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Zuhra snorted, but didn’t stop him, instead turning to greet her daughters instead. The woman moved off toward the gardens at the back of the house, along with his brothers and their wives—all of them chattering away in a mix of English and Arabic and most certainly gossiping about Feraz and Roxanne and their disaster of a marriage.
He led his pale, shaking wife into the air-conditioned foyer then signaled to one of the servants to get her some water to drink. He helped Roxanne into a gold gilt chair against the wall then crouched in front of her. Her poor feet were swollen to the point of redness, and before he could rethink his actions, Feraz had removed her shoe to rub her sore foot. Gently, he worked out the knots and restored circulation while she stared down at him, the weight of her stare prickling the back of his neck. When he hazarded a look up at her again, his tone sounded rough, even to his own ears. “Feel better?”
* * *
It felt way more than better, but Isabella didn’t trust her voice at the moment. She’d been worried about meeting Feraz’s family, and most especially his mother, again. The sisters had taken it pretty much as she’d expected—wary and defensive. But to hear Zuhra talk about her in such glowing terms and to see the true sadness in her eyes because she thought Isabella was dead nearly made her confess the truth. It had only been the fact that Feraz had tugged her into his side and the baby had started kicking again that stopped her.
Man, this was going to be way more difficult than she’d anticipated. Not because people didn’t believe she was Roxanne, but because they did. She’d loved her sister, really she had, but she’d also not been aware of how badly Roxanne had hurt people through her careless and callous actions. How her affairs had affected Feraz and his family. She’d gone into this for the money, but now she feared there wasn’t enough currency in the world to save her self-respect.
And when Feraz looked at her like that, all care and concern and barely-concealed heat in his dark eyes, all she wanted to do was curl up in his lap and tell him all her problems. Except honesty wasn’t an option, not where this whole screwed-up mess was concerned. She was on her own, pregnant and vulnerable, and a long, long way from home. She
needed to be smart about this and not let her emotions get the better of her, regardless of how hard that might be with her pretend husband around. Because when Feraz had kissed her on the plane, things between them hadn’t felt like pretend at all.
She slowly withdrew her foot from his hand and gave him a wan smile, thanking the servant who’d returned with a cold bottle of water for her. Isabella sipped her drink, watching Feraz. He’d straightened and was now standing several feet away, frowning down at her like he couldn’t figure her out. Good luck with that, buddy. In truth, Isabella hadn’t been able to understand what the hell she was doing from the minute she’d agreed to the IVF in Roxanne’s place. Yes, her mother needed the money and yes, Isabella had always wanted children of her own someday even though there’d been no guy she’d dated seriously for years. But this was…wow.
Now that the shock of seeing Zuhra again had worn off, Isabella took a look around the palace foyer. It was just as spectacular as she remembered, all glittering mosaics and priceless antique furniture. Beautiful. Stunning. Growing up poor, she’d never imagined living in such luxury.
“If you’re feeling better, I can show you to your rooms,” Feraz said, arms crossed as if guarding himself.
Isabella slid her shoe back on then stood. “Yes, please. I’d like to freshen up.”
“Of course.” Feraz bowed slightly then led her across the foyer and down a series of maze-like mirrored halls. “I hope my sisters were not too much of a bother to you on the ride here?”
“Oh, no. They were fine.” She glanced sideways to see the luxurious walled gardens outside through the windows beside Feraz, and his family still clustered together talking. Most likely about her. Ugh. Feraz raised a brow, his expression dubious. “I mean they were curious, naturally. About why I’d returned home with you now, and what my intentions were for the future where you’re concerned.”
“And what did you tell them?”
They rounded another corner and the sunlight faded as they headed toward the interior of the palace. The floors here were carpeted and the thick padding felt heavenly on Isabella’s sore feet.
She shrugged, not wanting to start another long discussion at this point. They were both tired and travel-worn and would most likely only say or do something foolish. “I told them I’m here for the baby and that I was doing my best one day at a time.”
