Chapter Forty: The Burning Flame
"Did Sally put you up to this?" Jamil Khan gave Mary a lopsided grin. The shy, stiff-necked Tudor princess was the last person on earth to cook up a surprise, or drop in unexpectedly during business hours.
"Sally doesn't . . . she didn't . . . she has nothing to do with it!" Feeling flustered, Mary fingered the starched white collar of her too-tight blouse and stammered a denial that sounded weak and unconvincing even to her own ears.
"What's in the box?" Jamil felt like a bit of a bastard, but he couldn't help smiling at Mary's obvious discomfort. The haughty royal had been dodging him for weeks, ever since the two of them went to that fancy film premiere featuring Bridget O'Flaherty. No doubt the sexy film star's sudden death had sent Mary reeling.
"We made you some baklava." Too nervous to remain standing, Mary collapsed into a chair and fumbled with the plastic container filled with Turkish pastries. It was ridiculous to be so embarrassed in front of wealthy and powerful Jamil Khan. He was her oldest friend, after all. Their families had known each other for ages!
"How thoughtful of you!" Jamil Khan pushed a button on the corner of his massive desk. "Gwendolyn, we would like some tea, with plenty of lemon and fresh cream, please."
"Coming at once, sir." Jamil Khan's white-haired English secretary had known Mary since she was a child. When she brought in the tea things, Gwendolyn went out of her way to compliment Mary on her charity work and her efforts to combat climate change. "We're so very proud of you," the elderly lady said, giving Mary an almost tearful smile. "So grateful for the changes in the royal family!"
"It appears you have an admirer," Jamil Khan said quietly. "Just think of all the good we could do working as a team!"
"Mmm. This is your father's old office, isn't it?" Mary crossed her legs, relaxing a little as she sipped her tea. Jamil remembered everything, even how she liked her morning tea. He'd grown up to become a powerful billionaire, yet he was still the smart and cheeky brown-skinned boy she'd played with in the royal gardens.
"Father's put me in charge of London," Jamil confirmed. He licked his fingers, and gave a moan of pure male satisfaction. "These pastries are divine, Princess Mary. Your Sally is quite a cook."
"I baked the baklava myself!"
"But I'll bet it was Sally's idea." Jamil smiled. "Your new personal assistant is a clever girl, Mary. She knows what men like."
"She knows what I like," Mary said sharply. She put down her tea. "Listen, Jamil. We've been friends for a long time. I love you dearly but . . . I'm just not interested in a traditional marriage."
"Yes, well your stepmother cautioned me not to expect too much passion in the marriage bed," Jamil Khan told her. "Queen Jane cares about you, Mary. And she knows all about you and Sally."
"This isn't about Sally!" Mary hated the way her voice cracked. Saying Sally's name aloud summoned up the most embarrassing images, all of them revolving around her own private needs. "Listen, Jamil. I'm not a child. I understand why the royal family needs this marriage. You're the head of one of the wealthiest families in Asia. We've known each other for years, and . . ."
"And you're willing to put up with me having other women, as long as you can have one too." Jamil said the words smoothly, with a smile. But there was a burning flame in his midnight-black eyes.
"That's right," Mary said coldly. "I'll play the game in public. And I'll do my duty in private. I'll come to your bed. I'll even give you a son. But I want to know two things. Was Bridget O'Flaherty really trying to blackmail me? And was her death really an accident?"