Exotic Affairs: The Mistress BrideThe Spanish HusbandThe Bellini Bride

by Michelle Reid

  It was Ranya who noticed Evie standing there, but as she went to move around her brother with the intention of coming forward Raschid stopped her with a question. Pausing, Ranya answered him, and there followed a hurried discussion in soft-voiced Arabic that to Evie, witnessing their body language, verged on the heated.

  Then Ranya sighed, touched her brother’s arm with what Evie read as a gesture of sympathy, before firmly stepping around him to walk towards Evie.

  After witnessing the heat in their altercation, Evie wasn’t quite sure how she should greet this new sister-in-law of hers—with open warmth or defensive coolness? she pondered.

  But the lovely creature made the decision easy. ‘At last we meet.’ Her embrace was both warm and welcoming, touching her lips to each of Evie’s cheeks. ‘I am Ranya, Raschid’s beloved sister, in case he has never bothered to mention me,’ she said with a teasing smile that literally stopped Evie’s breath because it was so like the smile her brother could use on occasion. ‘May I call you Evie, as Raschid does?’ she requested while gently urging Evie into movement.

  The house waited; Evie wasn’t at all sure, now that she had come this far, that she wanted to enter it. As she drew level with Raschid, she noticed his tension was back again. ‘What now?’ she whispered tautly.

  He didn’t answer; instead he reached for her hand then turned grimly to the archway. In silence they walked into his father’s home, where the hot desert air instantly tempered to a delicious coolness.

  Evie found herself standing in a vast reception hallway the likes of which she had only ever seen in history books. It was as big as a moderate theatre hall, with a high domed roof elaborately decorated with pale blue and gold mosaic tilework. The floor beneath her feet was white marble, the eggshell-blue painted walls broken by a dozen archways that led off into what she suspected was a maze of corridors. Above each arch, diamond-shaped grilles covered what Evie presumed were the Arabian equivalent of interior windows where people could look down unseen on the hallway beneath.

  ‘This is lovely,’ Evie breathed softly.

  Other than giving a brief smile of acknowledgement, Raschid seemed barely to hear her; his hand touched her arm to indicate which corridor he wanted to take. And the further they went down that corridor, the tenser he became.

  ‘Raschid—what is it?’ she asked anxiously, very conscious of his sister walking with them.

  This time he didn’t even attempt to dissemble. Instead he stopped walking suddenly, turned to take her by the shoulders then pushed her up against the corridor wall so he could stand right over her while his sister paused several delicate yards away.

  ‘We have yet another ceremony to go through tonight,’ he announced, sounding clipped and grim and beginning to look just a little jaded around the edges. ‘Again, my father has arranged this. And again I find I am in no position to argue with his decree.’

  ‘A marriage ceremony, you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course.’ He grimaced. ‘What else? Do you think you are up to it?’

  Like him, Evie didn’t think she was being given very much choice in the matter. ‘What do I have to do?’ she asked heavily.

  ‘Nothing but stand beside me and repeat the vows you will be asked to say in Arabic. And I pray to Allah that then we will be allowed to do what we came here to do and be private,’ he sighed out sardonically.

  ‘But you don’t hold out much hope,’ Evie dryly assumed from all of that.

  ‘No,’ he confessed. ‘I do not.’

  ‘Raschid—’ Ranya’s voice softly interrupted them. ‘We really must go now…’

  Another sigh, then his mouth clamped into a flat line of grim perseverance. ‘Come,’ he said, taking hold of Evie’s hand again. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

  Not the most diplomatic thing to say to his bride. But then, Evie mused as they began walking along that long corridor again, how many times did he have to marry this wretched bride before he could be allowed to feel married?

  They stopped at a door. Raschid seemed to need a moment to compose himself for what was to come next, and his fresh bout of tension became Evie’s tension as, with a perceptible straightening of his broad shoulders, his fingers tightened around Evie’s hand and his other hand reached out to open the door.

  What followed became lost in the realms of a dreamlike sense of unreality. The room was dark—lit only by wall-mounted candles that gave off too little light for her to see very much of what was around her.

