by Diana Fraser
It had taken a week of travel through the desert she’d used to know so well to get here—a week of attuning herself to its slow pace, and its timeless glamor which she loved so much. Her ability to speak the native tongues, and her old friendships in Tawazun—a country which she knew almost as well as Havilah—ensured her safety.
Yes, she wanted the time to sink herself back into this world again. But she had to admit she also wanted to send a signal—to Zavian. He might call, and she might have to come, but she’d do it her way, on her terms. She was not, and would never be, controlled by him.
But, as she handed over her papers to the guards, her eyes were drawn beyond them, to an expensive-looking car, not a taxi, disappearing into a hazy mirage. It seemed she wasn’t the only person seeking entry through that remote spot.
She exchanged pleasantries with the guards as they completed the paperwork. Their responses became friendlier as she answered in their native tongue. But, as she walked toward her taxi, her eyes were once again drawn to the shimmer of the departing car. She suddenly remembered that the border guard had commented on her being the first person that day to cross the border, which meant someone had arrived and then turned back. Why?
She greeted the taxi driver, and he took her battered backpack and placed it in the boot of the car, and they were off, following the faint trace of the previous car toward the capital city of Gharb Havilah. While the driver talked of the country’s gossip—the royal family, the state of the economy, and other things of which taxi drivers the world over were experts, Gabrielle’s thoughts were entirely on the car she’d seen leaving the border and the registration plate she’d caught a glimpse of. It had to have been him. How on earth had he discovered her changed itinerary? She’d underestimated him, certainly underestimated his compulsion to control everything.
As they emerged from the mountain pass, the city revealed itself, spread across the narrow plain between the mountains and the brilliant blue of the sea. Her heart stopped, held tight by its beauty. The color of terra cotta, the ancient city sat unaltered thanks to centuries of control by the Al Rasheed clan. No high-rise glass buildings for them. It made the world believe they weren’t wealthy. The world was wrong. The Al Rasheeds kept their incredible wealth tight, and that knowledge even tighter. They kept their people comfortable and employed, and a tight control upon everything. But it seemed, if the taxi driver’s chatter was anything to believe, that things were about to change—that the new sheikh had different ideas. She didn’t doubt it.
After the wide-open plains of the high desert, the ancient narrow streets of the old quarter—clogged with cars and people, jostling and shouting as they came closer to the bazaar—was noisy and overwhelming. The taxi turned away from the bazaar and headed toward the palace. Gabrielle leaned forward. “The museum. We need to go to the museum.”
“We are, madam.”
“But it’s back there.” She gestured toward the old building, which was soon out of sight, lost amid a jumble of rooftops.
“The museum’s administrative center has recently been moved. You wanted to see the person in charge?”
“Yes.”
“Then, you will find him at the palace.”
Gabrielle felt uneasy as the taxi drove up the wide boulevard—a product of the old King’s fascination with all things French—at the end of which stood a medieval castle, situated on a long, low hill which overlooked the city and the sea.
“Please stop here. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
The taxi driver shrugged and parked abruptly, blocking off a car trying to emerge from a narrow alleyway. The other vehicle beeped his horn continuously. Her taxi driver yelled expletives while extracting her bag from the boot. She paid him, and he wished her well and drove off, leaving her to walk into the square, busy with tourists and street hawkers. She stepped forward, wanting to be a part of them, needing the anonymity they gave her.
Above the clamor of street traders, tourists and people trying to go about their everyday business, sat the palace—a dominant, aloof presence. Exactly like the new King had become, according to gossip. It was strange to think that the man she knew could have changed so much. She hoped he continued to remain untouchable and aloof because she wanted nothing to do with him.
She had no idea if he was behind her visit or even knew about it. But the strange car at border control nagged at her mind. Who was it? Was it Zavian? But how could it be? He had more to do than track her movements. No, there was absolutely no reason why she and King Zavian bin Ameen Al Rasheed’s paths should cross. The palace was vast, and while she’d be working on the PR around the artifacts being exhibited, he’d be ruling the country. She had no wish to stir up anything from the past. There were good reasons why she left—reasons that were still valid, and would always be valid. Zavian was out of her reach, and she intended to keep him that way.
She hitched her backpack higher on her shoulder and approached the palace guard, her papers in hand, prepared for the usual third degree. But, after only a few words, the gate opened without her having to show her documents. Maybe the palace was more accessible than it used to be. Maybe security was lax in keeping with the approach of the new king. Maybe not, she thought as she saw others have their papers scrutinized before being allowed inside the hallowed gardens of the Abyad Palace. She’d barely set foot inside the shady cool of the palace foyer when an official approached her.
“Dr. Taylor. Welcome to the palace. Please, follow me, and I’ll take you to your rooms.”
Her bag was taken from her, and, unnervingly, they were followed by two more assistants as they walked up the main stairs and turned left. She hesitated. “Excuse me!” she called to the assistant.
“Yes?
“The museum and administrative quarters, surely they’d be in the east wing, with the other public offices and visitor apartments?” He’d made a mistake. He must have been new there.
