His gentle persistence had sent alarm bells ringing in her head.
‘I’m not actually married though, right? It wasn’t real...?’
He’d been very soothing on that point and told her absolutely not. He’d then advised her to forget what had happened and to go home and get on with her life.
So Abby had. Well, she had got on with her life. Forgetting was another thing. Her memories had taken on a surreal dream-like quality, the man who rescued her the stuff fantasies were made of.
Fantasies had no place in Abby’s life though; she was too busy for that nonsense. Though the tall fantasy figure did insert himself into her dreams, and even then she frequently didn’t recall the details of the dreams he’d invaded but she’d know he’d been there by the heavy, nameless ache in the pit of her stomach that lingered when she awoke...too soon, it always felt.
Mr Jones had been the last person she had expected to see waiting outside her flat door when she arrived home yesterday afternoon after a particularly depressing appointment with the agents selling her grandparents’ old home.
The timing couldn’t have been worse. She had just about put together enough money for the deposit and she had a mortgage in place... She’d assumed all she’d have to do was sign on the dotted line. The man had not laughed outright in her face, but he had come close.
‘I’m afraid, Miss Foster, that the housing market has been buoyant since your grandparents sold. The present vendors are asking—’ He scrolled down the page on his tablet and read out a number so crazy that initially Abby thought he was joking. Sadly, he wasn’t.
Mr Jones also hadn’t been joking when, flanked by two men in Arab robes, he explained that it turned out she was married after all and her ‘husband’ was the younger son of the Sheikh Aban Al Seif, the ruler of Aarifa.
And all before she’d even got through the door!
Abby was still assimilating this news when, seated on her sofa that was badly in need of reupholstering, Mr Jones worked his way up to his next big reveal, fortifying himself first with a Rich Tea biscuit.
‘There is no need to be upset, Miss Foster; the mistake was little more than an unfortunate clerical error.’
‘So, can I sign something?’ she asked.
‘Ah, well, there is the rub. Normally I would be able to say yes but, well, the accident means that the doctors are unlikely to agree to Zain Al Seif travelling for some weeks, and the legal process means that your signatures both need to be witnessed by...’
One word in the bland, meandering explanation had leapt out at Abby as an image flashed into her head so real that, for a moment, Zain seemed to be standing there, physically imposing, the same way he’d looked when she had first seen him striding into the encampment—a beautiful man exuding an arrogance and command that was mesmerising. ‘What do you mean, “accident”?’
‘Yes, both Zain and his elder brother, Khalid, were involved in a crash in... I believe they call it a super car.’
The buzz in Abby’s head had got louder as the blood drained from her face...not just her face—even her oxygen-deprived fingertips tingled.
‘I do not know the extent of the younger Prince’s injuries but sadly his brother died, which means that the man you...married,’ he gave a light laugh, ‘is now the heir.’
‘So how is...?’ she’d paused, unable to reconcile the idea that her rescuer was also a royal prince, let alone put a name to the man who for so long had been anonymous ‘...he?’ she’d finished weakly.
‘The hospital is unwilling to reveal details to anyone but relatives.’
* * *
‘Miss Foster?’
Abby started, her skittering glance moving from the Englishman to the two daunting figures in flowing Arab dress pretty much identical to those worn by the four who had shadowed her ever since she’d left her London apartment yesterday.
‘I just want to confirm...you told no one, no one at all, about the...marriage document?’
‘No one.’ There had obviously been a lot of interest when she had had to recount the story but she’d played the kidnap down, preferring to turn the incident into a joke gone wrong rather than admit to the visceral, gut-churning nightmare it had been.
Her lashes flickered downwards as she ran her tongue across her lips to moisten them. She purposely kept her expression impassive even though inside her heart was thudding, the memory of visceral fear metallic on her tongue.
She pushed hard at the memory as she exerted control just as she’d practised. The memory belonged in another world a million miles from her own, where a disaster was a facial blemish—imagined or otherwise—that would spoil a fashion shoot.
‘Excellent.’ He turned his head as another robed figure approached. ‘Will you excuse me?’
Abby watched as the men spoke for a few moments before Mr Jones returned. She had the immediate sense that under the emollient smile he was not happy.
‘It seems that you may go in.’ He gestured to the new arrival, who tipped his head in Abby’s direction. ‘Abdul will show you the way.’
‘Aren’t you coming in with me?’ Abby asked, struggling to conceal her panic at the prospect of facing her ‘husband’ alone.
Beneath the little moustache the man affected, his lips thinned. ‘It seems not.’