Modern Romance Collection: December 2017 Books 1 - 4. Эбби Грин
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article, I mean,’ her friend admitted uncomfortably. ‘Please don’t be annoyed with me for giving it to you.’
‘Of course not.’ But Jan’s warning ensured that Molly had the magazine open even before the limousine carrying her set off back to the hotel.
The horrid photograph of her arriving back from Djalia featured and she groaned out loud. Her hair was frizzy because she hadn’t had conditioner when she’d washed it in Djalia. She wore no make-up because she hadn’t had any with her and the jeans and sweater she had travelled out there wearing were plain and serviceable rather than elegant. Frowning at that unflattering photo, she took a moment or two to appreciate that there was a photo of another woman alongside her own...a sort of comparison set-up, she registered in consternation. And, worst of all, the photo showed Azrael in profile with the glossy brunette.
The brunette was Princess Nasira of Quarein, the niece of Prince Firuz and the young woman whom Azrael had reportedly been expected to marry. Nasira had gorgeous almond-shaped eyes and elegant black hair in an up-do that glittered with diamond pins. Not only was she a beauty but she also had a degree in politics from the Sorbonne in Paris, spoke half a dozen languages and ran a children’s charity in Quarein. The contrast between Molly and Nasira and her many accomplishments, not to mention the Princess’s impeccable pedigree, could not have been more painful or obvious, the slant of the article suggesting that Azrael’s choice of a British bride was both controversial and surprising. Molly turned pale and chewed her lower lip, wondering why Azrael had never mentioned Nasira to her. He had asked Molly if she had anyone in her life! Why hadn’t it occurred to her to ask him the same question?
For pity’s sake, was that why Prince Firuz had visited the palace that very first evening? Had he arrived on behalf of his niece to demand an explanation from Azrael regarding his sudden acquisition of a foreign bride? Was that why Azrael had slept apart from her? Molly reddened, admitting that she was in conflict when it came to that issue. She had sat up waiting for Azrael to reappear that night and then had lain awake for hours mentally listing all the reasons why she should not have sex with him.
In fact she had been all worked up to give him those reasons when he finally reappeared but he had proved a no-show that night and for the two nights that had followed. She never had got to make the speech she had prepared and, although he had phoned her to chat every evening since she had left, it wasn’t really the sort of conversation she wanted to stage on the phone...was it?
* * *
On the same day as Molly struggled with her wildly see-sawing emotions and urges, Azrael was, most ironically, having a similarly disturbing experience. The British press had done an in-depth investigation into his bride’s modest background, which had provided an unpleasant surprise.
In the wake of all Molly had said concerning her ailing grandfather in his care home, Azrael had been extremely surprised to read that Molly’s maternal grandfather had died long before she was born and her paternal grandfather almost as long ago. He had instructed Butrus to carry out the same research and, to Azrael’s dismay, Butrus had confirmed the information.
Molly did not have a living grandfather, which could surely only mean that she had lied to Azrael. He had put a comparatively small amount of money in her bank account to enable her to make initial payment arrangements with the care home she had mentioned. But if the grandfather didn’t exist, he could only assume that Molly had quite deliberately told him a sob story, intended to play on his sympathies. And the sob story had worked a treat, Azrael reflected grimly. He had been impressed that she was willing to make sacrifices to assist in the care of an elderly relative and he had not been suspicious when she’d insisted that she deal with the care home personally rather than allowing Azrael’s staff to contact the facility on her behalf.
Exactly when had he become so naïve and trusting? Azrael asked himself angrily. His sexual liaisons with women had taught him that his wealth did, if anything, matter more to those women than his looks or character and that the more expensive his gifts, the more they liked him and sought to please. That financial slant had turned him off, making him feel as if he was, in some sleazy way, paying for sex.
Essentially, Molly was no different from those avaricious women, he registered with innate revulsion. She was obviously determined to enrich herself as much as possible from their marriage and the story about the non-existent grandfather and the care home had merely been utilised to impress him and give her a means to demand the money she wanted. Absurdly, from his point of view it was a derisory amount of money, he acknowledged ruefully, but possibly, having come from a less privileged background, it seemed like a lot of money to Molly. Even so, it wasn’t the amount, it was the means she had employed to get that money. He was disappointed in her, furious that she had put together so elaborate a lie and more disturbed by the lying, the greed and the calculation involved than the actual cash.
Why had he expected her to be perfect? No man and no woman was perfect, he told himself logically. She had fooled him, however, and the bitter sense of disgust lingered with him, no matter how hard he tried to shake it off. How the hell could he stay married to a woman with such low principles? And yet, he really did not have a choice on that score...
* * *
Early evening, Molly returned to the building which Butrus studiously referred to as a palace and Azrael called a castle. She grinned at the recollection, recognising that Azrael was blunt in his opinions in comparison to the older man and liking that trait in him. He hadn’t phoned her before her departure from London and she had wondered why, and had even been a little disappointed not to hear his voice, but she had simply assumed that he was too busy to call her. Having taken pains with her appearance, Molly realised that she was quite ridiculously eager to see Azrael again and she scolded herself for feeling what she knew she should not feel. But nothing could slow the fast beat of her heart or the butterflies penned up in her stomach as, with a warm smile at the staff waiting to greet her, she hurried on and sped upstairs to what she now knew to be the private royal wing of the castle.
‘Where’s Azrael?’ she asked Butrus breathlessly after her whirlwind search of those rooms failed to reveal a keen bridegroom awaiting the woman due to become his bride the following day.
His benevolent face somewhat stiff, Butrus forced a smile. ‘The King is in his office, Your Majesty.’
‘Molly will do, Butrus,’ she said comfortably. ‘We don’t need to be formal behind closed doors.’
Butrus nodded while Molly smoothed damp palms down over the fitted green dress she had purchased in a high street store. The dress might have cost more money than Molly had ever spent on one item before and the shoes almost as much but she had an almost overwhelming need to look her very best at her next meeting with Azrael. After all, he had first seen her unconscious and he had never seen her either wearing make-up or dressed up. If it was possible, and she was mortified by her own vanity, she wanted to blow him away...
Azrael glanced up from his laptop when Molly walked into his office without even knocking. He would make her knock in future, he thought sternly, dark as night eyes flaring gold as he took in her altered appearance. She looked spectacular, her shapely figure and terrific legs delineated in a figure-hugging dress and high heels. He went rigid as he connected with bright green eyes full of warmth and vivacity and the smile on that luscious pink mouth. Sexual hunger flooded him with such intensity, he snatched in a fracturing breath, battling the desire that his gold-edged cloak would conceal to stand up.
Molly’s face lit up the instant she saw him, the excitement she couldn’t control flying up inside her like fireworks shooting across the heavens. He should have seemed so foreign to her in his traditional clothing, she told herself weakly, but when she laid eyes on his lean, darkly beautiful face, he was simply Azrael and nothing could detract from the surge of heat and happiness travelling through her. Yet this same man had not even come to welcome his bride back to Djalia, her brain reminded her stubbornly, and she struggled to control her fiery emotions.
‘I can see that you’re busy as usual,’ she said lightly, recognising his Mr Grumpy expression for what it was. ‘But you should have at least come to say hello.’
‘Should