during the last twenty years. Life in Behran, she discovered, was not as totalitarian as she had believed it to be. The women were not kept hidden behind locked doors. It was no longer compulsory for them to cover themselves when they ventured out in public. Education was compulsory for both sexes, and women were beginning to find a place for themselves in all aspects of the working society.
Only a very small section of the people wanted to keep things as they used to be, he’d told her. Most people saw the advantages in moving forward with the rest of the world rather than trying to pull against it.
But the most curious point of all she learned from Asim during these talks they shared was that all of the changes made in Behran had been effected through Raschid’s father, which made his old-fashioned attitude towards marriage all the more confusing.
But then, religion did that—divided and fragmented a human race that should be drawing closer together. Religion, colour, social tradition. Her own mother was guilty of discrimination in all three areas, so why should Evie expect Raschid’s father to feel any different?
And Raschid’s father did not feel different—as Evie found out for herself soon enough.
His feelings were made known to her via his personal envoy towards the end of the second week of her enforced isolation.
Asim was out attending to his duties as was his habit during the middle part of the day. Evie hadn’t been feeling too well that morning—sickly and aching as if she might be going to come down with a bug.
‘You are unwell, Miss Delahaye?’ he’d enquired when she’d declined their usual walk on the roof garden before he’d left her.
Evie had just sent him a rueful look. ‘You’re the doctor,’ she’d said dryly. ‘You tell me why I feel sick all the time.’
Asim had grimaced his understanding of her condition, and left her lounging on one of the living-room sofas, apparently content to read a book, which she did, in a halfhearted kind of way—until the sound of steps in the hallway brought her jackknifing to her feet.
Since no one else but Asim had access to the apartment, and he wasn’t due back for ages yet, she thought it was Raschid returning at last. So her eager expression reflected that assumption as the living-room door swung firmly inwards—only to cloud in confusion when two complete strangers stepped boldly into the room.
Two Arabs, to be precise, dressed in smart western suits and looking about as innocuous as two gangsters.
‘Miss Delahaye?’ the taller, sharper-looking of the two enquired.
Evie’s stomach muscles contracted, her shoulders straightening slightly as if in readiness to receive a dread ful blow. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘What are you doing here?’
She was offered an obsequious bow, and Evie didn’t like it. It sent an icy shiver chasing down her spine, as if the cold hand of fate had just touched her shoulder.
‘My apologies for this intrusion,’ the spokesman murmured politely. ‘My name is Jamal Al Kareem. I am come bearing messages for you from Crown Prince Hashim,’ he explained.
‘And Prince Raschid?’ Evie questioned. ‘Is he not with you?’
‘Prince Raschid is engaged on—official business,’ she was informed. ‘In our neighbouring state of Abadilah.’
Abadilah…That cold hand touched her shoulder again. Abadilah was the state Aisha’s father ruled.
‘Then how did you gain access to this apartment?’ she asked coldly.
‘As the Crown Prince’s head of security I have access to all Royal residences. It is, I am afraid, a necessary evil for powerful families to take special precautions to protect themselves,’ he explained, moving ever closer to her as he spoke. ‘For power brings with it its own enemies, and those enemies may decide that trouble can best be served from within, so to speak.’
He came to a stop at the rear of the sofa where Evie had been sitting. In response, Evie found herself taking a defensive step backwards, something in his super-polite, very silky tone making her feel threatened. As if he was subtly informing her that she was classed as an enemy here.
‘Y-you said Crown Prince Hashim sent you,’ she prompted, utilising a cool aloofness in an attempt to offset whatever it was this horrible man was giving off.
Another bow—another shiver. ‘The Crown Prince is most concerned about the—predicament you find yourself in at present,’ the messenger confirmed. ‘He wishes me to relay to you his most sincere apologies for any—distress you have been forced to endure due to his premature announcement to the media.’
‘Th-thank you,’ Evie said, her eyes flicking nervously to where the other man was standing by the door—half in and half out of it as if he was on alert, listening for Asim’s return. ‘But you may assure Crown Prince Hashim that no apology was necessary.’
‘He will be most humbly grateful for your gracious understanding,’ the spokesman returned courteously. ‘But the Crown Prince is—disturbed that your feelings were not taken into account when he released the statement about his son’s forthcoming marriage. It was—insensitive of him, as his revered son pointed out. Now he wishes to make recompense for any distress caused to yourself…’
Watching him lift a hand to his inside pocket, Evie felt the muscles in her shoulders tighten just a little bit more. What she thought he was going to withdraw from that pocket she wasn’t quite sure, but what she didn’t expect to see him holding out towards her was a slender slip of paper.
Wary, confused, instinctively suspicious of what was taking place here, Evie stepped forward so she could take the piece of paper, then stepped quickly back before letting her eyes drop from Jamal Al Kareem’s expressionless face to check out what she was holding. And felt a sense of chilling horror slide slowly through her blood.
It was a cheque made out to the World Aid Foundation for two million pounds.
‘The Crown Prince is aware of the good work you do for this particular charity,’ the messenger explained while Evie just stared unblinkingly down at the cheque. ‘He begs you will accept this small donation as a—gesture of atonement. And in the light of events,’ Jamal Al Kareem smoothly continued, ‘he feels sure you will understand the sad necessity for him to also offer you—this…’
Evie blinked, glancing up rather dazedly to find yet another offering was being held out to her. It was a business card; she could see that even before she stepped forward to take it.
But it was only as she lowered her eyes and found herself staring at the famous logo of a very exclusive private clinic right here in London that the full horror of what was really being relayed to her here finally hit her.
‘The Crown Prince is, of course, confident of your continued discretion during this—delicate time,’ Jamal Al Kareem silkily concluded. ‘In anticipation of your understanding, he remains your most humble servant, and hopes this will put an end to the matter…’
An end to the matter—an end to the matter. Those few terrible words went round and round in Evie’s head as she stared at that wretched business card while her two visitors made their bows and left her to it.
She didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t do anything at all as far as she was aware. She felt strange, separated from herself almost. As if she were now standing where Jamal Al Kareem had been standing and was observing from a distance someone who looked like her, staring down at the cheque and the business card she was holding in her hands with absolutely no reaction at all.
Her face was very white, her lips cold and bloodless. Her eyes were lowered so she couldn’t tell what they were doing, but her chest wasn’t moving, as if her heart and lungs had simply stopped functioning, effectively cutting the oxygen off from her brain so that it couldn’t even attempt to think.
Because thinking meant pain—the worst kind of pain. The pain of knowing that this truly was the—end of