The child she hid...

Surrounded by society’s glitterati, Arden Wills finds herself staring up into the eyes of her first and only love. But Sheikh Idris Baddour has a surprise title and heavy responsibilities...so she clings to her precious secret even tighter.

Time has done nothing to dampen the intense ardor between them. And when their kiss is blasted across the world’s front pages, Arden’s truth comes to light—the sheikh has a secret son! To avoid further scandal, Idris must legitimize his heir and make English rose Arden his dutiful desert queen!

‘Here he is at last. Arden, I’d like to present you to my cousin Idris—Sheikh of Zahrat.’

Arden widened her smile, determined not to be overawed by meeting her very first, and no doubt last, sheikh. Coming to this formal reception, surrounded by VIPs who oozed money and privilege, had already tested her nerves.

She turned, tilted her head to look up, and felt the world drop away.

His face was severely sculpted, as if scored by desert winds. Yet there was beauty in those high cheekbones and his firm yet sensual mouth. His nose and jaw were honed and strong. The harsh angle of those beetling black brows intimidated. So did the wide flare of his nostrils, as if the sheikh scented something unexpected.

Shock dragged at her, loosening her knees till her legs felt like rubber.

His eyes...

Dark as a midnight storm, those eyes fixed on her instinctive movement as she clutched Hamid for support. Slowly they lifted again to clash with hers, disdain clear in that haughty stare.

A shuddering wave of disquiet rolled through her as she blinked up, telling herself it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.

Despite the frantic messages her body was sending her, she couldn’t know this man.

Yet her brain wouldn’t listen to reason. It told her it was him. The man who’d changed her life.

Secret Heirs of Billionaires

There are some things money can’t buy...

Living life at lightning pace, these magnates are no strangers to stakes at their highest. It seems they’ve got it all... That is, until they find out that there’s an unplanned item to add to their list of accomplishments!

Achieved:

1. Successful business empire

2. Beautiful women in their bed

3. An heir to bear their name...?

Though every billionaire needs to leave his legacy in safe hands, discovering a secret heir shakes up his carefully orchestrated plan in more ways than one!

Uncover their secrets in:

Unwrapping the Castelli Secret by Caitlin Crews

Brunetti’s Secret Son by Maya Blake

The Secret to Marrying Marchesi by Amanda Cinelli

Demetriou Demands His Child by Kate Hewitt

Look out for more stories in the Secret Heirs of Billionaires series coming soon!

The Desert King’s Secret Heir

Annie West

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Growing up near the beach, ANNIE WEST spent lots of time observing tall, burnished lifeguards—early research! Now she spends her days fantasizing about gorgeous men and their love lives. Annie has been a reader all her life. She also loves travel, long walks, good company and great food. You can contact her at annie@annie-west.com or via PO Box 1041, Warners Bay, NSW 2282, Australia.

Books by Annie West

Mills & Boon Modern Romance

The Flaw in Raffaele’s Revenge

Seducing His Enemy’s Daughter

Damaso Claims His Heir

Imprisoned by a Vow

Captive in the Spotlight

Defying Her Desert Duty

One Night With Consequences

A Vow to Secure His Legacy

Seven Sexy Sins

The Sinner’s Marriage Redemption

Desert Vows

The Sheikh’s Princess Bride

The Sultan’s Harem Bride

At His Service

An Enticing Debt to Pay

Dark-Hearted Tycoons

Undone by His Touch

Visit the Author Profile page at

millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

This book is dedicated to the wonderful men in my family

across three generations:

all heroic in their own way.

What excellent role models for my heroes!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Secret Heirs of Billionaires

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

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘LET ME BE the first to congratulate you, Cousin. May you and your Princess be happy all your days.’

Hamid beamed with such goodwill Idris felt his own mouth kick up in a rare smile. They might not be close but Idris had missed his older cousin as they’d carved separate lives for themselves, Idris in Zahrat and Hamid as a UK-based academic.

‘Not my Princess yet, Hamid.’ He kept his voice soft, aware that, despite the chatter of a few hundred VIPs, there were plenty of ears eager for news of his impending nuptials.

Hamid’s eyes widened behind rimless glasses. ‘Have I put my foot in it? I’d heard—’

‘You heard correctly.’ Idris paused, tugging in a breath before it lengthened into a sigh. He had to conquer this sense of constraint whenever he thought of his upcoming marriage.

No one forced his hand. He was Sheikh Idris Baddour, supreme ruler of Zahrat, protector of the weak, defender of his nation. His word was law in his own country and, for that matter, here in his opulent London embassy.

Yet he hadn’t chosen marriage. It had chosen him—a necessary arrangement. To cement stability in his region. To ensure the line of succession. To prove that, despite his modern reformist ways, he respected the traditions of his people. So much rode on his wedding.

Change had been hard won in Zahrat. A willingness to conform in the matter of a suitable, dynastically necessary marriage would win over the last of the old guard who’d fretted over his reforms. They’d viewed him as an unseasoned pup when he’d taken over at just twenty-six. After four years they knew better. But there was no escaping the fact this wedding would achieve what strong leadership and diplomacy hadn’t.

‘It’s not official yet,’ he murmured to Hamid. ‘You know how slowly such negotiations proceed.’

‘You’re a lucky man. Princess Ghizlan is beautiful and intelligent. She’ll make you a perfect wife.’

Idris glanced to the woman holding court nearby. Resplendent in a blood-red evening gown that clung to a perfect hourglass figure, she was the stuff of male fantasy. Add her bred-in-the-bone understanding of Middle Eastern politics and her charming yet assured manner and he knew he was a lucky man.

Pity he didn’t feel like one.

Even the thought of acquainting himself with that lush body didn’t excite him.

What did that say about his libido?

Too many hours brokering peace negotiations with not one but two difficult neighbouring countries. Too many evenings strategising to push reform in a nation still catching up with the twenty-first century.

And before that too many shallow sexual encounters with women who were accommodating but unimportant.

‘Thank you, Hamid. I’m sure she will.’ As the daughter of a neighbouring ruler and a means to ensure long-term peace, Ghizlan would be invaluable. As the prospective mother of a brood of children she’d be priceless. Those children would ensure his sheikhdom wasn’t racked by the disruption it had faced when his uncle died without a son.

Idris told himself his lack of enthusiasm would evaporate once he and Ghizlan shared a bed. He tried to picture her there, her ebony hair spread on the pillow. But to his chagrin his mind inserted an image of hair the colour of a sunburst. Of curling locks soft as down.

‘You’ll have to come home for the ceremony. It will be good to have you there for a while instead of buried in this cold, grey place.’

Hamid smiled. ‘You’re biased. There’s much to be said for England.’

‘Of course there is. It’s an admirable country.’ Idris glanced around, reminding himself they might be overheard.

Hamid’s smile became a chuckle. ‘It’s got a lot going for it.’ He leaned even closer, his voice dropping further. ‘Including a very special woman. Someone I want you to meet.’

Idris felt his eyes widen. Hamid with a serious girlfriend? ‘She must be out of the ordinary.’

One thing the men in his family excelled at was avoiding commitment to women. He’d been a case in point until political necessity forced his hand. His father had been famous for sowing his wild oats, even after marriage. And their uncle, the previous Sheikh, had been too busy enjoying the charms of his mistresses to father a child with his long-suffering spouse.

‘She is. Enough to make me rethink my life.’

‘Another academic?’

‘Nothing so dull.’

Idris stared. Hamid lived for his research. That was why he’d been passed over for the throne when their uncle died. Everyone, Hamid included, acknowledged he was too absorbed in history to excel at running a nation.

‘Will I meet this paragon tonight?’

Hamid nodded, his eyes alight. ‘She’s just gone to freshen up before—ah, there she is.’ He gestured to the far end of the room. ‘Isn’t she lovely?’

