‘Besides, you have to be my chaperone. Papa says so.’
And if Papa said so then that was it, Aziza acknowledged. His word was law and there was no going against it. The thought of facing her father’s wrath if she denied his command was actually worse than the prospect of meeting up with Nabil again.
‘So will you come?’
There was no other answer she could give. She wouldn’t have to see Nabil. There was no reason for her to have any contact with him.
‘All right, then. Yes, I’ll come.’
NABIL HAD HAD ENOUGH. He had thought that by agreeing to an arranged marriage he was going to make things easier. That all he had to do was to instruct his chancellor to find a suitable bride, agree to any terms her family proposed and proceed to the wedding ceremony. Now it seemed that the rituals and procedures would never end. Today he had expected to see the chosen candidates; pick one to become his wife. Instead he was weighing up possible treaties, the balance needed for peace.
Could this thing get more like a bidding war? His breath hissed in through his teeth as he tried to find the patience to listen to what Omar was now telling him. Had he spent the last ten years dragging the country into the present century only to find that his need for a wife would take it right back again to the dark ages it had been in when his father had ruled?
‘I understand,’ he said at last, driven to the end of his patience. ‘Give me the list.’
An impatient gesture of his outstretched hand brought the chancellor hurrying, passing the sheet of paper to him. One name jumped out at him at once, and he knew there had never been a choice. Not really. This had been inevitable from the moment he had put the bride search into motion. There might have been other names, but those had really had no weight to their candidacy. If he really wanted to secure the throne, to ensure peace, then there was only this one way he could go.
Jamalia; Farouk El Afarim’s eldest daughter.
Just a maid. I am with Jamalia.
Damn you, Zia, get out of my head! He needed to think clearly and with the image of the woman he’d met on the balcony haunting his thoughts, that was impossible. But it didn’t take much thought to know that an alliance with the El Afarims was the most valuable gift he could give to Rhastaan.
‘Is Jamalia here today?’
‘She is sire but...’
‘I will see her.’
A sound the older man made brought his head up fast. He could almost feel the force of his own glare reflected back at him from Omar’s eyes.
‘I will see her—and no one else. I know that it isn’t protocol—’ he emphasised the word sardonically ‘—for me to meet her as yet. But surely there must be some way I can see her without having to come face to face?’
‘There is a room—with a two-way mirror.’
‘That will do.’
* * *
‘Oh, Zia, why do you think we’re here? What is happening?’
‘How should I know?’
Aziza regretted the sharpness of her words as soon as they’d escaped her. She didn’t feel quite in control of her tongue, or her thoughts. She had been a bundle of nerves ever since they had set out on this second visit to the palace. If she thought she’d been apprehensive before at the thought of meeting Nabil again, now that she knew the sort of mature, powerfully sexy man he had become, just the thought of being in the same building as him tied her stomach in knots. Now this new development, the way they had been told to move to this room and wait, set her nerves on edge, making it difficult to breathe.
‘I’m sorry—but obviously I know no more than you.’
Jamalia was in a twitchy enough state as it was. Aziza wasn’t going to let on that she had her strong suspicions that the large mirror on the wall in which her sister was preening herself was in fact a window through which they could be observed by anyone who wanted to watch.
‘My hair’s a mess!’ Jamalia tugged at a lock of silky black hair, twisting it round her fingers as she made a petulant face at her reflection. ‘I knew I should have got you to do it instead of—’
‘Shall I do it now?’ Aziza volunteered hastily. Anything to distract her sister.
Dressing Jamalia’s hair was a skill she had learned from a very young age. She had hoped that if she made her father’s favourite look good then it might win her some of Farouk’s approval. That hadn’t worked, but at least Jamalia appreciated her efforts.
‘It won’t take a moment to braid these pieces, fasten them up at the sides.’
‘All right.’ Jamalia’s petulant expression eased as she watched her younger sister set to work on her hair. ‘Hmm—that doesn’t look half bad. And I tell you what would make it look even better...’
She was fumbling with her necklace as she spoke, never taking her eyes from the mirror as she lifted the necklace and placed it on her head.
‘Help me fasten it, Zia...’
In a moment, the heavy jewelled pendant was hanging in the centre of her forehead, right against the silky black of her hair.
‘See?’ Jamalia preened, turning her head to see the effect from both sides, smiling at herself—and possibly at their hidden viewer—as she did so. ‘The perfect look for the new Sheikha!’
It must be wonderful to have her sister’s total self-confidence, Aziza thought as she compared their two images in the mirror. But then Jamalia had always known she was beautiful, always been treated as the jewel in the family. Jamalia took after their father: tall, slender, elegant, stunning. They were so alike, it was no wonder Farouk had always favoured her. Beside her glamourous sibling Aziza felt like a small, rounded puppy, cuddly perhaps, but lacking the sort of pedigree Jamalia wore effortlessly. Because of that, it had always been made plain to her that it would cost her family an expensive dowry to marry her off.
You want me to kiss you, do you...? From the depths of her memory came the sound of Sheikh Nabil’s voice, dark with mockery and contempt, so clearly that she could almost believe he had come into the room behind them. You stupid little fool—you wouldn’t even know who you were kissing. What kind of man you wanted...
Did Jamalia know what sort of a husband she would get in this man? Did she understand—or did she even care? It seemed that all her sister cared about was the title of Sheikha, the ceremonial role, the wealth and luxury that would come with it. At least her sister wouldn’t be pushed into a totally subservient place as Nabil’s wife, as might have happened in the past. In the ten years since his first wife had died, the Sheikh had worked ceaselessly it seemed to ensure that women had a better life, more equality. Hadn’t she longed to take advantage of it herself, to be able to go to university to study languages? Another mark against her, in her father’s opinion. After all, who would want to marry a bluestocking, someone who spent so much of her free time with her books? At least she’d learned to drive and enjoy the independence that gave her, while her sister had never bothered to take driving lessons.
But then of course, if she became Queen, Jamalia would never need to steer her own vehicle. She would have a sleek, luxurious, armour-plated official car at her disposal, together with a professional chauffeur, on duty day or night, whenever she wanted him.
Jamalia as Queen... Why did her stomach seem to drop, her nerves clench, at just the thought? Not at the thought of her sister as Sheikha—but as Nabil’s wife.
*