Bound By The Sultan's Baby

‘Which is?’

‘That I can’t use any of the firms that she does for six months after leaving. I’d have to make new contacts.’

‘But you already use only the best.’

‘Yes.’ Gabi nodded, glad that he immediately got it. She had spent hours trying to explain it to her mother, who’d said she should just be glad to have a job. It was so nice to discuss it with Alim! ‘Those contacts weren’t all Bernadetta’s to start off with.’ Gabi had held it in for so long that it was a relief to vent some of her frustration. ‘The bride tonight is wearing Rosa’s creation. It was her lounge floor that I used to cut fabric on.’

‘Tell me,’ he urged.

So Gabi did.

‘When I first worked for Bernadetta we had a bride to dress and she had only one arm. So many of the designers shunned her, they did not want her wearing one of their creations. I was furious so I suggested that Bernadetta try Rosa. She scoffed at the idea at first but in the end agreed to give her a try—Rosa made the bride a princess on her day. It was a very high-profile wedding and so in came the orders. Now Rosa works in the best street in Rome. Rosa is my contact but of course I did not think to get that in writing at the time.’

Alim watched as Gabi slumped a little in her seat.

Defeated.

And then he fought not to smile as her hand went to her hair and she coiled a strand around her finger.

For after a moment’s pause she rose again.

Now she had started to air her grievances, Gabi found that she could not stop. ‘The flowers today, the gardenias—it was the florist’s idea to replicate the grandmother’s bouquet.’ Alim noted that Gabi did not take credit where it was not due and he liked that. ‘The florist, Angela, is the woman I worked with when I was at school. We used to work in a tiny store, now she is known as one of the finest bridal florists in Rome.’

‘So the best contacts are off limits,’ Alim said, and Gabi nodded.

‘For six months after I leave—and I doubt I could hold off for that long. That is assuming anyone will hire me as their wedding planner. I doubt Bernadetta will give a good reference.’

‘She’ll bad-mouth you.’

He said it as fact.

He was right.

Alim had thought he had the solution.

Right now, he could be wrapping the conversation up with the offer that Gabi come and work for him.

It was rather more complicated now, though, and not just because she liked him. Alim was very used to that.

It was that he liked her.

He acknowledged it then. Just a little, he assured himself.

But, yes, for two years the hotel had seemed warmer when Gabi was here. For two years he had smiled to himself as she clipped across the foyer in those awful heels, or muttered a swear word now and then under her breath.

He had never allowed himself to acknowledge her beauty but he could not deny it now.

She looked stunning.

Her hair was falling from its confines, her dress shimmered over her curves and how the hell had he not swept her into his arms to dance? Alim pondered. But the answer, though he denied it, was becoming clearer the longer they spoke—he had been resisting her for a long time.

The other week his mood had not been great.

Christmas was always busy in the hotel industry but it wasn’t just that that had accounted for his dark mood.

Issues back home were becoming more pressing.

But it wasn’t that either.

There had been a vague air of discontent that he could not place, though admittedly he had avoided seeking its source.

Alim had not wanted to give voice to it.

So he hadn’t.

Outside work he had been his usual reprobate self, but some time between Christmas and New Year he had walked into the foyer of the Grande Lucia and seen that Fleur had taken him up on his suggestion that they use Matrimoni di Bernadetta to plan the wedding. They hadn’t held a wedding here in a very long while and Alim had found that he missed Gabi’s presence. The air felt different when she was around.

He fought to bring his thoughts back to work.

‘What would you do differently from Bernadetta?’

Gabi frowned, for it felt like an interview, but she answered his question.

‘I’d ditch the black suit.’

‘You already have.’ His eyes did not leave hers as he said it but he let her know that the change from her usual attire had been noted.

Oh, it had.

It no longer felt like an interview.

Their minds actually fought not to flirt—Gabi because she did not want to make a fool of herself again, and Alim because he kept work at work.

‘There was a wardrobe malfunction back at the church,’ Gabi carefully answered.

‘Malfunction?’

