Читать книгу Modern Romance May 2017 Books 5 – 8 - Bella Frances, Louise Fuller - Страница 11
ОглавлениеIT TRULY WAS a beautiful wedding.
Not that Gabi had a second to enjoy it.
Resplendent in his kilt, the best man was being actively pursued by the matron of honour and doing his best to get away. Fleur was tense and asking that they hurry. The little flower girls were teary and cold as they stood in the snow for photos and Gabi felt like a bedraggled shepherdess as she juggled umbrellas for the bridal party and tried to herd the guests.
She was wearing boots, but that was the only concession to the cold.
Finally they were all in cars and heading off for the reception as Gabi ensured that the choir had been paid.
Bernadetta sat in her car, smoking, as Gabi shivered her way down the church steps.
And then it happened.
Gabi slipped on the ice and bumped down the last three stairs in the most ungainly fashion imaginable.
Not that anyone came over to help.
She sat for a moment, trying to catch her breath and assess the damage.
From the feel of things her bottom was bruised.
Pulling herself to a stand, Gabi saw that her skirt was filthy and sodden and, removing her jacket, she saw that it had split along the back seam.
To make things just a little bit more miserable than they already were, Bernadetta was furious, especially that Gabi had no change of clothes.
‘Why haven’t you got a spare suit with you?’ she demanded. ‘You’re supposed to be a planner after all.’
Because you only give me two suits, Gabi wanted to answer, but she knew it wouldn’t help. ‘It’s at the dry-cleaner’s.’
And, of course, Bernadetta spitefully pointed out that no one else had one that would fit Gabi.
‘Go home and get changed,’ she hissed. ‘Wear something...’ And she took her hands and sort of exasperatedly pushed them together, as if Gabi was supposed to produce something that might contract her size.
And Bernadetta didn’t add, as she always did to her other staff, Don’t outshine the bride.
Gabi, it was assumed, hadn’t a hope of that.
Oh, she wanted to resign, so very much.
Gabi was close to tears as she arrived back at her tiny flat and, of course, there was nothing in her wardrobe she could possibly wear.
Well, there was one thing.
The silver-grey dress made by Rosa’s magical hands, though Bernadetta would consider her grossly overdressed.
Yet it was a very simple design...
Gabi undressed and saw that, yes, she indeed had a bruise on her bottom and on the left of her thigh.
In fact, she ached and was cold to the bone.
A quick shower warmed her up and Gabi was, by the time she stepped out of it, actually a lot more relaxed for the brief reprieve.
Wedding days were always so full on and it was actually nice to take a short break.
When she had her own business, Gabi decided, she would organise a rota so that all of her staff were able to take some time between the formal service and the reception. Perhaps there could be a change of outfit for them too...
Gabi halted.
She was back to hoping and dreaming that one day she might be working for herself.
How, though, when Bernadetta had her securely locked in?
Still there wasn’t time to dwell on it now.
The dress had been a gift from Rosa but, feeling guilty simply accepting it, Gabi had splurged on the right bra to go with it and, of course, matching silver knickers, which she quickly put on before wriggling into the dress.
Rosa really was a magician with fabric—the dress was cut on the bias and fell beautifully over her curves.
And it deserved more effort than her usual lack.
Sitting at her small dressing table, Gabi twisted her hair and piled it up on her head, rather than leaving it down. She put on some lip-gloss and mascara and then worried that it might be too much because usually she didn’t bother with such things.
Yet she didn’t wipe them off.
Instead, she dressed to look her best.
Tonight she didn’t want to be the dowdy funeral director version of Gabi, or the clumsy, fall-down-the-stairs, eternally rushed wedding planner she appeared at times.
It was a split-second decision, a choice that she made.
Gabi looked in the mirror. This was the person she would be if she worked for herself and was orchestrating a high-class function tonight.
This was actually the closest she had ever looked to the woman she was inside.