  She was vaguely aware of people standing in the dimness, vaguely aware of their curious scrutiny as Raschid led her forward. The ceremony was short—shorter than she had expected. Beside her, Raschid quietly translated every word into English for her, before she was then required to repeat them in Arabic. And through it all she kept her body in touch with his body, needing to feel the security of his presence in this alien place with its alien service and its alien sounds and scents and language.

  When it was over, Raschid’s attention was claimed almost instantly. As he turned to speak to the several men who had come up to him, Ranya appeared at Evie’s side.

  ‘Come,’ she said quietly. ‘We must go this way…’

  ‘But—’ Evie did not want to leave Raschid; glancing around her, her eyes caught sight of him standing several feet away. Her hand went out, anxious to catch his attention, but even as she did so the group of men closed in around him, and Ranya’s hand on her arm was firmly guiding her away through a door that led into frighteningly unfamiliar territory.

  Not a corridor, but another dimly lit room which then led through to another and another… All were richly furnished, all wore the stamp of eastern luxury. At a fourth door, Ranya paused and turned what Evie presumed was supposed to be a reassuring smile on her before she was knocking on the door.

  Someone called out in Arabic. A man’s voice. A sudden sense of dreadful foreboding shot like a steel rod along her spine. Ranya opened the door and stepped inside with Evie in tow.

  After the eastern splendour of all the rooms they had passed through, Evie was expecting to find herself stepping into yet more of the same. She was therefore surprised to find herself standing in a big but definitely old-fashioned library that could have been transported right out of Victorian England.

  It was all oak panelling lined with shelves upon shelves of leather-bound books. Richly coloured Persian rugs covered the polished wood floor and there was even a large polished oak fire surround with a log fire burning in the grate—although it did so behind a shield of heat-reflective glass.

  The chairs and sofas were of old English dark red velvet, and several huge desks were groaning under the weight of the books and papers scattered across them.

  And it all felt so very strange—as if she had just walked into her grandfather’s study on one of those duty visits she used to make to his home with her mother when she was a child.

  Her grandfather had been a stern, sombre man who’d married very late in life and never seemed to quite understand how he had produced someone as beautiful and sophisticated as Lucinda.

  But this wasn’t England, this was not her grandfather’s Victorian study, she reminded herself. This was Behran, and the man who was at this precise moment carefully pushing himself up from one of the wing-backed chairs was most definitely not her grandfather.

  ‘I bring Raschid’s wife to you as requested, Father,’ Ranya quietly announced.

  And it was at that precise moment that Evie froze.

  Eyes cold and fixed, the breath catching in her throat, Evie found herself staring at the tall and lean figure of—the enemy.

  An enemy that could be no other person than Raschid’s father, simply because looking at him was like taking a glimpse into the future and seeing exactly how Raschid was going to look thirty years from now.

  Even the eyes were the same colour—though this pair was guarded as they studied her stiff form.

  He seemed to be waiting for her to do something. Make some gesture in
respect of his high station maybe. But for the life of her—call it pride if you will—Evie could not offer this man any kind of gesture of respect.

  Instead her chin came up, her eyes glassing over in a way Raschid would have instantly recognised if he had been here to see it happen.

  His ice-princess was still alive and flourishing.

  But Raschid wasn’t here, and the slick way she had been separated from him had her turning those cold eyes on Ranya in accusation. The other girl’s lovely cheeks flushed slightly in response, her soft lips mouthing a silent sound of apology.

  ‘Thank you, Ranya,’ Crown Prince Hashim murmured coolly. ‘You may leave us.’

  ‘No!’ It was sheer self-preservation that forced the protest from Evie’s throat. ‘Don’t leave me alone with him,’ she pleaded with Ranya.

  Ranya looked uncertain suddenly. ‘Papa…’ She turned anxious eyes on him.

  ‘Go!’ he commanded. The voice was strong, dictatorial—yet right on the back of that harsh command came a sudden weariness. ‘Please, child,’ he added heavily. ‘Trust me. Give me some privacy to do what I have to do.’

