A knock on the door drew her into the living room. She found herself hoping it was Rafe, checking up on her. Her heart beat faster at the thought, but when she pulled open the door, the person waiting in the hall was a woman.
Zara opened her mouth to say hello but had to close it without speaking. All rational thought fled. Her mind filled with thoughts, went blank, then exploded with questions.
The woman standing in front of her looked to be about her age. They were of similar height, although Zara was a couple of inches taller. But it was her face that captured Zara’s attention. The shape of the eyes and the mouth. The angle of the cheekbones. The similarities were striking, although the mystery woman was far more attractive. Zara’s stomach plunged for her toes.
“You must be Zara,” the young woman said. “I see what my father meant when he said we could almost be twins. At the very least, it’s obvious we’re sisters.”
They both had dark hair. Zara nervously pushed up her glasses. “So you must be Princess Sabra?”
The woman nodded. “Call me Sabrina.” She slipped past Zara and stepped into the suite. “Nice room. I heard you have a sister, but she’s not really your sister? Is that right?”
“I’m Cleo.”
Sabrina turned toward the voice, saw Cleo entering the living room and smiled. “Well, we don’t look anything alike. Is your hair really that color? It’s gorgeous.”
Cleo fingered her spiky blond hair. “This is me. I tried being a redhead for a while, but blond roots look really weird, let me tell you.”
Zara closed the door. She didn’t know what to think or say. This was her half sister. Princess Sabra…aka Sabrina. She was stunning in her elegant clothes. She wore slacks and a silk blouse that looked expensive. Zara fingered her own bargain cotton dress. Geometric gold earrings caught the light and there was a huge diamond on Sabrina’s left ring finger. She moved with an elegant grace that reminded Zara of her mother. Fiona had been forever trying to teach her to glide rather than stomp, but Zara had never learned the lesson.
The three of them stood awkwardly in the center of the room. Zara couldn’t escape the feeling of being a bad copy of a stunning original. As usual Cleo broke the ice.
“So what do we call you?” Cleo asked. “Your Highness?”
“Just Sabrina.”
“And you’re really a princess?”
“From the day I was born.” Sabrina moved to one of the sofas and motioned for them to join her.
“You sound American,” Cleo said, sitting at the opposite end of the same sofa. “The king has a bit of a Middle-Eastern accent.”
“I spent a lot of my life in California. I can, like, do the Valley Girl thing if it makes you more comfortable.”
Cleo grinned. “Cool. So you live here, now?”
“I live close by.”
Cleo pointed at her diamond. “Great ring.”
“Thank you.”
“Is there a husband to go along with that?”
“Absolutely. Prince Kardal. We’ve been married about a year.”
“A prince and princess. Just like in the fairy tales.” Cleo sighed. “I can’t believe we’re here. This is so not our regular life.”
Sabrina turned her dark gaze on Zara. “Where are you from?”
“Washington State. It’s in the northwest part of the country.”
“Zara’s a professor,” Cleo confided. “She’s really smart. I live about eighty miles away in Spokane where I manage a copy shop.”
“And now you’re in Bahania,” Sabrina said. The words sounded welcoming enough, but there was an edge to her tone that made Zara uncomfortable.
Did Sabrina resent her being there? Dumb question, she thought. She was a complete stranger who arrived from nowhere with a preposterous story about being King Hassan’s illegitimate daughter.
“I know this is unexpected,” Zara said quietly. “For all of us. I don’t know how much the king told you about why I’m here and all.”
“He mentioned that you had recently found some letters he had sent to your mother. Apparently theirs was a great love affair.”
Sabrina smiled, but there wasn’t any humor in her eyes. Zara folded her arms over her chest. She felt awkward and unwelcome. Sabrina was everything she herself was not—elegant, beautiful, well dressed. Zara was reminded of all the times she’d attended her mother’s dance classes and hadn’t been able to help tripping over her own feet. Eventually Fiona had given up trying to teach her daughter to be graceful.