The Sheikh's Convenient Princess

by Liz Fielding

  ‘And immediately cancelled my flight to New York so that I could see you the next day.’

  ‘No...I wouldn’t have been free. You were lucky to have had me for a day.’

  ‘Ruby, Ruby...’ He laughed softly. ‘Okay, so I had to leave the next day but my driver had your address,’ he said, his voice like silk velvet against her skin. ‘I would have been on your doorstep as the sun rose with coffee and warm pain au chocolat so that we could have breakfast together.’

  The image he’d painted was so real that she could see herself rushing to the door in her bathrobe, imagining her elderly neighbour had some problem. Opening it to find Bram Ansari filling her doorway, a glossy paper carrier from some smart bakery in his hand, his tawny eyes hungry for more than pastry.

  ‘Yes...’ The word was little more than a breath.

  For a moment neither of them moved.

  ‘You’ve had a long day,’ Bram said, abruptly pushing his chair back and standing up. ‘We’ll continue this in the morning.’

  She swallowed, forced herself to focus on the reality not the dream.

  ‘Long and unusual,’ she agreed as he held her chair so that she could get to her feet. From doubting that Bram Ansari would accept her as his PA, she was now going to be his wife. It might be no more than a paper marriage but she still needed to process the situation, make a plan, think herself into the role and become a woman his family would believe he loved.

  There were a dozen details they needed to hammer out but she needed a little space to think it through and, slipping her tablet back into her bag, she rose to her feet.

  She was tall but he was half a head taller. As she turned from the table she found herself staring at the scar beneath his left eye and, without thinking, she reached up, her fingers a hair’s breadth from touching him.

  ‘I dishonoured Safia Khadri. Someone who loved her thought I should have a permanent reminder.’

  ‘You could have lost an eye.’

  ‘He was too angry to care,’ he said, reaching up, taking the hand hovering over the scar and, still holding it, headed for the steps, walking her up to her suite as if they were really that couple who, lost to reality, had shared breakfast in bed in her tiny flat before he’d flown away. Who had snatched precious moments whenever he’d passed through London.

  Who had looked at one another this evening and realised that they could no longer live without one another.

  They were creating a legend but that was not enough. They were going to have to put on a convincing performance as newlyweds, appear to all the world as if they couldn’t keep their hands off one another.

  It was just part of the job, she told herself as he glanced back to make sure she was managing the oldest, narrowest and most uneven part of the steps. The place where she’d stumbled on the way down and he’d held her and for a moment she’d forgotten everything she’d learned about the danger of getting close to someone. The risk of hurting not just herself, because that didn’t matter, but some innocent who deserved more.

  Briefly forgotten and just as quickly recovered.

  This was a business arrangement first, last and everything in between. Bram couldn’t have asked her to go through with a paper marriage if it had been anything more.

  She could not have accepted.

  ‘Have you thought about a gift for your father?’ she asked, retrieving her hand as they reached her level, determined to focus on her job.

  ‘I’ve been training a young falcon.’ He was looking to the south, to Umm al Basr, and for a moment his guard was down and the longing to be home was painfully exposed.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll appreciate the personal nature of such a gift,’ she said.

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘He made a deal with an old enemy because he wants you near him,’ she said softly. ‘He won’t send you away again.’

  He turned to look at her and for a moment it took all her willpower not to put her arms around him, hold him. Then he shook his head and all trace of vulnerability vanished.

  ‘Give me your phone. I need your number. And the name of your lawyer.’

  ‘Do you need it now?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I’ll text their details to you.’

  ‘What about Amanda?’ he asked as he sent the numbers to his own phone.

  ‘She’ll invoice you.’

  ‘Will you tell her why you’re staying on?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I suppose so. There’s bound to be publicity. Errant son arrives home with unsuitable bride is a story made for Celebrity.’

  ‘Not in Umm al Basr. Family matters are private. Wives are very private.’

  ‘In this day and age? You were an internationally famous sportsman. Front cover material.’

  ‘No one who values the good opinion of the Emir will be phoning in this story,’ he assured her. ‘Despite all the publicity when I was disinherited, Safia’s name was never mentioned.’

  ‘Well, good.’ She managed a grin. ‘It will make returning to work when this is all over a great deal easier.’

  She’d changed her name and the chances of anyone seeing her photograph and connecting it with a slightly tubby sixteen-year-old astride a horse were vanishingly small but even so his confidence was reassuring.

  ‘In fact, the fewer people who know the better. I’ll simply tell her you’ve asked me to stay until Peter returns.’ She nodded towards the phone he was holding. ‘I should have your number too.’

  ‘It’s done,’ he said, handing it back to her. ‘You’ll be getting a call from Princess Violet’s assistant, Leila Darwish, within the hour. She’ll want your measurements, shoe size.’

  ‘Oh, but—’

  ‘You will need more than a boring black dress if you’re going to convince anyone that you’re my wife.’

