wedding nerves,’ Julian suggested. ‘Oh, come on, Evie!’ he sighed. ‘Since everyone knows exactly what Raschid feels for you, I can’t see purdah being much of a problem when it would most definitely necessitate him having to share it with you!’

  Then why does it feel as if I’m doing the wrong thing? she asked herself tautly as she turned back to the mirror.

  What she saw standing there was a woman who was anxiously attempting to respect the traditions of two completely different cultures.

  Her outfit had been made for her in-house by a top designer who had been drafted in at enormous expense by Raschid and instructed to create something incomparable, and what he had come up with was both startlingly simplistic and breathtakingly effective.

  The dress was really nothing more than a long and narrow tunic with a simple high neck and long loose sleeves designed very much on Middle Eastern lines. Made of a fabulously rich antique-gold silk, its only decoration was the narrow band of delicate seed-pearls sewn down the front seam and around the tiny stand-up collar.

  But it was the addition of a fine gold mesh skullcap dotted with yet more seed-pearls that gave it that special touch of glamour. On the advice of the designer, Evie had left her hair loose so the long silken mass tumbled down her spine in fine gold tendrils.

  ‘Medieval England meets mysterious East.’ Christina had softly described the effect just before she’d left for the registry office with Lucinda, putting in a nutshell exactly what it was that the designer had been trying to achieve when he’d created this look for Evie.

  But what would Raschid see when he looked at her? A woman who was trying just a bit too hard to bridge the gap between two cultures?

  Outside a long white limousine stood gleaming in the summer sunshine that hadn’t eased its grip on England for more than two months now.

  ‘Cheer up,’ Julian gently admonished her as they drove away. ‘You are supposed to be going to your wedding, not your funeral.’

  Too true, Evie thought, but still couldn’t shake off the chilling feeling that a dark presence was casting its shadow over the car as they drove towards Hertford.

  A shadow which had a definite shape to it—Raschid’s father. His family. His Arabian people. None of whom were to be present today. Oh, the reasons for that had come thick and fast enough. His father was not well enough to travel great distances. His sister could not come because one of her children had been taken ill. His Embassy people were, unfortunately, involved in important matters of state that could not be rearranged to accommodate their rushed marriage.

  But Evie wasn’t stupid; she could recognise denunciation when she was being fed it so blatantly.

  Westhaven Town Hall was a rather elegant red-brick building that took pride of place in the old town square where a small crowd had gathered to watch—including the expected clutch of reporters.

  As the car drew to a stop at the bottom of the steps, Evie could see Raschid waiting for her at the top of them. He was wearing a dark silk suit, bright white shirt and dark tie, she noted, and wondered heavily if the lack of his traditional Arab dress was just another statement she should take grim note of.

  Yet her eyes clung to him as he came lightly down the steps towards the car. So tall, lean, so painfully handsome, this Arab lover of hers, she thought helplessly.

  And Julian is right; I can’t live without him.

  After opening the limousine door for her, his eyes blazed with possessive approval as he helped her to alight. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured softly.

  Flash bulbs exploded, people called out. Evie plastered a social smile on her face, and let Raschid escort her to their wedding.

  The civil ceremony itself was to take place in front of only a few chosen witnesses. Then they were to return to Westhaven where the rest of their guests would be waiting to watch the Christian blessing Raschid had arranged to take place there.

  There was to be a Muslim blessing, too, but not here in England, and not until Raschid’s father was well enough to attend it.

  Or when he was ready to accept Evie as his son’s wife, she suspected was the truth.

  Her mother, Christina and Asim were waiting for them inside the foyer. At least Asim was wearing traditional Arab robes, Evie noted wryly.

  The service was short, over almost before it had begun. Evie stood beside Raschid and repeated her vows in a frail voice that had their few witnesses straining to hear them. Raschid’s voice was stronger, but slightly constricted, as if he was finding this more of a strain than he had expected it to be.

  Evie felt the ring slide on to her finger, looked down to see a band of delicate gold twining around the Al Kadah family crest.

  Did this ring make her one of them now? she wondered.

  ‘You may now kiss the bride, sir.’

