Date with a Surgeon Prince

by Meredith Webber

  Mind? Marni’s heart yelled, apparently very excited by the prospect.

  Marni ignored it and tried to think, not easy when Gaz was sitting so close to her and her body was alive with its lustful reactions.

  ‘To help you out?’ she asked, hoping words might make things clearer. ‘With your sisters?’

  Gaz smiled, which didn’t help the lustful business and all but destroyed the bit of composure she’d managed to dredge up.

  ‘That, of course, but it’s more than the sisters. I have to explain, but perhaps not here, and definitely not now. There are people I need to see, supplicants from this morning. Are you free for the rest of the day? Would you mind very much waiting until I finish my business? Mazur will see you are looked after, get you anything you want. You could explore the garden or even wander around the palace. It’s exceptionally empty now without the harem, so you needn’t worry about disturbing anyone.’

  He touched her hand and stood up, apparently taking her compliance for granted, although, in fact, her mind had stopped following the conversation back when he’d said the word ‘harem’, immediately conjuring up visions of dancing girls in see-through trousers and sequinned tops, lounging by a pool or practising their belly dancing. Was it because he’d said the word with a long ‘e’ in the last syllable, making ‘hareem’ sound incredibly erotic, that the images danced in her head?

  She watched the white-clad back disappear through a side door.

  He had made it sound as if the lack of a harem was a temporary thing, a slight glitch, she reminded herself. Which meant what?

  And wasn’t having no harem a positive thing?

  What was she thinking?

  A harem or lack of one would only affect her if she was really betrothed to him, and as far as she could remember—it had been a very confusing conversation—she hadn’t actually agreed to even a pretend betrothal.

  Had she?

  And surely harems no longer existed?

  Not dancing-girl harems anyway…

  She pushed herself off the sofa and, too afraid to wander through the palace, even one without a ‘hareem’, she retreated to the gardens, thinking of pronunciations. Gaz with its short ‘a’ sound, suggested a friendly kind of bloke, sexy as all hell but still the kind of man with whom one might have had an affair, while Ghazi—which she’d heard pronounced everywhere with a long ‘a’, like the one in ‘bath’, sounded very regal.

  Frighteningly regal!

  And it totally knocked any thought of using the man to overcome her other problem right on the head! Ordinary women like Marni Graham of Australia didn’t go around having affairs with kings or princes.

  Even a pretend betrothal was mind-boggling!

  A wide path led to a central fountain and, after playing with the water for a while, she turned onto another path, this one running parallel to the main building, leading to what appeared to be another very large building. In front of it, on a wide lawn, four boys were kicking a soccer ball. A wayward kick sent the ball hurtling in her direction and, mindful of Nelson’s coaching tips, she kicked it back, high and hard, aiming it at the tallest of the boys, who raced to meet it and headed it expertly towards the makeshift goal—two small topiary trees spaced conveniently apart.

  The lad high-fived all round then turned towards her, speaking quickly.

  Marni held up her hand and shook her head.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand your language.’

  The older boy came closer, looking her up and down, waving his hands towards her clothing as if to ask why she was dressed like she was.

  She lifted up the black abaya to show her jeans and the boys laughed, the tall one inviting her to join the game.

  ‘That’s if you can run in a skirt?’ His easy command of English made her wonder if he went to school overseas, or perhaps to an English language school here.

  ‘I’m sure I can,’ she assured him, and joined the boys, kicking the ball from one end of the grassed area to the other. She’d just sent it flying over the top of the topiary goal posts when a tall figure appeared, not in scrubs, or in the intimidating white gown, but in jeans as faded as hers, and a dark blue polo shirt that had also seen better days.

  ‘Ghazi!’ the boys chorused in delight. ‘Come and play. This is Marni, she’s nearly as good as you.’

