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Carefully, she put the necklace back in its case and smiled. ‘I’d love to meet your brother,’ she said.
‘Good.’ Tariq walked through to his private office, calling out over his shoulder, ‘I’ll let you have the details later.’
Isobel waited until the door had closed behind him, then stared at the jewellery case in her handbag, a strange cocktail of emotions forming a tight knot at the pit of her stomach. She might be going out of her mind, but try as she might she couldn’t quite subdue the sudden flare of happiness which rose within her. Hand-picked jewels and meeting his brother were surely remarkable enough to merit a little analysis. Was it possible that, deep down, Tariq was willing to move this relationship on to something a little more tangible?
Cold reason tried to swamp her as she remembered the emphatic way he’d told her that he didn’t ever want commitment, or a family of his own. But measured against that was the terrible loneliness he’d experienced as a child. Maybe now he was coming to realise that people could change—and so could circumstances. That what they had was good. That it didn’t have to peter out after a few weeks—that maybe it could endure and grow. Was that too much to hope for?
But she felt as if she were on shifting sands—her hopes quickly replaced by a strange feeling of foreboding as she remembered something she’d read somewhere.
She clicked open the box to stare at the multi-hued fire of her brand-new necklace, and frowned. Because weren’t opals supposed to be awfully unlucky?
CHAPTER NINE
‘YOU LOOK FINE, Izzy. Really.’
For the umpteenth time Isobel smoothed damp palms down over her thick mass of curls, aware that she was probably mussing her hair up instead of flattening it. She frowned at Tariq. What kind of a recommendation was that? ‘Fine’ wasn’t the kind of description she wanted when she was about to meet the King of Khayarzah and his English bride Queen Francesca. Not when she felt so nervous that her knees were actually shaking.
‘That’s a pretty lukewarm endorsement,’ she said.
His black eyes gleamed as he captured one of her fluttering hands and directed it towards his mouth. ‘I thought honesty was our mantra?’
‘Maybe it is, but sometimes a woman needs a little fabrication.’
‘No need for fabrication, kalila,’ he said. He brushed her a brief kiss as their car drew to a halt outside the glittering frontage of the Granchester Hotel, but if the truth were known he was finding this very feminine need for reassurance a touch too domestic for his taste. Had it been wise to extend this invitation? he wondered. Or was Izzy now reading far more into it than he’d intended her to read? Maybe he should have made it clearer that there was no real significance behind the meeting with his brother. ‘You look absolutely stunning,’ he drawled. ‘Didn’t I tell you exactly that just an hour ago?’
Yes, he had, Isobel conceded. But a man said all kinds of things to a woman when he had just finished ravishing her in the middle of his big bed...
Their spontaneous lovemaking had left her running late—but maybe it was better not to have had time to fret about her appearance when she’d been nervous enough already. She was wearing a new dress in grey silk jersey, and its careful draping did amazing things for her figure. She’d teamed the dress with high-heeled black suede shoes, and on Tariq’s instructions had left her hair hanging loose. She’d wondered aloud if the wild cloud of Titian curls was not a little too much, but he had wound his fingers through its corkscrew strands and told her that it was a crime to hide it away.
Her only adornment was the opals he had brought her back from America, and they sparkled rainbow light at her throat and dominated the subdued palette of her outfit. The gems he’d chosen for her himself... How could such beautiful gems possibly be unlucky? she asked herself, her fingertips reaching up to touch the cool stones as a doorman sprang to open the car door.
The private elevator zoomed them up to the penthouse suite, and when the door was opened by a man who was unmistakably Tariq’s brother all Isobel’s expectations were confounded.
He had the same hawk-like features as Tariq—and the same knockout combination of ebony hair and glowing olive skin. But he was casually dressed in dark trousers, and although he was wearing a silk shirt he was tieless. Isobel had been expecting to be greeted by a servant, so her curtsey was hastily scrambled together and ill-prepared. But King Zahid smiled at her as he indicated that she should rise.
‘No formality,’ he warned. ‘That is my wife’s instruction, and I dare not disobey!’
‘Why, Zahid—you sound as if you are almost under the thumb,’ mocked Tariq softly.
‘Perhaps I am. And a very beautiful thumb it happens to be,’ murmured Zahid.
‘You’ve changed,’ observed Tariq, creasing his brow in a frown. ‘You’d never have admitted to something like that in the past.’
‘Ah, but everything changes, Tariq,’ said Zahid. ‘That is one of life’s great certainties.’
For a moment the light of challenge sparked between the eyes of the brothers, and for a moment Isobel caught a glimpse of what the two men must have been like as children.
‘Come this way,’ continued Zahid, leading them into an enormous sitting room whose floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the park.
And there, with a baby on her knee and another crawling close by on the floor, was the English Queen Francesca, her dark hair tied back in a ponytail and a slightly harassed smile on her face. She had a snowy blanket hanging over one shoulder, and was holding a grubby white toy polar bear, at which the sturdy baby on her lap kept lunging.
Isobel blinked. The last thing she’d expected was to see a queen in blue jeans, playing nursemaid!
‘No, please don’t curtsey, Izzy—we’re very relaxed here,’ said Francesca with a wide smile. ‘But if you want to be really helpful you could pick up Omar before he tries to eat Zahid’s shoe! Azzam has already tried! Darling, I do wish you’d keep them out of reach.’
Rather nervously, Isobel bent to scoop up the black-haired baby, aware that one of these precious boy twins was the heir to the Khayarzah throne. A robust little creature, Omar was wearing an exquisite yellow romper suit which contrasted with his ebony curls. He took one long and suspicious look at the woman now holding him, then gave a shout as he began to tug at her hair.
Isobel giggled as she extricated his tiny chubby fingers, all the nerves she’d been feeling suddenly evaporating. You couldn’t possibly feel uptight when you were holding a cuddly bundle like this. He was so sweet! She risked a glance at Tariq, but met no answering smile on his face. In fact his expression suddenly looked so glacial that she felt momentarily flummoxed. But at least he was now directing the chilly stare at his brother instead of her.
