Claimed for the sultan’s pleasure!

Kidnapped decades ago, Azim al Bahjat stuns the Kingdom of Alazar with his sudden return. To secure his position, the ruthless royal must claim the woman who was always intended to be his—even if sheltered yet beguiling Johara Behwar resists...

No matter how secretly thrilling she finds the flashes of heat beneath Azim’s icy exterior, Johara’s every instinct is to run. But Azim will not be denied, and as he shows his virgin bride how intoxicating their wedding night could be, Johara soon finds herself enticed to surrender to the sultan!

‘His Highness, Azim al Bahjat,’ the attendant intoned, and with fear coating her insides with ice Johara stepped into the room.

The man she was meant to marry stood in the centre of the room, his body erect and still, his face grave and unsmiling. Johara could see how black and opaque his eyes were—like a starless night in the desert. His dark hair was cut so close she could see the powerful bones of his skull, and a scar snaked from the corner of his left eye to the curve of his mouth, clearly long since healed over, although the wounded flesh still looked red and livid.

The whole effect was beyond intimidating, and she had to fight not to take an instinctive step back towards the doors, towards safety, away from this man whose face even in repose looked frightening.

If she looked at his features reasonably, Johara told herself, fighting off panic, she could see that he was an attractive man—his features even, his nose a straight slash, his mouth a mobile, sensual curve.

Then Azim inclined his head in what Johara supposed was a greeting. His voice, when he spoke was clipped, cold.

‘We will marry in one week’s time.’

Seduced by a Sheikh

Two heirs to a desert kingdom need brides to secure their legacies!

Brothers Malik and Azim al Bahjat are the two princes of Alazar, wielding enormous power with iron control.

They have no interest in love—but duty demands they take convenient wives, and these ruthless royals always get what they want!

Read Malik’s story in

The Secret Heir of Alazar

April 2017

&

Read Azim’s story in

The Forced Bride of Alazar

May 2017

Don’t miss this sensational new duet from Kate Hewitt!

The Forced Bride of Alazar

Kate Hewitt

www.millsandboon.co.uk

After spending three years as a die-hard New Yorker, KATE HEWITT now lives in a small village in the English Lake District with her husband, their five children and a golden retriever. In addition to writing intensely emotional stories she loves reading, baking, and playing chess with her son—she has yet to win against him, but she continues to try. Learn more about Kate at kate-hewitt.com.

Books by Kate Hewitt

Mills & Boon Modern Romance

Moretti’s Marriage Command

Inherited by Ferranti

Kholodov’s Last Mistress

Seduced by a Sheikh

The Secret Heir of Alazar

The Billionaire’s Legacy

A Di Sione for the Greek’s Pleasure

Secret Heirs of Billionaires

Demetriou Demands His Child

One Night With Consequences

Larenzo’s Christmas Baby

The Marakaios Brides

The Marakaios Marriage

The Marakaios Baby

Rivals to the Crown of Kadar

Captured by the Sheikh

Commanded by the Sheikh

Visit the Author Profile page

at millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

To Jenna, thanks for all your encouragement and chats-by-text.

See you in Orlando?!

Love, K.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Seduced by a Sheikh

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘I HAVE GOOD NEWS, HABIBTI.’

Johara Behwar gazed in surprise at her father striding towards her. She was standing in the garden of the family villa in Provence, the dusty-sweet smell of lavender scenting the air, the sun shining benevolently down on a world on the cusp of summer. Her father’s visits to their villa in France were precious and rare, and he’d only been there last week. To see him again was indeed unexpected. ‘Good news—’ She almost said again but then she thought better of it. Her father had not viewed the end of her engagement last week in the same shining light that she had.

‘Yes, I think you will be very pleased,’ Arif continued. ‘And I, of course, am pleased when you are pleased.’ He walked towards her, a smile creasing his weathered face, his hands outstretched. Johara smiled back, caught up in his cheerful mood.

‘I’m pleased simply to see you, Father. That alone is a treat.’

‘You are so kind, habibti. And in return here is a treat for you.’ He took a small velvet pouch from his breast pocket and handed it to Johara.

She drew a diamond pendant from within the blue velvet, the jewels winking in the bright sunlight. ‘It’s lovely. Thank you, Father.’ Obediently, because she knew her father expected it, she clasped it around her neck, the heart shape encrusted with diamonds nestling in the hollow of her throat. It was indeed lovely, but, considering how quiet her life was, she had little need or place to wear it. Still, she appreciated the thought he’d given.

‘What is this good news?’ she asked as Arif took hold of her hands.

‘I have renegotiated your marriage.’ Arif squeezed her hands as his smile widened, triumph glinting in his eyes. Johara stared at her father, confusion making her mind spin even as sudden dread seeped like acid into her stomach. The diamond pendant felt cold against her skin. This was not the good news he’d said it was. This wasn’t good news at all.

‘Renegotiated?’ she repeated faintly. Her hands felt icy encased in her father’s. ‘But you told me barely a week ago that Malik—I mean His Highness—had ended our engagement.’ She’d had six days first for that news to sink in—and then to revel in the glorious freedom she’d never thought to possess. The marriage she’d been trying not to think about and dreading at the same time would no longer happen. She’d felt as if the shackles she hadn’t realised she’d been wearing had suddenly fallen off, leaving her feeling light, as if she could fly. She was free—free to do as she liked, and in a heady moment she’d let herself think about an independent future, maybe even going to university. The whole world had beckoned, shining and wide open for the first time in her life.

And now... ‘How can it be renegotiated? You told me that His Highness was...was infertile.’ It seemed indelicate to mention such a thing, but her father had not spared her the details last week, when he’d flown to France to inform her that Malik al Bahjat, heir to the Sultanate of Alazar, had called off their wedding. He’d been furious on her behalf, storming and stomping around, and he had ignored Johara’s stammering attempts to placate him and explain that she really didn’t mind not getting married to Malik, or, in fact, not getting married at all. She hadn’t quite dared to tell her father that she preferred it. After a lifetime of being reminded where her duty lay that seemed a step too far, even as she’d told herself her father surely only wanted her happiness.

‘Yes, yes,’ Arif said now with a touch of impatience. ‘But Malik is no longer the heir, and we thank heaven that you did not marry him before this happened. That would have been a disaster.’

Johara agreed, but she doubted it was for the same reason as her father. A week of freedom had made her realise how unwelcome an arranged marriage was. Malik was a virtual stranger and a life bound in duty had lost any lustre it might have possessed. But she knew her father would not agree. So what was going on? If not Malik, then...?

Arif dropped her hands to rub his own together in obvious satisfaction. ‘It has all worked out so well for us, Jojo,’ he said, using the childhood nickname she hadn’t heard in years. ‘For you.’

An instant and instinctive disagreement was on the tip of her tongue, but Johara swallowed it down. She never disagreed with her father. She hated to see the smile fade from her father’s face, the shadows of disappointment enter his eyes.

Invoking her father’s displeasure always felt like the sun disappearing behind a cloud, a sudden chill entering the air and her heart. Her mother’s love had long since gone, and taking away her father’s attention was a further blow she knew she could not withstand. ‘Tell me what has happened, please,’ she said instead, trying to inject a note of interest in her voice that she was far from feeling.

‘Azim has returned!’ Arif spoke with a joy Johara didn’t understand. The name was familiar, and yet...

