‘Don’t apologise.’ Asim breathed deep, filling the void in his lungs. ‘I don’t like it when you’re…meek.’

The words surprised him as much as her. He felt the shock of the admission reverberate through him even as he saw it ripple across her face.

He didn’t approve of the way she argued with him, refusing to be silenced after he’d made a decision. It happened daily when she tried to wheedle access to records or palace staff or ancient pavilions that had been locked up as unsafe generations ago. Yet seeing her hesitant and downcast was like watching a bright light dim.

For long seconds their eyes locked. Long enough for him to notice that in the syrupy lateafternoon light her eyes flashed with shards of gold.

Slowly her mouth eased into a crooked smile.

‘In that case, Asim…’ Jacqui paused over his name as if savouring it ‘…I promise not to be meek with you again.’

She scooped up her towel and wrapped it around herself, hurrying towards her room. But her chin was up and her shoulders back and, despite his body’s howl of protest at her departure, Asim found himself smiling.

DESERT VOWS

Two powerful desert princes…and the only women who can tame them

Sultan Asim of Jazeer and Sheikh Tariq of Al-Sarath are both bound by honour, duty and tradition. They’ve always known they must marry, but it will be for the good of their kingdoms—not for love. Yet now two very different women threaten the vows Asim and Tariq have always sworn to uphold.

As desire burns hotter than the desert sand can these powerful men withstand the heat of temptation?

Find out in:

THE SULTAN’S HAREM BRIDE February 2015

THE SHEIKH’S PRINCESS BRIDE April 2015

The Sultan’s

Harem Bride

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 fantasising 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 PO Box 1041, Warners Bay, NSW 2282, Australia.

To my dear friend Karen

with love and thanks, not just for now, but always.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Desert Vows

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

‘GIVE IT UP, JACK. This is a wild goose chase.’ Imran’s voice came over the hubbub of vehicles, people and livestock thronging the pre-election cavalcade.

‘No!’ Jacqui shook her head. ‘You’ll see. It will be worth it.’

It had to be worth it. They had a chance to interview one of the world’s most hard to meet opposition leaders, an inspirational reformer the authorities would do anything to silence. It was an opportunity not to be missed.

Yet uneasiness stirred. This jammed street was strangely familiar, as if she’d been here before. The pungent aromas of dust, sweat, spices and dung teased her nostrils. A disturbing sense of déjà vu made her pause.

Jacqui swung round, looking for Imran’s familiar face.

Anxiety speared her. Her nape prickled. ‘Imran?’

‘Right here, Jack.’ She spun round and there he was, large as life, his camera over one shoulder, his laughing eyes narrowed against the sun.

Relief thudded in her chest. For a moment Jacqui had feared... Feared what? Her train of thought dissolved.

‘This is a long shot, despite the tip-off,’ she said. ‘If you’d rather go to the hotel, I’ll try to locate him then call you.’

Imran’s expression didn’t change.

Had she spoken aloud or just thought about it? Confused, she lifted a hand to her hot forehead. Everything felt unreal, strangely distant. Even the faces of the people around them seemed blurred.

All except Imran.

Jacqui blinked and tried to focus. The job. The lead. This would be their best story yet. Their news editor wouldn’t believe it if they came in with this exclusive.

It was an opportunity to reveal the truth about this oppressive regime. Then world powers could no longer plead ignorance and turn a blind eye to the violence.

‘Come on, Jack. Don’t dawdle.’ Imran strode ahead, forging easily through the packed street.

Jacqui tried to follow but her feet seemed stuck to the ground, her limbs weighted. With a supreme effort, she struggled forward a pace. Just one. Around her the crowd slowed too, like a film moving frame by frame.

All except Imran, striding through the barely moving people. Each step took him further away.

Jacqui opened her mouth to call his name, urge him to stop. The déjà vu was back, stronger this time. Her flesh crawled in horrified premonition. Her throat constricted, silencing her strained vocal cords.

Helplessly she watched him meld into the crowd.

Then it came. The nameless thing she’d been expecting without knowing. A soundless judder of vibration on the air. A quake that made the ground beneath her feet shudder and heave.

Then the cataclysmic roar. A deafening well of sound, spiralling round her. So loud her ears rang and kept on ringing.

Finally her stasis broke. She ran, lungs pumping, breath tearing in her throat. Still she couldn’t call out.

She slammed to a stop. Imran’s camera lay on the ground, its shattered lens glinting in dusty sunlight. He held it fast, fingers clamped round it.

Jacqui knelt, her brain trying to make sense of the picture before her. The ungainly jumble of limbs, the shapes impossible to comprehend. An unholy cocktail of dust and bright-red liquid spread all round her, soaking the ground, filling her nostrils.

She put out a hand to touch what had once been the man she knew better than anyone. A man fit, whole...

Finally she found her voice. It rose, filling the air, an anguished, wordless scream.

* * *

Asim stalked the empty corridor and out into a moonlit courtyard. Annoyance lengthened his stride and made the blood steam in his veins.

What had possessed his ambassador to suggest that woman as a possible bride? Or hint to the old Emir that he should bring his niece? This should have been a simple state visit to finalise an energy venture between their countries. Instead the Emir’s visit to Jazeer was a potential diplomatic disaster.

Asim strode past the scented garden and into another passage. The sprawling old palace provided plenty of space to be alone with his impatience.

Not as good as the freedom of a four-wheel drive on the desert dunes but that luxury was denied him. Asim had to remain here to play host to the Emir and his unwanted niece in the morning. He’d need to soothe the Emir’s pride but make it clear his choice of bride lay elsewhere.

He grimaced. If beauty were all he required, she might have been a contender. She was one of the most flagrantly gorgeous women he’d met.

That was saying something. In his youth, Asim had acquired a well-deserved reputation as a connoisseur of beautiful women. Blonde, brunette, redhead, slim, curvaceous, tall or petite. He’d enjoyed them all.

Did they believe he’d be so seduced by her charms he’d ignore her character? She’d been demure tonight. But Asim knew that in the exclusive holiday hideaways of the mega-wealthy she had an unrivalled reputation for pleasure, for multiple lovers and chemical stimulants.

Only a fool could think he’d turn a blind eye to that!

The woman Asim married would become wife to the Sultan of Jazeer. She would be intelligent, beautiful and capable; a devoted mother. She would be a woman of dignity and self-control, of impeccable standards. Not the subject of salacious gossip.

His wife would be everything his mother hadn’t been.

Oh, she had been beautiful. And loving, in her own way.

An icy finger tracked down Asim’s spine.

Fate preserve him from love!

That curse had destroyed his parents and now his sister. He had no intention of suffering a similar destiny.

He drew a slow breath. He’d hoped to keep his decision to acquire a wife quiet. Now speculation would be rife and he’d be bombarded with hopeful candidates.

A sharp cry brought Asim up short. He lifted his head, searching for its source.

It came again, an unearthly shriek on the still night air, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. It wasn’t a peacock, or a wild dog beyond the city outskirts.

Asim strode down an arched passageway to an even older building, long disused. The cry sounded again as he emerged into a space wilder and less formal than the other gardens.

He knew this place. As a boy he’d listened to the old stories of tragedy and avidly watched for proof that the garden was, indeed, haunted.

Now, at thirty-five, Asim didn’t consider the possibility of meeting a ghost. He was more concerned with the flesh and blood source of that scream.

It came again. High, anguished, wordless. Its tenor of distress catapulted him forward. As he neared the pavilion on the far side of the garden a glow caught his eye and adrenalin pumped hard in his blood.

Asim sprinted towards the light. Fire in the centuries-old building would be disastrous.

Yet there was no scent of smoke, no crackle of burning. Perhaps the flames hadn’t taken hold.

He slammed through a wide entrance, past dark, empty rooms to a doorway spilling light.

He jerked to a stop, heart pounding. The peace of the scene before him, after the turmoil he’d expected, flummoxed him for a moment and he strove to take it in.

An old-fashioned hanging lamp sent shafts of multi-hued light across the wall murals and inlaid floor. The place was bare of furniture but for a small table, a carved chest and a bed.

It was the bed that caught his attention. He stared, disbelieving, at the woman who lay naked upon it.

Asim sucked in an astonished breath, his fingers curling around the door jamb.

Lamplight painted her bare flesh in delicate rainbow hues. Gold across her long, slim legs, lithe and restless. Rose at her hips, over her smooth, pale belly and the V of reddish-brown pubic hair. Lavender across the perfect swell of firm, high breasts that shook and trembled with her agitated breathing. Pale azure over her neat jaw, slender throat and contorting mouth.