Only a man besotted would expect him to identify an unknown woman in that crowd. Idris followed Hamid’s eager gaze. Was it the tall brunette in black? The svelte blonde in beads and diamonds? Surely not the woman with the braying laugh and the oversized rings flashing like beacons beneath the chandelier?

The crowd shifted and he caught a sliver of silk in softest green, skin as pale as milk and hair that shone like the sky at dawn, rose and gold together.

His pulse thudded once, hard enough to stall his breath. Low in his belly an unfamiliar sensation eddied. A sensation that made his nape prickle.

Then his view was blocked by a couple of men in dinner jackets.

‘Which one is she?’ His voice echoed strangely, no doubt due to the acoustics of the filled-to-capacity ballroom.

For a second he’d experienced something he hadn’t felt in years. A tug of attraction so strong he’d convinced himself it hadn’t been real, that imagination had turned a brief interlude into something almost...significant. No doubt because of the dark, relentlessly tough days that had followed. She’d been the one lover he’d had to put aside before his passion was spent. That explained the illusion she was different from the rest.

But the woman he’d known had had a cloud of vibrant curls, not that sleek, conformist chignon.

‘I can’t see her now. I’ll go and fetch her. Unless—’ Hamid’s smile turned conspiratorial ‘—you’d like a break from the formalities.’

Tradition decreed that the ruler received his guests on the raised royal dais, complete with a gilded, velvet-cushioned throne for formal audiences. Idris was about to say he’d wait here when something made him pause. How long since he’d allowed himself the luxury of doing something he wanted, not because it was his duty?

Idris’s eyes flicked to Ghizlan, easily holding her own with a minor royal and some politicians. As if sensing his regard she looked up, smiled slightly then turned back to her companions.

No doubt about it, she’d make a suitable queen—capable and helpful. Not clinging or needy. Not demanding his attention as too many ex-lovers had done.

Idris turned to Hamid. ‘Lead on, Cousin. I’m agog to meet this woman who’s captured your heart.’

They wove through the crowd till Hamid halted beside the woman in green. The woman with creamy skin and strawberry-blonde hair and a supple, delicate figure. Idris’s attention caught on the lustre of her dress, clinging to her hips and pert bottom.

He stilled, struck by a sensation of déjà vu so strong it eclipsed all else. She said something to his cousin in a soft, lilting voice.

A voice Idris knew.

He frowned, watching Hamid bend his head towards her, seeing her turn a little more so she was in profile.

The conversations around them became white noise, a buzz like swarming insects.

His vision telescoped.

Her lush lips.

Her neat nose.

Her slender, delicate throat.

Two facts hammered into his brain. He knew her, remembered her better than any of the multitude of women who’d once paraded in and out of his life.

And that strange feeling surging up from his gullet and choking his throat with bile was more than surprise or disbelief at the coincidence of meeting her again.

It was fury at the idea she belonged to Hamid.

* * *

‘Here he is at last. Arden, I’d like to present you to my cousin Idris, Sheikh of Zahrat.’

Arden widened her smile, determined not to be overawed by meeting her very first and no doubt last sheikh. Coming to this formal reception, surrounded by VIPs who oozed money and privilege, had already tested her nerves.

She turned, tilting her head to look up, and felt the world drop away.

His face was severely sculpted as if scored by desert winds. Yet there was beauty in those high cheekbones and his firm yet sensual mouth. His nose and jaw were honed and strong. The harsh angle of those beetling black brows intimidated. So did the wide flare of his nostrils, as if the Sheikh scented something unexpected.

Shock dragged at her, loosening her knees till her legs felt like rubber.

His eyes...

Dark as a midnight storm, those eyes fixed on her instinctive movement as she clutched at Hamid for support. Slowly they lifted again to clash with hers, disdain clear in that haughty stare.

A shuddering wave of disquiet rolled through her as she blinked up, telling herself it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.

Despite the frantic messages her body was sending her, she couldn’t know this man.

Yet her brain wouldn’t listen to reason. It told her it was him. The man who’d changed her life.

Heat seared from scalp to toe. Then just as quickly it vanished, leaving her so cold she wouldn’t be surprised to hear the crackle of ice forming along her bones, weighing her down.

Her grip on Hamid’s arm grew desperate as tiny spots formed and blurred before her eyes. She felt as if she’d slipped out of the real world and into an alternate reality. One where dreams did come true, but so distorted as to be almost unrecognisable.

It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. Yet her gaze dropped to his collarbone. Did he have a scar there?

Of course he didn’t. This man was tougher, far more daunting than Shakil. She’d bet he didn’t do easy, charming smiles. Instead he wore royal authority like a cloak.

Yet she could almost hear herself asking, Excuse me, Your Highness, would you mind undoing that exquisitely tailored suit and tie so I can check if you have a scar from a riding accident?

‘Arden, are you okay?’ Hamid’s voice was concerned, his hand warm as it closed over hers.

His touch jerked her back to reality. She slipped her hand from his arm and locked her wobbly knees.

Tonight had revealed, to her astonishment, that Hamid now thought of himself as more than a friend. She couldn’t let him labour under that illusion, no matter how grateful she was to him.

‘I’m...’ She cleared her throat, hesitating. What could she say? I’m reeling with shock? ‘I’ll be all right.’

Yet her gaze clung to that of the man towering before her as if he was some sort of miracle.

It was that realisation that snapped her back to reality. He wasn’t Shakil. If he had been Shakil, he’d be no miracle, just another of life’s tough lessons. A man who’d used her and tossed her aside.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness.’ Her voice sounded wispy but she persevered. ‘I hope you’re enjoying your stay in London.’

Belatedly she wondered if she was supposed to curtsey. Had she offended him? His flesh looked drawn too tight and she glimpsed the rigid line of a tendon standing proud in his neck. He looked ready for battle, not a society meet and greet.

For long seconds silence stretched, as if he didn’t want to acknowledge her. She felt her eyebrows pucker into a frown. Beside her Hamid’s head swung sharply towards the Sheikh.

‘Welcome to my embassy, Ms...’

That voice. He had the same voice.

‘Wills, Arden Wills.’ Hamid spoke since Arden’s voice had disappeared, sucked away by the tidal wave of horror that seized her lungs and stopped her breath.

‘Ms Wills.’ The Sheikh paused and she glimpsed what almost looked like confusion in those dark eyes, as if he wasn’t used to pronouncing such a commonplace name.

But Arden was too busy grappling with her own response to Hamid’s cousin. He looked and sounded exactly like Shakil. Or as Shakil would if he’d sloughed off his laid-back, live-for-the-moment attitude and aged a few years.

This man had a thinner face, which accentuated his superb bone structure. And his expression was grim, far harder than anything Shakil had ever worn. Shakil had been a lover not a fighter and this man looked, despite his western tailoring, as if he’d be at home on a warhorse, a scimitar in his hand as he galloped into battle.

Arden shivered, clammy palms skimmed her bare arms as she tried to ease the tension drawing gooseflesh there.

He said something. She saw his lips move, but there was a weird echoing in her head and she couldn’t make out his words.

She blinked, swaying forwards, stumbling and steadying herself, drawn unwillingly by his dark velvet gaze.

Hamid pulled her against his side. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have insisted you come tonight. Your condition is too delicate.’

Arden stiffened in his hold, dimly noting the Sheikh’s sharply indrawn breath. Hamid was a dear friend but he had no right to feel proprietorial. Besides, it was a long time since she’d craved any man’s touch.

‘I’m perfectly healthy,’ she murmured, trying to inject power into the words. The flu had knocked her but she was almost back to normal. Yet her recent illness provided a perfect explanation for her woozy head and unsteady legs.

She moved a half step away so he had to drop his arm. Gathering the shreds of her composure, she met the Sheikh’s midnight eyes again, instinctively fighting the awareness thundering through her, and the crazy idea she knew him. That wasn’t possible. Shakil had been a student, not a sheikh.

‘Thank you for the welcome, Your Highness. It’s a beautiful party.’ Yet she’d never wanted to leave anywhere with such urgency.