‘Azim...?’

‘The true heir of Alazar. He has returned from the dead, or so we all thought him.’ Arif shook his head in happy disbelief. ‘Truly it is a miracle.’

‘Azim.’ Of course, Azim al Bahjat, Malik’s older brother. Stupidly she had not made the association. Azim had been kidnapped twenty years ago, when Johara had only been two. There never had been a ransom note delivered or a body found, and so Azim had remained missing, presumed dead, for two decades. Malik had become the heir, had been the only heir in Johara’s mind. Until now.

‘Azim,’ she said again, the name sounding strange on her tongue. ‘What...what happened? How has he returned?’

‘He had amnesia, apparently, after the kidnapping. He’s been living in Italy for twenty years, not knowing who he was. But then he saw a mention of Alazar on the news and it all came flooding back. He has returned to claim his throne.’

‘But...’ A realisation was growing in her mind like a sandstorm kicking up in the desert, obliterating rational thought just as the sand blotted out the sky. Surely her father wouldn’t...to a complete stranger... ‘But what does that have to do with me?’ She was afraid she knew the answer.

Arif’s smile hardened at the edges. Johara knew that look. She quailed at that look.

‘Surely you have guessed, Jojo,’ he said, his voice jovial yet with a warning hint of underlying iron. ‘Azim is to be your husband.’

Johara’s stomach swooped. ‘But...but I have never even met him,’ she protested, her voice faltering.

‘He is the heir.’ Arif spoke as if it were obvious. ‘Since birth you have been pledged to the heir to the Sultanate. In fact you were meant for Azim before you were betrothed to Malik.’

Shock rippled through her in icy waves. Meant for Azim. ‘I didn’t know that. No one ever said.’

Arif shrugged. ‘Why would you know it? He disappeared when you were but a child. But now he has returned, and he shall claim you as his bride.’

It would have seemed romantic in a story or film, the kind of sweeping, fairy-tale gesture, a knight riding on his white steed, to make a girlish heart flutter. Johara’s heart felt as if it were made of lead, weighing her down. She didn’t want to be claimed, and certainly not by this stranger. Not when she’d had the whole world open to her moments ago, when she’d felt free for the first time in her life, able to make her own choices, live her own life.

‘This seems rather sudden,’ she said, trying not to sound quite as horrified as she felt, because she knew that would displease her father. ‘My engagement to Malik al Bahjat only ended a week ago. Perhaps we should wait a little.’

Her father shook his head. ‘Wait? Azim is determined to secure his throne, and that includes marriage as soon as possible. In fact he expects you in Alazar by tomorrow afternoon.’

Johara gazed at her father’s face, the fixed smile, his bushy eyebrows drawn together, and felt her spirits start a precipitous descent. She’d known where her duty lay as long as she could remember. She’d been told it again and again, reminded that she had been given so much, and this was the way—the only way—she could repay her family.

And she’d wanted to repay it, had longed to please the father she rarely saw. She’d been prepared to marry Malik, even if hadn’t quite felt real. She’d met him only twice, and spent only a handful of days in Alazar. And then for one brief and tantalising week, she’d imagined a different kind of life. One with choice and opportunity and freedom, where she could pursue her interests, dare to nurture her dreams.

Now, looking at her father’s stern face, she realised how foolish and naïve she’d been. Her father was never going to let his only daughter go unmarried. He was a traditional man from a traditional country, and he would see her wed...this time to a man she’d never so much as laid eyes on. A man she knew nothing about, that no one knew anything about, because he’d been gone for twenty years.

‘Johara?’ Arif’s voice had turned sharp. ‘This is not unwelcome, I trust?’

Johara gazed helplessly at the father she’d always adored. She’d lived a sheltered life, educated at home, her pursuits solitary save for some charitable works her father approved of. Her mother had been distant for years, beset by illness and unhappiness, and so it had been her father’s love, his sudden smile, his indulgent chuckle, that she had craved. She could not refuse him this even if she had the opportunity to do so, which she knew she did not.

‘No, Father,’ she whispered. ‘Of course not.’

* * *

Azim al Bahjat watched from a window as the sedan with blacked-out windows came up the curving drive of Alazar’s palace. The car contained his bride. He had not seen a picture of Johara Behwar, had told himself her looks were irrelevant. She was the intended bride of the future Sultan; the people of Alazar expected him to marry her. Any other choice would be less than second best, and therefore impossible. Nothing would prevent him from securing his inheritance and destiny, from proving himself to the people who had more than half forgotten that he was the real heir, the true Sultan.

A servant rushed forward to open the car door, and Azim leaned closer, curious in spite of himself for this first glimpse of his future bride, the next Sultana of Alazar. He saw a slippered foot first, small and dainty, and then a slim, golden ankle emerging from underneath traditional embroidered robes. Then the whole form appeared, willowy and enticing even beneath the shapeless garment, hair as dark as ink peeking from beneath a brightly coloured hijab.

Johara Behwar tilted her head to gaze up at the palace, and from the window Azim could see her whole face, and appreciate its striking beauty. Large, clear grey eyes framed by sooty lashes and gently arched brows. A pert nose, delicate cheekbones and full, pouty, kissable lips. He registered it only for an instant, for the delectable symmetry of her face was marred by its expression. Revulsion. Her eyes were wide and shadowed with it, her mouth thinning to a puckered line of distaste. As she gazed at the palace, a shudder went through her, her shoulders jerking, and for a second she wrapped her arms around herself, as if she needed to hold herself together in order to endure what was to come. Him. Then she straightened, steel entering her spine, and started towards the palace like a condemned woman ascending to the gallows.

Quickly Azim stepped away from the window. His stomach clenched and pain stabbed his head in two lightning-like slices. He pressed his fingers to his temples and tried to will it away even though he knew from far too much experience what a pointless exercise that was. So Johara Behwar was disgusted by the prospect of marrying him. It was not really a surprise, and yet...

No, he could not think like that. He had no use for sentiment of any kind, the naïve, youthful longings for some sort of connection with the woman who would be his Sultana. He’d made sure to live his life independently, needing no one. Being dependent on someone, much less actually caring, led to weakness and vulnerability. Shame and pain. He knew it too well and he had no intention of courting those awful emotions again.

This was a marriage of convenience and expediency, to secure an alliance and produce an heir. Nothing else mattered. Nothing at all.

Taking a deep breath, Azim dropped his hands from his temples and turned to face the door—and to greet his bride.

* * *

Each step down the marble corridor felt like a step towards her doom. Johara told herself she was being fanciful, it couldn’t possibly be that bad, but her body disagreed. Nausea churned in her stomach and with a sudden lurch of alarm she turned to the attendant who was escorting her to meet His Royal Highness Azim al Bahjat. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

The attendant backed away from her as if she’d already thrown up onto his shoes.

‘Sick—’

She took a deep breath, doing her best to stay her stomach. She could not lose her breakfast moments before meeting her intended husband. Icy sweat prickled on her forehead and her palms were slick. She felt light-headed, as if the world around her were moving closer and then farther away. Another deep breath. She could do this. She had to do this.

She’d done it before, after all, although she’d been a child when she’d first met Malik, and hadn’t realised the import of what was happening. The subsequent few meetings had been brief and businesslike, and Johara had managed not to actually think about what they were discussing, and its lifelong consequences, a wilful ignorance that in hindsight seemed both childish and foolish.