  With a rustle of silk and a touch of her hand to Evie’s arm in mute apology, Ranya obeyed without further hesitation. The door closed softly behind her, leaving a stifling silence behind.

  Neither moved. Neither spoke. Evie felt that tension in her back increase to tingling proportions. Once again, the Crown Prince seemed to be waiting for her to say something, but once again Evie refused to utter a word until she knew exactly what it was she was dealing with here.

  ‘So,’ he said at last. ‘You are the golden icon my son was willing to forfeit his illustrious heritage for.’

  ‘I love your son,’ Evie threw back coolly. ‘Too much to expect him to do anything so drastic for me.’

  ‘A moot point,’ the old man said. ‘For he was prepared to do it with or without your blessing.’

  ‘I’m—sorry if that hurt you,’ Evie murmured stiffly. ‘But, as you and I both know, Raschid has a mind and a will of his own.’

  ‘Too true—too true,’ he ruefully acknowledged. ‘A fact that was brought home to me in the severest way possible. Call me arrogant if you wish, but I did not expect my son to defy me as he did,’ he confessed. ‘It came as a—shock to discover he had grown a strength of will that by far outstretched my own…’

  He paused then to study her curiously, as if he was trying to discover what it was about her that had given his son such strength of will. Evie could have told him, but she was refusing to give this man anything.

  Maybe he understood that. ‘Still,’ he shrugged. ‘Who am I to complain when Raschid is proving to be the kind of man I always prayed he would become? And I am sorry for frightening you with my unfair tactics while my son taught me this salutary lesson. There,’ he concluded. ‘Does that clear the air between us a little?’

  ‘Not if you’ve brought me here to repeat the offer,’ she said.

  To her surprise he smiled. And it was like watching Raschid come to life in this older version. That smile flipped her heart over. ‘No.’ Ruefully he shook his covered head. ‘A lesson learned so painfully is usually an unforgettable one.’

  He went quiet for a moment, his eyes clouding over with what Evie could only interpret as remorse. ‘The child is safe?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Your health is quite recovered?’

  Evie gave a stiff nod in reply to both questions. But mistrust in his sincerity kept her lips tightly shut on the return query as to his own health.

  His half smile told her he knew exactly why she was refusing to ask that question. ‘If you give my son this much trouble when he does something you do not like, then I pity him,’ he drawled. ‘Please…’ he then said suddenly. ‘Will you come and sit?’

  Evie’s instinct was to refuse. She had no wish to move one inch away from this door behind which lay relative safety. But it suddenly struck her that he wasn’t standing so tall as he had been—as if the strength was slowly seeping out of him.

  Like his son, she realised, good manners were bred into him. Love her or hate her, he could not bring himself to sit while a lady remained standing.

  And, determined though she was not to soften her feelings towards him, neither could she keep a sick man standing when it wasn’t necessary. So she moved warily across the cluttered room to the other wing-backed chair set across the fireplace from the one the Prince had been sitting in when she arrived.

  He waited until she sat down on the edge of it before he lowered himself carefully into the other one.

  ‘Thank you,’ he sighed, easing himself back into the chair then wearily closing his eyes.

  An uncomfortable feeling of concern began to gnaw at her. ‘Are you all right?’ she felt constrained to ask. ‘Would you like me to get someone?’

  ‘No, no.’ He refused the offer. ‘I can sit, I can lie, but I must not stand for long periods,’ he explained. Then his eyes suddenly flicked open, homing in like two sharp golden lances on her face. ‘I offer you this information because I understand that you are loath to request it,’ he said with a small wry smile that made her rather disturbingly aware of just how easily he was seeing through her.

  Just like his son.

  Then his eyes were suddenly darkening into true gravity. ‘Despite your opinion of me, I am not a barbarian,’ he grimly announced. ‘I do not kill babies.’

  Instantly Evie’s chin came up, her lavender-blue eyes filled with damning scepticism.

