“Of course not. I want you to get used to being here first.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen.” She looked longingly toward the door. “Maybe this should wait until after we’ve taken blood tests and have received the results. You know, just to be sure.”
Hassan chuckled, then tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “My delightful child, I am sure.”
He led her around the anteroom and introduced her to everyone. Faces and names blurred. She thought that Sabrina’s husband, Prince Kardal, seemed a little more friendly than his wife. The ambassador of El Bahar had actually kissed her fingers. Talk about strange.
Just when she was able to breathe easily and tell herself that she might be able to survive the evening, a servant in formal dress appeared and announced that it was time for them to move into the main reception room.
Hassan led the way, heading for two ornately carved, arched doors. Unfortunately, her hand was still tucked in the crook of his arm, which meant she had to lead with him. Zara thought she might faint. She glanced around until she saw Rafe. He gave her a quick thumbs-up, before moving into line. She saw Cleo between two of the princes. Her sister looked blissfully happy.
Somewhere beyond the closed doors she heard music and conversation. Then the doors swung open as if by magic and they walked into a glittering ballroom.
There seemed to be a few thousand people rather than just a few hundred, but Zara supposed that was because she wasn’t used to being the center of attention. So many faces, she thought as the entire crowd turned in their direction. Intellectually Zara knew it was because of Hassan and his family, not because of her, yet she couldn’t help feeling as if she were being judged and found wanting. Then the people closest began to curtsy or bow, depending on their gender.
Curtsy? Zara swallowed. Should she have done that when she’d seen the king? What about with the princes and with Sabrina. Her stomach flopped around in uncomfortable spasms as worry made her clench her teeth. How many laws had she and Cleo already broken?
Someone spoke to Hassan, and the king turned away. Zara used the opportunity to slip free of him. Her thought was to duck back behind the royal family, but before she had taken more than a step, Rafe was at her side.
“You might want to pretend you’re enjoying yourself,” he murmured in her ear as he nodded at someone he knew.
She sighed. “Is it that obvious?”
“Let’s just say that personal guests of the king don’t usually walk into a room looking as if they’re about to have a root canal.”
“Actually, I’d rather have the dental work without Novocain than be here.”
Rafe placed his hand on the small of her back. “Sorry but that’s not an option. Prepare yourself to meet everyone who is anyone in Bahanian circles.”
Her heart rate increased, and her palms began to sweat. “I can’t. I never remember people’s names.”
“Try to find something distinctive about them as a memory aid. Things like Count Crook has a crooked nose.”
“Is there a Count Crook?”
“No. I was making up an example.”
She looked at him. “What happens if I break into hysterical laughter?”
“I’ll be forced to throw water in your face.”
She imagined herself wet and dripping. It wasn’t an attractive visual. “Okay. I’ll try to keep the hysterics to a minimum.”
“Think about the king. He’s delighted to have you here. You wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings.”
She was far more concerned about the possibility of throwing up, but before she could share that with Rafe, Hassan had returned to her side. He ushered her into the crowd and began introducing her to people.
Zara got lost after the first three names. She tried Rafe’s technique, but none of these perfectly groomed folks had distinguishing features. Every woman was more beautiful than the last, each man more refined and gentlemanly. Hassan was careful to say she was the daughter of a friend, but his tone of voice implied there was some secret between them. Zara hoped that no one thought she was his new mistress.
Zara nodded throughout the introductions. Rafe was always close, but not close enough to talk to. She smiled at men in traditional sheik garments, women in designer gowns, dignitaries in Savile Row suits, all the while hoping no one could tell she was from some podunk town in the Pacific Northwest and that before tonight she’d never worn a dress that cost more than a hundred dollars.