Bound by the Sultan's Baby Read online

‘Alim,’ his lover called.

  But he was making his way over.

  ‘Va tuto bene?’

  He asked if everything was okay, and though his Italian was excellent, it was laced in his own rich accent and rendered Gabi incapable of response, for she had not expected him to come over.

  It was Marianna who responded and told him the preferred date for the wedding.

  ‘That would be fine.’ Alim nodded to Marianna and to the other guests and then he looked directly at Gabi; she found herself staring at his mouth as he spoke, for it was just a little safer than to stare into his eyes. ‘How are you, Gabi?’

  ‘I am well.’

  ‘That is good.’

  He turned and walked away and she held her breath.

  It was nothing—just an exchange so tiny that the others had not even noticed its significance, yet Gabi would survive on it for weeks.

  He knew her name.

  ‘Perhaps you could take Mona to see the ballroom while I discuss details with Fleur,’ Marianna suggested.

  Details being money.

  ‘Of course.’

  Gabi stood and smoothed her skirt.

  Oh, she loathed the black suit with a gold logo and the heavy, cowl-necked cream top. It was the perfect outfit for a funeral director, not a wedding planner.

  If it were her own business she would wear a willow-green check with a hint of pink. Gabi had already chosen the fabric.

  And she would not wear the black high heels that Bernadetta insisted on, for she felt too tall and bulky as she walked through the foyer alongside the future bride.

  And then she saw Alim and Ms Blonde stepping into his private elevator, and Gabi scowled at his departing back, for she envied the intimate experience they were about to share. Ms Blonde was coiling herself around him and whispering into his ear.

  Thank God for gated elevators.

  They were excellent for regaining self-control, for they slammed shut on the couple and as the world came back from the peripheries Gabi recalled that there was a wedding to be arranged.

  There were large double doors to the ballroom and Gabi opened them both so that Mona could get the full effect as she stepped in.

  It truly was stunning.

  Huge crystal chandeliers first drew the eye, but it was a feast in all directions.

  ‘Molto bello...’ Mona breathed, and it was a relief to slip back into speaking Italian. ‘The ballroom is nothing like I remember it.’

  ‘Alim, the owner, had it completely refurbished. The floor was sanded back, the chandeliers repaired. The Grande Lucia is once again the place for a wedding.’

  ‘I know it is,’ Mona admitted. ‘It is actually where James and I met. I was here for my grandparents’ anniversary. James was here, visiting...’ Mona stopped herself from voicing whatever it was she had been about to say. ‘I just don’t like it that Fleur is calling all the shots just because her...’ Mona clapped her lips together. Clearly she didn’t want to say too much.

  Gabi, curious by nature, wished that she would.

  Fleur was being very elusive.

  From the draft guest list, the groom’s side seemed incredibly sparse. Just a best man from Scotland would be flying in and that was all. There was no mention of James’s father.

  Gabi wondered if Fleur was widowed.

  But Gabi wasn’t there to wonder and her mind turned, as it always did, into making this the very best of weddings.

  ‘Imagine dancing under those lights at night,’ Mona said.

  ‘There is nothing more beautiful,’ Gabi assured her, and then pointed up to a small gallery that ran the length of the westerly wall and imagined the select audience watching the proceedings in days long gone.

  ‘The photographer can get some amazing overhead shots of the dance floor from up there. A photographer I... I mean Matrimoni di Bernadetta regularly uses does the most marvellous time-lapse shots from the gallery. They are stunning.’

  She could see that Mona was starting to get excited.

  ‘When you say you were here for your grandparents’ anniversary,’ Gabi probed, because the thought of time-lapse photos had got her thinking...

  ‘My grandparents were married here,’ Mona told her. ‘Sometimes they take out the record they danced to on their wedding night.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I even recognise the floor from their wedding photos. It’s like stepping back in time.’

  Yes, even the ballroom floor was stunning—a parquet of mahogany, oak and redwood, all highly polished to reveal a subtle floral mosaic.

