Hannah’s eyes were very big. ‘So did we,’ she whispered. ‘And look what happened.’
And suddenly Tamsyn was made very aware of how easily a woman could be trapped by her own passion. Hannah had accidently become pregnant by the Sheikh which was why she had married him. Who was to say the same thing wouldn’t happen to her? She found herself uttering a small, silent prayer. ‘We’ll just have to hope it doesn’t happen to me,’ she said quietly.
‘And what if it does?’
‘Then I’ll deal with it. But I’m not going to project like that. I’m just going to carry on as before.’
‘Doing what?’
Tamsyn patted the back pocket of her cut-offs to check she had her cellphone. ‘Doing what I always do. Adapting. Moving on.’
Distractedly, Hannah began to pace up and down the room, the silken shimmer of her flowing robes seeming to emphasise the growing differences between them. Stopping in front of one of the tall windows which overlooked the palace gardens, the streaming sunlight had turned her pale blonde hair into liquid gold and Tamsyn thought how scarily royal she looked. ‘Kulal says we might be able to find a role for you in the London Embassy.’
‘As what? The new attaché?’ enquired Tamsyn, deadpan.
‘I’m serious, Tamsyn. There are always cleaning jobs available—or we thought you might like to help the chef in the Ambassador’s private kitchen.’ Hannah gave a somewhat helpless shrug. ‘Something like that.’
‘Well, thanks but no thanks,’ said Tamsyn firmly. ‘I don’t want to be beholden to your husband and I’d prefer to make my own way in life, just like I’ve always done.’
At this, Hannah walked forward to place her hand on Tamsyn’s arm. ‘But if anything happens,’ she said fervently. ‘If you find out you are pregnant—then you will come to me for help, won’t you, Tamsyn?’
‘If I were you, I think I’d be concentrating on your life rather than mine,’ said Tamsyn sharply. ‘I’ve never seen you looking so pale. What’s the matter, Hannah—have you suddenly discovered there are serpents in paradise?’
Was her remark too close to the bone? Was that why Hannah’s face crumpled and she looked as if she was about to cry? Tamsyn felt a sudden pang of guilt as her sister turned towards the arched doorway, but any remorse was quickly cancelled out by the enormity of what her sister had just said to her. Because that was something she hadn’t even considered. Her stomach performed a sickly somersault as Hannah left the room and Tamsyn stared unseeingly at one of the priceless silken rugs. What if Hannah’s fears were true? What if she was pregnant?
She tried to put it—and him—out of her mind, though it wasn’t easy on the flight back to England. Especially when the stewardess had answered her studiedly casual query about Xan by informing her that Mr Constantinides had summoned his own jet and left Zahristan earlier that morning.
But the anxious wait to discover if she was carrying his baby was even harder when she was back in London and the whole thing seemed like a dream. Tamsyn tried all kinds of coping mechanisms. Just like she’d promised Hannah, she threw herself into her latest job—working in a steam-filled café in one of the tiny back roads near Covent Garden, which was mainly frequented by taxi drivers. It wasn’t the best-paid work she’d ever done and it certainly wasn’t the most exciting. She suspected it had been called The Greasy Spoon in an ironic sense, though it certainly lived up to is name since no meal was served unless it was swimming in its own pool of oil. But she wasn’t going to waste hours hunting for some rewarding position which was never going to materialise. She needed to be busy—doing something other than neurotically ticking off the endlessly long days as she waited for her period. She needed to focus on something other than the fact that her first and only lover had not bothered to seek her out—not even to enquire whether she had arrived home safely.
She hated the way she kept glancing at her phone. Even though she hadn’t given him her number, hadn’t part of her thought—hoped—that the Greek tycoon might have somehow tracked her down? It wasn’t outside the realms of possibility that he could have asked the Sheikh, was it? But deep down Tamsyn knew she was clutching at straws and it was never going to happen. For a man to go to the trouble of finding you, he had to like you enough to want to see you again. And you certainly didn’t have to like a woman in order to have sex with her.
But she wasn’t going to beat herself up about it. She hadn’t planned on being intimate with Xan, but she hadn’t planned to be a virgin for ever either. She had been waiting—not for a wedding band, because marriage was something she simply wasn’t interested in. No. She had been waiting for someone to make her feel desire—real, bone-melting desire—even though she’d secretly thought it would never happen. Yet it had. Xan Constantinides might not be a keeper, but she wasn’t deluded enough to deny that he’d had a profound effect on her.
So she tried to be practical rather than wistful. She would probably see him again at the naming ceremony of Kulal and Hannah’s baby, sometime in the not too distant future. And before that happened, she would need to school herself in the art of pretending not to care. If she worked on it hard enough, she might actually have achieved that blissful state by then. Her heart pounded. And if she was pregnant, what then? Then the world would look like a very different place.
But then her period arrived and for some inexplicable reason, she cried and cried. But not for long, because she knew tears were a waste of energy. She just carried on getting up every morning and going to work. It was dark when she started and dark when she finished and although spring was just around the corner, the bitter wind was harsh and unremitting.
And then she had one of those days when everything seemed to go wrong. A customer queried his change, causing the sharp-eyed manageress to watch her like a hawk, which made Tamsyn clumsier than usual. Outside, heavy rain was bashing against the window, making the steamed-up café resemble a sauna, and some inane pop quiz was blaring from the radio, the words incomprehensible above the laddish shouts of conversation. She had just muddled up two egg orders and was anticipating the kind of stern lecture which usually preceded being asked to leave a job, when the doorbell tinged and unusually, the whole place became silent.
Tamsyn looked up as a reverential hush fell over the boisterous customers and she had another of those slow motion moments. Because it was Xan. Xan Constantinides was walking into the crowded café and every single eye in the place was fixed on him.
She wasn’t surprised. Not just because his costly clothes proclaimed his billionaire status, it was more the sense that he was a super-being—somehow larger than life and more good-looking than anyone had a right to be. His rain-spattered dark overcoat was made of fine cashmere and she doubted whether any other Greasy Spoon customer had ever worn handmade shoes, or moved with such a powerful sense of purpose.
She hated the instinctive ripple of recognition which shivered through her body. Hated the sudden clench of her nipples beneath the manmade fabric of her uniform. He was walking towards her, those cobalt eyes fixed firmly on hers and Tamsyn was doing her best to look at him with the kind of politely questioning smile she would give to any other customer, even though she wanted to spit venom at him. But the manageress was literally elbowing her out of the way, surreptitiously patting the bright red perm which the steam had turned to frizz, her fifty-year-old face filled with the gushing excitement of a schoolgirl as she stepped forward.
‘Can I ’elp you, sir?’
Was Xan clued-up enough to realise
