CAROL MARINELLI - Royal Temptation - Protecting the Desert Princess / Virgin Princess, Tycoon’s Temptation / The Prince's Second Chance

‘Of course not.’

The King breathed out a long sigh of relief when it was reported that there was not a bruise nor a cut on his daughter’s skin and that it appeared no harm had come to her. He sent for her and Layla stood, resigned, staring above and over his shoulder as her father delivered a very stern lecture and demanded more details as to what had happened in her time in Australia.

‘You lied to me,’ Fahid said. ‘Even now you lie. What was the whole point of running away if all you were going to do was sit with people who have just had a baby? You don’t even like babies.’

Layla breathed out through her nostrils.

‘I want the truth, Layla,’ her father demanded. ‘Did you dance?’

‘Yes, I danced,’ she said.

‘And drink alcohol?’

‘Once.’ She’d admit to once. ‘I had an Irish coffee. I have wanted to try one since Zahid told me you could have whisky in coffee and the cream stays at the top.’

‘What else?’

Layla said nothing.

‘What else?’ the King demanded. ‘What else did you get up to?’

‘I tried to get a joint.’

‘A joint?’

‘Weed,’ Layla said. ‘The same stuff that was found in Zahid’s locker at school! I had always wanted to try it.’

‘And did you?’

‘No one would let me.’

‘What about men?’ the King demanded—for, like her mother, Layla had always dreamed of romance. ‘Did you do anything of which you are ashamed?’

‘No, Father.’

Her answer was the truth.

‘Layla?’

‘No, Father, I did nothing of which I am ashamed.’

‘I’m very disappointed in you, Layla.’

‘I know that you are.’

‘Are you disappointed in yourself?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I am proud of myself and glad that I did it. I’ve had my rebellion. I am sorry that it had to hurt you.’

‘You are supposed to say yes , you are disappointed in yourself.’

‘But I’m not.’

‘You won’t be teaching,’ he said, and saw her lip tremble. ‘Who knows what you might suggest…?’

‘I would never encourage poor behaviour in my students,’ she said, ‘but I am an adult—’

‘Enough!’

The King went through her punishments.

‘No more teaching…’ He saw her chin jut. ‘No phone.’

‘I never had one in the first place.’

‘No letters.’

Layla was relieved. Otherwise poor Mikael might need to get a wheelbarrow for the thousands of letters in Arabic that might be delivered to him—letters he could never understand. Her heart squeezed as she thought of the small note she had left him and wondered if he would ever work it out.

Perhaps it was better to have their contact severed so brutally.

‘No internet—ever!’ Fahid continued.

‘What about chess?’

‘You can play chess with me,’ Fahid said. ‘And next week you will select a husband.’

Layla said nothing.

‘You don’t argue?’

‘I knew the consequences when I ran away,’ she said. ‘I knew what would happen when I got back.’

‘And was it worth it?’

It was the only time the King had glimpsed a flash of tears.

‘Yes.’

* * *

She was back, and plans had been made for Princess Layla to choose her husband tomorrow.

She was well, she was safe, she had returned.

The palace felt like a funeral parlour though.

The King looked out to the gardens below his study and saw Layla walking when usually she would have run.

She looked cold, even though the evening sun was still blazing before dipping below the horizon.

‘How has she been?’

He turned when Jamila entered; he had asked to speak with her.

‘She is very polite, she is doing everything that has been asked of her and she has given me no cheek—but she is very angry with me. I know that, even if she doesn’t say so.’ Jamila started to cry. ‘I am sorry for interfering…you might never have known.’

‘You were scared for her,’ Fahid said. ‘You were right to call me.’

He looked to the woman who had been like a mother to his child—Layla’s only parent when he had not been able to be one.

‘You were brave to go against Zahid and call me.’

He sat down, for he could not stand to look out of the window and see Layla so unhappy.

Fahid closed his eyes. He wanted this sorted. ‘I have not got long…’

‘Don’t say that, Your Highness.’

‘It is true, though. I just want to know she will be taken care of.’

He looked over, because again Jamila was crying.

‘Jamila…?’

‘I don’t want you to die, Fahid.’

She was no longer speaking with the King but with the man who had come to her at night a year after his wife had died.

The man who had made love to her as Layla slept in her crib beside the bed.

The man who still came to her at times, even now.

Times that must never be discussed, for she was a servant—that was all.

Yet the King and Layla felt like Jamila’s family, and she wanted more time with him—especially now.

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