Landscaped gardens, water fountains, meandering pathways amid tiled courtyards, everywhere she looked, old-world charm, sheer opulence and unprecedented luxury greeted her. It was a setting straight out of a princess tale her aunt had read to her years ago from a book her parents had gifted her after another diplomatic stint in some far-off, exotic country, just like Behraat.
The quarters she’d been given boasted a large antique bed with the softest cotton sheets spun with threads of gold, satin drapes and the en suite bathroom with a marble bathtub was fit for a princess. Plush, colorful rugs snuggled against her bare feet, a vanity mirror framed with intricate gold filigree...everywhere she turned, the opulence of Zafir’s wealth, the sheer differences in their worlds mocked her.
Even when she lay down on her bed, there was the soaring ceiling inlaid with an intricate mural that cast a golden glow over the room. As though she needed a reminder of where she was or who she was dealing with.
She turned around and walked back into the suite. Restlessness and uncertainty gnawed at her, even though it had been a full day since she had learned of her pregnancy. “You’re a fully qualified doctor?” she shot at Farrah who hadn’t left except for a couple of hours.
Farrah looked up from her journal and nodded.
“It doesn’t bother you that he’s ordered you to play nursemaid to me?”
“It’s a small request from a man who saved me at my lowest without judgment, when...even my family had forsaken me.” She put the journal aside. “And it is clear that you are important to him.”
Lauren ignored the obvious question in Farrah’s words and shot one of her own. “Because he has jailed me here rather than one of those underground cells?”
“You misunderstand. You’re in Zafir’s private wing. Women are not allowed here. If imprisoning you was what he intended, he could have put you anywhere.” She paused as though waiting for the import of her words to sink in. “Here, he can be absolutely certain of your safety.”
Lauren refused to attach any meaning to Farrah’s revelation.
She walked toward the dark side table laden with exotic fruits and pastries. She picked up the elegant silver jug and poured sherbet into the gleaming silver tumbler and took a sip. Apparently, in Zafir’s world, silverware meant actual silverware.
The smooth fruity liquid slid down her parched throat blissfully. “The only person posing a problem to my safety is His Arrogant Highness.”
“There have been two attempts on his life since he returned to Behraat, Lauren.”
The tumbler slid from Lauren’s grasp, soundlessly spreading a stain on the thick Persian rug at her feet.
Lauren gripped the wooden surface, an image of Zafir dead instantly pressed upon her by her overactive mind. Nausea rose up through her, turning the sweet taste of the sherbet into bitterness.
That he might be dead was a reality she had accepted a few days ago. Yet having seen him, she couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to him. She picked up a napkin and knelt to soak up the stain from the rug. “Why would—”
A knock at the door to the suite cut off her question.
A woman, dressed in a maroon kaftan and head robes that covered her hair, entered the suite. She had a silver tray in her hand, the contents of it covered by a red velvet cloth lined with gold threads.
Kohl-rimmed eyes stole glances at her as the woman spoke to Farrah. Her eyes wide, Farrah stared at Lauren and back at the woman. “His Highness wants to see you in an hour on the rooftop garden,” Farrah said, her gaze tellingly blank of any expression.
The woman stepped forward and stretched her arms. Lauren took a step back, unease settling low in her belly.
Her heart going thump-thump, she pulled the velvet cloth and bit back a gasp. With shaking hands, she took the precious emerald silk gown from the tray and unfolded it, the soft crunch of tissue wrapped in its folds puncturing the silence.
Thousands of tiny crystals, sewn along the demure neckline and the tight bodice, winked at her. A pencil line skirt flared from the waist with a knee-high slit in the back.
A dress fit for a princess, a sheikha, or a rich man’s plaything.
It would fit her like a glove, Lauren realized. Her gaze caught Farrah’s for a second, and the same knowledge lingered there. Her temper rising, she dropped the gown, feeling more dirty than she had ever felt.
The curiosity with which the two women watched her every move, every nuance in her expression, scraped at her nerves.
Were they coming to the same conclusion as her? A female guest tucked away in the High Sheikh’s quarters, on whom he bestowed gifts of the most intimate kind.
What kind of a game was he playing?