A Whisper of Disgrace

chapter THREE


‘SO WHAT DID you think you were playing at, Kulal?’ The king was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘When you decided to take some drunken pole dancer back to your hotel?’

For a moment Kulal didn’t answer. Instead he sat back in one of the ornate chairs in the throne room and stared up at the old-fashioned fan which was whirring in the vaulted, golden ceiling. He was back in the ancient palace in which he’d been raised, having flown to Zahrastan as soon as he had received word that the king wished to speak with him. He’d never received a summons quite like this and it occurred to him that he’d never seen his brother look quite so exasperated either. Not even during that time when he had caught Kulal leaving one of the chambermaid’s rooms, smoothing down his ruffled robes and smirking all over his face.

Or the time when Kulal had ‘borrowed’ one of the palace cars for an unauthorised trip into the desert when he was barely sixteen and nobody had known that he could drive. On both those occasions—and, indeed, on many more—righteous anger should surely have come flooding the younger prince’s way, but it had not. It was almost as if it had been expected that he should behave wildly—and everyone knew why. Weren’t motherless children always indulged?

As two royal princes of a fabulously rich desert kingdom, the two men should have been close but an accident of birth meant that they had grown up living two very different lives. Hazail was the older, the heir to the throne, and the defining factor of his life had always been that he would one day inherit the crown. It had been Hazail’s destiny which had occupied most of their father’s time as he had tutored his elder son in the art of ruling a powerful desert kingdom.

Kulal had simply been the ‘spare’—the extra boy child born as an insurance policy to ensure the line of succession. He had been brought up by a series of amahs—female servants who had adored him but had lacked the strength to discipline the strong-minded little boy. Consequently, he had been given freedom—perhaps a little too much freedom for so strong and so wilful a character. But that had never compensated for the heavy weight which had hung over him since his mother had died—a shocking death which had sent the country spiralling into deep mourning. And Kulal had been marked out by that terrible loss, for she had died saving his life. Deep down he knew that was the reason why his father and his brother had always been so distant towards him. He knew that subconsciously they blamed him for the queen’s untimely end, even if logic told them that it was nothing but the cruel intervention of fate. Of two people being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Perhaps it had been to make up for their emotional distance that they had tended to overlook Kulal’s misdemeanours. But it seemed that they were not being overlooked this time. Hazail was pacing the floor like an expectant father, before turning back to his younger brother, still with that exasperated expression on his face.

‘She wasn’t a pole dancer,’ Kulal protested as he picked up a golden goblet and swirled the pomegranate juice it contained.

‘No?’ Hazail looked at him. ‘It is fiction, then, that she was seen writhing around in a nightclub, showing much of her underwear in the process? That is simply a figment of my informant’s imagination, is it?’

‘Which informant?’ Kulal demanded, trying to dampen down the vivid image of Rosa’s curvaceous body as it had twisted itself around the pole. Or the fact that his brother’s damned servant had interrupted him just as he had started to seduce her!

‘That is surely beside the point,’ answered Hazail coolly. ‘Unless you’re denying that you took this exhibitionist back to your hotel with you?’

Kulal shrugged. ‘No, I am not denying it.’

‘She seems a little outré even for your extravagant tastes, Kulal.’

‘I know.’ Kulal met the question in his brother’s eyes with a faintly bemused shrug, because he couldn’t have begun to describe the sensation which had washed over him when he’d watched Rosa walk into the nightclub that night. Lust didn’t begin to cover the hunger he’d felt when he’d seen her. There had been something in her eyes—a look which had seemed so at odds with the provocative curves of her body and which had called out to something inside him. He had noticed the defiant way she’d lifted the champagne bottle to her mouth and the small rush of foam which had trickled erotically over her lips. And then she had begun to dance… .

Kulal felt desire shiver over his skin as he remembered that dance. It had been an invitation to sex. The most blatant and beautiful invitation he had ever witnessed and he had simply been unable to resist it. He had walked towards her like a man on autopilot, with his heart thundering and his body on fire. ‘But she is very beautiful,’ he said simply.

‘There are a lot of beautiful women in the world, as well you know,’ came Hazail’s dry rejoinder. ‘Surely you could have found someone a little more suitable to have sex with?’

Kulal wanted to protest that they hadn’t actually had sex, but his fiercely masculine pride would not allow him to make such a disclosure, especially not to his brother. ‘I’m not really clear about why there has been a big drama about it, Hazail?’ he drawled. ‘Why the sudden interest in my sex life?’

‘Because you are engaged to be married—in case it had slipped your mind. And therefore it is inadvisable for you to behave like a rutting stag!’

Kulal thought of his serious-faced fiancée—a blue-blooded princess who hailed from the neighbouring country of Buheiraat. He thought about the matter-of-fact way the two of them had sat down to work out an agreement for their forthcoming nuptials. He thought about her complete lack of passion and compared her to the fiery and responsive Rosa, and his heart sank.