  Although he’d been looking for her, he’d hardly expected to find her playing soccer with his young nephews. The hood of her cloak had slipped off her head and her headscarf was dangling down the back of her neck, hiding the thick plait of fair hair. Her face was flushed, but whether from exertion or embarrassment he had no idea, and she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  Best not to get further entangled, his common sense warned, for all the betrothal idea was so appealing. But against all common sense he joined the game for a few minutes then told the boys he had to take their playmate away.

  He was pleased to see they all went up to her and held out their hands to say goodbye, only Karim, the eldest, bold enough to invite her to play with them again.

  How old was Karim? Surely not yet a teenager, although these days who knew when hormonal changes would rear their heads.

  Marni had fixed her scarf and pulled the hood back over her head as she approached him.

  ‘I do hope I wasn’t doing the wrong thing,’ she said, the flush still visible in her cheeks. ‘The ball came towards me, I kicked it, and next thing I knew I was part of the game. They’re good, the boys. I played for years myself, never good enough to make a rep team but enough to know skill when I see it.’

  ‘They’re soccer mad, just as their father is. His dream is to get Ablezia into the World Cup. For a country that doesn’t yet have its own international team, it’s a huge task. I’m pretty sure that’s why I landed this job.’

  ‘This job?’

  The pale grey-blue eyes looked into his, the question mirrored in them.

  ‘Ruler—supreme commander—there are about a dozen titles that my major-domo reads out on formal occasions. My uncle succeeded my father, who was an old man when I was born—the first son after seven daughters. Here, our successors are chosen from within the family but not necessarily in any particular order, but I had assumed Nimr, my cousin, would succeed his father and I could continue my surgical work, but Nimr the Tiger didn’t want the job—his focus is on sport—and so here I am.’

  Had he sounded gloomy that he felt soft fingers touch his arm?

  ‘Is it such a trial?’ the abaya-clad blonde asked.

  ‘Right at this very moment?’ he asked, covering her hand with his. ‘Not really!’

  The boys started whistling as boys anywhere in the world would do at the tiniest hint of romance, and he stepped back, gave them what he hoped was a very princely glare and put his hand on Marni’s back to guide her away from them.

  He’d have liked to tell them to keep quiet about her, but that would only pique their curiosity further, and he knew that before they’d even eaten lunch the boys would have relayed the story of the soccer-playing visitor to Alima, his eldest sister, wife of Nimr and mother of the precious boys they’d waited so long for.

  ‘And the prime mover in the “find a wife” campaign,’ he added, the words spoken aloud before he realised it.

  ‘Who’s the prime mover?’ Marni asked, stopping by a pomegranate tree and fiddling with her scarf.

  Gaz explained the relationship.

  ‘Is that why they live so close? Not in the main building but within the walls?’

  He looked at her, wondering if the question was nothing more than idle curiosity, although he was coming to believe that was unlikely. He was coming to see her as a woman who was interested in the world around her, eager to learn about it and discover new things.

  Could this crazy idea work beyond a pretend betrothal?

  ‘My uncle was living in the palace when they married, so naturally he built them the house nearby. This palace is new, or newish. My father built it wh
en he tired of travelling from our home in the old city to here. Ablezia came late into the modern world, and we are a people who are slow to change. Obviously when the world changed so dramatically in these parts, we had to change—to learn new ways, to understand the intricacies of new business structures and international relations. My father was the right man for the job, because he understood it had to happen.’

  ‘And you?’ his perhaps betrothed asked softly. ‘Are you the right man for the job?’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  GAZ—SHE COULDN’T think of him as anything else—didn’t reply, simply putting one hand in the small of her back to guide her along a path between the huge houses towards what looked like stables beyond more garden.

  Not stables but garages.

  ‘There are horses,’ he said, ‘at the old palace, but I think my father realised we’d have no use for them here, so where, traditionally, the stables would be, he built “stalls” for cars.’

  ‘So many cars?’ Marni queried, seeing the long line of garages.

  Gaz shrugged.

