If he had to do without her, then so would his country. Both would survive. It’s just that he’d hoped for something more than survival.
Gabrielle squintedas she moved the object to the bright mid-day light streaming in the museum window. Yes, it was definitely from the same period as the other. She replaced it gently into its case and made a few notes on her laptop. She rubbed a remaining trace of sand from the object between her fingertips, and her mind was instantly back in the desert, with Zavian.
She wished it wasn’t. Whenever she thought of him she felt hurt, literally, from the tingle in her fingertips to the sinking in her gut. Her love for him created a visceral, physical response in her. Pity it was one-sided. Zavian had made it clear that he didn’t and couldn’t love her. She didn’t believe him. Sheknewhim.She.Knew.Him. Like he didn’t know himself. He’d been forced to draw shutters around his heart from an early age, to keep it caged, imprisoned, somewhere deep inside where it couldn’t hurt him. His parents had done that to him, and even the love he’d received from his grandfather had been a chill affair, trained into external accomplishments, hunting, physical things which further worked to hide his emotions so well that now he didn’t know they existed. He gave them different names, different attributes. He was lying to himself, and only he could discover the truth.
She sat away from the screen and rubbed her tired eyes. Only one more week to go before she could leave and return to her Oxford position, her college no longer in financial trouble. And her? She had a feeling her trouble was only just beginning. But it was something she’d have to learn how to live with.
The phone buzzed, and she answered it. “Okay,” she said with a sigh. She tried to muster a smile. It wasn’t the TV crew’s fault she hated publicity. “No problem. I’ll be right there.”
She rose and swept her hands down her clothes and checked her face in the mirror. It was all fine. More than fine. She’d decided against her usual academic clothes, and went with her instinct, wearing a traditional abaya. It felt right, and the more Zavian went against feeling, the more she was for it.
She also knew that any nerves would vanish the moment she began talking about her work, the moment the passion she felt for it kicked in and overcame any superficial nerves. People wanted passion these days in their news and entertainment—everyone, that is, except Zavian. And yet he was one of the most passionate men she knew, deep down. And one with the most self-control and self-discipline. For a few long moments she imagined what that passion might be like for him, for her, and for his country, if he let the control and discipline slip. She’d seen glimpses of it and knew it was a life-giving and life-changing moment when he allowed it to show. It was for her, and it would be for his people, if only they were allowed to see the real man.
But that wasn’t real life. Real life was where people—where Zavian—refused to acknowledge such feelings and instead dealt with the real. And so could she. For now, at least.
She picked up the things she needed and walked out of the office and down to the exhibition room. This was her real life, she reminded herself—museum rooms, TV cameras and the dusty objects she lived her life through. Bringing the past to the present. All she had to do was what Zavian did with ease—stop feeling.
There would beno future for them, Zavian repeated to himself for the millionth time. She demanded love, and he didn’t do love. End of story. Or it would have been if he could stop seeing her, stop hearing about her, stop thinking about her.
Because despite being king, Zavian’s wish to avoid Gabrielle had proved elusive. Sure, he may have managed to not spend any time with her—something she obviously felt equally strongly about—but if he’d wished to avoid the sight of her, and talk about her, he’d been disappointed.
Every job she did was excellent, according to the museum director, who sung her praises at every opportunity. He couldn’t get through a meeting without someone bringing up her name and commending her on her work and her vision for the country and its artifacts.
All he heard was how wonderful she was—a fact he couldn’t deny—and there had even been veiled suggestions about her suitability for him. People knew they were friends, but few people knew just how close they were. Although, since the celebration of poetry in the desert, word had begun to get around. Something he regretted.
And this afternoon appeared to be no different. He’d intended to watch the new video released for the celebrations—something to bring his mind to focus on the important events coming up. Instead, all he saw was a close-up of Gabrielle explaining her work with that passion, which landed a punch straight into his gut.
He was pushed down on the chair by the force of the blow. She’d forgotten herself. He could see that. Her eyes were with her work, the history, her life. There was something incredibly seductive about seeing someone unaware or conscious of themselves, living only through their emotions and thoughts, both one.
