Kitabı oku: «Date with a Surgeon Prince», sayfa 3

CHAPTER THREE

HIDING HER REACTIONS to Gaz in Theatre proved unnecessary, because although she worked for five straight days, he was never rostered on in the same theatre as her.

She didn’t kid herself that he’d had his schedule changed to avoid her, doubting she was important enough to cause such a change, and caution told her not to mention him to Jawa, not to ask where he was operating or seek answers to any personal questions about the man, in case she unwittingly revealed how she felt.

Besides, they just didn’t do personal conversations, these Ablezians.

But her reaction to Gaz had certainly put a damper on her virginity quest, other male colleagues seeming pale and uninteresting by comparison, although she did accept an invitation to the movies from a young doctor on Safi’s ward.

She’d even accepted a goodnight kiss but she had felt nothing, not a tingle, not a sign of a spark—and the poor man had known it and had avoided her ever since.

So she worked, visited Safi, and worked again until finally she had time off—three days.

Nelson had emailed to say Pop was talking to the surgeon but was still undecided about the operation, although now he could walk barely a hundred metres without tiring.

She had to forget about Gaz and find a way to see this prince! Once she’d kept her part of the bargain, Pop would have to have the operation. He wasn’t one to renege on a deal.

And at least sorting out how you’re going to approach him should get your mind off Gaz, she told herself.

And it did, the whole matter seeming impossible until she read in the English-language newspaper that the new prince had reintroduced his father’s custom of meeting with the people once a week. Each Thursday he held court in a courtyard—was that where courtyards got their name?—at the palace, hearing grievances or problems, any subject allowed to approach and speak to him privately for a few minutes.

Reading further, Marni discovered the custom had stopped while his uncle had been the ruler but had been reinstated some weeks previously and was a great success.

She wasn’t actually a subject, but that couldn’t be helped. If she tied a black headscarf tightly over her hair and borrowed an all-concealing black abaya from Jawa and kept her head down—maybe with part of the scarf tied across the lower part of her face—she could slip in with the locals, have a minute to introduce herself and show the photo, perhaps even have a laugh with the man who’d been kind to her as a child.

The planets must have been aligned in her favour—though they’d definitely been against her last week—for the next meeting was the following day.

She emailed Nelson to tell him she was keeping her part of the bargain and to warn Pop she expected him to keep his, then went to collect the clothing she’d need.

Which was all very well in theory!

In practice, once dressed and sitting in the back of a cab on her way to the palace, a building she’d glimpsed from afar in her explorations, she realised just how stupid this was, how ridiculous the whole thing—making a deal with Pop so he’d have a lifesaving operation—fronting up to the prince of a foreign land to show him a photo of himself as a child.

The enormity of it made her shake her head in disbelief.

Yet here she was!

Huge arched gates in a high, sand-coloured wall opened into a courtyard big enough to hold a thousand people. It was an oasis of green—she remembered Gaz telling her how important green was—with beds of flowering roses, tinkling fountains, fruit trees and date palms. The garden had been designed and planted to provide shade but also to form little spaces like outdoor rooms where one could sit and read, or think, or just do nothing.

In the centre, facing the immense, low-set building, was an open grassed area and here the supplicants were gathering, seating themselves cross-legged on the ground in neat rows. Thankfully, there were not as many as Marni had expected, although, contrarily, part of her had hoped there would be too many and she could put off her ridiculous venture for another day.

She seated herself beside the last man in the back row, pleased it was a man as she knew he wouldn’t attempt to make conversation with a woman he did not know.

An exchange of salaams was enough, Marni with her head bent, not wanting to reveal pale eyes surrounded by even paler skin.

Intent on remaining unseen, she barely heard the words from the wide veranda that ran along the front of the palace. Not that hearing them more clearly would have helped.

Really smart idea, this, she thought despairingly. Just pop along to a meet and greet without a word of the language to tell you when it’s your turn to front up to His Maj!

A long line was already forming and as it snaked towards the veranda the man beside her said something then stood and joined the line. Checking that it already held some women, Marni slid into place behind him, her heart beating such a crazy rhythm she was surprised she could stay upright.

The line inched forward until she could see, on a low couch on the veranda, a white-robed figure, bowing his head as a supplicant approached him, apparently listening to the request or complaint before assigning the person to one of the men who stood behind the couch.

