The Sheikh's Pregnant Bride
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She selected a pair of white cropped linen trousers and teamed them with a nude pink vest top, which gathered in a knot just below her breasts, the material flowing nicely over her bump. Many redheads eschewed pink, even as pale a shade as this, but Saskia loved the colour. She pulled her still-wet hair back into a loose plait and slipped her feet into a pair of flat sandals. She was ready.
Idris was here.
The enormity of what was happening hit her anew and Saskia reached out to the ornately carved bedpost for support. What on earth had brought him back to her after seven years? It was clear that he hadn’t expected to see her; he’d looked just as thrown by the recognition as she had been.
Her lips tightened. She was a different person now. Strong, independent. A survivor. Just because Idris’s kisses used to make her forget who she was didn’t mean he had any power over her now. She had this situation in hand. She had to.
Summoning a confidence that wasn’t quite real, yet not entirely fake, Saskia left her suite and slowly descended the villa’s majestic staircase. The stairway led to the large central hallway from which all the other ground-floor rooms were situated. All marble and dark polished wood, it was lined with two impossibly long, armless couches. Idris lounged on the right-hand couch, seemingly completely at ease as he scrolled impatiently through his tablet. He didn’t even raise his gaze to watch her as she walked carefully down the marble stairs.
One of the many occasional tables that were scattered around the villa had been brought to his side and a jug of coffee sat there along with a half-full cup. The aroma floated tantalisingly towards Saskia. Coffee was one of the many prohibited food and drinks she had agreed not to touch until three months after the baby was born and her duties had ended. Many she barely touched anyway—she didn’t have the budget for shellfish, brie or wine—but coffee was her lifeline and she missed it every day; mint tea just didn’t have the same effect.
As the thought flitted across her mind Hamid, the houseboy, pulled up a second table and placed a cup of the herbal beverage upon it. Suppressing a longing sigh, Saskia smiled her thanks. She made no move to sit, nor did she have any intention of standing in front of Idris and waiting for him to notice her. Instead she picked up the cup and walked away into her favourite sitting area, the smallest of the living rooms with stunning views of the pool and the sea beyond. She curled up on the couch, picked up a book and waited for Idris to come to her.
She didn’t have to wait long. A smothered exclamation was followed by short sharp footsteps. ‘Tiens, there you are. Why didn’t you let me know you were ready?’
Saskia hadn’t taken in a word on the page but she still made a show of finishing her sentence before half closing the book and looking up with a mild smile. ‘You looked busy. Take a seat, Idris, and let me know how I can help you.’ There, she had established that this was her home and she was the one in charge.
To her surprise Idris didn’t react with impatience or irritation. He sat down on the chair at right angles to her and leaned forwards before jumping up and striding across the room, his face set and eyes clouded. The premonition Saskia had felt in the pool returned, fear icy on her skin.
‘What is it, Idris? Why are you here?’
He turned and the grief on his face clawed at her heart. ‘There was an accident. Fayaz...’ He stopped and swallowed.
‘What kind of accident?’
‘A car accident.’
‘He will always drive too fast. Such a boy racer.’ If she could keep chatting, keep the conversation light and inconsequential then she wouldn’t have to hear the rest. Because of course there was more. Idris wouldn’t have flown over from France for a minor injury. Nor would he have come here to tell her—to tell the unknown surrogate—in person.
‘Saskia.’ She could only sit paralysed while he walked back towards her, each deliberate, slow step echoing around her brain. He sat next to her, so familiar and yet a stranger and, to her increasing dread, took her hand in his. Once the simple touch of his hand would leave her incoherent and unable to think about anything but him, but right now she couldn’t feel anything. All she could do was wait for the words she knew were coming.
‘Saskia, the accident, it was a bad one. Fayaz didn’t make it. Nobody did.’
Nobody? Her free hand crept down to her belly, whether to reassure the baby or herself she didn’t know. ‘Maya?’ Her throat was so swollen she could barely croak the word out, but she knew that he heard her when his grip on her hand intensified.
‘I’m sorry, Saskia. She was with him.’
She didn’t move, didn’t react, couldn’t react, couldn’t process anything he was saying. Fayaz and Maya. Such a golden couple; beautiful, wealthy, powerful sure but also caring and loving, and they had known their share of tragedy. Years of IVF and three miscarriages had left Maya utterly bereft—which was why she had come to Saskia.
Saskia’s hand stilled on her belly. She pulled her other hand out of Idris’s clasp and turned to him. ‘The baby? What happens to their baby?’
IDRIS STARED UNSEEINGLY out at the sea. He needed to get back to Jayah. The funerals would be taking place in just a few hours’ time and there were a hundred and one things demanding Idris’s attention, but his business at the villa wasn’t done. Not nearly. Saskia’s question echoed round and round his mind. What happened to the baby? Orphaned before birth. His cousin’s baby and, morally, the rightful heir.
But the burning question remained unanswered: was it the legal heir? Idris had no idea; which was why he was still kicking his heels at the villa, awaiting both the lawyer who had drawn up the surrogacy agreement and his great-uncle so that he could get their advice. Advice he was praying tied in with his own plans, because if the baby could inherit and if his great-uncle was prepared to take on the Regency until it was of age then Idris could return to France as soon as the mourning period was over.