Читать книгу A Christmas Bride For The King - Эбби Грин - Страница 11
ОглавлениеCHARLOTTE WATCHED THE door close on the most infuriating man she’d ever met, not to mention the most disturbing, and she had to quell a childish urge to hurl something at the door behind him. Instead she kicked off her shoes and paced back and forth on the sumptuous silken rugs.
She fumed. She was used to dealing with clients who thought they knew everything about international relations and diplomacy until something blew up in their faces, and then suddenly Charlotte became their most valuable asset. But she’d never encountered such downright...antipathy before.
She was patently unwelcome—and she could call him Salim but he wouldn’t deign to call her Charlotte. She thought about that for a moment and felt a frisson run down her spine at the thought of his tongue wrapping itself around her name. That little frisson was humiliating, because it was glaringly obvious that he didn’t view her as female—more as an asexual irritation.
Sheikh Al-Noury was affecting her in a way that she hadn’t experienced before, because she was good at keeping people at a distance and yet from the first moment they’d met he’d slid under her skin with disconcerting ease.
Charlotte shucked off her jacket and undid the bow at her neck and her top button. Then, spying her bags in the bedroom near the dressing room, she set about unpacking. She found herself dwelling on the animosity the sheikh had demonstrated towards his mother. She didn’t like the way it resonated within her, reminding her of her own fractured relationship with her mother, brought on by years of careless parenting after a bitter divorce.
But she diverted her mind away from wondering too much about anything personal to do with the sheikh. It wasn’t her business. And the last thing she wanted to think about was her own pitiful family history.
After taking a refreshing shower in the lavish bathroom, Charlotte changed into stretchy pants and a soft long-sleeved top. Just as her stomach rumbled she heard a knock on the door. Her gut clenched as she imagined it might be him, but when she opened the door there was a young girl, with a trolley full of food and wine in an ice bucket on the other side.
She admonished herself; he’d hardly be delivering her dinner.
Charlotte stood back to let the girl in and watched as she silently laid the dining table for one and set out the food. Tantalising scents filled the air and her stomach rumbled louder. The girl scurried out again, too shy to return Charlotte’s smile.
Charlotte sat down to explore what she’d been given. Balls of rice mixed with herbs. Lamb infused with spices and scented rice. Flat bread with hummus. It looked delicious and she found that she was ravenous.
She ate as dusk fell outside, not noticing it had got dark until she stood up and went to the window with her wine glass in her hand, feeling a little more settled after an unsettling day.
She opened the French doors and was surprised to find that it was much cooler than she’d expected—and then she chastised herself: basic geography, of course it got cold in the desert at night. She fetched a cashmere wrap and then went back outside, sitting on a seat, relishing the peace.
The thought of the vast expanse of empty desert surrounding her made a thrum of excitement pulse in her blood. She’d always found this part of the world fascinating, hence her choice of master’s degree. The stars were so low and bright in the dark sky she imagined she could reach out and pluck one into her hand.
Tabat intrigued her.
And so does its enigmatic ruler, whispered a voice.
Charlotte scowled and took a sip of wine, telling herself that Sheikh Al-Noury—Salim—didn’t intrigue her at all. He was thoroughly charmless and clearly reluctant to change his hedonistic existence before becoming king.
He didn’t intrigue her because she knew his type all too well. As the only child of two high-profile parents, who had used her as an unwitting pawn in their bitter divorce and custody battle, she recognised the traits of a selfish person who was here under sufferance. After all, when her father had lost in the custody battle with her mother he’d always let it be known that her visits with him had been something he’d done purely out of legal obligation, not because he really cared for her, so she was in far too familiar territory.
However, she wouldn’t let her own personal feelings intrude on her professional life. She’d worked too hard to separate herself from her parents and that time. She’d even changed her name, vowing to live a life much different from theirs, which was smack at the centre of the public eye.
She’d built an independent life and a reputation based on her intellect—not her name or the infamy associated with it. She had a strong desire never to be at the mercy of anyone else again, to the point that she’d instinctively avoided intimate relationships, too afraid of letting someone close enough to devastate her world as her parents had.