“Yes, indeed,” the young man smiled. “The east wing.”
“Then…” she continued, “why are we going to the west?”
The young man assumed a patient smile. “Because I am taking you to your rooms. And they are this way.”
Gabrielle’s heart sank with a sickening thud. What was going on? She knew full well the implications of staying in the west wing of the palace. That was where the royal family stayed, and only the highest-ranking advisors and relatives. She gripped the staircase, its gold scrollwork digging into her flesh. “No, I’m sorry, but that’s not possible.”
“Yes, I assure you, it is possible, madam. Your suite awaits you.”
“No. I’m sorry, I can’t stay here. I’ll take a room at a hotel.” She fumbled for her phone.
“And why would you do that?” His smile appeared stuck fast. “You will be working at the palace, and living at the palace.”
“No, really. That’s not possible.”
“And I say it is.” The smile had frozen on his lips. “I apologize, madam, but I have my orders.”
She glanced at the two men behind her. They weren’t smiling. She looked back at the smiling one as the better of two evils. “Do I have a choice?” She suddenly realized she’d stepped right into a trap.
The smile never wavered. “No, madam.”
As she was taken along the grand corridors, past the glimpses of beautiful gardens, she felt as if she were walking in a coiling spiral, taking her ever closer to the heart of the trap.
She was shown to her suite of rooms, and she sat on the large, white silk counterpane and put her head in her hands. What had she done?
* * *
Gabrielle had considered refusing the invitation—more like a command—to attend a reception that evening. But, she had decided there was little point in putting off the moment when she came face to face with the man she’d deserted twelve months earlier. Because now there was no doubt in her mind that it was he who was behind her contract, that it was he who’d made sure she couldn’t escape once she’d set foot
inside the palace.
A year ago, he’d been the overlooked younger son of the king. Now he was king. Something he’d never have been if she’d stayed—something the country needed because, without him, there would have been a civil war. And she couldn’t live with that. She’d done the right thing, she said for the millionth time as she walked across the marble hall to the reception room. But the pounding of her heart, the fluttering in her stomach, and the trembling in her hands contradicted her.
She paused briefly on the threshold, struck by a wall of sound—amplified by the marble interior—and a brilliance of light. The sparkle from the crystal chandeliers glanced off the expensive sheen of the ladies’ evening dresses and flashed in their diamond jewelry. The overwhelming combination did nothing for her nerves.
She took a glass of sparkling juice from a passing waiter and stood to one side. She hoped she could remain there, unnoticed, until she could safely slip away, her duty having been done. But she had no such luck and was soon immersed in a conversation with the museum director. Suddenly everyone stopped talking, and she knew the king and his entourage must have entered the room. Her heart beat a quick tattoo.
He hadn’t changed at all. He was taller than most of them, and she could see him clearly as he scanned the room. The scanning stopped when he saw her. He then said something to the person he was with, and they began to move towards her. She stepped back, but her heels banged against the wall. To one side, the museum director blocked her way. To the other side, a group of diplomats shifted excitedly at the thought of meeting the king.
His progress was halted from time to time as he was introduced to someone. Then he’d look up and catch her gaze briefly before looking away, his expression registering no recognition, as if he was unaware of her identity. But he was, she knew he was, because each step brought him inexorably closer to her.
And then he reached her. He stood directly in front of her while his assistant introduced them. He held her gaze and, despite her best plans, she couldn’t look away.
“And this is Dr. Gabrielle Taylor.”
She swallowed and then panicked. How should she greet him? She dropped into the formal curtsey she’d seen the other women offer, but before she could hold it for the required time, he took her hand, and she nearly stumbled from shock. He tightened his grip, giving her the support she needed to raise herself, but derailing her senses in the process. Even when she was standing tall once more, he didn’t release his hold.
She could smell his aftershave and a masculinity that sent her legs weak. Close to, she could see her initial impression was wrong. He had changed. His mouth, which had been so potent in its capacity to provide pleasure, was firm, grim even, and his gaze was no more promising. But the biggest change was in his eyes. Before, the arrogance had always been there, but it had been tempered by humor and kindness. But she saw nothing of these things in the man before her. No, her overriding impression of him now was power—power to give, and power to take away. She wondered which of those two things he was going to do now, here, with her.
“Dr. Taylor is from Oxford University, here to—”
“I know who she is and why she’s here. Welcome, Gabrielle.”
She nodded, and smiled nervously, giving a tentative tug on her hand. It didn’t yield. “Thank you. It’s good to be back.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them, because they were true. Gharb Havilah was home to her in a way England would never be. And, as for Zavian… Despite what she insisted to herself she wanted, her body was responding in quite a different way.
His eyes narrowed slightly as he inclined his head toward her in a way that felt intensely intimate. “Is that so?”
“It is…” Her voice faded as she caught the smell of his aftershave. That hadn’t changed, and it shortcut her defenses, sending a ripple of recognition and desire deep inside her.
He knew. He had to know because he inclined his head further to her, until all she would have to do was stretch up on her tiptoes to feel the caress of his lips against hers.