  Kiss the bride…

  Like an automaton, Evie turned towards Raschid as he turned towards her. Lavender eyes clashed with gold. It was like free-falling into a vat of hot honey, and for several long seconds she wasn’t aware of anything but this man and the power he had over her.

  He didn’t move—didn’t attempt to claim his kiss, but just stood there looking down at her with his darkly tanned face cast into disturbingly sombre lines.

  The tension grew. Evie’s heart began to stutter, her parted lips trembling slightly as they waited for that kiss.

  What was wrong with him? Did looking down into this face that bore no resemblance to his own people make him suddenly realise what he was actually putting at risk by joining himself to her?

  By now the breathless tension was beginning to envelop everyone. No one moved, no one spoke; all eyes were fixed intently on them. Her skin began to shimmer, long lashes flickering as her eyes anxiously asked him a question.

  Raschid murmured something soft in his own language—a plea to Allah, Evie thought it was. Then she felt his hand searching for and taking hold of her hand—felt the tremor in his long fingers as he drew that captured hand up between their two bodies.

  His dark lashes fell over liquid gold eyes as he looked down at the crested ring adorning her finger. Then he kissed it gently and lifted his eyes back to Evie’s again.

  ‘Kismet,’ he said, that was all.

  Kismet. The will of Allah. Their destiny.

  Evie’s heart swelled to bursting. And at last she smiled. In the next moment his arms were banding around her and he was claiming his kiss.

  Outside the registry office, the air had suddenly developed a crystal clarity to it that totally outshone the dark shadow of before. Flash bulbs popped again, people called out to them. Evie smiled for the cameras, serenely ignored the questions and let her new husband lead her down to the waiting limousine, which would take them back to Westhaven.

  Raschid maintained a grip on her hand as the car sped them away. Evie turned to smile at him, but he didn’t smile back. ‘You look utterly, soul-destroyingly lovely,’ he murmured huskily. ‘But for a while back there you also looked heart-breakingly sad.’

  ‘Maybe I was having second thoughts,’ she said teasingly.

  ‘Were you?’ It was a serious question.

  Well, Evie asked herself, was I really having second thoughts about marrying this man?

  ‘Kismet.’ She smiled. The word really did seem to say it all for both of them.

  He nodded in understanding and dropped the subject to lean over and kiss her instead. But he wasn’t fooled. Evie knew that he was aware that she might have
answered one question but she had avoided telling him why she had looked so sad.

  No giant white canopy awaited them at Westhaven, no brass band—no hundreds and hundreds of guests. Just a few close friends, a clutch of close relatives—and the summer house—where the local vicar waited to bless their union in respect of Evie’s Christian faith.

  An alfresco buffet lunch had been laid out on trestle tables on the lawn in front of the house. Great-Aunt Celia was present, but she sensibly avoided actually speaking to either the bride or her groom. And Harry was there, escorting a pretty young thing that gazed doe-eyed at him. Evie spied Raschid standing talking to them at one point, and wondered curiously when mutual hostility had turned into friendship.

  ‘I’ve given him some of my horses to train,’ Raschid explained later when she asked him the question. ‘As a consolation prize for being a good loser.’

  ‘What an arrogant thing to say!’ Evie exclaimed.

  ‘Not really,’ Raschid drawled, sending her a wry look. ‘For I would not have handled losing you to him as honourably as he has handled losing you to me.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked curiously. ‘What would you have done?’

  The hand he had resting on her still slender waist drew her around to stand in front of him. ‘Guess,’ he whispered.

  ‘I think we are talking of locked doors and eunuchs again,’ Evie pondered sagely.

  ‘Preceded by kidnap, of course,’ Raschid added. ‘Which is exactly what I am about to do to you right now…’

  As he spoke a helicopter came swooping low around the side of the house, gleaming white against the summer-blue sky and forcing the women to clutch at their hats as its rotor blades churned up the air around all of them.

  It set itself down on the lawn several hundred feet away. ‘Our transport away from here,’ Raschid announced.

  ‘I’ll go and get changed…’

  ‘No need.’ Raschid stopped her by capturing her hand. ‘You look perfect as you are. Come—say your goodbyes quickly. We are working to a very tight schedule.’