  ‘Your grandparents still dance to their wedding song...’

  Mona nodded and Gabi could see that she was already sold on the venue.

  There would be a string quartet, but Mona loved Gabi’s suggestion that she and James dance their first dance to the same record that her grandparents had.

  And a wedding, a very beautiful one, was finally starting to be born.

  It was a rather more glowing bride-to-be who returned to the lounge area and now chatted happily with Fleur and Marianna about plans.

  And it was a bemused Gabi who looked up and saw Ms Blonde angrily striding through the foyer; she didn’t know why, but she would bet her life’s savings that Alim had uncoiled her, unwilling, from his arms.

  Then later, much later, when plans were starting to be put more firmly in place, Gabi called Rosa with the official dates.

  ‘I’m already working on the dress,’ Rosa said. ‘She’s cutting it terribly fine to wear one of my gowns, even ready-to-wear.’

  And, after a long, tiring day taking care of others, Gabi did something for herself.

  She was all glowing and happy from that tiny exchange with Alim. Of course his lover’s departure could have nothing to do with her, but Gabi was a dreamer, and already her mind was turning things around.

  ‘Can I come and try on the silver dress?’ she asked.

  It was wonderful to dream of Alim.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IT TRULY WAS a beautiful wedding.

  Not that Gabi had a second to enjoy it.

  Resplendent in his kilt, the best man was being actively pursued by the matron of honour and doing his best to get away. Fleur was tense and asking that they hurry. The little flower girls were teary and cold as they stood in the snow for photos and Gabi felt like a bedraggled shepherdess as she juggled umbrellas for the bridal party and tried to herd the guests.

  She was wearing boots, but that was the only concession to the cold.

  Finally they were all in cars and heading off for the reception as Gabi ensured that the choir had been paid.

  Bernadetta sat in her car, smoking, as Gabi shivered her way down the church steps.

  And then it happened.

  Gabi slipped on the ice and bumped down the last three stairs in the most ungainly fashion imaginable.

  Not that anyone came over to help.

  She sat for a moment, trying to catch her breath and assess the damage.

  From the feel of things her bottom was bruised.

  Pulling herself to a stand, Gabi saw that her skirt was filthy and sodden and, removing her jacket, she saw that it had split along the back seam.

  To make things just a little bit more miserable than they already were, Bernadetta was furious, especially that Gabi had no change of clothes.

  ‘Why haven’t you got a spare suit with you?’ she demanded. ‘You’re supposed to be a planner after all.’

  Because you only give me two suits, Gabi wanted to answer, but she knew it wouldn’t help. ‘It’s at the dry-cleaner’s.’

  And, of course, Bernadetta spitefully pointed out that no one else had one that would fit Gabi.

  ‘Go home and get changed,’ she hissed. ‘Wear something...’ And she took her hands and sort of exasperatedly pushed them together, as if Gabi was supposed to produce something that might contract her size.

  And Bernadetta didn’t add, as she always did to her other staff, Don’t outshine the
bride.

  Gabi, it was assumed, hadn’t a hope of that.

  Oh, she wanted to resign, so very much.

  Gabi was close to tears as she arrived back at her tiny flat and, of course, there was nothing in her wardrobe she could possibly wear.

  Well, there was one thing.

  The silver-grey dress made by Rosa’s magical hands, though Bernadetta would consider her grossly overdressed.

  Yet it was a very simple design...

  Gabi undressed and saw that, yes, she indeed had a bruise on her bottom and on the left of her thigh.

  In fact, she ached and was cold to the bone.

  A quick shower warmed her up and Gabi was, by the time she stepped out of it, actually a lot more relaxed for the brief reprieve.

  Wedding days were always so full on and it was actually nice to take a short break.

  When she had her own business, Gabi decided, she would organise a rota so that all of her staff were able to take some time between the formal service and the reception. Perhaps there could be a change of outfit for them too...

  Gabi halted.

  She was back to hoping and dreaming that one day she might be working for herself.

  How, though, when Bernadetta had her securely locked in?

