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The security checkpoint was like any in an airport. She pushed her handbag and shoes through the conveyor belt then walked through an arch before collecting her things.
‘His Highness is on the third floor,’ a man to her right advised. He wasn’t a security guard. At least, he wasn’t wearing a military uniform. He wore robes that were white, just like Sariq’s, but the detailing at his wrist was in cream. ‘There is an elevator, or the central stairs.’
She opted for the latter. The opportunity to observe this building was one she wanted to take advantage of. Besides, it would give her longer to steady her nerves and to brace herself for seeing Sariq again.
A hand curved over her stomach instinctively and she dropped it almost immediately. She had to be careful. No gestures that could reveal a hint of her condition.
The stairs were made of marble as well, but at the first floor, the landing gave way on either side to shining timber floors. The walls here were cream, and enormous pieces of art in gold gilt frames lined the hallway. There were more flowers, each arrangement as elaborate as the ones downstairs.
She bit down on her lip and kept moving. The next floor was just the same—polished timber, flowers, art, and high ceilings adorned with chandeliers that cast the early afternoon light through the building, creating shimmering droplets of refraction across the walls.
She held her breath as she climbed the next set of steps. This floor was like the others except there was a noticeable increase in security presence. Two guards at the top of the stairs, and at least ten in either direction, at each door.
‘Miss Carrington?’ A man in a robe approached her. She thought he looked vaguely familiar, perhaps from Sariq’s stay at the hotel. ‘This way.’
She fell into step beside him, incapable of speech. Anticipation had made it impossible. She was vividly aware of every system in her body. Lungs that were working overtime to pump air, veins that were taxed with the effort of moving blood, skin that was punctured by goose bumps, lips that were part
ed, eyes that were sore for looking for him.
At the end of the corridor, two polished timber doors were closed. There was a brass knocker on one. The man hit it twice and then, she heard him.
‘Come.’
That one word set every system into rampant overdrive. She felt faint. But she had to do this. She hated having to ask him for money. She hated it with every fibre of her being, but what else could she do? She was already in a financially parlous state, but adding a baby to the mix and her inability to work? Neither of them would cope, and the comfort and survival of her child was more important than anything—even her pride.
The doors swung open and, after a brief pause, she stepped inside, looking around. The room was enormous. Large windows with heavy velvet drapes framed a view towards Bryant Park. She could just make out the tops of the trees from here. The furniture was heavy and wooden, dark leather sofas, and on the walls, the ancient tapestries Sariq had described. She took a step towards one, and it was then that she saw him.
Her heart almost gave way. She froze, unable to move, to speak, barely able to breathe.
Sariq.
Dressed in the traditional robes of his people, except in a more ornate fashion, this time he had a piece of gold fabric that went across his shoulders and fell down his front. On his head he wore the keffiyeh, and she stood there and stared at him dressed like this: every bit the imposing ruler. It was almost impossible to reconcile this man with the man who’d delighted her body, kissing her all over, tasting her, taking her again and again until she couldn’t form words or thoughts. He looked so grand, so untouchable.
‘Daisy.’ Her name on his lips sent arrows through her body. She stayed where she was, drinking him in with her eyes.
‘Your Highness.’ She forced a smile to her lips, and was ridiculously grateful she’d taken care with her appearance. Her stomach was still flat but she’d chosen to wear all black—a simple pair of jeans and a flowing top, teamed with a brightly coloured necklace to break up the darkness of the outfit. She’d left her hair out and applied the minimum of make-up. His eyes dropped to her feet then lifted slowly over her body, so she felt warmth where he looked, as though he were touching her.
‘I feel like I should curtsy or something.’
His look was impossible to decipher. ‘That’s not necessary.’ He stayed where he was, and she did the same, so there was a room between them. The silence crackled.
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she said, after a moment. God, this was impossible. She didn’t want to ask him for money and, now that she saw him, the idea of having his baby and not telling him was like poison. All the very sensible reasons she’d used to justify that course of action fled from her mind.
He deserved to know. Even if he chose not to acknowledge the child? Even if he turned her away? Even if...the possibilities spun through her, each of them scary and real and alarming.
Her stomach was in knots, indecision eating her alive. She knew only one thing for certain: she had to decide what to do, and quickly. If she was going to tell him, it should be now. Shouldn’t it?
She was every bit as beautiful as he remembered. More so. There was something about her today—she was glowing. Her skin was lustrous, her eyes shimmering, her lips, God, her lips. He wanted to pull them between his teeth, to drag her body to his and kiss her hard, to push her against the wall and make love to her as he’d done freely that weekend.
But that had been different somehow. They’d had an agreement. They’d known what they were to each other. Now? He was on the brink of announcing his marriage. Surely he couldn’t still be fantasising about another woman?
But he was. He wanted Daisy. Not for one night, not for two. He wanted her for as long as he could have her.
‘Sire, you cannot see her again.’
Malik’s warning had rung through the embassy.
‘You were far from discreet last time. With your engagement due to be announced any day now, if word of this were to get out—’