Surprise, curiosity and a surge of raw masculine hunger warred within him at the enticing picture she presented.

With her arms raised high above her head on a satin cushion, she looked like some delectable feast laid out for his enjoyment—an invitation to touch and taste.

Sexual arousal slammed into him, congealing thought.

Asim swallowed as his groin tightened and his blood rushed faster. His gaze drifted from the swell of her dainty breasts to her shifting thighs.

Heaving an unsteady breath, he grappled back to sanity and strode forward.

Spikes of damp, tawny hair splayed over the pillow as she tossed her head. Her throat worked and a soft mew emerged from her lips. It had to be a sound of distress, yet some primitive part of him wondered if that was how she’d sound in the throes of passion.

Heat rose from her. Asim felt it as he stood beside her. Deliberately he clasped his hands behind his back, conquering the base instinct that made him want to reach out.

He should comfort her. But the compulsion to touch sprang as much from the need to know if her creamy skin was as soft as it looked.

Asim scrubbed an unsteady palm over his face, forcing down impulses that could only be dishonourable.

Who was this woman?

What was she doing in the most ancient part of his palace, alone and naked?

Despite the gravity of his royal position some women had gone to inordinate lengths to offer themselves to him.

Was she one of them? Was this her idea of a tantalising new twist on the age-old mating ritual?

His body’s reaction showed she’d succeeded in piquing his interest.

In his wilder youth he might have been tempted by such a tactic. But it was a wife he sought now, not a one-night stand.

Inevitably his gaze was drawn back to her body. She was slim almost to the point of thinness. A model? She was tall enough. Yet she was completely unadorned—not even a ring or gold chain.

He didn’t know a woman who didn’t wear some jewellery, even if just stud earrings.

She was so...bare.

Yet there was no mistaking the powerful tide of desire sweeping him. The dragging weight in his lower body. His heartbeat’s thrum of anticipation. His rapid breathing.

Asim stretched out his arm. He opened his hand a metre above her and imagined he felt the scrape of one pebbled nipple tease his palm. A jolt of electricity rushed from his fingers, up his arm and straight to his groin. He fisted his hand against the urge to reach down and cup her there.

Abruptly she moved, scrabbling at the sides of the bed. Her head twisted. She drew an enormous breath that hollowed her belly and thrust her tip-tilted breasts towards him as a muffled sob broke from her lips.

Asim reared back, shame and disbelief scalding him. He’d been acting the voyeur!

‘It’s time to wake up,’ he said, his voice assuming a familiar tone of firm command.

Asim’s mouth twisted. If only he’d had such command over his own cruder impulses.

He opened his mouth to repeat the order when she gasped, writhed and screamed at the top of her lungs.

* * *

‘It’s time to wake...time to wake.’ The words circled Jacqui’s brain like a half-forgotten mantra. The ground shook again, heaving her up and down, a boneless rag doll. She didn’t run. Where could she escape to? Why should she? She’d led Imran into danger and now he was dead. How could she even think about surviving herself?

Heat suffused her like an embrace, at odds with the chill in her bones. Still she clung to Imran’s hand, wishing she could rewind time. For nothing, she knew, could bring him back from this.

But that voice was insistent, ordering her to pay attention, ordering her to...wake.

The deafening sound stopped abruptly. It took Jacqui a while to realise it was the sound of her own screams. Her throat was raw and her chest heaved. Fear clawed, though the worst panic began to subside.

She’d done this before. She knew what it meant. She’d had one of her dreams. Even as she told herself this was reality, this quiet, peaceful place, her brain buzzed anxiously.

‘That’s better.’ It was the voice again. Low, soothing, so deep it shivered right to the core of her. ‘You’re awake now, aren’t you?’

For a moment longer she could swear she grasped Imran’s still-warm hand. Then the sensation faded.

He was gone. Grief scooped a hollow in her belly.

Tears flooded her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Stupid, helpless tears that came too easily now. She rubbed her hand across her face, smearing wetness, trying to scrub it away. A choking ball of emotion lodged in her throat and she swallowed clumsily, heedless of the pain.

Something shifted. The heat on her shoulders abated. Belatedly she realised it was the imprint of long fingers, the touch of hard palms.

The shreds of nightmare faded as realisation hit. Jacqui’s eyes snapped open on a pulse of shock.

She wasn’t alone.

Ebony eyes, deep set beneath slashing straight brows, met hers. They were so intent, so piercing, she saw nothing else as she gasped in astonishment.

A frown puckered his broad forehead and tiny lines clustered at the corners of his eyes, giving him the look of a man who spent time outdoors in the sun.

Jacqui blinked, unable to do more than digest the fact she was awake with a total stranger.

A stranger who transfixed her with his gleaming, dark gaze.

Yet even as she thought it a memory stirred, a hint of recognition. He seemed...familiar.

‘You’re all right now?’ The concern in his voice was echoed in his scrutiny and the line of his compressed lips.

Or was that annoyance?

Muddled and disorientated from the nightmare, she nevertheless felt no fear, sensed no threat. Surely it had been his voice, that warm, deep rumble that had dragged her out of horror and back to reality? Hazily, she registered relief she wasn’t alone in the dark.

Jacqui struggled to breathe deeply, gratefully dragging air into her lungs, anything to dispel the sharp, rusty tang of Imran’s blood from her nostrils.

The man stood so close she inhaled the scent of his skin, like the deep notes of an expensive cologne, only real, not manufactured. It reminded her of exotic spice and hot, desert breezes.

His breath was warm on her brow and parted lips as she sucked in more air. Long lashes veiled his eyes as his gaze dropped to her mouth. Instantly heat shimmered across her skin and her bloodstream traced fire through her body as if someone had set a match to dry kindling. Her skin flushed and her bare breasts tightened.

Her reaction was so sudden, so shockingly unfamiliar, she simply stared back, stunned, her mind grappling to take in what it meant.

‘Yes, thanks. I’m—’ Awareness crashed upon her in a flurry of alarm. ‘Naked!’ she gasped, jack-knifing to sit up.

Dimly she was grateful he stepped back but her focus was on locating the cover she must have flung off. She hoped she’d flung it off. That it hadn’t been dragged off her by a stranger.

Horror skated skeletal fingers down her spine as Jacqui grabbed for the lavishly embroidered throw that had slipped from the bed. She didn’t feel like she’d been groped. She couldn’t remember anything but the solid, calming warmth of broad hands on her shoulders. But how could she be sure?

Seconds later, with the cover wrapped tight around her overheated body, she swung to face him.

Never turn your back on danger.

The stranger was tall, imposingly tall, which was saying something given her lanky height. Few men made her feel petite. The effect of powerful height was emphasised by the breadth of straight shoulders that filled the doorway. Jacqui’s first impression was of hard, lean masculinity. Her second, that he hid something.

His expression was closed, almost stern, yet his gaze belied the sombre attitude. Those eyes looked heavy-lidded and secretive. They remained fixed on her face, thankfully not dropping to where she fumbled, tucking a stray edge of fabric under her arm.

She’d never experienced such an instantaneous physical reaction to any man. That unsettled her almost as much as finding him here, leaning over her.

Jacqui hitched the material higher and set her jaw, trying to control the apprehension tightening her flesh. Even the innocent brush of fabric against her skin seemed evocative, reminding her of her nakedness.

In all her years of travel she’d got packing down to a fine art. It was a sign of her distraction that for the first time ever she’d forgotten to pack her ancient sleep shirt. It hadn’t mattered two hours ago, but then she hadn’t expected to wake and discover a hero from an Arabian Nights fantasy towering over her. Or was he a villain?

‘Who are you?’ Her voice emerged faint and husky. She hated the tremor in it. She cleared her throat. ‘What are you doing here?’

He didn’t move yet she had the impression he stood taller, more imposing, if that were possible.

‘I believe that’s my line.’ He paused, brows raised, as if waiting for her to answer.

But Jacqui had learned never to show weakness or doubt. She had a perfect right to be here and she refused to cower as if she’d done something wrong. He was the one who’d invaded her privacy!

Before she could tell him so, he spoke again.

‘Who are you and what are you doing in my harem?’

CHAPTER TWO

HIS HAREM?

Jacqui’s mouth sagged.

No wonder he’d looked familiar. Yet, in the photos she’d seen of Sultan Asim of Jazeer, his head had been covered.

Jacqui took in the thick, black hair that complemented the burnished bronze of his skin and threatened to flop over his brow. The media had dubbed him one of the world’s most eligible bachelors. He had wealth, power and charisma. If the public ever saw him like this, bare-headed and slightly tousled in a way that amplified the potent sexuality of his strong, autocratic features, women would mob him wherever he went.

