Banished to the Harem

by Carol Marinelli

  No, he did not belong here.

  He pocketed his phone and leant against the wall. It was then that he caught her watching. She tried to pretend that she hadn’t been. Deliberately Natasha didn’t jerk her head away. Instead she let her gaze travel past him and then out into the street, willing another bus to appear, but she could see him in her peripheral vision. She knew that he had moved from the wall and, ignoring the pedestrian crossing, was walking very directly towards her. There were angry hoots from drivers as he halted the traffic and calmly took his time—it was Natasha’s heart that was racing as he joined her in what once had been her shelter. Except it wasn’t the rain Natasha needed sheltering from.

  He stood just a little nearer to her than was polite. Natasha couldn’t really explain why she felt that, because soon the shelter would fill up, and on a rainy morning like this one soon she and any number of strangers would be crammed in like sardines. But for now, while it was just the two of them, he was too close—especially when she knew, was quite sure, that he didn’t need to be here. His people hadn’t told His Highness that perhaps he should get the bus.

  What was he doing here? her mind begged to know the answer to the question. What had the mistake been?

  ‘The husband came home.’

  His rich voice answered her unspoken question, and despite her best intentions to ignore him Natasha let out a small, almost nervous laugh, then turned her head to him. Immediate was the wish that she hadn’t, that she had chosen simply to ignore him, because those eyes were waiting for her again—that face, that body, even his scent; he was almost too beautiful for conversation—better, perhaps, that he remain in her head as an image, a memory, rather than become tainted by truth.

  Something deep inside warned Natasha that she should not engage with him, that it would be far safer to ignore him, but she couldn’t, and her eyes found his mouth as he spoke on.

  ‘He thought that I was in his house stealing.’

  Rakhal looked into green eyes, saw a blush flood her face as it had when last their eyes had met—only this time there was a parting of her lips as she smiled. But that initial response was brief, for quickly, he noted, she changed her mind. The smile vanished and her words were terse.

  ‘Technically, you were!’

  She went back to looking out into the road and Rakhal fought with a rare need to explain himself. He knew what had happened last night did not put him in a flattering light, but given where they had met he felt it important that she knew the reason he had been locked up if he were to get to know her some more.

  And of that Rakhal had every intention.

  There was a very rare beauty to her. Redheads had never appealed to him, but this morning he found the colouring intriguing. Darkened by the rain, her hair ran in trails along her trenchcoat. He wanted to take a towel and rub it dry, to watch the golds and oranges emerge. He liked too the paleness of her skin that so readily displayed her passions; it was pinking now around her ears. He wanted her to turn again and face him—Rakhal wanted another glimpse of her green eyes.

  ‘I did not know.’ He watched her ears redden as he carried on the conversation. ‘Of course that is no excuse.’

  It was the reason he had assured the policemen he would not be taking things any further—because she was right: technically he had been stealing, and that did not sit well with Rakhal. He could surely live and die a hundred times trying to work out the rules of this land—there were wedding rings, but some chose not to wear them; there were titles, but some chose not to use them; there were, of course, women who chose to lie. And, in fairness to him, it was particularly confusing for Rakhal—for his heartbreaking looks assured that many a ring or a diamond were slipped into a purse when he entered a room. But instead of working out the rules, this morning he chose to work out this woman.

  Direct was his approach.

  ‘What were you at the police station for?’

  She was tempted just to ignore him, but that would only serve to show him the impact he’d had on her, so she attempted to answer as if he were just another person at a bus stop, making idle conversation. ‘My car was stolen.’

  ‘That must be inconvenient,’ Rakhal responded, watching her shoulders stiffen.

  ‘Just a bit.’ Natasha bristled, because it was far more than inconvenient, but then if he was royal, if he was as well-off as his appearance indicated, perhaps having his car stolen would be a mere inconvenience. But maybe she was being a bit rude. He had done nothing wrong, after all. It was her private response to him that was inappropriate. ‘I was supposed to be going on holiday …’

  ‘A driving holiday?’

  She laughed. Perish the thought! ‘No.’ She turned just a little towards him. It seemed rude to keep talking over her shoulder. ‘Overseas.’

  Those gorgeous eyes narrowed into a frown as he attempted to perceive the problem. ‘Did you need your car to get you to the airport?’

  It was easier just to nod and say yes, to turn away from him again and will the bus to hurry up.

  They stood in silence as grumpy morning commuters forced him a little closer to her. She caught the scent of him again, and then, after a stretch of interminable silence, when it felt as if he were counting every hair on the back of her head, he resumed their conversation and very unexpectedly made her laugh.

  ‘Couldn’t you get a taxi?’

  Now she turned and fully faced him. Now she accepted the conversation. Rakhal enjoyed the victory as much as he had enjoyed the small battle, for rarely was a woman unwilling, and never was there one he could not get to unbend.

  ‘It’s a little bit more complicated than that.’

  It was so much more complicated than simply getting a taxi to the airport. Truth be told, she couldn’t really afford a holiday anyway; she had lent her brother Mark so much money to help with his gambling debts. She had been hoping to take a break for her sanity more than anything else, because her brother’s problems weren’t going away any time soon. Still, this dashing stranger didn’t need to know all about that—except he did not allow her to leave it there.

