Mills & Boon New Voices: Foreword by Katie Fforde. Ann Lethbridge
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determined to succeed.”
A pang of hurt throbbed to life inside her. “It’s not the most important thing. There’s my mother, my friends—”
“But not a lover, yes?”
“I don’t need a lover to prove I care about things other than work.”
He merely shrugged again. “As you say, then.”
“Are you going to give me the job?”
“That depends on you, Genie.”
Genie tamped down on the irritation uncoiling within her. She wasn’t about to ask him what he meant. She didn’t need to.
She turned to watch the city glide by. Al-Shahar was more modern than she’d thought it would be. Cars rolled down wide streets with tall glass and steel buildings. There were sidewalks, manicured trees and plants, and designer shops lining the streets on both sides. It was still early enough that people populated the sidewalks—the men in business suits or traditional robes, the women either wearing colorful abayas or Western clothes.
They also passed through an older section of town, where the buildings were mud-brick and she saw more than one donkey pulling a laden cart. The air smelled of spice, exotic and fresh, and she wished she could get out and explore the old bazaars. But the Hummer continued toward the palace, finally passing through the arched gates and pulling to a halt in front of huge double doors that looked as if they were made of gold.
Zafir’s door popped open. Someone had unrolled a red carpet, and he stepped out onto it, then turned and held out a hand for her. She accepted, scooting across the seat and joining him on the walkway. The car door slammed again and the vehicle moved away—everything a perfectly coordinated dance of efficiency.
Black-clad men with headsets and Uzis flanked the palace doors, while several other men fanned out behind them.
“Is it so dangerous here you need this many guards?” she asked.
Zafir frowned. “Not at all. It is simply custom.”
Another thought wormed its way into her consciousness. A worrying thought. “Zafir, you said you were putting an end to an old feud in the desert. Are you in any danger from those men?”
The double doors whisked open and they passed inside while men and women bowed low. It was disconcerting to be reminded so forcefully at every turn how exalted a being Zafir now was.
And he’d wanted to renew their physical relationship? With a woman who crawled around in dirt and mud on a regular basis? She was beginning to doubt his sincerity on that score.
He stopped at another ornate door. “I am not in danger, habiba. Do not worry yourself.”
“I wasn’t worried,” she lied. And she didn’t believe him. He’d said there were those who clung to the old ways and didn’t want change. When people felt threatened, they were capable of many things. In a volatile environment such as this, would someone go so far as to try and harm the King?
“Go with Yusuf,” Zafir said. “He will show you to your quarters. I will see you for dinner tonight.”
She could only stare after him as he turned to go.
But then he looked back at her. “And be sure to wear something sexy, Genie.”
Zafir entered his private office and went to his desk to see what papers his secretary had left for him. But his mind was on the woman he’d left standing in the hall. It was dangerous to want Genie Gray again. He had too many things he needed to do as a new king trying to cement his rule. Distractions were unwelcome.
Most of his father’s ministers had accepted him as king, though there were those who grumbled he’d spent too much time in the West, that his education in America was dangerous to tradition and custom. He was careful to pick his battles, and swift to act once he had. This issue with the blood feuds was one he intended to put a stop to as quickly as possible.
Now that he was king, he was also being pressured to marry again. A king needed heirs, and his ministers were anxious he should get started on the task. He would do so in his own time, however.
His experience with marriage thus far had not been the most pleasant. Jasmin’s death had shocked him. She’d been impulsive and high-strung, and when she’d threatened to do herself harm he’d not believed her.
He still didn’t believe she’d meant to kill herself.
She’d most likely meant to scare him when she’d taken the pills. She’d counted on him to find her, to call an ambulance, but he’d been delayed that day. By the time he’d found her—it had been too late. He still blamed himself for not taking her seriously, for not getting her the help she needed.
Four years after her death he’d bowed to the pressure to marry again. A mistake.
And now Genie was here, back in his life by accident when he’d never expected to see her again. Her presence brought a feeling of normalcy to the circus his life had become. She’d known him before, when he had been simply Prince Zafir, when he’d been excited about his studies and the things he would build.
Perhaps it was wrong to keep her here, but he didn’t care. Because she gave him something he’d thought lost, something he hadn’t realized he needed until she’d ripped off her veil in the tent.
Genie Gray gave him a sense of himself as he’d used to be. She made him feel less alone in this world, and he truly needed that right now. Oddly enough, he also felt a pang of guilt over the way they’d parted ten years ago. Perhaps he should have told her about his arranged marriage when they’d first met. Perhaps he should have given her the chance to decide for herself if she wanted to take the risk of being with a man who came from a world so different from her own.
And what choice are you giving her now?
He shoved the thought aside brutally. He would not force her into his bed, no matter what he’d told her. He’d been angry, and he’d said things he did not mean.
But he would bed her again. It was as inevitable as the sandstorms that swept across the desert.
Genie stood in the middle of the cavernous quarters she’d been shown to—the old harem, Yusuf had explained—and studied the tilework over her head. The room was vaulted, the mosaic inlaid with gold and precious gems. It was an extraordinary room.
There were marble columns, soaring arches, stained glass, and a crystal chandelier that must stand twice as tall as she if it were lowered to the floor and she could measure herself against it.
This room connected to another—a smaller room this time, with a large bed on a dais in the center. The furnishings were ornate, more modern than appropriately suited this space, and luxurious. She went through another door and found a bathroom that would more or less be considered a spa where she lived. A cutout high in the roof let natural light in, and it shafted down over a pool—yes, pool—from which steam arose.
A natural hot spring. Marvelous.
On a long shelf there were scented oils and cosmetics in an array of delicate blown-glass bottles. She passed into another room, and came up short. This was a dressing room, and one wall was lined with clothes. But whose clothes? His ex-wife’s? A mistress’s?
She plucked at the first garment. A tag was still attached to the sleeve. Galliano. She dropped the tag as if it burned when she saw the price. How many zeroes were possible when you were only talking about a dress?
Genie picked up the next garment, and the next. All had tags. And all had cost far more than a month’s wages.
She passed back into the large reception area, to find a woman laying out a teapot along with small cakes and a selection of fruit near one of the divans.
“Please, madam,” the woman said. “His Majesty sends you greetings.”
She indicated an envelope