He shot his brother a cool look. ‘I made a single, minor transgression, Hazail,’ he said. ‘I hardly think that puts me in the category of “rutting stag.” And besides, you know how these things work. Ayesha will not be expecting her prince to come to her on her wedding night as a cowering innocent. She will expect her husband to be experienced in matters of sexuality.’

‘Well, Ayesha’s expectations are now academic,’ said Hazail. ‘Since the wedding is now off.’

Kulal stilled. ‘The wedding is off?’

‘Yes. She has sent word to the palace through one of her envoys that she will no longer marry you.’

Kulal’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why not?’

‘Why do you think?’ exploded Hazail. ‘Because word has got back to her about your exploits, that’s why! You seem to forget that modern princesses are different to the way they used to be. They are no longer prepared to turn a blind eye to behaviour which they find intolerable. And you have hardly been the soul of discretion on this occasion, Kulal. A discreet liaison is one thing, but openly spending the night with a complete stranger is something else.’

Kulal’s mouth hardened because it had been the loud and drunken Rosa who had made it into such a spectacle. If she hadn’t been so damned predatory, this might never have happened. He glowered at his golden goblet and slammed it down on the table. ‘I will write to Ayesha, wishing her all the very best for her future happiness,’ he said. ‘And we will forget that this unfortunate incident ever happened.’

But Hazail was shaking his head. ‘That’s the trouble—we can’t just forget it. If only it were that simple.’

Kulal frowned. ‘You’re not making any sense.’

The king leaned back in his chair. ‘You do realise the identity of the woman you spent the night with?’

‘Of course I do.’ Kulal felt a beat of frustration harden his groin, his erection conveniently concealed by the silk robes he always wore when in Zahrastan. And although it felt like an exquisite form of torture, he allowed a picture of her luscious curves and dark hair to form in his mind. ‘Her name is Rosa.’

‘Her name is Rosa Corretti!’

Kulal’s expression remained unchanged, for he did not care to admit that the brunette’s surname was news to him. ‘Mmm. That’s right. Corretti. She’s Italian,’ he said, as if imparting some important nugget of information.

‘No, she is not Italian,’ said Hazail. ‘She’s Sicilian. And not only is she Sicilian, but she comes from one of the most powerful families on the island.’

‘So?’

‘So her brothers are probably going to come after you. In fact, the whole damned family is probably going to come after you after you compromised her reputation by spending the night with her.’

Kulal shrugged. ‘Then let them come,’ he said carelessly. ‘For I am afraid of no man!’

‘Your courage has never been in question, but you don’t seem to realise the gravity of the situation, Kulal.’ Hazail bit his lip with the closest thing to anxiety Kulal had ever seen. ‘The influence of the Corretti family extends all over the world and they do not take the virtue of their womenfolk lightly. I’m not joking—this could be political and economic dynamite for our country if it were to erupt into some kind of international scandal.’

There was silence for a moment as Kulal mulled over his brother’s words. Were this Corretti family such a big deal, then? He remembered everything he had heard and read about the Sicilian culture. That the men were proud and the women were pure. His lips twisted scornfully. Except that Rosa Corretti was the least pure woman he’d met in a long time!

‘Do you think they might respond to bribery?’ he mused. ‘Shares in one of our oil refineries might buy their silence.’

Hazail shook his head. ‘This is one situation where I suspect that bribery will not work—for there are very few ways to appease a Sicilian family when their honour is involved.’

For a moment, Kulal was silent as he considered the options which lay open to him and forced himself to acknowledge that there were remarkably few. He thought about Rosa Corretti and her soft pink lips. He thought about her magnificent breasts and waterfall of dark hair and he felt a corresponding pang of pure and frustrated lust. Surely there was something he could do to remedy a potentially explosive situation?

And then an idea began to form in his mind, an idea so simple that he was surprised it had taken him so long to come up with it.

‘I suppose I will have to marry her,’ he said.

Hazail stared at him. ‘Marry her?’

Kulal shrugged. ‘Why not? A short-term marriage would suit both parties very well. It would rescue her “honour,” silence any overprotective brothers and it might work in our favour. Think about it, Hazail. We sell the story as some kind of love match and Princess Ayesha will be seen as magnanimous for agreeing to cancel her wedding to me. And just think how the press will seize on it!’ He gave a mocking smile. ‘The Arabian version of Romeo and Juliet!’

The king’s mouth fell open. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

‘Entirely serious.’ Kulal smiled as he allowed his body to anticipate the pleasure of reuniting with his little Sicilian firecracker. ‘I shall go to Rosa Corretti and ask for her hand in marriage.’

There was a pause as the king looked at him. ‘This is remarkably good of you, Kulal,’ he said quietly.

‘Ah, but I am not doing it to be “good,”‘ Kulal corrected silkily. ‘I am doing it because I can see no feasible alternative. Look on it as an act of supreme patriotism, if you will. Let’s just say I’m doing it for the sake of my country.’