acknowledgement of the royal rebuke. ‘I am new to the role, Uncle, so I’m bound to make some errors.’
From the moment Tair had become heir to the throne many had considered his life public property and he accepted this, but there were some freedoms that he was not willing to relinquish. He needed places, moments and people with whom he could be himself in order to preserve his sanity.
‘But you are not new to fobbing off old men. Do you think I don’t know that you smile, say the right things and then do exactly what you want, Tair? However I know that, despite your action-man antics, you are aware of your duties. More aware than your brother ever was. I know one should not speak ill of the dead, but I say nothing now that I would not have said to his face and nothing I have not in the past said to your father.
‘Malik did nobody any favours when he turned a blind eye to your brother’s scandals and as for the dubious business dealings…?’ Clicking his tongue, King Hakim shook his leonine head in disapproval. ‘I have always been of the opinion that your country would have been better off if you had been born the elder.’
It wasn’t often that Tair struggled for words, but, more accustomed to defending his actions from criticism, he was stunned to uncomfortable silence by this unexpected tribute from his uncle.
It was Beatrice who came to his rescue.
‘I wouldn’t mind getting my pilot’s licence one day.’
The innocent comment from a heavily pregnant and glowing princess successfully diverted her father-in-law’s attention from his nephew—as Tair was sure it was intended to—and began a good-natured joking debate among the younger generation around the table that centred on the hotly disputed superior ability of men to master any skill that required hand-eye co-ordination.
Everyone joined in except the mouselike English girl, who either through shyness or total lack of social skills—Tair suspected the latter—had barely spoken a word throughout the meal unless directly addressed.
The second silent party was Tariq.
Tair’s irritation escalated and his suspicion increased as he watched the pair through icy blue eyes.
Tariq was the man who had it all, including a wife who adored him, a wife who was carrying his first child.
Tair’s expression softened as his glance flickered to the other end of the table where Beatrice Al Kamal sat looking every inch the regal princess even when she winked at him over the head of her father-in-law the king.
He turned his head, the half-smile that was tugging at his own lips fading as he saw that Tariq was still staring like some pathetic puppy at the English mouse.
Tair’s lip curled in disgust. He had always liked and admired the other man, and had always considered his cousin strong not only in the physical but also in the moral sense. Tair had felt it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving man when Tariq had met and married the glorious Titian-haired Beatrice after a whirlwind romance.
If two people were ever meant to be together it was Beatrice and Tariq. Their clear devotion had touched even Tair’s cynical heart, and made him hope in his less realistic moments that there was such a soul mate waiting for him somewhere, though even if there was it seemed unlikely they were destined to be together.
His future was intrinsically linked with that of the country he would one day rule. What his country needed and deserved after years of neglect by his father and Hassan, who had both been of the opinion the country was their own personal bank, was political and financial stability. It was Tair’s duty to make a marriage that supplied both. Improving transport links and dragging the medical facilities of Zabrania, the neighbouring country to Zarhat, into the twenty-first century were more important things than true love.
He directed another icy glare at his cousin, and considered the other man’s stupidity. Tariq didn’t seem to have a clue as to how lucky he was!
Didn’t the man know he had it all?
And even if he wasn’t insane enough to risk his marriage by actually being unfaithful—though in Tair’s eyes the distinction between fantasy and physical infidelity was at best blurred—he was obviously stupid enough to risk hurting Beatrice by being so damned obvious.
Even a total imbecile could have picked up on the signals his cousin was being so mystifyingly indiscreet about hiding, and Beatrice was far from stupid.
It was totally inexplicable to Tair that Tariq could have so little respect for his wife that he would insult her this way, and for what…?
He allowed his own scornful gaze to drift in the direction of the English girl, who was clearly not the innocent she seemed because no man acted like Tariq without some encouragement. Tair tried and failed to see something in the mouselike girl that could tempt a man like Tariq…or for that matter any man!
Unlike red-headed, voluptuous Beatrice, this was not a girl who would turn heads. Small and slight, her brown hair secured in a twist at the nape of her neck—a good neck, Tair grudgingly noticed as he allowed his glance to linger momentarily on the slender pale column—she was not the sort of woman who exuded any strong allure for the opposite sex.
Trying to picture the small oval-shaped face without the large heavy-framed spectacles that were perched on the end of a slightly tip-tilted nose, Tair conceded that an investment in contact lenses might make her more than passable.
But such a change would not alter the fact that her body, covered at this moment in a peculiar sacklike dress the shade of mud, totally lacked the feminine curves which, like most men, he found attractive in the opposite sex.
His blue eyes narrowed as he watched the English girl turn her head to meet Tariq’s eyes. For a moment the two simply looked at one another as though there were nobody else in the room. The outrage, locked in Tair’s chest like a clenched fist, tightened another notch.
Then she smiled, her long curling eyelashes sweeping downwards creating a shadow across her smooth, softly flushed cheeks and the corners of her mouth. How had he missed the blatant sensuality of that full pouting lower lip?
Tair’s mild concern and annoyance at his cousin’s uncharacteristic behaviour morphed abruptly into genuine apprehension. Up until this point he had thought that his cousin had simply needed reminding that he was one of the good guys; now it seemed that more might be required.
This silent exchange suggested to him a worrying degree of intimacy. For the first time he seriously considered the possibility that this situation had progressed beyond mild flirtation.
Tair’s long fingers tightened around the glass he was holding. Under the dark shield of his lashes his blue eyes, now turned navy with anger, slid around the table. The other guests at the family party continued to talk and laugh, seemingly oblivious to the silent communication between Tariq and the deceptively demure guest.
His brows twitched into a straight line above his strong masterful nose. Were they all blind?
How was it possible, he wondered incredulously, that he was the only person present who could see what was going on?
Could they not see the connection between these two?
Then his study of his guests revealed that Beatrice was also watching the interchange between her husband and friend. Tair’s admiration of the woman his cousin had married went up another level when she responded to a comment made by her brother-in-law, Khalid, with a relaxed smile that hid whatever hurt or anxiety she might be feeling.
Beatrice was a classy lady. Clearly her mouse friend was not; she was a predator in mouse’s clothing and his cousin was her prey.
He briefly considered the option of speaking directly to Tariq and telling him point-blank he was playing with fire. Such a discussion would end at best in harsh words and at worst in an exchange of blows—not really ideal from either a personal or political perspective. On reflection he decided it would be better by far to speak to the woman who was pursuing Tariq.
He would warn Miss Mouse