‘I know you’re not—and there’s no reason you should be. It’s just...’
‘Just what? Come on, Hannah—spit it out.’
Hannah drew to a halt beside Tamsyn’s open suitcase, shooting a quick glance inside before sucking in a big breath which failed to hide her instinctive grimace. ‘You can’t wear any old thing,’ she said gently, as she turned to look at her sister. ‘Not to a function as important as this. It’s my wedding and you’re my sister. I’m the bride and the groom just happens to be a desert king. People are going to be looking at you, you know—especially as you’re the only family I’ve got.’
Tamsyn’s first instinct was to say she didn’t care what other people thought. And if she fancied wearing her canvas sneakers beneath the dress she’d picked up for a bargain price—then that’s exactly what she would do. But something about Hannah’s anxious face tugged at a conscience she would prefer not to have. Suddenly she recognised that any defiance in the clothes department might reflect badly, not necessarily on her—but on her sister. And hadn’t Hannah always done so much for her? Cared for and protected her during those deprived days of their fractured childhood...didn’t she owe her for that?
‘I don’t have any fancy clothes,’ she mumbled, feeling once again like the little girl who’d been mocked in the school playground because there was nothing in her lunchbox but a few scraps of bread and jam. You’re poor, the other children used to taunt—and Tamsyn had been too ashamed to admit that her foster father had spent all his money on gambling and womanising and her foster mother had been too weak to object. Her education had suffered as a consequence and she’d left school without qualifications, which didn’t exactly make her a big player in the job stakes. Money remained tight for Tamsyn and what little money she did have she certainly wasn’t going to waste on an expensive dress she’d only get to wear once. ‘I’m not stupid, Hannah,’ she said huffily. ‘I’m not planning to let you down. I’ll make the best of what I have, just like I’ve always done.’
‘I know you will. And when you bother to pull out all the stops you can look amazing. But this is different. I don’t want you and I to stick out any more than we already are. So let me give you something to wear, Tamsyn. Something beautiful—the like of which you will never have worn before.’ There was a pause. ‘Please.’
Tamsyn had vowed she wasn’t going to accept any more of Hannah’s charity, no matter how scared she was about the future. Her latest job in a café paid only peanuts and in the meantime her overdraft was getting steadily bigger. The latest blow had been the recent rent raise on her crummy little apartment, leaving her wondering how on earth she was going to pay it.
She thought about the glamourous women she had travelled over with on the Sheikh’s private plane and wondered what glorious surprises they would be pulling out of their suitcases for the glittering dinner tonight. And then she thought about a pair of cobalt eyes and the way they had trained themselves on her. She’d seen the way the Greek’s gaze had focussed in on her scruffy tennis shoes and the disdainful curve of his lips in response. Was it that which made her suddenly decide to take up her sister’s offer? To dress up for the party so that she might fit in, for once in her life?
‘Okay. You can find me something to wear, if you like,’ she said, casting a doubtful glance at Hannah’s covered head. ‘But I’m definitely not wearing a veil.’
* * *
Peering into the silvered surface of the antique mirror, Xan gave his tie a final unwanted tug. Raking his fingers back through the raven disarray of his hair he did his best to stifle a yawn as he deliberated on how he was going to get through the long evening ahead.
He hated these affairs with a passion and part of him felt deeply sorry for his royal friend, for being forced to marry some gold-digging little chambermaid from England. Contemptuously, his lips curved into their habitual line of disapproval. How could Kulal—a desert king renowned for an extensive list of sophisticated lovers—have fallen for the oldest trick in the book? There had been no official announcement but you wouldn’t need to be a mathematician to work out that a hasty wedding arranged between one of the region’s most exalted sheikhs and an unknown commoner—was bound to end up with a baby a few months down the line. Had the chambermaid deliberately trapped him, he mused? And if so, how could his friend bear the thought of that deception for all those long years which lay ahead?
