The Marquis and the Magician's Assistant (The Rebel Royals 4)

Omar tried and failed to stifle a sigh. He genuinely liked the Prime Minister. The working class man was just a few years younger than him and a good number of steps down the social class ladder. But he’d bootstrapped his way up the golden stair for a seat at the noble table.

“You also need to take a look at these contracts for the summer concert series. One of the boy bands isn’t happy with the rider.”

Omar looked down at his planner. His time was blocked from the time he woke up until he laid his head on the pillow at night. He hadn’t gotten into this line of work to be bound to a desk and schedule. He became a producer to have a hand in creating and spreading art, music, color, and movement to the world.

Looking down at the pile of documents cluttering his desk, he saw a flash of color. A woman leaped into a man’s arms in the still image. The Balletto di Roma had a new show opening tonight. On his desk was an invitation. Omar loved all forms of entertainment, including watching men in tights throw girls up into the air.

He felt not a pinprick of an attack on his masculinity for that. In fact, he wished he could see it in person. But his schedule held him tight to his desk.

Marlena laid more files down on top of the mounting piles on his desk. Banks, politicians, legalese; none of these were the reason Omar had walked away from a marquisate. His pleading gaze went to his longtime assistant.

Marlena was of average height, not too short, not exactly tall. She couldn’t be called thin, but neither was she overweight. She had the average figure of a Córdovian woman. Her hair was light brown that could some days pass for honey blonde as often as it could be called plain brown. Her features were lined with age, but there weren’t as many lines as the years of her actual age. However old that might be. Omar had never bothered to find out. What mattered to him was that she kept him on top of things and got unwanted distractions, namely women, off of him.

"By the way," said Marlena. "Your old flame was here earlier.”

Omar huffed like a child being forced to eat his Brussels sprouts. He’d rather deal with the boy band’s demands than face off with Summer. Marlena waved her hand like moving the dish aside.

"I sent her away,” said Marlena. “But the new girl wants a word."

"New girl?" asked Omar. "Do you mean Lark?"

Marlena shrugged. "I don't bother remembering their names until their name is in lights.”

“Her name is in lights on the marquee of the Main Street Theater.”

Marlena didn’t look at him. She ticked off items on her clipboard. "Should I send her away too?”

"No."

Marlena wrinkled her nose like there was a new batch of tiny cabbages on her clipboard.

“Fine, I’ll send her in. But you do have a lot of work to get to before you spend the rest of your day playing with the help.”

Marlena had been with Omar since the beginning. In the beginning, he had played much harder than he’d worked. Dashing off to New York for a play or to London for a concert or Moscow for the ballet. But the work always got done because he loved his job.

Marlena loved her job too. His office was the ultimate velvet rope, and his assistant took pleasure in keeping people out. Omar had always suspected that Marlena would’ve made a great casting director; telling more people no than yes. But in spite of the opportunities that were present for her, she’d stuck by his side. For that, he allowed her to mouth off from time to time.

“There’s nothing going on between myself and Ms. Voorheen.”

“Of course not, sir. I’ll show her in, and then you can get on with your nothing.”

Her words were efficient as ever but insincere. Omar didn’t offer a retort because when Marlena opened the door, Lark stood on the other side. Omar rose like the moth he was to her flame. There wasn’t any light shining on her. It was coming from within her.

She wore thin straps that showed off the heart shape of her collarbones. Her arms were tan and toned in the green dress. Her skin shone as though she’d bloomed from the earth. The fabric of her skirt swished around her long legs as though playing at her calves. Omar wanted to join in the fun.

"I changed my mind," Lark said when the door closed behind her.

"That's fine." He was prepared to agree with anything she said, give her anything she wanted.

She was a fairy nymph standing before him. He had the urge to eat something from her hands. That’s how the fae trapped humans, wasn’t it? His stomach grumbled as he stepped closer.

"I can't go with you to the royal wedding."

He’d give her anything, except that.

"I don't want there to be any perception that we're dating," she said. "I don't want anyone to think I got to the top on my back. Because I am going to the top. I have every intention of climbing the ladder on my feet."

Omar didn't want that either. What he wanted was to carry her up the ladder. Not because she needed him to. He wanted to be of service to this amazing woman. He wanted to be by her side when she went places. Because she was right; she was going places. And one of those places would be to the royal wedding with him so that every man in Córdoba, every man in the world, would know that he, Omar al Shariff, the Marquis of Navarre was her champion.