Chapter 12
Falk gripped his glass of champagne so tightly, he was surprised that it didn’t shatter.
He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Ciara and the way she’d opened herself to him two weeks ago. She’d been so beautiful, so passionate and tender. She’d laughed and they’d talked and made love until she was too sore to continue.
What the hell had happened that last morning? He’d proposed! He’d offered her his hand in marriage and all of the honors that came with the title of his wife and queen! And yet, she’d walked out, without any explanation at all.
Now she came down the stairs, stunning in a shimmering gown of pink and beige, her dark, silky hair piled up on her head so that it bared her neck. Was she taunting him? She had to know that he would be here. He and Zayed were both here!
What the hell was she playing at?
“She’s so lovely,” Zayed commented.
Falk turned, ready to slam his fist into his friend’s face. But Zayed wasn’t looking at Ciara. In fact, he was looking behind him at…? There was no one there!
“Who are you talking about?” Falk demanded, his voice low and furious as he shifted so that he could continue to watch Ciara. She had reached the bottom of the stairs now, waiting with a patient smile as the photographers snapped their pictures. Damn, he knew how annoying that could be. He’d done that ridiculous pause years ago. Now he didn’t have the patience any longer. If a photographer wanted his image, the person had better snap fast.
Grumbling under his breath, Falk turned away from the image of Ciara surrounded by camera flashes.
“Why are you in such a foul mood?” Zayed demanded, draining his glass of scotch.
Falk stared down at his friend’s glass of amber liquid, then at his own delicate crystal flute filled with annoying champagne. “Where did you find something better than this drivel?”
Zayed chuckled. “That’s premium champagne my spoiled friend. There’s probably five hundred dollars’ worth of champagne in that glass.”
Falk’s glare intensified. Finally, Zayed lifted his free hand in the air. “Fine!” he growled. “I’ll show you my secret stash!”
Moments later, Zayed led the way behind the crowd of gawkers who were eagerly watching Ramit and his wife waltz. Zayed pushed through one of the ballroom doors, but the next room was darker. “Where are we?” Falk demanded.
“Just an ante room. I think that the sultans of the past used to use this room for the ladies when the genders weren’t allowed to intermingle.” There was just enough light coming from the large windows that let in the moonlight to navigate the room. Zayed reached into a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Glenlivet scotch. “Be nice. I don’t share with just anyone.”
He poured some of the golden liquid into another crystal glass, and handed it to Falk before refilling his own. “Why have you been in such a foul mood lately? You were like this last week on our conference call too.”
Falk couldn’t admit to his friend what had happened in Switzerland two weeks ago. Standing here in this darkened room with the faint sounds of music filtering in through the doors, Falk leaned back against one of the tables. “When are you going to marry Ciara? You’ve been engaged to her for years now.”
Zayed grunted, then dropped into the nearest chair. “We’re not getting married,” he pronounced.
That statement was so unexpected, it took Falk several moments to react.
“Why the hell not?” Falk finally snapped and came around to sit across from him, mimicking his friend’s slouch and extending his legs.
“Because we’re not compatible,” Zayed admitted.
Not compatible? Ciara was every man’s dream! “What the hell are you talking about?” Falk challenged. “I see you and Ciara laughing together all the time.”
He shrugged and took a long sip of his scotch. “We’re just good friends. We’ve both accepted that there’s nothing romantic between us.” He sighed and leaned his head back against the chair. “In the beginning, I thought we could make a relationship work. She thought so as well. We have a lot in common, so we focused on that.”
Falk shifted in the leather chair, leaning forward as he waited for more information. When Zayed simply stared into his glass, Falk thought that he was going to punch his friend. “And now?” he asked impatiently.
Zayed smiled faintly, but there was no amusement in his expression. “Now, we know better.” He took another slug of the scotch. “Besides, I think she’s interested in someone else.”
That caught Falk’s attention and he glared at his friend, despite the gloom of the room. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Zayed shrugged. “I don’t have any real evidence,” he admitted. “All I know is that…” he paused, tilting his head as he considered the idea. “Well, there’s just something about her sometimes. It’s almost as if she’s sad.”
Falk’s gut tightened and he didn’t understand his reaction. He just knew that he hated the idea of Ciara feeling anything other than happiness. “What does she have to be sad about? She’s a brilliant businesswoman and has enough money to do whatever she wants.”