He thought of his own marital destiny and not for the first time, began to see that it could have much to commend it, because Sofia was sweet and undemanding. He couldn’t imagine her ever trying to trap him by falling pregnant—probably because he doubted she would ever consent to sex before marriage. His mouth hardened for it was many months since he had seen his unofficial fiancée and he knew he couldn’t keep putting it off their arranged marriage indefinitely. Up until now it had been a private and completely confidential agreement between two families, but the longer he stalled, the more likely that the press would get hold of it and have a field day with it. His jaw clenched. He would set in motion the formal courtship when he flew out of here after the weekend, with a wedding pencilled in for the middle of next year.
But for now he was still technically a free man and unwillingly his thoughts turned to lust, for it had been a while since he had enjoyed a woman in his bed.
He was discreet about his relationships—for obvious reasons—and nobody outside their immediate families knew he had been promised to a beautiful young Greek girl. His recent sexual abstinence had certainly not been caused by a lack of opportunity—but because he had become jaded and bored by the attentions of predatory women on the make.
He scowled at his reflection before turning away. The press didn’t help his endeavours to maintain a low profile and he cursed the obsession which made certain newspapers speculate about when he intended to tie the knot. Wasn’t it such careless speculation which caused women to pursue him, as if they were hunting down some particularly elusive quarry? Didn’t they realise that the chase was the thing which fired up a man’s blood? Xan’s mouth flattened. At least, that was what he had been told—for he had never had to pursue a woman. They came after him in their droves, like dedicated ants flocking to a spoonful of spilled honey. Some he enjoyed and others he discarded—but he made it plain to each and every one that there was no point in wishing for any kind of future with him, though he never explained why. And wasn’t the truth that he enjoyed the protective barriers which his long-term engagement placed around him? It kept women at a safe distance and that was the way he liked it.
A servant came to fetch him to take him to the pre-wedding dinner and Xan quickly became aware of the excitement in the air as the wedding grew closer. Tall, burning flames lit the courtyard and in the distance he could hear the low beat of unfamiliar music which only added to the febrile build of atmosphere. Through wide corridors scented with jasmine and gardenia and lit with gold and silver candles, he followed the silent servant—taking his place at last in some inordinately grand ballroom, which he hadn’t seen on his last visit.
He had visited Zahristan once before, when Kulal had taken him out to the desert to see the state-of-the-art solar panels which the country’s scientists had designed, and in whose manufacture Xan had invested a great deal of money. He had combined the work trip with some serious riding on the most magnificent stallion he’d ever mounted and then he and the Sheikh had camped beneath the blinding brilliance of the stars in an opulent Bedouin tent. Xan remembered thinking that his powerful royal friend had the world at his fingertips—yet now he was being forced into a corner, trapped into a relationship he did not really want.
And wasn’t exactly the same thing happening to him? Briefly Xan thought about the Greek girl with dark eyes who was everything a man could possibly desire. No. He was walking into his future with his eyes open. Not for him the lottery of chance or ignorance. There would be no skeletons emerging from the closet of Sofia,
for she was someone he had known all her life. She was pure and beautiful and... His mouth hardened as he allowed the unwanted thought to flit into his mind.
The chemistry would come later.
Most of the other guests were already assembled in the huge gilded ballroom, which led into a banqueting hall almost as vast. Beneath chandeliers which glittered like shoals of priceless diamonds, women paraded in their finery, the men beside them wearing dark suits, desert robes or uniform. For some reason Xan found himself looking round for the redheaded waitress but couldn’t see her anywhere and he wondered if she was somewhere deep in the palace kitchens, loading up her tray. Instead, he accepted a drink from someone else—a sharp-sweet cocktail containing fire-berry juice and drank it silently as they awaited the arrival of the royal couple.
At last, a single musician stepped forward to play a fanfare on the traditional mizmar, heralding the arrival of the Sheikh and his bride-to-be and there was a murmur of expectation as the couple paused in the open doorway of the ballroom and all heads turned in their direction.