  ‘You may believe that or not.’ He coolly dismissed her expression. ‘For as it stands I am guilty as charged of attempting the subtle bribe to get you out of my son’s life,’ he admitted. ‘But the other suggestion presented to you was most definitely not sanctioned by me.’

  ‘Are you saying that the bed reserved in the private clinic was not your doing?’ Evie questioned.

  The nod of his covered head confirmed the point. ‘Though I can accept,’ he added, ‘that I must have given the impression that it would have been better if the coming child had not been conceived or my ill-chosen messenger would not have taken the initiative upon himself to add such a grave suggestion in my name. Needless to say—’ he shrugged ‘—Jamal Al Kareem no longer holds such a trusted position in my employ—or any other position, come to that.’

  ‘If this is the truth, why hasn’t Raschid told me all of this?’ Evie was already questioning the truth in what he was saying here, for there was no doubt in her mind that Raschid would have rushed to tell her—if only to help clear his father’s name.

  But the Crown Prince was shaking his head. ‘Raschid cannot tell you what he does not know,’ he said, then added with a shrug and a grim smile, ‘He would kill the man if he discovered this. Better I continue to shoulder the blame than have my son imprisoned for murder in one of our own jails. He will learn to forgive me in time, you see. Whereas you,’ he added shrewdly, ‘I suspect will never forgive—or even let me get close to my grandchild if you continue to believe me capable of such a dastardly crime.

  Which is why, of course, I am making this confession to you.’

  He was right, and Evie didn’t even bother to pretend otherwise. Now all she had to do was decide whether she could risk believing him or not.

  Then she looked into that face that was so like Raschid’s face. Saw the pride there, saw what it was costing that pride for this man to make this confession to her, and at last felt the tension begin to ease out of her backbone.

  ‘Your people lined our route here,’ she remarked, quite out of context. ‘Raschid insists they were welcoming us. Were they?’

  ‘Yes,’ he confirmed.

  ‘And was that your doing?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, and his smile was wry to say the least. ‘I understand what you are attempting to do here. You are attempting to bestow upon me qualities I do not possess,’ he perceived. ‘But—I will reluctantly decline the redeeming offer. So—no.’ He replied to the question. ‘I did not command my people to welcome you
both here tonight. In fact, I confess that their response came as big a shock to me as it did to Raschid. You see…’ he added softly, ‘I saw my son’s marriage to you as a sign of weakness in him—whereas my people surprised me with their perception in seeing only strength in a man who stands by his principles, no matter what those principles are going to cost him.’

  ‘Kismet,’ Evie murmured softly.

  ‘My son’s definition?’ he asked, then smiled. ‘He could be right,’ he quietly conceded. ‘And who am I to be so conceited as to pull against the will of Allah?’

  You are a man who is seeing your own power diminish as your son’s grows stronger, Evie realised on a sharp pang of understanding as she watched those eyes so like Raschid’s eyes cloud with a sadness at his own dulling senses.

  And without letting herself think about it she got up and walked over to squat down beside him. ‘If I promise to be as good a wife as any woman could be for your son,’ she offered, ‘do you think you and I could call a truce?

  ‘And what would you require from me in return?’

  ‘Acceptance,’ Evie answered instantly. ‘That I am what Raschid wants—even though I absolutely refuse to walk two paces behind him, no matter how exalted he is,’ she added with a teasing smile that at last melted the ice from her eyes.

  The Crown Prince burst out laughing.

  And that was how Raschid caught them when he strode into the room a moment later. His face was hard, his eyes angry, his body taut with a desire to taste someone’s blood.

  ‘Ah,’ his father murmured in greeting. ‘My prodigal son at last. You have married well, Raschid.’ He dryly announced his approval. ‘She is beautiful. She is tough, and she is blessed with compassion. I commend your good taste and your good fortune.’

  ‘I wish you would tell me what he said to you,’ Raschid sighed out in heavy frustration.

  ‘I told you,’ Evie replied, leaning contentedly against him. They were standing on the balcony of Raschid’s private apartment in his father’s palace. The stars were still out, though not for much longer. Dawn was on its way. ‘He apologised. I accepted his apology. Then we called a truce.’