Sara actually didn’t think it a good idea for Cyndi to sign up for yet another course, when she’d failed to finish either of the other two she’d started over the last three years. Yet her saying so would only make Cyndi dig in her heels.
“Listen, why don’t you save up some money and take the course the next time it’s offered? That way you don’t have to depend on Mom and Dad to be able to do it.”
Cyndi didn’t even dignify that suggestion with an answer, just moved on to the next plan of attack.
“Couldn’t you lend me the money? It’s only two thousand dollars.”
Only? What world was Cyndi living in that two thousand dollars wasn’t a lot of money?
“Firstly, I just made my student loan payment,” Sara told her. “I don’t have any cash to spare. Secondly, saying you want to borrow it really doesn’t fly, since I don’t see how you’d pay it back.” Not wanting a protracted argument, she finished up with, “I have to go back to work. Talk to you later.”
Undeterred, Cyndi sent so many texts, the tone increasingly desperate, that Sara had ended up turning off the ringer on her phone.
To make it all worse, the freezing cold January rain and ice mix Mariah had predicted had waited to start until Sara was standing at the bus stop. With the exception of her jacket, all the rest of her winter gear—boots, gloves and toque—was in her car. After all, she hadn’t expected to have to take the bus or walk to get home.
Really, though, she shouldn’t be surprised. Her family, sisters in particular, seemed to feel it was Sara’s responsibility to do whatever was necessary to make their lives more comfortable, and Sara let herself be a pushover.
She remembered when Mariah had been born. Sara had already been seven when her mother had got pregnant, despite the doctors saying it would never happen, and she’d been so excited to go from lonely only to big sister. When the baby had come home, she’d eagerly helped her mother and father, and somehow it seemed she’d never stopped.
It often felt there was no time for herself, to work toward her own dreams and goals. Being viewed as an easy mark was one thing, but when you added being caught in a tug of love between Cyndi and her mom, and looking after Nonni, it often felt like too much. The emotional strain and financial pressure had stressed her to the point of a functional gastrointestinal disorder. Sometimes just seeing one of her family members’ numbers pop up on her phone made her stomach roil and burn, her teeth clench.
That wasn’t something she shared with her family, though. Since childhood everyone had commented on how independent and reliable she was, and, as she finally opened her front door, Sara reflected that there were far worse ways her family could think of her.
Her relief at finally getting home evaporated when, calling out to the French bulldog jumping up and down in the kitchen, she saw the note from her roommate.
Sara, going to be late. Walk Dief for me.
Not even a “please” or a “thank you.”
But it wouldn’t be fair to take out her bad mood on the dog by refusing to walk him when he’d been locked up by himself all day.
“Well, Dief, since I’m already wet, we might as well go for that walk now.”
And she had to giggle when, hearing her say “walk,” the dog danced on his hind legs, turning in circles.
After changing into a pair of dry sneakers, Sara let him out of the kitchen and hooked his leash to his collar.
“Walkies,” she sang, loving the way he pirouetted on the way back to the front door. “Walkies,” she sang again, as she pulled the door open...
And walked straight into the man standing on her doorstep.
The air left her chest in a whoosh, and when she gasped to inflate her lungs again her head filled with the most delectable male scent she’d ever encountered. Firm fingers gripped her upper arms, steadying her as she wobbled.
Quickly stepping back and pulling a now barking Diefenbaker with her, Sara looked up.
And lost her breath all over again.
Dark yet somehow cool eyes stared down at her from a face too pretty to be traditionally handsome and yet too roughly hewn to be beautiful. Toffee-toned skin stretched over an undeniably masculine bone structure. Midnight-black hair waved back from a wide forehead, which was balanced by a strong jawline and ever so slightly hooked nose. And his unsmiling but deliciously shaped lips made her legs suddenly weak.
Her heart started racing, not in fright but with the intense sensation of recognition firing through her body, making her head spin. Although she could swear she’d never seen him before, something in his inscrutable gaze, the set of his head, the scent still lingering in her nostrils called to her primal, feminine core.
Then common sense returned.
Snapping her gaping mouth shut, she tugged Dief close to her side. Looking down at the dancing, yapping Frenchie gave her welcome respite from staring at the man before her.
“Diefenbaker, enough. Sit.”
Giving her a doleful glare, the little dog did as she commanded, his barking replaced by little rumbles in his throat.
Steeling herself, Sara looked back up and stuttered, “C-can I help you?”
Great. Not only was she a bedraggled mess, but she couldn’t even speak to the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen without sounding like a dork.
“Dr. Sara Greer?”
It was only nominally a question. His deep, accented tones made it more of a haughty statement, and Sara just stopped herself from shyly dipping her chin. Instead, she forced herself to look directly into his eyes.
“Yes?”
“My name is Dr. Farhan Alaoui.” He paused almost expectantly, his gaze watchful. “Crown Prince of Kalyana.”
For a long moment the words sounded like gibberish. Of course she’d heard them loud and clear, but they made no sense to her on an intellectual level.
Had she fallen on the way home, hit her head and lapsed into some kind of concussed dream? That seemed more likely than a man claiming to be a crown prince standing on her doorstep.
“Wh-who?”
Obviously sensing her rising anxiety, Dief stood up and growled. Sara bent to scoop him up. The little dog was trembling—or was it her shaking that way?
“Dr. Farhan Alaoui. Crown Prince of Kalyana,” he repeated, tipping his head back so he was looking down that impressive nose at her, and enunciating every syllable as though speaking to a child.
“D-don’t b-be ridiculous.” She could hardly catch her breath, between the pounding of her heart and rising nausea. “Is this some kind of joke? Who put you up to this?”
Her mind was spinning as she tried to figure out what was going on. There were only three people she’d shared her DNA results with, all trusted family members. Would any of them play such a cruel hoax on her?
“No joke, Dr. Greer.” The corners of his lips twitched downward, reminding her of her least favorite lecturer at university. The one for whom she could do no right. “I’ve come to offer you a job.”
“A job?” she repeated, still trying to sort through the chaos in her head. She peeked around his broad-shouldered frame, expecting to see Cyndi or maybe Mariah behind him, holding a camera and giggling. “A-as what?”
His lips tightened, and she actually heard him inhale before he said, “My wife.”