Читать книгу Surgeon Prince, Cinderella Bride - Ann McIntosh - Страница 12

BEYOND THE WINDOW of the hotel suite a flurry of mixed rain and ice pellets swirled, but although Dr. Farhan Alaoui gazed out through the glass, he wasn’t really paying attention to the weather.

This was a fool’s errand, and he the fool his father had chosen to go on it.

In years past, knowing how little regard his father had for him, Farhan would have simply refused to come to Canada, telling King Uttam to find another way to deal with the matter. It wouldn’t have been the first time, or even the hundredth time, they would have butted heads. The pattern had started from when Farhan was a child, and had only stopped ten years ago, when he’d left Kalyana for Australia, cutting off contact with his father, determined not to return until absolutely necessary.

Had his conscience bitten at him over the decision? Of course it had. He’d still been mourning Ali, trying to reconcile himself to being Crown Prince in his beloved brother’s place. The loss, along with his mother’s unassailable grief, which had made her pull even further away from her other two sons, had been excruciating. He hadn’t needed his father to intimate he was ill equipped to take on the role Ali had excelled at. Certainly hadn’t needed to be left with the feeling he would never do as well, so he may as well go back to school, finish his medical studies.

There was to be a referendum, the King said, looking down his nose at his son. If they were lucky, the people would decide to make Kalyana a republic, abolishing the monarchy.

Farhan had understood what his father hadn’t said outright.

If that were to happen, the island kingdom would be spared the inept and unprepared King that Farhan clearly would be.

Unfortunately for them all, the people had decided to keep the monarchy, and Farhan remained next in line to the throne. That was something he’d done his best to ignore, living in Australia as a normal person, working as a surgeon in a large hospital, until the night his younger brother Maazin had called to say their father had had a stroke.

Of course, he’d had to return then.

And he was a different person. More assured, ready to take on the responsibility he’d avoided for so long. A little less inclined to argue, or dig in his heels in the way he used to.

What he hadn’t been prepared for was his father’s tacit refusal to assist him in learning his new role.

Or being sent to Canada to track down the woman who should, by birthright, be the true monarch of Kalyana.

When Farhan had reported finding her, he hadn’t been sure what his father’s reaction would be.

Uttam’s fingers had curled into a fist on his desk, and Farhan had interpreted the motion as signifying anger. Or perhaps, considering the King’s unusual pallor, some other, stronger emotion. It made the physician in Farhan watch the older man closely, looking for any signs of cardio-pulmonary distress. After his father’s diagnosis of atrial fibrillation the entire family worried about his health.

No one more so than Farhan.

King Uttam tapped the folder in front of him, his dark gaze boring into Farhan’s. Despite the King’s macular degeneration, he still had the ability to fix a person in place with just one look.

“Are you positive this woman is Bhaskar’s descendant?”

Suppressing a sigh, Farhan shook his head. “I don’t have Bhaskar’s DNA to make the comparison. However, I can say she is a direct descendant of Queen Nargis, and since the records show Bhaskar as Nargis’s only child...”

The slam of Uttam’s fist on the desk was so unexpected everyone else in the office—Farhan, Maazin, and the King’s aide-de-camp, Joseph Malliot—started.

“All these years our family has been blamed, accused of doing away with Bhaskar to gain the throne, while he has been out there, somewhere, living his life as he wished—”

Breaking off his unusually impassioned speech and rising abruptly, Uttam paced across the room. Stopping at the large birdcage housing his pet macaw, Uttam kept his back to his aide and two sons, reaching in to stroke a finger down Sophie’s cherry-red poll.

No one spoke. Like acrid smoke, the King’s words hung in the office, thickening the already tense atmosphere. Farhan sent a quick glance at Maazin. He seemed relaxed, although his eyelids were lowered, hiding his true expression.

After a moment, Uttam asked, “What do you know of her—this child of Bhaskar?”

All the information was in the file on his father’s desk, but Farhan had made sure to bring his own copy.

He’d gone through it fully, of course, and memorized most of it. The private investigator had been thorough, and Farhan was of the opinion the shy and quiet doctor was not, and never would be, a threat to the kingdom.

Even her pictures gave the impression of harmlessness. She was no beauty, being a little plain, with a serious yet pleasant expression in all the photographs.

But his father wasn’t interested in Farhan’s opinion on things, so, opening the folder on his lap, he read out the salient facts.