  Still there wasn’t time to dwell on it now.

  The dress had been a gift from Rosa but, feeling guilty simply accepting it, Gabi had splurged on the right bra to go with it and, of course, matching silver knickers, which she quickly put on before wriggling into the dress.

  Rosa really was a magician with fabric—the dress was cut on the bias and fell beautifully over her curves.

  And it deserved more effort than her usual lack.

  Sitting at her small dressing table, Gabi twisted her hair and piled it up on her head, rather than leaving it down. She put on some lip-gloss and mascara and then worried that it might be too much because usually she didn’t bother with such things.

  Yet she didn’t wipe them off.

  Instead, she dressed to look her best.

  Tonight she didn’t want to be the dowdy funeral director version of Gabi, or the clumsy, fall-down-the-stairs, eternally rushed wedding planner she appeared at times.

  It was a split-second decision, a choice that she made.

  Gabi looked in the mirror. This was the person she would be if she worked for herself and was orchestrating a high-class function tonight.

  This was actually the closest she had ever looked to the woman she was inside.

  Gabi arrived back at the hotel, her stunning dress hidden by a coat and wearing boots with her pretty shoes held in a bag. Security was tight and Ronaldo, the doorman, even though he knew her well, apologised but said that she had to show ID. ‘There are VIP’s staying at the hotel,’ he explained as he stamped his feet against the cold.

  ‘There often are,’ Gabi said.

  ‘Royalty,’ Ronaldo grumbled, because royalty in residence meant a whole lot of extra work!

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Gabi,’ Ronaldo warned, for he was under strict instruction, but then smiled as he chose to reveal—it was just to Gabi after all! ‘The Sultan of Sultans and his daughter.’

  ‘Wow!’

  Oh, she hoped for a glimpse of them—it sounded amazing!

  Gabi handed over her coat at Reception and pursed her lips when she saw the large crimson floral display in the foyer.

  The Grande Lucia was a wonderful hotel but it was like turning the Titanic to effect change at times.

  Nervous, a little shy, and doing her best not to show it, Gabi returned to the wedding and walked straight into Bernadetta’s spiteful reproach.

  ‘If the bride had wanted a Christmas tree arrangement in the corner, I would have charged her for one,’ Bernadetta hissed, and Gabi felt her tiny drop of confidence in her newfound self drain away.

  ‘We need to check that the gramophone has been properly set up,’ Bernadetta told her. ‘And we need to find the key to the gallery for the photographer.’

  ‘We’ being Gabi.

  She hit the ballroom floor running, or rather working away to make the night go as smoothly as possible for the happy couple.

  Indeed, they looked happy.

  Mona’s dress was sublime and her groom was handsome and relaxed and...

  Gabi frowned.

  James reminded her of someone, but she could not place him.

  Or was it just the fact that he was tall and blond, like his mother, that made him stand out a touch more amongst the many Italian guests?

  There was no time to dwell on it, though, and no time to acknowledge the ache of disappointment that Alim was nowhere to be seen.

  And she admitted it to herself then, as she let the photographer up to the gallery and walked back through the foyer.

  The dress, the pretty heels, the hair and the make-up...

  In part they had been on the off chance that Alim might see her.

  * * *

  Alim was, in fact, in the building, but for once his presence was low key.

  ‘I hate that we can’t be at the wedding,’ Yasmin moaned for the hundredth time, and pushed her dessert aside unfinished.

  Alim said nothing in response.

  He was very used to his sister’s histrionics.

  ‘We are shooed away like vermin,’ Yasmin snarled, and threw down her napkin.

  ‘Hardly vermin,’ Alim drawled, refusing to be drawn in—they were sitting in the private area of the sumptuous restaurant at the Grande Lucia after all.

  Their father did not join them for it would only draw attention, and that was everything Alim was doing his best to avoid.

  At least for tonight.

  The staff at the Grande Lucia were very used to esteemed guests but, Alim knew, they were starting to comprehend that Oman, the Sultan of Sultans, was in fact Alim’s father.

