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No, it wasn’t the place of Karim’s advisors or servants to understand what was in his heart—nor could they help him wrestle his demons, whatever they were—because that wasn’t a job of an employee, it was a job of the woman he loved.
And okay, maybe she wasn’t actually that woman. But she was all he had at the moment.
Over the last seventy-two hours she’d been panicking about her own situation. Worrying about what it would mean if she and Karim were forced to go through with this wedding.
But she could see clearly now that Karim was the one who needed an anchor—even more than she did right now. Perhaps it was time to show Karim she could help out with more than just his father’s Arabian stallions.
‘I need to see the King now,’ she said.
Ameera frowned. ‘That is not good luck for your marriage, to see him so soon before the wedding.’
Right. So they had the same silly superstitions in Zafar as they did in Kildare. She sighed. ‘How about if I wrote a note?’ she asked. ‘Could someone deliver it?’
‘That would be very romantic.’ Ameera smiled, obviously pleased with the idea of her and Karim sending each other love notes. ‘I can deliver it, while the ladies prepare your bath.’
‘Grand,’ Orla said.
Now all she had to do was figure out what to write, so Karim would know she was ready to go along with the wedding if that was what he needed. And she was here for him, if that was what he needed, too.
‘Sheikh Zane and Queen Catherine of Narabia and Prince Kasim and Princess Kasia of the Kholadi tribal lands have just arrived at the palace with their entourages. Would you like me to have them taken to their rooms before you greet them?’
Karim glared at Saed Khouri, his head of household, and tried not to snap at the man—especially when the older man flinched and bowed deeply.
Perhaps it was time he admitted defeat. He’d been in negotiations with the Ruling Council for three days now, trying to be diplomatic as he arranged to postpone or cancel this damn wedding while also dealing with a million and one other issues—some large, some small, all urgent—and he’d got absolutely nowhere. While carrying out all his other orders and decrees, the council had effectively steamrollered over all his suggestions to do with the wedding, and now apparently they hadn’t even got around to cancelling the invitations to the neighbouring rulers and other VIP guests that had been sent without his permission.
No way was he going to be able to stop the wedding now.
‘Sure, you do that, Saed,’ he said, not making much of an effort to hide his frustration. ‘I’ll greet them properly in an hour,’ he said, distracted by the thought of the conversation he was going to have to have now with Orla. ‘Make sure they have everything they need in the meantime.’
Karim had met Zane Khan, a distant cousin, and his British wife, Catherine, a few times at events in London and New York and he’d had a few business dealings with Zane’s half-brother, Raif, aka Prince Kasim, but knowing both men and their wives and children had been invited to witness this fake event was not improving his temper.
Karim’s frontal lobe started to pulse as Saed left his study.
Somehow or other he was going to have to explain this whole mess to Orla, and ask her to go through with the wedding. Perhaps he could offer her the job she’d asked for at Calhouns, or something similar. And include the payment she’d originally turned down? A million euros would surely sweeten the prospect of having to pretend to be his Queen for any length of time. But even as he contemplated doing that, he felt the bitter taste in his mouth. How could he offer her money? When he still planned to have a wedding night with her? It was the only damn thing that made the thought of going through with this farce tolerable. Wouldn’t offering her money now be like paying her for sex? Of course, he’d had mistresses in the past, who he had supported financially… But his situation with Orla was not the same. Something about her had always been different from the other women he’d dated. He would certainly never have contemplated going through a marriage ceremony with any of them. Would never have trusted them not to take advantage of the situation. But strangely he did trust Orla. And he wasn’t even sure why.
Maybe it was that moment when she had told him she trusted him? Or maybe it had happened before that, perhaps when she had responded with such artless abandon in his arms in the car journey from Hammonds? Or was it that first night, when she had clung to him and looked to him for protection? And for one terrifying moment, all he’d wanted to do was keep her safe.
It would be deeply ironic—that a woman he was being forced to marry had come to mean more to him than any other woman before her—if it weren’t so damn disturbing. How did you tell someone you actually respected, and who you cared enough about not to use, that you were going to have to use them anyway? He had no idea, as he’d never allowed anyone to get so close to him before. And now he was going to be forced—thanks to what he was sure was the deliberate intransigence of his Ruling Council—to let Orla get closer still.
Karim paced the length of the ornate room, and finally let go of the curse word that had been building inside him.
He had forced himself not to see Orla again before he could give her a definitive answer about the wedding. But he wasn’t sure going to her now was a good idea. After the agony of spending eight hours in a plane with her and two hours in a car—on the journey here—and not being able to put his hands on her, perhaps they both deserved the chance to savour the moment, to spend a long, indulgent night together once this farce was done with?
The knock on the door of his chambers dragged his attention back to the present, but did nothing to stem the hot pulse of heat that tormented him whenever he thought
of her.
‘Who is it?’ he shouted out.
‘Your Majesty, it is Hakim,’ his young manservant called out. ‘I have a message for you delivered by Ameera, your fiancée’s lady-in-waiting.’
Karim frowned. This had to be from Orla, demanding to know what the hell was going on. And how could he blame her? ‘Bring it in.’
The young man came in and bowed, then handed him a handwritten note. He recognised Orla’s swirling handwriting on the envelope, even though he’d only seen it once—when she had signed their engagement contract.
How had so much changed, in so short a time?
The ache in his crotch throbbed as he took the envelope off the silver salver and caught a lungful of her scent, which clung to the paper. He ripped open the envelope. He read the message and felt the vice around his ribs squeeze.