It felt as if he delved right into her thoughts with that unblinking regard. It took all her control not to shift under his scrutiny.

‘Are you sure you’re well, Ms Wills? You look unsteady on your feet.’

Her smile grew strained and she felt the tug of it as her face stiffened.

‘Thank you for your concern. It’s only tiredness after a long week.’ Heat flushed her cheeks at the realisation she’d actually come close to collapsing for the first time in her life. ‘I’m very sorry but I think it best if I leave. No, really, Hamid, I’m okay by myself.’

But Hamid would have none of that. Nothing would satisfy him but to see her home.

‘Idris doesn’t mind, do you, Cousin?’ He didn’t wait for an answer but went on. ‘I’ll at least see you back to the house then return.’

From the corner of her vision Arden registered the sharp lift of the Sheikh’s eyebrows, but she had more to worry about than whether she offended by leaving his party early.

Like how she could kindly but effectively stave off Hamid’s sudden romantic interest without straining their friendship.

Like how Sheikh Idris could be so uncannily like the man who’d torn her world apart.

And, most important of all, why it was that even after four years she felt sick with longing for the man who’d all but destroyed her.

* * *

A night without sleep did nothing for Arden’s equilibrium. The fact it was Sunday, the one day of the week she could sleep in instead of heading in to work at the florist’s shop, should have been a welcome pleasure. Instead she longed for the organised chaos of her workday race to get out the door.

Anything to distract from the worries that had descended last night. And worse, the memories, the longings that had haunted each sleepless hour.

Life had taught her the dangers of sexual desire, and worse, of falling in love. Of believing she was special to someone.

For four years she’d known she’d been a naïve fool. Brutal reality had proven it. Yet that hadn’t stopped the restlessness, the yearning that slammed into her like a runaway truck the moment she’d looked up into the eyes of Sheikh Idris of Zahrat.

Even now, in the thin light of morning, part of her was convinced he was Shakil. A Shakil who’d perhaps suffered a head injury and forgotten her, like a hero in an old movie with convenient amnesia. A Shakil who’d spent years searching desperately for her, ignoring all other women in his quest to find her.

Sure. And her fairy godmother was due any minute, complete with magic wand and a pumpkin carriage.

Shakil could have found her if he’d wanted. She hadn’t lied about her identity.

He’d taken pleasure in seducing a gullible young Englishwoman, starry-eyed and innocent, on her first overseas vacation.

Arden shivered and hunched her shoulders, rubbing her hands up her arms.

She was not giving in to fantasy. She’d done with that years ago. As for the Sheikh looking like Shakil—it was wishful thinking. Wasn’t it Hamid’s almost familiar looks that had drawn her to him that day at the British Museum? That and his kind smile and the earnest, self-effacing way he spoke to her about the elaborately beautiful perfume bottles and jewellery at the special exhibition of Zahrati antiquities.

He’d reminded her of Shakil. A quieter, more reserved Shakil. So was it any wonder his cousin the Sheikh had a similar effect? Maybe crisp dark hair, chiselled features and broad shoulders were common traits among the men of their country.

Right now she’d had enough of Zahrati men to last a lifetime. Even Hamid, who’d suddenly turned from friend and landlord to would-be boyfriend. When had that happened? How had she not seen it coming?

Setting her jaw, Arden grabbed an old pullover and shrugged it on, then cautiously opened the cleaning cupboard, careful not to make too much noise. At least, as the only one awake, she had time to ponder what to do about Hamid and his sudden possessiveness.

Grabbing a cloth and the brass polish, she unlatched the front door and stepped outside, pulling it to behind her. She always thought better when she worked. Rubbing the brass door knocker and letter box would be a start.

But she hadn’t begun when she heard footsteps descend to the pavement from the main house door above her basement flat. A man’s steps. Arden took the lid off the polish and concentrated on swiping some across the door knocker. She should have waited till she was sure Hamid had left. But she’d felt claustrophobic, cooped up inside with her whirling thoughts.

‘Arden.’ The voice, low and soft as smoke, wafted around her, encircling like an embrace.

She blinked and stared at the glossy black paint on the door a few inches from her nose. She was imagining it. She’d been thinking of Shakil all night and—

Footsteps sounded on the steps leading down to the tiny courtyard in front of her basement home.

She stiffened, her shoulders inching high. This wasn’t imagination. This was real.

Arden swung around and the tin of polish clattered to the flagstones.

CHAPTER TWO

HUGE EYES FIXED on him. Eyes as bright as the precious aquamarines in his royal treasury. Eyes the clear green-blue of the sea off the coast of Zahrat.

How often through the years had he dreamed of those remarkable eyes? Of hair like spun rose gold, falling in silken waves across creamy shoulders.

For a second Idris could only stare. He’d been prepared for this meeting. He’d cancelled breakfast with Ghizlan and their respective ambassadors to come here. Yet the abrupt surge of hunger as he watched Arden Wills mocked the belief he was in command of this situation.

Where was his self-control? How could he lust after a woman who belonged to someone else?

To his own cousin?

Where was his sense, coming here when he should be with the woman to whom he was about to pledge his life?

Idris didn’t do impulsive any more. Or self-centred. Not for years. Yet he’d been both, seeking out this woman to confirm for himself what Hamid had implied last night—that they lived together.

A ripple of anger snaked through him, growing to gut-wrenching revulsion at the idea of her with his cousin.

‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice was husky, evoking long ago memories of her crying out his name in ecstasy. Of her beguiling, artless passion. Of how she’d made him feel for a short time, like someone other than the carefree, self-absorbed youth he’d been.

How could such ancient memories feel so fresh? So appallingly seductive?

It had only been a holiday romance, short-term fun such as he’d had numerous times. Why did it feel different?

Because it had been different. For the first time ever he’d planned to extend a casual affair. He hadn’t been ready to leave her.

‘Hamid’s away.’ Was that provocative tilt of her jaw deliberate, or as unconscious as the way her fingers threaded together?

Satisfaction stirred. It was beneath him perhaps, but reassuring to discover he wasn’t the only one on edge. Idris was used to being sure of his direction, always in command. Doubt was foreign to him.

‘I didn’t come here to see Hamid.’

Those eyes grew huge in a face that looked even milkier than before. Hamid had talked of her being delicate. Was that code for pregnant? Was that why she looked like a puff of wind would knock her over?

Jealousy, a growling caged beast, circled in his belly. It didn’t matter that he had no right to feel it. Idris had stopped, somewhere around four this morning, trying to tell himself he felt nothing for Arden Wills. He was a pragmatist. The fact was he did feel. He was here to sort out why and then, with clinical precision, to put an end to it.

‘You should sit. You don’t look well.’

‘I’m perfectly fine.’ She crossed her arms, making Idris aware of the swell of plump breasts under her shapeless pullover. Had her breasts always been like that? He remembered them as delectable, but—

‘I’m up here.’ A palm waved in front of his eyes and, for the first time he could recall, Idris felt embarrassment at being caught ogling. Heat flushed his face. It wasn’t a sensation to which he was accustomed.

When he lifted his gaze he saw a matching bright pink stain on her cheeks. Annoyance? Embarrassment? Or something akin to the untimely, unwanted attraction he couldn’t quash?

‘I came to see you.’ His voice dropped to a primal, darkly possessive note he couldn’t hide.

‘Me?’ Now she was on the back foot and, ridiculously, it pleased Idris. He hated the sensation, since last night, that he careered out of control.

‘You. Shall we go inside?’

Her folded arms dropped, spreading out a little from her body, almost as if she’d bar his entry to the house. ‘No. We can speak here.’

Idris scowled. ‘Surely even in Britain one invites guests inside?’

Her mouth tightened but she remained defiant. ‘I prefer to stay outside. It’s...better.’ She took a step back. To prevent him hauling the door open?

