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Standing in the garden, finally feeling freed of Etienne’s abuse. Free in the certainty that her life was now her own to live. At the age of sixteen, she had become an orphan. The child of an unknown father, a deceased mother and stepfather, and she had been glad. Not about her mother, of course, but glad that the men who had brought so much sadness and rejection to her life from the minute she entered this world were no longer.
The knowledge and shame she’d carried from a young age, of a father who hadn’t wanted her, a mother who hadn’t cared enough to find out who had implanted the baby in her belly, had segued into the shame of having a stepfather who seemed incapable of loving her. A man she could never please; a man who found her wanting in every way. Relief had mixed with fear, quickly, though. She was alone in the world, cast adrift, with no one to care for her, no one to monitor her, no one to love her.
And then, he’d appeared. Hakim Al Meshuda. The powerful ruler of Mehran, a magical faraway kingdom. Her first sight of him had almost felt like a dream, for he was the stuff of teenage fantasies, with his gorgeous looks, expensively tailored suit and impressive entourage. She’d immediately felt a burst of awareness, a jangle of sexual understanding, a torrent of raging desire that had surpassed in strength any other emotion she’d known.
Even when she’d shouted at him to leave her alone, there was a tiny bud of hope within her chest, that she would see him frequently after that. But she hadn’t, and hope had hardened to hurt. Another person who claimed responsibility for her but didn’t want to know her. Someone else who was willing to send her out of sight and mind.
Doubt and disbelief swirled through her as she wondered again whatever had come over her to pursue him as she had. She knew only one thing for certain. Marrying him would be the worst mistake of her life. For it would take a man like Hakim no time to claim not just her body, but her mind and heart as well. And she could not allow herself to love him. Hakim Al Meshuda was not a man who would welcome nor return the sentiment, and it would only lead to pain for Phoebe.
With that thought pressed to the forefront of her mind, she examined her reflection once more. She had applied her makeup expertly, so that it was hardly obvious. Her long blonde hair she’d left loose, flowing in waves over her shoulders and down her back. The dress was both demure and flattering, showing the tanned, soft skin of her décolletage and arms, without exposing even a hint of cleavage.
She was tall enough without heels, and besides, the evening ahead threatened to be uncomfortable enough without the added agony of stilettos. She chose a pair of strappy sandals instead, and waited at her window to be heralded to dinner.
Waiting did not agree with Phoebe. And as the minutes bled towards an hour, her temper spiked. It was nearly eight o’clock. Had he forgotten all about her?
A sharp knock had her whirling about, her eyes glistening with impatience.
The same rotund servant who had delivered her to the palace on her first day in Mehran appeared now.
“His highness is ready for you, madam.” He said, his obsequies politeness at odds with his early rudeness towards her.
“Thank you,” she nodded, scooping a small clutch purse from the foot of the bed and falling into step behind him. Though the hour was late, the palace was still humming with life. Now, as always, people stopped their tasks to watch as she walked by.
“What is your name?” She asked the man, as he slowed his pace, allowing her to catch him.
His look was quizzical. “Ramit,” he said with a small, deferential nod of his head.
“Ramit, thank you.” She looked around, not seeing Hakim anywhere.
“His highness is out there.” He nodded towards a large opening, leading to a dusk filled sky.
She smiled dismissively and headed through the door.
Her heart slowed almost to a complete stop when her eyes landed on him. All in white, a slightly ironic smile on his face, his eyes softly appraising her as she walked towards him, all thoughts of maintaining a safe emotional distance fled from her mind.
“Hello,” she said quietly. Such an insufficient word for the torrent of sensations flooding her body.
“You are beautiful, Saleena.”
She frowned. “Saleena?”
“Yes.”
She laughed, and it helped to ease her tension. “You’re cryptic.”
He nodded in agreement.
“Are you hungry?”
Oh, she was hungry all right. The second she’d walked onto the paved terrace and seen him, her body had almost crumpled with the force of her hunger. “Starving.”
“We will be eating within an hour,” he promised. “Come.”
He held a hand out to her and she put hers in, trying not to think beyond that moment in time. It meant nothing to hold his hand. Nothing.
It was a short walk through the palace gardens, and then, on an immaculate lawn that was so green it was almost black in the evening light, two black horses stood, held in place by a couple of palace attendants.
She looked at him nervously.
