1
The things I do for love.
Sheikh Feraz bin Haik al Nazrani sat in the backseat of the limo as it weaved through the rain-soaked Manhattan streets on a blustery early October day. Okay. So, perhaps the reason he was here today was not exactly love. More like family obligation, but still.
He’d received word from his estranged wife the day before that she was pregnant at last. Feraz should have been overjoyed at the news. They’d been trying since the day they’d gotten married two years prior with no success. But all he felt today was sadness.
The first time he’d met Roxanne Germain had been on the beach of a luxury resort in his home country, the small island nation of Djeva. It was an up-and-coming sheikdom in the Middle East, thanks in large part to the efforts of Feraz and his two brothers after their father’s death. Feraz had been thirty at the time and new to his position as leader of his nation. He’d been eager to make a good impression on his people and raise his country’s standing in the world. But the second he’d seen Roxanne in that tiny bikini of hers—all long, tanned legs and wicked smile—he’d forgotten about everything but getting her into his bed.
She’d come more than willingly, dazzling him with her wit and charm and gorgeous green eyes. He’d been infatuated with her American chutzpah, as she’d called it, and her independent spirt. It wasn’t until it was too late, and they’d said their wedding vows, that Feraz had learned just how much his lustful folly would cost him.
The limo pulled up to the curb outside of a glass and steel skyscraper and the driver came around to open Feraz’s door for him. He thanked the man and headed under the black awning and up to the door of the medical offices where a doorman bowed and let him inside.
Nothing but the best for Roxanne—from clothes to hospitals to husbands.
He rode the elevator up to the fifth floor, oddly stoic considering he was about to see an ultrasound of his child for the first time, but he couldn’t seem to muster the necessary enthusiasm. After all, it wasn’t like he and Roxanne had created the child together in the traditional sense. There’d been no making love, no love of any kind involved between them really at this point. With Roxanne choosing to live here in the United States, half a world away from her husband, any kind of relationship was difficult.
At first, Feraz had been hopeful that in time wild and reckless Roxanne would adjust to life in his country. That she would come to love its deserts and mountainous regions and beaches as much as he did. But it soon became apparent that it wasn’t to be. She grew more and more withdrawn, complaining about everything to the point that they argued constantly, and everyone was miserable—including Feraz’s family. Roxanne wanted to leave. He wanted peace and quiet.
Still, he had obligations as the ruler of his country and needed a wife.
They’d come to a compromise.
Roxanne would live alone, abroad, only returning to Djeva for the occasional state function or other required duties. Feraz would stay in his beloved Djeva and work alongside his brothers to raise their country to its rightful spot at the top of the economic charts in the region by capitalizing on the country’s beauty and natural resources.
They’d live apart, each free to do as they liked, within reason, and be happy ever after.
Or not.
The elevator dinged and Feraz stepped out into a plush lobby decorated in soothing gray tones. He smoothed a hand down the front of his crisp, handmade Italian suit and stepped up to the reception desk, flashing his most charming smile. “Feraz Nazrani. I’m here to see my wife, please.”
“Oh.” The older woman behind the desk blushed furiously and scrambled from her chair, giving him something halfway between a bow and a curtsy. “Of course, Sheikh Nazrani.” She came around the desk to lead him to another door across the lobby. “Right this way, sir.”
Feraz bit back a chuckle. It still cracked him up how many Americans became flustered in his presence. In truth, he was very much like them, with a few more billions in the bank, perhaps. He’d gone to school here in the States, graduating Summa Cum Laude from Harvard Business School. He loved the vibrant culture, the diversity, the thriving arts scene and shopping. If he could no longer live in Djeva, he would choose to live here in the United States.
Still, he wasn’t above using his title and influence to his advantage when it suited him.
He followed the receptionist do
wn a long, brightly-lit hallway to another gray door. She knocked softly then opened it and gestured for him to enter. Feraz thanked her and walked inside the exam room to find Roxanne sitting on the exam table, her long dark hair pulled back into a simple ponytail at the base of her neck and her large green eyes wide with nervousness.
Her beauty took his breath away, as it always did, before he tamped down his reaction. It had been a long time since they’d been intimate, and Roxanne was very good at playing the innocent. He gave his wife a tight smile and took a seat in a chair against the wall to wait for the doctor.
Neither of them said a word and the silence hung between them like a shroud.
From beneath his lashes, Feraz studied the woman across from him. She looked different from the last time he’d seen her. Roxanne was always one to keep up appearances, no matter the cost. He had the exorbitant credit card bills to prove it. Today, though, she was dressed very simply—in a plain white T-shirt and maternity jeans, white tennis shoes on her feet. No makeup either. Unusual for Roxanne. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost have thought it was Roxanne’s twin sister, Isabella, sitting before him and not his wife.
But that was not possible.
Perhaps her slightly less formal appearance today was due to grief over Isabella’s recent death in France. Of the twins, Isabella had always been the quieter, shyer one, preferring her books to parties. The fact that she’d died while gallivanting around southern France with some hotshot playboy wasn’t what Feraz had expected. In truth that had sounded much more like something his own wife Roxanne would do. But the death had been ruled an accident and all the identification at the scene had belonged to Isabella, so it was an open and shut case. Still, losing one’s sibling so quickly and irrevocably had to be difficult for anyone, even shallow, superficial Roxanne—even more so since the girls had been identical twins.
