Christmas Bride for the Sheikh

by Carol Marinelli

  ‘What’s wrong with hotels?’ Hazin asked.

  ‘Nothing at all, if sex is all you’re after. He would sometimes come to my place but it was mainly hotels—he told me his apartment was being renovated. We were always staying in when I wanted to go out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Anywhere, just on a date.’

  But the concept of a date was clearly as unfamiliar to him as her aversion to hotels so he asked for more clarification. ‘But where would you go?’

  ‘Anywhere. Movies, theatre, meals...’

  He yawned and Flo lay there. ‘I haven’t been on enough dates,’ she told him. ‘I can see it now.’

  Her year off men had served her well.

  ‘How did you find out he was married?’ Hazin asked.

  She was silent.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I’m too embarrassed to.’

  He could feel the tension lock her arms tight against her body. ‘Flo,’ he said, ‘do you know my reputation?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then you must know that not much shocks me.’

  Flo had held it in for so long. She remembered the night she and Hazin had met and his kind, non-judgmental smile. She had come close to telling him then and so she told him now.

  Hazin was the first person—the only person—she had ever shared this with.

  ‘He came into my department with his wife. She was booked in at a private hospital but it was all happening too fast...’ Even with months having gone by, even with the shield of his arms, she could not complete it, but Hazin knew her job and soon worked it out.

  ‘I stand corrected,’ he admitted, for he was shocked. ‘Bastard.’

  They lay there together and he thought about it.

  ‘You didn’t have to deliver her?’ Hazin checked.

  ‘Oh, God, no, never!’ Flo said. ‘I hid in the IV cupboard and I never wanted to come out.’

  It had been rock bottom for her.

  ‘Then I told my colleague I had a bad period and I needed to go home. I called in sick for two days...’

  She looked up and he pulled a face at her ailment choice.

  ‘Well, I guess I could have just pretended to be drunk, as a certain person does when he wants to get out of something.’

  They both smiled just a little, but hers wavered when she recalled that time and the explosion of feelings it had produced.

  ‘It was Christmas Eve and the next day I had to go to my parents’ home and pretend to be all happy...’

  Hazin frowned. ‘I never feign happiness, I’m just a miserable bastard whenever I feel like it.’

  ‘You don’t feel like one now.’

  He felt lovely, all big and strong and so very kind, and then he said something she did not understand.

  ‘I used to, though.’

  ‘When?’

  He thought back to the early months of his marriage, before Petra had taken ill. He had been the dutiful Prince then, attending endless functions with his gorgeous bride. Petra had been very hands on and had liked to get close to the people. At night they would get into this very bed and make love—yet it had not really been love, for he would lie there afterwards in the dark of the night with a hollow longing in his soul for the life he had once led in London.

  Yet he could never tell anyone that.

  And so he asked Flo a question instead of answering hers. ‘Why did you have to pretend to be happy?’

  ‘Because that’s what I do,’ Flo said.

  ‘Would your parents have been cross with you?’

  ‘No, no, they’d have felt awful for me. It was Christmas,’ she said, as if that explained it.

  It didn’t.

  So she tried.

  ‘You do what you can to make it happy for the people you love, especially at Christmas, and me sobbing into the turkey wasn’t going to help anyone.’

  He lay there, waiting for her to explain further.

  It took a moment to realise she had fallen asleep.

  Confession really was good for the soul.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IT WAS THE best sleep.

  For both of them.

  Hazin woke first and he lay there, both liking the feel of her in his arms and dreading the day ahead.

  He would be hauled over the coals by his father and asked to explain his behaviour yesterday.

  Yet he could not.

  His jet had sat at Dubai Airport for hours as he’d toyed with whether or not to attend the wedding.

  He had been cross with Maggie for spilling his secrets to Ilyas, yet he understood why she had.

  And though a part of him had wanted to be at the wedding, it had been the balcony appearance that Hazin had not been able to face.

  The last time he had stood there had been with his young bride, on the day they’d met.

  And sitting in Dubai, the thought of the speech on the anniversary of her death had loomed and on a foolish impulse he had decided to do the unthinkable and ensure once and for all that he was removed from the lineage.

  Except Ilyas was now in control.

  And he wanted Hazin to stand beside him.

  Yet Hazin did not know how.

  Growing up, he had loathed being the dutiful Prince.

  Hazin had felt like a charlatan, for he had known that the poverty in which so many of the people lived was unnecessary. And he had also known of the unrest with the Bedouins under his father’s ruthless rule.

  Yet the people had loved him.

  They always had.

  As a young teenager, his father had been giving a speech and the cameras had caught Hazin rolling his eyes.

  He had been severely disciplined, but with each lashing, he had—to his father’s fury—smiled contentedly.

  And, newly married, he and Petra would go into town and dine at the restaurants and actually speak with the locals, who had in turn adored the young couple.

  Now his father apologised to the people for his son’s sins.

