Fortunately, she had changed from the shy, self-effacing girl who, having left the family home, had gained her first lesson in what she could achieve in Monsieur Roulet’s kitchen, her main lesson in Val d’Isere and, with the gift of life inside her, had transformed utterly, to the point where she wasn’t about to be put off by guards on the door.
‘I have an appointment,’ she told one of them pleasantly, quoting the name of the man who had so reluctantly spoken to her on the phone. Before the guard even had time to ring through and check she brought out the crumpled card. Mac’s card. The card Mac had signed so carelessly before passing it on to Tom,
Thank goodness she’d kept it. It acted like a magic wand. The guard saluted and then reached for the door. He stood stiffly as she walked past him into the vast marblefloored entrance.
Power, Lucy thought, staring up in wonder at an atrium that must have qualified for one of the biggest in the world—if not the biggest. Power was her overriding feeling as she looked around. This whole fabulous white, steel and glass building that Mac called his office thrummed with power. There was a desk at the far end of the lobby manned by immaculately dressed men in white robes and flowing headdresses. Even in her smart suit she felt selfconscious as she click-clacked her way across the marble floor towards them. Everything about the building, including their work station, was low-key and high-tech, while she was too unstylish to be either. But with her baby at the forefront of her mind she was able to explain her business clearly, and after a little wrangle between the two men one of them, with the utmost courtesy, showed her to a lowbacked sofa where she was to wait.
And wait.
She visited the restroom twice. She bathed her face in ice-cool water and gazed at her face in the mirror. Nothing had changed. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she looked haggard. She wished she could be one of those effortlessly glamorous people who could wait around and still look as fresh as a daisy, but even at this early stage of pregnancy her energy seemed to be sapped beyond anything she could have anticipated. Of course, it might have helped if she could have something to eat or drink, but she daren’t leave her station in the lobby for longer than a few minutes in case she missed Mac.
Having checked at the desk to be sure there wasn’t anyone she could see who might bring her one step closer to him, Lucy returned to her seat. There were magazines to read on a low glass table, but she would never have been able to concentrate long enough. The idea had always been to get into the building and then find Mac. She’d been prepared to wait for as long as it took, but could have had no idea she would wait quite so long.
So she’d take this opportunity to set her thoughts in order, Lucy told herself firmly. She wasn’t going to give up now. When she’d first arrived and shown Mac’s card, one of the men on Reception had seemed impressed and had even stood to greet her, but the other had given him a hard stare and so he had sat down again. She guessed the unhelpful man was the man she had spoken to on the phone. She also deduced that Mac was expected soon and that all she had to do was wait. That Mac was immensely rich had never been in any doubt, but that quite so many barriers would be raised when she tried to see him had been a surprise. Perhaps his company was working on something crucial to the government, Lucy reasoned, glancing at the soldiers outside. Her stomach growled insistently as she studied her surroundings. It was a reminder that she hadn’t eaten properly since the previous day and that she had to be more responsible now she was eating for two.
She passed some more time marvelling at a national flag picked out in gold above the reception desk. As she studied the incredible workmanship in the scimitar and rampant lion a wave of quite irrational fear swept over her. It was a struggle to brush it aside, but her imagination was notoriously extreme, and pregnancy hormones were clearly adding to her jumpiness. She glanced at her watch and sighed to see another half an hour had passed. Getting to her feet, she approached the desk.
‘My apologies,’ the awkward man said insincerely with an elegant flourish of his hands.
‘How much longer, do you think?’ Lucy said anxiously, feeling a wave of dizziness sweep over her. She glanced back across her luggage sitting forlornly in the lobby. She still had to book into her hotel and didn’t want to lose the room.
‘That I cannot say,’ the man told her with a shrug.
‘Then may I wait outside Mac’s office, please?’
This garnered a withering look. Lucy’s shoulders slumped, but then she tensed, hearing the entrance doors behind her sweep open. There was a guttural cry in Sinnebalese and then a clatter of arms as the guards shot to attention.