  ‘Really?’ she replied, back in PA mode. ‘I fly in out of the blue, we fall into one another’s arms and twenty-four hours later you present me to your father as your new wife. Do you really think we’d have wasted much time worrying about what I was going to wear, let alone going on a major shopping spree?’

  ‘I...’ He shook his head, clearly not prepared to go there. ‘No.’

  ‘And your sisters will have less time to cross-question me if they’re distracted by the task of helping me shop for a wardrobe fit for a princess.’

  ‘They are going to love you, Ruby.’

  ‘But not too much. You’ll want their sympathy, not their blame when it’s over. I may have to let being a princess go to my head. Become a bit of a diva.’

  He shook his head. ‘Peter was right. You are very good.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  RUBY CLOSED THE door and leaned back against it, heart pounding, mouth dry. A princessy diva? She’d spent the last ten years living below the radar, being invisible. How on earth was she going to pull that off?

  It had seemed so simple when Bram had put the proposition to her. No more than a little extra twist on the job. But it wasn’t going to be that easy. His family would be suspicious—any family would be suspicious—and there were a dozen questions she should have asked.

  Where would they stay in Umm al Basr? And if it was in the palace, how would they handle the sleeping arrangements?

  And that was before she got into the whole major wardrobe makeover. Her limited wardrobe of classics in a grey/black palette wouldn’t take her past day one and, much as she hated the idea of having clothes bought for her, it was obvious that she’d need clothes to support the story.

  Princess Violet’s mouth-watering designs had made a big impact when they’d been launched at London Fashion Week and she was woman enough to want to appear at the palace wearing something stunning, if only to give her the poise she’d need to carry this off.

  And if she b
lasted into the palace full of confidence and with a knock-out wardrobe, his female relatives would take an instant dislike to her. Uncomfortable, but for the best.

  * * *

  Bram was not about to embarrass his cousin by asking him to collude in this paper marriage and was relieved to find that his quick sketch of the story Ruby had woven around their ‘romance’ had been accepted without the least suspicion.

  ‘This is wonderful news, my friend. You’ve been alone for too long,’ Fayad said, clearly delighted. ‘Does Ruby have family to negotiate for her?’

  ‘No, she is quite alone. Will you stand for her in the question of the contract?’

  ‘It will be my pleasure. There’s not much time so we should begin.’

  Fayad was as meticulous as if he’d been negotiating for his own daughter but finally it was done and arrangements made for the signing ceremony before the charity dinner the following evening.

  Ask the Garland Girl, Peter had said and, in desperation, he’d asked the impossible of Ruby Dance. He could hardly believe that she’d said yes. He should have insisted that she sleep on her decision. He should call her now and tell her that she must do that.

  He picked up his phone but, with his thumb poised over the call button, he pulled back. She’d do that anyway and he wouldn’t have to ask her on which side her decision had landed when he saw her tomorrow morning. She might have a face made for poker but he’d know the moment he set eyes on her if she’d changed her mind.

  Meanwhile, there were things he needed to do, to have in place, in case she was prepared to go ahead.

  * * *

  Ruby knew that she would not sleep until she had her head straight around all the questions that seemed to spring into her mind the moment she was alone. She explored the little kitchen and made herself a cup of tea before settling down with a notebook and pen and began making a list.

  She wasn’t clear whether he had been completely cut off from his family. He appeared to be in touch with his brother, but what about the rest of the family? Did he meet them in London? Did they visit him here in Ras al Kawi? Would he have talked to her about them, or would such a relationship have been off the conversational agenda? And how should she address his mother, for instance? And his father, assuming things went well enough for her to meet him.

  And there were a hundred other things.

  What was his favourite food? What music did he enjoy? What would he have shared with her about his childhood? Those were the details that would help her convince a sceptical mother or sister that their relationship was real.

  And the really big one, the elephant in the room, where were they going to sleep?

  There wasn’t going to be a lot of time tomorrow and she texted him her questions so that he would have time to think about it and have his answers ready.

  That done, she laid out the clothes she would wear to travel in, checked over the dress and bolero jacket she would wear for the dinner at the palace in Ras al Kawi and then ran a bath. She was about to step into it when her phone pinged.

  She picked it up and smiled as she saw that Bram had responded.

  My sisters are Almira, Hasna, Fathia and Nadiya. I’ll give you a list of their children and their accomplishments in the morning. Music? A mixed bag from rock to classical. Where do you live, Ruby?

  She sank into the bath and texted back.

  Good point. Camden.

  She added the address.

  Up the first flight of stairs and on the right. Tiny hall, sitting room on the left, bedroom on the right, bathroom, minute kitchen. ‘Stairway to Heaven’?

  She added a smiley and clicked ‘send’.

  A moment or two later the guitar solo at the opening of the track rippled softly from an unseen speaker and she sank lower into the bath, closing her eyes as the song built and the lyrics filled her head. There was a line in there somewhere about looking to the west. Was he torn, she wondered, between his longing for home and his old life in Europe? The rush of downhill racing, the polo matches, the aristocratic groupies...