Idris felt his head snap back as if he’d been slapped. Did she have so little faith in his chivalry? Was she really afraid to be alone with him?

He was torn between delight at the idea he wasn’t the only one feeling the burn of rekindled lust and horror that his feelings were reciprocated and therefore harder to quell.

‘I have a key to Hamid’s house, if you’d like me to let you in upstairs. Since you’re his cousin, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.’

Idris jerked his gaze up to the glossy black door a level above them, and then to the one behind Arden, noting for the first time the brass street number with a small but significant letter A beside it. The relief washing through him was palpable.

‘You live in a basement flat? You don’t live together?’

She drew herself up till she almost topped his shoulder. Idris told himself the movement wasn’t endearing, yet he felt a little corkscrewing twist of pleasure that punctured his satisfaction in an instant.

‘We don’t live together. Hamid is my landlord.’

Yet that didn’t mean they weren’t lovers. For all Hamid’s devotion to history and old books, he, like every other male in their family, had a penchant for a pretty face and a delectable female body. Besides, there’d been no mistaking Hamid’s proprietorial attitude last night, or his meaning when he’d spoken about a special woman in his life.

‘It’s you I came to see.’

She shook her head and a froth of hair swung around her, the colour of the desert at sunrise. Last night he’d been thrown by the smoothly conventional way she’d worn it. This was the woman he recalled, with a riot of loose curls that made his palms itch to feel all that silken softness.

‘Why?’

Was she being deliberately obtuse?

‘Perhaps to talk over old times?’

There was a thud as she fell back against the solid door, her face a study in shock.

‘It is you! You were at Santorini.’

Idris stared. ‘You thought I was someone else? You didn’t remember me?’

It was impossible. He might have had more lovers than he could remember, but the idea Arden Wills had forgotten him was inconceivable.

Especially when his recall of her was disturbingly detailed. After four years he still remembered the little snuffling sigh she made in her sleep as she snuggled, naked, against him. The feel of her slick, untried body when they’d made love the first time returned to him time and again in his dreams. He’d almost exploded disgracefully early at the sheer erotic enticement of her delicate, tight body and the knowledge he was the first man to introduce her to ecstasy. Doing his duty and walking away from her had been amazingly difficult.

‘I thought...’ She shook her head, frowning. ‘How can you be a sheikh? You were a student.’

‘Ex-student—I’d just finished a graduate degree in the States when we met. As for becoming Sheikh—’ he shrugged ‘—my uncle died. It was his wish that I succeed him and that wish was ratified soon after his death.’

It sounded easy, but the reality had been anything but. He was a different man to the one he’d been four years ago. Responsibility for a country that had suffered so long because of its ruler’s neglect had transformed him. He carried the burden of changing his homeland into one ready to face the future instead of dwelling on the past. This morning was the first time in years he’d carved time to do something simply because he wished it. His secretary’s disbelieving look when he’d altered his schedule had spoken volumes.

Idris took a step closer, his nostrils flaring at the astringent smell of metal polish and something more delicate that tickled his memory—the scent of orange blossom.

‘Come, let’s take this conversation indoors where we can—’

‘No!’ Her eyes were round as saucers and if it weren’t ridiculous he’d say she was shaking.

That brought him up short. He might be supreme ruler of his kingdom and an emerging force in regional politics, but he wasn’t the sort of man who deliberately intimidated women.

‘I have nothing to say to you, Your Highness.’ She all but sneered his title and Idris scowled. It hit him suddenly that, for all they’d shared, there was a lot he’d never learned about her.

‘You have a problem with royalty?’

She tossed her head back. He couldn’t remember her being feisty before, just warm and eager for him. ‘I have a problem with men who lie about who they are.’

Idris’s hands clenched and his jaw hardened. He wasn’t used to having his will crossed, much less his honour impugned. The fact they were having this conversation metres from a public footpath, albeit in a quiet square, incensed him.

His fingers itched with the urge to haul this spitfire of a woman into his arms and barge through the door into her private domain.

Except he knew in the most primitive, instinctive part of his brain that if he touched her he was in danger of unleashing something far better left alone.

He’d come here to satisfy his curiosity and put an end, somehow, to the nagging sense of unfinished business between them.

He was about to become betrothed to a beautiful, diplomatically desirable princess. Their match was eagerly awaited by both nations. Getting involved in any way with Arden Wills would be a mistake of enormous proportions. Giving in to the dark urge to lay hands on her and remind her how it had been between them with a short, satisfying lesson in physical compatibility would be madness.

And so tempting.

‘I never lied,’ he said through gritted teeth.

Dark gold eyebrows rose in a deliberately offensive show of disbelief that stirred the anger in his belly.

‘No? So you’re telling me you’re not Sheikh Idris? Your name is actually Shakil?’

‘Ah.’ He’d forgotten that.

‘Yes, ah!’ She made it an accusation, looking down that little nose of hers as if he were some lowlife instead of a paragon of duty and honour. No one had ever looked at him that way.

‘I used Shakil when we met because—’

‘Because you didn’t want me finding you again.’ The words spat out like poisoned darts. ‘You had no intention of following through on that promise to meet again, did you? You’d already wiped your hands of me.’

‘You accuse me of lying?’ No man, or woman, for that matter, had ever doubted his word.

Arden crossed her arms over her chest and tipped her chin up in a supercilious expression as full of hauteur as that of any blue-blooded princess. ‘If the shoe fits.’

Idris took a step closer before his brain kicked into gear and screamed a warning. Ire overcame the seductive tug of that orange blossom scent. Caution disappeared on the crisp breeze eddying down from street level.

‘Shakil was my family nickname. Ask Hamid.’ It meant handsome and was one he discouraged, but back then it had been a handy pseudonym. He heaved a deep breath, telling himself he didn’t care that the movement reduced the distance between them. Or that his nostrils flared as the scent of warm female flesh mingled with the fragrance of orange blossom. ‘I used Shakil on vacation to avoid being recognised. There’d been a lot of media speculation about me and I wanted to be incognito for a while. I was Shakil to everyone I met on that trip. Not just you.’

He’d grown tired of people clamouring for attention because of his royal ties and wealth. Merging into the holiday throng in Greece as Shakil had been a delicious freedom. And it had been a heady delight knowing that when pretty little Arden had smiled at him in that bar on Santorini there’d been stars, not dollar signs in her eyes. She saw simply the man, not the shadow of his family connections and how she might benefit from them.

Was it any wonder he remembered their affair as special?

Still she didn’t look convinced.

‘As for not turning up at the rendezvous that last afternoon—you can hardly hold me to account. You didn’t show.’

A phone call had hauled him out of Arden’s bed and back to the upmarket hotel room where he hadn’t spent a single night for the week since he’d met her. All he’d known at first was something important had happened and he needed privacy to talk with his uncle’s closest advisers. It was only when he was alone in his hotel that he’d learned about his uncle’s heart attack, the fact his life hung by a thread, and that he’d named Idris his heir.

There’d been no question of returning to the rendezvous with Arden—three o’clock by the church—even if she had decided to accept his invitation to an extended vacation in Paris. There’d been no question of Paris or a lover, not when he was urgently needed at home.

And if he’d been fleetingly disappointed that she’d thought better of accepting his offer, he’d known it made things easier given the enormity of what he faced. He had enough experience of clinging women to know severing ties could be tiresome.

‘You went to the church to meet me?’ Her words held a breathless quality and there was something in her eyes he couldn’t read.

‘I had to fly home urgently. I sent someone instead.’

There was a tiny thud as her head rocked back against the door. Her eyes closed and her mouth twisted. Idris frowned at what looked like pain on her features.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Fine.’ Finally she opened her eyes. ‘Absolutely fine.’

She didn’t look it. She looked... He couldn’t put a name to that expression, yet he felt an echo of it slap him hard in the chest.

‘He didn’t wait long.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Your friend. He didn’t stay long.’