Though according to Imran plenty of women had already thrown themselves at His Royal Highness.

Imran.

Jacqui pressed a hand to her swooping stomach.

‘You should sit.’ It wasn’t a suggestion but an order, cracking through the tension in the room.

Jacqui pushed back her shoulders and opened her mouth to tell him she was fine.

‘The dream was disturbing. You shouldn’t exert yourself yet.’

‘You know about that?’

‘Why do you think I’m here?’ His lofty expression made a joke of her fear he might be a sexual predator. What would a man like Sultan Asim want with a woman as plain as Jacqui Fletcher?

Awkwardly, the long coverlet almost tripping her, she subsided on the bed. Silly, how weak her knees felt. But the dream had been so real.

‘Are you all right?’ He’d moved from the door but kept his distance. Clearly he had no desire to get close.

Grimly Jacqui acknowledged she wasn’t in the same league as the sort of women rich, sexy potentates entertained. Nature had skimped on her curves, for a start. Was that why she accepted so easily that his interest wasn’t personal?

‘I’ll be fine soon,’ she lied. Experience told her it would take far longer to shake the miasma of that dream. She tugged the covering close.

‘Do you get them often?’

Her head snapped up. What did he see as he scrutinised her so closely? Terror? Grief? Guilt?

Instinct urged her to protect her privacy. ‘Occasionally.’

‘You should see someone about them.’

‘You seem awfully interested in my sleeping habits.’

Was that a flush of colour across his cheekbones or a trick of the multi-coloured light?

Jacqui tensed and rubbed her forehead; a headache was beginning. Nerves and stress made her snap at the man who had the power to make or break this venture.

How could she? Everything rode on the Sultan’s goodwill.

She wished she could blame her stupidity on being disorientated after the nightmare. Yet Jacqui had an awful suspicion her reaction to the Sultan himself was to blame. He was just...too big, too masculine, too close, though he stood metres away. It was as if the spacious room had shrunk and couldn’t accommodate the two of them.

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured huskily. ‘I apologise.’

‘No need. I understand.’ His voice was a deep burr that worked its way under her skin and turned her insides to mush. ‘The circumstances are...unusual. I should apologise for breaching your privacy. Finding a stranger so close on waking must be disconcerting.’

No mention of her nudity, or his hands on her body.

Yet she had trouble thinking of anything else.

She should be relieved he clearly didn’t want to be in her bedroom. What she’d thought was a gleam of sexual interest in those hooded eyes was nothing of the kind.

Yet for some reason tension still eddied between them.

‘Now we’ve got the apologies out of the way...’ he paused, as if waiting to be sure they had ‘...you can answer my question.’

‘Your question?’ Jacqui felt like a parrot, repeating the word, but her foggy brain was a mess of impressions. Imran. The barely familiar room. The shock of meeting the Sultan. The curious ripple of reaction deep inside when those dark eyes rested on her.

He folded his arms and Jacqui was momentarily distracted as the movement moulded his long robe to a body that was even larger and more powerful than she’d imagined.

‘Exactly who are you?’

* * *

Amber. Her eyes were a luminous shade of amber. A warm, enticing shade that made him think of sunrise over the desert, or the peachy reflection of late-afternoon light in the pool at his favourite oasis.

Asim had been stunned by that glowing brightness when she’d looked up at him. Those wide-spaced, slightly slanted eyes gave her an intriguing feline look.

He found himself staring.

Better staring at her eyes than her naked flesh, his conscience taunted. He was the lion of Jazeer, ruler, law-giver and leader. He did not ogle defenceless women.

Yet the image of her lithe, streamlined body had lodged in some unrepentant part of his brain and he couldn’t shift it.

She hunched her bare shoulders and he realised he was scowling.

‘I’m Jacqui Fletcher.’ She sat straighter, meeting his eyes directly, as few in his kingdom did. His pulse pounded as their gazes meshed. That was unprecedented.

Asim waited but she appeared to be pausing for his response. Was he supposed to know her? Something about the name rang a bell but he was sure they’d never met.

She understood his language, had responded in it, though she’d switched to English once she’d become aware of her nudity. Presumably shock had made her revert to her mother tongue.

‘How do you come to be here?’ His security staff had questions to answer. This section of the palace was well beyond the public audience rooms.

‘I was invited.’ Her head tipped up, though her gaze slid from his. Instantly he sensed she withheld something.

‘Indeed?’

She flushed and Asim watched, fascinated, as colour washed her cheekbones and throat. With her tousled, tawny hair around her shoulders, flushed skin and flimsy covering, she looked alluring yet strangely innocent.

Damn! He needed to focus.

‘I don’t recall issuing any invitation.’

Again that lift of the chin, baring her slender throat. Did she realise how sexually provocative she looked with all that cream and rose flesh on display and her cover slipping low over her pert breasts?

‘It was from the Lady Rania.’

‘My grandmother?’ What was the old schemer up to now, inviting strange women into the palace? Not just into the palace but deep into the long abandoned heart of it that hadn’t been modernised in a century.

Asim sensed intrigue. He had an instinct for it, given the poisonous environment in which he’d grown up.

‘Strange she didn’t mention this invitation to me.’

A shrug drew his attention back to those bare shoulders, milk-white above the embroidered silk. A dart of heat jabbed low but Asim ignored it. He had more important issues to deal with than sexual awareness.

‘Really? I wouldn’t know.’

He told himself the husky, nervous voice proved she hid something. But his wayward body was too busy responding to the eroticism of that rough velvet tone.

Asim stood straighter, infuriated by his inability to focus. His day had turned to disaster because of one unwanted female. His night was rapidly going the same way. He fast lost patience.

‘Why are you here, Ms Jacqui Fletcher?’ A thread of memory tugged in his brain. He knew that name. ‘You should be in a guest apartment near my grandmother.’

Something was going on behind his back and he didn’t like it. He should have known when the old lady had been so uncharacteristically quiet this last week. His beloved grandmother was many things—opinionated, capable and clever—but never meek. He’d begun to worry she was unwell, that age and grief had finally caught up with her. He should have known better.

‘I’m here to research a book. I’m a writer.’

Asim frowned. ‘A writer?’

In a blast of realisation, it came to him. He knew where he’d heard of her. He froze, every nerve and sinew stiffening. Incredulity widened his eyes.

‘Not Jacqui, but Jacqueline Fletcher. Am I right?’ He watched her gulp and knew he wasn’t mistaken. ‘And not a writer, a journalist. Isn’t that so?’

Anger spurted in his veins. What was the old woman thinking, bringing a journalist into their midst? Bad enough at any time but now? Sheer lunacy! They had too much to lose.

And this wasn’t just any journalist. Anger turned to white-hot fury. She’d been there the day Imran died.

Asim drew in a searing breath, forcing back grief. His cousin had been on assignment with this woman. They’d headed out together for an interview. But only one had returned.

* * *

Jacqui clutched the fabric tighter at her chest. The silk kept slipping through her damp palms.

She’d planned to be fully dressed if she met the Sultan. She bit her lip, suppressing an insane urge to giggle. There was nothing remotely funny about this.

Sultan Asim had the power to scupper her project before it got off the ground. How could she convince him of her case, dressed in a bedspread and dazed from her nightmare? He’d never take her seriously.

Instinctively she rose, locking wobbly knees as she pushed the hair from her eyes.

‘My by-line is always Jacqui Fletcher.’

‘But you were identified as Jacqueline in the official reports.’ Accusation rang in his tone and she flinched.

Jacqui knew the reports that he meant. Police reports, diplomatic reports, hospital and media updates. It was amazing the paperwork caused when two foreign news reporters got caught up in a supposed terrorist blast, even if it was in a distant African nation. She swallowed. It felt like broken glass lined her throat, scraping her raw.

‘That’s my given name but I never use it.’

‘No.’ His face turned to granite. ‘I understand you prefer to be called Jack.’

Imran. Her fragile composure cracked. Imran must have mentioned that to his cousin.

‘It’s a nickname my colleagues use. Used.’ She drew a shaky breath that didn’t fill her lungs.

‘You were my cousin’s partner.’ It was a statement, not a question, yet Jacqui had the impression he probed. Did he think them lovers? His gaze scoured so intently she felt it abrade her skin.

Remorse filled her. Here she was in Imran’s childhood home, meeting his family, while he...

‘We were colleagues, and friends.’ He’d been the nearest she’d had to a best friend. Her throat closed on a searing ball of emotion.