Gabi arrived back at the hotel, her stunning dress hidden by a coat and wearing boots with her pretty shoes held in a bag. Security was tight and Ronaldo, the doorman, even though he knew her well, apologised but said that she had to show ID. ‘There are VIP’s staying at the hotel,’ he explained as he stamped his feet against the cold.
‘There often are,’ Gabi said.
‘Royalty,’ Ronaldo grumbled, because royalty in residence meant a whole lot of extra work!
‘Who?’
‘Gabi,’ Ronaldo warned, for he was under strict instruction, but then smiled as he chose to reveal—it was just to Gabi after all! ‘The Sultan of Sultans and his daughter.’
‘Wow!’
Oh, she hoped for a glimpse of them—it sounded amazing!
Gabi handed over her coat at Reception and pursed her lips when she saw the large crimson floral display in the foyer.
The Grande Lucia was a wonderful hotel but it was like turning the Titanic to effect change at times.
Nervous, a little shy, and doing her best not to show it, Gabi returned to the wedding and walked straight into Bernadetta’s spiteful reproach.
‘If the bride had wanted a Christmas tree arrangement in the corner, I would have charged her for one,’ Bernadetta hissed, and Gabi felt her tiny drop of confidence in her newfound self drain away.
‘We need to check that the gramophone has been properly set up,’ Bernadetta told her. ‘And we need to find the key to the gallery for the photographer.’
‘We’ being Gabi.
She hit the ballroom floor running, or rather working away to make the night go as smoothly as possible for the happy couple.
Indeed, they looked happy.
Mona’s dress was sublime and her groom was handsome and relaxed and...
Gabi frowned.
James reminded her of someone, but she could not place him.
Or was it just the fact that he was tall and blond, like his mother, that made him stand out a touch more amongst the many Italian guests?
There was no time to dwell on it, though, and no time to acknowledge the ache of disappointment that Alim was nowhere to be seen.
And she admitted it to herself then, as she let the photographer up to the gallery and walked back through the foyer.
The dress, the pretty heels, the hair and the make-up...
In part they had been on the off chance that Alim might see her.
* * *
Alim was, in fact, in the building, but for once his presence was low key.
‘I hate that we can’t be at the wedding,’ Yasmin moaned for the hundredth time, and pushed her dessert aside unfinished.
Alim said nothing in response.
He was very used to his sister’s histrionics.
‘We are shooed away like vermin,’ Yasmin snarled, and threw down her napkin.
‘Hardly vermin,’ Alim drawled, refusing to be drawn in—they were sitting in the private area of the sumptuous restaurant at the Grande Lucia after all.
Their father did not join them for it would only draw attention, and that was everything Alim was doing his best to avoid.
At least for tonight.
The staff at the Grande Lucia were very used to esteemed guests but, Alim knew, they were starting to comprehend that Oman, the Sultan of Sultans, was in fact Alim’s father.
Alim did not use his title in the workplace—Sultan Alim al-Lehan of Zethlehan.
Neither did he use it in his personal life, for it was a risqué personal life indeed. Diamonds paid for silence and there was the slick machine of the palace PR to wash indiscretions away.
Oman’s main indiscretion was the reason they were here in the dining room tonight.
Close to the wedding but not present.
Tonight, when the happy couple headed to the bridal suite, Fleur, the groom’s mother, would head to her own sumptuous suite of rooms.
Violetta, who dealt with palace PR and external arrangements, had taken over the arrangements of the guest rooms from Marianna.
Alim did not need to know, though of course he did, that Fleur’s suite adjoined his father’s.
Fleur was Oman’s mistress of long standing.
She had borne the Sultan of Sultans his first son.
James had had a seemingly privileged life. He had been schooled at Windsor, had attended university in Scotland, and had a trust fund that would make most people’s eyes water.
But his father’s name did not appear on his birth certificate and he bore no title. To the people of Zethlehan he simply did not exist.
