Ugh. Heat prickled Isabella cheeks as she turned around again fast. Of course, Roxanne wouldn’t have been impressed with this. She’d have taken it all in stride. She was used to the best in everything, from clothes to wine to food to men. She’d run off as soon as she’d graduated high school, leaving Isabella on her own and stuck in her boring, menial life. And she’d had to quit her job months ago anyway, at Roxanne’s insistence. She’d given her half the money Feraz paid her each month in exchange for carrying the baby for her—one-hundred-twenty-five-thousand. Roxanne hadn’t needed it, given that whatever playboy she’d been currently sleeping with had taken care of all her expenses for her. But to Isabella it had been a miracle. After she’d undergone the IVF, Isabella had been able to pay off all her debts, move to a better apartment in a nice neighborhood, afford a few luxuries like new clothes that fit and fresh food from the farmers’ market, and buy all those books she’s always wanted to read but could never afford before. Best of all, she’d been able to pay for the first in a series of cutting-edge treatments for her mother. Once, her mother had even said she’d always known she could count on Isabella to save the day.
The thought should’ve made her happy. Instead it made her so sad that tears stung the backs of her eyes until she blinked them away. Roxanne should have been here. Roxanne would never see her baby. Roxanne was dead and what a complete mess she’d left behind.
Feraz tossed his keys onto a side table, the loud clack jarring Isabella from her grief. She glanced over as he walked into the open-style chef’s kitchen then turned to ask her, “Can I get you something to drink? Water? Juice? Tea?”
“No. No thank you.” Isabella exhaled slowly, not realizing she’d been holding her breath when he’d been near. Truth be told, the secret crush she’d always harbored for him had flared back into life the minute he’d walked into that exam room and as she watched him shrug off his gray suit jacket to reveal the white silk shirt beneath, her pulse thudded a bit harder. Why in the world Roxanne would go outside of her marriage for pleasure when she had this hot hunk of man waiting for her at home in her bed was unimaginable to Isabella.
Still, she tamped down her inappropriate lust for a man she could never have, under any circumstances and took a seat on the edge of the plush cream-colored suede sofa. Feraz returned with a bottled water and cracked it open, chugging down half the contents before taking a seat in a matching arm chair across from her, a glass and stainless-steel coffee table in between them.
“So,” Feraz said at last, toying with his bottle on the table. “Our son looks healthy.”
“Yes,” Isabella said, the word emerging as more of a croak from her dry throat. Maybe she should’ve asked for a water after all. Her hands trembled slightly from adrenaline and she clasped them tight in her lap to hide the shake. The baby was kicking like mad too, mos
t likely picking up on her agitation. “I think he’s going to be quite the athlete when he grows up.”
“Why?” Feraz met her gaze and her chest squeezed a little from the avid interest in his warm brown eyes. He’d always struck her as a decent man—smart, kind, caring—even with all his enormous responsibilities. It couldn’t have been easy for him to take over rule of his country after his father’s death, especially when the government and infrastructure had been in such a shambles. Not that she could ask him about that. Roxanne wouldn’t have known a parliament from a prancing pony. “Do you feel him move a lot?”
“Sometimes.” She allowed her tense shoulders to relax a tad. This conversation seemed harmless enough. “He’s bouncing around in there like crazy right now.”
“May I feel?” Feraz was on his feet and around the coffee table before Isabella could respond. She stared up at him, aware of his heat and the scent of his cologne. He sat on the cushions beside her, the question still in his eyes. In the end, what could she say? This was her husband—or at least she was pretending he was anyway—and it would’ve been weird if she didn’t let him feel his baby move, right? Plus, Roxanne would never have shied away from having a handsome man’s hands on her. Isabella took a deep breath and gave a brief nod.
Feraz stared at her rounded belly as he gently laid his large warm palm against her, the touch searing her through the thin cotton of her T-shirt. Sure enough, the baby gave a firm nudge right beneath where his hand was and Feraz gave a child-like gasp of delight. The wonder in his eyes was too much and soon Isabella found herself smiling right along with him.
“That’s…wow.” The muscles in Feraz’s tanned throat worked as he swallowed. “That’s amazing, Roxy.”
Hearing him call her by her sister’s nickname helped break the spell for Isabella and she straightened, causing his hand to fall away. Awkwardness fell between them again and Feraz returned to his seat across from her, his smile fading into his usual stoic expression, the one he wore whenever he was overseeing his sheikh duties or being interviewed on TV. She’d seen it more times than she could count when she’d been up at all hours of the night to go to the bathroom or get a snack or whatever else this crazy pregnancy had made her do. At those times, all she had for company was the twenty-four-hour cable news and she’d watched avidly to catch a glimpse of her gorgeous, royal brother-in-law.
