Page 59 of Exotic Affairs: The Mistress Bride\The Spanish Husband\The Bellini Bride

‘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.’

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