No wonder she’d thought this man familiar. He and Imran shared that superior nose and striking good looks. But, where Imran’s eyes had danced with mischief, Jacqui couldn’t imagine the Sultan laughing. His brand of handsome was harder than his cousin’s. Those features looked like they’d been sculpted into proud, spare elegance by the desert winds.

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ Her voice was hoarse. She’d written to Imran’s family after he’d died but today was the first time she’d met any of them.

‘Thank you.’ He inclined his head in a gesture that was at once courtly yet distancing.

As if he didn’t want her sympathy. He disapproved of her.

The knot of guilt in her stomach twisted tighter. She couldn’t blame him. It was her fault Imran had died. If she hadn’t dragged him to what had clearly been a set-up, he’d still be alive.

And she’d still be a journalist.

Brittle ice crackled in her veins and she hugged the bedding tighter. She desperately needed to be alone. But the man before her looked as immoveable as this massive ancient citadel.

Obviously her state of undress didn’t faze him. She wished she could say the same. She was used to men, spent most of her time with them, but always fully clothed as one of the guys. Now she felt hyper-aware of her femininity and her nakedness.

‘My grandmother invited you here to research a book?’ Disbelief dripped from every syllable and his sable eyebrows shot up.

‘She did.’ Jacqui scrabbled for poise. How she wished she wore her charcoal trouser suit, or even the wrinkled cargo pants and long sleeved T-shirt she’d travelled in. Something familiar that would boost her confidence in the face of his imperious disbelief.

Once she’d have taken it in her stride, a challenge to be overcome to reach the next professional goal. But that certainty had been blown apart the day the bomb had exploded. She felt battered and unsure of herself. It wasn’t just the trauma of the dream and waking to his disturbing presence. These past months had taken a terrible toll, not only on her career, but her confidence.

She wasn’t the woman she’d been.

The realisation stiffened her spine. Hadn’t she determined to drag herself out of the dark void of despair and fear? Hadn’t she promised she’d make a success of this?

After all, it was all she had left.

She had to succeed.

‘The Lady Rania was very supportive, and hospitable,’ she added with deliberate emphasis, ignoring the whisper of her conscience that he had a right to resent her presence. ‘She personally invited me to stay here—’ her gesture took in the muted beauty of the ancient room ‘—in the heart of the old palace.’ Jacqui forced a smile, as if she couldn’t read the Sultan’s disbelief. ‘I’m most grateful to her.’

His expression grew more brooding.

‘Clearly you can’t remain.’

Jacqui’s smile died. ‘But I—’

He gestured in a slashing motion that signified no argument would be brooked. ‘This is no place for a guest.’

Jacqui put her palm to her chest where her heart crashed into her ribs. For a moment she thought he’d meant to evict her from the royal residence. That would have been disastrous, the end of all her hopes and plans.

Relief eased the rapid beat of her heart.

‘I’m perfectly comfortable, truly.’ After some of the places she’d bunked down, this was luxurious, despite the lack of modern facilities.

Again his brows rose. Yet it was true. Besides, the tranquillity here soothed after the bustle of the capital. Even now, months after the explosion, Jacqui was edgy and uncomfortable with crowds or sudden noise.

‘Nevertheless, it’s not appropriate.’ He looked as if he’d swallowed something sour. It hit her that he might be talking about more than the lack of amenities. Did he think she was going to filch the silver? His stare was disapproving.

Strange how that hurt, though she should have expected it. He clearly blamed her for what had happened to Imran.

But the Sultan’s grandmother had been so supportive and kind, first via correspondence and then today in person, that Jacqui had believed she’d be accepted here. She’d let herself believe that in completing the project she and Imran had discussed she could somehow atone for what had happened. Was that even possible?

‘I’ll have someone move you to another room.’ He inclined his head and turned away.

Jacqui’s old spirit surfaced. Being dismissed had always rankled.

‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Your Highness.’ She grimaced. It was too late for royal protocol—the man had already seen her naked and screaming her lungs out—yet surely it couldn’t hurt. ‘Truly, there’s no need. I’m just so grateful to the Lady Rania for allowing me such access.’

He stopped in his tracks, his neck and shoulders stiffening. Was he so unused to anyone speaking up once he’d dismissed them?

Imran hadn’t talked of his cousin much, apart from occasional references to his focus on duty and royal responsibilities. The man had none of Imran’s laughing charm. She guessed he was too self-important to bother charming anyone.

Slowly he turned. His face was impassive, but those night-dark eyes glittered sharply. Jacqui sucked in a breath and fumbled for a better hold on her covering as her fingers momentarily slackened.

Silently she cursed her misfortune in being caught at anything but her professional best. But regret couldn’t distract her from the way her body sizzled under his scrutiny. As if he was seeing her naked again.

As if she wanted him to!

Abruptly she looked away, stunned. What was happening to her? She didn’t react like this to any man. She closed her eyes momentarily, wishing she could wake and find this was all just an extension of her nightmare.

‘As you say, Lady Rania is very generous.’ He paused as if to let that sink in. ‘And I’m sure you’ll find a guest suite more than adequate.’

‘But...’ Jacqui bit the inside of her cheek in rising frustration. Words were her trade. Why couldn’t she summon the right ones now she needed them? Had she lost that too, along with her nerve and her best friend?

‘Your Highness, it’s the private part of the palace I want to research. Not the public function-rooms.’ She dredged up what she hoped was a winning smile and forced herself to meet his eyes. ‘I’m writing about the women of the palace and their lives here.’

Obviously she’d lost her touch. Far from being persuaded, Sultan Asim’s face turned stony. His lips thinned, his nostrils flared and his hand slid to a jewel-encrusted scabbard she hadn’t noticed at his side.

Instinctively Jacqui stepped back as the man in the flowing robes transformed from autocrat to warrior in the blink of an eye. He looked dangerous and magnificent. As if he was on a raid into enemy territory.

Except he looked at her as if she was the enemy.

Her nape prickled and her breathing shallowed. Instinct told her to run. Her heart hammered.

Surely that curved knife was for show? Sultan Asim was renowned for diplomacy and leadership, not violence. Nevertheless she crept a little further away.

‘You intend to write about the women of the palace? And my grandmother agreed?’ His voice was a bass rumble that made her skin ripple.

Jacqui planted her feet, refusing to back up again. ‘She not only agreed, she was enthusiastic.’

What was his problem? He hadn’t looked this menacing even when they’d spoken of Imran. This was about something else.

‘I find that difficult to believe.’ He shook his head, folding his arms across his wide chest. The light of battle disappeared from his eyes, replaced by condescension as he looked down that sexy, arrogant nose of his.

‘I assure you, Your Highness, I’m not in the habit of lying.’ Anger took her across the room till she stood only an arm’s length away. He might be lord of all he surveyed but that didn’t give him the right to call her a liar.

She breathed deep then regretted it as she inhaled the hot, enticing scent of his skin. It infuriated her that she noticed it. She fixed her gaze on his face and ignored the predatory glint she saw there. This time, instead of frightening her, it spurred her on.

‘When I told your grandmother I wanted to write about the traditions of the harem, she was enthusiastic. That way of life has disappeared and I want to document it.’

‘You want to write about women from the past?’

‘That’s what I said.’ Jacqui frowned. ‘The women of the palace and their lives here. Or perhaps you think women’s stories aren’t important?’ The challenge slid out before she could stop it. She was on a roll, too keyed up to pull back, though she knew she should.

Maybe because living dangerously was far more appealing than the dark nothingness she’d inhabited these past months.

Tonight, for the first time in ages, she felt blood pump in her veins. She felt alive.

‘History is about more than wars and politics and who runs the country. What happens on a domestic level is important too.’

‘Yet you made your name chasing stories about wars and politics and who run countries across the globe.’

Jacqui blinked, rocked by the fact he knew about her career. And by the reminder of all she’d lost.

‘I’m interested in a lot of things. My background in news journalism doesn’t mean I can’t branch into something different.’

At least she hoped it didn’t. Nerves made her stomach clench and her palms dampen.

She didn’t know yet if she had what it took to make this dream a reality. But it was the only dream left to her. She’d cling to it with both hands. She owed it to her friend and to herself.

The Sultan surveyed her silently, as if she were a curiosity. Because no one ever stood up to him? She was pretty sure royal protocol didn’t allow for contradicting the sovereign.

Jacqui drew a shaky breath and prayed she hadn’t blown her one chance. She couldn’t fail before she’d even started.

‘Your grandmother is one of the few people who remember such a life here. She’s a valuable resource and it would be criminal not to record what she remembers. This is part of Jazeer’s culture and history.’

‘You’re very passionate about this.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with being passionate about what you do.’

