“I am to decide your punishment for you,” Mikael said finally.

“What are the choices?”

“Seven years’ house arrest here in Haslam—”

“Seven years?”

“Or I take you as my wife.”

“That’s not funny. Not even remotely funny.”

“It’s not a joke. I either marry you, or leave you here in Haslam to begin your house arrest.”

He saw Jemma recoil and her face turn white.

“I warned you that Sheikh Azizzi would not be lenient. He is not a Copeland fan either. He knows what your father did to my mother, and he wants to send a message that Saidia will not tolerate crime or immorality.”

“But seven years!” She reached for the edge of the table to steady herself. “That’s … that’s … so long.”

“Seven years or marriage,” he corrected.

“No. No. Marriage isn’t an option. I won’t marry you. I would never marry you. I could never marry you.”

THE DISGRACED COPELANDS

A family in the headlines—for all the wrong reasons!

For the Copeland family each day brings another tabloid scandal. Their world was one of unrivalled luxury and glittering social events. Now their privileged life is nothing but a distant memory …

Staring the taunting paparazzi straight in the eye, the Copeland heirs seek to start new lives—with no one to rely on but themselves.

At least that’s what they think …!

It seems fame and riches can’t buy happiness—but they make it fun trying!

Read Morgan Copeland’s story in:

The Fallen Greek Bride

Read Jemma Copeland’s story in:

His Defiant Desert Queen

Look out for more scandalous stories about

The Disgraced Copelands

by Jane Porter

Coming soon!

His Defiant Desert Queen

Jane Porter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author JANE PORTER has written forty romances and eleven women’s fiction novels since her first sale to Mills & Boon® Modern™ Romance in 2000. A five-time RITA® finalist, Jane is known for her passionate, emotional and sensual novels, and loves nothing more than alpha heroes, exotic locations and happy-ever-afters. Today Jane lives in sunny San Clemente, California, with her surfer husband and three sons. Visit www.janeporter.com

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Cover

Introduction

THE DISGRACED COPELANDS

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

PROLOGUE

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

Extract

Copyright

PROLOGUE

SEETHING, SHEIKH MIKAEL KARIM, King of Saidia, watched the high fashion photo shoot taking place in the desert—his desert—wondering how anyone could think it was okay to enter a foreign country under a false identity and think he, or she, as it happened to be in this case, could get away with it.

Apparently the world was filled with fools.

Fools by the name of Copeland.

Jaw tight, temper barely leashed, Mikael waited for the right moment to intervene.

He’d been pushed too far, challenged directly, and he’d meet that challenge with swift retribution.

A king didn’t negotiate. A king never begged, and a king refused to curry favor.

Saidia might be a small kingdom, but it was powerful. And the government of Saidia might tolerate the West, but Westerners couldn’t enter Saidia, flaunt Saidia law, and think there would be no repercussions.

Jemma Copeland was a foolish woman. So like her father, thumbing her nose at the law, believing she was above it.

Perhaps Daniel Copeland had got away with his crimes. But his daughter would not be so lucky. Miss Jemma Copeland was going to pay.

CHAPTER ONE

NECESSITY HAD TAUGHT Jemma Copeland to shut out distractions.

She’d learned to ignore the things she didn’t want to think about, to enable her to do what needed to be done.

So for the past two hours she’d ignored the scorching heat of the Sahara. The insistent, hollow ache in her stomach. The stigma of being a Copeland, and what it meant back home in the United States.

She’d blocked out heat, hunger, and shame, but she couldn’t block out the tall, white-robed man standing just a foot behind the photographer, watching her through dark, unsmiling eyes while a half dozen robed men stood behind him.

She knew who the man was. How could she not? He’d attended her sister’s wedding five years ago in Greenwich and every woman with a pulse had noticed Sheikh Mikael Karim. He was tall, he was impossibly, darkly handsome, and he was a billionaire as well as the new king of Saidia.

But Mikael Karim wasn’t supposed to be on set today. He was supposed to be in Buenos Aires this week and his sudden appearance, arriving in a parade of glossy black luxury SUVs with tinted windows, had sent ripples of unease throughout the entire crew.

It was obvious he wasn’t happy.

Jemma’s gut told her something ugly could happen soon. She prayed she was wrong. She just wanted to get through the rest of the shoot and fly out tomorrow morning as planned.

At least he hadn’t shown up yesterday. Yesterday had been grueling, a very long day, with multiple shots in multiple locations, and the heat had been intense. But she hadn’t complained. She wouldn’t. She needed the job too much to be anything but grateful for the chance to still work.

