The baby was toddling around the bedroom, with a frightened Emily Wilkins manfully trying to play with her; she laughed with delight at seeing Haya; there was another burst of gunfire outside the windows, closer this time.
Haya picked Noor up and covered her with kisses, slinging her over her shoulder.
“What are those?” Mrs. Wilkins asked, looking at Haya’s papers.
“Safe conduct to get out. If you want to go, Emily, you can get an armed escort to the border. I’ll see to it.”
“I’ve grandchildren of my own.” The older woman wrung her hands. “Oh, God! What shall we do?”
“It’s absolutely fine if you want to leave, but I believe if there’s unrest here, there will be at the airport, too. Prince Jaber has an armed force to protect us. I’m staying here,” Haya said. She was cool and, the nanny thought, regal. “You must make your own decisions. There’s plenty of money here, and a passport for you.”
Mrs.Wilkins looked at her friend and employer, Haya’s shoulders squared, the caftan swirling around her feet.
“If you think we should stay, we’ll stay,” she replied.“You’ve a smart head on your shoulders for a lass who’s not even Irish.”
Haya took control. She arranged calls for Emily Wilkins and herself to their worried families on a secure line; she dictated a will, and faxed it off to her father; she tried to distract the anxious staff in the villa by organizing the cooking of a meal on the single working gas ring in Jaber’s kitchen.When the violence was close, so close you could hear the shots outside the gardens, less than a mile away, Haya sang nursery rhymes to Noor, loudly, so that the bangs and crashes would not frighten her.
By the time the baby was sleeping soundly—Haya had her cot moved into the center of the villa, into Jaber’s own bathroom, as far away from the sounds of violence as possible—the fighting had died down. Into the night there were occasional bursts of gunfire, or a flare arcing overhead. Haya remained awake, with her papers at her side. Ready to run, at any moment. Her bags for Noor packed, by her feet.
At half past three he finally returned; there was blood on his shirt, and some more that had dried in his beard. Exhausted, he slumped on a couch in the reception hall; his servants gathered around, and he muttered a few words in the Ghadan dialect; they smiled and clapped.
Haya leaned forward anxiously. “It’s okay? What happened?”
“They put down the coup attempt. The ringleaders are in custody. Nobody liked them coming here with a foreign force; in the end the men of the city took to the streets and destroyed their vehicles.Then it was over.”
“
Mash’Allah.
And you? Are you injured?”
“A knife wound. Don’t worry,” he bid her as she darted forward. “A doctor has dressed it.There was hand-to-hand fighting at one point.They came within feet of the king.”
“The man who wounded you?”
His eyes darkened. “I killed him.” Jaber looked away. “I didn’t want to tell you of this, when I had my suspicions. But I should have spoken up, warned you. Instead, I was too confident of their loyalty. I put you in danger.”
“You warned me.” Haya was too shy to kiss him.“I just didn’t listen.”
“Is the baby okay?”
“Fast asleep.” She pointed in the direction of his bathroom.
“I have to sleep,” he said apologetically.“I’m sorry; I am dropping. But call your parents, have them fly out here, first class on the first plane, and anybody else you wish to be here.The palace will reimburse them. We will sign the nikkah the day after tomorrow.” He squeezed her hands. “That is, if you still wish it?”
“I do,” Haya said, her heart full.
“And you will even give up your enterprise?”
“I will still own it,” she said, with a touch of stubbornness. “But otherwise, yes, I can see it is necessary.”
“Good.” Jaber sighed. “That will certainly make things a little easier. He’ll be pleased that at least I persuaded you to that. . . .”
“He?”
“The king, of course. He did not want me to marry you.”
Despite the desperate circumstances, Haya felt a moment of shock and annoyance. “Why not?”
“You are a believer, but you are also an American.That’s tricky. And not a virgin—and there is already a child.”
Haya frowned. “That’s backward thinking, Jaber.”
“I know it.” He shrugged.“But it is protocol. I have been trying to persuade the king for some months now, my love. It wasn’t good to be seen with you.”
“And if you had not been able to persuade him?”
“Then we would have left Ghada together.” Jaber looked into her eyes. “You are not the only one who can fight for what she wants.”
Haya was bold; she leaned forward and kissed him passionately on the lips.
