Hard to believe he was heading to Mehkar.
It’d been so long.
No one would think to look for him in his mother’s country, either, much less his father’s family. Dal’s late father had orchestrated the schism, savagely cutting off his mother’s family following the fatal car accident twenty-three years ago.
It was on his twenty-first birthday that his past resurrected itself. He’d been out celebrating his birthday with friends and returned worse for the wear to his Cambridge flat to discover a bearded man in kaffiyeh, the traditional long white robes Arab men wore, on his doorstep.
It had been over ten years since he’d last seen his mother’s father, but instead of moving forward to greet his grandfather, he stood back, aware that he reeked of alcohol and cigarette smoke, aware, too, of the disapproval in his grandfather’s dark eyes.
Randall managed a stiff, awkward bow. “Sheikh bin Mehkar.”
“As-Salam-u-Alaikum,” his grandfather had answered. Peace be to you. He extended his hand, then, to Randall. “No handshake? No hug?”
It was a rebuke. A quiet rebuke, but a reproof nonetheless. Randall stiffened, ashamed, annoyed, uncomfortable, and he put his hand in his grandfather’s even as he glanced away, toward the small window at the end of the hall, angry that his mother’s father was here now. Where had he been for the past ten years? Where had his grandmother gone and the aunts and uncles and cousins who had filled his childhood?
He’d needed them as a grieving boy. He’d needed them to remind him that his beautiful mother had existed, as by Christmas his father had stripped Langston House of all her photos and mementos, going so far as to even remove the huge oil family portrait only completed the year before, the portrait of a family in happier days—father, mother and sons—from above the sixteenth-century Dutch sideboard in the formal dining room.
Perhaps if Dal hadn’t spent a night drinking, perhaps if Dal’s phone call with his father the evening before hadn’t been so tense and terse, full of duty and obligation, maybe Dal would have remembered the affection his mother had held for her parents, in particular, her father, who had allowed her to leave to marry her handsome, titled, cash-strapped Englishman.
And so instead of being glad to see this lost grandfather, Dal curtly invited his grandfather in. “Would you like tea? I could put the kettle on.”
“Only if you shower first.”
And Randall Grant, the second-born son who shouldn’t have become the heir, the second son who had never flaunted his wealth or position, snapped, “I will have my tea first. Come in, Grandfather, if you wish. But I’m not going to be told what to do, not today, and certainly not by you.”
Dark gaze hooded, Sheikh Mansur bin Mehkar looked his oldest living grandson, Randall Michael Talal, up and down, and then turned around and walked away.
Randall stood next to his door, his flat key clenched in his hand, and watched his grandfather head for the steep staircase.
He should go after him.
He should apologize.
He should ask where his grandfather was staying.
He should suggest meeting for dinner.
He should.
He didn’t.
It wasn’t until the next morning that Randall discovered the envelope half-hidden by the thin doormat. Inside the envelope was a birthday greeting and a packet of papers. For his twenty-first birthday he’d been given Kasbah Jolie, his mother’s favorite home, the home that had also been the Mehkar royal family’s summer palace for the past three hundred and fifty years.
He wouldn’t know for another ten years that along with the summer palace, he’d also been named as the successor to the Mehkar throne.
But both discoveries only hardened his resolve to keep his distance from his mother’s family. He didn’t want the throne. He didn’t want to live in, or rule, Mehkar. He didn’t want anything to do with the summer palace, either, a place he still associated far too closely with his beloved mother, a mother he’d lost far too early. It was bad enough that at eleven he’d become Viscount Langston following his older brother’s death. Why would he want to be responsible for Mehkar, too?
* * *
Poppy glanced up and watched as Dal approached. He’d changed into dark trousers and a light tan linen shirt, the shirt an almost perfect match for his pale gold eyes. He looked handsome, impossibly handsome, but then, he always did. She just never let herself dwell on it, knowing that her attraction was unprofessional and would only lead to complications. Gorgeous, wealthy men like Randall Grant did not like women like her. Why should they when they could have the Sophie Carmichael-Joneses of the world?
“Your turn,” Randall said shortly. “And once you change, please throw that damn dress away. I never want to see it again.”
“Where is my bag?”
“In the closet in the back cabin.”
Poppy located her worn overnight bag in the closet but when she opened it, she had only her nightgown, travel toiletries, a pair of tennis shoes and her favorite jeans. The jeans and tennis shoes were good, but she couldn’t leave the cabin without a shirt.
* * *
Poppy sat back on her heels and tried to remember where she’d put the rest of her clothes. Had they gotten caught up in Sophie’s things? Or had she left them at the hotel when they checked out this morning?
Suppressing a sigh, she returned to the chairs in the main cabin.
The flight attendant was in the middle of setting up a table for a late lunch, covering the folding table with a fine white cloth before laying out china plates with thick bands of gold, crystal stemware, and real sterling flatware.
“You didn’t change,” Randall said, spotting her.
“I don’t have a blouse or top or...or bra...for that matter.”
“You could borrow one of my shirts, and braless is fine. It’s just me here. I won’t stare.”
* * *
There was nothing provocative in his words and yet her face and body flooded with heat. “Then yes, thank you. Because I’m ready to get out of this dress, too.”
He rose from his seat, stepping around the table, and she followed him back to the cabin. The private cabin was small, and felt even tinier when Randall entered the room with her.
She stepped back so he’d have room to open his suitcase and find a suitable shirt for her.
“What are you wearing on the bottom?” he asked.
“Jeans.”
He rifled through his clothes, selecting a white dress shirt with blue pinstripes for her. “This should cover you,” he said.
“Thank you.”
He nodded, and he turned to leave and she took a step to give him more room but somehow they’d both stepped in the same direction and now he was practically on top of her and he put out a hand to steady her, but his hand went to her waist, not her elbow, and his hand seemed to burn all the way through the thin silk fabric, and she gasped, lips parting, skin heating, her entire body blisteringly warm.
In the close confines of the cabin, she caught a lingering whiff of the cologne he’d put on this morning and it was rich and spicy and she wanted to step closer to him and bury her face in his chest, and breathe him in more deeply.
He smelled so good, and when he touched her,