That didn’t stop him from having more opinions regarding their wedding than even Lou-Belia could lay claim to. Angele didn’t care what color of linens decorated the formal dining room, or how the royal crests of the Zohra and Jawhar were displayed.
Zahir cared about both and so much more. He’d even given Lou-Belia some advice concerning Angele’s trousseau. Angele had no idea what that advice was, only that Lou-Belia was beside herself that he’d offered it.
“As if I do not know exactly what fashions would best suit my own daughter,” her mother fumed as they traversed the high fashion district of Paris.
“I suppose it hasn’t occurred to either of you that I’ve been choosing my own clothing for years now?” She’d been an editorial assistant on a fashion magazine, for heaven’s sake.
Not that anyone seemed to remember that salient fact.
“You don’t want my help shopping?” Lou-Belia asked, managing to sound both hurt and patently shocked.
“Of course, I want your company.” Which was not the same thing, but she was hoping her mother would not notice.
Not that it mattered. By the end of the day, Angele had had her fill of both her mother and Zahir’s advice. Not only had he taken her mother aside, but he’d called two of
the couture shops they had appointments with and made recommendations for particular outfits for her try on.
His choices were rather sexy for a man who was back to treating her like a favored cousin.
When she muttered something to that effect, Lou-Belia said, “Nonsense. He’s treating you with respect.”
“I’d rather he treated me like a woman.”
“Apparently he’s already done that, or I wouldn’t be looking forward to becoming a grandmother before the year is out.”
Angele gave her mother a speaking glance, but shut up about Zahir’s lack of interest in the physical side of their relationship.
She didn’t stop thinking about it though. Every day he treated her like an ice princess instead of his princess brought back the pain of the years he’d ignored her for other pursuits. He’d promised her that he would not take a lover, but in the darkest hours of the night, Angele lay in her lonely bed and wondered.
Zahir helped Angele from the limousine, his bodyguards holding foreign reporters back. Their own people maintained a respectful distance, though their interest was just as avid.
It was not the first time he had brought his soon-to-be bride to one of the top restaurants in their capital for a romantic dinner. He was used to being stared at and talked about when he went into public. He was their future king. Naturally they would find him of interest.
And Angele handled the interest with aplomb, making him proud and not a little surprised by her perfected public persona.
Regardless, he usually preferred to keep his public profile to well-managed levels, but a ten-year-in-the-making courtship required extra efforts.
Not that they seemed to be making any impact on the woman who carried his child and would soon carry his name as well. She had retreated behind a smiling facade that irritated him beyond reason, because it was so different from the Angele he was accustomed to.
For as long as he could remember, Angele had looked at him with a big dose of hero worship and not a small dose of want. He’d done his best to ignore the want because for too many years, she’d been all too young. Still, it had been there. And he had grown used to it. Had in fact, no idea how much he enjoyed that state of affairs until it was gone.
She was never anything less than pleasant, but she was also never anything more than pleasant. She might refute the title of princess because she could not claim it by birth and could not yet claim it by marriage, but she had the attitude down. Her aura of serenity could rival his mother’s at dinner of State.
The problem was, that unlike his mother, Angele did not drop the serene little smiles and even tones when she was in the private company of family.
The vulnerable, sweet princess he had always known was now hidden behind the politically polished princess who had made her apologies to their people despite his willingness to take full responsibility for their estrangement.
Right now, although they were supposed to be spending time cementing their bond, her attention was firmly on those around them rather than him. Angele nodded and smiled to the Zohranians while managing to ignore the paparazzi yelling questions and taking their picture. And he had no reason to believe it would be any different once they were inside the restaurant, where she would no doubt maintain this infuriating distance.
Suddenly she dropped to her knees. He leaped forward, his body hovering over hers protectively while he looked around for some threat, even as he put his hand out to help her back to her feet. Which she ignored. It was only then that he realized a small child had managed to get away from his parents and through the small throng of reporters.
In her designer original gown, her face and hair perfectly coiffed, Angele opened her arms to the clearly frightened child. The little boy threw himself at what he obviously saw as safety.
She scooped him up, whispering something to the child that made him respond with a nod. All the while cameras flashed and Zahir had no problem imagining the front cover story of the social pages tomorrow.
Standing, Angele turned to him. “It appears we’ve made a friend.”
Zahir smiled at the child giving him a shy sideways glance. “Hello, little man. Where are your parents?”