Mac had arrived. She didn’t need to turn around to know it was him when she could sense him in every fibre of her being.
As the pad of sandalled feet drew closer, and the scent of spice and sandalwood filled the air, her mind cleared, but her body let her down, and just as everything shot into clear focus, all of it making complete sense—the rampant lion—the scimitar—the royal standard—the fact that Mac was not easy-going, sexy Mac at all, but someone else completely—she sank into a faint on the floor at his feet.
Chapter Ten
SHE woke in a luxurious bedroom and took account of her surroundings carefully before moving a muscle. It was a large, airy, sumptuous room. A brocade quilt in shades of ivory and gold had been stripped away from the crisp white sheets and folded neatly before being placed on a seat at the end of the very large bed. Blinds had been drawn so that the room was in shade, and at the far end two men were conferring in muted voices. They were both dressed in Arabian robes, but even in the shadows the older man’s robes were blindingly white, while the younger, taller, broader, much more imposing individual was wearing robes of royal blue. Of course, Lucy thought hazily, Mac probably had blue blood too.
As full consciousness returned to Lucy everything was instantly clear. Mac was a king. No wonder they wouldn’t let her see him. Mac was a sheikh. Mac was the ruling Sheikh of the Isla de Sinnebar. The man she loved was a desert king.
She only had to stir for there to be a change in the room. Without a word being spoken the older man Lucy presumed must be a doctor left Mac’s side and closed the door softly behind him, while Mac strode towards her across several acres of exquisitely patterned rugs.
Her world shrank around him. Her heart responded as it always had, with heat and with longing. He stopped a short distance from the bed, with his face in shade. Even though she couldn’t see his features clearly she knew immediately that this was not the passionate, easy-going lover she had known in Val d’Isere, but a stranger far removed by rank and dignity from the pitiable aspirations of a kitchen girl.
‘Lucy?’
The voice was the same. Mac was the same, and yet he was utterly changed. And not just by a costume, but by the fact he was a king. He had assumed his powers, and with them the weight of duty that had turned his face set and hard. He was looking at her, but she sensed his inner gaze was turned towards a future she could never share.
She had been shrinking back on the pillows, Lucy realised, pulling herself upright. She had to rally for the sake of her baby. She couldn’t allow herself to be intimidated by anyone, not even the ruler of Isla de Sinnebar. She must have fainted for want of food and that was unforgivable. She had to be responsible now she was pregnant. She had to think clearly and act for a baby that couldn’t act for itself.
The baby wasn’t the only reason her body had let her down. When Mac had entered the building her soul had flown to him. That was one part of her that steadfastly refused to accept reality. And perhaps should take a look at him now, Lucy reasoned as Mac surveyed her coldly.
Beneath the lightest of quilts she cradled her belly protectively, glad that whoever had carried her to the bed had at least left her fully dressed, minus her jacket and her shoes. She could see them close by, the jacket hanging on a chair back and her shoes lined up neatly underneath. They were a reminder that she had come here dressed for business and a disc
ussion that would change both their lives. ‘Who are you?’ she murmured. She knew the answer and it was a crazy question, but she had to have her suspicions confirmed.
The man she’d known as Mac shrugged and as he moved his robes swirled, filling the air with the mysterious aromas of Eastern spices. ‘My name is Razi al Maktabi. Some of my friends know me as Mac.’
‘Razi al Maktabi? Known to the world as His Imperial Majesty, Sheikh Razi al Maktabi of the Isla de Sinnebar?’ The implications of this swamped her thinking and her heart raced in terror as the man she’d known as Mac swept into the gracious and traditional Arab acknowledgement.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ She hated that her voice sounded so hurt and weak, but she had never been a good actress.
‘It never came up.’
No, they’d been too busy making love, or having sex, as Razi al Maktabi must no doubt remember it. It was too late now to curse her blindness, or to remember that even when she’d studied Mac’s business card her imagination had failed to extend further than thinking Mac some distant cousin of the ruling Sheikh—if she’d thought about it at all.