Now she couldn’t keep from thinking of them. Azim was an utter stranger, and she’d been passed from one brother to the next like some sort of human parcel. The thought made her stomach churn again.

She’d spent the eight-hour flight from Nice telling herself that she and Azim could, perhaps, come to an amenable agreement. An arrangement, which was what all convenient marriages were. She would present him with a proposal, a sensible suggestion to live mainly separate lives that would, she hoped, be to both of their advantage. If she’d had the foresight and presence of mind, she would have done the same with Malik when they’d first discussed their engagement several years ago. Or perhaps she wouldn’t have...it was only since she’d tasted freedom that she’d acquired a desperate appetite for it.

‘Are you well, Sadiyyah Behwar?’ the attendant asked, all solicitude now that he’d ascertained she wasn’t really going to vomit.

Johara lifted her chin and forced a smile. ‘Yes, thank you. Please lead on.’

She followed the man down the hallway, her trailing robes whispering against the slick marble floor. Her father had insisted she wear traditional formal dress for the first meeting with Azim, although she had never stood on such ceremony with Malik. She found the garment, with its intricately embroidered and jewelled hem and cuffs, stiff, heavy and uncomfortable, the unfamiliar hijab hot on her head. One more element of this whole affair that felt alien and unwelcome.

The attendant paused before a set of double doors that looked as if they were made of solid gold. Johara had been in the palace a few times before, for her brief meetings with Malik, but they’d always taken place in a small, comfortable room. Azim had chosen far more opulent surroundings for this initial introduction.

‘His Highness, Azim al Bahjat,’ the attendant intoned, and, with fear coating her insides with ice, Johara stepped into the room.

Sunlight poured from several arched windows, nearly blinding her so she had to blink several times before she caught sight of the man she was meant to marry. He stood in the centre of the room, his body erect and still, his face grave and unsmiling. Even from across the room Johara could see how black and opaque his eyes were, like a starless night in the desert. His dark hair was cut so close she could see the powerful bones of his skull, and a scar snaked from the corner of his left eye to the curve of his mouth, clearly long since healed over although the wounded flesh still looked red and livid. He wore an embroidered linen thobe, the material emphasising his lean, muscular form, broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips and long, powerful legs.

The whole effect was beyond intimidating. Terrifying was the word that came to mind, and she had to fight not to take an instinctive step back towards the doors, towards safety, away from this man whose face even in repose looked frightening. Looked cruel, although perhaps that was simply the darkness of his eyes, the livid red of the scar.

If she looked at his features reasonably, Johara told herself, fighting off the panic, she could see that he was an attractive man, his features even, his nose a straight slash, his mouth a mobile, sensual curve. Underneath his linen thobe his body was powerful and he moved with a graceful fluidity, taking a few steps towards her before stopping to survey her as she was surveying him, those dark eyes sweeping from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet, giving away nothing of what he felt or thought.

Then Azim inclined his head in what Johara supposed was a greeting. His voice, when he spoke, was clipped, cold. ‘We will marry in one week’s time.’

CHAPTER TWO

JOHARA’S MOUTH DROPPED open as Azim’s words reverberated through the grand room. Those were the first words out of his mouth—not hello, nice to meet you, or any of the other forms of basic introduction acceptable to civilised society? Just this chilling dictate that the clenching of her stomach made her fear she would have no choice but to obey.

‘I am glad you are agreeable,’ he added shortly, turning away, and Johara realised he’d taken her silence for acquiescence—and was now effectively dismissing her. As far as her future husband was concerned, their conversation was over, and they hadn’t even said hello.

‘Wait—Your Highness!’ Her voice was a hoarse whisper, and Johara cleared her throat, frustrated by her fear. This was too important a moment to act the shocked maiden. Azim turned back to her, his eyes narrowed, his mouth a hard, flat line that looked as if it never saw a smile.

‘Yes?’

‘It is only...’ Johara gulped as she collected her scattered thoughts, the fragments of her dashed hopes. Their conversation—if she could use that word—had been so abrupt she could hardly believe it was over. She hadn’t even had a chance to think. ‘This has all happened so quickly. And we had never met before today—’

‘We have met now.’

Johara stared at him, searching for some glimmer of warmth in those starless eyes, a hint of a smile in the uncompromising line of his mouth. She saw neither. ‘Yes, but we do not know one another,’ she continued, trying to make her tone both light and reasonable. ‘And...marriage.’ She spread her hands, tried for a smile. The pep talk she’d given herself on the plane seemed woefully improbable now, and yet she had no other plans, no other weapon. ‘It is a large step to take for two people who have not laid eyes on one another before this moment.’

‘Yet one you have, I have been told, been prepared to make for some time. I do not see any reason for your objection now?’ The lilt of his voice suggested a question but Johara was wary of answering it. He did not seem as if he was waiting for a response.

When she dared to look into his eyes, she wished she hadn’t. They felt like two black holes she could tip right into and fall for ever. ‘I only meant...’ she tried, ‘shouldn’t we get to know one another first? In order to—’

Azim’s expression did not change a modicum as he answered, cutting her off. ‘No.’

Johara took a deep breath, clinging to the remnants of her composure that was now in shreds. Even in her worst imaginings she hadn’t expected Azim to be this unrelentingly cold. His expression was pitiless and impatient, his arms folded over his chest, as if she was wasting his time. How could she marry a man such as this? And yet she had to. Her only hope was some kind of negotiation as to the terms.

‘Our marriage then will be one of convenience,’ she stated.

His mouth twisted, drawing the puckered flesh of the scar along his cheek tight. ‘Surely you had already come to that conclusion.’

‘Yes, but I mean...’ She faltered, unsure how to present the suggestion that had seemed so logical, so amenable, on the journey here. She had not anticipated Azim al Bahjat’s attitude of stony indifference, underlaid by a hostility she didn’t understand. Unless she was being paranoid? Perhaps he was like this with everyone. Or perhaps he was simply nervous, as she was.

The prospect was laughable. Azim al Bahjat did not look remotely uncertain or nervous. He was a man utterly in command of the situation—and her. Still Johara persevered. ‘Malik and I had discussed—’

‘I do not wish to talk about Malik.’ Azim’s voice was the quiet snick of a drawn blade. ‘Do not mention him to me again.’

Johara fell silent, chastened by this dictate. Her father had told her Malik was acting as Azim’s advisor, but the lethal warning in his voice made her wonder if their relationship was fraught. Or perhaps it was the relationship with her that was fraught. ‘I’m sorry. I only meant it would make sense for our marriage to be an arrangement that is convenient to both of us.’

‘Make sense?’ For a moment Azim looked coldly amused. ‘How so?’

Encouraged by the mere fact that he’d asked a question, Johara plunged into her explanation. ‘As you might know, I have spent most of my life in France. I am not as familiar with Alazar as you are—’

‘You are Alazaran-born, with your bloodline able to be traced back nearly a thousand years.’

Yes, she knew of her precious ancestry, descended hundreds of years ago from the sister of a sultan. ‘All I meant is,’ she explained, ‘France is my home, and has been since I was a young child. I’ve only been to Alazar a handful of times in my whole life.’

Azim’s mouth twisted in contempt. ‘A notable lack in your upbringing. You will have to familiarise yourself with its customs immediately.’