“Dr. Sara Greer, general practitioner, thirty-one years old, resident of London, Ontario, Canada. She was adopted at approximately three weeks old by Karen and Everton Greer, who subsequently had two more daughters. Dr. Greer graduated summa cum laude from Eastern University, and now works at an urgent care clinic.”

Uttam’s free hand sliced through the air, cutting off Farhan’s recitation. “Does she know she could be the rightful heir to the throne of Kalyana?”

“It would be impossible for her to know.” Being on the receiving end of a quick, skeptical glare, Farhan explained, “When, as you requested, DNA was collected from Nargis’s remains the results were posted privately on a number of genealogical websites. That means any matches would be reported to me, as the administrator of that DNA sample, but not to the other parties. No matter what other familial matches Dr. Greer may make, the match with Nargis is the only one that could alert her to the royal bloodline, and she can’t see it.”

His father’s back seemed to relax fractionally, but Uttam still didn’t turn around; just stood stroking the macaw’s head through the bars, making Sophie chuckle and coo with pleasure.

Farhan exchanged a look with his brother, now seeing the same impatience he felt in Maazin’s expression. None of this was germane to the running of the country.

Farhan was compelled to say, “Father, this is all ancient history, and since Dr. Greer will never know who she is, she’s no threat. On top of that, our constitution is clear: without documentation showing the direct lineage between her and Crown Prince Bhaskar, her claim, should she make one, would be denied.

“Adoption records retrieved by the PI show Dr. Greer’s birth parents as Brian and Yasmine Haskell, residents of Fort McMurray, Canada, both deceased. Immigration records show the Haskells entering Canada in 1958 as citizens of Great Britain, although there are no records of either of their names in the British archives. Clearly Bhaskar must have had help creating a new identity, but unraveling that, at this stage, would be nigh on impossible.”

He should have known better. His father was unmovable on the subject. The near rebellion caused when Uttam’s father had taken the throne had, it seemed, made him paranoid. He was absolutely sure one day some supporters of the missing Bhaskar would rise up to try to end his reign, and endanger them all.

With a final scratch of Sophie’s head, Uttam turned to walk back to his desk.

“We will not take the chance,” he said, as he settled into his chair. “This is a matter that must be dealt with, immediately.”

Despite the return of his father’s usual stoic demeanor, Farhan was aware of an undercurrent beneath the cool declaration. Maazin shifted, as though suddenly uncomfortable, but before Farhan had a chance to react, Uttam continued.

“Farhan, you will travel to Canada and marry this Dr. Greer; produce an heir to unite the two lines.”

Once again he felt the icy fingers of disbelief run down his spine, just as they had then.

The one thing he’d decided when Ali died was never to become a parent. His father had made it clear: the throne—the country—took precedence over everything. Farhan had no interest in producing a child only to have to sacrifice it on the altar of duty. He would do what he could to carry out the first part of his father’s order, if he could, but the second part wouldn’t happen.

Ever.

The door to the suite opened, rousing Farhan from his memories, and Kavan—his bodyguard, chauffeur, and friend—came in, rubbing his hands together.

“How do people live in this weather all the time?” he grumbled. “It’s just gone four o’clock, and it’s already dark outside. Not to mention colder than normal people can bear, and the ice and slush is everywhere.”

Only then did Farhan realize the murky sunlight had faded, and the street lights had come on. It was time to find and speak to Dr. Sara Greer.

His heart stuttered, but he refused to let his trepidation show. Instead he stood and walked to the hall closet to pull out his wool coat, a warm silk scarf looped under the lapels.

“There are benefits to living everywhere,” he replied, as he pulled on his winter wear. “This wouldn’t be my first choice, but it certainly is a beautiful country.”

“In summer, perhaps,” Kavan said, pulling open the room door and holding it for Farhan to precede him out. “But ice should be in a glass, with Scotch on it, not under my feet.”

And Farhan found himself chuckling, despite the apprehension gnawing at his insides.

* * *

I have to get my life together.

The thought ran on a loop in Dr. Sara Greer’s head as she limped from the bus stop through slush and snow toward her home.

It had been one of those days, starting from when she’d got up to find her roommate’s dog, Diefenbaker, had torn the insoles out of her shoes. The right one was salvageable. The left one, not at all. And who knew there was a metal bar just above the soles? She hadn’t until she’d seen it for herself. With no time to stop and buy an insole, she’d put two socks on that foot and, planning to run out at lunchtime and buy new shoes, hoped for the best.

