Sharon Kendrick - A Whisper of Disgrace

He had moved away from the bed and now that he was at a distance it gave her a better opportunity to study him. She wondered where he was from—his rich accent certainly didn’t sound Mediterranean and his skin was much too dark.

‘Who are you?’ she questioned suddenly.

Kulal tensed, realising that he had been expecting this question a whole lot sooner and knowing that his answer would bring with it a whole new set of baggage. Should he lie? Adopt some fictitious identity, knowing that their paths would never cross again? But that might add fuel to a possibly combustive situation. She had already humiliated herself through her drunken behaviour—if she then discovered that he was lying to her, then mightn’t she take out her shame on him? He knew women well enough to know that they were impossible when you rejected them. So why not keep her sweet? Why not make her appreciate just how much he had done for her?

‘My name is Kulal,’ he said.

‘I already know that bit. Where are you from—you’re not Mediterranean, are you?’

‘No, I am not. I come from a country called Zahrastan.’ He searched her face for signs of recognition. ‘Any idea where that is?’

She shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I’ve never heard of it. Should I have done?’

Kulal told himself that he shouldn’t have been surprised. He wouldn’t really expect a pole-dancing socialite to know much about the Arabian principality which produced a vast tranche of the world’s oil supply, would he? She probably thought of little else other than which colour she was going to paint her pretty little toenails each day. ‘I suggest you try acquainting yourself with a map of the world if you want to find out its exact position.’ His voice was dismissive as he slanted her a cool look. ‘Now, have I answered all your questions to your satisfaction?’

She wanted to say that no, he hadn’t. She wanted to ask him if they couldn’t just forget about the disastrous way the evening had ended. If only it was possible to rewind life and stop at the bit you liked best. When she’d been dancing with him it had all felt so...promising. But the repressive note in his voice and the unwelcoming look on his face made her realise that this was not a conversation he was keen on extending. She lifted her fingertips to her temples as if that might help reduce the pounding inside her skull, but it didn’t.

‘My head hurts,’ she said, painfully aware that the first and last hangover of her life should have been conducted in front of such a critical audience.

Kulal nodded as he saw an acceptable exit sign looming ahead. ‘So why don’t you get showered and dressed?’ he suggested smoothly. ‘Your things are hanging up in the bathroom and I can order you something to eat. You’ll feel much better once you’ve had some breakfast—’

‘I don’t want any breakfast,’ she snapped, realising that he couldn’t wait to get rid of her.

‘You ought to. When did you last eat?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t remember.’

Reluctantly, he found his gaze drawn to her eyes which had been illuminated by the bright sunshine, and for the first time he noticed that their darkness was broken by flecks of green and gold which made him think of the filtered sunlight you sometimes found in a quiet forest glade. But despite their natural beauty, there was no disguising the shadows which lay beneath them—shadows which were not caused simply by her smudged mascara. Her eyes looked empty, he realised—as if she had seen something which had haunted her. And she was pale. Very pale. Beneath that smooth olive skin of hers, she had the pinched look of a woman who had stopped caring—not about her appearance, but about life itself.

And that was not his business.

He was a royal prince and he was about to announce his engagement to a royal princess. The last thing he needed was to start worrying about the welfare of some spoiled little rich girl who had got herself plastered. Thank God he’d been strong enough to walk away from the promise of her amazing body—he should start being grateful for the lucky escape he’d had.

But something was nagging at his conscience and he found himself unable to ignore it.

‘You’re not leaving here until you’ve eaten something,’ he said forcefully.

‘And you’d be prepared to stop me, would you?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t intend to pick you up for a second time if you pass out and I don’t want the drama of a French ambulance screaming to a halt outside. So why don’t you do something sensible for the first time in your life and eat something?’ he said, turning on his heel and heading for the door.

Rosa stood watching as the door banged shut behind him and she could have burst into howls of frustration. How dare he judge her and find her wanting—when last night he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her?

He could do anything he liked, she realised, because she had put herself in a position to be judged. Angrily, she pushed aside the sheet and headed for the bathroom, recoiling as she caught sight of her reflection in the huge mirror. It was a shock on so many levels, because walking around naked wasn’t something she ever did. In Sicily, she always wore a silk nightgown to preserve her modesty because that was how she’d been brought up.

‘Imagine if there was a fire in the middle of the night,’ her mother had once said, in that tart way she had of speaking to her only daughter. ‘And the fireman found you naked and indecent. That is not the way a lady behaves, Rosa.’

As she stood beneath the torrential jets of the shower, Rosa’s lips curved with derision. She had just accepted her mother’s opinion, hadn’t she? The way she always did. Never realising that the woman who had brought her up so strictly was nothing but a cheating hypocrite.

Quickly, she turned on the cold tap—hoping that the shock of the icy water might wash away the memories of the past few days, but it wasn’t easy to forget her mother’s dramatic confession. She stayed in the shower until she had scrubbed herself clean, and afterwards she found an unused toothbrush and paste and located her clothes and hairbrush. By the time she heard a knock on the bedroom door, she felt a million times better and she psyched herself up to face the judgemental face of Kulal.

‘Come in,’ she said crisply, her heart beginning to race as he walked in. ‘I’m ready.’

‘So I see,’ Kulal said, reluctantly letting his gaze drift over her. Her feet were bare and the crimson minidress brushed the smooth skin of her thighs. For a moment he felt a powerful wave of temptation as he imagined taking her back to bed, before he swatted it away. She was trouble, he told himself. Last night, he might have been swayed by her beauty and her dancing, but in the cold light of day he knew she was best avoided.

‘I’ve ordered breakfast to be served on the terrace,’ he said. ‘So why don’t we go downstairs?’

Hunger made Rosa nod her head in grudging agreement and she followed him down a wide marble staircase and out onto a terrace, where a table had been laid with croissants, juices and jams, and what looked like a dish of iced mango. The terrace overlooked landscaped gardens and, in the distance, she caught a glimpse of the sapphire sea. It felt as if they were in a self-contained world of their own—a private little bubble which was miles away from the hustle and bustle of the French Riviera. ‘Did you say this was a hotel?’ she asked curiously.

‘It is, but I always rent one of the two villas which are attached to it. They come with their own gardens and that affords me more privacy.’

Rosa sank into one of the wicker chairs and looked up into the flatness of his eyes. ‘Which makes it easier to get rid of unwanted overnight guests in the morning, I suppose?’