Some people were led to the edge of the veranda and returned to the courtyard, while others were taken in through a door behind the couch, perhaps to sort out business matters or to leave more details. Whatever reason people had to be here, the line moved without a hitch, the meet and greet, as Marni thought of it, a smoothly organised process.

The man in front of her reached the steps, and although instinct told her to flee, the memory of the greyness in Pop’s face held her steadfast in the grassy courtyard.

He had to have the operation!

The man moved on and one of the flunkeys supporting the main act waved Marni forward. Following the actions of those she’d seen, she approached swiftly, knelt on the pillow set before the robed figure and bowed her head, then lifted it to look at the face she’d seen in the newspaper back home and on billboards around the city.

The face she’d seen in Theatre, only in his snowy headdress he looked so different…

‘But—you’re—you’re you,’ she managed to get out before words evaporated from her head.

Gaz was staring at her, as bemused as she was apparently, although once again she suspected there was a smile hovering somewhere in his eyes.

‘I am,’ he finally said. ‘Definitely me. How may I help you?’

The voice had its usual effect, and Marni dissolved completely into a morass of words and half-sentences that she knew were making no sense at all.

‘Stupid, I knew that—but Pop needs the op—and then the photo—photos really—you were in the paper—and the job there—here—and I know it’s silly but he really wanted—so I came—’

‘You came?’ Gaz repeated.

Marni took a deep breath, looked into the face of the man she lusted after and smiled at the absurdity of it all.

‘Actually,’ she said, almost totally together now, ‘I came to—well, to say hello and show you a photo. Apparently we were betrothed, you see, a long time ago, and I know it’s stupid but I promised Pop I’d try to meet you and—’

She was rattling on again so she stopped the babble and reached into the pocket of her borrowed abaya, but before she could pull out the photo the man she’d written off as a flunkey had grabbed her wrist in a grip of steel.

‘I think she wants to marry me, not shoot me,’ Gaz said, adding something in his own language so the man withdrew his hand and stepped away, leaving Marni burning with embarrassment.

Gaz took the photo, frowning at it, thinking back perhaps, looking from it to Marni, shaking his head, serious now, although a gleam of amusement shone deep in his eyes.

‘Oh, but this is wonderful!’ he finally declared, a delighted smile flashing across his face. ‘We cannot talk now, but you have no idea how fortuitous this is. Mazur will take you to a side room, get you tea or a cold drink. I will join you shortly.’

Marni was still trying to work out the wonderful and fortuitous bits when Gaz reached out to help her back to her feet, indicating she should follow the man who’d stepped forward on his other side.

Totally bewildered by the whole charade—Gaz was Prince Ghazi? How could that be?—she followed Mazur, stumbling slightly as she was about to enter the room and realising she hadn’t removed her sandals.

They entered a huge, open room, with high, arched doorways curtained in what looked like gold-coloured silk, the drapes pulled back and held with golden, heavily tasselled cords. The floor was of white marble, inlaid with coloured stones that made twining patterns of leaves and flowers, so brilliantly beautiful she had to pause to take them in.

Scattered here and there were immense carpets, woven in patterns of red, blue and green. Low settees were placed at intervals along the walls, cushions piled on them. Here and there, groups of people sat or stood, obviously waiting for further conversation with Gaz—Prince Ghazi!

‘This is the majlis, the public meeting room,’ Mazur explained. ‘but you will be more comfortable in a side room.’ He led her towards an arched opening to one side of the big area and into a smaller version of it—patterned marble floor, a bright rug and a pale yellow sofa with bright cushions scattered over it.

Mazur waited until she was seated on the softly sprung sofa before asking, ‘You would like tea perhaps? We have English tea or mint tea, cardamom, of course, and other flavours if you wish.’

His English was so impeccable, his courtesy so effortless he could have worked for English royalty.

Though apparently Gaz was royalty…

And she’d kissed him? Considered—well, more than considered—him a potential lover!

‘Mint tea would be lovely,’ Marni managed to reply, and waited until he’d departed before burying her head in her hands, desperate to make sense of what had happened.