Zayed chuckled. “You know that she gives all of the money she earns from her business to the various charities around the country, right?”
Falk was surprised by that piece of information. “No, I hadn’t heard that part of her business plan.” But he was impressed. Even more impressed than before since he’d done some research and knew exactly how much she charged some of the companies that she advised.
“It’s true.” There was a long moment of silence, then Zayed sighed and drained his glass, standing up. “However, until she and I formally end things between us, I suppose that I should play the happy fiancé and dance with her. She’s definitely beautiful.” He looked out through the windows, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Maybe, I’ll marry her after all. Wouldn’t be the worst idea of my life. And besides, she’s lovely, kind, and intelligent. I could do a whole lot worse.”
With those comments floating in the darkness between them, Zayed walked over to the door and slipped back into the ballroom, unaware of Falk fuming with anger.
“There you are!” a shrill, feminine voice called out.
Falk stifled a groan. Myala! Damn, he’d seen her earlier but had managed to avoid her until now.
Still, Falk reminded himself that Myala’s father was one of his top generals and a brilliant advisor. So he stood up and played nice with the little twit.
“Myala, it’s good to see you.” What a monumental lie!
Myala felt as if the whole world was now bright and sparkly. She’d watched the two powerful leaders sneak out of the ballroom a half hour ago and maneuvered her way through the ballroom so that she was perfectly placed to intercept Falk when he re-entered the festivities. But when Sheik Zayed had left alone, Myala had come up with a better plan!
Walking over to stand directly in front of him, she laid her hands on his chest. “No need to hurry back into the ballroom, Your Highness,” she whispered. “Why don’t you stay here and…relax?” she offered, willing him to accept her unspoken offer. “I’m here. You’re here. Why don’t we enjoy each other’s company for a while?”
Myala saw the flash of irritation on his handsome features and mentally yelled at the man. Why was he so resistant to the idea of being with her?
“We should return to the ballroom, Myala,” he urged, offering his arm.
She stared at the arm for a long moment, then shrugged. “Fine. If you’re going to be a gentleman about it, then yes, you can escort me.” She purposely pressed her breast against his arm, showing him that she was more than willing. He needed only to say the word.
They moved toward the doorway, but she tugged on his arm, deliberately slowing their pace. "What were you and Sheik Zayed discussing in here?" she inquired, her smile taking on a coquettish tilt. "A secret plot to overthrow your friend's rule here in Ditra?"
His polite expression morphed into horrified fury in an instant. Whirling around, he fixed a fierce glare on her and snapped, "Myala, that's not something I ever want to hear you say, even in jest. Those words are enough to have you thrown in prison. And it would damage a very valuable friendship and ally."
He turned on his heel and stalked from the room, leaving Myala standing in the dark with her mouth agape, shocked by the unexpected harshness of his rebuke. Sheik Falk had never spoken to her like that before. After all, she'd only been teasing him—she could not believe Falk would conspire against his friend's rule.
"Good grief," she muttered, sighing as she glanced down at her classic black satin dress. Paired with a string of pearls, she’d hoped to convey her adaptability for any social occasion. Her gloved hands slid down over her hips, and she patted her hair in a self-soothing gesture.
She turned and chose a different exit, refusing to follow Sheik Falk. It would look odd, and that was something Myala wanted to avoid at all costs.
A mischievous thought crossed her mind. If she appeared a bit disheveled, would he feel compelled to propose in an attempt to salvage her reputation? The notion hung in the air, a tantalizing possibility that made her pause for a moment, contemplating the potential consequences of a strategically tousled appearance.
Probably not. Itim and Ditra were conservative countries, but she doubted that a man as powerful as Sheik Falk would allow himself to be shamed into a marriage that he didn’t want.
Which only meant that Myala needed to show Sheik Falk that he did want her. And not that annoying hussy, Ciara. Princess Bitch! Princess Frigid!
She laughed softly at her amusing names for the bitch that seemed to have stolen her man’s attention. Two weeks ago, Myala had watched as the witch had left the hotel. Alone. The two had been missing from the conference speeches after that first night and everyone was murmuring that the two were alone together.
If that were the case, if the princess bitch was moving in on the man Myala had set her sights on, then something would have to be done. Myala wasn’t one to let an opportunity pass. She had goals and, so far, she’d achieved everything she’d set out to do.
Becoming Queen of Itim was next on her list.