This wasn’t going at all the way she’d intended. Hoped. ‘What I mean to say is,’ Johara tried yet again, ‘I would like to live in France for as much of the year as possible. Of course, I would come to Alazar when needed, for state functions and the like.’ She spoke quickly, tripping over her words, desperate to come to an agreement. ‘Whenever I’m needed, of course. It seems a suitable arrangement to us both—’

‘Does it?’ Azim cocked his head, his narrowed gaze sweeping over her, a dark searchlight. ‘It does not seem so to me. Far from it, in fact.’

Frustrations warred with despair and Johara clenched her fists, hiding them in the stiff skirts of her dress. ‘May I ask why?’

‘My wife belongs with me, not pursuing her own interests in another country,’ Azim stated, a hint of a sneer in his voice. ‘The Sultana of Alazar must be by the Sultan’s side, or in the palace, showing the country what an exemplary, modest and honourable woman she is. That is where you belong, Sadiyyah Behwar,’ he finished in a ringing, final tone of a judge delivering his sentence. ‘By my side, in the palace harem—or in my bed.’

* * *

Azim noted the way Johara’s pupils flared even as her face paled. Was she disgusted by the thought of sharing his bed? He’d had his fair share of women over the years, and they had all been more than willing to be there. In any case it didn’t matter whether Johara was or not. He was not looking for companionship or even pleasure from this arrangement. After a lifetime of being denied such things, he had schooled himself not to want them.

‘You are very blunt,’ she managed, two bright spots of colour now visible high on each cheekbone, the delicate skin around her pouty mouth nearly white.

‘I am merely stating facts.’

Johara shook her head slowly. ‘So you want me with you all the time, and yet you have no interest in getting to know me?’

‘What is there to know?’ Azim returned. The pain in his temples was becoming too much to indulge her in such a sentimental conversation. He didn’t care about her feelings, or even his own. This was a matter of state, nothing more. ‘You are young, healthy and eminently suitable,’ he clarified. ‘You can trace your bloodline back almost as far as I can. That is all I need to know.’

She lifted her chin, her eyes flaring now with anger. Arif had assured him his daughter was extremely biddable, but from this conversation alone Azim knew the man had exaggerated—and her defiance was both an aggravation and an insult he didn’t need.

‘There must be a dozen women like me,’ she said, her chin lifted, ‘with suitable breeding and bloodlines. Why are you so determined to marry a stranger you don’t even want to get to know?’

Because she’d been intended for Malik. Because choosing anyone else when his entire country had been expecting her as Sultana would be an admission of failure, a sign of defeat, and something he refused to consider. He had suffered too much, sacrificed too much, to fail in this. ‘You are my chosen Sultana,’ he stated coldly. ‘Most women would consider that an honour.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘But I am not most women.’

‘So I am beginning to realise.’

‘I just don’t understand—’

‘You don’t need to understand,’ Azim snapped. He took a steadying breath, pain stabbing his temples once more. He could feel a full-fledged migraine coming on, the black spots starting to dance before his eyes, the nausea churning in his stomach. He had five minutes, if that, to get to a dark, quiet room and wait out the agony. ‘All you need to do,’ he stated in a tone of utter finality, ‘is to obey.’

Her mouth dropped open as Azim turned away. He walked blindly from the room, his vision starting to grey at the edges. He could not manage any more. From behind him he heard a ragged gasp.

‘Your Highness...’ It was a cross between a protest and a plea, a sorrowful sound that grated on his nerves even as it plucked at the broken strings of his compassion. He had been abrupt with his fiancée, he could acknowledge that. If he hadn’t been in pain, if he hadn’t seen her shudder...perhaps things might have been a little different. But it was too late now to make amends, if he even wanted to, which he didn’t think he did. Better for his bride to accept the hard reality, just as he’d had to do time and time again. Life was hard. People turned on you, betrayed you, used you. She could learn the same life lessons he had, albeit in far more comfortable circumstances.

‘An attendant will show you to your room,’ he stated, forcing the words out past the pain that was building like a towering wall in his head. ‘You may spend the next few days preparing for our wedding.’ He didn’t wait to hear her reply. He knew Arif would force her to comply, and in any case he didn’t trust himself to stay standing for much longer. He pushed through the doors, doubling over the moment they’d swung behind him, his hands braced on his knees.

‘Your Highness...’ An attendant hurried forward, and with immense effort Azim straightened, throwing off the servant’s arm. He couldn’t be seen as weak, not even by a servant.

‘I’m fine,’ he grated. Then he walked on leaden legs to his bedroom, and its welcoming darkness.

* * *

Johara stood in the audience chamber for a full five minutes before she felt composed enough to leave its privacy for the prying eyes of the many palace staff. The abruptness of her conversation with Azim had bordered on the surreal, and yet it had possessed the stomach-clenching realisation of hard reality. This man, who had not spared her so much as an introduction, who barked commands, whose smile seemed cruel, was going to be her husband.

She tried to find one redeeming quality in the man she was meant to spend her life with and came up empty. He possessed a strong sense of duty, she supposed, her thoughts laced with desperation and flat-out panic. He wasn’t bad-looking; in fact, if his expression hadn’t been so severe, his manner so terse, she might have thought him quite handsome. His form was certainly powerful, and even in the shock and tension of their conversation she’d noticed his muscled shoulders, the dark slashes of his eyebrows.

He had a compelling look about him, possessing the kind of bearing that made you want to both stare and look away at the same time. He was too much. Too hard, too cold, too cruel. He hadn’t offered her one simple civility in their first meeting. What on earth would their life together look like?

She couldn’t marry him.

Johara pressed her hands to her cheeks, distantly noting their iciness, as she gazed out of the arched window at the desert vista. A hard blue sky and an unrelenting sun framed the endless, undulating desert. Looking at it hurt Johara’s eyes, and made her long for the rolling hills and lavender fields of Provence, the dear familiarity of her book-lined bedroom, her kitchen garden with its pots of herbs, the stillroom where she’d pottered about experimenting with salves and tinctures, pursuing her interest in natural medicine. Made her wish, yet again, that everything about her meeting with Azim had been different. Better. Or preferably, hadn’t happened at all.

She dropped her hands and took a deep breath. What recourse did she have now? She was powerless, a woman in a man’s world, a sultan’s world. Her only option was to run to her father and beg him to release her. Hope flickered faintly as she considered this.

Her father loved her, she knew he did. Yes, he’d been planning for her marriage to the Sultan of Alazar for years, but...he loved her. Perhaps her father had not realised what kind of man Azim was. Perhaps when she told him just how cold and hard her husband-to-be seemed, he’d renegotiate yet again. Or at least ask for a delay, months or even years...

Taking a deep breath, Johara turned from the room. A palace attendant was waiting by the door as she came through. ‘His Highness wished me to show you your rooms.’

‘Thank you, but I’d like to see my father first.’

The attendant’s face was blank, his voice polite as he answered, ‘Many pardons, but that is not possible.’

The anxiety that had been coiling in her stomach like a serpent about to strike reared up, hissing. ‘What do you mean? Why can I not see my own father?’

‘He is in a meeting, Sadiyyah Behwar,’ the man answered smoothly. ‘But I will, of course, let him know you wish to speak with him.’

Johara nodded, the panic receding a little. Perhaps she was overreacting, seeing conspiracy or coercion at every turn. Her father would surely come to her when he was able. He would listen to her. He would understand. He might be ambitious and sometimes a little bit hard, but she had never, not once, doubted his love for her. ‘Thank you.’