Diverting her mind away from her past, she assured herself that all she had to do was make sure the sheikh didn’t cause an international scandal in the run-up to his coronation, which was due to take place in three weeks. And then, once the man had been crowned king, Charlotte could walk away and hopefully never see him again.
So why did she find her mind wandering back to him now? Wondering where he was in this vast and largely empty palace?
Then she cursed her naivety as a wave of embarrassment made her feel hot. He had surely not denied himself the pleasures of a mistress. A man like that? He’d left his life of excess in Europe and the States, to return to take up his rightful place, but he’d hardly have denied himself his base comforts, and sex and women were one of his most well-documented pastimes. And only the most beautiful women at that—albeit never for long.
Charlotte shook her head and stood up, returning to her suite. She told herself firmly that she couldn’t care less if Sheikh Salim was entertaining a harem of mistresses right now as long as he was discreet about it.
The fact that it took her ages to fall asleep in the huge bed, only for her dreams to be populated by a mysteriously masked and robed man on a huge stallion cantering across vast desert sands, was a pure coincidence. And not disturbing in the slightest.
Not even when she had to concede when she woke the following morning that he hadn’t really been mysterious at all. Not with those blue eyes.
A week later
‘Sire, we are so grateful that you are here, finally. There is so much work to do in two weeks! And then, once you are king—’
Salim turned around abruptly from where he’d been trying to tune out his chief aide, stopping the man’s words. They caused a sensation not unlike panic in his chest and Salim did not panic.
His aide—an old man who had known his grandfather—looked at him expectantly. Salim said tightly, ‘Do whatever it is that you deem necessary, Rafa. You know more about this place than me, after all.’
The slightest flare of something in those old eyes was the only hint that his aide was not impressed that it had taken Salim so long to take up his role, or that he’d spent most of the last week out of Tabat.
Salim told himself that part of his motivation for leaving Tabat behind for a few days hadn’t had anything to do with Charlotte McQuillan and her big green eyes looking at him so incisively. Not unlike the way Rafa was looking at him right now.
It had actually had to do with the secret meetings he’d set up with his legal team, and a close friend who ruled a nearby sultanate, to discuss who best to approach to take over from him as king once he’d abdicated.
The meetings hadn’t gone well. The one person he and his team had identified as a suitable prospective king had turned them down flat. A distant cousin of Salim’s, Riad Arnaud.
The man was a billionaire and a respected businessman. He had ancestral links to this world and had inherited a tiny uninhabited Sheikhdom on the borders of Tabat and Jandor—a mining hub that workers commuted in and out of from nearby Jandor.
But, he was also a single father with a young daughter and he was adamant that he didn’t want to turn his life upside down, thrusting her into a life of duty and service and taking her away from her home in France, where they lived.
Salim of all people had to respect his cousin’s decision, after all, he knew the consequences of having choice taken away from you.
His friend Sultan Sadiq of Al-Omar had borne the brunt of Salim’s frustration once his team had left.
When he’d finished extolling the potential virtues of Tabat that would be enjoyed by its next king his friend had just looked at him with an arched brow and asked mockingly, ‘If it’s such a hidden jewel then why are you so eager to pass it up?’
The fact that his friend’s question had caused Salim to stop momentarily was not something he wanted to dwell on. Nor was the fact that it had made him recall Charlotte McQuillan’s assessment that Tabat had potential. This was not his destiny and he would not be swayed.
In a bid to deflect his mind from that incident and from his conscience, which was proving to be dismayingly persistent, Salim asked, ‘Miss McQuillan...where is she now?’
Rafa’s eyes lit up. He was clearly anticipating that Salim was finally ready to seek advice on becoming a good king. But Salim had far more carnal urges on his mind than discussions of diplomacy and he didn’t like it. She wasn’t his type.
Even with a vast desert between them he’d found the image of her green eyes staying with him, along with the provocative image of that damned silk bow tied so primly at her throat.