At one time, he’d secretly wished he’d met Isabella first. They had been much more suited to each other than he and Roxanne and had shared many more common interests. But alas, fate had not worked out that way.
He sighed and picked up a well-worn copy of a celebrity tabloid from the table beside him to flip through. The best OB-GYN office in New York City and they couldn’t even keep the magazines up-to-date. He scanned the pages, stopping when he came to a salacious story about his younger brother Rehaj and his new fiancée, Anastasia, then tossed the offending thing aside.
Lies. All lies.
Kind of like my marriage.
The irony was not lost on him.
His gaze kept drifting back to Roxanne’s gently rounded belly. According to his estimations, she would be about five months along now, given that she’d had the IVF done the previous May. He’d not even had to be present. Just donate his sperm and be done. Not what he’d had in mind when he’d wanted to start a family. But he would love the child no matter the circumstances.
Another brief knock sounded at the door and a female physician came in, along with another woman who introduced herself as the ultrasound tech. While the tech readied the machine beside the bed, the doctor held out a hand to Feraz.
“Sheikh Nazrani, I’m Dr. Phillips. Such a pleasure to meet you. Your wife has told me some very interesting things about you.”
“I’m sure she has.” Feraz glanced over at Roxanne, but she quickly looked away. “Thank you for allowing me to view the ultrasound today. I’m excited to meet my child for the first time.”
He moved in closer to the bed, close enough to feel the heat of his wife’s body and smell her perfume—a light floral scent that teased his senses and made him think of spring lilacs. Strange, since the last time he’d encountered Roxanne, she’d preferred a heavier, more cloying fragrance with spices and mandarin. Still, as his wife so often reminded him, it was a woman’s prerogative to change her mind and Roxanne was the Queen of Fickle.
“Let’s get on with things then, shall we?” Dr. Phillips said, dimming the lights in the room. “Sheikh Nazrani, if you’d like to stand here, beside your wife, you’ll both be able to see the screen.”
Feraz moved to the spot she indicated, not missing the tension pulsing off Roxanne in waves. His hand brushed her arm and she jumped, her breath catching. What was wrong with her? They’d touched many times in the past and though they’d grown apart recently, she was hardly unused to a man’s hands on her. Roxanne had not been a virgin when Feraz had married her, a tidbit he’d managed to keep secret from his conservative parents. They would have frowned upon his wife’s previous dalliances. Perhaps Feraz should have told them and been done with the whole mess before it had ever started.
Then a soft, rhythmic beat filled the room and Feraz forgot about his poor relationship with Roxanne, forgot all the water under their bridge, forgot about everything except the glorious tiny image of his own child before him on the screen.
“Is that…” He couldn’t even finish the sentence, his voice drenched in awe. Tears stung his eyes, but he blinked them away. Without thinking, he placed his hand on Roxanne’s arm and, surprisingly, instead of pulling away this time, she covered his hand with hers. “Our child.”
“Yes,” she whispered, sounding as enraptured by the image as he was. “Our child.”
She looked up at him then, tears glistening bright in her pretty green eyes and Feraz’s heart squeezed with emotion. Whatever it took, he would make this work with Roxanne. For the sake of their child.
* * *
Isabella Germain swallowed hard, her gaze locked on the tiny embryo on-screen, tears blurring her vision. She was so happy for the pregnancy and so very sad at the same time. If only her dear sister Roxanne could have been here to see this. Her heart squeezed with fresh grief, both for her sister and for the man standing beside her, holding her arm, his quiet tone reverent. He had no idea the woman he’d married was dead.
Her heart lurched with guilt and fear. Her first instinct after the police had informed her of the car accident that had taken Roxanne’s life was to call Feraz and tell him. She’d always been secretly in love with the man since the first day she’d seen him on that beach in Djeva, all tall, dark, and dangerously gorgeous. He’d only had eyes for Roxanne that day though and Isabella had quickly faded into the background, as she always did.
Now though, she was front and center, playing a part she’d never wanted to get the money her terminally ill mother so desperately needed. This whole deception had been her mother’s idea to begin with. Exchanging IDs with her sister before Roxanne’s trip to France to visit her latest boy-toy so if the paparazzi did happen to see her out and about with another man, it wouldn’t get back to her meal-ticket husband. But then there had been that horrific accident, and no one questioned the identity of the woman found dead in the car. Why would they, with Isabella’s passport and driver’s license right there.
Isabella had been heartbroken. She loved Roxanne, even though she’d been a total user. Their mother hadn’t shed a tear, or at least she didn’t show it if she had been upset by her wild daughter’s death. Then again, the woman made her living off manipulating emotions, her own and everyone else’s too. Before Isabella had finished dialing Feraz’s number that awful night two months prior, her mother had stopped her, made her reconsider the implications of her actions, the consequences of what telling Feraz the truth would do, not only to Isabella, but to the rest of her family as well.