That idea went out the window when her sister, Mariah, turned up before the clinic even opened.

“I need your car,” she said, making it a demand, rather than a request. “I have an appointment at ten on the other side of town.”

“Use Mom’s, or Dad’s.” Yet, even as Sara tried to be firm, she knew it was probably a losing battle. “I have stuff I have to do at lunchtime.”

“Dad’s gone to Clinton to work, and Mom has some errands to run, so I need your car.”

Sara’s heart sank. Although her dad was a semi-retired farrier, “going to Clinton” usually meant more drinking beer than actual work, especially on a Friday during the London harness racing season. Not to mention the fact that Dad was notoriously horrible about getting people to settle their accounts. Even if he did work, he’d probably never see a dime.

And despite their perennial need for money, Mom didn’t have the heart to nag him about his lack of financial acumen.

Mariah turned from demanding to wheedling. “I’ll get it back to you before lunchtime. This is really important. A job interview.”

“You could take the bus, you know. There’s plenty of time.”

“Not when I have to go home and change first. I’d need to take two buses, and it looks like it’s going to rain. I’d be a mess when I get there, and it might cost me the job.”

The thought of one of her sisters being gainfully employed was a heady one, given their propensity for drifting along, doing as little as possible to get by.

“Okay.” Even as she capitulated, Sara knew she shouldn’t. “But, seriously, I need it back before lunch. I have to get new shoes, and I promised to check in on Nonni too.”

Mariah wrinkled her nose, one corner of her lip curling.

“I don’t know why you bother. Aunt Jackie is there all the time with her, and she was always so mean to you. You shouldn’t waste your time on her.”

Sara hadn’t argued the point. Mariah was right about how cruel their maternal grandmother had been to her adopted grandchild, but whatever Sara did for the now senile old woman had nothing to do with Nonni. She was helping her aunt and mother, who had given her nothing but love and acceptance her entire life.

“I promised I’d go, so make sure you bring the car back on time, okay?”

“Sure, sure,” was her sister’s response but, up until the time Sara’s shift ended at four, she still hadn’t returned it.

Then Cyndi, their younger sister, had started calling and texting at about eleven, as usual wanting Sara to intervene in one of her interminable arguments with their mother.

“She won’t listen to me, Sissie.” Sara knew there was nothing but trouble ahead when Cyndi used that particular nickname. “I can’t get into the culinary course on time if Mom and Dad won’t pay for it now.”

“I’m not getting involved, Cyndi. Sorry.”

“But if you tell Mom it’s a good idea, she’ll listen.”

Sara actually didn’t think it a good idea for Cyndi to sign up for yet another course, when she’d failed to finish either of the other two she’d started over the last three years. Yet her saying so would only make Cyndi dig in her heels.

“Listen, why don’t you save up some money and take the course the next time it’s offered? That way you don’t have to depend on Mom and Dad to be able to do it.”

Cyndi didn’t even dignify that suggestion with an answer, just moved on to the next plan of attack.

“Couldn’t you lend me the money? It’s only two thousand dollars.”

Only? What world was Cyndi living in that two thousand dollars wasn’t a lot of money?

“Firstly, I just made my student loan payment,” Sara told her. “I don’t have any cash to spare. Secondly, saying you want to borrow it really doesn’t fly, since I don’t see how you’d pay it back.” Not wanting a protracted argument, she finished up with, “I have to go back to work. Talk to you later.”

Undeterred, Cyndi sent so many texts, the tone increasingly desperate, that Sara had ended up turning off the ringer on her phone.

To make it all worse, the freezing cold January rain and ice mix Mariah had predicted had waited to start until Sara was standing at the bus stop. With the exception of her jacket, all the rest of her winter gear—boots, gloves and toque—was in her car. After all, she hadn’t expected to have to take the bus or walk to get home.

Really, though, she shouldn’t be surprised. Her family, sisters in particular, seemed to feel it was Sara’s responsibility to do whatever was necessary to make their lives more comfortable, and Sara let herself be a pushover.

She remembered when Mariah had been born. Sara had already been seven when her mother had got pregnant, despite the doctors saying it would never happen, and she’d been so excited to go from lonely only to big sister. When the baby had come home, she’d eagerly helped her mother and father, and somehow it seemed she’d never stopped.

