One Choice Read online

  One Choice

  By Ginger Solomon

  Published by Astraea Press

  www.astraeapress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  ONE CHOICE

  Copyright © 2014 GINGER SOLOMON

  ISBN 978-1-62135-248-8

  Cover Art Designed by For the Muse Designs

  To my God — only by Your grace and mercy.

  To my family — I love you all.

  Prologue

  Proverbs 31:10 “Who can find a virtuous and capable wife?”

  Kral Sarayi, The King’s Palace

  South Belikara

  March 2011

  “Father, must I do this?” Josiah Vallis stood rigid, feet spread in a soldier’s stance, in front of his father’s large, antique oak desk. His hands fisted behind his back as his mind reeled with the humiliation of having to find a wife in this manner.

  He had tried, but every woman he'd met, both on his own and those his father had arranged, were money-hungry, power-hungry, unattractive, or all three. The one woman he thought perfect for him had betrayed him. She’d had him fooled, and now he doubted his own judgment when it came to the fairer sex.

  He didn't want a wife just to produce heirs and to hang on his arm like a showpiece. His ideal mate would be much like his mother — a woman who could love him for who God intended him to be, not for his family name and position. His desired wife would be kind and considerate, would care for others more than herself, would be giving, loving, and attractive. Most important to him, and even harder to find, was for his wife to have a personal relationship with God.

  He gazed around his father’s immense office. All the furnishings, made of quality materials, were fit for a king. One day it would be his, though he’d never wanted it. As the remaining male heir, he had no choice. He peered back at the man behind the desk.

  His father's eyes, a shade lighter than his own dark brown, moved away from the computer screen with a spark of irritation. He leaned back in the chair. “Yes, Josiah. Stop procrastinating. Write the letter. It must be done today. You have waited until the last possible moment as it is. I expect more from you as a prince of Belikara and the future king.”

  “Yes, sir.” He forced himself to relax, uncurling one finger at a time from his balled fist. “What should I write?”

  “Josiah.” A familiar growl sounded from his father’s throat, and his hand tightened around the arm of the chair until his knuckles turned white. “Why must you act as though you are still in grade school? Grow up!” He switched back to his work. “Jonathan wouldn't have given me this much trouble.”

  Josiah bristled at the mention of his deceased elder brother. Would he always live in Jonathan's shadow, never measuring up to his father's expectations? Why can't he see me for who I am?

  He lowered his head, a disappointment to his father once again, and marched out of the room. The man hadn’t been swayed to postpone this hideous tradition, no matter how hard Josiah pushed.

  In his own office, he sat at his mahogany desk and took out several sheets of paper and his favorite writing pen. The white of the paper, surrounded by the desk’s dark wood, glared at him. He glanced up to the verse displayed on the wall. Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths.

  Despite his need to write the letter, his thoughts wandered to the One he relied on so much. The One who always listened and never compared him to anyone else.

  He rested his head in the palms of his hands. “Oh God, how can I go through this… this tradition my father insists on keeping? How can I choose a wife from fifty strangers? How can I write a letter expressing my desires and heart to these women when I struggle with knowing it myself? I ask you to give me the words. Use this letter to prepare the heart of the one you have chosen for me. Help me to know her when I see her. Amen.”

  He wrote and crossed out greeting after greeting before deciding on Dear Ladies. Line after line flowed from his pen as he shared his heart for God and what the ladies should expect in the next six months. He also included the warning about rejecting the summons, although he expected they would all be thrilled to become the wife of the future king.

  Over an hour later, Josiah completed his task. He reread his words, made a few minor changes, and rewrote it in his neatest handwriting. Satisfied, he set the paper aside.

  His head bowed, he prayed again, expressing his gratitude to his heavenly father.

  The letter was complete, but would it bring him a woman he could love?

  Chapter One

  15 miles northeast

  Sehirgrada, Belikara

  Two weeks later

  Cahri Michaels trudged through the market, tired from a week of pressures and schedule changes at work. So many people crowded the aisles, just getting to the fruit and vegetable section proved difficult. A few apples, a small eggplant, and some cucumbers, tomatoes, green peppers, and onions for a salad were all she needed. Dodging other shoppers, she plucked a few cans of premade stock from a shelf and then headed for the cereal aisle to grab some oatmeal.

  Rounding the corner, basket in hand, she collided with a solid wall of muscle covered in a blue cotton shirt. Strong hands kept her from falling, but she lost her grip on the basket. It plunged to the floor, scattering her groceries.

  “Afedersiniz.” She lowered her eyes as she excused herself. He released her arms. A sudden chill replaced the warmth where his hands had rested. A hand to her favorite white wool cloche made sure it remained in place and hid how much the contact affected her.

  “Sorun deðil.” The deep, velvety voiced reply of “no problem” caused goose bumps to raise the hairs on her arms. She glanced at the stranger. Tall and good-looking. Incredibly good-looking.