‘You’re saying you did go to the rendezvous?’ To say goodbye or accept his offer of a longer affair? For a moment Idris wondered, until he reminded himself it was history, done and dusted.

‘I was late.’

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why. Second thoughts? A last-minute dash? He pictured her running through the narrow streets of Thera, between the whitewashed buildings she’d so enjoyed exploring. Her hair would be down like now, and her summer skirt floating around those lissom legs.

He chose to say nothing. What was there to say now, after four years? What was done was done.

Except, remarkably, it seemed that what they’d shared in that sultry week in Santorini hadn’t quite ended.

Arden Wills wasn’t dressed to seduce. Her dark green pullover swam on her, just hinting at the curves beneath. Her old jeans were frayed and there was a patch on one knee. Her face was free of make-up. Yet her hair rippled around her like a halo on a Pre-Raphaelite model, beguiling and exotic. She made him want to forget duty, forget necessity, and tug her to him so she fitted between his thighs, cradling him with her hips.

‘So, what is it you want?’

‘Pardon?’ Idris shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets as he realised the direction his thoughts wandered. To whether she wore a bra beneath that bulky pullover and whether her pale skin was as petal-soft as he recalled.

‘Why did you come here, if not to see your cousin?’ She paused, her lips tightening. ‘Surely not to catch up on old times.’ Her breathing altered, drew short and jerky, as if she, too, remembered how it had been between them all those years ago.

‘Why not?’ Idris lifted his shoulders in a show of insouciance he was far from feeling. ‘I was...curious about you. It’s been, what? Four years?’ As if he didn’t know precisely how long it had been. His reign as Sheikh of Zahrat dated from that week. ‘There have been changes in both our lives.’

Her face stilled, her eyes darting to the side almost furtively, as if tempted to look behind her but thinking better of it.

Instantly Idris was on alert.

He couldn’t read that look but instinct warned him something was afoot. Something she hid from him. His gaze lifted to the gleaming paint of the door behind her. What could she possibly feel the need to hide? She wasn’t living in squalor, not here. Something sordid? A lover?

Adrenalin surged, coiling his tension tighter. He took another half step forward, only stopping when a small palm flattened against his chest. He felt the imprint of it through the fine wool of his suit. His skin tingled where she touched as if abraded. As if she’d scraped sharp nails over his bare flesh.

Idris sucked in oxygen and forced himself not to react.

‘I don’t want you here.’ Those eyes were so huge in her face he felt he could dive into them.

His hand covered hers and fire danced across his skin before burrowing deep inside. A judder of potent sexual hunger tightened his groin.

‘You need to say that as if you mean it.’

The scent of her was so vivid he could almost taste her on his tongue. Sweet with a telltale hint of warm musk. No woman before or since had smelled like Arden Wills. How had he forgotten that?

‘I do mean it.’ Yet her voice had a soft, wondering quality that reminded him of the night they’d shared their bodies that first time. Her eyes had shone with something like awe. She’d looked at him as if he were a glorious deity opening the secrets of the heavens, until her eyes clouded in ecstasy and she’d shattered in a climax so powerful it had hauled him over the edge.

His thumb stroked the back of her hand and she quivered. Her hand was small but strong. He recalled how, as her confidence grew, she’d been as demanding as he, exploring, stroking, driving him to the brink with her generous passion.

She’d driven him to flout his self-imposed rules and invite her to France on holiday with him, because a week together hadn’t been enough.

Idris hauled himself back to the present. To the slant of sunlight burnishing her hair and the distant sound of a car. London. His betrothal. The peace treaty between his nation and Ghizlan’s.

He shouldn’t be here. His life was about duty, control and careful, deliberate decision-making. There was no room for spur-of-the-moment distractions.

In another second he’d step away.

But first he needed her to acknowledge what was between them. Even after all this time. Idris couldn’t countenance the idea that he alone burned. Pride demanded proof that she felt this undercurrent of hunger. This electricity simmering and snapping in the air. The charge of heat where they touched.

‘You need to leave. Don’t make me scream for help.’ Her head tipped back against the door, as if to increase the distance between them, yet her touch betrayed her. Her hand had slipped under his jacket lapel, fingers clutching his shirt. Heat poured into him from her touch, spreading to fill his chest.

He forced his hand to his side, conquering the impulse to haul her close.

‘I said, leave me alone.’ Her breath was warm on his chin and his thoughts whirled as he imagined her sweet breath on other parts of his body. He needed a moment to curb his arousal.

Here, on a London street!

Anger flared. At this woman. At his unruly body that for the first time in memory didn’t obey.

* * *

‘It’s obviously escaped your notice, but I’m not touching you. You’re the one touching me.’

His voice, crisp with challenge, nevertheless held that once heard and never forgotten deep note that resonated right to her core.

Arden blinked, dragging her gaze from his mouth and solid, scrupulously shaved jaw to his chest.

Heat scorched her cheeks at the sight of her hand clutching him, as if she couldn’t bear to let him go. As if, even now, his desertion couldn’t kill the slavish passion she’d felt for him.

Though, if he told the truth, he hadn’t deserted her.

It was too much to take in.

Too terrible to think that perhaps he hadn’t betrayed her as she’d believed.

Words trembled on her tongue, the truth she hadn’t been able to share with this man for four years. But caution held her back.

She needed time alone to sort out what it meant if he hadn’t deserted her. Time away from his piercing dark gaze and hot body that reduced her hard won defences to ash.

Arden dragged her hand away, pressing it against the solid door behind her. That was what she needed. To remember where they were and how much was at stake. She couldn’t risk revealing too much.

‘You need to go. This isn’t right.’ A weight lodged on her chest, making her breathless so she could only manage short sentences.

Something that might have been anger flickered across his face. Yet still he didn’t shift.

Desperation coiled tight in her belly. A desperation fuelled by the urge to spill everything to him, here and now, as if by doing so all her burdens would be lifted.

But Arden had spent a lifetime learning self-reliance. The last years had reinforced that. She carried her burdens alone.

‘We’ve both moved on, Shakil.’ It was as if she evoked the past with that one single word. ‘Idris,’ she amended quickly.

‘Moved on where? To Hamid?’ His voice was a low growl that sent fear feathering her skin. His head lowered and she felt tension come off his big frame in waves. ‘You’re afraid your lover will see us together?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ It came out as a hiss of distress. It had been bad enough realising last night that Hamid now saw himself as far more than a friend.

‘Ridiculous?’ Idris’s eyes narrowed to ebony slits. Those carved cheekbones loomed threateningly high as his face drew taut. ‘You call me ridiculous?’

Fire branded her neck as hard fingers closed around her nape, moulding to skin turned feverish at his touch.

Arden swiped her suddenly arid mouth with her tongue, searching for words to stop the fury in that glittering gaze.

But his touch didn’t feel like anger. That was the problem. She could have withstood it if it did.

Arden trembled as the hand at her neck shifted and long fingers speared her hair, spreading over her scalp, massaging. Shivers of delight rippled through her and her eyelids hovered, weighted, at half mast. Tendrils of fire cascaded from her scalp down her spine and around to her breasts where her nipples peaked.

She swallowed convulsively and forced herself to straighten away from the door, even though it meant brushing against him.

‘I didn’t mean—’

‘Of course you did.’ His mouth twisted. ‘You’re right. It is ridiculous. Impossible and inconvenient...and inevitable.’

Then, while Arden was still absorbing his words, his head lowered.

His mouth on hers was just as she remembered. A huge, tearing fullness welled in her chest as his lips shaped hers, not hard and punishing as she’d expected from the glint in his eyes, but gentle, questing. As if seeking an answer to a question she hadn’t heard.

Shakil. The taste of him burst on her, rich and delicious. It was the one sense memory she hadn’t been able to recall in the years since he’d left her. Now it filled her, evocative, masculine and, she feared, potently addictive. For her head was lolling back, lips open to allow him access.