Rafa interrupted Salim’s thoughts when he answered, ‘She wanted to go sightseeing today, so I sent one of my junior assistants with her. They’ve gone to the wadi just outside the city limits.’
Salim frowned, his irritation increasing for no good reason. ‘Which junior assistant went with her?’
Rafa looked nervous. ‘Kdal, sire. He’s one of my most trusted assistants—I assure you he’ll take care of her.’
Picturing the young man’s prettily handsome face and obsequious manner in his mind’s eye, Salim found himself saying, ‘Instruct the groom to get my horse ready.’
* * *
Charlotte was doing her best not to stand with her mouth hanging open, but it was hard in such a jaw-droppingly beautiful location. The wadi was just outside Tabat City—a deep river valley carved out of the earth. A sheer high wall of rock was on one side, dotted with palm trees at the base. The other side was flat and verdant, and obviously a popular beauty spot, although it was quiet today.
Kdal, her attentive guide, had explained that this wadi was always full of water due to the underground streams. The water looked green and all too inviting in the blazing midday heat.
Kdal was now guiding her over to where a makeshift table had been set up, under a tent that offered some much needed shade.
‘We’re having lunch here?’ she asked, charmed by the idea, and also by the delicious smells coming from where a small cluster of rustic buildings stood.
‘Yes, Miss McQuillan. We thought you’d enjoy the view. This is a well-known spot for travellers to stop and seek refreshment. I hope you don’t think it’s too basic...’
Charlotte was about to respond not at all but then suddenly Kdal disappeared from her eyeline and Charlotte looked down to see him prostrated at her feet. She was about to bend down and see if he’d fainted when she heard a sound behind her, and turned to see a mythically huge black stallion on top of which sat a man with a turban covering his head and face. He wore a long robe.
It was so reminiscent of her dreams that Charlotte wondered if she was suffering from sunstroke—and then the man swung his leg over and stepped gracefully off the horse, which snorted and gave a shake of its massive head.
All Charlotte could see, though, was the bright flash of blue eyes. Far too familiar blue eyes. Sheikh Al-Noury. Her pulse tripped and galloped at double-time.
He pulled down the material covering his mouth and said with a glint in his eye, ‘You don’t look very enthusiastic to have me join you for lunch.’
It was him. She wasn’t dreaming.
A man appeared, seemingly from out of thin air, to lead the sheikh’s stallion away, and she saw a sleek blacked out four-by-four vehicle purring to a stop nearby, presumably carrying his security detail.
Charlotte called on all her skills to recover, and said as equably as she could, ‘Well, if you recall, you told me that you believed my presence would be a nuisance and that you intended for us to stay out of each other’s way—hardly leading me to suspect that you’d seek out my company.’
He didn’t look remotely repentant. He looked breathtakingly gorgeous as he lazily pulled the turban off his head. Dark hair curled wildly from where it had been confined under his turban, and his jaw was even more stubbled than she remembered. He was wearing the jodhpurs again, and the long tunic did little to disguise the sheer masculine power of his body.
Charlotte hated that she was wearing pretty much the same outfit she’d been wearing the first time she’d seen him.
As if reading her mind, his gaze slipped down from her face and he asked, ‘Do you own a similar shirt in every colour of the rainbow, Miss McQuillan?’
Defensively Charlotte answered, ‘No, actually. But I find that in my line of work it’s prudent to be smartly dressed at all times, and I’m mindful of not offending anyone by wearing anything too casual or revealing.’
His eyes met hers, and she could have sworn his mouth twitched.
‘No, that wouldn’t do at all.’
He gestured to the table behind them, and when she turned she saw that it was now miraculously set for two, with gleaming silverware and sparkling glasses on a white tablecloth. Kdal had disappeared, the little traitor.
‘Please sit, Miss McQuillan.’
She sat down, feeling on edge, cursing Kdal for not warning her to expect the sheikh, who sat down opposite her. Even though they were out in the open air it suddenly felt claustrophobic.