The desert wind had blown her blonde hair free of her hijab, and it was like pale satin under the hot sun. Her face had become tanned since she’d returned to Gharb Havilah, making her blue eyes even bluer. He remembered them open, startled, as she climaxed in his arms. And in that moment he knew that he was not only fooling himself, but his vizier, and the whole country.
He slumped in his chair, put his head in his hands and acknowledged the visceral response he had for her wasn’t confined to his body. She was more than a body he craved, more than a mind he respected, she was… herself. A woman who his heart beat for, a woman he could no more be without than the air that he breathed. He looked up, startled. Was that love? Could it be that, without any effort or desire from him, she’d shattered the defenses he’d built around his heart so effectively he hadn’t even seen them fall?
He couldn’t have said how long he continued to sit there. But the sunlight tracked across the room, his phone rang without answering, his vizier came and went—somehow understanding his need to be alone for once—and made sure he was given the space. Space to think about how he could convey to the woman he loved, that he did, indeed, love her. And that it was no mere words, no mere ticking a box, nothing that he was saying to keep her. But that his love was real. How could he show her that, after all he’d said and done?
It wasn’t until the daylight had faded completely from the sky that the answer came into his mind and stuck there. He knew what he had to do, even if he didn’t much like it.
Chapter 11
Gabrielle scanned the headlines, flicked across to another site, and felt her nausea increase. It seemed everywhere on the internet guesses were being made as to who the King of Gharb Havilah would marry. Rumors were flying back and forth, trying to predict the king’s forthcoming announcement. And there was no shortage of suggestions as to the identity of the woman. None of them, she noticed, included her.
Were they guessing, or did they know something she didn’t? And what would it matter anyway? She’d be gone in a few days, back to England, returning to her academic life far away from the heat and dust of the desert, thousands of miles from where her heart lay.
She closed her computer too firmly. Some of her colleagues glanced across at her, as the sound echoed around the museum. She scraped back her chair and walked over to them as they waited to join the formal opening of the bi-millennial celebrations, which signaled the end of her work here, in Gharb Havilah.
As she responded to her colleagues, contributing to the conversation, she marveled at how normal she sounded. She’d learned well from Zavian, because she’d managed to do the impossible and had frozen her feelings, leaving them solid and compact, encased in lead. She couldn’t allow herself to examine the feelings, reflect on them in any way. That, she knew, would come later. Much later, when she was safely away from this place, away from Zavian. Until that time, she had no choice but to ignore the feelings which weighed heavily inside her. She had the next two days to get through first.
She smoothed down the deep red satin gown that she’d borrowed for the gala evening. The museum director’s wife had extravagant tastes in clothes, and had insisted on lending Gabrielle the dress once she’d seen it on her. Gabrielle would have preferred something quieter, something more subtle, but the director’s wife had refused to allow Gabrielle to try on any of her other dresses after she’d seen Gabrielle in that one.
“It would be a crime, my dear,” she’d whispered conspiratorially in Gabrielle’s ear. “It’s your last night, and after all you’ve done for the museum, the celebrations, and the country, it’s time you took your share of the limelight.” The woman had stepped back with a smile and eyed her as she lit her cigarette. “And allow some people to see you for who you really are.”
In the end, Gabrielle hadn’t any choice. She had nothing else suitable for the gala opening. Besides, she didn’t want to upset the woman. There weren’t many people who’d shown interest in who Gabrielle was outside of her professional roles.
She paused in front of a mirror and automatically reached up to touch her hair, unrecognizable in the sleek french bun which her friend had insisted the hairdresser arrange for her. And the makeup… She blinked at her reflection and, reassuringly it blinked back, otherwise she might not have believed this Audrey Hepburn like image reflected back at her.
She walked away quickly. What did it matter if she looked like herself or someone else? A few days and she’d be out of here.
Zavian had chosenthe gala evening before the bi-millennial celebrations officially got underway to face Gabrielle. He’d do what he had to do—and quickly—at the beginning of the evening, and then there’d be enough time to finalize the following day’s timetable, including their betrothal.