Somehow her hands had crept up to brace on his chest. The steady thrum of his heart was a reassuring counterpoint to her sense of disorientation.

His other hand slipped around her waist, pulling her against a body that was all hard power, making her feel soft and feminine in ways she’d almost forgotten.

And still that kiss. No longer quite as gentle. Arden heard a guttural sound of approval as her tongue met his in a foray into pure pleasure.

He shifted and delight filled her as her nipples grazed his torso. She moved closer, absorbed in heady, oh-so-familiar delight, till a long hard ridge pressed against her belly.

Arden’s eyes snapped open and she saw his eyes had narrowed to slits of dark fire. Then, over his shoulder, high up at street level, came a burst of light, a glint of sunlight off something. It was enough, just, to bring her back to reality.

‘No.’ No one heard her protest since their lips were locked.

She had to shove with all her might for him to lift his head, blinking as if unable to focus. That might have made her feel better but for the realisation that just five minutes in this man’s company had obliterated every defence she’d spent years constructing.

‘No,’ she gasped. That full feeling behind her breastbone turned to pain. ‘This is wrong. We can’t...’

She didn’t need to go on. Sheikh Idris of Zahrat agreed completely. It was there in the dawning horror sharpening his features and the unsteady hand that swiped his face. He shook his head as if wondering what he was doing.

Nor did Arden need to shove him again. One swift pace backwards on those long legs took him almost to the base of the area steps and left her feeling appallingly alone.

Chest pumping, Arden stared at the dark-gold face of the man she’d once adored. The man who now looked at her as if she were his personal nightmare.

Desperate, she put her palms to the door behind her, needing its support.

Despite it all, the anger, hurt and betrayal that had shaped her life for four years, she’d harboured a hope that if they met again he’d admit he’d made a terrible mistake in leaving. That he’d missed her, wanted her, as she’d missed and wanted him.

In her dreams he’d never looked at her with horror.

Pain lanced her chest and kept going right down through her womb.

With a choking gasp of distress she whirled around, hauled the door open and slipped into her sanctuary. Her hands shook so much it took for ever to bolt and latch the door. When it was done Arden put her back to it and slid down to sit on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees as silent sobs filled her.

CHAPTER THREE

‘YOUR HIGHNESS, IF I may?’

Idris looked up from the papers on the ambassador’s desk. His aide, Ashar, stood in the doorway, expression wooden. That, Idris had learned in the turbulent first few years of his rule, was a sure sign of trouble.

Please, not another delay with the combined peace and trade treaty. Ghizlan’s father might be eager to cement a dynastic bond with Idris but he wasn’t past trying to wheedle more concessions before the betrothal was announced.

Idris turned to the ambassador, who, ever the diplomat, was already standing. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Highness, I’ll leave you to check for news on that US investment project.’

Idris nodded. ‘That would be useful, thank you.’

When the ambassador had left, Ashar entered the room, closing the door behind him. Silently he passed a computer tablet across the desk. Bold black lettering filled the screen.

Off the Leash in London, Sheikh Tastes Local Delicacies.

Beneath the headline was a photo. A close-up of Idris locked in an embrace with Arden Wills, her hair a riot of curls against the black of her front door.

The air rushed from his lungs as an unseen punch slammed a sickening blow into his midsection.

Damn it. Hadn’t he known it was a mistake, going to her house? Hadn’t it defied logic? Yet when she’d told him to leave, what had he done? Had he behaved like the sane, prudent man he was and returned to his embassy? No, he’d reacted like...like...

Words failed.

Worse was the fact that, facing a nightmare public debacle, he had total recall of her sweet mouth and her soft body moulding to his.

‘There’s more.’

Of course there was. It was the way of the world that you slaved twenty hours a day for your country and the first time in four years you did something utterly selfish, utterly incomprehensible, the press was there to turn a molehill into a mountain.

He sighed and forked his hand through his hair. ‘Let me guess. Princess Ghizlan.’

He scrolled to the next page and the next headline.

Two-Timing Sheikh Keeps Fiancée and Lover in Same City.

Idris swore long and low. There was a photo of him and Ghizlan at the embassy reception. Beside it was one of him with Arden. His hand wrapped around her neck, pulling her to him, and her eyes were closed, those plump lips open, as if eager for his kiss. As if she hadn’t just told him to take a hike.

Fire shot from his belly to his groin. Even now, with all hell about to break loose, his body was in thrall to the Englishwoman he should have forgotten four years ago. Instead he remembered it all. She’d been ardent, so deliciously honest and real. Her desire had been for him, not his wealth or connections. Together they’d created a magic he’d craved more of, though brutal logic said it must eventually burn out. Passion always did. That was how it always was for the men in his family, how it was for him—lust and desire, never anything more permanent.

He shoved the tablet across the table and shot to his feet, stalking away from the desk.

Of all the impossible timing. This was the worst. For his country, and for Ghizlan’s.

Ghizlan! He’d put her in an appalling situation.

‘Get me the Princess on the phone.’ He spun around. ‘No. Contact her aide and ask for a meeting. I’ll come to her hotel immediately.’

Ashar didn’t move. ‘There’s more.’

‘More? How could there be more? There was nothing else. That—’ he gestured to the photo of him hauling Arden into his arms ‘—is the sum total of what happened.’

His jaw was so rigid it felt as if it might shatter. Self-contempt swamped him.

How often had he told himself he was better than his uncle, the old Sheikh, who’d frittered his time and energy on endless lovers instead of governing? Or Idris’s father, whose philandering destroyed his family and any respect he might have garnered from the people?

Idris had taken pride in devoting himself to his people, putting duty before pleasure. His planned marriage to Ghizlan was for the good of both nations. He’d modelled himself on the one completely honourable man in his family, his grandfather. The old man had been the sole exception in six generations to the rule that men in his family couldn’t love. Idris didn’t expect a miracle—to love one woman all his life like his grandfather had. But he aimed at least to be loyal to his wife. A great start he’d made on that!

‘There’s something you should see before you talk to the Princess.’

Ashar’s expression was as grave as on the day Idris had returned home to find his uncle on his deathbed.

Idris put out his hand for the tablet. ‘Show me.’

Ashar scrolled to another page, then passed it to him, half turning away as he did so.

Idris frowned. It felt almost as if Ashar was trying to give him privacy. The notion was laughable. His aide knew as many diplomatic and royal secrets as he did. More probably.

Then Idris looked down and felt the floor buckle beneath his feet.

Royal Baby Secret. Which Cousin Did Arden Seduce?

This time there were three photos. One of his cousin Hamid entering college with a briefcase in his hand. One of Idris in traditional robes, taken at some public event.

And one of Arden Wills holding a toddler in her arms.

Idris felt his eyes bulge as he took in the details. Arden’s attention was on the child throwing bread to some ducks. A child whose face was golden, in contrast with her ivory and rose features. A child with glossy black hair and dark eyes.

A child with a remarkable resemblance to Idris at that age.

Or his cousin.

Idris tried to read the words beneath the photos but they blurred into lines of swarming black ants. He blinked and ordered himself to focus, but his eyes were drawn to that telling photo. Arden smiling radiantly at a child who, Idris would bet his sword arm, belonged to the royal family of Zahrat.

Sensation bombarded him and he had to brace his feet so as not to collapse back into the leather chair.

How old was the child? He knew nothing of babies. Two? Three?

Could it be his?

Shock scattered his thoughts. He should be planning an appropriate public response, deliberating on the fallout and talking to his almost-fiancée.

Instead he stared at the photo with something like possessiveness.

He was marrying partly to secure an heir but becoming a father was a political necessity, not a heartfelt desire. His own father had been distant and Idris knew little about good father-child relationships. He’d assumed his wife would take the lead in child-rearing.

Yet, looking into the laughing face of a child that might be his, Idris was gripped by a surge of protectiveness he’d never before experienced. This could be his son or daughter. The idea slammed into him like a physical blow, stealing his breath and obliterating any illusion of disinterest.