Muted sounds came from the direction of the small cluster of buildings. There was an air of urgency that hadn’t been there a few minutes before. The sheikh had clearly injected the wadi staff with adrenalin.
He took a sip of water and said, ‘I’m sure you’ve noticed a change in the palace since the first day you arrived.’
Charlotte looked at him and had to admit, ‘It’s like a different place.’
When she’d woken up on her first morning and gone for an exploratory walk the place had gone from being eerily empty to buzzing with activity.
She said, ‘I didn’t realise the national holiday was to commemorate the anniversary of your grandfather’s death. I’m sorry.’
The sheikh shrugged. ‘Don’t be. I hardly knew him. He died when I was a teenager.’
‘So there’s been a caretaker government here since then, until your father passed away?’
He nodded, and just then a waiter materialised, dressed in a pristine white tunic. The sheikh issued a stream of Arabic too fast for Charlotte to understand, and when the waiter had left he turned back to her.
‘I hope you don’t mind—I’ve ordered a few local delicacies.’
Charlotte narrowed her eyes at him across the table, suspecting strongly that this man would ride roughshod over anyone who let him. ‘Actually, I prefer to order for myself, but I’m not a fussy eater.’
He sat back, that twitch at the corner of his mouth more obvious now.
‘Duly noted, Miss McQuillan. Tell me, is that a Scottish name?’
He threw her with his question, and Charlotte busied herself unfolding her napkin in a bid not to let him see how easily an innocent question like that rattled her. Because it wasn’t the name she’d been born with. It was her maternal grandmother’s name.
‘I...yes. It’s Scots-Irish.’ And then, before he could ask her more questions, she said, ‘I had a tour of the city this morning with Kdal. He was very informative.’
She stopped when she saw something flash across the sheikh’s face but it was quickly replaced with a very urbane expression, and he said, ‘Please, tell me your impressions—after all, you did say that you thought it had much potential.’
Charlotte looked at him suspiciously, thinking he was mocking her, but his expression appeared innocent. Well, as innocent as a sinfully gorgeous reprobate could look.
‘Well, obviously it needs a lot of work to restore it, but I found it fascinating. I had no idea how far back some of the buildings date. The mosque is breathtaking, and I hadn’t expected to see a cathedral too.’
Sheikh Al-Noury took a sip of the white wine that had been poured into their glasses. ‘The city has always been a multi-faith society—one of the most liberal in the region. Outside the city limits, however, the country runs on more traditional tribal lines. Tabat used to run all the way to the sea. Jahor, the capital of Jandor, was merely a military fortress until its warriors rose up and rebelled, creating a separate independent state and endless years of war. Tabat is where all the ancient treasures reside. And all the knowledge. We have a library that rivalled the one at Alexandria, in Egypt, before it was destroyed.’
Another waiter arrived with an array of food as Charlotte responded dryly, ‘Yes, I’ve spent some time in the library this week—it’s very impressive.’
The sheikh—she still couldn’t think of him as Salim—gestured to the food. ‘Please, help yourself. We don’t really have a starter course.’
Charlotte felt self-conscious as she picked a little from each plate and added it to her own. She had to admit that she loved the Tabat cuisine as she tried a special bread that was baked with minced lamb, onions and tomatoes. Halloumi cheese and honey was another staple she was becoming addicted to. At this rate she’d have nothing to show for her time here except added inches to her waistline.
She watched Sheikh Al-Noury covertly from under her lashes, but he caught her looking and she could feel heat climb into her cheeks.
‘You’re not drinking your wine?’ he observed.
She shook her head. ‘I prefer not to when I’m working.’
He picked up his glass and tipped it towards her. ‘I commend your professionalism. I, however, feel no similar urge to maintain appearances.’ He took a healthy sip.
Feeling emboldened by his seeming determination to goad her, she said, ‘I heard you have been away for most of the week.’