  Embarrassed, Cahri lowered her eyes again and bent to retrieve her groceries. At the same moment, he also bent over and their heads collided.

  “Oh!” Her exclamation joined his grunt. “How clumsy can a person be?” she murmured under her breath. She took a deep breath, and his scent, masculine with a hint of musk, inundated her senses. It was familiar, but she couldn’t place why.

  A foreboding fell on her spirit even as her heart was drawn to him.

  “Excuse me? Did you just call me clumsy?” The sudden chill in his voice sent ice through her veins.

  What happened to the velvety voice? Then it hit her. He understood her words. He spoke English.

  She gasped, and heat burned its way up her neck and into her cheeks. A glance up revealed the most breathtaking pair of chocolate-brown eyes she'd ever seen, which said a lot in a country full of brown-eyed people. His gaze bore into hers, and he lifted an eyebrow, waiting for her response. Her cheeks burned, and she shifted on her feet, looking away from his scrutiny.

  “No! I…” She paused and took a steadying breath. “I was talking about myself. I didn't think… few people here understand me when I mumble to myself. Please forgive me.” Her voice grew quieter as her face grew warmer. She'd come so close to insulting him. A shudder rippled through her body at the trouble it would have caused — an American insulting a native, and if his attire meant anything — a prominent, rich man.

  Her parents had reminded her every day as she grew up about how to behave around
native men, to always show them deference. “It’s not like America,” they would say, “where women are considered equals. There are some Belikarian men willing to give more freedoms to women, but others are quite strict in their philosophies. You must be careful because unless you know to whom you speak, you could cause undue trouble.”

  Which kind of man was he?

  She picked up the last can and stood. As he handed her the basket, their hands touched, and an unexpected awareness filled her. Her breath caught. She released the pent-up air with deliberate care.

  “Thank you.” The earlier mistake was forefront in her thoughts, so she kept her eyes averted and her words few to avoid another incident.

  “You're welcome. Do you need further assistance?” The velvety voice again. A tingle ran down her spine.

  She could feel him watching her, but she couldn't bring herself to look him in the eye again. “No, thank you.”

  Her heart thudded in rapid beats as she forced air into her lungs and moved past him. She touched her cheek. Was her face was as red as it felt? No doubt. It betrayed her on a regular basis.

  As she moved to the end of the aisle, she glanced back and found that his eyes still followed her. Her face warmed even more. He had to be the most stunning man she had ever seen… with perfect olive-colored skin… and those eyes. His presence commanded attention, yet he hadn’t been offended by her clumsy words, at least after her apology. His kindness drew her interest. It didn’t hurt that he smelled incredible.

  She walked on, forcing her mind away from the handsome stranger and back to her shopping. Her eyes scanned the crowd for another glimpse of him as she roamed the remainder of the market aisles.

  No such luck.

  ****

  Josiah watched her scurry away. What an unusual woman. Both her Turkish and her English were flawless. Her manners spoke of a good upbringing, except her misspoken self-recrimination, which she hadn’t expected him to understand. The blush it had brought to her cheeks made her even more beautiful.

  He had never seen her before, though he frequented this part of Belikara often. It didn’t take much time to travel here and lose himself in the crowds. It was far enough from the palace to give him the privacy he craved. No one here knew who he was, and he liked it that way. He'd even leased an apartment for those times when he wanted privacy for more than a few hours.

  When Jonathan had been alive, he'd come here to escape him. As the second son, no one had cared about his activities as long as he hadn’t done anything to disgrace them. After his brother's death, everything had changed. Josiah refused to be in the spotlight, despite his father's appeals. He liked anonymity, and everyone here treated him like a normal human being, not a prince to be idolized.

  His thoughts went back to the beautiful stranger. He'd never met a woman who affected him so much in such a short encounter. His hand still tingled where they'd touched. The creamy color of her skin surprised him, but not as much as her eyes. He'd been shocked at first. Even with a glance into those vibrant green orbs, he saw what others probably overlooked — a soul-deep loneliness. The small look into her heart intrigued him. Why was she in Belikara? How did she speak the language with such ease?

  He shook his head, reminding himself the Bridal March would begin in a week. It was too late to pursue her now. If only they'd met last week — before the letter had been sent.

  ****

  Cahri popped her favorite movie into the DVD player, grabbed a soda and a slice of pizza, and sank down on the sofa to enjoy the evening. She’d loved this tradition since she was a little girl. It helped her relax after a long week and focus on fun, even for just a few hours.

  After finishing her pizza and an hour of the movie, she dished out a bowl of chocolate ice-cream. She’d bought it after her run-in with the handsome stranger at the market. Although the creamy swirls were the wrong shade, they still reminded her of those chocolate-brown eyes which had managed to touch her heart. The memory of his gaze increased her heart rate, even though she'd seen him for mere moments.

  This was stupid. They’d spoken niceties to one another. Why daydream about a stranger she’d never see again?