  ‘Oh, you never know when someone might need to go somewhere,’ he said, nodding to an elderly man who came forward to meet them. The man wore the loose trousers and long tunic top common among the locals, with a snug-fitting, embroidered cap on his head.

  Listening to the fluid sounds of the words as Gaz spoke, Marni felt a longing to learn the language—to learn all she could about this fascinating country, although, she realised rather glumly, once the pretend betrothal ended she’d certainly have to leave.

  If there was a pretend betrothal…

  ‘I was explaining we won’t need a big car and driver, but Fayyad is horrified. He feels I’m not respecting my position enough.’

  Again a touch on the small of her back, and her body’s inevitable response.

  Gaz steered her to where a battered four-wheel drive was relegated to a car port rather than a garage, and held the passenger door open for her.

  Still totally bemused by the outcome of this visit to the palace, Marni climbed in. The day had taken on a dream-like quality, and she was moving through the dream without conscious thought. Gaz slid in behind the wheel and drove out through a rear gate, waving to the two men who squatted on the ground beside the big open doors.

  ‘To answer your question,’ Gaz said, taking what seemed like a little-used track that appeared to lead directly into the desert, ‘I am reluctantly coming to the conclusion that I am the right man for the job, although I would far rather have continued my surgical career. All I can hope is that once I’ve got the job sorted—I’ve only been in it a couple of months—I can continue operating, at least on a part-time basis.’

  Intrigued by his answer, Marni turned to look at him—not a good idea, for he flashed her a smile and the reactions the light touch on her back had stirred came fully to life.

  ‘So, what’s the job, as we seem to be calling it, entail?’

  Another flashing smile, though this one was slightly rueful.

  ‘I’m still coming to grips with it, but it’s mostly formal stuff—meeting representatives from foreign countries, listening to delegations from various committees, making rulings on things that are more to do with our cultural heritage than politics—we have an elected congress that takes care of politics. And then there’s the entertaining—endless entertaining.’

  The road had petered out and he drove swiftly and skilfully across the sand, taking a slanting line across a dune and pulling up on the top of it. Beneath them the sand fell away to rise again, and again, and again, rolling waves of red-gold, brilliant in the sunshine. Breathtaking in its beauty. Marni remembered what he’d said about the desert being as necessary as water to his people. Did he need its power now? Need to refresh himself in the same way as she looked to the ocean for the replenishment of her spirit?

  She was staring at the dunes, her mind asking questions she couldn’t answer, so didn’t realise he’d climbed out of the car and walked around to open her door. Beyond him, she could see a low-slung shelter, dark cloth of some kind, held up in front by sturdy poles, high enough to sit under to escape the sun. In front of it a low fire burned, beside the fire were two ornate silver coffee-pots, like others she’d seen in the souk.

  ‘Come,’ he said. ‘We have to eat so why not here?’

  He took her hand to help her down, his words perhaps answering her question about his need for the power of the desert.

  Leading her to the shelter, he motioned to a faded rug, spread on the sand and heaped with cushions. A large woven basket was set in the shade beside the rug, its lid open to reveal an array of goodies.

  Marni sank onto the rug, tucking her legs sideways so the abaya fell around her. The desert was framed now by the dark material of the tent and she could only shake her head in the wonder of its beauty.

  Shake her head about the fact that she was actually here, not to mention seeing it with the man who ruled the country.

  Impossible!

  Gaz settled beside her, closer to the fire.

  ‘We must have coffee first,’ he said, lifting one of the ornate pots and taking two tiny handle-less cups from the top of the basket. He poured the strong, thick brew easily into the tiny cups, passing her one before setting the pot back by the fire.

  ‘Traditionally you should drink three cups, but it’s definitely an acquired taste so you may stop at one.’

  His smile teased at her senses and in an attempt to settle herself she gulped the drink, tasting the gritty lees but not finding them distasteful.