He put his glass down and his gaze narrowed on her. ‘Yes. I was invited to the Sultan of Al-Omar’s annual party in B’harani. He’s an old friend.’
An image immediately sprang into her mind of the sheikh surrounded by beautiful women, and when she replied her voice sounded unintentionally sharp. ‘I’ve heard of them... His parties are renowned for being impossible to get into, and they dominate the gossip columns for weeks afterwards, but there are never any pictures.’
‘Yes,’ he said, almost wistfully. ‘That was in the good old days. But it’s all changed now that he’s a married man with children.’
‘You don’t approve, Sheikh Al-Noury?’ Charlotte asked with faux innocence, almost enjoying herself now.
Those blue eyes pierced right through her. ‘I thought I told you to call me Salim. And my friend Sadiq can do as he pleases. Every man seems to fall sooner or later.’
Charlotte ignored the little dart of emotion that surprised her, at the thought of this man falling for someone. ‘Won’t you have to...fall too? You’ll be expected to take a queen and produce heirs once you are crowned king.’
Salim surveyed the woman opposite him, in another of those tantalising silk shirts with the damned bow that had haunted his dreams. Maybe she did it on purpose—projected this buttoned-up secretary image specifically to appeal to a man’s desire to see her come undone.
It irritated him intensely that not one of the many beautiful women at Sadiq’s party had managed to snare his interest. His old carousing friend had slapped him on the back and joked that he was becoming jaded. And then Sadiq’s very pretty wife had joined them and whispered something in her husband’s ear that had made him look at her so explicitly that even Salim, who was pretty unshockable, had felt uncomfortable.
When they’d made pathetically flimsy excuses and left, he’d silently wished them well in their obvious happy domesticity, while repeating his own refrain that he would never be snared like that. Because to commit oneself to another person was to risk untold pain.
When he’d lost his sister the grief had been so acute that for a long time he’d wanted to die too. After he’d passed through that dark phase and emerged on the other side he’d never wanted to love anyone again. It was simply too devastating. Loss had eaten away at his soul until there had been nothing left but a need to escape from the world that had brought him such pain and avenge his sister’s death—which he had done.
Not that it had brought him any peace.
Angry to find his thoughts straying down this path, Salim said tersely in response to her question, ‘No, Miss McQuillan, I won’t have to fall.’
He felt an overwhelming urge to unsettle this woman who looked so pristine. So in control. So...unaffected.
‘Because,’ he said carefully, ‘I have no intention of being King of Tabat for any longer than absolutely necessary.’
Shock bloomed across her expressive face, exactly as he’d expected, but it failed to bring any measure of satisfaction and that irritated Salim intensely.
She sat up. ‘What do you mean? You’re being crowned in two weeks—of course you’ll be king.’
‘Not for long,’ he said grimly, regretting having said anything.
She shook her head, the shining cap of strawberry-blonde hair distracting him for a moment. She was so pale against this exotic backdrop. He imagined his darkness against her pale perfection...
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
Her cut-glass tones enflamed Salim’s arousal instead of dousing it. Only his friend Sadiq and his legal team knew of his plans. He shouldn’t have said anything to this woman, who was still a relative stranger...and yet he relished the easing of a weight off his shoulders.
‘I’m going to abdicate and ensure that a far more suitable person takes over as king in my place.’ Even if the signs of finding that person weren’t very encouraging.
Salim was mesmerised by the play of emotions over her face and he realised that she was quite beautiful. More beautiful for not being showy or wearing layers of make-up. She was obviously struggling to understand. He almost felt sorry for her.
‘But...if you’re intent on abdicating then why be crowned in the first place?’
‘Because the country isn’t entirely stable at the moment. There are tribal factions who want to see the city restored to a conservatism that hasn’t existed for years. They’ve been growing stronger. If I was to walk away now it would create a vacuum, which they would use as an opportunity to storm the city and take over...there is a real danger of warfare.’
She glanced around them before whispering forcefully, ‘But if you abdicate won’t the same thing happen?’