Unless it leads you and your friends into danger.

Unless it destroys lives.

Memory was a sucker-punch to the belly. Her shoulders hunched, the pain almost doubling her over. Here she was, arguing trifles when Imran would never again feel the sun on his face or see his family. Because she had led him into danger. Maybe it was only just that she’d lost her career, her old life, as a result. Maybe she deserved to.

A firm hand closed around her upper arm, holding her steady.

‘Slow breaths.’

Jacqui closed her eyes and nodded, focusing on breathing out through the pain.

The heat of his big frame radiated against her, counteracting the chill deep in her bones. The reassurance of his grip seeped strength into limbs that had turned limp.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘You’ll feel better if you sit.’

Jacqui opened her eyes as he led her to the bed. She almost sighed out loud with relief as she sank onto it. Immediately he withdrew his hand.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘You’re very kind.’

‘You shouldn’t exert yourself. You were distressed earlier and that took a toll.’

Dully, she nodded. ‘I’m...’ She shook her head.

What could she say? I’m a mess right now might be the truth but she had just enough pride left not to blurt that out. Though after the last half-hour baring herself to this man physically and emotionally she didn’t have much dignity left.

‘What’s so funny?’

Jacqui lifted her face to find him a mere step away, a frown marking that broad, handsome brow.

She bit down a half-hysterical laugh.

‘Just myself.’

If she didn’t laugh she’d curl up in a ball and sob. She’d probably blown her chance to work on this wonderful project. It had shone like a beacon, dragging her out of the inertia of despair and fear.

‘Can you dress yourself?’

Jacqui blinked. Was he offering to do it for her? Her over-tired brain boggled.

‘Of course.’

‘Good. Be dressed and ready to move in ten minutes.’ Having given the order, he spun on his heel and strode out of the room, only pausing to be sure the door snicked shut behind him.

CHAPTER THREE

ASIM PACED THE COURTYARD, resolutely dragging his mind from imagining Jacqueline Fletcher discarding her less than adequate covering.

She was an enigma. Passionate and argumentative, not knowing when to give up. Fiery yet vulnerable. That made him want to ignore the danger she represented.

His desire to protect her was equalled by a burning desire of another kind and that was unnerving.

Yet he wanted to blame her for being alive when Imran wasn’t.

He spun on his heel.

What was his grandmother thinking, inviting a journalist here? Having a professional snoop under the same roof—no matter how large a roof—invited trouble. Any further invasion of his sister Samira’s privacy could tip her into a complete breakdown. The doctors hadn’t said it outright but it was what they feared.

His stomach knotted. Samira had endured so much because he’d failed to protect her. The knowledge ate at him like acid.

Reluctantly he’d supported her plan to study overseas, only to learn she’d embarked on a passionate affair with a Hollywood actor who was the epitome of shallow self-absorption. But Samira had had stars in her eyes, had talked of marriage and hadn’t seen him for what he was.

She’d only found out when he’d been discovered in bed with his co-star by the woman’s wrathful husband. Acrimonious divorce proceedings had ensued, eagerly reported by the press. Scandal grew with stories of multiple infidelities, drug use and even the corruption of minors.

Samira was an innocent party in the morass of stomach-turning revelations about her boyfriend and his co-star. But the press didn’t let up. Once the darling of the paparazzi with her stunning looks, aristocratic heritage and high-profile romance, now she was their prey.

She’d sought refuge here. Only he and his grandmother and a few select staff knew that, as well as being heartbroken, Samira had to recuperate physically too. That story would never make it into the press.

He’d never known fear such as he’d experienced when he’d thought he might lose her. He’d felt so ineffectual. But this, now, was a situation he could control.

Asim grimaced, raking his fingers through his hair. He’d do whatever it took to keep his little sister safe. He wouldn’t fail her again.

Had Jacqueline Fletcher told the truth about writing a book? Or was it a ploy to get a scoop on Samira?

Suspicion ran deep in Asim. How could it not after he’d witnessed the web of lies that had been his parents’ marriage? How could he trust the woman who’d been caught up in Imran’s death?

Yet he couldn’t get a handle on her. He knew she was a respected news reporter. She was Australian, though she’d spent years in Africa, Asia and the Middle East. He knew she’d been with Imran when he died.

Everything else was speculation.

Speculation and an unhealthy dollop of attraction.

Asim shook his head, fed up with his circling thoughts. It was time.

He knocked but didn’t enter. Better to be sure she was decently covered. The door swung inwards.

‘You!’ Those stunning eyes widened and it struck him again how fragile she looked. Was that real or some trick?

Asim stepped inside and she shifted back.

‘Sorry,’ she murmured. ‘You surprised me. I expected one of the servants.’

Is that why she was dressed in drab trousers and a navy top that leached the colour from her face? She wore no make-up and had pulled her hair back in a ponytail.

And still arousal beat low in his belly.

He frowned. Just because he’d seen this woman naked didn’t mean he was going to have her in his bed, no matter what his body wanted. He had more sense than to hook up with a journalist. After what had happened to Samira, how could he? Besides, his women were always poised, polished and beautifully dressed, at least to begin with.

Jacqueline Fletcher was...no; not ordinary. Not with those eyes or that mouth. But nor was she sophisticated.

‘It’s after one a.m. Why wake someone when I can lead the way?’ Besides, he intended to keep a personal eye on her.

He scanned the neatly made bed then picked up the single suitcase and laptop bag. She travelled light. His sister had arrived with more than half a dozen cases, probably full of shoes. ‘Is this all?’

‘Yes, but I’ll take the laptop.’ She reached out but at a look from him her arm fell.

Why so eager to take the computer? Because she had something there she didn’t want him to see or simply a journalist’s instinct to protect the tool of her trade? Suspicion stirred anew.

‘I can just about manage them both.’ He nodded to the door. ‘After you.’

She moved with a grace that belied tiredness or nerves. Baggy trousers hid her slender curves but his mind filled the blanks.

Asim turned off the lamp and followed. In the dim corridor it took a moment for his eyes to adjust but he sensed when he reached her. His nostrils twitched as the sweet tang of her perfume reached him. Something fruity and light that made him think of summer.

‘I’ll lead. Just watch your step. The old tiles are uneven.’

Silently she fell into step.

His mouth quirked. Who’d have thought this woman could be so biddable?

On the other hand, there’d been something curiously refreshing about the way she’d continued to argue her case after he’d stated his decision. Maybe Imran had been right and he was too used to getting his own way now he’d been Sultan so long.

His cousin had liked her, he recalled with a pang that crushed his smile.

‘Where are we going?’ Her long legs stretched to match his stride. Automatically he eased his pace.

‘To a guest apartment where you won’t be disturbed.’ More to the point, she wouldn’t have a chance to disturb anyone else.

‘I’m very grateful for you taking the time to see me settled.’ She was like a prim little girl reciting polite words she’d been taught.

If only she knew. Asim took her personally to her new accommodation because he didn’t trust her. As soon as he had her installed he’d call security to ensure she didn’t indulge in any night-time prowling. He refused to compromise Samira’s safety.

‘Is it in a modern part of the palace?’

‘Yes, completed in the last ten years.’ When he’d become ruler his one indulgence had been to build a suite of modern rooms for his own use and that of his private guests. The apartments his parents had used were too full of memories he’d rather forget.

‘That will be...nice.’

Asim shot her a glance. ‘They’re very comfortable.’

‘I’m sure they are.’ She didn’t sound enthused.

‘But? There’s a “but” in there.’

‘Of course not.’ He waited. Finally she added, ‘It’s just that I barely had time to explore the old rooms and they were so beautiful. That wall painting, for instance, with the climbing roses and the birds. It was magnificent.’

Curiosity stirred. ‘You would like to stay in a place like that? Beautiful but cut off from the world?’ It wasn’t what he expected.

Moonlight lit her features as they passed through another courtyard. She looked serious, as if considering. ‘It has a certain appeal. I’d enjoy it...for a while. But I’m a modern woman. Seclusion would lose its charm and I’d end up feeling trapped with nothing to do.’

‘The women who lived there kept busy.’

She turned. ‘Pleasing the Sultan? Being available to meet his every need?’

Despite himself Asim’s lips twitched. She sounded almost prudish as she skated over the issue of sex.

‘You’ve been reading too much fiction. It wasn’t just the lord’s wife or lover who lived there, but all his female relatives.’

He gestured for her to precede him into a corridor illuminated by glowing wall lights. Modern marble flooring replaced worn tiles underfoot.

‘According to family tradition, that’s why my ancestors were so warlike and successful in battle. It gave them an outlet for their frustrations since their female relatives tried to rule the roost at home.’