  A beep recalled her to their conversation.

  What do you drive?

  In London? Are you kidding? A bike.

  With a basket on the front?

  Is there any other kind? she replied, smiling now. What’s your comfort food?

  Comfort food?

  The only thing you want when you’ve been dumped...

  Although she doubted that had ever happened to him.

  Or have man flu, or your team lost the big match.

  Her thumbs were flying over the letters.

  Tinned tomato soup? A fried egg sandwich? A cheeseburger?

  I’ll go with the burger.

  With pickles?

  With extra pickles. What’s your favourite colour? No, don’t tell me—dark ruby-red.

  Before she could reply, the phone rang.

  ‘Whoah!’ she said.

  ‘Did I startle you?’

  ‘I nearly dropped the phone in the bath.’

  There was silence from the other end of the phone and she bit her lower lip. Stupid thing to say...

  ‘Do you have speakers in every room in the house?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘Each apartment is individually Internet enabled. You can download anything your mood dictates.’

  ‘Impressive. What are you listening to?’

  ‘You,’ he said. ‘I’m listening to you. No, I’m talking to you. Are you quite sure about this, Ruby?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ she said, touched that he was concerned about her when this meant so much to him. He could have no idea how much it meant to her. Freedom... ‘This is a temporary assignment like any other but there are a few details we have to sort out.’

  ‘Be certain,’ he warned, ‘because the moment the contract is signed you will be Princess Ruby of Umm al Basr.’

  She swallowed. She was kidding herself; this wasn’t like any other temp placement she’d had. Not at all.

  ‘That will be weird.’

  ‘It’s just a form of address. Like Miss. Or Mrs.’

  Of course it was...

  ‘I’ll try and remember that.’ Back to the list. ‘Do you see any of your family?’

  ‘Occasionally. When my mother and sisters are in London.’

  ‘Your brother?’

  ‘We keep in touch. I saw him when my father had his heart bypass operation in London last year.’

  About to ask if he had seen his father then, she thought better of it. He would have said he’d seen his brother when he was visiting his father. Clearly, banishment meant more than exile from his country.

  The water was tepid when she finally climbed out of the bath, wrapped herself in the fluffy robe hanging behind the door and curled up with her notebook, writing down everything he’d told her about his family, his life.

  * * *

  It was barely light when Bram mounted Antares and rode him hard into the dawn. Last night everything had seemed so simple but in the light of dawn he knew that where emotions ran high nothing was certain.

  He paused at the top of a low promontory looking down the Gulf towards the Indian Ocean and, for just a moment, wondered what it would be like to have Ruby beside him astride Rigel, witnessing the sunrise, watching the shadows shrink...

  He headed for the kitchen, planning to grab a cup of coffee, take a shower then find Ruby and offer her a last chance to change her mind. Ruby was ahead of him.

  She was sitting at the breakfast counter, long legs twined around the stool, a fork halfway to her lips, laughing at something that Mina was saying more with actions than words.

  He leaned over and helped himself to a piece of the pineapple she was eating. She turned and looked up at him, her lips a startled O, gleaming wit
h sweet juice...

  ‘Aasif,’ he apologised as Mina muttered disapprovingly. ‘I’ve brought the smell of the stables into her kitchen.’

  ‘It’s a good smell. It takes me back...’

  She broke off, but she didn’t need to explain. Scent was the most evocative of the senses and it was obvious last night that she had spent a great deal of time around horses before whatever scandal had blighted her family. Before the death of her parents.

  No ties.

  Like him, she was not so much unattached as detached.

  ‘I saw last night how good you were with the horses. Rigel would never let just anyone take a brush to him.’ He poured himself a glass of juice. ‘You were one of those horse-mad little girls,’ he said, resisting the temptation to lay his hand on her shoulder so that she would know she was not alone. ‘A member of the Pony Club. Bouncing around on a little pony.’

  She didn’t say anything but the answer was in her eyes. The painful glow of a passion that could never be entirely extinguished. The memory of horses that had become a part of her.

  ‘When we return to the fort we’ll ride together.’

  She shook her head, stiff now. ‘No. I told you. I don’t ride. Thank you.’

  ‘Did you have a fall?’ he asked.

  ‘No...’ She pulled a face, made an effort to smile that was painful to watch. ‘Well, yes, obviously, dozens of them, but it’s not that.’

  Ruby’s mouth was dry. She would have picked up the glass of juice Mina had poured for her but her hand would shake so much she’d spill it.

  Last night she’d felt the soft lips of a horse taking a carrot from her hand, she’d run a hand over its neck, remembered the exhilaration as half a ton of the most beautiful animal on earth lifted her over a fence. Riding was something that had happened in another life—one that she’d lost on the day when her world had fallen apart.

  She could ride here on one of Bram’s fine horses—was already half in love with Rigel. But when she returned to London, to reality, she would lose it all over again.