  ‘In what way?’

  He dragged out a conversation, Natasha recognised. He persisted when others would not. ‘It just is.’ Still he frowned.

  Still he clearly expected her to tell.

  Tell a man she had never met? Tell a man she knew nothing about other than that he ignored social norms?

  And he was ignoring them again now—as the lengthening bus queue jostled to fit beneath the shelter he placed a hand on her elbow, instead of keeping a respectable shred of distance as the crowd surged behind him, forming a shield around her. And if it appeared manly, it felt impolite.

  As impolite as her own thoughts as his fingers wrapped around the sleeve of her coat. For there was a fleeting thought that if the queue were to surge again he might kiss her—a thought too dangerous to follow as her body pressed into him. She moved her arm, turned away from him, and was it regret or relief when she saw her bus?

  Natasha put her arm out to hail it and so too did he. Except she quickly realised it wasn’t the bus he was summoning—it was a black limousine, with all its windows darkened. The car indicated and started to slow down.

  ‘Can I offer you a lift home?’

  ‘No!’ Her voice was panicked, though not from his offer. If the car stopped now then the bus wouldn’t. ‘It can’t park there …’

  He didn’t understand her urgency, or was incapable of opening a car door himself, because he stood waiting till a man in robes climbed out and opened it for him. ‘I insist,’ he said.

  ‘Just go,’ Natasha begged, but it was already too late. The bus sailed happily past the stop blocked by his vehicle and Natasha heard the moans and protests from the angry queue behind her—not that it perturbed him in the least. ‘You made me miss my bus!’

  ‘Then I must give you a lift.’

  And, yes, she knew she should not accept lifts from strangers—knew that this man had the strang
est effect on her. She knew of many things in that instant—like the angry commuters she’d be left with, and the cold and the wet. Yes, there were reasons both to accept and to decline, and Natasha could justify either one.

  She could never justify the real reason she stepped into the car, though—a need to prolong this chance meeting, a desire for her time with this exotic stranger not to end.

  It was terribly warm inside, and there was Arabic music playing. The seat was sumptuous as she sank into it, and she felt as if she had entered another world—especially when a robed man handed her a small cup that had no handle. She could almost hear her mother warning her that she would be a fool to accept.

  ‘It is tea,’ she was informed by His Highness.

  Yes, her mother might once have warned her, but she was twenty-four now, and after a slight hesitation she accepted the drink. It was sweet and fragrant, and it was much nicer to sit in luxurious comfort than to shiver at the bus stop. She certainly didn’t relax, though—how could she with him sitting opposite her? With those black eyes waiting for her to look at him?

  ‘Where do you live?’

  She gave him her address—she had no choice but to do so; she had accepted a ride home after all.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘A few hours in a cell and I forget my manners.’ His English, though good, was the only part of him that was less than perfect, and yet it made him more so somehow. ‘I have not properly introduced myself. I am Sheikh Rakhal, Crown Prince of Alzirz.’

  ‘Natasha Winters.’ There was not much she could add to that, but his haughty, beautiful face did yield a small smile when she said, ‘Of London.’

  Their conversation was somewhat awkward. He asked her where she had been intending to go on holiday, and seemed somewhat bemused by the concept of a travel agent or booking a holiday online. In turn he told her that he was in London for business, and that though he came here often soon he would be returning to his home.

  ‘And now I return you to yours,’ he said, as the car turned into her street and slowed down.

  Somehow she knew things would not be left there.

  ‘Would you care to join me for dinner tonight?’ Rakhal asked. He did not await a response—after all the answer was inevitable. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve already got plans.’ She flushed a little. She was clearly lying. She had no plans. She was supposed to be jetting off for two weeks and had told him as much. And she was tempted, but they had met in a police station and he was wearing a black eye from an aggrieved husband. It didn’t take much to work out that he would want more than dinner.

  And so too would she.

  She was stunned at her reaction to him; never had a man affected her so. It was as if a pulse beat in the air between them—a tangible pulse that somehow connected them. There was a raw sexual energy to him, a restless prowess, and she dared not lower her guard for this man was far more of a man than she was used to, more male than she had ever encountered before. She reached for the door.

  ‘Wait,’ Rakhal said, reaching out his hand and capturing her wrist.

  There was a flutter of panic that rose from her stomach to her throat at the thought that he might not let her out—or was that just the effect of contact, for his fingers were warm on her skin?

  ‘You do not open the door.’

  Neither, it would seem, did he, for the robed man who had served them tea was the one who climbed out. Rakhal’s hand was still on her wrist and she waited. For what, she wasn’t quite sure. Another offer of dinner? Or perhaps it was he who was waiting? Maybe he thought she would ask him inside?

  She looked at that handsome face, at the mouth that was so sorely tempting, and then at his come-to-bed eyes. She could almost see them reflected there—could envisage them tumbling in her bed. It was a dangerous vision to have, so she pulled her wrist away. ‘Thank you for the lift.’

  He watched her almost run to her house, saw her safely inside and then gestured to his driver to move on. They rode in silence.