She slowed and he stopped, turning. Pale before, her face was animated now, delicate colour highlighting regular features. Even her lips looked plumper, rosier.

‘There are two sides to every truth. I bet your male ancestors wouldn’t have given up the freedom to ride across their kingdom, pick fights with their neighbours and grow rich from trade and war even if it meant living a life of domestic bliss. And as for the right to take the most beautiful girl in the kingdom as their own—’

Asim raised his hand. ‘I see you’ve done your homework.’ He shrugged. ‘What can I say? Men will be men.’ In his family, particularly so. Marauders, warriors and rulers, they had a reputation for fierceness as well as for honour and their impeccable taste in women.

He looked down into wide, seductive eyes and for an instant knew sharp regret that those old days had gone. A hundred years ago he’d have been within his rights to clap an intrusive journalist in irons rather than risk her reporting private family matters.

But he wouldn’t have kept Jacqueline Fletcher in a dungeon. He’d have had her in one of those rooms adorned with murals of paradise. The bonds around her wrists would have been silk...

Suddenly she stepped back, her expression wary, as if she read his mind.

Asim blinked and refocused, stunned at his thoughts.

‘Not far now,’ he murmured, leading the way again.

What had come over him? He’d seen his share of naked women. Some would say more than his share. In his youth sex had been one of his favourite things. It still was, but these past months he’d exercised abstinence, distracted by Samira’s problems and the need to finalise the agreement that had been signed tonight.

Maybe that was the problem. Once he’d have celebrated such a significant coup in the arms of a delectable woman. Instead he found himself guarding an unwanted intruder. An intruder with none of the glamorous allure he was used to, yet who provoked lurid thoughts of her naked and responsive in his bed.

He opened the tall entrance door to the Sultan’s apartments.

He’d keep Jacqueline Fletcher from his sister. If she decided to wander she’d have to get past him first then his guards. Besides, he couldn’t have left her far from anyone after that nightmare. Its trauma had been obvious.

Asim remembered Samira’s frantic nightmares years ago when their parents’ love-hate relationship had see-sawed violently. After screaming rows and smashing china, was it any wonder his kid sister had had bad dreams? She’d been weak and frightened afterwards.

No, he was doing the right thing, securing this woman close.

‘This way.’ He walked through the atrium and into a colonnade that ran beside his favourite courtyard.

‘This is stunning.’ She stopped to stare. ‘Absolutely breath-taking.’

Asim followed her gaze. Trees offered shade during the day and the end of the courtyard was taken up by a long swimming pool, illuminated by underwater lights that showed off its aquamarine tiles. Concealed lighting above emphasised the decoratively carved arches of the colonnade, lending a traditional air.

‘I’m glad you approve. I had a hand in the design.’

He ushered her through a door into a private sitting room.

‘Oh my. It’s...’

Asim strode ahead into the bedroom and put her case down. ‘Too modern?’

He turned to find her standing in the middle of the room, eyes alight and a hint of a curve on her lips.

His pulse quickened. What effect would a full-blown smile have? He killed the thought, feeling as if it was a betrayal of his cousin.

She shook her head, turning to take in the airy space and the filmy curtains at the windows and pulled back from the bed. ‘Absolutely not. It’s sumptuous and gorgeous yet comfortable.’ Abruptly she fixed him with that disturbingly direct look. ‘It doesn’t feel like a guest suite.’

Asim shrugged. ‘That’s what it’s designed for.’ He didn’t add that only his intimates stayed here, one or two close friends and a handful of lovers.

Instantly he imagined her writhing naked on this bed...and she wasn’t alone.

Abruptly he gestured to the bathroom, disturbed at the way his mind strayed around her. ‘You’ll find all you need. If not, call housekeeping. There’s a phone beside the bed.’ He spun away. ‘I’ll wish you a good night.’

‘Wait!’ Her voice came from close on his heels. He turned and there she was, within touching distance.

Clearly he was getting too used to being treated with royal distinction. Her nearness surprised him. Outside his family no one but a lover got this close without permission.

A buzz of anticipation filled him. Is that what he wanted from this woman? It was a lunatic idea yet his body’s response told its own story.

‘You’ve got my laptop.’ She reached but stopped short of grabbing it from under his arm.

For a moment Asim considered refusing to return it. He could search it for anything she’d written about Samira.

Only for a moment. Such an act was beneath him.

Besides, anything she’d written could be rewritten and was probably already saved elsewhere.

With a slight bow he extended the case. ‘What would a journalist be without a computer?’

She opened her mouth as if to contradict him then snapped it shut. ‘Thank you. And thank you for your hospitality. The rooms are marvellous. I feel very privileged to be able to stay in the palace while I research.’

Asim shook his head, watching dismay tighten her features. ‘Enjoy the accommodation but don’t thank me so soon, Ms Fletcher. You’ll be leaving tomorrow.’

He left before her inevitable protest. Yet he was surprised she didn’t scurry after him.

He carried the image of her hurt eyes until he finally slept. Then he dreamed of a slim, pale-skinned woman laid out on his bed, awaiting his pleasure. Her hair was the tawny colour of the Jazeeri lion for which the country was famous and her voice husky as she pleaded for him to do all the things his burning body desired.

* * *

Asim paced his grandmother’s sitting room. He’d slept badly and dealing with the Emir and his precious niece this morning had sapped his patience. He’d walked a razor-sharp line between hospitality and discretion and hadn’t relaxed until he’d finally farewelled his guests. The assembled crowd’s gaze had been like a dagger between his shoulders every time he’d even looked at the woman. She, devil take her, had cast him sultry looks and leaned close whenever they spoke.

He sighed and propped one arm on the window embrasure. It was a relief to have the woman out of his palace.

Now he just had one more female to eject.

If only his grandmother wasn’t so obstinate about keeping her.

‘It won’t work. It’s naïve to think she can remain if we want to protect Samira.’ This time he’d keep her safe, keep control of the situation.

‘Of course it will work. I’ll see to it. They’ll be in separate parts of the palace complex and Ms Fletcher will be busy with her research. She strikes me as a woman of considerable focus.’

Asim looked at the little dumpling of a woman from whom, he suspected, he’d inherited his determination. He wished she’d been here in the palace during his boyhood. She’d have been a welcome addition to their unstable household with her brisk common sense and kind heart. But his mother hadn’t taken to her so despite centuries of custom his grandmother had retired to a summer palace in the foothills.

Yet for once Asim felt in sympathy with his departed mother. The Lady Rania, once fixed on an idea, was hard to budge.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, summoning patience.

‘It’s a recipe for disaster, putting a journalist under the same roof as a beautiful princess who’s on the run from the press.’

‘Ms Fletcher isn’t that sort of journalist. She’s not interested in kiss and tell affairs. She’s here for a real story. I told you about the book she wants to write.’

Yes, he’d heard about the book. The table near his grandmother just happened to be littered with articles Jacqueline Fletcher had published about women’s lives in Africa and East Asia. Clearly the woman was a workaholic. Given her demanding news job, he wondered how she’d found time.

‘You really think there’s a difference between a “news” journalist and the paparazzi?’ He couldn’t believe her naivety. ‘Let either one sniff a story and they’ll be onto it in a flash. Right now, Samira is news.’

‘Samira is always going to be news.’ His grandmother folded her arms. ‘With her wealth and looks it can’t be avoided. It’s a matter of managing that.’

‘You think having that woman here will help her manage the fallout?’ He couldn’t believe what he heard.

His grandmother fixed him with a shrewd stare. ‘I think the two matters are quite separate. I see no reason for you to be concerned. I’ve already had a security assessment done on Ms Fletcher.’

‘You have?’ So his grandmother hadn’t been as blindly trusting as he’d thought.

She nodded. ‘Her life’s an open book, and most of the pages are about work.’ She paused. ‘This project is important to her. She wants very strongly to make it a success. She won’t jeopardise that by biting the hand that feeds her.’

Asim choked back a comment about taking the money and running. The press would pay handsomely for candid snaps of his sister right now, and even more for an insider’s story on her state of mind, true or not.

‘But why write this book? She’s used to the quick adrenalin fix and high profile of current affairs. Why walk away from that at just twenty-eight? She’s on the way to big things.’ He’d done more checking of his own last night. ‘It’s too convenient.’

‘You’re too concerned with conspiracy theories, Asim. She and I have corresponded for some time. Even before Imran...’ The old lady sucked in a shuddering breath. Her fingers knotted in her lap. ‘He’d suggested she contact me and I believe she views it as her duty to your cousin to see it through.’

