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CHAPTER EIGHT
‘SORRY... SORRY... HOW do I turn it off...?’ Abby picked up the loops of wire she’d sent flying and looked at the space-age machine lit up by red flashing lights.
Before Zain could respond to her frantic question the first white-coated figure burst through the door, several more followed in quick succession and the sheer volume of people pushed a bewildered Abby against a wall, where she stood watching as Zain responded to the medical attention with increasing irritation.
He raised his voice to be heard above the din of the alarms and the medical babble. ‘I’m not dead—the fact I’m breathing is the first clue. Will someone please turn that damned thing off?’
The sudden cessation of noise created a freeze-frame moment. Zain broke the silence to order the rapid departure of all the white coats and before she knew it Abby and Zain were alone once again.
‘Sorry about that.’ She lifted her chin in challenge. ‘I’m very clumsy.’ Surely he could see now that she was not princess material.
‘I noticed. Do you fall off the catwalk often?’
‘I’m a professional.’
‘Then direct the same professionalism to our contract and there will be no problem.’ He gestured towards the chair she had just vacated.
She didn’t accept the invitation but stood there, her hands clasped across her stomach and her brow pleated with a furrow of consternation. ‘You know this is crazy—people are never going to believe...’ Her hand moved in a descriptive arc from him to herself. ‘Nobody will believe that we are married.’
‘Why not? It’s true.’
A tiny flicker of a smile moved shadow-like across her face. ‘There were times when I convinced myself I dreamt it.’ Her chest lifted in a tiny little sigh of resignation. ‘So how would it work? What are you going to tell people?’
‘How will it work?’ he emphasised, before adding with some of the hauteur she remembered from their previous encounter, ‘My father is the only person I am required to explain myself to, and I will explain to him that you are my soulmate.’ His expressive lips curved into a cynical half-smile that left his eyes cold as he continued to reveal their fictional back story. ‘We fell in love, and there was a falling-out; I shall be vague on this but we are both, you see, passionate people and so these things happen...then the news of my accident had you rushing to my side because you realised that your life was nothing without me.’
‘You should write fiction...or fairy stories,’ she husked back.
‘Any good writer knows you target your story to your audience.’ His voice carried no discernible inflection but the cynicism in his azure stare was painfully pronounced as he explained, ‘My father is a firm believer in fairy tales. Are you?’
Unprepared for the abrupt and vaguely accusing addition, she looked confused. ‘Am I what?’
‘A believer in fairy tales, cara?’ he drawled.
She clenched her teeth. ‘What if I am? It’s not a crime,’ she shot back. ‘And will you stop calling me that—has someone told you Italian makes you sound sexy or something? For the record, it doesn’t!’ she lied.
After a startled silence his low, husky laughter rang out. ‘I wasn’t aware I was using it; I’ve recently spent some time with my mother...the language kind of rubs off.’ The long weekend in Venice had turned into a fortnight when the diva had been forced to cancel a booking at the Met due to a throat infection which she had been convinced was about to end her career. Her harassed, much younger live-in lover had been unable to cope with the dramatic declarations that her career was over and so had begged Zain to extend his stay.
Zain had taken pity on the guy because he’d lasted longer than most, and his mother was nobody’s idea of low-maintenance.
‘Your mother is Italian?’ Her brow speared into a speculative furrow. ‘Spend some time...?’ Her eyes flickered wide. ‘Does that mean—?’
‘She left when I was eight.’
‘She left you?’ Abby struggled not to sound shocked at the idea.
‘She considered it the unselfish thing to do.’ There was no inflection in his voice but the twist of his lips was ironic as he explained his parent’s motivation. ‘She could no longer deprive the operatic world and her public of her talent.’
Had she really said that to a little boy...? Abby couldn’t bring herself to ask...she wasn’t sure what shocked her most about the story—the seeming total lack of maternal feeling or the impression of total self-absorption.
‘So, you see, Italian is quite literally my mother tongue. Most people here in Aarifa speak French and Arabic and a good percentage speak English as well these days, though there are some schools that are giving Mandarin preference. So, to business. If you give Hakim the details of your grandparents’ account I will have the funds deposited by the end of the day.’
‘From a hospital bed?’
‘It is called delegation...cara.’
The addition was deliberate but her stomach gave a little kick anyway. ‘You’ve got this planned but aren’t you missing the details? You haven’t asked how much my grandparents need.’
‘Then tell me.’
