The Trouble With Coco Monroe (42 page)

‘Inform my brother I am here.’

The bitter cold of a London winter made his voice hard, the tone filled with impatience and irritation. Prince Sarif El Haribe permitted the butler to remove his cashmere coat as he eyed the mountain of a man who stood before him. Immaculate in a black suit, white shirt and black tie, he resembled a bulldog with no neck, a shaved flat head and a face that bore the marks of a pugilist. Perhaps it was the small bird like eyes but something about the man always made Sarif uneasy and looking at him now, that feeling returned times ten.

His brother's protection officer, Omar, snapped to attention. Trained never to show emotion, a muscle jerking in his wide jaw was the only outward sign that Sarif’s unexpected arrival caused dismay.

Omar bowed from the neck, turned and ran up the wide marble staircase.

Sarif couldn’t say he was looking forward to the meeting with his only brother. He should be in his own country, Quarram, dealing with his own issues, his own problems rather than bringing a wild and out of control puppy to heel.

Strolling into a room that on a good day would be an opulent drawing room he studied the evidence and his eyes narrowed in distaste on a couple of empty champagne bottles. Khalid certainly enjoyed the high life.

He picked up an absurd fragment of acid pink silk. A matching padded bra hung on a lampshade. Knowing his brother, he'd probably paid for the impressive breasts that filled it too. Sarif studied another bra, black silk this time as revulsion fanned the flame of disgust in his belly.

‘My Lord, His Highness will be but a moment.’ The high voice didn’t fit with the physical picture Omar presented to the world. Perhaps that was why he found him repulsive? Why it mattered, Sarif didn’t know. The bodyguard bowed his head.

‘How many?’

The man kept his eyes glued to his shiny shoes standing on a lush Persian carpet. ‘Two, my Lord.’

Sarif’s unremitting stare had the man swallow audibly.

He kept his voice silky soft, ‘Return these items to the, er...ladies.’

Omar scrambled around the room picking up underwear, scraps of fabric purporting to be dresses along with killer heels before bowing out of the room and closing the double doors with a soft click.

Sarif moved to the bar, poured himself a soft drink in a glass of Edinburgh crystal and a brandy for his brother. He would need it after he broke the news. And he wondered how Khalid would take it, no more parties, no more whoring and no more freedom.

The doors opened and he turned just as a voice hoarse from sleep demanded,

‘What the hell do you want?’

The slow drawl reminded Sarif of his American mother. Sipping his drink he met Prince Khalid El Haribe’s grey eyes with a bland stare, studying his younger brother over the rim of the crystal glass. He hadn't seen him in six months and his eyes narrowed now both at the tone and the appalling decline in his physical condition.

Khalid flushed. His eyes were bloodshot and underlined with dark circles. Deep lines of dissipation ran down either side of his mouth. Black hair, damp with sweat, curled over his ears and neck. The hair badly needed a cut and the gaunt face needed a shave. He wore too loose soft denim jeans which were white at the knees and seams.

There were times when deep brotherly affection battled through anger and a desperate sadness that their relationship had deteriorated to the point where they barely tolerated each other these days and this was one of those times. God, Khalid had lost too much weight, his stomach was concave and he could see his ribs. Loathing the feeling of complete helplessness, Sarif finished his drink and turned to place the glass on the bar to hide the swift shaft of anxiety that shot up his spine.

He took a breath and turned to find his brother tugging a black T-shirt over his head which told the world 'Elvis has left the building.’ Khalid ran a trembling hand through his hair.

Deciding his brother's manners were deplorable Sarif made himself comfortable on a plush couch.

‘If you spoke to me like that in my Kingdom you would lose your tongue, little brother,’ he said softly.

Heat rose over Khalid’s high cheekbones.

‘Sorry, had a bit too much bubbly tonight.’ He gave him a jerky shrug. ‘You know how it is.’

‘I know how it is with you.’ Sarif held up a hand as his brother's eyes flashed with a temper that was always too near the surface. ‘I've brought news. Sad news, from home.’

‘The King? Mother?’ Alarm flared in Khalid's grey eyes. And Sarif was very pleased to see it. Perhaps there was hope for his brother after all.

‘No. They are well.’ Sarif paused as the butler entered with an ornate gold tray holding tiny cups of aromatic thick black coffee and refreshments.

He waited until the door closed before he continued, ‘King Assim of Onuur has died. He was sixty-five. A heart attack.’

Khalid blinked, shrugged once then helped himself to a coffee and sweetmeat.

Waiting patiently for a response that wasn’t forthcoming, Sarif ordered himself to be patient. ‘Do you remember our Uncle?’ he wanted to know.

Khalid frowned and yawned hugely. ‘I met him a couple of times. Into ancient history, that sort of thing. He was an eccentric wasn't he?’

‘That might account for it,’ Sarif muttered, his eyes narrowing again as they remained on his brother.

‘Account for what?’

‘Naming you his heir, amongst other things.’ He paused and his smile didn't reach his eyes as he watched blood drain from Khalid's face before he continued, ‘Onuur is tiny but wealthy. Diamonds, oil and of course the strategic advantage of having an El Haribe Prince ruling the Kingdom ensures political stability for the region.’

Khalid blinked twice. ‘Is this some kind of sick joke?’

If only it was. ‘The King is delighted. I've been instructed to bring you home. Tonight.’

His brother shook his head even as those grey eyes met his. ‘I’m not King material, Sarif.’

Too true.

‘Apparently, our late Uncle didn’t agree.’ Watching his brother very carefully he took another sip of coffee and delivered the killer blow. ‘Oh, and you’re to marry his widow, Her Royal Highness Queen Charisse. You have six weeks to sober up.’ 