And then he saw her.
Xan’s fingers tightened around his drink so tightly that for a moment he was afraid that the delicate glass might shatter. He expelled a long, low breath as his disbelieving gaze settled on the feisty redhead who was following behind the royal couple as if it was her every right to do so.
His eyes narrowed. No sawn-off jeans and canvas shoes tonight. She was wearing an exquisite dress of emerald silk which matched the brilliance of her eyes and looked as if had been made just for her. The design was simple and in many ways modest, but it accentuated her body in a way which her sexy cocktail waitress uniform had failed to do. In that rather obvious black satin ensemble she had looked more like a little girl playing dress-up, while tonight she looked like a woman. Xan swallowed. A very sensual woman. Her lustrous red curls had been caught back, displaying dazzling diamond and emerald earrings which brushed the sides of her long neck. He felt the pooling of blood at his groin and suddenly she turned her head to look directly at him—as if some sixth sense had told her he was staring. A faint flicker of triumph illuminated her extraordinary eyes before, very deliberately, she turned her back on him and began chatting to a tall man in some sort of military uniform who seemed to be devouring her with his hungry gaze.
Xan felt the hard beat of a pulse at his temple. He had imagined her gliding around between the guests with a tray of drinks in her hand and this sudden unexpected elevation of status left him feeling confused. If she wasn’t a waitress, then who the hell was she? He found himself dipping his head to speak to the blonde woman beside him who had been slowly edging herself closer in a way which was boringly predictable.
‘Who is that woman in green?’ he questioned silkily. ‘The one who entered with the Sheikh and his fiancée.’
The blonde gave a discernible pout of disappointment followed by a slight shrug. ‘Her? Her name is Tamsyn,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Tamsyn Wilson. She’s the sister of the bride.’
Xan nodded as suddenly it all made sense. The reason why she had been dressed down and out of place on the flight over. The reason why a cocktail waitress was hobnobbing with one of the most powerful royal families in the world. Wilson. Of course. The bride’s sister. The bride who had trapped his friend into marriage by getting pregnant. Xan gave a short laugh. How the redhead must have been laughing to herself when he’d made the—very understandable—assumption that she was here on a working trip. Was she enjoying the fact that he’d made such a fundamental mistake? He watched as she walked straight past him, ignoring him completely, her glorious fiery head held high in the air. And he felt the corresponding roar of his blood in response.
It was a long time since Xan could remember the minutes passing so slowly and never had he been so comprehensively ignored by the person he most wanted to speak to. He’d never had to work to get a woman to join him—usually the briefest of glances would send them scuttling over with an eagerness which was sometimes enough to kill his desire stone-dead. But Tamsyn Wilson wasn’t playing ball. He watched her dip her glorious red head to the side as the Sheikh introduced her to a group of people and he saw the automatic light of interest in the men’s eyes. He thought about infiltrating the group and commandeering her for himself, but instinct told him such a plan would be foolish. Only a quick glance at the seating plan yielded up the satisfying information that once again, they were seated next to each other. Xan’s lips curved into a smile of anticipation. Far better to have her captive at his side and then...
Then what?
He hadn’t yet gone that far in his imagination, but the increased pound of blood at his groin gave him a very good idea of how he intended the evening to end. And why not? His formal courtship of Sofia had not yet started. Was it not better to indulge his desires and rid himself of them? To eradicate all restlessness before finally settling down?
The distinctive sound of the trumpet-like mizmar broke into the chatter as servants began guiding the guests towards the galleried dining room, where the gleam of the dazzling long table and the perfume of countless roses awaited them. Xan stood beside the vacant chair next to his, watching the redhead approach without any kind of smile on her face, the defiant spark of her eyes the only acknowledgement she had seen him.
In stony silence she came to stand beside him.
‘So,’ he said softly as the faint drift of her scent washed over his skin and it became clear she wasn’t planning to greet him with any kind of rapturous joy. ‘We meet again.’