She cleared her throat. “It is truly good to be back.” There was no point denying it.
“Then you should have returned sooner.” His thumb swept over the back of her hand, sending pulses of electricity through her body, bringing it to life. She didn’t want to be brought to life.
“I was… busy.” She summoned up her courage, refusing to allow him to take control of her. He had to know. “And there was no point. Nothing’s changed.”
His grip lessened on her hand. “Interesting.” The chill tone in which the single word was delivered refuted her statement.
“Interesting?” she repeated.
“Yes, I have a feeling I’ll find the stories you’ve been contracted to provide for our prized exhibition pieces, very… illuminating. It’s always interesting to know the background of a piece, where it came from, and how it came to be here. Especially the Khasham Qur’an.”
She pressed her trembling lips together in an attempt to hold back her feelings and thoughts, which threatened to tumble out chaotically as she suddenly realized why she’d been brought here. He wanted to know how the sixth-century illuminated Qur’an from the ancient city of Khasham had come into his possession.
“The Khasham Qur’an,” she repeated huskily, weighing its meaning on her tongue.
“Yes, a subject dear to your heart, I believe. Maybe the only one.”
The barb found its target, but she couldn’t respond because he’d always known if she’d tried to lie, which left silence the only option.
“And once you’ve uncovered the story behind its repatriation, then, Dr. Taylor”—he continued—“you may find you have to re-think your assertion that nothing has changed.” He dropped her hand. “Enjoy the evening.”
He nodded coolly and walked past her before she could respond. Not that she could. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of that warm, crowded reception room, making it difficult to breathe, let alone think. But she could feel. And she wished she couldn’t.
He hated her. And she hadn’t realized how this knowledge could destroy her. She looked around for an escape, unaware of people talking to her, needing to get away.
* * *
Zavian left the room immediately. He’d organized the reception with only one purpose in mind, and now he’d seen and spoken with her he had no further interest in it. He dismissed his attendants and watched her from behind the one-way mirror. She hadn’t changed at all. He suddenly realized that he’d hoped she had. But she hadn’t. She shimmered in the traditional abaya—understated and elegant—eclipsing all others as the moon banished the sun, casting a heart-stopping glow over the desert, creating magic where none before existed. Even now, while she twisted and turned, moving around people, seeking out the exit, she outshone everyone.
He’d created a trap for her which she’d had no choice but enter, circling into its center until he had her secure. Then why did he feel it was the other way around?
Chapter 2
Nothing’s changed.
Her words repeated in his mind as he stared at the papers which littered his desk—confidential bank statements, bills of lading, insurances—all designed to conceal the truth.
She was wrong. If what he suspected was true, then everything had changed. But there was only one way to know for sure because she’d tied up the truth behind a veil of paperwork and privacy screens which even he didn’t have the power to uncover. His only hope of knowing the truth was for her to tell him.
The draft from the overhead fan lifted the pages through which Zavian sifted as if they were light things of no importance. But they were of the utmost importance, Zavian thought. They had the power to change his life. He placed a heavy glass paperweight on the pile with careful deliberation. If only he could contain his thoughts as easily. He sat back and let his head rest against the leather of the office chair.
The whirr of the fan and the splash of water from the fountain outside his office should hav
e had a soothing effect. But they did nothing to ease the tension which gnawed at his temples. Nothing to pacify the roaring sound in his brain that had sprung up at the sight of the signature on the museum’s ownership records of the prize of its collection. It wasn’t that it was her name, it was that everyone who’d been traced who bore that name had had nothing to do with the purchase and donation of the piece back to his country. Someone wanted to be anonymous. And who else but Gabrielle would have both the knowledge, the money, and a reason?
He took a deep breath, pushed the chair away from the table and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows which overlooked the city’s old quarter. At that moment, the sun rose behind the soft-edged minarets and mosques of a city steeped in its medieval origins. His grandfather had preferred this office, and when Zavian succeeded his father to the throne, he’d immediately made it his.
And somehow, the setting was an appropriate one for what he believed he’d uncovered. The museum—whose outline he could see facing one side of the civic square, hidden by palm trees—had acquired the jewel in its crown of antiquities when the Khasham Qur’an had been anonymously donated.
He sighed and closed his eyes. Gabrielle. The name escaped his lips like a puff of warm desert wind, like a memory of a kiss. Only Gabrielle would believe that she could trick him. Nowhere else in this city would anyone have dared, or have imagined it were possible to—what was that quaint English expression?—pull the wool over the eyes of their sheikh and king. But Gabrielle had. He’d underestimated her. It seemed that was mutual.
There was a subdued knock at the door, followed by his vizier’s entrance. Naseer was the only person allowed to enter his rooms without awaiting his response.
The elderly vizier gave a slight bow and approached him. “Your Majesty.”
Zavian turned his back on the rising sun, which cast a long shadow across the room. “Naseer, did you check with the museum?”
“I did. Although the museum’s director was confused as to why you’d want to know this before sunrise.”