  Alim did not use his title in the workplace—Sultan Alim al-Lehan of Zethlehan.

  Neither did he use it in his personal life, for it was a risqué personal life indeed. Diamonds paid for silence and there was the slick machine of the palace PR to wash indiscretions away.

  Oman’s main indiscretion was the reason they were here in the dining room tonight.

  Close to the wedding but not present.

  Tonight, when the happy couple headed to the bridal suite, Fleur, the groom’s mother, would head to her own sumptuous suite of rooms.

  Violetta, who dealt with palace PR and external arrangements, had taken over the arrangements of the guest rooms from Marianna.

  Alim did not need to know, though of course he did, that Fleur’s suite adjoined his father’s.

  Fleur was Oman’s mistress of long standing.

  She had borne the Sultan of Sultans his first son.

  James had had a seemingly privileged life. He had been schooled at Windsor, had attended university in Scotland, and had a trust fund that would make most people’s eyes water.

  But his father’s name did not appear on his birth certificate and he bore no title. To the people of Zethlehan he simply did not exist.

  Yet he was Alim, Kaleb and Yasmin’s half-brother, and they loved him so.

  Kaleb, who was younger than Alim, would instead see the happy couple in Paris, where he currently lived.

  The three of them together would turn heads indeed but subtlety was the aim on this night.

  Yasmin, who lived a very sheltered life in Zethlehan, had pleaded to be a part of the proceedings.

  Those fervent pleas from Yasmin had been declined by their father and so Alim had stepped in and offered to do what he could to enable Yasmin to observe the wedding from a distance.

  Alim had arranged it so that he and Yasmin had been taking refreshments in the lounge when the bridal party had arrived back from the church, so that Yasmin could see the dress and everything.

  Yasmin had enjoyed it immensely. ‘What on earth is he wearing?’ she asked about the best man.

  ‘A kilt,’ Alim explained. ‘He’s f
rom Scotland.’

  ‘Oh, it’s so exciting,’ Yasmin breathed.

  A glimpse of the bridal party wasn’t enough for her, though.

  And though Alim had arranged that they eat the same meal and drink the same wines as the bridal party, it was a somewhat muted celebration.

  The speeches would be wrapping up now, Alim explained, and he actually ached that he was not able to hear them.

  ‘I want to see them dance.’ Yasmin pouted.

  She was very used to getting her own way.

  But not in this, Alim promised.

  There were volumes of intricate and ancient laws and, until he himself ruled, Alim had no choice but to adhere to them.

  Alim loved his country fiercely, and respected many of the traditions, yet from childhood he had seen the need for change.

  For now, though, he tried to placate his young sister.

  ‘You will see James and Mona tomorrow for breakfast; you can congratulate them then.’

  ‘It’s not the same, though!’ Yasmin refused to be mollified. ‘Why can’t I slip into the ballroom for just a few moments and see them? You shall, Alim.’

  ‘I shall only because I own the hotel and I often check in on functions. You would be noticed.’

  Yasmin, like her brothers, had her share of the al-Lehan good looks and her entrance would be noted.

  It would not take much for people to work things out.

  Even so, Alim could not bear to see his sister unhappy—he knew how much Yasmin had been looking forward to such a rare occasion as a trip overseas.

  ‘Listen,’ Alim said. ‘There is a viewing gallery in the ballroom.’ He watched Yasmin’s eyes widen. ‘The photographer will be there now, setting up for photos, but after he comes down, you could watch things from there for a short while. I can give you a master key and you can go in a separate entrance from him and wait.’

  ‘Yes!’ Her eyes shone with excitement.

  ‘Just for a little while,’ Alim warned. ‘The photographer will be back towards the end of the celebrations so keep an eye on him for when he leaves to come back up.’

  ‘I shall.’

  He gave her the key and further instructions and pretended not to notice that she swiped a bottle of champagne as they walked from the dining room.

  Yasmin was very protected and afforded none of the freedom that Alim and Kaleb had been.