She was finishing her tea and nibbling on one of the little cakes Mazur had produced when Gaz appeared, looking so utterly regal in his pristine white robe and starched headdress, a coronet of black silk cord holding it in place, that her heart fluttered again but this time with a degree of not fear but definitely trepidation.

‘So, we are betrothed?’ he teased, not bothering to hide his smile.

‘Well, that’s what Pop wrote, but who knows what your father put underneath—probably something about pleasing a daft old man—but it was all just a kind of a joke, me coming here. I didn’t come here to hold you to a ridiculous betrothal, but with Pop so sick I made a deal with him. It’s hard to explain…’

Marni was doing her best to sort things out, but she was becoming increasingly annoyed because the wretched man was so obviously amused by the whole thing while she was squirming with embarrassment.

Gaz came closer and the white gown did nothing to stop all the physical manifestations of lust that had struck Marni when she’d first set eyes on him.

Lust, she had discovered very quickly, was stronger than embarrassment, for all the good it was going to do her. This man was way out of her league in every way, so a casual affair was out of the question.

She watched him, nervous, apprehensive, wondering just what he might be thinking.

‘Actually,’ he said, coming to sit beside her on the couch, ‘the betrothal is a splendid idea. You may not know it but I have seven sisters, six of whom are bent on finding me a wife.’

‘Only six?’

Marni was interested in spite of herself, although she had to admit to a little twinge of dread as to where this betrothal idea might be leading.

‘The seventh’s heavily pregnant at the moment and fortunately has other things on her mind. But having six sisters producing eligible women for you almost daily is very difficult, especially when I’m trying to come to terms with this job. So your arrival has come at just the right time, and with the photo as proof that my father arranged it, my sisters can do nothing but accept it. It’s perfect!’

Marni stared at him in disbelief.

‘Perfect?’

‘Absolutely perfect!’ The dark eyes were definitely smiling.

‘Are you saying you’ll tell your sisters we’re betrothed?’

‘Of course.’

She shook her head then pulled herself together enough to demand, ‘But that’s all? Just betrothed? A temporary arrangement to stop them dangling women in front of you? That’s all you want?’

‘For the moment,’ the white-robed figure replied, while Marni quelled an urge to run a fingertip along the fine dark line of his beard. ‘I wouldn’t rush you into marriage.’

‘Marriage!’

The word came out as a startled squeak, and it was the squeak that brought her to her senses.

Mature, professional women did not squeak!

‘Let’s just back up here,’ she said firmly, trying hard not to notice how exotically handsome he looked in his prince outfit. ‘I know it was a ridiculous thing for me to do, coming here and rattling on about a betrothal, but you were meant—no, you weren’t meant to be you to start off with—you were meant to be this kindly prince and I’d burble out my stuff, you’d laugh, I’d let Pop know I’d done it, he’d have the op to keep his part of the bargain, and everything would be fine.’

She hesitated then added, ‘To be honest, it did cross my mind you might not be so kindly and I just might end up in a dungeon or deported at the very least, but Pop needed—’

Gaz held up his hand, the white robe falling back from his lower arm so Marni could see his wrist, fine dark hairs on his forearm, smooth olive skin…

‘This Pop you talk of—he’s the one who wrote on the photo?’

Marni swallowed hard, unable to believe a little bit of a man’s arm could have excited her so much.

She managed a nod.

‘What operation?’

Whether it was the tension of the day or her concern over Pop or simply relief to be talking about something other than her reason for being here, suddenly words flowed freely.

How Pop had always been an active man, involved in so many things, running different charities, on the boards of hospitals and refuges, years ago two stents had been put in and he’d continued on without missing a beat then suddenly this tiredness, exhaustion and a diagnosis of a faulty heart valve and blocked stents, two bypasses and open-heart surgery the only answer.

‘We’re sure he’ll get through it, Nelson and I, but Pop feels at his age maybe it isn’t worth it—’

Again Gaz lifted his hand and this time Marni refused to look at that erotic bit of forearm.

‘Nelson?’ Gaz asked, frowning now.

‘The man who looks after Pop—he’s been there for ever, looked after me as well. A kind of general factotum.’

But Gaz wasn’t listening. He’d pulled out the photo and was staring at it.

‘Where was this taken?’ he demanded, and Marni explained.

‘Apparently your father took over the whole hotel,’ she added, and Gaz smiled.