It still boggled her mind how much things had changed. Just a year ago she had been one of America’s golden girls, envied for her beauty, her wealth, her status as an It Girl. Her family was powerful, affluent. The Copelands had homes scattered across the world, and she and her gorgeous, privileged sisters were constantly photographed and discussed. But even the powerful can fall, and the Copeland family tumbled off their pedestal with the revelation that Daniel, her father, was the number two man in the biggest Ponzi scheme in America in the past century.

Overnight the Copelands became the most hated family in America.

Now Jemma could barely make ends meet. The fallout from her father’s arrest, and the blitz of media interest surrounding the case, had destroyed her career. The fact that she worked, and had supported herself since she was eighteen, meant nothing to the public. She was still Daniel Copeland’s daughter. Hated. Loathed. Resented.

Ridiculed.

Today, she was lucky to get work, and her once brilliant career now barely paid the bills. When her agency came to her with this assignment, a three day shoot with two travel days, meaning she’d be paid for five work days, she’d jumped at the opportunity to come to Saidia, the independent desert kingdom tucked underneath Southern Morocco, and nestled between the Western Sahara and the Atlantic Ocean. She’d continued to fight for the opportunity even when the Saidia consulate denied her visa request.

It wasn’t legal, but desperate times called for desperate measures so she’d reapplied for a new visa as her sister, using Morgan’s passport bearing Morgan’s married name, Xanthos. This time she’d received the needed travel visa.

Yes, she was taking a huge risk, coming here under a false name, but she needed money. Without this paycheck, she wouldn’t be able to pay her next month’s mortgage.

So here she was, dressed in a long fox fur and thigh high boots, sweltering beneath the blazing sun.

So what if she was naked beneath the coat?

She was working. She was surviving. And one day, she’d thrive again, too.

So let them look.

Let them all look—the disapproving sheikh and his travel guard—because she wouldn’t be crushed. She refused to be crushed. The clothes were beautiful. Life was exciting. She didn’t have a care in the world.

Despite her fierce resolve, perspiration beaded beneath her full breasts and slid down her bare abdomen.

Not uncomfortable, she thought. Sexy.

And with sexy firmly in mind, she drew a breath, jutted her hip, and struck a bold pose.

Keith, the Australian photographer, let out an appreciative whistle. “That’s beautiful, baby! More of that, please.”

She felt a rush of pleasure, which was quickly dashed by the sight of Mikael Karim moving closer to Keith.

The sheikh was tall, so tall he towered over Keith, and his shoulders were broad, dwarfing the slender Australian.

Jemma had forgotten just how intensely handsome Mikael Karim was. She’d modeled in other countries and had met many different sheikhs, and most had been short, heavyset men with flirty eyes and thickening jowls.

But Sheikh Mikael Karim was young, and lean, and fierce. His white robes only accentuated the width of his shoulders as well as his height, and his angular jaw jutted, black eyebrows flat over those intense, dark eyes.

Now Sheikh Karim looked over Keith’s head, his dark gaze piercing her, holding her attention. She couldn’t look away. He seemed to be telling her something, warning her of something. She went hot, then cold, shivering despite the heat.

Her stomach rose, fell. An alarm sounded in her head. He was dangerous.

She tugged on the edges of the coat, pulling it closer to her body, suddenly very conscious of the fact that she was naked beneath.

Sighing with frustration, Keith lowered his camera a fraction. “You just lost all your energy. Give me sexy, baby.”

Jemma glanced at the sheikh from beneath her lashes. The man oozed tension, a lethal tension that made her legs turn to jelly and the hair prickle on the back of her neck. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

But Keith couldn’t read Sheikh Karim’s expression and his irritation grew. “Come on, focus. We need to wrap this up, baby.”

Keith was right. They did need to wrap this shot. And she was here to do a job. She had to deliver, or she’d never work again.

Jemma gulped a breath, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin to the sun, feeling her long hair spill down her back as she let the heavy fur drop off her shoulder, exposing more skin.

“Nice.” Keith lifted his camera, motioned for his assistant to step closer with the white reflective screen, and began snapping away. “I like that. More of that.”

Jemma shook her head, letting her thick hair tease the small of her spine even as the fur fell lower on her breasts.

“Perfect,” Keith crooned. “That’s hot. Love it. Don’t stop. You’re on fire now.”

Yes, she was, she thought, arching her shoulders back, breasts thrust high, the nipples now just exposed to the kiss of the sun. In Sheikh Karim’s world she was probably going to burn in the flames of hell, but there was nothing she could do about it. This was her job. She had to deliver. And so she pushed all other thoughts from mind, except for giving the image they wanted.