  It should be the other way around.

  Without words, perhaps, but there was so much good he could do.

  Hazin felt Flo stir in his arms.

  She would be the best part of this day, Hazin knew.

  * * *

  And he was the best part of hers, for to lie there all warm and rested and to open her eyes to his welcoming smile was such a lovely awakening.

  Flo stretched her neck like a swan and reached for his kiss. He met her midway and their lips mingled in an intimate morning caress.

  He pulled her up his body and, like Scotch mist rolling in, he slowly engulfed her. Their tongues teased in tender exploration as beneath the rug his hands moved to her breast.

  She longed to be naked as they kissed. Flo craved those fingers stroking her hardened nipple and the palm with which be caressed her bare skin.

  And yet it remained at a kiss, for he halted the mingling of their mouths and she could almost taste the regret he left on her lips.

  ‘I have to go,’ he told her.

  ‘Do you?’ Flo didn’t quite believe him.

  ‘I have to go and speak with my father,’ Hazin said.

  But while his actions yesterday needed to be faced, the truth was that it was all too new and surreal to have someone else in this bed. It took things to a far higher level, though he could not explain that to her, so he applied logic instead. ‘And you have your flight to get ready for.’

  However gently he did it, Flo knew she was being dismissed.

  ‘What will your father say?’ Flo asked as she climbed out of bed.

  ‘Plenty.’ Hazin rolled his eyes.

  ‘Did you ever get on?’

  ‘Never
,’ Hazin said, but then amended, ‘For the two weeks while my wedding was being arranged he was more amenable. But that was only because I was dancing to his tune.’

  He stood from the bed and gave her a smile—though it was not a smile she liked. It was a smile of farewell. ‘Thanks for everything, Flo.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘Well, thanks for looking out for me yesterday when you thought I was drunk.’

  ‘I never did think that, Hazin.’

  She had known right away he’d been staging things, and it hadn’t all been down to her training. Flo felt a connection with him, though it was clear it was something Hazin didn’t want. There was no suggestion that he would see her before she left and no offer to catch up when they were both in London.

  ‘I’ll say goodbye, then,’ Flo said.

  ‘Goodbye, Flo.’

  He might just as well have shaken her hand, Flo thought as she left.

  He saw the slight slump of her shoulders and he fought not to call her back as she walked out the door.

  It would be the easiest thing to do.

  To call her back and blot out the morning and the weeks and months ahead. To fly her back to London on his jet and sex the miles away up in the air.

  Yet Hazin knew the easy solution was not the correct one here.

  And so he bathed and changed into a robe and put on his keffiyeh, and when Mahmoud, the King’s vizier, called and said that King Ahmed wished to speak to him, Hazin was ready.

  It was not a welcoming committee that waited.

  His father sat at his huge desk, with Mahmoud standing beside him. The surprise was that his mother was standing there too.

  ‘Mumia!’ Hazin greeted her with the Arabic word for ‘Mummy’, but it dripped sarcasm for he had not used that word even as a child.

  He hadn’t been taught to and he’d certainly never had the chance to.

  Being back made his skin crawl, for he could remember long nights in the nursery, crying out, only to be ignored or met by a stern nanny.

  ‘Discipline him,’ his mother would hiss on her rare visits, and well he remembered her tone now.

  She stared coolly at the son she had reluctantly borne and then addressed him. ‘Your behaviour yesterday was despicable. Many esteemed guests witnessed your display.’

  ‘You’re not upset that I might have upset your son and his new wife?’ Hazin checked. ‘Just that I embarrassed you in front of guests.’

  ‘You always embarrass me, Hazin. You do nothing right.’

  ‘For such a rebel, I excelled at school.’

  ‘You hardly needed qualifications to support yourself,’ the Queen sniffed. ‘Perhaps you might wish you had gone to university now, when you hear what the King has to say.’

  Hazin looked at his father as the King spoke. ‘My strong recommendation is that you will be disinherited. I want the people to see the consequences of your despicable behaviour. However...’ King Ahmed’s face twisted as the new order in the Palace choked him. ‘Ilyas is determined that your title will remain. Your brother has more faith in you than I do. Though that is hardly a compliment for I have none. I would wash my hands of you with satisfaction.’

  ‘You washed your hands of me before I was even born,’ Hazin responded, then looked at the Queen—she did not deserve the title of Mother. ‘And you washed your hands of me on the day that I was,’ he finished, looking at the King.

  He had been fed by wet nurses and visited by his mother on rare occasions. And when at six years of age he had kicked up, he’d been offed to a country where he didn’t even know the language.

  Hazin was angry now.

  Furious, in fact, not just about his childhood but for the utter lack of support shown to his late wife. Once she had become ill they had treated Petra as if she had been a poor choice of bride—even though they had been the ones who had chosen her.

  Yes, his hate ran deep and it built the more she spoke.

  ‘It does not have to be Ilyas’s choice,’ the Queen pointed out. ‘You can always step down.’

