A woman stood on the other side. She wore a pale grey dress that fell to the floor, and all the way to her wrists. Somehow, despite the bland colour and over-the-top modesty, it was an attractive ensemble.
“Miss Evelyn?” She spoke with a kind voice and a spicy accent.
“Yes?”
“Hello. I am to do the massage.”
What massage? Evie’s mind chased over all of the conversations she’d had, with Amira, Malakhi and even Fayaz. No mention of a massage could be found. “The massage?”
The woman lifted a hand to her shoulder. “Your neck. Is sore?”
“Oh!” Evie’s smile almost made her cheeks ache. Damn his thoughtfulness. Or was it control-freakishness? “Yes. It is.” She dropped her eyes to the folded table the woman had beside her.
“May I enter?”
“Yes, of course.” She stepped back, holding the door for the woman to step into the room.
“Here okay?”
Evie nodded and watched with a growing sense of bewilderment as the masseuse set up the table before reaching into her bag for a large black towel and some little tubes of cream.
“Please. To lie on your… here.” She pointed to her stomach.
Evie looked down at her robe and the woman shook her head.
“No cloth.”
“Oh.”
The woman lifted another towel high to provide modesty for Evie as she slid the robe off and then climbed onto the table. She wriggled down a little and sighed as the fabric of the towel draped across her back.
“You say if it hurts, okay?”
The woman couldn’t realise it but the question led Evie to think only of Malakhi. How considered he’d been with her comfort after that first night. Ask me again in a week. She understood now why he’d wanted her here, in his apartment. His hours were erratic, his schedule demanding. But their need burned brightly; when he returned to the apartment, they reached for one another on autopilot. As though they couldn’t function without that coming together.
The massage was heavenly. It wasn’t gentle; the massage therapist worked with a strength that was almost impossible to believe came from such a slight person. Her elbows dug into Evie’s shoulders relieving every single click of pain. She had no concept of how much time had passed until the massage therapist stepped back and Evie’s eyes found the clock.
It was midday, and she was almost jelly-like in her state of relaxation.
“Thank you,” she smiled at the lady.
“I come in two days.”
“Oh. Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“You tight here.” She ran a finger over Evie’s neck. “Two days.”
Evie nodded, her sense of unreality growing. “Okay. Thank you so much. That was really wonderful.”
“Yes.” The woman held the towel up and Evie stood with a hint of reluctance, lifting her robe back in place. It took only moments for her to pack the bed away and stride to the door. “I see you.”
“I look forward to it.”
Evie rolled her head on its shoulders, amazed at the difference the massage had wrought.
She was not alone to contemplate the sense of relaxation for long. Another short, sharp knock sounded moments later.
With a frown, she pulled it inwards and was met by yet another woman, wearing the exact same dress.
“Yes?” She looked downwards and saw no massage table.
“Ciao. I’m Anita.”
At Evie’s blank look, Anita smiled. “Your wardrobe consultant?”
“My … what?”
“You didn’t know I was coming?”
“No.” Her cheeks flushed. “But you’re not the first surprise visitor.”
Nor, in fact, was she the last. After selecting colours and styles from Anita’s iPad, lunch was brought to Evie’s room. Following that, there was a visit from a rather severe woman who lectured Evie for over an hour on the customs of the wedding and what she ought to expect. The details made her head spin! From the betrothal dinner to the processional ceremony, to the ceremony itself, which would last almost a full day, to the celebration which would follow, and finally the honeymoon – which for Evie and Malakhi would involve a tour of the country, to allow the people of Ishala to see their new Sehikha.
“His Highness would like the nuptials to take place as soon as it can be arranged. While this is not particularly easy, I believe the logistics can be in hand by Friday.”
“Fr-Friday? You mean … what do you mean?”
“Friday.”
“But it’s … it’s Tuesday today. Isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“So you mean we’ll get married Friday?”
The woman smiled with affectionate indulgence. “No.”
Evie breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, good.”
“The betrothal dinner is to be Friday night. Processional ceremony Saturday – this is where you officially meet the parliament and His Highness’s most trusted advisors, though most will be at the event Friday night, too. There is then to be the full ceremony on Sunday.”
“I can’t believe … it’s so soon.”
“Yes.”
Finally, as the sun was setting over the city in the distance, Evie was alone. She pushed out to the small balcony and breathed in the desert air gratefully. Out of nowhere, she pictured the balcony of her little, rickety timber home in the hills of Brisbane. She imagined the humidity of that climate, and the tropical plants that speared against the side of her house despite her best efforts to tame the garden.
At some point she would have to deal with the logistics of that. To return and pack up.
A frown pulled at her lips. And to pack up David and Sabra’s home, she thought with a shake of her head. The sheer burden of that responsibility filled her with groaning defeat.
She didn’t hear him enter the suite. Only when his hands came around her waist did she spin, surprise on her pretty face.
“Hello.”
“How are you?” There was an air of worry in his manner; something she couldn’t comprehend.
“I’m fine. Definitely feeling a little bit spoiled.”
He studied her a moment longer, making sure he could see the truth reflected in the set of her features, and then nodded. “Good.”