The chasm that had always existed between them had just widened to a gulf, Lucy realised, taking in the stern face beneath the flowing headdress. Razi al Maktabi wore the clothes of a king well. The exquisite workmanship of the gold agal holding his headdress in place only hinted at the power he wielded, but it was her love for the man that made her heart ache with longing. She had to remind herself she was here for her baby and couldn’t be distracted, not even by Mac’s fierce glamour.
‘What do you want from me, Lucy?’
She sank back on the pillows, speechless. He was so cold towards her. Their time together had meant nothing to him. Mac had closed his mind to ever seeing her again, and yet here she was, stirring up unwanted memories of how easy she’d been, how plain, how infinitely replaceable. She couldn’t blame him for thinking she would only be here if she wanted something from him.
She had to leave her feelings aside and concentrate on rescuing something for the sake of their child. Easing her legs over the side of the bed, she tried to stand, but only succeeded in swaying towards him as a second wave of dizziness swept over her. Mac’s lightning reflexes prevented her from falling to the ground. But there was such a thing as pride. He had taught her that. Easing her arm from his grip, she felt for the side of the bed and shakily sank down. ‘Could you give me a moment, please?’
To his credit, the man she must learn to call Razi stood back as she planted her fists on the mattress, willing herself to be as strong and businesslike as he was. If she was going to finish what she was here to do she had to find strength from somewhere.
‘When did you last eat?’ he demanded.
She stared up distractedly. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘You can’t—’ He stopped. ‘Fortunately, I ordered broth from the kitchen.’ He pointed to a dish on a heated trolley. ‘You’d better drink it before we talk.’
There was no warmth in his eyes as he crossed the room to put the dish on a tray. He brought it to the bed where she had intended to turn her head, but pregnancy intervened and she was consumed by ravening hunger.
‘Drink,’ Razi insisted, standing back. ‘I’ll wait. You’ll feel stronger when you’ve eaten something.’
She drank the soup greedily, relieved to feel warmth and nourishment flooding her veins. When she looked up to thank him Razi’s expression remained unchanged. He was telling her the easy relationship they had shared in Val d’Isere was over and must never be mentioned again, let alone rekindled.
She had barely laid down her spoon before he took the tray away. Having put it down, he turned to face her. ‘Why are you here, Lucy?’
Yes, why was she here? Suddenly all the reasons that had seemed so sensible in England appeared ridiculous. She had no idea about the laws governing Isla de Sinnebar, except that the ruling Sheikh held all the power. So where did that leave her? She was the chalet girl Razi had got pregnant on his last holiday before taking the throne. Would he care?
She had to steel herself to see beyond that. There was a child to consider. ‘I apologise for arriving uninvited,’ she began politely, ‘but I had to see you.’
‘You had to?’ Razi’s dark gaze narrowed with suspicion.
He didn’t need to tell her the short time they’d shared was over and he had no interest in revisiting any part of it or that they were two strangers who shared no intimacies now. Razi was the all-powerful ruler of a country with much weightier matters to consider than some dalliance with a cook. Would he even be interested in her rights as a mother, or when she told him would he insist on keeping the child and simply dismiss her as superfluous to requirements?
This last thought was so shocking she grasped her throat in anguish and, misreading her gesture, Razi poured her a glass of water. ‘You look exhausted,’ he said. ‘Was it really worth putting yourself through this?’
Yes. A thousand times yes, Lucy thought fiercely, drinking the cooling fluid down. But not for the reasons Razi imagined. He thought she was on some pathetic mission to reawaken his interest in her, which was why he was at such pains to make it clear he didn’t want her. Why would he want her when she could only be an embarrassment to him?
‘I asked you a question,’ he prompted coldly. ‘Why are you here? What do you hope to gain from this visit?’
