The Unlikely Mistress

‘I thought husbands were supposed to know everything about their wives—every thought which flits through their heads. Isn’t that the modern way of marriage?’

‘But you are to be my husband in name only and for a limited tenure. None of this is real, is it?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t imagine that you are used to dealing with such large sums. If you like, I can get one of my financial advisors to speak to you about investment. You might want to think about getting yourself some property.’

‘Are you aware just how patronising that sounds?’ she hissed, sounding as if she was struggling to control her breathing. ‘I won’t be making any investments. The money is for my sister.’

‘Why?’

She shrugged and suddenly he stopped noticing her ugly top because his attention was drawn to the slight quiver of the breasts beneath. ‘She was in debt,’ she said baldly.

‘Lucky sister to have someone who’s prepared to endure six months with a difficult man, in order to come to her rescue,’ he said softly.

‘That’s what families do,’ she said. ‘They stick together.’

Not his, he thought bitterly. His had been destroyed before he’d had a chance to get to know them properly.

Forcing himself to push his distracting thoughts away, he realised that it shouldn’t have surprised him to realise she was helping out her sister. The idea that she’d been dazzled by the lure of instant wealth had never really fitted with what little he knew of her.

Sitting next to her like this, he found it easy to disregard her crumpled clothes and notice instead how clear her skin was and how brightly her eyes shone. A sign of clean living? he wondered. Probably. He thought she seemed overlooked—like a book which had been pushed to the back of a shelf and nobody had ever bothered to study properly. Perhaps she was comfortable with that. Perhaps that was why she dressed in such a drab way, in order to fade into the background and remain unnoticed. Yet her dedicated work ethic certainly made her stand out and her sometimes stern and forthright attitude was something he’d never encountered before—certainly not from any other woman who wasn’t middle-aged, or a governess. The embassy staff had informed him how late she worked most nights—preferring to be deep in a pile of ancient manuscripts rather than going out on the town. What a mystery she was!

He thought about the taunt he’d made to her in London—the taunt she had deliberately refused to rise to, although a series of conflicting emotions had crossed over her features before she’d cut them off with that prim look he was already becoming familiar with. Could she really be a virgin? he wondered idly, his mouth drying as he felt lust harden his groin beneath the silk of his robes, because the lure of the unknown was potent to a man whose sexual appetite was sometimes jaded. He had enjoyed many women throughout a sensual career more comprehensive than most men his age, but he’d never had a virgin before. He had never experienced the sound of a woman’s cry as he broke through her hymen, nor eased himself inside the fabled tightness. Even the women brought to him in his late teens to instruct him in the art of love had been chosen for their experience and expertise.

His mouth twisted as he remembered how his peers at university had openly envied the life he’d lived as a pampered royal, growing up in a lavish palace in a country he would one day rule. They knew he’d been given untold wealth and limitless freedom for most of his life, but they had not known the reason why. Why so many supposed gifts had been heaped onto his young head—as if women and gold and the finest stallions in the land could compensate for what had been ripped away from him, or for the guilt which had become his lifelong companion as a result.

He felt pain grip at his heart but he pushed it away with a ruthlessness born of many years’ practice.

‘You know what to expect?’ he questioned suddenly. ‘From the wedding ceremony itself and what happens afterwards?’

She nodded. ‘It is my job to know and I have studied the protocol. I know that I’m to be dressed in the traditional Kafalahian gown worn only by royal brides—and that in my hair I will wear the ancient emerald crown of the Al Zawba dynasty.’

‘That is exactly so. And you will also know that we shall be spending our wedding night together in a suite which has been specially prepared for the newlyweds, in the eastern tower of the palace. And that our waking moments are intended to witness the rising of the sun, symbolising the dawn of our new life together?’

‘Yes.’ Jane kept her voice low. She reached down to pick up her handbag from the floor of the car as a distraction exercise—momentarily too daunted to dare look him in the face, scared of what he might read in her eyes. Because he’d just highlighted the bit which was terrifying her. The part of the whole farcical wedding process which was making her stomach do peculiar flips. Obviously, they wouldn’t be carrying out the ancient Kafalahian tradition which involved a bloodied sheet being dangled from a window to prove the bride’s virginal status. Things had moved on since then, thank heavens. But they would have to spend the night together—and that was something she was dreading more with each second that passed.

She lifted her gaze to find Zayed’s black gaze trained on her in that bird of prey thing he did so effortlessly and she tried not to shiver. Was he aware that just being close to him in a car was making her body react in a way which seemed beyond her control? That her pulse was racing and there was a warmth between her thighs which was highly distracting? And, if that was the case, how difficult was it going to be if she was closeted in a room with him on their fake wedding night?

So confront it. He hadn’t held back from telling her the brutal truth, had he?

‘But I don’t suppose anyone will really care if we have separate rooms, will they?’

His eyes gleamed. ‘On the contrary,’ he said silkily. ‘Tradition remains an important bedrock of Kafalahian life and I intend to honour that. This marriage is going to follow every rule in the damned book. Because even though I am only doing it in order to inherit, I might as well reap any other benefits it produces as a result. And it will please my people to think that their king has found himself a permanent woman at long last.’

‘Even if it isn’t true?’

‘Even if it isn’t true,’ he echoed.

She twisted the strap of her handbag around her fingers, aware of how cheap the fake leather looked in contrast to the luxury which surrounded her. ‘And won’t your people be disappointed—saddened, even—when you throw the towel in on the marriage after six short months and say it isn’t working?’

He shook his head. ‘Not at all. I will simply issue a statement saying I found it impossible to be married to a Westerner—that our cultures were too different—and I shall not marry again unless it is to a Kafalahian woman. That will be enough to pacify and to satisfy them. It will also keep a generation of women amused and eager to see who I shall eventually pick as my permanent bride.’

Even though she told herself she was stupid to care, Jane couldn’t deny being hurt by his words. What callous disregard he had for her! He seemed to regard her like an object without any real feelings, who could be moved around at will.

Peering out of the window again, she saw a building looming in the distance and suddenly her troubles were forgotten as she leaned forward to get a better look at the famous palace of Kafalah. Her heart began to pound with excitement. She was familiar with the iconic building since it featured on just about every feature you ever read about Kafalah or saw on TV, as well as in the thousands of paintings and photos she’d seen during her years of working at the embassy. But nothing could have prepared her for that first dazzling sight as it rose up like a citadel from out of the desert landscape.

Covered in rose-gold leaf, its azure domes and turrets soaring into the cloudless sky, it glittered on the horizon like a costly treasure. A group of guards stood sentry outside massive gates scrolled with embellishments in silver and gold—and she knew that the inlaid diamonds which winked in the sunlight were real. A wide straight path, lined with tall palm trees, was flanked on either side by an ornate fountain—one symbolising day and the other night. Jane knew that within the sweeping grounds was a secret garden with a ‘moon’ mirror, positioned so that it could exactly frame the moon at its fullest and a place rumoured to be one of the most romantic on earth. She could see a flash of colour as the gates opened to allow their car through and she realised that late roses were blooming in a cultivated riot of crimson and apricot blooms. Ignoring the cool of the air-conditioning, Jane hit the electric window button and a waft of their deep and heady scent entered the car. It was everything she had ever thought and dreamed it could be and a deep breath of admiration rushed from her lips as they came to a halt in front of the huge arched doors, inlaid with opals which gleamed like rainbows.

‘Oh, wow,’ she said softly. ‘I can’t believe I’m actually here.’