LITMIR.BIZ

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his bed, to an alley, to anywhere where it could be just them. Instead he awaited her answer and Georgie shook her head. ‘I haven’t been back since …’ And she stopped because she had to, because her world was divided into two—before and after.

      Since a kiss that had changed her for ever.

      Since harsh words had been exchanged.

      ‘I—I haven’t b-been back since the wedding.’ Georgie stammered.

      ‘I was there last month—Azizah is doing well.’

      She knew he had been back, despite swearing she wouldn’t try to find out. She delved just a little when she spoke with her sister, searched out his name in ways she wasn’t proud of. His words were almost lost in the noise of the club, and the only way to continue the conversation would be to move her head just a fraction closer, but that, for her own reasons, Georgie could not do. As his date gave a pointed yawn and the hand on his arm tightened, Georgie thanked him for his help in getting them into the club and for the champagne, and in return Ibrahim wished her goodnight.

      There was a hesitation, just the briefest hesitation, because the polite thing to do would be to kiss her on the cheek, to say farewell in the usual way—but as both heads moved a fraction for the familiar ritual, by mutual consent they halted, because even in this setting, even with the clash of perfumes and colognes in the air, the space between them had warmed with a scent that was a subtle combination of them, a sultry, intoxicating scent that was so potent, so thick, so heavy it should come with a government warning.

      Georgie gave a wry smile.

      It came with a royal warning!

      ‘Goodnight,’ she said, and as he headed out, she watched the people part, watched heads turn to this beautiful man and then back to her, curious eyes watching, because even that short contact with him, in this superficial setting, rendered her someone. Especially, when all of a sudden he changed his mind, when he left his date and strode back towards her. It was almost the same as it had once been, this charge, this pull, that propelled him to her, and she wanted to give in and run, to cross the club and just run to him, but instead she stood there, shivering inside as he came back to her, rare tears in her eyes as he bent his head and offered words she’d neither expected nor sought.

      ‘I apologise.’

      And she couldn’t say anything, because she’d have wept or, worse, she’d have turned to him, to the mouth that she’d craved for so long now.

      ‘Not for all of it, but for some if the things I said. You’re not …’ His voice was husky. He did not have to repeat it, the word had been ringing in her ears for months now. ‘I apologise.’

      ‘Thank you.’ Somehow she found her voice. ‘I’m sorry too.’

      She was.

      Every day.

      Every hour.

      She was sorry.

      And then he turned away and she could not stand to watch him leave a second time so she took her seat instead.

      ‘Who,’ Abby demanded as Georgie sat down, ‘was that?’

      Georgie didn’t answer. Instead she took a sip of her champagne, except it didn’t quench her thirst, so she took another and then looked over to the man who never usually looked back. But in the early hours of this morning he did—and so potent was his effect, so renewed was her longing that had he even crooked his finger, had he so much as beckoned with his head, she would have gone to him.

      It was a relief when the door closed on him but it took a moment for normality to return—to be back in the world without him.

      ‘Georgie?’ Abby was growing impatient.

      ‘You know my sister Felicity, who lives in Zaraq?’ Georgie watched Abby’s mouth gape. ‘That’s her husband’s brother.’

      ‘He’s a prince?’

      Georgie attempted nonchalant. ‘Well, as Karim is, I guess he must be.’

      ‘You never said he was so …’ Abby’s voice trailed off, but Georgie knew what she meant. Even though Georgie’s sister had married into royalty, even though Felicity had gone to Zaraq as a nurse and married a prince, Georgie had played it down to her friends—as if Zaraq was some dot, as if royals were ten a penny there. She had not told them the details of this stunning land, the endless desert she had flown over, the markets and deep traditions in the countryside, contrasting with the glittering, luxurious city, with seven-star resorts and designer boutiques.

      And certainly she had not told her friends about him.

      ‘What happened when you were there?’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘You were different when you got back. You hardly ever spoke about it.’

      ‘It was just a wedding.’

      ‘Oh, come on, Georgie—look at him, I’ve never see a more beautiful man. You didn’t even show me the wedding photos …’

      ‘Nothing happened,’ Georgie answered, because what had happened between Ibrahim and herself had never been shared, even though she thought about it every day.

      ‘Three times a bridesmaid!’ Georgie could still hear her mother making the little joke as they stood waiting for the service to start. ‘It’s a saying we have. If you’re a bridesmaid three times, then you’ll never …’ Her mother had given up trying to explain then. The Zaraquians were not interested in nervous chatter and they certainly did not make small talk—all they were focussed on was the wedding that was about to take place. Despite all the pomp and glamour, it wasn’t even the real wedding—that had taken place a few weeks ago in front of a judge—but now that the king had recovered from a serious operation, and Felicity deemed a suitable bride for Karim, the official celebration was taking place before her pregnancy became too obvious. Still, even if no one was listening, Georgie’s cheeks burnt as her mother chatted on, shame whooshing up inside her. She closed her eyes for a dizzy second, because if her mother only knew the truth … There was no reason for her to know, Georgie told herself, calmed herself, reassured herself, and then her mind was thrown into turmoil again because she opened her eyes to a long, appraising stare from an incredibly imposing man. He was dressed like his father and brothers in military uniform, but surely never had a man worn it so well. She swung between relief and regret because had they been in England she’d have got to dance with the best man.

      She expected him to flick his eyes away, to be embarrassed at being caught staring, but, no, he continued to look on till it was Georgie who looked away, embarrassed. She’d had no say whatsoever in her bridesmaid outfit and stood, awkward in apricot, her thick blonde hair tightly braided so it hung over her shoulder and her make-up, which had been done for her, far too heavy for such pale skin. It was just so not how you wanted to first be seen by a man so divine. She felt his eyes on her all through the wedding and after, even when he wasn’t looking, somehow she was aware of his warm attention.

      She’d had no idea what to expect from this wedding and certainly it hadn’t been to have fun, but after the speeches, the formalities, the endless photographs she began to glimpse the real people and place that her sister loved. There was a brief lull in proceedings when the king and the brothers disappeared and returned out of uniform: dark men in dark suits. There was the thud of music and stamping and clapping, a sexy parade dancing the bride and groom down palace stairs to a ballroom that was waiting, lit only by candles, and Georgie watched as Karim stood as his bride danced towards him. She saw her sister dancing, usually so rigid and uptight, now sensual and smiling, and it was a woman Georgie hardly recognised.

      As the guests circled the couple the atmosphere was infectious but Georgie was nervous to join in. Then there was a warm hand on her back guiding her, and the scent of Ibrahim close up, his low voice in her ear. ‘You must join in the zeffa.’ She didn’t know how to. Didn’t know how to dance freely, even on the sidelines, but with him beside her, tentatively she tried.

      She

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