Her shoulders twisted and the coat slid lower on her arm, the fur tickling the back of her bare thighs.

“Lovely, baby.” Keith was snapping away. “So beautiful. Keep doing what you’re doing. You’re a goddess. Every man’s dream.”

She wasn’t a goddess, or a dream, but she could pretend to be. She could pretend anything for a short period of time. Pretending gave her distance, allowing her to breathe, escape, escaping the reality of what was happening at home. Home. A sinking sensation filled her. What a nightmare.

Battling back the sadness, Jemma shifted, lifting her chin, thrusting her hip out, dropping the coat altogether, exposing her breasts, nipples jutting proudly.

Keith whistled softly. “Give me more.”

“No,” Sheikh Mikael Karim ground out. It was just one word, but it echoed like a crack of thunder, immediately silencing the murmur of stylists, make-up artist, and lighting assistants.

All heads turned toward the sheikh.

Jemma stared at him, her stomach churning all over again.

The sheikh’s expression was beyond fierce. His lips curled, his dark eyes burned as he pushed the camera in Keith’s hands down. “That’s enough,” he gritted. “I’ve had enough, from all of you.” His narrowed gaze swept the tents and crew. “You are done here.”

And then his head turned again and he stared straight at Jemma. “And you, Miss Copeland. Cover yourself, and then go inside the tent. I will be in to deal with you shortly.”

She covered herself, but didn’t move.

The sheikh had called her Miss Copeland, not Mrs. Xanthis, the name she’d used on the visa, but Copeland.

Panic flooded her veins. Her heart surged. Sheikh Karim knew who she was. He’d recognized her after all these years. The realization shocked her. He, who knew so many, remembered her.

Hands shaking, she tugged the coat closer to her body, suddenly icy cold despite the dazzling heat. “What’s happening?” she whispered, even though in a dim part of her brain, she knew.

She’d been found out. Her true identity had been discovered. How, she didn’t know, but she was in trouble. Grave trouble. She could feel the severity of the situation all the way down to her toes.

“I think you know,” Sheikh Karim said flatly. “Now go inside the tent and wait.”

Her knees knocked. She wasn’t sure her legs could support her. “For what?”

“To be informed of the charges being brought against you.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong.”

His dark eyes narrowed. His jaw hardened as his gaze swept over her, from the top of her head to the boots on her feet. “You’ve done everything wrong, Miss Copeland. You’re in serious trouble. So go to the tent, now, and if you have half a brain, you’ll obey.”

* * *

Jemma had more than half a brain. She actually had a very good brain. And a very good imagination, which made the walk to the tent excruciating.

What was going to happen to her? What were the official charges? And what would the punishment be?

She tried to calm herself. She focused on her breathing, and clamped down on her wild thoughts. It wouldn’t help her to panic. She knew she’d entered the country illegally. She’d willingly agreed to work on a shoot that hadn’t been condoned by the government. And she’d shown her breasts in public, which was also against Saidia’s law.

And she’d done it all because she hadn’t taken money from her family since she was eighteen and she wasn’t about to start now.

She was an adult. A successful, capable woman. And she’d been determined to make it without going to her family begging for a handout.

In hindsight, perhaps begging for a handout would have been wiser.

In the wardrobe tent, Jemma shrugged off the heavy fur coat, and slipped a light pink cotton kimono over her shoulders, tying the sash at her waist. As she sat down at the stool before the make-up mirror, she could hear the sheikh’s voice echo in her head.

You’ve done everything wrong...

Everything wrong...

He was right. She had done everything wrong. She prayed he’d accept her apology, allow her to make amends. She hadn’t meant to insult him, or disrespect his country or his culture in any way.

Jemma straightened, hearing voices outside her tent. The voices were pitched low, speaking quickly, urgently. Male voices. A single female voice. Jemma recognized the woman as Mary Leed, Catwalk’s editorial director. Mary was usually unflappable but she sounded absolutely panicked now.

Jemma’s heart fell all over again. Bad. This was bad.

She swallowed hard, her stomach churning, nerves threatening to get the better of her.

She shouldn’t have come.

She shouldn’t have taken such risks.

But what was she to do otherwise? Crumble? Shatter? End up on the streets, destitute, homeless, helpless?

No.

She wouldn’t be helpless, and she wouldn’t be pitied, or mocked, either.

She’d suffered enough at the hands of her father. He’d betrayed them all; his clients, his business partners, his friends, even his family. He might be selfish and ruthless and destructive, but the rest of the Copelands weren’t. Copelands were good people.

