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PROLOGUE
Five years in the past.
Her imitation of grief was nearly perfect.
The designer suit that covered her young body in black from head to toe; the somber way she’d shaken each guest’s hand and remembered their names; the way she’d dabbed elegantly at her eyes, despite the fact no tears had been present.
Yes, the teenaged Phoebe Douglas-Cauve was an excellent actress, but Sheikh Hakim Al Meshuda had no doubts.
Her grief was a performance.
Her sadness a fake.
Her tears not simply delayed, but not there at all.
He stood back from her now, as the last of the guests filed, with a respectful hush, from the grand estate of the late Lord Etienne Cauve. Her face was lifted to the sky, the dappled sunlight painting triangles across her fair skin, her eyes shut. And a small smile in the corners of her pretty, bow shaped lips.
It was the last straw.
With a brief look of dismissal in the direction of his attending servants, he moved towards her, his mouth a grim line of disapproval in his face.
“You seem to be coping well with the sudden death of my Godfather,” he drawled cynically, unaware of the way the harsh set of his handsome face sent a terrifying frisson of awareness jangling down her teenaged spine.
Her eyes were cloaked; her feelings impossible to comprehend. “My stepfather’s passing was an unexpected tragedy,” she murmured, and though her words were thick with emotion, he knew, somehow, that her sincerity was completely forged.
He held onto his emotions with effort. After all, Etienne had been his father’s best friend, and a close advisor to him in times of stress. Etienne’s stepdaughter’s lack of emotion was insulting to the memory of the man he had loved almost as a father himself. “Yes,” he drawled with obvious cynicism. “I can see how affected you are.” His broad shoulders and tall stature cast a shadow over her. She wrapped her arms around her middle, and shivered, despite the warmth of the summer day.
Phoebe was young, but she was wise beyond her years. From her mother, she had inherited a gift for social nuance. She knew that responding to the powerful Sheikh would only anger him, so she stayed silent.
“You are how old?”
She looked at him, confused.
Hakim let out a breath of frustration. “Fifteen, I think?”
“Sixteen,” she whispered, thinking back to her birthday, only weeks earlier. Dread had accompanied her the whole way from Surrey to Richmond. Fear and anxiety had dogged her every step. Pain, it had been on the return journey, and the certainty that she must hide her bruises from her dorm upon her return.
Hakim scanned her face thoughtfully. In his country, many women were betrothed at her age. It was a practice he was working to prevent. Teenagers should not be forced into marriage. Teenagers were young, creatures of innocence. But this teenager was different. There was an entirely adult comprehension in her eyes, a knowledge that was almost eerie.
She was beautiful, too, in a way that surprised him. Etienne had boasted of her physical gifts frequently enough. Hakim had been certain Etienne’s descriptions must have been covered by a paternalistic pride. Now, he saw that not a word of Etienne’s praise had been exaggerated. Phoebe Douglas-Cauve was as beautiful as she was strong-willed. Her hair was long and fair. Not pale, but rather blonde like sand and ash mixed together. Her skin was pale yet warm, her figure mature beyond her years; she was tall and slender, with the hint of curves visible beneath her dress.
Hakim’s frown increased, as he shook his head to clear the unwelcome thoughts. She was still a child. “Sixteen.” He nodded. “You are aware that your step-father left me as your legal guardian.”
Her eyes, enormous and round, and so blue they must surely be enhanced by cosmetic lenses, fixed him with a terrified stare. “No. I didn’t know.”
“He spoke to me of it years ago. I agreed, of course. There is nothing I would not do for your father.”
“Step-father,” she corrected instantly, her pretty face a hard mask of emotion. Phoebe might have been surprised that Etienne had left his affairs in such good order, particularly given that his death was completely unexpected. Only it perfectly fit his behavior as an absolute control freak. Nothing was ever to be left to chance. She shivered as she remembered how he had somehow obtained a copy of her class schedules and surprised her unexpectedly one afternoon. It had not been the worst hour of her life, but always, lurking at the back of her mind, was the knowledge that he could reach her anywhere and at any time.
Hakim’s eyes were narrowed. “Etienne has left your fortune to me to manage, which I am happy to do, of course.”