‘Duty?’ Asim bit out. ‘It’s a little late for that now he’s dead.’

His grandmother shook her head. ‘You can’t blame her for what happened. You read the reports. You know she was as much a victim as Imran.’

Reluctantly he nodded. Logic told him the old lady was right. But Jacqueline Fletcher’s presence here still felt wrong.

Not to Lady Rania. ‘How can I turn my back on her when it was the last thing Imran asked of me?’

Asim watched his grandmother battle tears and his gut clenched. In seconds the clever, feisty woman he loved was gone, replaced by a fragile, grieving old lady whose distress tore at him. He felt as if someone was slowly disembowelling him with a rusty spoon. She’d always seemed indomitable but his cousin’s untimely death had aged her as not even the loss of her son and daughter-in-law had.

Imran’s loss had shocked them all. But for his grandmother it was a blow from which Asim feared she’d never recover. Unless she had something else to focus on.

With a sigh, he sank onto the arm of her chair and covered her age-knotted hands. He knew he’d regret this.

‘You really want Jacqueline Fletcher here?’

Her hands stilled. ‘I promised Imran.’

In their family a promise was an unbreakable bond.

Imran and Jacqueline Fletcher. Just how close had they been? The question had taunted him through the long night.

Asim closed his eyes, thrusting aside the futile wish that his grandmother’s peace of mind could be achieved through other means. The only way forward was to take control of the situation, however unpalatable, and mould it into what you wanted.

‘And if she proves unworthy of your trust?’

‘I may be getting on in years, Asim, but I’m not in my dotage.’ The indignation in her tone was a relief. ‘I’m still a good judge of character. And talent.’ She gestured to the papers on the table. ‘Read those and tell me she’s not gifted. She’s got a journalist’s instinct for a story, but it’s tempered with humanity and respect.’

‘Respect?’ It wasn’t a word he associated with the press.

‘Read them and see.’

To please his grandmother, he scooped the papers up. The last thing his crowded schedule permitted was leisure for reading.

‘You’ll let her stay?’

Reluctantly he inclined his head. ‘Since you wish it.’

‘You won’t regret it, Asim.’

‘I hope you’re right.’ He would permit no one to hurt either his sister or his emotionally fragile grandmother. If Jacqueline Fletcher crossed that line she’d answer to him.

* * *

Jacqui paced the antechamber. Sitting still wasn’t an option. Her response to a problem was to resolve it quickly. Except the Sultan had been unavailable all day. One didn’t simply interrupt a busy head of state, no matter how infuriating and high-handed his attitude.

‘His Highness will see you now.’

Jacqui spun round to see a young man gesturing her towards an open door.

Her empty stomach clenched. This was it. Lady Rania had assured her this morning that she’d persuade her grandson. But, remembering his severe expression and the glint of honed steel in his eyes, Jackie wondered if anything would shift him when he’d made up his mind.

Once she’d have been sure she could persuade him, but her self-assurance had shattered, leaving her questioning her judgement in coming here.

Yet if Jacqui didn’t have this project, what did she have? Her insides heaved as she fought panic.

‘Thank you.’ She straightened her jacket with clammy hands and entered.

Though she was prepared, the sight of the man standing near the vast desk made her breath catch. He was taller than she remembered and memory hadn’t exaggerated the breadth of those shoulders. Or the keenness of that stare.

Briefly she wondered if she should curtsey but knew she couldn’t carry it off. Besides—heat seared her—after he’d had an eyeful of her nude body last night it was a little late for such niceties.

‘Good afternoon, Your Highness.’ Her gaze took in his finery: a long grey tunic embroidered at the high collar and hem, worn over pale, loose trousers that tucked into boots. No dagger at his side this time, but he wore a neat white turban threaded with silver. He looked imposing, his spare features harsh.

‘Ms Fletcher. Please sit.’

And let him tower over her?

‘Thank you but I prefer to stand.’

‘Fine. What I have to say won’t take long.’

Jacqui’s insides tumbled in a sickening corkscrew. She planted her feet in her low-heeled shoes and braced herself. She should have argued her case last night but she’d been swaying with exhaustion after twenty-four hours of travel and then the trauma of the nightmare.

He paced closer and she had to make a conscious effort not to retreat. His gaze pinioned her like a hunter marking his prey.

Atavistic fear quivered through her as he came close and she read something in his stare that wasn’t simply disapproval or dismissal. Something made her remember the brush of the silk coverlet against her bare skin and the strange jittery sensation deep in her core. She swallowed hard.

‘You’re lucky to have such an advocate, Ms Fletcher.’ He was so close his breath warmed her and his hot spicy scent teased her nose. ‘My grandmother is very taken with you. So I’ve decided you can stay.’

It took Jacqui whole seconds to take it in. She goggled.

‘I can?’ A smile trembled on her lips but they were too stiff to curve properly. Relief was a swoop of sensation through her chest so strong it hurt. She’d been so sure he’d banish her from the palace, perhaps the country.

‘You may.’ There was no lightening in his expression. If anything, it sharpened. He leaned closer, looming so her pulse jumped. ‘But I have conditions.’

Jacqui nodded, feeling the force of his disapproval. ‘Yes?’ Her voice was a scratch of sound.

‘One, absolutely no photos without permission.’

‘Of course. I—’

‘Two, no attempt to report on my family’s personal lives. A social history is one thing, digging for gossip is another. I won’t hesitate to sue if necessary.’

Outrage stirred. ‘That’s not what I’m here for!’

Astonishingly his hand reached out to cup her chin, tilting it up till his face filled her vision. Tension snapped between them and an unfamiliar sensation shot through her as his fingers splayed over her throat, reinforcing her vulnerability to his superior strength.

No man had ever held her like that. Jacqui was torn between wide-eyed anxiety and a sudden, startling jab of excitement. She hated men who threw their weight around, who encroached on women. But as she arched back in his hold part of her thrilled at his masculine power.

She blinked. She must be going mad.

‘My family is precious to me and I won’t have them harmed.’ He paused, his jaw tight. ‘I’ve seen what damage the press can do.’

Slowly she nodded, surprised and a little daunted by this glimpse of the man behind the royal title. The man she was sure would bring retribution on anyone who hurt those for whom he cared. Curiosity stirred.

‘Three.’ He paused, his gaze flicking to her parted lips then to her eyes. To her dismay her mouth tingled from that look. ‘You will sign a contract agreeing to these terms and I will meet with you regularly for updates on your progress. I intend to take a very personal interest in this book of yours.’

Jacqui swallowed. ‘Of course.’ She made to jerk her head away but his grip firmed. He didn’t hurt her but the sensation of being at his mercy sent anxiety scudding through her, as it was meant to. Her jaw clenched. ‘There’s no need to assault me to make your point.’

‘Assault?’ His brows rose. ‘I’m simply reminding you that while you’re in my home, and in my country, my will is law. If you attempt to take advantage of my family you’ll pay dearly. Understood?’

‘I understand.’ For a moment longer Jacqui stood unmoving. Then abruptly she slumped from the knees, her body weight dragging his arm down, pulling him off-balance. A twist, a jerk and she was free; another quick movement as he reached to support what he presumably thought was her fainting body and now it was she who gripped him, her thumb hard on the pressure point in his hand. His skin was firm and warm under hers.

Her chest pounded as adrenalin shot through her blood. She stifled a grin at the surprise in his coal-dark eyes. Suddenly, for the first time in months, she felt strong and confident. It was a heady relief after so long doubting herself.

‘And I hope you understand, Your Highness, that I won’t be intimidated.’ Beneath her touch his pulse throbbed an infuriatingly even rhythm. ‘If ever I want a man to touch me, I’ll invite him.’

Slowly his mouth curved in a smile as lethal as a scimitar. ‘I’ll be sure to remember that, Ms Fletcher.’

Strangely, his words didn’t reassure.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘IS SHE ON your list of potential brides?’ Asim’s grandmother whispered as they stood side by side, farewelling guests from the formal reception.

He stiffened. He hadn’t sought the old lady’s help to find a wife but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try to sway him.

‘I’m keeping my options open,’ he said as he watched the young woman in question leave with her parents. They’d loitered till the very end of the evening and he wondered if they’d hoped for some signal of preferment. If so they’d waited in vain. The girl was nice enough, but...

‘She’s very pretty,’ his grandmother murmured. ‘Very well brought-up.’

So well brought-up she’d barely spoken till Asim had asked her questions she had to give more than a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer to. Even then she’d kept her eyes downcast.

