surprised Dominique. Her desire now for children. She’d never thought of herself as maternal before. Never wanted to be the little woman at home. Now she simply couldn’t wait to have a baby with Charles. Not just one, either. Suddenly, her idea of Utopia was being his little woman at home with the patter of little feet around her.
Of course, her home would be nothing like her mother’s home. Not a shack, but a mansion. Her husband was a man of substance who could provide in abundance for his wife and any number of children, not some pathetic failure of a man who couldn’t even look after himself, let alone anyone else.
“I’m off now,” Charles said as he swept up his cellphone and car keys from the bedside chest. “You know my number if you need me. Be good, now…” And he threw her a wry smile.
A premonition-type panic gripped her heart as she watched him walk towards the bedroom door.
“Charles!” she called out, and he turned, frowning.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. I…I love you.”
“I know,” he said, smiling again, a little smugly this time. “Keep it warm for me.” And he left.
CHAPTER TWO
THE distance between Charles’s inner-city apartment block and the Regency Hotel was only a couple of blocks, but Charles still drove. Walking was not his favourite form of exercise. Within five minutes of leaving Dominique, Charles was handing the keys of his silver Jaguar car to the parking attendant at the Regency and striding inside the five-star hotel.
Hurrying across the marble floor, he was passing the row of trendy and exclusive boutiques which lined the spacious arcade-style foyer when his eyes landed on a spectacular piece of jewelry, displayed under a spotlight in the window of Whitmores Opals. Charles ground to a halt and stared at the magnificent choker necklace which was made of two rows of oval-shaped milk opals surrounded by diamonds and linked together with finely filigreed gold.
How marvellous it would look on Dominique with her long, elegant neck and fair hair!
A glance at his watch showed it wasn’t yet eight. He had twelve minutes before he was officially late. The shop was still open. These shops remained open till nine every Friday night.
The price was steep, of course. Quality jewels didn’t come cheap. He tried telling himself that he really had to stop spoiling Dominique like this, but it was too late. He could already see her wearing it.
The decision made, Charles strode inside and five minutes later he had the necklace in his jacket pocket, nestled in a classy black leather box lined with thick black velvet. By the time he’d collected his visitor’s pass-key from Reception and ridden the private lift up to the top floor, it was two minutes to eight. He still had a minute to spare as the lift doors whooshed back and the door to the presidential suite lay straight ahead.
When he’d first told Dominique where he played poker on a Friday night, she’d queried the choice of such an expensive venue. Why didn’t they just go to each other’s homes? So much cheaper.
He’d explained that it was of no cost to him. One of his poker buddies was an Arab sheikh who stayed in the Regency’s top suite every weekend, flying in by helicopter every Friday afternoon from his Hunter Valley property.
Naturally, Dominique had been agog at this news and wanted to know more about this mysterious sheikh who played poker with her husband. Charles had told her the scant details he knew, which was that Prince Ali was thirty-three years old, sinfully handsome and the youngest son of King Khaled of Dubar, one of the wealthiest Emirate states. With four older brothers, Ali was unlikely to ever ascend the throne and had been despatched to Australia several years ago, ostensibly to take care of the royal family’s racehorse interests here.
And he’d certainly done a good job of that. The royal thoroughbred stud boasted some of the top-priced yearlings at the Easter sales every year. Rumour had it, however, that Ali’s skills as a horseman and businessman had nothing to do with his selection for his present position as manager of the royal stud. Apparently, he’d been exiled from Dubar for his own personal safety after some scandal involving a married woman.
Probably true, in Charles’s opinion. Ali had gathered a reputation for being a ladies’ man in Australia as well, though not in any obvious man-about-town way. He was never seen out in public alone with a woman, or photographed with one. Word was when he met a good-looking girl who took his eye during his weekly visits to the races in Sydney, private arrangements were made, and if the object of his desire was willing she was whisked up to his country property.
None of Ali’s so-called girlfriends had ever sold their story to the media, so, really, talk of these liaisons was all speculation and gossip. Ali never personally revealed anything about his love life, being a very private man.
Charles suspected, however, that this gossip was probably true, too. A man of Ali’s extraordinary wealth and looks would find it almost impossible not to become a playboy in the bedroom department. He’d been a bit of a one himself before he’d met Dominique. Yet he wasn’t in Ali’s league. The man was a prince, for heaven’s sake.
Ali’s royal status was the reason they played in his suite here every Friday night, rather than have him visit them. Everything was more secure and more relaxed that way. On the occasion they’d gone to Rico’s hospital room last year, Ali had been accompanied by two hired bodyguards. One had stood outside the hospital-room door all night whilst the other had sat in a corner of the room, after he’d drawn the shades on the window.
A bit unsettling.
In the hotel suite, there was no need for that. Hotel security was always on high alert when Prince Ali was in residence and no one could access the presidential suite without a pass-key for the lift. Even then, their identity was fully checked out a second time via camera during the ride up in the private lift, and again at the door to the presidential suite.
Charles lifted his hand to ring the doorbell, the door being whisked open within seconds. Clearly, his arrival had been anticipated.
“Good evening, Mr Brandon,” the butler greeted.
“It certainly is, James,” Charles replied as he walked in. “Very good.”
“I trust you had an enjoyable honeymoon, sir,” the butler went on in his usual formal manner. Charles suspected he’d been to a school for butlers in England.
Somewhere in his late thirties, tall and dignified-looking with a patrician nose and close-cut sandy blond hair, James was the house butler assigned to the presidential suite at the Regency every Friday night. He was always polite and respectful, and his attention to detail was incredible, as was his memory for names and faces and facts.
“It was marvellous,” Charles replied. “Paris in the spring is always superb.”
“And Mrs Brandon?”
Charles grinned. “She’s superb, too.”
James allowed himself a small smile. “If I may say so, sir, you’re looking extra well.”
“I’m feeling extra well.”
“I can’t say the same for Mr Mandretti,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial tone.
“Oh? Has Rico been ill whilst I’ve been away?” Charles knew that the trio would have still continued to play poker here every Friday night, calling up a substitute player.
“No, not physically ill. I think he has something on his mind. He’s been quite short with me tonight, and that’s not like Mr Mandretti at all.”
No, it wasn’t. A self-made success story, Rico was inclined to treat the workers in this world much more politely than the privileged people he now mixed with. He liked and admired Charles because he’d earned his money through hard work and not just inheritance. Rico had little respect for the silver-spooned species.
An exception was their