by Carol Marinelli
CHAPTER ONE
‘WILL YOU BE speaking at the funeral, Your Highness?’
The questions from the paparazzi started even before Sheikh Prince Khalid of Al-Zahan had stepped out of the luxury vehicle.
Jobe Devereux’s funeral was tomorrow. The press and television crews were gathered outside the late, great man’s Fifth Avenue home, capturing images of visitors arriving to pay their condolences.
Some visitors walked slowly, keen to be photographed and seen, others put their heads down and hurried from their cars to the residence.
Others opted to use the trade entrance.
Khalid did neither.
He had flown to New York from Al-Zahan and at the family’s request had come directly from the royal jet to Jobe’s home. Tomorrow Khalid would be clean-shaven with his thick, black hair freshly cut and he would be wearing a suit. Tonight, though, having come from a retreat in the desert, he was bearded and his tall frame was dressed in dark robes. Khalid was a striking man—tall and slim yet muscular too. Despite his impressive physique he moved in an elegant, unhurried fashion towards the home that he knew well, ignoring the paparazzi’s questions. For Khalid, the presence of the press had barely registered and certainly he didn’t deign to respond. His mind was elsewhere, for he had lost not just a business partner but someone he both valued and respected.
Yet they persisted.
‘Will Chantelle be seated with the family?’
‘Might there be some unexpected guests?’
‘Your Highness, is it true that the King of Al-Zahan is soon to announce your marriage?’
The last question jarred, not that Khalid showed it. But at home the pressure on him to marry was immense. That it was now being aired here in New York, the place he considered his bolthole, now rendered the pressure inescapable.
The door was opened by the housekeeper and as he stepped inside it was clear that even prior to the funeral, Jobe had pulled in quite a crowd. People were mingling and spilling out from the reception room where groups stood talking. Drinks were being served as if the funeral had already taken place.
Khalid was not here to socialise, though, and was taken straight through to Jobe’s study.
‘I’ll let Ethan know that you’re here,’ the housekeeper said. ‘He’s just speaking with the senator.’
‘Tell him there is no rush,’ Khalid said.
‘Is there anything I can get for you?’ she checked, ‘He shouldn’t be long.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Khalid said, but as the housekeeper headed out the door he called to her. ‘Barb,’ Khalid said. ‘I am sorry for your loss.’
She gave him a watery smile. ‘Thank you, Khalid.’
It was a relief to be here in the study and away from the hordes. Khalid could, of course, be polite and make small-talk—his royal status demanded it. He was in no mood to, though.
How odd that one room in a house so far from home could hold so many memories. Jobe’s globe had always been a draw for Khalid. It had been an antique when Jobe had purchased it and Khalid would look at all the old countries now gone, while his island country, independent from the mainland, remained.
And it was from this very decanter that Khalid had first tasted alcohol. On that desk that the first tentative sketch of the Royal Al-Zahan Hotel had been drafted.
It was just a year off completion now.
An impossible dream, first born in this study.
Khalid picked up a heavy paperweight and recalled Jobe, for once awkward, tossing it between his hands as a far younger Khalid had opened the study door.
‘You wanted to see me, sir?’
‘How many times do I have to tell you to call me Jobe? Even my own kids do.’
But Khalid called his own father by his royal title and bowed to him on arriving and leaving, so he struggled to accept the informal greetings in the Devereux household.