Good people, she silently insisted, stretching out one leg to unzip the thigh-high boot. Her hand was trembling so badly that it made it difficult to get the zipper down. The boots were outrageous to start with. They were the stuff of fantasy, a very high heel projecting a kinky twist, just like the fashion layout itself.

They would have been smarter doing this feature in Palm Springs instead of Saidia with Saidia’s strict laws of moral conduct. Saidia might be stable and tolerant, but it wasn’t a democracy, nor did it cater to the wealthy Westerners like some other nations. It remained conservative and up until two generations ago, marriages weren’t just arranged, they were forced.

The tribal leaders kidnapped their brides from neighboring tribes.

Unthinkable to the modern Western mind, but acceptable here.

* * *

Jemma was tugging the zipper down on the second boot when the tent flap parted and Mary entered with Sheikh Karim. Two members of the sheikh’s guard stood at the entrance.

Jemma slowly sat up, and looked from Mary to the sheikh and back.

Mary’s face was pale, her lips pressed thin. “We’ve a problem,” she said.

Silence followed. Jemma curled her fingers into her lap.

Mary wouldn’t meet Jemma’s gaze, looking past her shoulder instead. “We’re wrapping up the shoot and returning to the capitol immediately. We are facing some legal charges and fines, which we are hoping to take care of quickly so the crew and company can return to England tomorrow, or the next day.” She hesitated for a long moment, before adding even more quietly, “At least most of us should be able to return to England tomorrow or the next day. Jemma, I’m afraid you won’t be going with us.”

Jemma started to rise, but remembered her boot and sat back down. “Why not?”

“The charges against you are different,” Mary said, still avoiding Jemma’s gaze. “We are in trouble for using you, but you, you’re in trouble for...” Her voice faded away. She didn’t finish the sentence.

She didn’t have to.

Jemma knew why she was in trouble. What she didn’t know was what she’d be charged with. “I’m sorry.” She drew a quick, shallow breath and looked from Mary to Sheikh Karim. “I am sorry. Truly—”

“Not interested,” he said curtly.

Jemma’s stomach flipped. “I made a mistake—”

“A mistake is pairing a black shoe and a blue shoe. A mistake is forgetting to charge one’s phone. A mistake is not entering the country illegally, under false pretenses, with a false identity. You had no work permit. No visa. Nothing.” Sheikh Karim’s voice crackled with contempt and fury. “What you did was deliberate, and a felony, Miss Copeland.”

Jemma put a hand to her belly, praying she wouldn’t throw up here, now. She hadn’t eaten much today. She never did on days she worked, knowing she photographed better with a very flat stomach. “What can I do to make this right?”

Mary shot Sheikh Karim a stricken glance.

He shook his head, once. “There is nothing. The magazine staff must appear in court, and pay their fines. You will face a different judge, and be sentenced accordingly.”

Jemma sat very still. “So I’m to be separated from everyone?”

“Yes.” The sheikh gestured to Mary. “You and the rest of the crew, are to leave immediately. My men will accompany you to ensure your safety.” He glanced at Jemma. “And you will come with me.”

Mary nodded and left. Heart thudding, Jemma watched Mary’s silent, abrupt departure then looked to Sheikh Karim.

He was angry. Very, very angry.

Three years ago she might have crumbled. Two years ago she might have cried. But that was the old Jemma, the girl who’d grown up pampered, protected by a big brother and three opinionated, but loving, sisters.

She wasn’t that girl anymore. In fact, she wasn’t a girl at all anymore. She’d been put to the fire and she’d come out fierce. Strong.

“So where do felons go, Sheikh Karim?” she asked quietly, meeting the sheikh’s hard narrowed gaze.

“To prison.”

“I’m going to prison?”

“If you were to go to court tomorrow, and appear before our judicial tribunal, yes. But you’re not being seen by our judicial tribunal. You’re being seen by my tribe’s elder, and he will act as judge.”

“Why a different court and judge than Mary and the magazine crew?”

“Because they are charged with crimes against Saidia. You—” he broke off, studying her lovely face in the mirror, wondering how she’d react to his news, “You are charged with crimes against the Karims, my family. Saidia’s royal family. You will be escorted to a judge who is of my tribe. He will hear the charges brought against you, and then pass judgment.”

She didn’t say anything. Her brow creased and she looked utterly bewildered. “I don’t understand. What have I done to your family?”

“You stole from my family. Shamed them.”

“But I haven’t. I don’t even know your family.”

“Your father does.”