It often felt there was no time for herself, to work toward her own dreams and goals. Being viewed as an easy mark was one thing, but when you added being caught in a tug of love between Cyndi and her mom, and looking after Nonni, it often felt like too much. The emotional strain and financial pressure had stressed her to the point of a functional gastrointestinal disorder. Sometimes just seeing one of her family members’ numbers pop up on her phone made her stomach roil and burn, her teeth clench.

That wasn’t something she shared with her family, though. Since childhood everyone had commented on how independent and reliable she was, and, as she finally opened her front door, Sara reflected that there were far worse ways her family could think of her.

Her relief at finally getting home evaporated when, calling out to the French bulldog jumping up and down in the kitchen, she saw the note from her roommate.

Sara, going to be late. Walk Dief for me.

Not even a “please” or a “thank you.”

But it wouldn’t be fair to take out her bad mood on the dog by refusing to walk him when he’d been locked up by himself all day.

“Well, Dief, since I’m already wet, we might as well go for that walk now.”

And she had to giggle when, hearing her say “walk,” the dog danced on his hind legs, turning in circles.

After changing into a pair of dry sneakers, Sara let him out of the kitchen and hooked his leash to his collar.

“Walkies,” she sang, loving the way he pirouetted on the way back to the front door. “Walkies,” she sang again, as she pulled the door open...

And walked straight into the man standing on her doorstep.

The air left her chest in a whoosh, and when she gasped to inflate her lungs again her head filled with the most delectable male scent she’d ever encountered. Firm fingers gripped her upper arms, steadying her as she wobbled.

Quickly stepping back and pulling a now barking Diefenbaker with her, Sara looked up.

And lost her breath all over again.

Dark yet somehow cool eyes stared down at her from a face too pretty to be traditionally handsome and yet too roughly hewn to be beautiful. Toffee-toned skin stretched over an undeniably masculine bone structure. Midnight-black hair waved back from a wide forehead, which was balanced by a strong jawline and ever so slightly hooked nose. And his unsmiling but deliciously shaped lips made her legs suddenly weak.

Her heart started racing, not in fright but with the intense sensation of recognition firing through her body, making her head spin. Although she could swear she’d never seen him before, something in his inscrutable gaze, the set of his head, the scent still lingering in her nostrils called to her primal, feminine core.

Then common sense returned.

Snapping her gaping mouth shut, she tugged Dief close to her side. Looking down at the dancing, yapping Frenchie gave her welcome respite from staring at the man before her.

“Diefenbaker, enough. Sit.”

Giving her a doleful glare, the little dog did as she commanded, his barking replaced by little rumbles in his throat.

Steeling herself, Sara looked back up and stuttered, “C-can I help you?”

Great. Not only was she a bedraggled mess, but she couldn’t even speak to the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen without sounding like a dork.

“Dr. Sara Greer?”

It was only nominally a question. His deep, accented tones made it more of a haughty statement, and Sara just stopped herself from shyly dipping her chin. Instead, she forced herself to look directly into his eyes.

“Yes?”

“My name is Dr. Farhan Alaoui.” He paused almost expectantly, his gaze watchful. “Crown Prince of Kalyana.”

For a long moment the words sounded like gibberish. Of course she’d heard them loud and clear, but they made no sense to her on an intellectual level.

Had she fallen on the way home, hit her head and lapsed into some kind of concussed dream? That seemed more likely than a man claiming to be a crown prince standing on her doorstep.

“Wh-who?”

Obviously sensing her rising anxiety, Dief stood up and growled. Sara bent to scoop him up. The little dog was trembling—or was it her shaking that way?

“Dr. Farhan Alaoui. Crown Prince of Kalyana,” he repeated, tipping his head back so he was looking down that impressive nose at her, and enunciating every syllable as though speaking to a child.

“D-don’t b-be ridiculous.” She could hardly catch her breath, between the pounding of her heart and rising nausea. “Is this some kind of joke? Who put you up to this?”

Her mind was spinning as she tried to figure out what was going on. There were only three people she’d shared her DNA results with, all trusted family members. Would any of them play such a cruel hoax on her?

“No joke, Dr. Greer.” The corners of his lips twitched downward, reminding her of her least favorite lecturer at university. The one for whom she could do no right. “I’ve come to offer you a job.”

“A job?” she repeated, still trying to sort through the chaos in her head. She peeked around his broad-shouldered frame, expecting to see Cyndi or maybe Mariah behind him, holding a camera and giggling. “A-as what?”

His lips tightened, and she actually heard him inhale before he said, “My wife.”