‘He was never one to do things by halves and I suppose if I was as young as I look then some of my sisters would already have been married, then there were the wives and the aunts and all the women the women needed to look after them whenever they travelled. But if he took over the whole hotel, where did you come into it?’

So Marni explained about the apartments.

‘Pop bought one when the hotel was built and still lives there with Nelson, so when I was dumped on him by my mother, I lived there too. We were allowed to use all the hotel facilities so I probably met you in the pool or garden.’

‘Nelson!’ Gaz said. ‘That’s what brought it back to me. I kept calling him Mr Nelson and he’d tell me, no, his name was Nelson.’

He looked from the picture to Marni then back to the picture, tracing his finger across the images of the two children.

‘I asked you to marry me,’ he said quietly.

Being flabbergasted took a moment, then Marni laughed.

And laughed!

‘Oh,’ she said, finally controlling her mirth, ‘that’s what it must be about. A child’s proposal—the sort of thing that would happen at kindergarten—then your father and Pop humouring you by having the photo taken and writing on the back.’

It took her a moment to realise her amusement wasn’t shared. In fact, Gaz was looking particularly serious.

‘But don’t you see?’ she said. ‘It was a joke between the two men. It’s not as if it meant anything.’

Gaz continued to study her.

‘Would you mind very much?’ he asked after the silence had stretched for ever.

‘Mind what?’

‘Being betrothed to me?’

Mind? Marni’s heart yelled, apparently very excited by the prospect.

Marni ignored it and tried to think, not easy when Gaz was sitting so close to her and her body was alive with its lustful reactions.

‘To help you out?’ she asked, hoping words might make things clearer. ‘With your sisters?’

Gaz smiled, which didn’t help the lustful business and all but destroyed the bit of composure she’d managed to dredge up.

‘That, of course, but it’s more than the sisters. I have to explain, but perhaps not here, and definitely not now. There are people I need to see, supplicants from this morning. Are you free for the rest of the day? Would you mind very much waiting until I finish my business? Mazur will see you are looked after, get you anything you want. You could explore the garden or even wander around the palace. It’s exceptionally empty now without the harem, so you needn’t worry about disturbing anyone.’

He touched her hand and stood up, apparently taking her compliance for granted, although, in fact, her mind had stopped following the conversation back when he’d said the word ‘harem’, immediately conjuring up visions of dancing girls in see-through trousers and sequinned tops, lounging by a pool or practising their belly dancing. Was it because he’d said the word with a long ‘e’ in the last syllable, making ‘hareem’ sound incredibly erotic, that the images danced in her head?

She watched the white-clad back disappear through a side door.

He had made it sound as if the lack of a harem was a temporary thing, a slight glitch, she reminded herself. Which meant what?

And wasn’t having no harem a positive thing?

What was she thinking?

A harem or lack of one would only affect her if she was really betrothed to him, and as far as she could remember—it had been a very confusing conversation—she hadn’t actually agreed to even a pretend betrothal.

Had she?

And surely harems no longer existed?

Not dancing-girl harems anyway…

She pushed herself off the sofa and, too afraid to wander through the palace, even one without a ‘hareem’, she retreated to the gardens, thinking of pronunciations. Gaz with its short ‘a’ sound, suggested a friendly kind of bloke, sexy as all hell but still the kind of man with whom one might have had an affair, while Ghazi—which she’d heard pronounced everywhere with a long ‘a’, like the one in ‘bath’, sounded very regal.

Frighteningly regal!

And it totally knocked any thought of using the man to overcome her other problem right on the head! Ordinary women like Marni Graham of Australia didn’t go around having affairs with kings or princes.

Even a pretend betrothal was mind-boggling!

A wide path led to a central fountain and, after playing with the water for a while, she turned onto another path, this one running parallel to the main building, leading to what appeared to be another very large building. In front of it, on a wide lawn, four boys were kicking a soccer ball. A wayward kick sent the ball hurtling in her direction and, mindful of Nelson’s coaching tips, she kicked it back, high and hard, aiming it at the tallest of the boys, who raced to meet it and headed it expertly towards the makeshift goal—two small topiary trees spaced conveniently apart.

The lad high-fived all round then turned towards her, speaking quickly.