Yet he was Alim, Kaleb and Yasmin’s half-brother, and they loved him so.
Kaleb, who was younger than Alim, would instead see the happy couple in Paris, where he currently lived.
The three of them together would turn heads indeed but subtlety was the aim on this night.
Yasmin, who lived a very sheltered life in Zethlehan, had pleaded to be a part of the proceedings.
Those fervent pleas from Yasmin had been declined by their father and so Alim had stepped in and offered to do what he could to enable Yasmin to observe the wedding from a distance.
Alim had arranged it so that he and Yasmin had been taking refreshments in the lounge when the bridal party had arrived back from the church, so that Yasmin could see the dress and everything.
Yasmin had enjoyed it immensely. ‘What on earth is he wearing?’ she asked about the best man.
‘A kilt,’ Alim explained. ‘He’s from Scotland.’
‘Oh, it’s so exciting,’ Yasmin breathed.
A glimpse of the bridal party wasn’t enough for her, though.
And though Alim had arranged that they eat the same meal and drink the same wines as the bridal party, it was a somewhat muted celebration.
The speeches would be wrapping up now, Alim explained, and he actually ached that he was not able to hear them.
‘I want to see them dance.’ Yasmin pouted.
She was very used to getting her own way.
But not in this, Alim promised.
There were volumes of intricate and ancient laws and, until he himself ruled, Alim had no choice but to adhere to them.
Alim loved his country fiercely, and respected many of the traditions, yet from childhood he had seen the need for change.
For now, though, he tried to placate his young sister.
‘You will see James and Mona tomorrow for breakfast; you can congratulate them then.’
‘It’s not the same, though!’ Yasmin refused to be mollified. ‘Why can’t I slip into the ballroom for just a few moments and see them? You shall, Alim.’
‘I shall only because I own the hotel and I often check in on functions. You would be noticed.’
Yasmin, like her brothers, had her share of the al-Lehan good looks and her entrance would be noted.
It would not take much for people to work things out.
Even so, Alim could not bear to see his sister unhappy—he knew how much Yasmin had been looking forward to such a rare occasion as a trip overseas.
‘Listen,’ Alim said. ‘There is a viewing gallery in the ballroom.’ He watched Yasmin’s eyes widen. ‘The photographer will be there now, setting up for photos, but after he comes down, you could watch things from there for a short while. I can give you a master key and you can go in a separate entrance from him and wait.’
‘Yes!’ Her eyes shone with excitement.
‘Just for a little while,’ Alim warned. ‘The photographer will be back towards the end of the celebrations so keep an eye on him for when he leaves to come back up.’
‘I shall.’
He gave her the key and further instructions and pretended not to notice that she swiped a bottle of champagne as they walked from the dining room.
Yasmin was very protected and afforded none of the freedom that Alim and Kaleb had been.
She deserved a little fun during her time in Rome, Alim thought.
So he led her to the stairwell and warned her again to stay low and to be quiet.
‘Thank you, Alim!’
‘Don’t make trouble! Watch for a little while and then go to bed.’
Alone now, it was Alim who wanted to see his brother on this his wedding day.
And he also wanted to speak with Gabi.
Alim was a very astute businessman and he recognised Gabi’s talent. He had worked very hard to bring the hotel up to standard but was aware that there was still much to be done. Marianna was very set in her ways and the more he thought about it, the more he wanted Gabi to be a part of his team.
Alim did not use the main entrance to the ballroom, for he wished to be discreet. Instead, he walked out through a courtyard and breathed in the cold air.
It was snowing and he stood for a moment listening to the applause as the speeches ended. The master of ceremonies was telling the guests that there had been another couple who had married here some sixty years ago and was leading into the first dance for the newlyweds.
Holding the wedding here and all that entailed had been the least he could do for his half-brother.
The staff might discover his royal status perhaps, but that was a small price to pay for being able to be somewhat involved in this day.