She followed the man silently down a long marble corridor to a suite of rooms nearly as opulent as the audience chamber where she’d met Azim. She gazed round at all the luxury, the huge bed on its own dais with silk and satin covers, the sunken marble tub in a bathroom that was nearly as large as her bedroom at home, the spacious balcony that overlooked the palace’s lush gardens. It was lovely, but all she could see was a gilded prison, invisible bars that would hold her there for the rest of her life.

What would she do here, as Azim’s wife? Lie on a bed with her face to the wall, as her mother had these many years, trapped by her own endless despair? Johara resisted that with a deep, frightened instinct. She had long ago vowed never to be like her mother, had chosen a cheerful, optimistic approach to life as a matter of principle, because to give in to doubt or despair was no life at all. Yet optimism was hard to find now.

So then would she devote herself to her children, if they came, and try to forget the unending loneliness of being yoked to a man who had no interest in her beyond her bloodline? Would she be able to make friends, make a life? There was so much she didn’t know, so much she couldn’t imagine and didn’t even want to imagine. She wanted more for her life than what Azim was offering. She wanted more for her life than any arranged marriage could provide. It had taken a fleeting week of precious freedom to make her realise that.

She sank onto a divan by the window, her body aching with both emotional and physical fatigue. It had been a little more than twelve hours since her father had told her she was marrying Azim. And only a week until she would be forced to say her vows...unless she could find some way out of this disaster—seek her father and try to persuade him to end the engagement. He had to listen to her. He loved her, she reminded herself. She was his habibti, his treasure, his little pearl. He wouldn’t let her suffer a fate such as this.

* * *

Azim blinked in the gloom of his bedchamber, the migraine having finally lessened to a dull, endurable throb, the fragments of a dream still piercing his brain in poignant shards. He’d been back in Naples, hiding from Paolo, cowering and afraid. He hated that dream. He hated how it made him feel.

With determined effort Azim shook it off, banishing the memories of his confusion and fear. He was a sultan-in-waiting now, restored to his rightful place, a man of power and authority. He would not allow himself to be bested by his old nightmares, even if he’d had more and more of them since returning to Alazar.

He had no idea what time it was, but he noted the moonlight sliding between the shutters and knew it had been many hours. He closed his eyes, his whole body aching with the effort of having battled the pain—and won.

The headaches that had plagued him since he was fourteen years old had been getting worse since he’d returned to Alazar, no doubt from the unrelieved tension of being back in a place with so many bitter memories, as well as his legacy hanging by no more than a slender thread. He hated the fragility of his position, the powerlessness it made him feel. No wonder he’d had that old dream. He had no idea if the old tribes of the desert would accept him as a leader when he had been gone from his country, from his people’s memory, for so long. He had only been a boy when he’d been taken, an event he couldn’t actually remember. He had not yet had a chance to prove himself capable and worthy of command, no matter that his grandfather had been preparing him for it for years. Marrying Johara, as unwilling as she was, would help to cement his position as the next Sultan. He needed her compliance...or at least her perceived compliance. How she felt didn’t matter at all as long as she obeyed.

Sighing heavily, he rose from his bed, the room see-sawing around him until he was able to blink it back into balanced focus. It wasn’t only the pressures and tenuousness of his role that weighed on him now. It was the look of shocked hurt in Johara’s clear grey eyes when he’d issued his flat commands earlier that day. He had not attempted to soften them with the merest modicum of kindness or compassion; he’d been in too much pain as well as too angry at her own unguarded reaction, when she’d looked up at the palace and he alone had seen the truth in her face.

He supposed he would need to remedy the situation somehow, but he was not a man prone to apologies. In the world he inhabited an apology was weakness, the admission of any guilt a mistake. He could not afford to do that now, even if he wanted to, which he did not. It was better for his new bride not to have any expectations except obedience.

‘Azim?’ Malik spoke softly from behind the bedroom door. Quickly Azim grabbed his shirt and pulled it on. He’d shucked it off in the worst throes of the migraine, when he’d been covered in icy sweat, but he was always careful to keep his back covered. No one, not even his infrequent lovers, had seen his scars. No one would know of his shame.

He flicked on the lights even though the flash of brightness sliced through his head like a laser. He straightened his clothes and ran a hand over his closely cropped hair, determined that Malik not see any sign of his weakness.

‘Enter.’

Malik came in, closing the door quietly behind him. ‘You are well?’

‘Yes, of course. What is it?’ He spoke more tersely than he’d intended, and saw the flash of bruised recognition in his brother’s eyes. Once, a lifetime ago, they’d been close, leaning on each other when the adults in their lives had failed them, but now Azim had no idea how to navigate that old, once-precious relationship. For too long everyone had felt like an enemy, someone who would break the trust he now refused to give.

‘You spoke to Johara?’

‘Yes. She is not as compliant as her father indicated.’

Malik leaned one powerful shoulder against the doorframe, his arms folded. ‘She knows her duty.’

‘I would hope so.’ Azim reached for his trousers, preferring the Western dress he was far more comfortable in after twenty years in Italy, at least in private. ‘I told her we would marry in a week’s time.’

Malik’s eyebrows rose. ‘So soon?’

‘I do not have time to waste.’

‘Still, that is rather quick,’ Malik said mildly. ‘Considering only a week ago she was meant to marry me.’

‘She was meant,’ Azim clarified with clipped precision, ‘to marry the heir to the Sultanate, whoever that was.’

Malik inclined his head. ‘You are right, of course. But she is very young, and she is not as used to our ways as you might—’

‘I thought you did not know her.’ Azim heard the edge to his voice and turned away from his brother. The knowledge that Johara had been meant for Malik gave him a deep-seated sense of resentment that he did not fully understand. He knew Malik and Johara had never so much as kissed, and yet still he resisted the notion of them together. So much had been taken from him, including his bride. He was more determined than ever to gain it all back, no matter what the cost—or who paid the price.

‘She said she has spent most of her time in France,’ he remarked to Malik. ‘Why is that?’

Malik shrugged. ‘Her mother has been ill for a long time. Arif has kept her away from Alazar.’

‘Simply because she is ill? That does not seem sensible.’

‘I am not quite sure of the details,’ Malik answered. ‘Arif never speaks of her.’ He paused. ‘That seems intentional.’

Azim frowned. ‘I was assured Johara’s bloodline was impeccable—’

‘It is. But even impeccable bloodlines contain people with problems, with illness or suffering.’

Azim did not answer. God knew he had his own share of suffering, and he was descended from kings. ‘Well,’ he said after a moment. ‘She will comply. She has no choice.’

‘A little kindness might go a long way,’ Malik suggested mildly. ‘Considering her youth and inexperience.’

Azim had come to that conclusion himself, but he didn’t particularly like hearing it from Malik. And what kindness could he offer her? He had no time or interest, not to mention ability, in wooing, paying court or offering flattery. He was a man of action, not words. He always had been. And in the world he’d lived in these last twenty years, flattery got you nowhere.

‘I can manage my own bride,’ he told Malik, his tone curt. Malik nodded, his mouth a pressed line. Tension simmered between them. Once they’d been as close as brothers could be, sharing everything, including sorrow, and now—what? Reluctant allies, perhaps, but even that was a step of faith for him, a level of trust he wasn’t comfortable with, not even with Malik.