His gaze shifted to a knot of people so engrossed in conversation they hadn’t realised the reception was breaking up. At its centre was a familiar tawny chestnut head. Jacqueline Fletcher, nodding at something one of the country’s most renowned lawyers said. Even from here he saw the flash of her bright eyes. Asim couldn’t imagine her standing meek and silent before a man her parents wanted her to marry.

His lips twisted in a grim smile as he remembered how she’d been anything but meek. She was too opinionated, too outspoken for comfort.

‘And she’s obviously eager to start a family.’

Startled, Asim turned to stare at his grandmother, only then realising she referred to the woman who’d just left.

‘That’s a definite plus,’ the old lady murmured, ‘Since you want heirs. Did you know she volunteers at the children’s hospital? She adores children.’

‘I’d noticed.’ She’d only become animated when talking about children at the hospital and, blushing, about her hopes for a large family.

Asim liked children. He wanted his own. But he’d felt uncomfortable with a woman who seemed to have no interests beyond that.

‘Her mother tells me she’s an excellent cook. I suspect she’ll be a wonderful home-maker.’

Asim arched an eyebrow and stared down at his grandmother. ‘Why the hard sell? It’s not as if I’m likely to starve for want of a good cook.’ A wide gesture took in the remnants of the superb buffet supper prepared by the royal chefs.

‘I’m just pointing out her good qualities. Why are you so touchy?’

He shrugged, frowning. Why did he feel dissatisfied? Tonight had been arranged so he could vet a potential bride in a setting which wouldn’t make his interest obvious. Yet the result was strangely disappointing. ‘I’m sorry. I thought I knew what I wanted and now I’m having second thoughts.’

She nodded. ‘A man like you needs more than a sweet mouse, Asim, even if she is a domestic goddess. You need a real woman.’

He discovered his eyes were fixed again on Jacqueline Fletcher. He blinked as his grandmother’s words sank in. A real woman.

But not one like his unwanted guest. So she could hold her own in conversation and had an enquiring mind. That was all. She didn’t even dress to make the most of her assets. That dark suit would have been acceptable at a business meeting, but not tonight, where the women wore full-length gowns of impeccable quality.

Did she aim to draw attention to herself in some perverse way? Or did she think to hide herself behind the boxy cut of that jacket? Perhaps she’d worn it because of him. Did she really believe the unflattering style would make him forget her svelte, alluring body now he’d seen it laid out before him?

‘Asim, dear. You’re scowling.’

His jaw firmed and he stiffened as he realised his grandmother was right. He’d been Sultan for ten years, had been attending formal events since childhood. Concealing his thoughts in public was second nature. Until now.

* * *

‘Allow me to escort you to your suite.’ The deep voice was as rich and tempting as the thick Arabic coffee sweetened with wild honey that was a local specialty. It slid right through her insides, scorching as it went.

Jacqui swung round to find the Sultan beside her. Her pulse throbbed faster and an unsettling frisson pulled her skin taut. She’d been so busy saying goodnight to her new acquaintances she hadn’t heard him approach.

All evening she’d kept her distance, though he drew her gaze constantly. A head taller than most of the glamorous crowd, he looked magnificent in pale trousers and a high-necked tunic of coppery gold that complemented the saturnine darkness and chiselled authority of his features. This time his turban was black.

Beside him she felt like a drab sparrow. For a fleeting moment she wished her travel wardrobe included something sexy and feminine, until reality punctured the illusion. She didn’t own anything like that. Besides, she’d look ridiculous, a scarecrow pretending to be a fairy princess.

‘Your Highness, thank you for the invitation to tonight’s reception. You have such interesting guests.’

His dark gaze was impenetrable. She should be used to it. She saw it every day in his office when he subjected her to twenty minutes of questions and answers more gruelling than any editorial inquisition. Twenty minutes in which he assessed her with the intensity of a scientist viewing a lower life form.

And never once had she discovered the man behind the formal interrogation. She sensed a sharp intellect and decisive mind but there’d been few glimpses of the man she’d met that first night, the one whose quick distrust, kindness and latent sexuality had fascinated her.

Just as well. She didn’t need that distraction.

‘Had, Ms Fletcher. The evening is over.’

She looked around and realised he was right. The last scattered guests had left.

‘Then I’ll say goodnight too, Your Highness. Thank you again.’

‘I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.’ He fell into step beside her and she was inordinately conscious of his height and the swing of his arm close to hers as they exited the opulent room. He turned with her into the wide corridor away from the marble and gilt public rooms.

‘Really, there’s no need to see me to my door.’

‘It’s not out of my way.’ He gestured for her to precede him under a stone archway decorated with carved calligraphy and semi-precious stones.

Reluctantly she stepped through. Those short daily interviews were unsettling enough. Walking empty corridors with him reminded her too strongly of that first night when he’d found her naked and screaming. He made her feel vulnerable, as if her defences had been scraped away like a layer of skin by the hot desert wind.

Or maybe it’s because you’re so aware of him as a man. A hot, sexy man.

His hand shot out and grabbed her elbow when she stumbled.

‘I’m fine.’ Jacqui made to tug out of his hold but found she couldn’t.

His eyes weren’t blank any more. What she saw there made her breath quicken and sent a charge jolting to the apex of her thighs. Heat seared to the tips of her ears as she identified her body’s reaction.

Arousal.

Jacqui swallowed over a throat lined with sandpaper.

For days she’d assured herself she’d imagined the throb of desire that first night. She’d focused on her work, interviewing Lady Rania and poring over documents. She’d kept her reports to her royal host businesslike. But in the dark of her solitary room each night she’d felt a rush of heat that made a liar of her.

Her breath quickened as he tilted his head, watching.

Then abruptly she was free, his strong fingers sliding away.

‘Forgive me, Ms Fletcher. I realise you didn’t invite that.’ His lips curved in a wry smile that set her heart battering her ribs.

It took a moment to realise he referred to her defiant announcement that if she wanted his touch she’d invite it.

Suddenly Jacqui remembered the warmth of his skin on hers that first night. How his dangerous smile had undone something vital inside her. How, even when annoyed at his superior attitude, she was always aware of him.

‘I should go. I have a busy day tomorrow.’

She turned into another corridor and infuriatingly he fell into step. He was so close she heard the faint swish of silks and linen as he strode beside her.

‘So I understand. My grandmother is excited by the prospect of you meeting her old friends. I gather they’re spending the afternoon with you, discussing harem life.’

‘You know about that?’ Jacqui hadn’t told him in advance, suspecting he’d object to her spending time with women who were intimately acquainted with his family. He’d made it clear his family was off-limits. The discreet presence of a guard who trailed at a distance whenever she left her suite to meet Lady Rania or investigate the deserted harem constantly reminded her that she was here under sufferance.

If she hadn’t been so engrossed by her research, or so desperate to make a success of it, she’d have bridled at the surveillance. It made her smile grimly that, after the dangers of her old job, now she was relegated to pure desk work Sultan Asim felt he had to take precautions against her.

‘My grandmother has spoken of little but this gathering.’ He paused. ‘Whatever comes of this project, I must thank you for bringing pleasure to her at a very difficult time.’

Jacqui’s pace faltered. It was the last thing she’d expected to hear.

‘I’m pleased you think so. But it’s she who’s helping me. Without her involvement this project wouldn’t be possible. When Imran...’ She cleared her throat. ‘When your cousin mentioned the possibility of interviewing her I hardly dared hope she’d agree.’

‘It’s that important to you?’

She nodded. More than he could know. What had begun as an interesting idea for the future had become her lifeline, her only option. And one final homage to her friend.

‘Please.’ He gestured and Jacqui stared, discovering they’d reached the spacious courtyard outside her suite. ‘Take a seat.’ He led the way to a pair of comfortable looking chairs in the garden.

Jacqui hesitated. ‘I really should—’

‘I’d like to talk to you.’ He stood, a commanding figure bathed in moonlight. It gleamed on the fine fabric of his clothes and turned his eyes to a dark glitter.

Instinct warned against a tête à tête in the darkness. But he was her host. She was indebted to him. She couldn’t walk away.

Reluctantly she stepped from the lit passageway and took a seat, struggling to sit upright when the cushions invited her to lounge. He sat turned half towards her, half towards the long pool that shimmered invitingly.

Silence surrounded them.

‘I’m curious,’ he said at last. ‘Why would a woman like you embark on this particular project?’

‘A woman like me?’ She strove to keep the indignation from her voice. What was he accusing her of now?

His reluctance to have her here, his hawk-like scrutiny of her research and her daily guard proved he didn’t trust the press. But she’d hoped she’d allayed his concerns and he’d begun to trust her a little.

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