“You sleep,” she said, “my love. I will make some calls.”
Jane Morgan tossed on her bed. It was Indian summer in New York, blisteringly hot and muggy. Her apartment was a ten-million-dollar penthouse on Fifth, overlooking the museum, a real palace, with eight bedrooms and four bathrooms. All her own. And now the air-conditioning had broken down.
There wouldn’t be an engineer available till tomorrow, and who knew what time. She would be taking four cold showers a day just to keep from getting sweaty.
She bet the air-con was working just fine at Craig’s place, in the Village.
Her body ached for him. Levin was like an addiction. Big, strong, thick, the perfect antidote to her softness—in body at least. And too much for Jane. She was struggling with her feelings. Trying, and failing, to give him up.
Craig wouldn’t marry her.
They had been together now for over a year. Well—if you could call it together. Dating, and sleeping together, minus the sleep. Sex that was smoking hot. His touch was certain, and inexorable. She couldn’t fight it, in any way that mattered. Levin turned her inside out. Jane would get aroused now whenever she so much as read his name in the papers. If she saw a clip of him—they were always brief—on TV, she would be useless for business for the next half hour, her unruly, frustrated body crying out for him.
And yet, and yet. He would not marry her. He had not asked. Jane had followed him to New York—but GLAMOUR needed her. Proud, she had purchased her own fabulous apartment, and hired full daily maid service, a concierge, and a gardener for her rooftop oasis; Levin shrugged, and kept his own town house in the Village, four thousand square feet of Victorian brownstone, right next to his fellow billionaire Magnus Soren. He would have this relationship on his own terms. Jane wanted it on hers. Not that she said anything explicit; Levin kept seeing her, she would not beg to be loved.
They both continued with their business. Jane worked like she never had before. Haya was sending excellent articles and generating lots of goodwill; Jane traded on it expertly. Sally Lassiter—now, there was a superstar. Jane rejoiced in seeing Sally’s golden prettiness beaming out at her from the cover of
In Style
or
Women’s Wear Daily
. Jane herself had a different following: smaller articles, fewer pictures, but ones that mattered to her. Her peers, those who read things other than fashion magazines, knew all about her.
To the girl on the subway, Sally was GLAMOUR.To the broker reading the
Wall Street Journal,
it was she, Jane Morgan. At a ridiculously young age, shaping up to be one of America’s most notable businesswomen.There were others ahead of her, but Jane wanted to change all that.
Jane’s real competition was Craig Levin.
He played in another league. Fact. Jane didn’t want to compete in the girls’ division. She wanted the championship.Yes, okay, she admitted to herself, as the sweat drenched her skin. When Craig used to tell her, his hands moving capably across her arching body, that he could buy and sell her ten times over, it was a turn-on. But in the morning, she tried to fight.
All her rage, all her frustration, she poured into her business. Expand. Invest. Supervise. Hire. Repeat. As the GLAMOUR empire spread—her empire, her baby—Jane’s plans got bigger.Turn it into the Wal-Mart of luxe. Own the sector.They thought retail was dead until Sam Walton came along.Why not her?
Maybe one day she could compete with Craig, on his own terms....
There were days when she didn’t know if she loved him or hated him.
Sally was getting married. And her blithe, bubbly love of Chris Nelson grated on Jane. Whenever she saw Nelson on TV—and as the Dodgers were tied in the Series against the Red Sox, that was quite a bit—she was reminded. Chris was
marrying
Sally. He’d asked, she’d accepted, and it was to be just like the old days—a party at Sally’s former house, with eight hundred of their closest friends.
Jane couldn’t bear Craig to come with her. Couldn’t bear the jokes. “So when is it
your
turn?”
“Gonna catch that bouquet, Jane?”
She was rich, beautiful, aristocratic, and a self-made woman, and yet, here she was, a slave to love. Sick with desire. Shamed to be so much Levin’s, and know that he was not hers.
She thought, too often, about that first night, that long, intense night by the pool.
If only he had not come over. If only she had not had sex with him.Those fires, once lit in her belly, apparently could not be put out. And all Jane wanted to do was to cry out why—to ask him why he would not marry her.
But there could only be one answer, one she did not want to hear.
He didn’t love her.
That was it.Wasn’t it?”