‘Boy or girl?’

‘A boy. She named him Dawud.’ Not an English name then. There was obvious significance in that.

‘Dawud.’ An unseen cord tugged at his heart, making it thud faster.

Why hadn’t she contacted Idris? Why keep his existence a secret? Anger stirred amidst the glowing embers of softer emotion.

Unless he’s not yours.

Remember Hamid last night, his ‘someone special’. Arden was living under his roof.

Yet if Hamid was the father, why not claim the child as his own? Hamid might have inherited the family practice of sowing his wild oats, but he had a serious side. He wouldn’t shirk responsibility, especially if he cared for Arden as he seemed to.

Idris stared at the photo, trying to read the truth in the curve of the child’s chubby cheek and wide smile.

That was when he realised his hand was shaking. And the feeling snaking through his belly wasn’t mere curiosity but something perilously close to jealousy. At the thought of Hamid and Arden.

Idris dropped the tablet onto the desk and scrubbed a hand over his face.

Did he want the scandal of an illegitimate child? A child whose first, vital years he’d missed?

He’d have to be crazy.

His phone was in his hand before he realised. He called Hamid’s number and looked up, surprised, to see the sun still streaming through the high sash windows. It felt as if time had galloped since Ashar had entered the room.

No answer from Hamid, just the message bank. It took far too long for Idris to remember his cousin mentioning an early flight to an academic conference in Canada. He was probably in the air, absorbed in one of his beloved journal articles.

Idris swung around to Ashar. ‘Anything else?’

Ashar’s lips twitched in what might in another man have edged towards a smile. ‘That’s not enough?’

‘More than enough.’ Scandal in London and no doubt at home, as well as in Ghizlan’s country. A betrothal contract about to be signed, a peace treaty on the table and a child who might be his.

And, simmering beneath it all, the taste he hadn’t been able to banish from his memory. The sweet taste of Arden Wills, sabotaging his ability to concentrate.

‘Get me the Princess’s suite on the line. And send a security detail to my cousin’s house.’

‘To keep the press back? They’ll already be there in droves.’

‘To observe and report back. I want to know what’s going on.’

Whether the child was his cousin’s or his own, Idris had a responsibility to protect mother and child from the notoriously intrusive paparazzi. At least till he sorted out the truth.

‘And find out what time my cousin’s flight touches down in Canada. I want to talk to him as soon as he lands. Get someone to meet the flight.’

* * *

Arden ignored the pounding on the front door, turning up the television so Dawud could hear the music of his favourite children’s programme. He sat enthralled, bouncing while he clapped his hands in time with the music.

When the reporters had descended on the house he’d cried, awakened from his nap by the hubbub of voices and the constant noise of the phone and knocking at the front door. Arden felt wobbly with frustrated outrage because even now they hadn’t left.

She’d been more than reasonable. She’d gone to the door and asked politely for some privacy. She’d given a ‘no comment’ response to their frenzy of questions and faced their clicking cameras, giving them the pictures they wanted.

But it hadn’t been enough. They’d clamoured to see Dawud. They’d even known his name. That was when anger had turned ice-cold, freezing her from the inside out.

She wouldn’t let those vultures near her precious boy. They’d mobbed her, trying to follow her into her basement flat. Terror had grabbed her as she slammed the door shut, her hands slick with sweat.

She’d turned to find Dawud watching, eyes huge and bottom lip trembling, as the noise echoed through their little home.

There had to be a way out of this. Somewhere to escape. But Hamid was overseas and her friends had no more resources than she did. Certainly not enough to spirit her and Dawud away.

A shudder racked her. She needed to find somewhere safe till this died down. How she was going to do that when she was due at work tomorrow she had no idea. Would the reporters hound her at the shop, or mob Dawud’s nursery?

Probably both. Her stomach roiled and nausea stirred.

She’d known she shouldn’t have gone to that embassy reception. Not because she’d suspected for a moment she’d see Shakil... Idris as he now was. But because it was pure weakness to give in to her curiosity about his country. Look where it had got her.

It’s not your fault, it’s his. He was the one who kissed you. He was the one who wouldn’t leave.

Yet, if she were truthful, those moments in his arms had been magic, as if—

A sharp knock sounded on the front door. That was when Arden suddenly realised how quiet it had grown. As if the crowd of reporters had left.

She didn’t believe it for an instant. It was a trick to lure her out, preferably with Dawud.

Arden smiled at her son as he looked up at her, singing the simple lyrics they often sang together. She hunkered down and cuddled him, joining in.

But the rapping on the door started again. Peremptory. Unavoidable.

Kissing Dawud’s head, she got up and walked softly into the tiny entrance hall, closing the door behind her. The letter box flap opened. She hadn’t thought of that. She was just wondering what she could use to stick it closed when she heard a man’s voice. A deep, assured voice that had featured in her dreams far too often in the last four years.

‘Arden. Open the door. I’m here to help.’

Her feet glued to the floor. She was torn between the offer of help and the knowledge that this was the man who’d brought disaster crashing down on them.

And the fact that, despite a sleepless night, she was no closer to knowing if she wanted him in Dawud’s life.

As if you’ve got a choice now.

In the background she heard a rising murmur of voices, presumably from the paparazzi. Yet he didn’t speak again. Perhaps because he was used to minions running to obey his every whim. Yet she understood how much courage it took to stand there alone, with a mob of press recording his every move.

And he’d come to help.

She reached out and unlatched the door, staying behind it as she swung it open just wide enough for him to enter.

Swiftly he bolted the door then turned.

Idris. He was definitely Sheikh Idris now. There was no hint of Shakil, the laughing, passionate lover she’d known in Santorini. This man’s face was a symphony in sombre beauty, lines carving the corners of his mouth, ebony eyebrows straight and serious.

‘You’re all right? Both of you?’

Arden nodded. To her dismay her mouth crumpled. Until now she’d been buoyed by fury and indignation. But one hint of concern and she felt a great shudder pass through her. She hadn’t realised before how her anger had masked terror.

‘Arden.’ He reached out as if to take her arm then stopped. His mouth flattened and he dropped his hand.

‘We’re okay.’ Her voice was husky. She told herself she’d react this way to sympathy from anyone after facing the press onslaught. It had nothing to do with the concern in his dark eyes. Yet that look ignited a new warmth in her frozen body.

Finally her brain engaged and she frowned.

‘You shouldn’t have come. You’ve made it a hundred times worse. What were you thinking?’

His eyebrows rose in astonishment. Clearly he wasn’t used to anyone questioning his actions.

‘It can’t get any worse. Not after the photos they’ve already got.’ He folded his arms over his dark suit, for all the world like a corporate raider contemplating a run on his stocks, not a Middle Eastern potentate. Surely sheikhs wore long robes and headscarves?

‘But now they’ve seen you here they’ll think—’

‘They already know.’ His tone was so grim it made the tiny hairs at her nape stand up. ‘In fact—’ he paused, his voice dropping to a silky, dangerous note that made her think of an unexploded bomb ‘—some would say they know more than I do.’

Arden wanted to say the press didn’t know anything. They assumed. But it was splitting hairs.

‘Couldn’t you have sent someone instead?’ She crossed her arms tight across her chest, where her heart catapulted like a mad thing against her ribs. Grateful as she was for assistance, she refused to feel guilty about what had happened. This wasn’t down to her. He was the one who’d attracted press attention. She was a nonentity.

‘I did send someone. But they reported you were surrounded. Your phone is switched off and I assumed that if a stranger knocked on your door, claiming to represent me, you’d think it was a ruse to get you out to face the cameras.’ Ebony eyes held hers, challenging.

Reluctantly Arden nodded. He was right. She’d never have opened the door to anyone she didn’t know.

‘I had to come. There was no other choice.’