Salim shook his head. ‘By the time I abdicate I will ensure that whoever takes my place will be a force for good in the country. Someone who will command the respect of everyone and see the country into the future.’
She looked unimpressed and sat back, shaking her head. ‘Isn’t that meant to be you? Why would you do this when it’s your destiny?’
Salim put down his napkin on the table, his skin prickling for exposing himself like this. ‘You call being bred with calculated precision destiny? If it was destiny then my twin sister would be queen—she was born ten minutes before me—but because she was a girl and therefore deemed unsuitable, I was named the heir to the throne of Tabat.’
She looked at him, her face pale. ‘You have a sister? I didn’t realise...’
He curled his hand into a fist on the table and forced himself not to look away from that too-direct green gaze. ‘She’s dead. A long time ago.’
Charlotte felt the sheikh’s—Salim’s—tension. It crackled between them.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know... There was no mention...’
She was still reeling from what he’d just revealed about his plans as king...or non-plans. And that he’d had a sister.
‘How did she die?’
Salim looked at her for a long moment, but Charlotte had the sense he wasn’t seeing her. Then his focus narrowed to her again and she shivered.
‘It doesn’t matter how she died. She did. It’s in the past now.’
But Charlotte had a very keen sense that it wasn’t in the past at all. To change the subject a little, she pointed out, ‘Your brother seems happy to accept his role.’
Salim’s hand tightened around his napkin. ‘My brother and I are very different people. I made my life far away from here. I have numerous business concerns around the world... I employ thousands of people. Are they worth any less than the people of Tabat?’
‘No, of course not...but surely there is a way to run your businesses while also ruling Tabat?’
He inclined his head and his mouth tipped up slightly, as if mocking her. Charlotte felt heat rise. He was obviously finding her naive or clueless.
‘I’m sure if I wanted to I could find a way, Miss McQuillan, but the truth is that I’m not prepared to make that sacrifice. Tabat deserves a committed and devoted ruler. I am not that man.’
Why? The word almost fell out of Charlotte’s mouth, but she clawed it back at the last moment.
Salim sat back then, and said, ‘I’m hosting a party in the palace this weekend. You are, of course, more than welcome. If you’re still here.’
If you’re still here.
Charlotte schooled her features, not liking the dart of hurt she felt that he was still intent on getting rid of her. ‘Do you think the prospect of one of your infamous parties is enough to scare me off?’
He arched a brow. Supremely comfortable. Supremely dangerous. ‘Infamous? Please, do tell me what you’ve heard. I’m intrigued.’
She cursed her runaway mouth. ‘That they’re a byword in hedonism and last for days. The last party you hosted at an oasis in the Moroccan desert ended with several of the guests being airlifted to hospital.’
He shook his head. ‘I hate to burst your righteously indignant bubble, Miss McQuillan, but contrary to what was reported the helicopter was for me, to take me to the airport in Marrakech so that I could make a meeting in Paris. Nothing more salacious than that. The party broke up a couple of days later of its own accord, and I can assure you that no one suffered anything more than sunburn and a hangover.’
Charlotte immediately felt like assuring him that she wasn’t an avid follower of tabloid gossip and that she’d only read about it while researching him and Tabat, but she resisted. ‘I told you, I’ve no intention of reneging on my contract.’
Salim shrugged and finished his wine. ‘Suit yourself.’
Struggling to try and find some equilibrium again, some vague sense of being in control, Charlotte said, ‘I really don’t think that a similar party would go down well here—unless it’s part of your plan to deliberately paint yourself in such a negative light that you think it’ll make your abdication welcome.’
He considered her words for a long moment, and then said, ‘Not a bad idea at all, Miss McQuillan. Are you sure you aren’t in the PR field?’
Before she could answer he said, ‘As much as your idea has some merit, I’m not as crass as that. The last thing I want is to portray Tabat in an unfavourable light. After all, I’m on a campaign to make it as desirable as possible. So, no, this party won’t be featuring scenes of Bacchanalian debauchery, it’ll be very civilised and elegant.’