Marni held up her hand and shook her head.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand your language.’

The older boy came closer, looking her up and down, waving his hands towards her clothing as if to ask why she was dressed like she was.

She lifted up the black abaya to show her jeans and the boys laughed, the tall one inviting her to join the game.

‘That’s if you can run in a skirt?’ His easy command of English made her wonder if he went to school overseas, or perhaps to an English language school here.

‘I’m sure I can,’ she assured him, and joined the boys, kicking the ball from one end of the grassed area to the other. She’d just sent it flying over the top of the topiary goal posts when a tall figure appeared, not in scrubs, or in the intimidating white gown, but in jeans as faded as hers, and a dark blue polo shirt that had also seen better days.

‘Ghazi!’ the boys chorused in delight. ‘Come and play. This is Marni, she’s nearly as good as you.’

Although he’d been looking for her, he’d hardly expected to find her playing soccer with his young nephews. The hood of her cloak had slipped off her head and her headscarf was dangling down the back of her neck, hiding the thick plait of fair hair. Her face was flushed, but whether from exertion or embarrassment he had no idea, and she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Best not to get further entangled, his common sense warned, for all the betrothal idea was so appealing. But against all common sense he joined the game for a few minutes then told the boys he had to take their playmate away.

He was pleased to see they all went up to her and held out their hands to say goodbye, only Karim, the eldest, bold enough to invite her to play with them again.

How old was Karim? Surely not yet a teenager, although these days who knew when hormonal changes would rear their heads.

Marni had fixed her scarf and pulled the hood back over her head as she approached him.

‘I do hope I wasn’t doing the wrong thing,’ she said, the flush still visible in her cheeks. ‘The ball came towards me, I kicked it, and next thing I knew I was part of the game. They’re good, the boys. I played for years myself, never good enough to make a rep team but enough to know skill when I see it.’

‘They’re soccer mad, just as their father is. His dream is to get Ablezia into the World Cup. For a country that doesn’t yet have its own international team, it’s a huge task. I’m pretty sure that’s why I landed this job.’

‘This job?’

The pale grey-blue eyes looked into his, the question mirrored in them.

‘Ruler—supreme commander—there are about a dozen titles that my major-domo reads out on formal occasions. My uncle succeeded my father, who was an old man when I was born—the first son after seven daughters. Here, our successors are chosen from within the family but not necessarily in any particular order, but I had assumed Nimr, my cousin, would succeed his father and I could continue my surgical work, but Nimr the Tiger didn’t want the job—his focus is on sport—and so here I am.’

Had he sounded gloomy that he felt soft fingers touch his arm?

‘Is it such a trial?’ the abaya-clad blonde asked.

‘Right at this very moment?’ he asked, covering her hand with his. ‘Not really!’

The boys started whistling as boys anywhere in the world would do at the tiniest hint of romance, and he stepped back, gave them what he hoped was a very princely glare and put his hand on Marni’s back to guide her away from them.

He’d have liked to tell them to keep quiet about her, but that would only pique their curiosity further, and he knew that before they’d even eaten lunch the boys would have relayed the story of the soccer-playing visitor to Alima, his eldest sister, wife of Nimr and mother of the precious boys they’d waited so long for.

‘And the prime mover in the “find a wife” campaign,’ he added, the words spoken aloud before he realised it.

‘Who’s the prime mover?’ Marni asked, stopping by a pomegranate tree and fiddling with her scarf.

Gaz explained the relationship.

‘Is that why they live so close? Not in the main building but within the walls?’

He looked at her, wondering if the question was nothing more than idle curiosity, although he was coming to believe that was unlikely. He was coming to see her as a woman who was interested in the world around her, eager to learn about it and discover new things.

Could this crazy idea work beyond a pretend betrothal?

‘My uncle was living in the palace when they married, so naturally he built them the house nearby. This palace is new, or newish. My father built it when he tired of travelling from our home in the old city to here. Ablezia came late into the modern world, and we are a people who are slow to change. Obviously when the world changed so dramatically in these parts, we had to change—to learn new ways, to understand the intricacies of new business structures and international relations. My father was the right man for the job, because he understood it had to happen.’

‘And you?’ his perhaps betrothed asked softly. ‘Are you the right man for the job?’