  Partway through her ice cream, a knock sounded at the door. In no mood for visitors, Cahri decided to ignore whoever it was. She filled her spoon and savored the rich taste of chocolate, trying to reclaim the peacefulness of a moment ago.

  A second, more insistent knock echoed through the wooden door.

  Cahri mashed the pause button on the remote and set down her bowl, sloshing melted ice cream over the edges. She twisted her hair and clamped it in place with a hairclip. Her mother had wanted her to wear a head-covering, but Cahri had balked at the tradition, choosing instead to keep her hair pinned up and wearing a hat when in public.

  Leaving the chain in place, she unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door. Dread filled her when her gaze landed on two muscular men standing behind a well-dressed, official-looking woman. The door across the hall creaked open and then closed with a thud. Mrs. Ahmadin being nosy again.

  “Nasil yardimci olabilirim?” Her voice wobbled as she asked how she could help them. She coughed to clear her throat.

  The men didn't face her, but instead stood back to back. A gun strapped to the belt of one and a knife sheathed to the other caught her attention. Both men stood well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and muscular bodies. The simple chain on the door would not protect her if they wanted to enter. What could they want?

  Cahri’s gaze flitted to the woman standing between her and the men. Her olive skin, dark hair and eyes were a common sight in Belikara, but Cahri didn’t recognize her from around town. Intricate black embroidery embellished the gold tunic the woman wore over black trousers. Sophisticated in a simple way. Elegant.

  Her mind flashed back to the man in the market. He hadn’t made a big deal about her rude comment, but could he have sent these people? Most of the market workers knew her. Any one of them could have revealed her whereabouts.

  “Are you Cahri Grace Lynn Michaels?” The woman asked in English.

  The desire to slam the door and bolt it rushed through Cahri. Only those with access to her birth certificate or passport would know about the Grace in her name. Why would someone have shared her personal information with these people? Instead of slamming the door, she pushed it closed a little, bracing her foot behind it. “Why do you ask?”

  “Are you Cahri Michaels?”

  “I am.” Curiosity mixed with a large dose of caution filled her.

  “My name is Anaya, and I am a representative of King Nicholas of Belikara.”

  “Do you have proof you are who you say?”

  One of the guards glanced at her, raising an eyebrow, but remained quiet. Did everyone in the country understand English today?

  “One moment.” The woman slipped her hand into her black leather bag and produced an envelope. The royal seal on the lower left corner identified it as authentic. She handed it to Cahri, who opened it with trembling fingers. Her heart raced at the sight of the official stationary. She read in silence.

  To Whom It May Concern:

  The possessor of this document is an approved representative of the Royal Family of Belikara. Give him/her the same respect you would bestow upon me.

  Sincerely, King Nicholas Vallis.

  The woman spoke the truth; she was a representative of the royal family. Why was she here?

  After returning the envelope, Cahri took a deep breath. This could be bad, very bad. “What can I do for you?”

  “You've been chosen for the Bridal March. You have a week to see to your affairs, during which time I'll remain with you, as well as Matthias and Waseem.”

  “The Bridal March?” Cahri sighed. “Hold on, please.” She closed the door and undid the chain, which clanked against the wooden frame. Backing out of the way for them to enter, her legs threatened to buckle beneath her. One man came inside. The other stationed himself outside the door.

&nb
sp; After closing the door, she faced the woman. “How am I qualified for the Bridal March? I’m not a native.”

  “True, but you are a citizen, which makes you eligible.”

  Cahri’s gaze darted from the man to the woman to her messy living room. She spotted her cat licking her ice cream. An escape route. A chance to think.

  “Excuse me for a moment while I put this away.” Cahri shooed Stormy away from her melted dessert. She picked up the bowl, buying time to process what was happening. Forcing her mind to focus, she switched off the TV and walked to the kitchen to put the bowl in the sink.

  She'd heard rumors of the Bridal March at work, but there hadn't been one in, well, she didn't even know how long. The current king married before his twenty-fifth birthday. Her eyes opened wider and then closed in dread.

  “Oh, no!” She plopped onto a kitchen chair. This was about getting the prince a wife. Inhale. Exhale. After regaining a semblance of control she returned to the living room.

  The lady still stood by the door. Compassion filled her eyes. “I'm here to help you.”

  “Help me?”

  “Yes.”

  Cahri walked to the sofa and slumped down into its comfort. She stared up at this olive-skinned beauty and doubted anyone could help her. “Why me?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Why was I chosen?”

  “During the past few weeks, the steward traveled to the cities and villages surrounding the palace to search for suitable candidates for the prince. Sometimes suggestions came from those to whom he spoke. If he liked what he heard about her, he wrote down her name without an introduction. I would imagine such is the case with you.” She dug in her bag for a file folder, which she opened and glanced through, brows furrowed. Even when frowning, the woman was beautiful.

  “According to your file, you work at the local mission church. Perhaps your pastor mentioned you. I know he meets with the pastor who leads the palace church.”