Her expression was cool. ‘It would seem so.’
‘Would you care to sit down?’
She gave a sarcastic elevation of her eyebrows. ‘Since the alternative is eating on the hoof, I suppose the answer must be yes.’
Her insolence was turning him on almost as much as the slender curve of her breasts beneath her exquisite green silk dress. Xan pulled out her chair, her mulish look indicating that such display of chivalry was unnecessary but as she lowered her bottom onto the carved golden seat his blood pressure rocketed once more. As he guided the chair back in, his fingers briefly brushed against her narrow shoulders and he had to resist the urge to let them rest there and to massage away the undeniable tension he could feel.
‘You didn’t tell me you were the bride’s sister,’ he said, as he sat down beside her.
‘You didn’t ask.’ She turned to him, her eyes full of an emerald light which tonight seemed almost unworldly. ‘You just assumed I was here to work, didn’t you? To ferry drinks around and wait at table. That someone like me couldn’t possibly be one of the guests.’
‘Was that such a crazy assumption to make, given the circumstances?’ he mused. ‘Last time I saw you that’s exactly what you were doing. You made no mention of your connection with the bride and you have to admit, you didn’t exactly blend in with the other guests on the plane. At least,’ he amended softly. ‘Not until now.’
‘Now that my sister has given me the dress she secretly had made for me?’ she demanded hotly. ‘Or forced me to wear a necklace I’m terrified is going to fall off and deplete the royal coffers by several million quid, is that what you mean?’
Xan found himself having to bite back a smile. ‘You cannot deny that you look very different tonight.’
Tamsyn picked up a jewel-encrusted goblet and sipped at the cold fizzy water it contained. No, she wasn’t going to deny she looked different but beneath her fine new trappings—she felt exactly the same. Like someone who never fitted in—not anywhere. And tonight the sensation of being out of place was even more acute than usual. It wasn’t just that everyone here was richer than her and seemed happy in their own skins, her disorientation was compounded by the unfamiliar feelings which were ripping through her like a spring tide. Feelings which were hard to define and even harder to understand. She wondered why she was feeling such a powerful desire for the man beside her, even though he
was the most arrogant person she’d ever met. She wondered why her skin had felt as if it were on fire when his fingertips had brushed against her shoulder blades. Or why, beneath this fancy dress which Hannah had foisted on her—the tips of her breasts were as raw as if someone had been rubbing them with sandpaper.
Remember how he looked down his nose at you when you were boarding the flight. Remember how upset that ravishing blonde had been when he’d been cold-heartedly dumping her in the cocktail bar.
Yet right now it was difficult to think about anything other than the smile which was softening the edges of his lips and making her wonder what it would be like to be kissed by Xan Constantinides. Her gaze twitched to his long olive fingers and once again her throat constricted with an unfamiliar surge of lust. Because she didn’t do desire. It was yet another side of her character which made it hard for her to fit in. It was her own private and horrible little secret—or rather, it was one of them—that despite all the fiery promise of her looks, she was about as responsive as a piece of wood. Hadn’t she been told that by men deeply unhappy that she wouldn’t ‘put out’, until she’d stopped going out with men altogether because life was easier that way?
‘No, I’m not going to deny I look different tonight,’ she said. ‘Which is why I assume you’re talking to me, which you clearly didn’t want to do when you thought I was nothing but a lowly waitress. Or was it the sight of my canvas tennis shoes which made you decide I wasn’t worthy of your time?’
He looked as if he was about to contest the point before seeming to change his mind and subjecting her to a smile of such intensity that Tamsyn’s heart felt as if it was going to burst right out of her chest.
‘Look, why don’t we wipe the slate clean and start again?’ he suggested smoothly, extending his hand with practised ease. ‘I’m Xan Constantinides. Short for Alexandros, in case you were wondering.’
The Greek's Bought Bride Page 3