‘I fell,’ Gabi said. ‘Thankfully it was after the bridal party had left, but I tore my suit.’

‘Did you hurt yourself?’

‘A bit.’

He wanted to peel off her dress and examine her bruises; he wanted to bring her now to his lap.

But still his eyes never left hers and the conversation remained polite.

‘So you would ditch the black suit in favour of what?

‘I’ve seen this fabric, it’s a willow-green and pink check, more a tartan. It sounds terrible but...’

‘No,’ Alim said. ‘It sounds different. Do you have a picture?’

Of course she did, and she took only a moment to bring it up on her tablet and hand it to Alim.

He looked at the picture of the fabric she had chosen. It was more subtle than she had described and, yes, it would be the perfect choice.

‘What would you change here at the Grande Lucia?’ he asked as he handed back the tablet. He expected her to flounder, given that she’d had no time to prepare.

Gabi though knew exactly what the first change would be.

‘There would be a blanket ban on red carnations throughout the hotel.’

She watched the slight twitch of his very beautiful lips. Alim had many areas of expertise but flowers were not amongst them. ‘I don’t tend to get involved with the floral displays,’ he said.

‘I do.’ Gabi smiled. ‘I obsess about such things.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘What would you choose?’

‘Sahara roses are always nice, though I think it should vary through the week, and at weekends I would change the theme to tie in with the main function being held.’

‘Would you, now?’

‘You did ask.’

‘Are Sahara roses your favourite flower?’

‘No,’ Gabi said.

‘What is?’

‘Sweet peas.’ She gave him a smile. ‘Marianna would faint at the idea and deny that they are sophisticated enough for the Grande Lucia, but, honestly, when arranged right...’

Her face lit up and he smiled.

Gabi was all fresh ideas and the zing of youth, and coupled with Marianna’s wisdom...

But it was getting harder to think of business.

Very hard.

‘Would you like a drink?’ Alim offered.

‘I’m working.’

And there was a slight ironic smile that dusted his lips as she mirrored his own words from earlier.

‘Gabi...’ Alim said, and then halted.

He needed to think this through before he offered her this role; she had already been dragged over the coals. If she were to work for him, it could get messy. One-night stands were his usual fare and that was why he kept his personal life where it belonged.

In bed.

He wanted the best for his business and yet, rarely for Alim, he found that he wanted what was best for her, so he came up with an alternative.

‘Have you thought of going into partnership with Bernadetta?’

‘Partnership?’ Gabi shot him an incredulous look. ‘She would laugh me out of her office if I suggested it.’

‘And when she had stopped laughing, you would tell her that you’d make a better partner than rival.’

It had never even crossed her mind.

‘Or, if you continue to work for her you set your limits, you tell Bernadetta only what you are prepared to do. What works for you...’

He did not want to lose her though.

Oh, this could get messy, yet the closer he examined it, the more it appealed.

‘There is another option...’

‘Gabi!’ Her name was said again and she turned as one of the waiters came over. ‘The photographer wants to speak with you.’

‘Excuse me,’ Gabi said, and, ever the gentleman, Alim stood as she left.

Alim went back into the ballroom and looked up. He saw the westerly door open and smiled at the thought of Yasmin creeping in.

And then he turned and saw his brother.

There were no halves where love was concerned.

‘Congratulations,’ Alim said.

‘Thank you.’

And that was all he could offer in public.

James’s complexion and hair were lighter but standing side by side it would be hard to miss the similarities. They had to step apart before someone made the connection.

Alim took a call from Violetta and was told that the Sultan of Sultans would like to speak with him.

Things were already tense between Alim and Oman.

Oman resented Alim’s freedom, and was bitter with his lot for Fleur was the love of his life. And, in turn, Alim, though respectful with words, was silently disapproving, for he loved his mother and loathed how she had been treated.

Alim bowed as he entered the Royal Suite and then told his father about the wedding’s progress.

‘Everything is going smoothly,’ Alim informed him, though that knowledge did not make things better for Oman since he could not be there to see his son marry for himself.