Not a lie. Not the whole truth either.
“Right.” They reached the end of a wide hall. Huge oil paintings, portraits of men and women whom Isabella assumed were Feraz’s ancestors, lined the walls. He flung open a set of white and gold double doors that led into yet another sumptuous foyer, this one smaller and done in dark woods and Chinese ceramics. She followed him inside the circular space. On each side, opposite one another were two doors. Feraz pointed to the one on the left. “That is your suite. This one on the right is mine. Shall we meet out here again in say, half an hour? I will walk you back to the formal dining room for lunch. It’s been some time since you lived here in the palace and the hallways can be confusing. The servants will bring your bag in shortly.”
Isabella nodded then opened the door to her private rooms, waiting until she heard Feraz’s door close behind him before letting out a small squeak. This suite of rooms was bigger than her entire apartment in Queens. As she walked around, inspecting the sitting area and the bedroom and the bathroom with both a dual-head walk-in shower and a Jacuzzi bathtub big enough for five people, she couldn’t stop gaping. Why in the world would Roxanne walk away from all this? More to the point, what in the hell had her sister been searching for that all of this amazingness hadn’t been enough?
Isabella kicked off her shoes and used the facilities, then slumped down on the edge of her bed, unsure what to do next. She couldn’t change until the servant brought her bag, so she checked out the huge walk-in closet instead. It was still filled with her sister’s clothes. Isabella walked inside and buried her face in the soft silk of a dress, inhaling deeply Roxanne’s spicy perfume. Unexpected tears stung her eyes and she stepped back, swiping her hand across the back of her damp cheeks. She still missed her sister every day, missed talking to her and laughing with her, even if she didn’t always approve of Roxanne’s choices.
“I’ll make this work, sis,” she whispered up at the ceiling. “I promise.”
As if in response, the baby kicked again, and Isabella placed her hand on her stomach, smiling. “We’ll make this work, won’t we little guy?”
A knock sounded at the door and Isabella made her way out of the closet in time to see the woman who’d brought her the water place her bag on the dresser. The servant bowed slightly to Isabella then left again without a word.
She walked over and pulled out the paltry items she’d brought from home, a clean pair of maternity jeans, a few more clean T-shirts, a pair of sandals, underwear, socks, a baggy tent-like sundress that should still fit through the end of her pregnancy.
None of it compared to the high-fashion, designer duds that filled her sister’s closet.
Once more, despair overwhelmed Isabella and she sniffled. She felt like the lamb who’d wandered into the lions’ den, totally unprepared for the battle ahead. Not only was she a first-time mother, she was also not the woman she claimed to be. She was here in the home of her sister’s husband, pretending to be said sister, and ill-equipped for the charade. Yes, Roxanne had sat her down right after the IVF had taken and quizzed her on all things Nazrani. She’d tutored her in all the things that Roxanne said and did and Isabella had done the same for her sister. They’d thought the ruse would be short-term at best. Neither expected tragedy to strike and Isabella had never thought she’d be stuck living as her sister for the rest of her life. She liked being plain old Isabella, nerd and nice person. She didn’t want to be jet-setting, party-girl Roxanne.
Grumbling, she put her meager belongings away and was contemplating whether or not she had time to try out that gorgeous bathtub when another knock sounded on the door. Before she could ask who was there, Feraz walked in, looking dapper as always in fresh shirt and trousers. He’d left off the tie now and had the first few buttons of his shirt undone to reveal the strong lines of his tanned throat. She felt the crazy urge to nuzzle the pulse point at the base of his neck to taste the salt from his skin.
“Ready for lunch?” he asked, his dark gaze flicking over her.
“Sorry. I got busy exploring and didn’t have time to change.” Her stomach growled loudly as she slipped on her shoes once more.
“No worries. You look beautiful as you are.” He waggled his fingers toward her. “Come, let’s eat and then I need to get back to work. I’ll walk you to the dining room.”
