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India stifled several yawns as she shuffled along the queue, grateful when at last she was beckoned forward.
‘And the purpose for your visit?’ the woman, stunning with her dark eyes and lips that had been painted a deep red, murmured as she scanned the passport.
To tell your bastard of a sheikh he’s going to be a father then get the heck out of Dodge, she imagined saying, a tight smile curving her lips. ‘To see an old friend.’
‘Social.’ The woman nodded, ticking a box. ‘How long do you intend to stay?’
‘Twenty-four hours.’ And though it wasn’t necessary, she flashed the printout of her return ticket, her escape route already planned. She would do whatever she could to give the Sheikh this information, and then she would leave. If he still refused to see her, then at least she could tell their baby that she’d tried. She knew first-hand the importance of that. And if he refused to let her leave? The idea flashed into her mind suddenly, so she froze, her eyes wide, before she discounted it. He’d be as glad to see the back of her as last time.
‘Such a short visit. It is a shame. There is much in Khatrain to see—many wonders to enjoy.’
‘I’m sure there are. Unfortunately, I have commitments back home.’
The woman reached for a stamp, clicked it onto India’s passport, then slid it across. ‘Enjoy your brief trip, then, madam.’
Again, India was buffeted by the heat when she stepped out of the airport, so she lifted a hand to her face, waving it rhythmically. There was a long queue for taxis, and she waited with depleting energy. Her plan had been to go to her hotel first and freshen up, before attempting to contact Khalil, but now that she was here, she simply wanted to get this over with.
When she finally slipped into a taxi—with at least some air conditioning—it cooled her rising temperature. She stared at the hotel’s information, opened her mouth and then closed it again. ‘The royal palace, please.’
The driver met her eyes in the mirror and India was grateful she had over a year’s experience attending glittering social events in Manhattan. If she’d learned anything, it was how to act as though she belonged anywhere. ‘Is there a problem?’ Her tone was stiff, her demeanour imposing.
‘Of course not, madam. Right away.’
The car pulled into traffic and India allowed her head to drop backwards, against the leather seat of the car. For a moment, she closed her eyes, needing to restore a little of her energy.
Only Khalil was there, as always, his face haunting her, so there was no real respite. She woke with sweat beading her brow, just as the car drew to a stop.
‘This is as close as I can get,’ the driver said, gesturing to the large golden gates in the foreground of, without a doubt, the largest and most magnificent building India had ever seen—whether in real life or photographs. Her jaw dropped and the magnitude of what she was about to do sent a tremble down her spine.
Her baby was a part of all this. And she’d had no idea just quite what that entailed—she had been imagining Khalil and Khalil alone, without quite realising what his title meant. He was going to be King, and their child would be—what? His heir? Or an embarrassment? Was she making things worse by coming here? What if he refused to acknowledge their baby? Was it worse if she’d told him and Khalil made that decision? Was it better for the baby to believe its father had never known? Could she do anything to make this better?
But what if he did want to know the baby and be a part of his or her life? India had barely known her father—he’d blown into her life when it had suited him, then disappeared for months or years, so she’d never been able to count on him. What if Khalil wanted to be a real part of their child’s life, to see him or her regularly, to call and ask how their day went? India would have given her eye teeth for that, and she would fight for the chance for her baby to know that kind of love.
Even though there was a real risk that it could backfire.
‘Thank you.’ She paid the driver before opening her door. She was prepared for the heat this time, though it still dried her eyes out. She pulled her sunglasses into place and hitched a small backpack over one shoulder, standing and staring at the palace as the taxi driver sped off.
Turrets of white stood high in the sky like puffs of cream atop large round towers. Some were golden, others pale, and there was a large open courtyard lined on all sides by palm trees that cast spiky shadows across the marbled floor. A fountain stood in the very centre, spurting water in several directions, before landing in a large oval-shaped pool. Her mouth went dry at the very visage. She turned her attention to that barrier, scanning it thoughtfully, until her eyes landed on the security guard nearest to her. There were several, standing every ten feet or so, staring out at the road, ever watchful. The man in front of India had his eyes on her, so she smiled—it was not returned. His hands were at his sides, but at his hip he wore a pistol and a large rifle was holstered diagonally across his back. Though his uniform was ceremonial, she had no doubt he had full military training. Fear shifted through her, but India had come this far; she wasn’t about to be turned back now.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, when she reached the man.
He didn’t say anything, but his eyes met hers, curiosity in their depths.
‘How do I get inside?’
He regarded her with evident surprise. ‘Do you have an invitation?’
She thought quickly, playing out multiple scenarios in her head. If she said that she didn’t, she would likely be turned away immediately. There was no guarantee that any words she uttered would even make it to Khalil’s ears—except for one sentence.
‘I do, yes. His Highness Khalil el Abdul sent for me.’
The man’s expression changed immediately. He lifted his walkie-talkie—propped on the hip that lacked a gun—and began to speak in his own language, harsh words that she didn’t understand.
‘Your name?’ He switched back to English. Butterflies burst through her.
‘India McCarthy.’
He repeated her name into the walkie-talkie.