He wondered how his father felt, upstairs in the Royal Suite, as his eldest son married downstairs.
Alim walked in through the French windows and looked over at Fleur, who sat, a part of the bridal party yet somehow remote.
Alim held nothing against her—in fact, he felt for her. She had been a good mother to James and had never caused any problems for his family.
He, himself, was causing problems for a certain someone, though.
His entrance, however unobtrusive, could not have come at a worse time for Gabi.
Of all the moments that Alim could have chosen to check on proceedings, Gabi would have preferred that it was not this particular one.
Often he arrived with an entourage, but on this night he had slipped quietly into the ballroom just as the happy couple were about to take to the floor.
And that was the problem.
An old-fashioned gramophone had been set up and a microphone discreetly placed over it so that in this delicious old ballroom history would tonight be repeated.
Of course, there was a back-up recording to hand should the needle skid across the vinyl or start to jump, or should the assistant wedding planner’s hand be shaking so much just at the sight of Alim.
He made her a quivering wreck simply by his presence.
He came in from the cold and, though impossible from this distance, she felt as if the cool air followed him in, for she shivered.
Do not look over, Gabi told herself. Just ignore that he has come in.
Under Bernadetta’s less-than-reassuring glare, Gabi placed the needle on the vinyl and the sounds of yesteryear crackled into life. It was not the bride and groom who took to the dance floor—it was the bride’s grandparents.
Tenderly, the elderly man held his wife and it was the perfect pastiche as the younger couple joined them.
It was an incredibly moving passing of the baton and just so utterly romantic to watch the elderly couple and the newlyweds dance side by side that it brought a tear to Gabi’s eyes.
Oh, it made all the sleepless nights worth it, just for this.
She glanced up and saw that the photographer was snapping away.
They would be beautiful photos indeed.
Gabi went through her list on her tablet and saw that for now she was up to date.
Everything really had gone seamlessly.
‘Another Matrimoni di Bernadetta success,’ Bernadetta said, and Gabi’s jaw gritted as her boss came and stood by her side. ‘I hope that I can trust you to take it from here.’
Bernadetta made it sound as if she was bestowing a great favour when in truth she was skiving off early and leaving it all to Gabi.
All of it had been left to Gabi.
Bernadetta had flown back from her vacation just this morning and had spent most of the day staying warm in her luxurious car.
Gabi stood there, biting back tears as Bernadetta waltzed off, though of course she took time to network. Bernadetta knew very well which side her bread was buttered on, and was sweet and charming to anyone who might assist her ascent. She walked up to Alim, and Gabi saw her put her hands up in false modesty as she no doubt accepted congratulations from Alim for another hugely successful wedding.
And Gabi stood there, dreaming of one day going it alone.
Just dreaming of the day when she could call a night such as this her success and be the one Alim congratulated.
And that was how he saw her.
Lost in a dream.
Alim walked towards her and as she turned and looked towards him he smiled. She felt that she shone.
Criticism and fault were gone when she was held in his gaze.
No man had ever made her feel like that, no man had ever made her feel as if there was nothing, but nothing, that she needed to change.
He did that with just one look.
‘I was wondering...’ Alim said in that smoky voice of his, and so lost in her dream was Gabi that she put down the tablet she held and stepped towards him on instinct.
‘I’d love to.’
And then she wished the ground would open up and swallow her.
Of course his arms were not waiting for her. Gabi had thought, stupidly thought, that he was asking her to dance, but instead, as he sidestepped, it was just a cringe-inducing faux pas.
Of all the embarrassing moments she had lived through, this was Gabi’s worst.
‘We’re working, Gabi,’ Alim said politely.
But no matter how skilfully he deflected or made light of her gaffe, not even he could save her from her shame as he told her the real reason that he had approached.
Of course he hadn’t been about to ask her for this dance.
‘I was wondering,’ Alim repeated, ‘if I might have a word.’
