LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘We have yet another ceremony to go through tonight,’ he announced, sounding clipped and grim and beginning to look just a little jaded around the edges. ‘Again, my father has arranged this. And again I find I am in no position to argue with his decree.’

      ‘A marriage ceremony, you mean?’ she asked.

      ‘Of course.’ He grimaced. ‘What else? Do you think you are up to it?’

      Like him, Evie didn’t think she was being given very much choice in the matter. ‘What do I have to do?’ she asked heavily.

      ‘Nothing but stand beside me and repeat the vows you will be asked to say in Arabic. And I pray to Allah that then we will be allowed to do what we came here to do and be private,’ he sighed out sardonically.

      ‘But you don’t hold out much hope,’ Evie dryly assumed from all of that.

      ‘No,’ he confessed. ‘I do not.’

      ‘Raschid—’ Ranya’s voice softly interrupted them. ‘We really must go now…’

      Another sigh, then his mouth clamped into a flat line of grim perseverance. ‘Come,’ he said, taking hold of Evie’s hand again. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

      Not the most diplomatic thing to say to his bride. But then, Evie mused as they began walking along that long corridor again, how many times did he have to marry this wretched bride before he could be allowed to feel married?

      They stopped at a door. Raschid seemed to need a moment to compose himself for what was to come next, and his fresh bout of tension became Evie’s tension as, with a perceptible straightening of his broad shoulders, his fingers tightened around Evie’s hand and his other hand reached out to open the door.

      What followed became lost in the realms of a dreamlike sense of unreality. The room was dark—lit only by wall-mounted candles that gave off too little light for her to see very much of what was around her.

      She was vaguely aware of people standing in the dimness, vaguely aware of their curious scrutiny as Raschid led her forward. The ceremony was short—shorter than she had expected. Beside her, Raschid quietly translated every word into English for her, before she was then required to repeat them in Arabic. And through it all she kept her body in touch with his body, needing to feel the security of his presence in this alien place with its alien service and its alien sounds and scents and language.

      When it was over, Raschid’s attention was claimed almost instantly. As he turned to speak to the several men who had come up to him, Ranya appeared at Evie’s side.

      ‘Come,’ she said quietly. ‘We must go this way…’

      ‘But—’ Evie did not want to leave Raschid; glancing around her, her eyes caught sight of him standing several feet away. Her hand went out, anxious to catch his attention, but even as she did so the group of men closed in around him, and Ranya’s hand on her arm was firmly guiding her away through a door that led into frighteningly unfamiliar territory.

      Not a corridor, but another dimly lit room which then led through to another and another…All were richly furnished, all wore the stamp of eastern luxury. At a fourth door, Ranya paused and turned what Evie presumed was supposed to be a reassuring smile on her before she was knocking on the door.

      Someone called out in Arabic. A man’s voice. A sudden sense of dreadful foreboding shot like a steel rod along her spine. Ranya opened the door and stepped inside with Evie in tow.

      After the eastern splendour of all the rooms they had passed through, Evie was expecting to find herself stepping into yet more of the same. She was therefore surprised to find herself standing in a big but definitely old-fashioned library that could have been transported right out of Victorian England.

      It was all oak panelling lined with shelves upon shelves of leather-bound books. Richly coloured Persian rugs covered the polished wood floor and there was even a large polished oak fire surround with a log fire burning in the grate—although it did so behind a shield of heat-reflective glass.

      The chairs and sofas were of old English dark red velvet, and several huge desks were groaning under the weight of the books and papers scattered across them.

      And it all felt so very strange—as if she had just walked into her grandfather’s study on one of those duty visits she used to make to his home with her mother when she was a child.

      Her grandfather had been a stern, sombre man who’d married very late in life and never seemed to quite understand how he had produced someone as beautiful and sophisticated as Lucinda.

      But this wasn’t England, this was not her grandfather’s Victorian study, she reminded herself. This was Behran, and the man who was at this precise moment carefully pushing himself up from one of the wing-backed chairs was most definitely not her grandfather.

      ‘I bring Raschid’s wife to you as requested, Father,’ Ranya quietly announced.

      And it was at that precise moment that Evie froze.

      Eyes cold and fixed, the breath catching in her throat, Evie found herself staring at the tall and lean figure of—the enemy.

      An enemy that could be no other person than Raschid’s father, simply because looking at him was like taking a glimpse into the future and seeing exactly how Raschid was going to look thirty years from now.

      Even the eyes were the same colour—though this pair was guarded as they studied her stiff form.

      He seemed to be waiting for her to do something. Make some gesture in respect of his high station maybe. But for the life of her—call it pride if you will—Evie could not offer this man any kind of gesture of respect.

      Instead her chin came up, her eyes glassing over in a way Raschid would have instantly recognised if he had been here to see it happen.

      His ice-princess was still alive and flourishing.

      But Raschid wasn’t here, and the slick way she had been separated from him had her turning those cold eyes on Ranya in accusation. The other girl’s lovely cheeks flushed slightly in response, her soft lips mouthing a silent sound of apology.

      ‘Thank you, Ranya,’ Crown Prince Hashim murmured coolly. ‘You may leave us.’

      ‘No!’ It was sheer self-preservation that forced the protest from Evie’s throat. ‘Don’t leave me alone with him,’ she pleaded with Ranya.

      Ranya looked uncertain suddenly. ‘Papa…’ She turned anxious eyes on him.

      ‘Go!’ he commanded. The voice was strong, dictatorial—yet right on the back of that harsh command came a sudden weariness. ‘Please, child,’ he added heavily. ‘Trust me. Give me some privacy to do what I have to do.’

      With a rustle of silk and a touch of her hand to Evie’s arm in mute apology, Ranya obeyed without further hesitation. The door closed softly behind her, leaving a stifling silence behind.

      Neither moved. Neither spoke. Evie felt that tension in her back increase to tingling proportions. Once again, the Crown Prince seemed to be waiting for her to say something, but once again Evie refused to utter a word until she knew exactly what it was she was dealing with here.

      ‘So,’ he said at last. ‘You are the golden icon my son was willing to forfeit his illustrious heritage for.’

      ‘I love your son,’ Evie threw back coolly. ‘Too much to expect him to do anything so drastic for me.’

      ‘A moot point,’ the old man said. ‘For he was prepared to do it with or without your blessing.’

      ‘I’m—sorry if that hurt you,’ Evie murmured stiffly. ‘But, as you and I both know, Raschid has a mind and a will of his own.’

      ‘Too true—too true,’ he ruefully acknowledged. ‘A fact that was brought home to me in the severest way possible. Call me arrogant if you wish, but I did not expect my son to defy me as

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