She felt tears, private tears, wetting her cheeks, and let them fall; this was her sanctuary, after all. Nobody could see her here. She was completely alone.
Her cell phone rang.
Jane blinked. It was three in the morning. Who could be calling? Almost nobody had this number. She prayed it was not Craig, but nope; that wasn’t him on the caller I.D.
“Jane Morgan.”
A brief pause.“I’ve woken you—I wanted to leave you a message, I’m sorry. I thought the phone would be off.”
“Hey, Haya. It’s never off. But don’t worry about that, I was awake anyway.” Jane dashed the tears off her face. She could do with a little business talk—refocus. “What’s up?”
“I know it’s short notice, but could you get a flight to Ghada City tomorrow?”
Her stomach squeezed. “Are you okay?”
A laugh. “I’m fine. Actually . . . I’m getting married.”
Jane blinked. “Huh?”
“Well . . . it’s the nikkah ceremony. There will be another formal wedding later, but once the nikkah happens, you are married. Just my parents, you and Craig, and Sally and Chris. If you can come.”
“Who is he?”
“Jaber.” She could almost hear her friend blushing. “I think I might have mentioned him to you.”
“A little.” Jane blinked, disbelievingly. “You don’t mean
Prince
Jaber, do you?”
“Yes. We’ve been seeing each other . . . I didn’t want to talk about it until I was certain.” Haya paused. “There was some political stuff here.”
Jane ran the details through her mental processor.“But Prince Jaber is the foreign minister of Ghada. How can you . . . ?”
“Jane, I can’t,” Haya said, knowing what Jane was about to say. “I can’t. I have to retire. But I’ve trained up some excellent people and the systems are in place.... I’ve got to be a blind partner now. Devote myself to charity works and do-gooding,” she said, self-deprecatingly.
Jane’s stomach churned so hard she thought she might pass out. Emotions washed through her, one after the other, so strongly she could hardly believe it. Haya! Haya, too. Married . . .
twice
. A damn
princess
. An actual princess with an actual crown. Sally, in her way, American royalty. And she, Jane . . . rejected by the only man she had ever loved. Or ever would love.
“Sally and Chris will be there,” Haya went on, oblivious to Jane’s torment. “Can you and Craig make it?”
“I—no.” Her and Craig? Last time she’d seen him he’d shut the door of his office and bent her over his desk.They weren’t a true couple. He was at a meeting in Stockholm; the chances of leaving it for a social trip to the Middle East were nil. And to go by herself? No way.“We can’t. I’m sorry, it’s too short notice.” Her tone was cool, that practiced formality she used against all pain. “I’ll come to the real wedding.”
“This is the real wedding.” Haya was a little distant now herself. “But of course it is hugely short notice . . . we just want to be married.”
“I understand.”What woman in love didn’t? Jane thought for a few moments.“If you are retiring from business, Haya, will you sell me your shares? I’ll happily give you market price, or a premium, even.” There was silence. “Haya? Are you still there?”
“Yes; no, thank you, Jane, I won’t be selling. The business of GLAMOUR is key to Ghada and the region, and I’ve built it up quite carefully. I’ll just be leaving day-to-day management to you and Sally.” Her tone now was as crisp as Jane’s had been before.
“I see—that’s fine,” Jane lied. She was angry now, though she couldn’t immediately fathom why. But this was out of her control, the whole thing. Her business. Her life. She wondered if Haya would sell to Sally—those two had always been closer. “Congratulations on your wedding, Haya, I’m sure you’ll be extremely happy, and I’ll come to the next ceremony. Can I send a gift to you?”
“Just donations to the Red Crescent,” Haya said.
Donations? How impersonal. Jane felt it as a rebuff. Was her friend already acting like a princess, and not the Haya she’d known, whose legs she’d held up as she squeezed out her daughter?
“I’ll be glad to make a donation. A hundred thousand, first thing tomorrow.”
“That’s very generous, Jane.Thank you. Good night then.”
“Good night, Haya,” Jane replied, hanging up.
She crawled back into her bed, tears welling up again. When Craig got back from Sweden she would take a good cold shower and dress in her most beautiful outfit. And she would go to see him, and once and for all, she would finish it.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this on our day off.” Chris was still pissed off; he took care to speak sotto voce, though.“It’s as hot as balls out here.”