he said softly. “I will be a good husband. A good father. I swear it, habiba. I will do everything I can to make you happy. I swear that, too.”
Madison nodded. She knew that he would.
But he would not love her. That was all right, wasn’t it? Love wasn’t part of this arrangement. Why would she want it to be? She didn’t love this man. Certainly she didn’t love—
“Habiba?”
Madison stopped thinking, rose to her husband and sealed their agreement with a kiss.
CHAPTER NINE
TARIQ said he would see her later, that he’d have to spend most of the day in meetings.
“Will you be all right, habiba?”
Madison had said yes, of course, she’d be fine. She was accustomed to being on her own; why would this be any different?
The answer came within seconds of his closing the door.
There was a phone beside the bed. Seeing it made her realize she hadn’t contacted her office. Even if she’d had the time, her cell phone wasn’t geared for overseas use.
All right. She’d call now. Her P.A. was probably frantic, trying to figure out what had happened to her.
A tingle of disbelief raised goose bumps on her arms. She was getting married. That was what had happened to her.
Her office was in for quite a surprise.
Smiling, Madison picked up the phone, waited for the dial tone, punched in the number.
The line went dead.
Well, of course. You had to dial the international dialing code first, then the one for Manhattan. She did that … and, once again, found herself holding a dead phone in her hand.
Maybe she had the codes wrong. Or maybe you had to dial for an outside line. Sahar would know or, if she didn’t, she’d find someone who did. But where was Sahar? How was she supposed to summon her—and what an awful word that was! You summoned a taxi, not a person—
Someone rapped lightly at the door. Madison heaved a sigh of relief.
“Sahar. Please, come in. I was just thinking about—” “My lady.”
This wasn’t Sahar. It was a man who looked even older than the sultan.
“My lady,” he said in a quavery whisper, and bowed until Madison thought she heard his bones creak.
“Please, she said quickly, “stand up. You don’t have to—”
“I am Fouad, Doorkeeper of the Golden Palace. What you might call the major-domo. His highness, the crown prince, thought you might wish to tour its rooms.”
“Yes. Yes, thank you, I would but first. This telephone doesn’t seem to work.”
“Whom did you wish to call, my lady?” Madison raised an eyebrow. None of your business, was her typically New York reaction, but Fouad was old enough to be her grandfather.
“My office,” she said politely, “in—”
“Ah. That has been done.”
“No, it hasn’t. I haven’t spoken to them since—”
“It has been done, my lady. My lord saw to it.”
Madison raised her eyebrows. “The prince?”
“Yes. He took care of it.”
“Well, that was good of him but I want to phone anyway, so if you’d just show me how to use this—”
“You are to see the palace, ma’am. The prince so commanded.”
The prince had made a call she hadn’t asked him to make. Had he also commanded she tour the palace, or was the old man’s formal use of English putting the wrong spin on things?
“My lady?”
There was no sense in asking questions of Fouad. She’d save them for Tariq.
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