‘Gain?’ She couldn’t think of a single thing other than the knowledge that she had done what she believed to be right by coming to Isla de Sinnebar to tell Razi he was about to become a father, but it was clear from Razi’s expression that he took her weak voice for an admission of guilt. ‘I don’t want anything from you,’ she insisted firmly.
‘You don’t? Really?’ he mocked. ‘It’s a long way to come for nothing, Lucy.’
What could she say to convince him? Lucy wondered as Razi’s sweeping brows rose in disbelief. He was a formidable all-powerful sheikh, while she was a rumpled mess, sitting up in bed half dressed, sipping from a glass of water in an attempt to act normally, as if she were strong, as if she were recovering.
He walked across the room to flick a switch and the curtains parted. She recognised the familiar skyline outside and deduced the bedroom was a penthouse suite on top of his office building. There would be staff on call and she had no doubt her time with Razi could be counted in seconds now. The fact that he was here at all was nothing more than a common courtesy he had granted to a member of staff who had passed out at his feet. He could hardly ignore her under those circumstances—he could hardly wait to get away, either. ‘Razi—I really must talk to you before you go.’
‘I don’t believe we have anything to say to each other.’
His stark rebuff showed how misguided she’d been. She had imagined the man she had known as Mac would take a civilised view after a civilised conversation in the sterile confines of his office. Trying to impose her thoughts and wishes on a ruling Sheikh was a hopeless task. Asking him to recall some holiday flirtation with a chalet girl sounded ridiculous, even to her. How could she tell Mac her wonderful news when there was no Mac?
‘Are we finished here?’ he demanded.
She was hit by panic as he turned to go. ‘I don’t even know what to call you.’
‘Razi or Mac—whatever you like.’
His dismissive gesture suggested it really didn’t matter what she called him as she wouldn’t be part of his life for very much longer. Mac had seemed appropriate for the sexy guest who, once you got over the shock of his blistering glamour, was at least human, but this man was a warrior king with all that that implied. The desert had always seemed such a romantic place to her, as had the image of a desert king, but the reality was so very different. The desert was a hostile environment and the desert king a stranger. ‘Your Majesty,’ she called after him.
He spun around to face her at the door. ‘Call me Razi.’
With that one command Mac had shed his playboy skin and become Razi th
e King, a man who was so resolute and inflexible he was as removed from her as if they’d never met. Yet there was something between them. And she had to believe it was more than the memory of what an explosive combination they’d been in bed. There was a real connection between them that she felt more strongly than ever and she refused to believe he didn’t feel it too.
‘What do you want?’ he said, picking up on these thoughts.
It took all her strength to hold his dark, brooding gaze and not show the love she felt for him, or blurt out the truth for why she’d come in the pointless hope that Razi would relent and soften towards her and that somehow they could cross the barriers dividing them and make this work.
‘Do you want a job?’
The question was so unexpected she almost laughed. Not even as his cook—and certainly not as his mistress. Any woman waiting for Razi al Maktabi would truly wait in lonely isolation until and if he found time for her. She had made a huge mistake coming to Isla de Sinnebar, and a second mistake imagining she could reason with this man—but worst of all she had placed her baby in danger, because Razi would never let her go if he knew she was carrying the royal child. Going home must be her aim. The only safe way to tell Razi about their child was from the safety of a lawyer’s office.
‘Didn’t I leave you enough money?’
Lucy sucked in a shocked breath, realising money had never occurred to her.
‘How much do you want?’ he said, easing away from the door.
Could a man change so much? Lucy wondered, seeing the suspicion in his eyes.
A king would be suspicious of everyone’s motives, she reasoned, but Razi needn’t worry, because his money was ring-fenced for her daughter’s future. She hadn’t touched it. ‘I’m not here for your money—though now you mention it—’
‘Yes?’ His face eased into a cynical smile as if he had been expecting this all along.
‘You left me a ridiculous amount of money in Val d’Isere,’ she began nervously.
Ruling Sheikh, Unruly Mistress Page 8