by Penny Jordan
‘That is admirable, to serve for your family’s sake,’ Malik said quietly. ‘I feel the same.’
‘Do you?’ A dart of pleasure, as well as something deeper, went through her. ‘What…what do you do?’ The question felt awkward; she knew basically nothing about him. She didn’t even know exactly where Alazar was. The Middle East, he’d said.
‘I assist my grandfather,’ Malik answered. He sounded as if he was choosing his words with care. ‘With his various duties and responsibilities. He is…a man of some significance in Alazar.’
‘Oh.’ Perhaps that explained Malik’s dignified bearing. What was his grandfather? Gracie wondered. A diplomat? A businessman? A sheikh?
A giggle nearly slipped out at that thought; she felt as if she’d fallen down a rabbit hole into an alternative universe of romance and adventure.
And champagne, for the waiter was bearing down on them with a dusty, expensive-looking bottle and there was no opportunity to ask questions as he popped the cork with a flourish and then poured them two frothing glasses.
‘What shall we toast to?’ Malik asked as he handed Gracie her glass.
Her mind emptied yet again. ‘To the future,’ she finally suggested, and then added recklessly, ‘to our future.’
Malik’s mouth curved and with his gaze not leaving hers he raised the glass to his lips. ‘To our future,’ he repeated softly, and drank.
Gracie followed suit, the bubbles zinging through her, tickling her nose and throat and making her want to laugh. The whole situation made her want to laugh—it was so incredible, so unbelievable. Then all laughter died as Malik lowered his glass and said in a low growl of a voice that pulsed with intent, ‘Do you feel what I do?’
Gracie’s heart bumped in her chest like a suitcase down a flight of stairs and her hand was unsteady as she returned her glass to the table, barely touched. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I think I do.’ Even if it was crazy.
Malik laughed softly. ‘I wonder if I am being fanciful. I do not even know you.’
‘No…’
‘And yet we have this chemistry.’
‘A connection.’
Malik stared at her for a moment and Gracie tensed. Had she presumed…? ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘A connection.’
* * *
Malik had barely touched the champagne but he felt awash in it, every sense awakened and buzzing with life. When had he last felt this excited, this energised, this hopeful?
The answer, Malik knew, was never. And yet…
His gut tightened with apprehension. He knew that what he was experiencing with Gracie was temporary, only for a night, if that. His life was not his own to control or decide; it hadn’t been since he was twelve, taken from the school room, from his books and model airplanes and the simple life as the second, the spare, thought to be unnecessary. His grandfather’s face had been hard, his voice harsh, as he’d explained. Azim is gone. You are heir now. Malik had barely been able to grasp his grandfather’s meaning, and yet in that one moment his life had completely changed. He’d gone from being a shy, bookish boy who had been left to his own devices to becoming the future Sultan, in the limelight, under the lash, closed off from all the things he’d enjoyed, deprived of the people he’d loved.
But after ten years of resolute duty, surely he could have one evening. One woman.
He leaned forward, needing to touch her, to feel her. Her skin was soft under his hand. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
Heat flared in her eyes. ‘And go where?’
‘Anywhere.’ He didn’t care; he just wanted to be with her.
‘We could throw a coin in the Trevi Fountain.’ She shrugged, her hair cascading over her shoulders, her eyes alight as her generous mouth curved in a smile that invited him to share in her joy and exuberance. ‘Let’s live a little.’
Which was exactly what Malik wanted to do—all he could do. Live—a little.
‘All right,’ he said, and rose from the table. He paid for their champagne before heading out into the night, Gracie’s hand encased in his. He didn’t want to let her go until he had to.
The plaza was full of people and music, and yet it felt as if they were in their own world as they walked by the fountain shimmering with lights.
‘Do you know the tradition?’ Gracie asked, her eyes full of mischief, and Malik shook his head.
‘You’re meant to stand with your back to the fountain and throw a coin from your right hand over your left shoulder.’ She mimed doing so, her arm reaching over her head in a graceful arc, and Malik enjoyed watching her.
‘And then what happens?’
She turned around, smiling at him impishly. ‘Then you’re meant to return to Rome. But there’s another tradition…’ She stopped, biting her lip.
Intrigued, Malik arched an eyebrow. ‘Another?’
‘That you throw three coins in the fountain,’ she explained, her voice low. Her face had turned fiery and she couldn’t meet his eye.
‘Three? What for?’
‘One to return to Rome, two for a new romance, and three for marriage.’ She laughed, the sound a little forced. ‘Silly, isn’t it?’
Deliberately Malik reached into his pocket. Gracie watched him with wide eyes as he turned so his back was to the fountain, and then threw a coin over his head. It landed with a distant splash. Malik threw in another coin. Gracie sucked in a breath.
His heart began to thud as he turned back to face her; she was staring at him, waiting. And so Malik did what he’d been wanting to do all evening. What he’d been needing to do.
He drew her into his arms and kissed her.
Copyright © 2017 by Kate Hewitt
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ISBN-13: 978-1-488-03084-0
THE CONVENIENT LORIMER WIFE
Originally published as DESIRE NEVER CHANGES by Harlequin Mills & Boon in 1986
This edition published 2017
Copyright © 1986 by Penny Jordan
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