A LUDLOW HALL STORY - BOOK 5

The Fall of Jacob Del Garda

-Excerpt - Due 2013

‘I’m sorry, Jacob. But I can’t do this. I can’t go through with it.’

Gabriella’s voice was no more than a whisper. Her fiancè’s spectacular face swam in front of her eyes. And she blinked rapidly to clear them.

He was simply staring at her as if she’d sprung another head.

They were standing in their home, the penthouse apartment of The Ortiz Prince Felipe Hotel on the island of Bimini in the Bahamas. The spacious rooms were beautifully decorated in soft creams with luxurious splashes of jewel coloured silk cushions, drapes and vivid glass bowls, along with carefully chosen pieces of furniture. Pieces they’d shopped for together. Yet another wedding gift, beautifully boxed with a waterfall of silver ribbon lay unopened and forgotten on the table between them.

Dark, dark eyes, filled with an intensity that made her heart drum too loud in her ears were riveted on hers.

‘I do not understand,
querida
,’ he said carefully. His deep voice went rough and he cleared his throat. ‘You want to postpone our wedding. Or you do not want to marry me, ever?’

Colour rose and fell from high cheekbones leaving him too pale.

Her heart fractured.

Gabriella clung to the back of the chair for support. A corner of her mind registered the fact that her knuckles were bone white.

She wouldn’t think about why her life, her future, with a man she loved so much was lying in tatters. If she thought about it, she’d never be able to go through with this.

Even now the mere thought of the pain, the harm, she was inflicting on a man who didn’t deserve either, made her wonder if she could do this.

But the alternative was not an option.

And that alternative made her straighten her spine and look him dead in the eye.

Jacob Del Garda was a hard man. In business he gave no quarter. She knew that. But with her he’d been patient and so loving and giving. Dark eyes the colour of burnt chestnuts narrowed into hers, while a crease lined his usually perfect forehead. He had a smooth lean face that complemented the aristocratic carve of his cheekbones and his long, thin mouth. His nose was slightly aquiline, which had always appealed to her. The hair, raven black and those brooding eyes always made her think of one of those statues of a fallen angel.

She was used to seeing wonderful looking men. In her line of work a carefully maintained body was a given. At twenty-three she needed to workout four times a week to stay lean, healthy, and keep her body in shape.

A body she’d taken utterly for granted. And a body that had let her down in the worst possible way.

Bitter tears stung again. Oh God, please help her do this.

The buzz in her ears became louder and she forced herself to take a shallow breath.

Her eyes stayed on his.

‘Ever.’

She saw the blow hit him and read a destructive mix of pain, confusion and despair.

Her legs threatened to give way so she held on tightly to the chair.

Be strong, you can do this, she told herself.

‘This is madness, Gabriella.’ Jacob’s deep voice cracked. The Spanish accent was more pronounced now as he paced and ran a shaky hand over his hair. He wore a lightweight suit in pale grey, immaculately cut by an up and coming tailor from Savile Row. His crisp shirt was pristine white cotton, the windsor knot of his silk tie perfect.

He shook his head.

Dark eyes lasered into hers. ‘I know I have been busy with the new acquisition. You knew how it would be.’

She could almost hear his clever, analytical mind clicking through the probabilities of what had gone wrong.

Now he stopped. ‘You have been quiet and distracted, lost a little weight. But I put it down to nerves. I know you wanted a small wedding.’ He frowned, rubbed the back of his neck, that strong jaw. He stared hard at her. ‘Is that what this is all about? I agree things have got way out of hand. My father is enough to drive any sane person crazy. Has he...?’

‘No,’ she said quickly. She adored Don Norberto Juan Ortiz Conde Del Garda. ‘It has nothing to do with your father. I’m sorry...’

Her voice faded.

She could have written a letter, run as fast as she could. The thought had crossed her mind more than once. But that would have been sheer cowardice.

Jacob deserved to be told face to face that the future he’d dreamed of, a wife and a family with her, could never be.

Of course, she could never tell him
why
because he’d never let her go. He was an honourable man with a highly developed sense of duty. He’d stick by her, of course he would.

But she was the one who couldn’t live with it, refused to even consider giving him a choice in his own future, his own destiny. She loved him too much to see him suffer, to see him look at other couples, normal couples, living a normal life. To see him wish that he’d chosen differently.

Jacob’s eyes went into dark slits, became cool and she shivered.

Those eyes missed nothing as they searched her face.

‘I know you can handle him. You can handle anything.’ But the tone had gone cold now. ‘Why?’

Gabriella licked parched lips.

‘I made a mistake. I’m so sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. But I...’

Her voice broke.

‘Stop saying you are sorry,’ he exploded and moved towards her.

Gabriella flinched from his pain, from the desperation in his voice, and took a step back, fear skidding up her spine. If he touched her she would break and never, ever, let him go.

His eyes went wide and she recognised hurt battling through utter disbelief.

‘You are
scared,
of me?’

Shame scorched her cheeks.

Nausea crawled into her throat.

She was deliberately hurting a good man. A man who would stand by her, she knew he would. And that was precisely why she needed to let him go.

‘I would never harm you. How could you even think of such a thing,’ he said, his Spanish accent stronger as he looked at her as if he’d never seen her before. ‘Gabriella, we love each other. Do we not?’

The deep hurt in his eyes, dark with a baffled disbelief matched the fist squeezing the life from her heart.

Sending up a prayer for forgiveness, she lied straight to his face.

‘No. I don’t love you,’ she whispered. And rubbed the burning ache below her breast bone.

She’d thought she’d experienced anguish, but it was nothing compared to this.

Hands clenched as his sides, Jacob’s breath came hard and fast, and she watched him fighting a war of attrition to keep it together.