CAROL MARINELLI - Bound By The Sultan's Baby

Tonight she didn’t want to be the dowdy funeral director version of Gabi, or the clumsy, fall-down-the-stairs, eternally rushed wedding planner she appeared at times.

It was a split-second decision, a choice that she made.

Gabi looked in the mirror. This was the person she would be if she worked for herself and was orchestrating a high-class function tonight.

This was actually the closest she had ever looked to the woman she was inside.

Gabi arrived back at the hotel, her stunning dress hidden by a coat and wearing boots with her pretty shoes held in a bag. Security was tight and Ronaldo, the doorman, even though he knew her well, apologised but said that she had to show ID. ‘There are VIP’s staying at the hotel,’ he explained as he stamped his feet against the cold.

‘There often are,’ Gabi said.

‘Royalty,’ Ronaldo grumbled, because royalty in residence meant a whole lot of extra work!

‘Who?’

‘Gabi,’ Ronaldo warned, for he was under strict instruction, but then smiled as he chose to reveal—it was just to Gabi after all! ‘The Sultan of Sultans and his daughter.’

‘Wow!’

Oh, she hoped for a glimpse of them—it sounded amazing!

Gabi handed over her coat at Reception and pursed her lips when she saw the large crimson floral display in the foyer.

The Grande Lucia was a wonderful hotel but it was like turning the Titanic to effect change at times.

Nervous, a little shy, and doing her best not to show it, Gabi returned to the wedding and walked straight into Bernadetta’s spiteful reproach.

‘If the bride had wanted a Christmas tree arrangement in the corner, I would have charged her for one,’ Bernadetta hissed, and Gabi felt her tiny drop of confidence in her newfound self drain away.

‘We need to check that the gramophone has been properly set up,’ Bernadetta told her. ‘And we need to find the key to the gallery for the photographer.’

‘We’ being Gabi.

She hit the ballroom floor running, or rather working away to make the night go as smoothly as possible for the happy couple.

Indeed, they looked happy.

Mona’s dress was sublime and her groom was handsome and relaxed and...

Gabi frowned.

James reminded her of someone, but she could not place him.

Or was it just the fact that he was tall and blond, like his mother, that made him stand out a touch more amongst the many Italian guests?

There was no time to dwell on it, though, and no time to acknowledge the ache of disappointment that Alim was nowhere to be seen.

And she admitted it to herself then, as she let the photographer up to the gallery and walked back through the foyer.

The dress, the pretty heels, the hair and the make-up...

In part they had been on the off chance that Alim might see her.

* * *

Alim was, in fact, in the building, but for once his presence was low key.

‘I hate that we can’t be at the wedding,’ Yasmin moaned for the hundredth time, and pushed her dessert aside unfinished.

Alim said nothing in response.

He was very used to his sister’s histrionics.

‘We are shooed away like vermin,’ Yasmin snarled, and threw down her napkin.

‘Hardly vermin,’ Alim drawled, refusing to be drawn in—they were sitting in the private area of the sumptuous restaurant at the Grande Lucia after all.

Their father did not join them for it would only draw attention, and that was everything Alim was doing his best to avoid.

At least for tonight.

The staff at the Grande Lucia were very used to esteemed guests but, Alim knew, they were starting to comprehend that Oman, the Sultan of Sultans, was in fact Alim’s father.

Alim did not use his title in the workplace—Sultan Alim al-Lehan of Zethlehan.

Neither did he use it in his personal life, for it was a risqué personal life indeed. Diamonds paid for silence and there was the slick machine of the palace PR to wash indiscretions away.

Oman’s main indiscretion was the reason they were here in the dining room tonight.

Close to the wedding but not present.

Tonight, when the happy couple headed to the bridal suite, Fleur, the groom’s mother, would head to her own sumptuous suite of rooms.

Violetta, who dealt with palace PR and external arrangements, had taken over the arrangements of the guest rooms from Marianna.

Alim did not need to know, though of course he did, that Fleur’s suite adjoined his father’s.

Fleur was Oman’s mistress of long standing.

She had borne the Sultan of Sultans his first son.

James had had a seemingly privileged life. He had been schooled at Windsor, had attended university in Scotland, and had a trust fund that would make most people’s eyes water.

But his father’s name did not appear on his birth certificate and he bore no title. To the people of Zethlehan he simply did not exist.

Yet he was Alim, Kaleb and Yasmin’s half-brother, and they loved him so.

Kaleb, who was younger than Alim, would instead see the happy couple in Paris, where he currently lived.

The three of them together would turn heads indeed but subtlety was the aim on this night.

Yasmin, who lived a very sheltered life in Zethlehan, had pleaded to be a part of the proceedings.

Those fervent pleas from Yasmin had been declined by their father and so Alim had stepped in and offered to do what he could to enable Yasmin to observe the wedding from a distance.

Alim had arranged it so that he and Yasmin had been taking refreshments in the lounge when the bridal party had arrived back from the church, so that Yasmin could see the dress and everything.

Yasmin had enjoyed it immensely. ‘What on earth is he wearing?’ she asked about the best man.

‘A kilt,’ Alim explained. ‘He’s from Scotland.’

‘Oh, it’s so exciting,’ Yasmin breathed.

A glimpse of the bridal party wasn’t enough for her, though.

And though Alim had arranged that they eat the same meal and drink the same wines as the bridal party, it was a somewhat muted celebration.

The speeches would be wrapping up now, Alim explained, and he actually ached that he was not able to hear them.

‘I want to see them dance.’ Yasmin pouted.

She was very used to getting her own way.

But not in this, Alim promised.

There were volumes of intricate and ancient laws and, until he himself ruled, Alim had no choice but to adhere to them.

Alim loved his country fiercely, and respected many of the traditions, yet from childhood he had seen the need for change.

For now, though, he tried to placate his young sister.

‘You will see James and Mona tomorrow for breakfast; you can congratulate them then.’

‘It’s not the same, though!’ Yasmin refused to be mollified. ‘Why can’t I slip into the ballroom for just a few moments and see them? You shall, Alim.’

‘I shall only because I own the hotel and I often check in on functions. You would be noticed.’

Yasmin, like her brothers, had her share of the al-Lehan good looks and her entrance would be noted.

It would not take much for people to work things out.

Even so, Alim could not bear to see his sister unhappy—he knew how much Yasmin had been looking forward to such a rare occasion as a trip overseas.

‘Listen,’ Alim said. ‘There is a viewing gallery in the ballroom.’ He watched Yasmin’s eyes widen. ‘The photographer will be there now, setting up for photos, but after he comes down, you could watch things from there for a short while. I can give you a master key and you can go in a separate entrance from him and wait.’

‘Yes!’ Her eyes shone with excitement.

‘Just for a little while,’ Alim warned. ‘The photographer will be back towards the end of the celebrations so keep an eye on him for when he leaves to come back up.’