Date with a Surgeon Prince(11)

The face she’d seen in Theatre, only in his snowy headdress he looked so different…

‘But—you’re—you’re you,’ she managed to get out before words evaporated from her head.

Gaz was staring at her, as bemused as she was apparently, although once again she suspected there was a smile hovering somewhere in his eyes.

‘I am,’ he finally said. ‘Definitely me. How may I help you?’

The voice had its usual effect, and Marni dissolved completely into a morass of words and half-sentences that she knew were making no sense at all.

‘Stupid, I knew that—but Pop needs the op—and then the photo—photos really—you were in the paper—and the job there—here—and I know it’s silly but he really wanted—so I came—’

‘You came?’ Gaz repeated.

Marni took a deep breath, looked into the face of the man she lusted after and smiled at the absurdity of it all.

‘Actually,’ she said, almost totally together now, ‘I came to—well, to say hello and show you a photo. Apparently we were betrothed, you see, a long time ago, and I know it’s stupid but I promised Pop I’d try to meet you and—’

She was rattling on again so she stopped the babble and reached into the pocket of her borrowed abaya, but before she could pull out the photo the man she’d written off as a flunkey had grabbed her wrist in a grip of steel.

‘I think she wants to marry me, not shoot me,’ Gaz said, adding something in his own language so the man withdrew his hand and stepped away, leaving Marni burning with embarrassment.

Gaz took the photo, frowning at it, thinking back perhaps, looking from it to Marni, shaking his head, serious now, although a gleam of amusement shone deep in his eyes.

‘Oh, but this is wonderful!’ he finally declared, a delighted smile flashing across his face. ‘We cannot talk now, but you have no idea how fortuitous this is. Mazur will take you to a side room, get you tea or a cold drink. I will join you shortly.’

Marni was still trying to work out the wonderful and fortuitous bits when Gaz reached out to help her back to her feet, indicating she should follow the man who’d stepped forward on his other side.

Totally bewildered by the whole charade—Gaz was Prince Ghazi? How could that be?—she followed Mazur, stumbling slightly as she was about to enter the room and realising she hadn’t removed her sandals.

They entered a huge, open room, with high, arched doorways curtained in what looked like gold-coloured silk, the drapes pulled back and held with golden, heavily tasselled cords. The floor was of white marble, inlaid with coloured stones that made twining patterns of leaves and flowers, so brilliantly beautiful she had to pause to take them in.

Scattered here and there were immense carpets, woven in patterns of red, blue and green. Low settees were placed at intervals along the walls, cushions piled on them. Here and there, groups of people sat or stood, obviously waiting for further conversation with Gaz—Prince Ghazi!

‘This is the majlis, the public meeting room,’ Mazur explained. ‘but you will be more comfortable in a side room.’ He led her towards an arched opening to one side of the big area and into a smaller version of it—patterned marble floor, a bright rug and a pale yellow sofa with bright cushions scattered over it.

Mazur waited until she was seated on the softly sprung sofa before asking, ‘You would like tea perhaps? We have English tea or mint tea, cardamom, of course, and other flavours if you wish.’

His English was so impeccable, his courtesy so effortless he could have worked for English royalty.

Though apparently Gaz was royalty…

And she’d kissed him? Considered—well, more than considered—him a potential lover!

‘Mint tea would be lovely,’ Marni managed to reply, and waited until he’d departed before burying her head in her hands, desperate to make sense of what had happened.

She was finishing her tea and nibbling on one of the little cakes Mazur had produced when Gaz appeared, looking so utterly regal in his pristine white robe and starched headdress, a coronet of black silk cord holding it in place, that her heart fluttered again but this time with a degree of not fear but definitely trepidation.

‘So, we are betrothed?’ he teased, not bothering to hide his smile.

‘Well, that’s what Pop wrote, but who knows what your father put underneath—probably something about pleasing a daft old man—but it was all just a kind of a joke, me coming here. I didn’t come here to hold you to a ridiculous betrothal, but with Pop so sick I made a deal with him. It’s hard to explain…’