After Malik had left Azim summoned an attendant to his room. ‘Send some fabric to Sadiyyah Behwar,’ he instructed. ‘Brocade and satin, spare no expense. As a gift from me, for her wedding dress. And ensure there are seamstresses on hand to do her bidding.’ He knew she already possessed a gown from her intended wedding to Malik, but he wanted her to have a new one, one that was just for him. A new start for a new marriage. He hoped Johara appreciated his gesture.

CHAPTER THREE

JOHARA WRAPPED HER arms around herself, suppressing a shiver despite the sultry summer air, as she looked out on the steep roofs and steeples of Paris’s Latin Quarter. She’d arrived back in Nice that morning and she was still trying to ignore the icy panic creeping coldly over her—and to convince herself that she’d made the right decision.

In the end it had been both easy and heartbreaking. She closed her eyes against the look of icy disbelief in her father’s eyes when she’d asked him to delay the wedding. The memory of the conversation caused pain to lance through her again.

‘F-F-F...Father,’ she’d stammered, inwardly cringing at the look of barely concealed impatience in her father’s face. She’d caught him leaving a meeting, and the other diplomats and dignitaries had eyed her with cold disapproval, a woman trying to break into a man’s world.

‘What are you doing here, Johara?’ Arif asked. He glanced back at his colleagues. ‘She is to marry His Highness Azim next week.’

‘That’s what I wanted to talk about,’ Johara said, trying to gather the tattered remnants of her courage. ‘About the marriage...’

‘What is it?’ Arif grabbed her elbow and steered her to a private alcove. ‘You are humiliating me in public,’ he snapped, his eyes narrowed to dark slits, everything in him radiating icy disapproval. Johara shrank back, shocked. He’d never looked at her like this back in France, even when she’d dared to risk his displeasure.

‘Azim is...very cold.’

‘Cold?’ Arif looked nonplussed.

‘He seems almost cruel,’ Johara whispered, losing courage by the second. ‘I...I don’t want to marry him. I can’t!’

Arif stared at her, his lips thinned, the skin around them white. ‘Clearly I have spoiled you,’ he stated in a hard voice. ‘For you to be speaking this way to me now.’

‘Father, please—’

‘You have been petted and indulged your whole life,’ Arif cut her off. ‘And I have asked only one thing of you, something that is a great honour and privilege. And now you tell me to humiliate myself and my family, risk my career and livelihood, because you find him a little cold?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘I will do my best to pretend this conversation has not happened.’

‘But, Father, if you love me...’ Johara began, her voice shaking. ‘Then surely you wouldn’t...’

‘Nothing about this has to do with love,’ Arif stated. ‘It has to do with duty and honour. Never forget that, Johara. Love is a facile emotion for fools and weaklings. Your mother is a testament to that.’ Without waiting for her reply he stalked off, leaving her reeling.

Love is a facile emotion. She could hardly believe he’d dismissed her concerns, her feelings so easily. And worse, seemed to have none of his own. Like a naïve child she’d believed her father loved her. Now she knew the terrible truth that he didn’t, and never had.

Baubles, presents, a careless pat or smile—these things cost her father nothing. They’d been sops to appease her, not expressions of his love. It was so obvious now, so awful. For when his ambition was at stake, Johara’s happiness was a sacrifice he didn’t even have to think about making.

Her father had arranged her flight back to Provence that afternoon, so she could pack her things and collect her mother before returning for the wedding. Naima Behwar rarely left her bed, much less the villa in Provence, and Arif didn’t want the trouble of having to coax her out of either. Amazing, really, how Johara could now see how self-serving he was. Kindness only came when it was free. Why hadn’t she considered his father’s treatment of her mother—his indifference and impatience—as a true reflection of his character, rather than the presents and smiles he carelessly tossed her way? Why had she been so stupid and shallow?

All during the flight to Nice her mind had raced in hopeless circles, trying to find a way out. A way forward. She was by nature an optimist, but her innate cheerfulness had taken a critical hit. She’d barely been able to summon a smile for the chauffeur, Thomas, who’d met her at the airport; he had been in the family’s employ for two decades, and had once taught her to ride a bicycle. His wife Lucille had worked as their cook and first showed Johara how to distil oil from plants, the beginning of her interest in natural medicine. She’d miss them both, and the quiet, simple contentment of the life she’d had, the life she realised now she’d taken for granted.

Then, while Thomas had been getting the car, Johara had made a split-second decision, acting on desperate impulse, something she never did. She’d run.

Her mind had been a blur of panic as she’d walked away from where Thomas had told her to wait, towards the shuttle bus that went to the train station in Nice Ville. Within an hour she’d been on a train to Paris, amazed that she’d actually done it. She’d run away. She’d freed herself.

And now that she’d booked into a shabby, anonymous-looking hotel on a side alley in the Latin Quarter, she wondered what on earth she was going to do next. She had her freedom, but she knew she was ill-equipped to deal with it. Taking the train and navigating the crowded streets of Paris by herself had already felt overwhelming, more than she’d ever dealt with before. How was she going to survive, get a job, make a life for herself?

And, she wondered with a shiver that this time she couldn’t suppress, how was she going to keep from being found? She shuddered to think of both her father and her husband-to-be’s reactions when they learned she’d run. Perhaps they already knew. Thomas, their driver, had probably already sounded the alarm.

Outside a church bell began to toll and a flock of sparrows rose in a dark flurry. Laughter from the streets below floated up, and all the sounds and sights, the sheer normalcy of them, lightened Johara’s spirits a little.

She could do this. She would do this. How hard could it be, to find some menial job that would keep a roof over her head and food on the table? Her needs were small and although she didn’t have much life experience she knew she was smart as well as a quick learner. Surely any life, no matter how small, was better than being forced into a marriage she didn’t want. Taking a deep breath, she turned from the window and went to get ready to look for a job.

Fifteen minutes later she was easing her way along the crowded streets of the Latin Quarter, clutching her bag to her chest as people moved past her in an indifferent stream. She hadn’t realised how noisy and crowded the city was. Her few experiences of Paris had been from behind the tinted windows of a limousine, and then she’d been ushered into one boutique or another with her mother, everything exclusive and private. And even those trips had been a long time ago—her mother had not roused herself to go to Paris, or anywhere, in years.

Spotting a sign for a small café, Johara decided to take the necessary plunge. She ducked into the tiny restaurant and stammered a question to the hassled-looking manager by the kitchen door, asking if he was hiring.

‘Do you have any waitressing experience?’ he asked, his voice full of scepticism as he eyed her up and down.

‘No, but—’

‘Sorry, no.’

Dejectedly she turned away. She repeated the same cringing experience in the next four cafés. All of the managers had looked at her with either doubt or disbelief when she’d asked for work, and Johara wondered how they could tell she was inexperienced. Was it the way she dressed? Spoke? Or was her naiveté that obvious, like a beacon above her head?

Her feet ached and her stomach rumbled—she hadn’t eaten since she’d been on the plane hours ago. Worse than either of those afflictions was the plunging sense of despair that she wasn’t going to be able to make it in the real world. And what would she do then? Slink back to Azim with her tail tucked firmly between her legs, her head lowered in guilty remorse, and accept a cold, loveless marriage with a man she didn’t like or even know?

No. She would rather pound every street in Paris looking for work than submit to a man as cold and cruel as Azim al Bahjat.