“I need to get back to Djeva as soon as possible. The government will be voting on some important legislation later this week and I want to be there to support my brother Rehaj. My private jet is waiting at LaGuardia. I just need to call my pilot and let him know what time we’d like to leave. You mentioned needing to pack some things and wanting to say goodbye to your mother. I suggest we do that now so that we may be on our way as soon as possible. I spoke with Dr. Phillips and she said you should be fine to travel. She is also emailing the names of several colleagues of hers practicing in Djeva who can take over your care from here.”
Isabella didn’t quite know what to say. This was what her mother had been hoping for, a seamless transition of one daughter to another, one life to another, without the doting husband any the wiser, but it all left a sick feeling in the pit of Isabella’s stomach. She was an honest person by nature, an oddity in her own family, and all this deception didn’t sit well with her at all. But there wasn’t much she could do about it at this point. If she came out now and blurted the truth to him, he’d either think she was nuts or he’d march her right back to the doctor’s office and demand a whole new battery of tests be done to prove the validity of her claims. None of that was acceptable. She still had the expenses of her mother’s cancer treatments to contend with and much as she hated the thought of lying to and duping an innocent man, she hated the thought of her mother lying dead in a grave beside Roxanne even more. Her mother might be a lying, cheating con artist, but she was the only mother Isabella knew. Good thing her father was already dead, since finding out his beloved daughter was running a long con on a sheik might have done him in.
No. She’d started this farce, she needed to see it through, no matter how difficult.
Isabella exhaled slowly then nodded. “Fine. We can leave whenever you’re ready, right after I talk to my mother.”
3
Isabella had hoped to do this alone, but Feraz had insisted on coming with her to East Park 92, the chic assisted-living facility where her mother lived nowadays. Regardless of the strained relationship between them, she’d wanted to make sure her mother got the care she needed and was well taken care of. The fact the place had a penthouse salon and spa and a gourmet restaurant on the first floor of the twenty-story red brick building, didn’t hurt either. Calista Germain demanded the best, especially when she was at her worst.
She and Feraz rode the elevator up to her mother’s seventh floor one-bedroom apartment. Isabella knocked on the door then hid her hands quickly to hide their trembling. The last thing she needed was for Feraz to pick up on her nervousness and start asking a lot of questions.
Her mother answered, dressed to the nines and in full hair and make-up, as always. She was a firm believer in fake-it-til-you-make-it and even though she’d been on chemotherapy for several weeks and had started to lose both her hair and some weight, you couldn’t tell with the way her layered sweater-set covered her up and the stylish new cut the salon upstairs had given her. If Isabella didn’t know better, she’d think her mother was healthy as a horse and at least ten years younger than her sixty-two years.
“Come in, come in,” her mother waved them inside then checked the hall before closing the door behind them. Old habit. Back when Isabella had been younger and her mother had been running some job on a mark, they’d always looked twice to make sure they weren’t being stalked or followed.
“My, my,” her mother said, giving Feraz an appraising stare. “Not sure if I should bow or curtsy or what, seeing as how you’re head of the country now.”
He didn’t even blink, his stern “sheikh-face” as she thought of it, firmly in place.
“Nice to see you again, Mrs. Germain,” he said, giving her a slight bow, his voice freezing cold.
“Calista, please.” Her mother gestured toward them to take a seat on the cream-colored sofa in the small living room. As far as assisted living facilities went, this was probably considered top-of-the-line. The price certainly was, Isabella could attest. Still, it was pleasant enough—lots of white and beige, warm hardwood floors and area rugs, a galley-style kitchen with stainless-steel appliances and granite countertops. If one had to give up their freedom, this wasn’t a bad way to go. Isabella took a seat on the sofa with Feraz beside her. Her mother sat in an armchair across from them. She gave Feraz a sly smile. “We are family now, after all.”
Isabella felt Feraz stiffen beside her and prayed this awkward situation would be over soon. “Mom, I wanted to stop by and see you tonight before we fly back to Djeva tomorrow.”
That got her mother’s attention. Her shrewd green gaze darted from Isabella to Feraz, then back again. “Already? Don’t you work fast, huh?”
Feraz frowned. “I want to take my wife and child home.”