  They wanted him to, Hazin realised. They wanted him gone before Ilyas returned from the desert.

  It was their only chance at wresting back control, for there was safety in numbers. He thought of Ilyas standing alone against these two.

  He had no doubt now in Ilyas, and he was a formidable force indeed. But these two were pure poison, and not afraid to use it.

  His brother had said he wanted him there by his side.

  But Hazin didn’t know Ilyas.

  Simply, he did not know him.

  Yet there was intrinsic trust between them. He thought back to the coffee bar and that stir of relief when Ilyas had told him that things would change.

  So he spoke in a steady voice to the Queen, for his decision was made. ‘I shall not be stepping down,’ Hazin said, and he watched her blink rapidly. ‘And, given that you no longer have the power to disinherit me, there’s really no point to this conversation.’

  ‘Oh, but there is,’ Ahmed said, and he played his final card. ‘If you refuse to step down, Hazin, then it is time to step up. The formal invitations for the anniversary of Petra’s death are about to be sent. The date is the twenty third of December and the ceremony shall commence at two p.m.’

  And Hazin stood there as his father outlined Hazin’s own personal hell.

  ‘We thought it fitting that Petra’s family be there as you open the new oncology wing. They shall be on the stage beside you. Naturally, it shall be televised, for it has been a long time since our people have heard from their missing, errant Prince. I am sure they will listen closely to what you have to say for yourself.’ The King watched the sweat bead on his son’s brow and with a black smile he looked over at his vizier. ‘Not to worry, though, Mahmoud is working on your speech.’

  Hazin turned and walked away.

  Through the guarded doors and into the grand entrance, where there hung the portrait of him and Petra, taunting him. How the hell could he face her parents after all he had done in the years since he had last seen them? How could he sit on a stage, with the world watching, and deliver a speech about how much he’d loved and missed his wife. He looked into her chocolate eyes and did not know how to face the day. He just did not know, but as he stared at Petra he remembered her kindness.

  Such kindness, and it had been so alien to Hazin that he had not known how to accept it at first.

  And, no, his heart had not raced in her presence or at the thought of her, but he had done all he could to return the gentleness of her nature.

  I want to do the right thing by you but I don’t know how.

  He said it in his head, but Petra only smiled back for her smile was fixed on the wall.

  The easiest thing to do would be to head back to bed and bury himself in Flo, but that would not honour either of these women. He turned to leave.

  It was a familiar sight at the Palace—Hazin flying out the day after he had flown in.

  But it was not familiar to Flo.

  She was on the balcony, drinking in the view and watching the constant activity as various dignitaries left, when she saw him stride across the bridge and board his jet without a backward glance.

  No goodbye, no kiss.

  Nothing.

  She watched the plane with its black and silver tail hurtle down the runway and lift into the clear blue sky.

  And she watched until the speck in the distance had gone, scanning the sky in the ridiculous hope that the plane might return. He might realise that he had left something important behind—her heart. He might change his mind and come back to the Palace...

  Of course not.

  And so to life without him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DECEMBER.

&nbs
p; It had always been Flo’s favourite month.

  Not any more.

  She had worked a lot of late shifts in the first two weeks, but more so that she would have a genuine excuse not to attend the many functions and get-togethers that came with this time of year.

  The unbelievable had happened and Christmas had lost its gloss.

  She had finished up work yesterday to commence her long-awaited leave and was determined to inject some enthusiasm into the season. Yet she decorated the tree and her tiny flat with something more akin to grim determination than enthusiasm.

  Then Flo headed out to make a start on her Christmas shopping.

  The bus stopped right beside the chocolate café. If Maggie had still been working there, Flo would have dropped in for a hot chocolate and a gossip.

  Then, after her shopping, she might well have ended up back there again.

  They spoke online often enough, but it was in the day-to-day things that Flo missed her an awful lot.

  The shops were all decked out for Christmas yet Flo’s shopping wasn’t done. She traipsed around the various stores, but the music was too loud and the crowds overwhelming. As well as that, she had seen what was surely the perfect necklace for Maggie.

  Yet, just as she had been admiring it, Flo had thought of the stunning jewels that Maggie now had access to and had put it back.

  Somehow she could not get in the mood.

  Last Christmas had been awful.

  This one was faring no better.

  Well, that wasn’t strictly true.

  Last year at this time she had been happy, decorating her tiny flat and dashing to the shops to get the perfect presents for family and friends and her now ex-boyfriend.

  Yes, this time last year she had been busy and happy.

  It was Christmas Eve that had been hell.

  She had felt so ashamed yet, looking back, she hadn’t cried tears over the loss of him.

  Yet, after one night with Hazin, Flo had cried.

  And she had cried over him several times since.

  Today, as she took the bus back to her flat, it felt as if it could be one of those times.

  The bus made its way along the busy London street and Flo looked down and saw Dion’s.