  Abdul knew better than to question why Rakhal had been at a police station, where the bruises were from—it was not an aide’s place to question the Crown Prince. He would bring him a poultice later, and again over the next few days, in the hope that the bruises would be gone by his return to Alzirz.

  Right now Rakhal had more than bruises and several hours in a prison cell on his mind. He had never been said no to before; quite simply it had never happened—but he did not grace the markets and had no need to barter. Rakhal knew she was not like the women he usually played with but, oh, the heaven of getting her to unbend. It was a shame he was leaving on Monday. She might be worth pursuing otherwise. Still, maybe the next time he visited London … Except he would be a married man by then, and something told him that Natasha would be even more disapproving.

  He wished she had said yes.

  Natasha thought the same almost as soon as she stepped inside. Away from him she was far more logical—she had just turned down a dinner invitation from surely the most gorgeous man alive. The loss of her holiday and her car seemed like minor inconveniences compared to what she had just denied herself. She moved to the window and watched his car glide off. Her hand moved to her wrist, where his fingers had been. She replayed their conversations again.

  He had been nothing but polite, she told herself. It was her mind that was depraved.

  She kicked herself all day as she dealt with the car insurance company, and then tried to sound cheerful when one of her friends rang to tell her they had secured an amazing deal for ten nights in Tenerife. They would be leaving tonight, and was Natasha quite sure that she didn’t want to change her mind and join them?

  Natasha almost did, but then she looked down at the figure that had been quoted as the excess on her insurance and regretfully turned down her second amazing offer in one day.

  Her brother’s debts were not Natasha’s responsibility, all her friends said, but actually they were. Natasha had not told anyone about the loan she had taken out for him—which was why her friends were unable to understand why she didn’t want to come away on holiday with them, especially after such a hellish year.

  To Mark’s credit, since she had taken the loan he had always paid her back on time, and Natasha was starting to feel as if she could breathe, that maybe he was finally working things out. A payment was due tomorrow, and she pulled up her bank account online. Her emerging confidence in her brother vanished as she realised that his payment to her hadn’t gone in, and immediately she rang him.

  ‘You’ll have it next week.’

  Natasha closed her eyes as he reeled off excuses. ‘It’s not good enough, Mark, the payment’s due tomorrow.’ She cursed at the near miss—she might have been en route to Tenerife, not knowing that she had defaulted on a loan payment. ‘I can’t afford to cover it, Mark. I had my car stolen last night.’ She would not cry, she was tougher than that, but for so many reasons today was especially hard. ‘When I agreed to get this loan you promised you would never miss a payment.’

  ‘I said you’ll have it next week. There’s nothing else I can do. Look,’ he said, ‘how soon till you get the car insurance payout?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You said your car had been stolen,’ Mark said. ‘You’ll get that payment soon. That will cover it.’

  ‘It might be found,’ Natasha said. ‘And if it isn’t the payout will buy me another car.’ But, even though there was so much to be addressed, she was tired of talking about cars and money on today of all days. ‘Are you going to the cemetery?’

  ‘Cemetery?’

  She heard the bemusement in her brother’s voice and anger burnt inside her as she responded. ‘It’s their one-year anniversary, Mark.’

  ‘I know.’

  Natasha was quite sure he’d forgotten. ‘Well?’ she pushed. ‘Are you going?’

  As he reeled off yet more excuses Natasha simply hung up the phone and headed to her b
edroom. But instead of getting on with tidying up, for a moment or two she sat on her bed, wondering how everything could have gone so wrong. This time last year her life had been pretty close to perfect—she’d just qualified as a teacher and had been doing a job she loved; she had been dating a guy she was starting to if not love then really care for; she’d been saving towards moving out of her parents’ house. She had also been looking forward to being a bridesmaid at her brother’s wedding.

  Now, in the space of a year, all she had known, all she had loved, had been taken. Even her job. As an infant school teacher she had been on a temporary placement and about to be offered a permanent position when the car crash had happened. Knowing she simply couldn’t be the teacher she wanted to be while deeply grieving, she had declined the job offer, and the last year had been filled with temporary placements as she waded through her parents’ estate.

  Their will had been very specific—the family home was to be sold and the profits divided equally between their two children.

  How she had hated that—how much harder it had made things having to deal with estate agents and home inspections. And going through all the contents had been agony. It was a job she felt should have been done in stages; she had wanted to linger more in the process of letting go. But Mark had wanted his share and had pushed things along. Her boyfriend, Jason, had been no help either. He’d been uncomfortable with her grief and uncomfortable providing comfort—it had been a relief for Natasha to end things.

  And now, one year on, she sat in the small home she had bought that still felt unfamiliar, living a life that didn’t feel like her own.

  Tears wouldn’t change anything; sitting on her bed crying wasn’t going to help. She headed downstairs and, one cup of coffee later, unable to face a bus, she called for a taxi, asking him to stop and wait as she went into a florist and bought some flowers.

  She hated coming here.

  Wasn’t it supposed to bring her peace?

  It didn’t.

  She looked at the headstone and all Natasha felt was anger that her parents had been taken far too soon.