Phoebe’s heart was beating painfully in her chest. “Your highness,” she said, trying, and failing, to keep her voice steady, “I do not need a guardian.” She lifted her small, angular chin in a proud gesture of defiance. “While I am only sixteen, I have lived away from my parents for many years. I am sure my life will continue much as normal for me.”
“So certain,” he remarked, scanning her face thoughtfully. “You do not feel sad that Etienne has gone?”
Realizing she’d dropped her act for a vital moment, she schooled her features into an expression of anguish. “Of course I do.” The sentence was heavy in her mouth, and vomit threatened to make a liar of her.
“Do you know who I am?” He demanded, taking a step closer to her, unknowingly menacing. Phoebe fought the wave of fear that rose to a crescendo inside her.
“Yes.” She squared her shoulders. He was, of course, Sheikh Hakim Al Meshuda, the exalted leader of Mehran. She had heard of him frequently. She had come to loathe him, even by name, purely because her step-father had spoken so highly of him. Any man respected by Etienne must surely be an absolute jerk.
“Then you will know I have no time to argue with an insolent teenager.” He tried not to let Etienne’s tales of her misbehavior color his attitude towards her, but it was not possible. How often Etienne had spoken to him of her wild, willful nature; her disobedience and disrespect. Yet Etienne had loved her, in spite of it. Hakim remembered the way Etienne had said to him, one day, “You love your children, Hakim. You cannot give up on them. You must employ whatever measures are necessary to prepare them for the world. Phoebe just needs a little extra discipline to counteract her mother’s lenience. And I love her enough to not back away from the task.”
Phoebe’s eyes sparked with a silent challenge. One look at his harshly set face, however, instantly quashed her desire to argue. She lowered her eyes, pretending fascination with a patch of clover that was springing stoically throu
gh the herringbone pavers. Etienne would have had a fit, if she’d picked a fight with the marvelous Hakim. He would have had a fit, that was, if his bad heart hadn’t already ended his despicable life. Out of nowhere, a mad desire to laugh coursed through her body. Phoebe would have given into it, if she’d been alone, but she couldn’t now. Not whilst in Hakim’s imposing presence.
“I don’t wish to take up a single moment more of your time,” she finally replied, her words slightly too sweet to be credible.
Hakim’s eyes narrowed. “I am your guardian, Phoebe, which means I am in charge of your life. For the next few years at least.”
Her eyes flew to his face. “You can’t seriously wish to take me on?”
“No,” he responded with passionate frustration. “I do not. Were it simply a matter of you and me, I would walk away now without a second thought. I believe you are selfish and spoiled.” He sighed heavily. “But I respected Etienne, very much. There isn’t a thing I wouldn’t do for him. Even providing counsel and guidance to his over-indulged princess of a step-daughter.”
“You’re one to talk,” she responded mutinously, her voice so quiet he almost didn’t catch her caustic remark.
Yes, she was antagonistic, self-important, and clearly thought the world of her own opinions. Etienne’s attempts to correct her naturally bad tendencies had not worked quite as planned. “It is clear we do not like each other,” he answered, finally, his dark eyes flecked with amber as he briefly wondered why the knowledge sat uncomfortably on his shoulders. “And this does not matter. I will act as your legal guardian, and you shall become my ward. We should discuss your relocation to Switzerland as soon as may be arranged. This is not a good time, of course.” His mouth was grim. “You are, after all, a grieving daughter.”
“Step-daughter,” she challenged. “Did you say… Switzerland?”
“Of course. The Academy is the best private school in the world. It is appropriate that you attend it.”
“But…” she stammered, reaching behind her for the wrought iron bench seat. She collapsed into it heavily, not caring that it was slightly damp from a light rain shower earlier in the day. “I already have a school.”
“Yes, I am aware of that, but it does not suit me that you continue there.”
Phoebe blinked, her blue eyes clear and enormous in her face. “I want to stay at my school,” she responded, her voice threaded with concrete determination. She knew, though, that tears were not far away.
Hakim examined her thoughtfully. Finally, in an uncharacteristic moment of reconciliation, he crouched down on his haunches, so that they were at eye level. “Why?”
“I have friends there. I like it. It’s close to my home.” Though Ivy Lane Estate no longer felt like her home. When her mother had died, seven years earlier, Phoebe had still felt a connection to the stunning, ancient country home. With each year that had passed, those sentiments had eroded and dissolved, until now, it was just a vague idea of home that remained.