  ‘And now we eat,’ he said, and she wanted to protest—to ask what they were doing there, apart from picnicking, of course. To question the betrothal stuff and try to sort out what was happening. But he was producing bread, and cold meats, salad vegetables and fruit, serving her this time, piling goodies on a silver platter, handing it to her and urging her to eat.

  Looking at the food, varied and enticing, she realised how hungry she was, and, not having much option now he’d handed her the plate, she ate.

  Gaz watched her while he ate, wondering about this woman fate had thrust into his life. She was using her bread as cutlery, in the local way, and managing to do it without too much spillage. And as she ate she smiled, or muttered little sounds of appreciation, looking up from time to time to ask what a particular morsel might be.

  She fascinated him, and not just in a physical way, although the physical attraction was extremely strong. Could this extraordinary idea work?

  It was certainly worth a try.

  He thought back to the night he’d first kissed her on the balcony outside the restaurant and remembered the surge of desire he’d felt—a surge that had almost led to his suggesting they take it further…

  A betrothal would put that off limits. He could hardly be seen sneaking in and out of her room, or sneaking her in and out of the palace, although…

  There was no although, but what if the betrothal led to marriage?

  It needn’t be a long betrothal, and if the marriage didn’t work he would make sure she was amply compensated—these things were understood in his country…

  Marriage was the logical answer. His body tightened at the thought, but she hadn’t actually said yes to the betrothal, had she? He’d have to start there, he realised as she set aside her plate, all but empty, and wiped the damp, scented towel he handed her, across her lips.

  ‘That was amazing,’ Marni told him as she put her plate down on another mat. ‘Just amazing!’

  He turned to her, and reached out to touch her chin, tilting her head so he could look into her face.

  ‘I’m glad,’ he said, ‘and now we’re both fed, perhaps we can get back to the conversation.’

  ‘The job?’

  ‘The job!’ he confirmed. ‘Actually, endless entertaining is more time-consuming than difficult. I’m concerned that it might bore you to death.’

  He had moved towards her as he spoke and now he leant forward and kissed her on th
e lips.

  Thankfully, the shock of what he’d said lingered long enough to prevent Marni from responding to the kiss.

  ‘Won’t bore me to death?’ she shrieked. ‘Why on earth would it bore me to death?’

  Now he frowned, and his eyes seemed darker than ever, though could black be any blacker?

  ‘You think you’d enjoy it?’ he asked. and it was her turn to frown.

  ‘Why should I enjoy it, or be bored by it?’ she demanded.

  His answer was a smile, and if she’d managed to squelch her reaction to the kiss, she failed with the smile.

  ‘Because, as my betrothed, you’ll be by my side a lot of the time. I know that’s an imposition, but I have women who’ll help you all the way. The harem will be back in the palace next week, and I’ve sisters and nieces and cousins, even aunts, who’ll be only too happy to shop with you for suitable clothes, to set you up with anything you need, and make sure you know the protocols.’

  It would have been confusing if once again Marni’s mind hadn’t balked at the ‘harem’ word. Although if it was only a pretend betrothal, did the harem really matter?

  Yes!

  ‘This harem?’ she asked, then stopped as she really didn’t think she could mention belly-dancing females in see-through trousers.

  ‘The harem?’ Gaz repeated, making it exotic again with his pronunciation.

  He looked puzzled then suddenly began to chuckle.

  ‘You weren’t imagining a seraglio, where you?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what a seraglio is,’ Marni said crossly, ‘but if it’s scantily clad women, lounging around limpid pools eating grapes and belly dancing then, yes—that’s how everyone I know imagines a harem.’

  The chuckle became a laugh and looking at him, with the tension she’d seen earlier washed from his face, she was once again tugged into the extraordinary sensual power of this man.

  ‘The harem is simply a group name for the women of the family—women and children, in fact. My mother is part of it, my father’s other wives, aunts and cousins and even more distant relations, also friends of all the women. Some come and go but the core of them moves together.