‘Where is Yasmin?’ he snapped.

‘We had dinner,’ Alim calmly answered, ‘and she is now in her suite. The reception will finish shortly; you will see James and Mona in the morning.’

No doubt, Alim thought, Fleur would be here soon.

He thought he would now be dismissed but, instead, Oman brought up an argument of old.

One that had never really left them.

‘I want you home.’

Alim was in no mood for this but he did not show his irritation. ‘I was in Zethlehan last month and I shall be back for a formal visit in—’

‘I mean permanently.’ Oman interrupted.

‘That isn’t going to happen.’

They had had this argument many times before.

Alim refused to act as caretaker to his country just so that his father could travel abroad more.

He would not facilitate the shaming of his mother.

Although he was happy for James and Mona and wished he could participate more in the celebration, tonight still felt like a betrayal to his mother.

‘You are thirty-two years old, Alim. Surely it is time that you marry?’

Alim stayed silent but his eyes told his father that he did not need marriage guidance from a man who had a wife and a mistress. Alim never cheated. He was upfront in all his relationships, and there could be no confusion that what he offered was a temporary affair. Arrogant, some might say, but better that than leading someone on.

‘I shall select a bride for you,’ Oman said in threat. ‘Then you shall have no choice but to marry.’

‘We always have choices.’

The advice he had so recently given to Gabi had been tested over and over by Alim—he had long ago set his limits with his father and told him what he was and was not willing to do.

‘To choose a bride without my agreement could only serve to embarrass not just the bride but our country when the groom does not show,’ Alim warned. ‘I will not be pushed into marriage,’

‘Alim, I am not well.’

‘How unwell?’ Alim asked, for he did not trust his father not to exaggerate for gain.

‘I require treatment. I am going to have to stay out of the public eye for six months at least.’

Alim listened as his father went into detail about his health issues and Alim had to concede grudgingly that there was a battle ahead.

‘I will step in,’ Alim responded. ‘You know that.’

It wasn’t the response his father wanted, though, and he pressed his son further. ‘Our people need good news, a wedding would be pleasing for them.’

Alim would not be manipulated and stood up to his father just as he always had. ‘Our people would surely want to see the Sultan of Sultans at such a celebration. A son’s wedding without his father’s presence would send the message that the father did not approve of his son’s choice of bride, and this could surely cause our people anxiety.’ Alim watched his father’s jaw grit. ‘Let us discuss this again when you are well.’

His father would have argued further, but suddenly Alim sensed distraction as he saw Oman glance towards the adjoining door, and he guessed that his father’s lover had just arrived.

‘I shall see you in the morning for breakfast,’ Alim said, and then bowed and left.

As he walked along the corridor, though outwardly calm, inside his mood was dark. No, he could not put off choosing a bride for ever, but he had no desire to live the life that his parents did—he thought of his mother alone tonight in the palace. Always she had put on a brave face and smiled at her children as if things were just fine.

How could they be?

Alim did not want a bride chosen for him by his father.

He wanted...

What?

The maudlin feeling would not shift. Alim reminded himself that his friend Bastiano would be in town next week and that would likely cheer him up. But Bastiano was just another rich playboy, and the casinos and clubs did not hold their usual allure for Alim.

In truth, he was tired of his exhausting private life. The thrill of the chase no longer existed, for after two years in Rome women sought him out.

He walked through the foyer and, sure enough, the last of the guests were leaving.

Alim went up the stairwell and, unlocking the door, he went onto the gallery.

There were no signs of his sister and Alim assumed she was safely in her suite. The photographer had left some equipment so Alim made a mental note to lock the door as he left.

Alim glanced down at the stunning ballroom.

The staff were clearing the glasses and tables away but most of it would wait for the morning.

It was done.

The wedding had been his gift to the couple and Fleur had engineered things so that it was held at the Grande Lucia. Yet he had not taken any significant part in the proceedings.

Yes, it had been a wonderful wedding but for Alim it had been a wretched day and night.

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