“I’ve been busy today,” she murmured, stretching her neck again.
“Yes. There’s much to do before the weekend.”
“The weekend is just so soon!”
“Is this a problem?”
“No! I guess I just thought …”
“What is it?” He seemed to hold his breath and Evie had the distinct impression she was being difficult.
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” Her smile was overbright. “It sounds like everything’s organised, anyway.”
“Yes. Almost everything.” He reached down and linked his fingers with hers.
“Oh? What is there left?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled his hand out quickly. “This.”
“What is it?” His palm remained closed. Beneath her eyes, he unfurled his fingers, revealing an engagement ring unlike anything she’d ever seen.
“My goodness.” Her fingers reached for it but at the moment of contact she hesitated. “May I?”
He took her hand and slid the ring gently onto her finger. It fit perfectly.
“It’s absolutely breathtaking.” Literally, Evie felt as though the breath was burning in her lungs. “It’s really lovely.” The diamond itself was enormous – to the point where Evie wasn’t sure it was at all practical. She had no concept of carats but it was easily as large as her thumbnail, and deep, too. It was surrounded by smaller diamonds and the ring itself was white or platinum gold. But there was a copper-coloured vein that seemed to run through the gold.
“The gold and copper are from the Ruins of Fash’allam.” He cleared his throat. “They traded in gems and rocks. I had it set like this.”
She swallowed back the pain of her surpris
e. His thoughtfulness was undoing every intention she’d held of remaining a little bit aloft and aloof.
“If it is not pleasing to you, I will have it changed, of course.”
“It’s very pleasing to me,” she promised. “I could never imagine a more beautiful ring. Thank you for giving this to me.”
He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm. “Thank you for agreeing to marry me. It is hard to imagine any goodness coming from this, but I think we are making it.”
“So do I.”
And in that moment, because she had only half the facts, she truly believed that to be the case.
Nine
Given the conservative nature of Ishala, Evie was surprised by the gown Anita arrived clutching on Friday afternoon. It wasn’t revealing, exactly, but the cut of it hugged Evie like a second-skin, leaving very little to the imagination. The colour was a pale cream, but it was nothing like a bridal gown. It was cut high at the neck, and at least a hundred pearls served as buttons, clipping the gown together from the nape of her hair to the swelling of her bottom. The sleeves were firm on her arms all the way to her wrists, where delicate lace clipped over her thumb and forefinger, acting as a very delicate sort of glove.
To the knees, it was firm, but then it flared – only by the smallest degrees, to make walking possible – though not exactly comfortable. The same could be said of the shoes, which were constructed from the supplest leather Evie had ever touched. They slid onto her feet as though they’d been made for her, and the heel was high, but widened enough at the bottom to make them passably comfortable.
“Isn’t it a little early to be getting dressed?” She asked Anita at four o’clock, as the last buttons were clipped into place.
“Non.”
Evie could only laugh. “But this party doesn’t start until nine o’clock.”
“But you still have the hair, and the make up, and then some photographs.”
“Photographs?” Her eyes flew to Anita’s in the mirror.
“You were not told? Yes. Vogue Ishala is to do a piece on you.”
“Vogue?” Evie’s face blanched. “Oh, Anita. That’s not right. I’m not … even remotely glamorous.”
“You will be when I am done,” Anita murmured with complete confidence. And though she did little of the handiwork herself, every brush stroke and hair wave of the hairdresser and makeup artist seemed coordinated by the glamorous fashionista.
It took forever – or at least it felt that way to Evie. But, by eight o’clock, when the photographer and journalist were ushered into the room, Evie was the absolute picture of a princess. Her hair had been styled into an elaborate chignon with tiny little plaits that all led to the crown of her head. And yes, there was a crown, too, filled with an embarrassment of shimmering gems. It was heavy, but far too incredible to complain about wearing. The largest gem was a shimmering pink – it sent rainbows of colour kaleidoscoping around the room when she moved. A necklace had been designed to match – the stone set at its centre was almost as large, and surrounded by diamonds.
“What is this?” She whispered to Anita, fingering the pendant anxiously.
“Pink diamond.” Anita tapped the gem in the middle of the crown. “And here, too. Seventy-one carats in the headpiece and this one is almost thirty.”
Evie’s eyes were enormous. “I don’t know a thing about diamonds but those numbers sound big.”
Anita laughed. “Just don’t lose either, darling.”
“I don’t intend to.” She swallowed, beginning to feel like a walking bank vault.
She posed for the photos as best she could, all the while terrified that one of the enormous gems was going to roll loose on her watch. She knew that she must surely look as she felt: a nervous wreck. This suspicion was only confirmed when Anita caught her arm at one point and said, “Do not smile as though you have a tooth ache! Smile as though you are happier than any woman in the whole world has ever been. Si?”
She nodded, but the kindly-meant encouragement only heightened her anxieties.
By the time Amira appeared at the door to the suite of rooms, Evie was ready to weep. The young servant understood.
“You are afraid?”
