His father had never expected Dal to succeed at anything, which is why Dal intended to keep his promise to his father—that he’d marry by thirty-five.

It was the only promise he’d ever made to his father and he’d honor the vow because then he’d be free.

And Dal longed to be free, not just of his father but the past.

With no time to waste, he rang for coffee and Poppy.

* * *

Poppy had thought her suite of rooms was lovely, but they were nothing compared to Dal’s magnificent suite, which literally took up the entire second floor of the villa, bordered on all sides by sundrenched terraces and patios and fragrant, private gardens.

Like her, he had a living room and bedroom suite, but he also had a dining room, and office, all four rooms with the same floor-to-ceiling windows and doors that filled her suite with light.

He had papers, a notebook, pen and computer on a table outside, the area shaded by an elegant pergola covered with blooming jasmine.

“Is it too warm for you out here?” he asked, gesturing for her to sit in the chair by the laptop.

“It’s comfortable now,” she said, “but it’ll definitely be quite hot later.”

“I promise we’ll move inside to an air-conditioned room before you melt.”

She sat down in the low wooden chair with the teal pillows. “What am I to call you here? Dal? Prince Talal? Izba referred to you as Sheikh Talal, as well as His Highness. You have so many names.”

“Not that many. My staff at the Kasbah will either call me Prince Talal, or Sheikh Talal. My family in Mehkar calls me Tal, although when we were in Gila, at the airport, my cousin addressed me as His Highness due to protocol.”

“Your cousin? Which one was he?”

“The last man on the carpet.”

“The one you hugged.”

“Yes.” Randall’s mouth curved but his eyes were shuttered. “The last time I saw him he was just six years old. Now he’s a man.”

“How old were you the last time you were here?”

“Ten.”

“You’ve both grown up.”

“We have,” he said, but there was no joy in his voice, just loss, and regret. And then his broad shoulders squared and his voice firmed. “Now to your question, you may call me anything you want, provided it’s not Randall.”

“You dislike your proper name that much?”

“My father is the only other person who has ever called me Randall.”

She felt a shiver of distaste. No wonder he didn’t like it. “I wish you’d told me that earlier.”

“I tried. But you insisted Dal was too personal.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Clearly, I survived the horror.”

She shot him a swift look and was relieved to see that faint ironic smile of his. A smile she was learning that he used to hide hurts and needs, and all those emotions he viewed as weak. “But this is exactly what I mean. You have to talk. Tell people things. If I knew that the only other person who called you Randall was your father, and your father and you were not close, and it wasn’t a positive or comfortable association—”

“You’re getting a little carried away. You haven’t inflicted any damage. I’m no more scarred than when you first met me.”

She must have looked sufficiently startled because he grimaced. “That was supposed to make you smile.”

Her brows pulled. “Do you think you’re very scarred?”

“I was being amusing. Don’t read too much into it.”

But she couldn’t help reading into it. She’d heard some horror stories about Randall’s father, the Fifth Earl of Langston, and she’d long suspected that Dal’s isolated nature was due to his father’s volatility. Poppy carefully chose her next words. “Were you close to your mother?”

“Yes.”

“What did she call you?”

“Tal.”

All these years she’d thought she’d known him. She’d prided herself on knowing him better than anyone, but as it turned out, she didn’t know the real Dal Grant at all. “Who are you?” she asked, smiling unsteadily.

His smile faded and he glanced away for a moment and when he looked back at her, his expression struck her as rather bleak. “Interesting question, Miss Marr. I’ll have to get back to you on that one.”

And then just as quickly, the darkness was gone and he was back to business.