‘Salut, chérie,’ a man’s low, purring voice carried over the sounds of the crowd, and Johara turned, startled to realise he was talking to her.

‘Salut,’ she said cautiously. The man’s smile was wide as he lounged in the doorway of the shabbiest café Johara had ever seen, just a few tiny, dirty tables on a floor of cracked tiles.

‘Are you looking for work?’ He made a moue of sympathy. ‘Finding it difficult?’

‘A bit,’ Johara admitted. ‘Why?’ She nodded to the café. ‘Are you hiring?’

The man’s smile widened. ‘As it happens, yes. Do you know how to be nice to customers?’

It seemed a strange question, and Johara shrugged. ‘I think so.’

The man eyed her up and down in a way that made her blush and shift uncomfortably, her bag clutched to her chest. ‘Then you can start tonight. Can you be back here at nine?’

Johara swallowed, hardly daring to believe that she’d actually found a job. She didn’t particularly like the look of the greasy man or the shabby café, but she was hardly in a position to choose. ‘Yes, of course.’

Back at the hotel she ate, showered and changed, trying to ignore the sense of unease she felt about the man and his offer of work. As she headed out into the sultry summer evening butterflies flitted in her stomach and she tried to walk as she saw other women walking, with their heads tilted at a proud angle, their hips swaying, as if they knew who they were and where they were going. Johara felt as if she knew neither and had no idea how to find out.

The café was full of noisy customers when she approached, relieved that she’d managed to get herself to the right place. So many of the narrow, cobbled streets of the Latin Quarter looked the same. The same beady-eyed man who had hired her met her at the doorway.

‘Ah, chérie. I’m so glad you came.’ He drew her by the hand into the hot press of people, one arm snaking around her waist. Alarm bells started clanging in Johara’s head as she tensed, her body arching instinctively away from him. No man had ever touched her so intimately, their hips bumping, her breasts brushing his shoulder.

‘Don’t be shy,’ he said with a laugh, pulling her closer, one hand brushing her breast. ‘Remember I said you had to be nice.’

Johara glanced around at the crowded café, and all the faces looked sweaty and leering. The man’s hand was still on her waist, the side of her body pressed tightly to his. The acrid smell of alcohol and sweat stung her nostrils and made her head swim.

She opened her mouth to say something, to explain this wasn’t quite what she’d thought it would be, but no words came out. And then someone else was speaking.

‘Get your hands off her right now.’ The words were clipped, the tone utterly lethal. The sneering smile on the man’s face slid right off when he caught sight of whoever was standing behind Johara. He held up his hands as he backed away.

‘Pardon, monsieur, I didn’t know she was taken.’

‘Now you know.’

Slowly Johara turned, her heart beating so hard she could feel the blood roaring in her ears. It couldn’t be...but of course it was. Azim stood in the doorway of the café, his eyes blazing black fire, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. With his powerful frame, the scar snaking down his cheek and his air of barely leashed fury, he was utterly terrifying. No wonder the man backed away. She wanted to run.

‘Don’t think of trying it,’ Azim said in a low, dangerous voice, and Johara knew he’d read her thoughts.

‘How did you find me?’ she asked in a shaky whisper.

‘Easily. Come with me. Now.’ As his strong, lean fingers circled her wrist and pulled her towards him Johara had no choice but to comply. She stumbled as he drew her from the café, throwing one hand out to the doorframe to keep from falling.

‘Stop, you’re hurting me.’

Azim slowed, his fingers loosening around her wrist, even as his expression remained icily furious.

‘My car is waiting.’

‘I’m not going with you.’ Johara wished she’d sounded more firm.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Azim snapped. ‘You can’t stay here.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because,’ he gritted between clenched teeth, stepping closer to her, ‘I just took you out of a whorehouse.’

‘A...’ Her jaw dropped.

‘You do know what that is?’ Azim inquired. ‘I presume you’re not that innocent?’

A fiery blush rose from her throat to the crown of her head. ‘Yes, I know what that is,’ Johara muttered. ‘I’ve read books.’

‘Oh, well, then. You’re the voice of experience, I suppose.’ He shook his head, clearly disgusted, and pulled her, gently at least, towards the waiting limousine. This time Johara went without a murmur.

She clambered into the luxurious interior, the leather sumptuous and soft against her bare legs. Azim climbed in next to her and barked out an address to the driver before slamming the door and leaning back against the seat.

Realisations were firing through Johara, short-circuiting her synapses. ‘Was it really...?’ she began through trembling lips.

‘Yes,’ Azim stated flatly. ‘It was.’

Her teeth started to chatter as she realised how close she’d come to utter disaster. She could have been raped. She could have been sold into sexual slavery. She could have been... She closed her eyes as a wave of nausea hit her. She could hardly bear to think of it.

‘Are you cold?’ Azim demanded, and Johara shook her head. She wasn’t cold, but she couldn’t seem to stop shaking.

He eyed her for a moment, his expression utterly fierce, before he reached forward to the limo’s minibar and poured a generous shot of whisky into a glass. ‘Here. Drink this. It will help.’

Her numb fingers curled around the glass. ‘Help...?’

‘You’re in shock.’

She glanced down at the amber liquid, its pungent smell making her grimace. ‘I’ve never drunk hard alcohol before.’

‘Now is as good a time as any.’ Azim watched her, his very gaze commanding her to drink, and Johara raised the glass to her lips.

The whisky burned down her throat and lit a fire in her belly. Somehow she managed not to sputter, but she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, thrusting the glass back at Azim.

‘No more.’

A tiny smile curved his mouth, making his scar pucker. ‘Not bad for the first time. You didn’t cough.’

‘I wanted to.’

‘You have strength of spirit.’ From his tone she couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing.

She turned to look out of the window, unsettled by the sudden and overwhelming turn of events. Outside the limo the streets of Paris streamed by in an electric blur.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked after a few tense, silent minutes had ticked by.

‘To my flat.’

‘How did you find me? Easily, I know, but...’

‘Your driver alerted your father, who told me.’

So her father had betrayed her yet again. She wasn’t surprised, but it still hurt. ‘Was he angry?’

‘Furious,’ Azim answered shortly. ‘What did you expect?’

For someone who loved her to think about her happiness. But of course her father had never really loved her. How long, she wondered, was that going to hurt? ‘I don’t know,’ she mumbled. She felt tired and near tears, trapped and humiliated, as if she were a naughty child being marched to the corner.

‘Even I did not think you would be so stupid and selfish as to run away,’ Azim said. Anger thrummed through his voice. ‘Even though you had made it clear what you thought of our forthcoming marriage.’

‘As did you,’ Johara returned, half amazed by her own audacity. She never spoke to her father, or anyone, like this. It felt good to speak her mind to someone, even if she’d regret it later.

‘So I did.’ Azim was silent for a moment and Johara found herself suddenly conscious of his nearness, the powerful length of his thigh brushing hers on the seat. She could smell his aftershave, the mingled aromas of sandalwood and cedar. Her senses stirred in a way that felt unfamiliar and intriguing. She had a bizarre desire to shift closer, to feel the length of his leg against her own, a prospect that horrified her. This man was her enemy. He was also, unless she managed a miracle, going to be her husband.

Azim turned to look out of the window, his gaze hooded as he looked out at the blur of traffic. ‘Our first meeting,’ he said finally, ‘did not go as I had intended.’

