A radiant smile lit Polly’s face as she began to formulate plans for the rest of the day. She phoned her sister first and beamed at Ellie’s shout of delighted anticipation. Afterwards she called her grandfather’s home to speak to her grandmother and ask if she could visit them on another evening. She held back her pregnancy news, wanting to share that with Rashad first.
‘That would be best,’ Dursa told her granddaughter in her halting English. ‘Hakim is travelling with the King and will be away until late and your grandfather would not like to miss your visit.’
Her single social engagement cancelled, Polly decided to spend the rest of the day painting. She had her regular language lesson first, of course, and then spent another hour studying Dharian history and culture. The more she learned about every aspect of Dharian life, the easier she found it to understand Rashad’s concerns and share them. It was particularly interesting to learn about the heroine of the legend, the saintly Queen Zariyah. Why had her mother named her Zariyah at birth? Her grandfather, Hakim, thought it might have been because the name was revered in Dharia and her mother had wanted to give her that link to her father’s heritage, but Polly thought it was just as likely that her mother had simply thought the name was pretty. Evidently she had not appreciated or had possibly not cared that the name was almost never used out of respect for the original Zariyah. Now the world had turned full circle, Polly acknowledged, for while it was known that she was called Polly the media routinely referred to her as Queen Zariyah.
‘You’re going to paint,’ Hayat said unnecessarily when Polly appeared in the loose sundress she usually wore for her sessions.
Polly nodded, wondering why Hayat was staring at her, her dark eyes cool, her face stiff. Had she offended the other woman in some way? Polly pushed the concern to the back of her mind because she was not in the mood to tackle what would be a difficult conversation. In fact she kept on wanting to smile in the most stupid inane way because she was so happy about the baby she carried. As she relaxed into that startling concept she was finally allowing herself to think about what it would mean to have a child and become a parent.
Certainly, she hoped that she would manage to be a better parent than her own mother had contrived to be. Although she felt guilty feeling judgemental like that, she had had a great deal more compassion for her late mother since she had learned the tragic circumstances of her own birth. Yet Annabel Dixon had moved on from the loss of her husband by very quickly conceiving another child and once again landing the responsibility for that child onto her own mother’s shoulders. Polly sighed with regret. It seemed that her mother had led a tumultuous, lonely and unhappy life, for she had never managed to sustain a lasting relationship with any one of her daughters’ fathers. She wanted something very different for her own life and her own child, she conceded ruefully. She wanted love and stability and two parents for her baby, so that her child could feel safe and supported as he or she grew up.
The air-conditioned cool of the room set aside for her to use as a studio was welcome. There were two unfinished canvases on easels, one a painstaking watercolour in Polly’s signature dreamy pastels of the star-shaped pool on the ground floor, the second a sunset in oils of the desert landscape. The second painting was a new departure for Polly. The colours were more adventurous, the brush strokes bolder, possibly expressing the many changes that had engulfed her since she first came to Dharia, she acknowledged thoughtfully.
And yet had she had a choice there was nothing she would change, she reflected while she painted. Rashad had transformed her life. Her gaze flickered to the ring on her wedding finger, the miniaturised fire-opal ring, and she smiled giddily, marvelling that her mother’s legacy, inapt as it might have been, had nonetheless reunited her with her grandparents and allowed her to meet Rashad. Gorgeous but often unfathomable Rashad. He was passionate, clever and driven, sexy beyond words, everything she had not even known she wanted in a man until she met him. But he was also a multifaceted challenge with hidden and dangerous depths and that worried her, for she herself was not introspective and pretty much wore her feelings on the surface.
As the heat of day began to fade Polly went off to shower and change into the blue dress Rashad particularly admired. If he made it back in time she would tell him about the baby over dinner, otherwise over a late supper. In fact it didn’t matter how late he got back, she would wait up.
When she reappeared, Hayat was waiting for her again. ‘I’m afraid there has been an oversight. The King’s friend, Mr Benedetti, is about to arrive to join him for dinner and the King is not here—’
Polly frowned, knowing how important the art of hospitality was to Rashad and how very rude a last-minute cancellation would be. ‘I’ll dine with him and explain.’
Hayat gave her a bright admiring smile. ‘You are daring—’
Polly raised a brow. ‘How?’
‘To dine alone with a man who is not your husband.’
Polly laughed. ‘Neither my husband nor I are that old-fashioned,’ she asserted with confidence.
Rio Benedetti was charm personified, soothing her concern that he might be offended by Rashad’s absence with an easy flow of entertaining conversation stamped with an occasional subtle query about Ellie, which made Polly’s sisterly antenna prickle with curiosity. After all, Ellie had evinced no similar desire to discuss Rio with Polly, claiming that she had only appeared to enjoy Rio’s company at the wedding out of politeness and hadn’t actually liked him at all. In fact she had dismissed him as a player with sleazy chat-up lines. Somehow, Rio had got entirely on the wrong side of her spirited sister.
The Italian billi
onaire did not keep her late and Polly was curled up in a corner couch on her own with a book by the time Rashad strode through the door after eleven that evening. The instant that she saw his stormy dark face, she knew that he was in a temper and concern indented her brow.
‘What’s happened?’ she exclaimed, coming upright in her bare feet, noting that lines of strain bracketed his mouth.
Rashad regarded her in astonishment. She had spent an entire evening alone with an infamous womaniser, utterly disregarding Hayat’s advice. The minute Rashad had received that news he had assumed that his wife found Rio so compellingly attractive that she had decided to throw away the rule book and that thought, that fear had simply spawned an ungovernable rage that far outran any emotion Rashad had ever felt. Exhausted as he already was by an endless day of repetitive diplomacy and incessant meetings, Hayat’s phone call had incensed him.
‘Why didn’t you listen to Hayat when she advised you not to dine alone with Rio?’
Polly tilted her chin. ‘She didn’t advise me not to do it, she just said it was daring. I thought that was nonsense when I was only trying to be polite and considerate. Telling him you were unavailable when he was literally on the way here would have been very rude and as he is a close friend of yours I thought you wouldn’t want that—’
‘Or perhaps the temptation of having Rio all to yourself was too great!’ Rashad flung at her rawly. ‘He is notoriously sought after by women.’
‘Not by my sister,’ Polly remarked abstractedly, suddenly recognising that Rashad, whether he knew it or not, was consumed by jealousy. ‘You really don’t have to be jealous—’
‘Jealous?’ The word hit Rashad like a brick thrown on glass, shattering what little control he retained. ‘I have never been jealous over a woman in my life!’
‘Sleep on it and then think about it,’ Polly advised, losing patience and angry with him because she had been eager to tell him about their baby and now he had wrecked the mood with his temper. He was so volatile, so possessive. On what planet did he live that he believed she could be so eager to make love with him while planning to betray him with his closest friend? Had she been too eager? Was that the problem? Did he think she was some sort of natural-born wanton who could not be trusted in the radius of any attractive man? A dark flush of fuming humiliation reddened Polly’s face and chest and she turned her head away from him to walk past him.
Long, lean fingers closed round her wrist to intercept her. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’ve got nothing more to say to you.’ Polly yanked her arm free and, feeling the prickle of angry, hurt tears stinging her eyes, she fled past him into the corridor. How could Rashad talk to her like that? How could he even see her in such a light? Was this her reward for matching that dark, passionate intensity of his?
‘Polly…’
‘I hate you!’ Polly flung over her shoulder as she started down the stairs that led to their bedroom.