Font Size:  



‘Oh, that’s rich, coming from you.’ She flipped open the suitcase on the floor, started tearing clothes from hangers and flinging them in while the prick of tears stung her eyes, blurring her vision. But there was no way she was giving in to them. No way. ‘What would you know about honesty? You’ve lied to me from day one.’

‘But I never pretended to be in love with you.’

Her frantic movements stilled, her hands midway to the next item, as the fury inside her reached meltdown. ‘You’re mad!’ she said, dragging the shirt free from its hanger at last. ‘You must be, to think that I would stay here to be your bride. To even talk about love in such circumstances is a joke. I don’t want you as a husband and I certainly don’t want your love.’

She collected up the few remaining items from the shelves and tossed them on top of everything else before pushing past him to get to her bathroom and gather up her toiletries. She jammed the zipper bag on top and then bundled the whole pile to somehow fit the suitcase’s confines.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘Where do you think? I’m going home.’ She flipped out the case’s handle, set it right side up on its wheeled base and puffed out her chest defiantly. ‘And then I’m going to marry Paolo.’

She pushed past him, unsure of how exactly she was going to get to the airport and how long she’d have to wait when she got there for a flight, but determined to get out now anyway.

‘That’s after his divorce comes through, I take it.’

She kept walking with barely a hitch, her heeled sandals clicking on the cool tiled floor, suitcase rolling behind. ‘Well, if that’s your trump card,’ she said without raising her voice, knowing he was still close enough to hear every word, ‘you just blew it. I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong Paolo. My fiancé has never been married.’

‘Oh, he never shared that piece of information with you, then?’

‘On the contrary. He had nothing to share. Like I said, you’ve got the wrong Paolo.’

‘Paolo Eduardo Mancini? Married an English student, Helene Elizabeth Grainger, in Paris on March twenty-fifth twelve years ago. Funny that he’d never share that news with you, his lover, his fiancée.’

Okay, so what that he had Paolo’s name right? She bit down on her bottom lip and forced herself further along the hallway. No way was she going to show him he was rattling her. It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t.

Although it could explain why Paolo had been so cagey…

No!

She trusted Paolo. She had no reason at all to doubt him. Whereas she had no reason to trust Khaled. No reason at all.

‘You’ll have to do better than that, I’m afraid,’ she tossed over her shoulder with a wave of her free hand as she kept walking.

‘Then maybe you’d appreciate seeing the wedding video? Or perhaps the photographs. I have an extensive collection.’

Video? Photographs? This time her steps faltered as the air evaporated in her lungs.

‘Why should I believe you?’ She didn’t turn and her voice was barely more than a croak. Surely it couldn’t be true? And if it was, why hadn’t Paolo told her?

All this time!

All this time they’d been dating and seeing each other and not once, even just once, had he intimated that he was already married, that he already had a wife. Why the hell wouldn’t he have admitted to something like that? Dammit—he should have told her!

‘In the end it’s not about what you believe. It’s about the truth. Your fiancé has already been married for twelve years.’

She squeezed her eyes shut as her head dipped to her chest. ‘Then I want to call him,’ she said before sucking air deep into her lungs and looking back at him over her shoulder. ‘Now!’

Five minutes later she was holding on to the receiver in Khaled’s office, clutching the phone with white-knuckled fingers, waiting while the phone rang in an apartment somewhere in New York. She couldn’t sit, nervous energy wouldn’t let her limbs relax.

She had to stand, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other as she waited for the call to be picked up halfway around the globe, all the while trying to ignore the arrogant Jebbai ruler who sprawled unconscionably in the well-worn leather armchair opposite. He obviously had no trouble relaxing and that only added to her fears. The one hope that he’d back down on his crazy claims at her insistence on phoning Paolo drizzled away. He must be so certain that what he was saying was true.

She turned her back on his smug demeanour and glanced at her watch. What time was it in New York now? Some time in the night—he had to be there—she had to discover the truth now—or she didn’t know what she’d do.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com