‘Oh? What had you intended?’ She was curious but she couldn’t keep a sarcastic edge from her voice. Disconcerted now by his nearness, she found the memory of their first conversation—such as it had been—still stung. How had he thought any sane woman would respond to his unemotional, autocratic dictates?

‘That you would be the compliant woman your father indicated that you were,’ he replied as he turned back to her. ‘But so far you have disappointed me at every turn.’

‘And you have disappointed me,’ Johara snapped, and then drew a ragged breath, pressing herself against the seat, as she realised from the look of cold fury on Azim’s face that she’d gone too far.

‘Then we shall both have to learn to live with disappointment,’ he answered after a moment, his voice dangerously even. ‘Hardly a tragedy.’ He turned his head away once more and they did not talk again until the limo had stopped in front of an elegant building off the Champs-Élysées.

‘Is there where you live?’

‘It is one of my homes.’ The driver opened the door and Azim slid out, extending a hand back towards Johara. With the awkward angle of the seat, as well as Azim’s body barring the door, she had no choice but to take it.

The slide of his strong hand against hers was an unexpected jolt, as if she’d touched a live wire. Shocked by the sensation, she let out a gasp, and then registered Azim’s cool smile of satisfaction with wary confusion.

The smile disappeared as soon as she’d noted it, their gazes locking in a taut battle of wills before Azim dropped her hand and turned towards the building. On legs as shaky as the rest of her, Johara followed.

CHAPTER FOUR

A THOUSAND THOUGHTS and feelings whirled through Azim as he stalked through the foyer of the apartment building, ignoring the concierge’s murmured pleasantries. Foremost was fury, that Johara had shamed him in such a way by publicly absconding days before their marriage. After that came disgust, that he’d led her to do such a thing. As angry as he was about her runaway attempt, he knew he’d handled their first meeting badly. He just didn’t know if he had it in him to make amends.

Beyond those two negative emotions was a deep-seated relief that he’d saved Johara from, at best, a very unpleasant evening, and at worst, a lifetime of enforced prostitution—and then finally primal, masculine satisfaction, for in the moment when their hands had touched he’d felt her reaction, like a spark travelling up his arm, igniting in his belly. She desired him.

Perhaps she didn’t want to, perhaps she didn’t even realise it, but he knew. He’d seen it in the flare of her pupils, heard it in her surprised gasp and felt it in the shudder that had gone through her, just as he’d felt his own body’s response. Their marriage, then, would at least have sexual chemistry—and that was no small thing.

They didn’t speak in the tiny, enclosed space of the antique lift that juddered up towards the penthouse. Johara pressed herself against the grate, her grey eyes startlingly wide and looking almost silver in the dim light. He’d seen her only in the shapeless robes, and now he noted the slender and enticing curves highlighted by the sundress she wore. The thin, gauzy material clung to her small, pert breasts and tiny waist, flaring out about her long, slender legs. No wonder that disgusting pimp had wanted her for his whorehouse. She was gorgeous, innocence and sensuality in one jaw-dropping package, and she didn’t even realise how alluring she was.

‘Does your father know you wear clothes like these?’ he demanded and Johara pressed back even farther away from him.

‘My father lets me wear what I like.’

Wasn’t around to notice or care, Azim filled in silently. He’d taken Arif’s measure at their first meeting; the older man had been more than eager to have his daughter exchange grooms weeks before the wedding. While it suited Azim’s purposes admirably, it did not endear him to the man. He was the worst combination of weakness and lust for power, just as Caivano had been. It had led to his tormentor’s downfall, and it would eventually lead to Arif’s. He would not have such a man in his cabinet.

The lift jolted to a stop and the doors opened. Azim ushered Johara out to his flat, a soaring, open space that took up the entire top floor of the building.

Johara stepped out, craning her neck to take in the vaulted ceiling and huge windows. The doors of the lift closed behind Azim and he stood watching her, noticing the way her dress clung to her hips, the fabric whispering about her shapely legs as she moved. A dark, curling tendril of hair lay against the nape of her neck and he had the absurd urge to lift it and see the delicate skin beneath.

She turned to face him, her trembling lips pressed together, her chin raised in challenge. Even though her rebellion tried him sorely, he could not help but admire her courage. He hadn’t thought she’d possessed the audacity to make a run for it. He was, perversely and annoyingly, pleased that she’d been that daring, even if he was still furious that she’d tried.

‘So?’ Johara asked, her voice managing to be both strident and shaky at the same time. ‘What now?’

Azim folded his arms. ‘You will marry me.’

‘Of course.’ She let out a high, trembling laugh. ‘Of course, I have no say in the matter.’

Irritation, and something deeper and rawer, rippled through him. ‘If I am not mistaken, you have known about your arranged marriage for nearly your whole life. Why are you resisting now?’

‘Because.’ Johara looked away and said nothing more.

Azim regarded her coolly. ‘Because of me, you mean.’

She shot him one wild glance before turning away again, giving him a view of her profile, the high forehead, the smooth curve of her cheek, the heavy mass of hair pulled back in an elegant chignon. ‘You have made your intentions clear,’ she said. ‘You have no interest in getting to know me.’

‘Did Malik?’ He hadn’t wanted to mention his brother, hated even thinking about Johara married to him, sharing his bed. Quickly Azim banished the image. ‘Well?’ he demanded when Johara did not answer. ‘Did he?’

Johara glared at him, the lift of her chin now seeming stubborn rather than courageous, and entirely aggravating. ‘Not particularly,’ she said after a moment, the words drawn from her reluctantly and yet ringing with stark honesty.

‘Well, then.’ Azim didn’t know what point he’d been trying to prove. That his bride-to-be objected to wedding him more than his brother? That she was repelled by him, by the scar on his face? What would she think if she saw the scars on the rest of his body? Not, of course, that she ever would.

‘If I’m honest,’ Johara said after a moment, her voice quiet, ‘I wasn’t looking forward to marrying Malik, either. What woman wants to marry a stranger for the sake of a crown?’

‘I imagine there are many.’

‘I am not one of them.’

‘But you agreed.’ He cocked his head. ‘Your father insisted on that.’

‘He would.’ A new bitterness spiked her words and she looked away again. ‘I agreed because I’ve known nothing else. Because...’ She shook her head, clearly not wanting to say more.

‘If you were so reluctant, why did you not say something to my brother?’

‘I just didn’t want to think of it. I...I pretended it wasn’t going to happen and I told myself I could carry on with my life as normal afterwards. It was easier to do that, since I hardly ever saw him. We only met a couple of times, for no more than a few minutes. And I had my life in France.’

A life she seemed desperate to get back to. Was someone waiting for her there? Perhaps his bride was not as innocent as her father claimed, although considering her obvious naiveté he found that a difficult notion to entertain. ‘It seems remarkably shortsighted,’ he remarked. ‘Your marriage was in a matter of months.’

‘I know.’ She hunched her shoulders. ‘The closer it got, the less I tried to think of it. A child’s response, but perhaps I was a child.’ Her lips trembled again and to Azim’s horror he saw a single, silvery tear slip down her cheek. She dashed it away with a grimace. ‘Perhaps I still am.’

‘You are not a child.’ The response he’d felt in her earlier, the woman’s body he saw now, told him as much. ‘But you are innocent and have lived a sheltered life. That is not a bad thing.’

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