How did he sound so calm when they were in this mess? Arden couldn’t begin to imagine how she and Dawud could go back to their normal, anonymous lives. She wanted to rant, to point the finger of blame at him, but what would that achieve? She had to protect Dawud. There was no time for the luxury of hysteria.

Besides, despite her fine words, she hadn’t been forced into that telltale kiss.

Shame filled her. She’d clung to his broad-shouldered frame, losing herself in his sensuality, in the pull of an attraction that was as powerful as it had always been.

Despite the way he’d abandoned her years ago.

Despite the fact he had a fiancée.

Arden hated herself for that. She should be immune to him now. Her stomach dropped and she stepped away, her back colliding with the wall. Determination filled her. She would not fall under his spell again.

‘What?’ His voice was sharp.

‘Your fiancée.’ The word rasped out, rough-edged.

‘Not my fiancée.’

‘But Hamid said—’

‘Hamid doesn’t know everything.’ That twist of his mobile mouth looked cruel. As if the words he held back would flay someone alive.

Slivers of ice pricked her all over.

In that instant he morphed from saviour to threat.

She’d been almost relieved to see him but suddenly, as if scales fell from her eyes, she saw him not as the man she’d once loved, or as Hamid’s cousin and a potential safe harbour in this press storm, but as an absolute monarch, accustomed to getting whatever he wanted.

Arden licked her lips. ‘What do you want?’

Her gaze flicked to the closed sitting room door before she could stop herself. He noticed. Of course he noticed. How could he not hear the muffled children’s ditty and guess who was in there?

The fact he hadn’t even turned his head towards the other room only scared her more.

Thinking he’d washed his hands of her once their affair was over, even covering his tracks with a false name, she’d believed herself a sole parent in every sense. But Idris was here now, and she realised in dawning horror that she had no idea how he felt about a child. A male child. A child he might consider his heir. A child he might try to take.

Terror dug razored claws into her belly and her stomach cramped so hard she doubled up, gasping. Surely he didn’t plan to steal her baby!

‘Arden? What is it?’ This time he did reach out, long fingers branding her upper arm and sending flames licking through her.

‘Don’t touch me!’ It was a hoarse whisper, the best she could do. But it was enough. He reared back as if scalded.

She straightened, forcing herself to stand tall, jutting her chin to lessen the distance between them.

‘Tell me what you want.’

Had she just made the biggest mistake of her life, letting Dawud’s father into her home? A father who had the power, physically and financially, to take her baby away?

‘Tell me!’ Heat glazed her eyes. If he thought he was taking Dawud from her, he understood nothing about a mother’s love.

Something she couldn’t decipher glowed in those narrowed eyes. ‘I want to get you and your son to safety, where you won’t be bothered by the press. Then, we need to talk.’

Her stomach did that roller coaster dip again. Talk didn’t sound at all appealing.

But she was out of choices. She and Dawud couldn’t stay holed up, hoping the press would leave. They had to go out some time. Idris was her only lifeline. No one else could get them away from the press. She had to trust him, for now at least.

‘Pack what the pair of you will need for a couple of days. There’s a car outside to take you away and one of my men will be posted nearby to make sure none of the paparazzi break in here to get more fodder for a story.’

Arden’s jaw dropped. She hadn’t thought of that. Of some stranger pawing through their belongings, sullying their home.

‘Don’t worry. It won’t happen. I won’t let it.’

Arden snapped her mouth closed, reeling at his absolute conviction. Never in her life had she been able to rely on anyone. Every time she’d begun to trust she’d been let down. Her parents, foster parents, even Hamid, pretending there was more to their friendship than existed.

There was something inherently appealing about Idris’s assurance. Just as well she knew better than to depend on him. But, for the moment, she and Dawud needed help.

‘Give me ten minutes.’ She started down the hall then stopped, hesitating outside the sitting room door.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll wait here.’ It was as if he read her mind, her worry about Dawud.

She hesitated, unable to dismiss the thought of him simply striding in, picking up Dawud and carrying him out of the door.

‘You are both safe with me.’ That deep voice mesmerised—so grave, so measured. She badly wanted to trust him. He took a single step nearer. ‘You have my word, Arden.’

She caught the velvet brown of his eyes that from a distance looked pure black. She read determination in his jaw, strength in his proud stance and honesty in his direct gaze. For a second longer she wavered. Then she spun on her heel and darted into the bedroom.

She’d hear if he tried to scoop up Dawud and take him. Dawud would yell and it would be impossible to exit quickly with that mob outside.

Yet relief hit when she emerged to find him still in the hall. He stood, head bent as if listening to Dawud’s high voice carolling enthusiastically. Arden dropped the two bags, a bulky one full of Dawud’s toys and clothes and a small one for her.

Idris’s head jerked up. ‘Ready?’

Arden nodded, trying and failing to read his expression. ‘I’ll need a child’s car seat and—’

‘No need. Arrangements have been made for a car seat. All you need is your bags and your son.’

Your son. Not Dawud. As if Idris was trying to distance himself. Pain turned like a twisting stiletto in her chest. Arden told herself she was pathetic. Seconds ago she’d worried Idris might try to kidnap Dawud. Now she was disappointed he wasn’t more enthusiastic about him.

He hasn’t even asked if he’s the father.

Because this whole situation was a mighty inconvenience for him. More than an inconvenience. Coming just before his marriage to Princess Ghizlan it must be a headache of massive proportions.

She made herself nod and put down the bags. ‘I’ll get him.’

‘You can introduce me.’ When she hesitated Idris continued. ‘It will make things easier. It will be scary enough for him facing the crowd outside, even with my security men keeping them back.’

Arden hadn’t thought of that. It was odd, and unsettling, having someone else point out what her son needed before she did. She couldn’t get her brain past the immediate. Right now that was overwhelming. Introducing Dawud to his father. The man she’d thought he’d never know.

The doorknob felt slippery in her clammy hand and she breathed deep, securing a smile for her son. This had to be done and it was up to her to ensure he felt none of the tension crawling up her spine and along her hunching shoulders. Deliberately she pushed back her shoulder blades and walked into the room.

‘Mama!’ He swung round as the song ended, a huge smile on his face.

Reaction hit her square in the chest as she met his laughing gaze. Eyes of dark brown velvet, so like his father’s. When he’d been born they’d been a constant, difficult reminder of the man who’d duped and deserted her. But over the years they’d become simply Dawud’s eyes.

Now, seeing the similarities, not just in his eyes but in his whole face, from his jet dark hair to his determined chin, a powerful tide of emotion rose. Arden wobbled to a halt.

‘Mama?’ Dawud scrambled to his feet and came towards her, arms outstretched. But before he reached her he halted, head turning, eyes growing.

Arden sensed rather than saw Idris beside her. It was as if he generated his own force field, one that made her flesh prickle and tighten whenever he got close.

Was he as nervous as she? As if this were an irrevocable step beyond which the future could never be the same?

She fell to her knees and held her arms out for Dawud. ‘Hello, darling.’ Dawud’s eyes remained fixed on the man looming over the pair of them, his head craning high to take him in.

Arden was just about to scoop him up when she felt a brush of air beside her as, in a single movement, Idris sank to the floor, settling cross-legged. His knee touched hers but he didn’t seem to notice. His attention was fixed on Dawud.

Idris leaned forward a fraction and said something in his own language. Something melodic yet strangely husky, and made a fluid, graceful movement with one powerful hand from his face to his chest.

For a second Dawud stood motionless, then a smile creased his features. ‘That!’ He pointed at Idris, first his head then his chest.

Idris made the gesture again, slower this time, a courtly gesture of greeting, she realised. Dawud clapped his hands and chuckled, then waved one hand in front of his face, trying to emulate the gesture.

Again that unseen cord tugged at her insides. To watch Dawud smiling at his father, trying to copy him...it was something she’d never expected to see. Not after the hell she’d gone through trying to locate Shakil and finally acknowledging defeat. She didn’t even know if she wanted to see them together, yet the shining joy in her son’s face was hard to resist.

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