CHAPTER ONE
CROWNPRINCEABBASHUSSEINglanced cursorily at the pristine paperwork on the conference table in front of him and signed with a flourish.
There was no need to check anything. Due diligence had been done by his fleet of lawyers, several of whom were around the table, already packing away their computers, ready for the flight back to Qaram.
Behind him, flanking either side of the closed door, two bodyguards had been patiently waiting for the end of the proceedings. It was a little after seven in the evening, freezing cold outside and, like him, they were probably looking forward to a return to sunnier climes.
He straightened and absently glanced at his watch. At six feet four, he dominated everyone in the room and none more so than the CEO who could not have looked more joyful at having just sold his hotel. It had once been a firm fixture with minor celebrities but now, like an ageing has-been film star, it was in desperate need of a revamp and a new role.
It was a mutually beneficial sale for both parties and added to Abe’s choice portfolio of boutique hotels, a sideline to the serious business of running his country, a small but wealthy and powerful kingdom.
He had been here in London for three days of non-stop work. Frankly, he could think of nothing he wanted more than to return to the comforts of the five-star hotel where he had rented one entire floor to house his personal entourage, so when Duncan Squire suggested that he take a little time out to enjoy some of the savouries they had made especially for his benefit, he had to stifle a groan of pure frustration.
‘My chef is excellent. She’s spent some time creating delicacies for you and your staff.’ Clearly in awe of the much younger man, Duncan half bowed and took a step back as he said this. He avoided bumping into the wall behind him by only inches.
‘Of course.’ The bath he had been envisioning would have to wait, as would the stack of emails that had piled up during his absence from Qaram. His father, after a health scare four years ago, had firmly retired from active duty, convinced that he needed to rest in defiance of everything both Abbas and a team of highly respected consultants had said.
He pottered now, enjoyed tending to his orchards and tracking down art to add to his already bulging private collection. It was a sedate pastime and, in truth, he seemed content enough to retreat from the world and its demands. Unfortunately, it meant that the weight of running the country now fell squarely on Abbas’s shoulders so time out was not a luxury he could afford, not when there was work to be done.
He frowned, dragged his thoughts away from his father and the discomfiting notion that having lost him once, many years ago, to the isolation of grief after his wife had died, he was now losing him again, this time to the fear of his own mortality.
He would do as required, politely pick at what was on offer and make his getaway as quickly as he humanly could.
Surely they couldn’t still be signing on dotted lines? She’d been buried down here in the bowels of the hotel kitchen for the past couple of days, sending up drinks and snacks, and Duncan had faithfully promised that this would be the last day of working overtime.
Georgie looked at the clock on the kitchen wall, registered that it was nearly seven-fifteen and gritted her teeth with frustration.
She cast a jaundiced eye at the staggering array of delicacies she had spent the entire day concocting. They ranged from several different types of hummus to mini sliders and smoked salmon rolls with caviar. No continent had been left untouched because, as Duncan had repeatedly told her from the very first moment royalty had decided to buy the hotel, she had to pull out all the stops—becausethe way to a prince’s heart might very well be via his stomach.
Georgie was less concerned about the Prince’s stomach than she was about the fact that she needed to get back to her apartment and was so tired of hanging around, sending stuff up and making sure everything was picture-perfect. She had yet to meet the Prince, but she was already sick to death of the man.
Now, as she picked up Duncan’s urgent summons to the conference room with the last of the tasty morsels she had prepared, Georgie stifled a sigh and eyed the unwieldy trolley that she would have to shove into the elevator because there was simply no other way of delivering everything that had been prepared.
Ever since she had started working at the hotel, she had seen the upsides. For starters, Duncan had employed her at a time when she would have struggled to find work and he had bent over backwards to be accommodating. The members of staff had warmly welcomed her. It was a small hotel in a niche part of London and the people who worked there were all young and creative and lively and Georgie had built up a fantastic rapport with them all.
But, realistically, Bedford Woolf Hotel was on its last legs. Its quirky, theatrical flamboyance now felt dated, belonging to another, more innocent, era. It lacked the refined sophistication of its newer, brasher neighbours. There was also no air conditioning and the décor needed drastic surgery—some lightly applied make-up wasn’t going to do—and there was a certain desperation to the old-worldcharm Duncan had spent the last couple of years trying to cultivate.
Everyone, herself included, was overjoyed that some rich prince, from a country she had never heard of, had paid handsomely for the place and the fact that he would be keeping every member of staff on was a massive bonus.
So who was she to moan about delivering a bit of food before heading home?
She glanced at herself in one of the ornate mirrors in the corridor on the way to the lift, saw her reflection staring back at her, serious, thinner than she used to be, her brown eyes enormous in her heart-shaped face and her cropped hair spiking up in all directions, always determined to do its own thing. She was twenty-six years old and sometimes she felt absolutely ancient. Right now just happened to be one of those times.
Usually, she wore jeans to work. Why not when she was usually wrapped up in an apron? But in keeping with Duncan’s mantra to them all to beneatly attired, she had forfeited casual today in favour of a navy-blue skirt and a white blouse and a pair of flat black pumps, which made her feel a bit like a flight attendant who had somehow lost her way and ended up in a kitchen, in front of a stove, slightly dishevelled with a few suspicious smudges of grease in unexpected places.
She spun away from the mirror and briskly made her way to the lift.
It was a heavy-duty contraption that slammed shut on her and shuddered its way up two floors to where the conference facilities were located.
Head down, Georgie knocked on the door and pushed it open, her face flushed with embarrassment.
She wasn’t accustomed to front-of-house duties. Those were usually the domain of Marsha, who was tall, beautiful and chatty.
Georgie, always quiet and contained, enjoyed the kitchen, where she could concoct dishes and play around with food, leaving the patter to those who were more adept at it.
Opening the door, she was immediately aware ofpeopleand a lot of them. Lawyers, accountants, two beefy guys on either side of the door and, of course, the Prince himself, who had his back to her and was staring through the window.
She barely saw him. She just wanted to ditch the trolley and head for the bus stop but then Duncan spoke. He asked her to explain what was on the heavy silver three-layered trolley.