Evie didn’t bother to hide it. “Petrified. I can’t do this, Amira. I’m not a princess. Sabra told me that time and time again. You could never live as I grew up! You would have hated it! How am I going to do it? I don’t belong here.”
Amira shook her head with a smile. “Of course you do. Because you are kind, and you are beautiful, and you will become a mother to your nephew. This, with all the makeup and the dress and the jewels, this is not how you must be. Not often, anyway.” Emboldened, she put a hand on Evie’s wrist. “You look beautiful, but you are always beautiful. It’s not the clothes nor the jewels that make you regal, Evie. It is you.”
Evie sucked in a deep breath and shook her head, knocking away the praise. “I just want it all to be over.”
“And it will be – before you know it.”
They walked side by side through the long corridor, Evie’s nerves only increasing with each step they took.
Outside a pair of doors that seemed to have been constructed from marble and gold, Evie took another deep breath. Her fingers were shaking and her eyes showed her skittish anxieties. Several guards stood to attention as she approached, their liveried forms were held almost unnaturally still. How hot they must have been in such formal uniforms!
They clasped in one gloved hand a golden rifle; the butt of which was balanced on the marble floor, and the golden tip was pointed towards the chandelier-laden ceiling.
It was all so incredibly grand, Evie had never seen anything like it.
“Where’s Mal?” She whispered to Amira, turning her back on the guards for a moment.
“Were you not told?” Amira asked urgently.
Evie shook her head.
Consternation furrowed the young woman’s brow. “I dare say she didn’t want to make you nervous.”
“Oh, God. What is it? What’s going to happen?”
“Nothing!” Amira smiled encouragingly. “His Highness is in the ballroom. He’s waiting for you.”
“And?”
“And a guard will announce you,” she said.
“Why do I feel like you’re dropping tiny breadcrumbs that are going to lead me to a fiery death?”
“Because you’re anxious,” Amira returned quickly. “Now, stop fussing. You look like a princess. This night is about you. Enjoy it.”
“Yeah, right.” She rolled her eyes. “Thank you for trying to make me feel better,” she tacked on as an afterthought.
Amira nodded and then lifted a finger to Evie’s cheek. “Remember to smile. Your smile is dazzling.”
“Dazzling? With this on my head? Like anyone will be looking at my smile.”
“Madam?” One of the older guards addressed her as she stepped closer to the door. “It is time?”
“Yes. It’s time.” She nodded jerkily and swallowed, stepping backwards as the room was opened.
It was so much worse than she’d imagined. The doors swung into a delicate balcony. The floral arrangements were so large there was almost no room for her to stand. But, at the top, another guard stood, this time in a white uniform, and without the rifle. To his right there was a staircase, apparently made from gold with jewels in the railing. And at its base? So many people. More, even, than had been at the funeral.
Her eyes skimmed the crowd, bouncing from person to person, until finally she saw him.
His eyes locked with hers and she felt the immediate charge of electricity. Heat seemed to fire from one to the other and the rest of the room faded to nothingness.
Love simmered in her veins. She walked with great care down the stairs. As her hand lightly touched the railing she had a Sabra-esque vision of falling and so walked slowly. She felt his eyes on her the whole time and they were heating her blood to boiling. The crowd was parted at the base of the stairs, but she
barely saw them.
It was Malakhi that drew her full attention. When their eyes met, it was as if they were the only people in the room. He held out a hand out as she neared and, on autopilot, she lifted hers to it.
Zing. There it was. Sensual awareness flashed through her, flipping her stomach and squeezing her chest.
“Good evening.” His expression showed amusement. It fanned her self-doubts.
“I look ridiculous,” she murmured, dropping her eyes from his.
“No.” He leaned closer, pressing his lips to her ear. “There are no words to describe how exceptional you look.”
“So why are you laughing at me?”
He grinned. “I’m imagining you as you were the day I first met you, that’s all.”
His smile alighted hers. “Oh.”
“Dressed in a servant’s uniform, your hair wild, your face afraid of my eagle. Tonight you are my princess, afraid of no one.”
She arched a brow. “Still insisting I’m yours?”
He tipped his head back and laughed. “As much as I am yours,” he assured her softly, squeezing her hand. “Are you ready?”
“I think I am, actually.”
He stepped a little away from her, but kept his fingers lightly gripping her hand. The second he turned to face the crowd it silenced, all eyes on the stunning young couple. In his own language he repeated the ancient Vows of Intent that formalised their betrothal. They were the words that had been passed down from the oldest tribes of Ishala; words that were spoken when a woman was promised to a man by her father that had now been adapted to suit modern life.
The words joined them and after speaking them he expelled a breath of relief that even Evie didn’t see. The crowd applauded and the noise suddenly became deafening as discussion raged.
Many commended the Sheikh’s choice of bride. She was beautiful and poised, but more than that, she had been the dear friend of the much loved Sabra, and this made her special to the Sheikh’s people. There was condemnation also, of course, though it was hushed. How could the choose marry a Westerner? It had been a failure for Sabra, and it would be a failure now. Were there not suitable princesses and ladies to choose from in Ishala and amongst their allied countries?
Billionaire Baby Daddies: A five-book anthology Page 60