Jemma grew still. Everything seemed to slow, stop. Would the trail of devastation left by her father’s action never end? She stared at Mikael suddenly afraid of what he’d say next. “But I’m not my father.”

“Not physically, no, but you represent him.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.” His jaw hardened. “In Arabic society, one is always connected to one’s family. You represent your family throughout your life, which is why it’s so important to always bring honor to one’s family. But your father stole from the Karims, shamed the Karims, dishonoring my family, and in so doing, he dishonored all of Saidia.”

She swallowed hard. “But I’m nothing like my father.”

“You are his daughter, and you are here, unlawfully. It is time to right the wrong. You will make atonement for your disrespect, and your father’s, too.”

“I don’t even have a relationship with my father. I haven’t seen him in years—”

“This is not the time. We have a long trip ahead of us. I suggest you finish changing so we can get on the road.”

Her fingers bent, nails pressing to the dressing table. “Please.”

“It’s not up to me.”

“But you are the king.”

“And kings must insist on obedience, submission, and respect. Even from our foreign visitors.”

She looked at him, seeing him, but not seeing him, too overwhelmed by his words and the implication of what he was saying to focus on any one thing. It didn’t help that her pulse raced, making her head feel dizzy and light.

The grim security guard at Tagadir International Airport had warned them. Had said that His Highness Sheikh Karim was all powerful in Saidia. As king he owned this massive expanse of desert and the sand dunes rolling in every direction, and as their translator had whispered on leaving the airport, “His Highness, Sheikh Karim, isn’t just head of the country, he is the country.”

Jemma exhaled slowly, trying to clear the fog and panic from her brain. She should have taken the warnings seriously. She should have been logical, not desperate.

Desperate was a dangerous state of mind.

Desperate fueled chaos.

What she needed to do was remain calm. Think this through. There had to be a way to reach him, reason with him. Surely he didn’t make a habit of locking up American and British girls?

“I’d like to make amends,” she said quietly, glancing up at Sheikh Karim from beneath her lashes, taking in his height, the width of his shoulders, and his hard, chiseled features. Nothing in his expression was kind. There was not even a hint of softness at his mouth.

“You will,” he said. “You must.”

She winced at the harshness in his voice. Sheikh Mikael Karim might be as handsome as any Hollywood leading man, but there was no warmth in his eyes.

He was a cold man, and she knew all too well that cold men were dangerous. Men without hearts destroyed, and if she were not very careful, and very smart, she could be ruined.

“Can I pay a fine? A penalty?”

“You’re in no position to buy yourself out of trouble, Miss Copeland. Your family is bankrupt.”

“I could try Drakon—”

“You’re not calling anyone,” he interrupted sharply. “And I won’t have Drakon bailing you out. He might be your sister’s ex-husband, but he was my friend from university and from what I understand, he lost virtually his entire fortune thanks to your father. I think Drakon has paid a high enough price for being associated with you Copelands. It’s time you and your family stopped expecting others to clean up your messes and instead assumed responsibility for your mistakes.”

“That might be, but Drakon isn’t cruel. He wouldn’t approve of you...of you...” Her voice failed her as she met Mikael’s dark gaze. The sheikh’s anger burned in his eyes, scorching her.

“Of what, Miss Copeland?” he asked softly, a hint of menace in his deep voice.

“What won’t he approve of?” he persisted.

Jemma couldn’t answer. Her heart beat wildly, a painful staccato that made her chest ache.

She had to be careful. She couldn’t afford to alienate the sheikh. Not when she needed him and his protection.

She needed to win him over. She needed him to care. Somehow she had to get him to see her, the real her, Jemma. The person. The woman. Not the daughter of Daniel Copeland.

It was vital she didn’t antagonize him, but reached him. Otherwise it would be far too easy for Sheikh Karim to snap his fingers and destroy her. He was that powerful, that ruthless.

Her eyes burned and her lip trembled and she bit down hard, teeth digging into her lip to keep from making a sound.

Fear washed through her but she would not crack, or cry. Would not disintegrate, either.

“He wouldn’t approve of me flaunting your laws,” she said lowly, fighting to maintain control, and cling to whatever dignity she had left. “He wouldn’t approve of me using my sister’s passport, either. He would be angry,” she added, lifting her chin to meet Sheikh Karim’s gaze. “And disappointed.”

Mikael Karim arched a brow.

“In me,” she added. “He’d be disappointed in me.”

And then wrapping herself in courage, and hanging on to that fragile cloak, she removed her boot, placing it on the floor next to its mate, and turned to her dressing table to begin removing her make-up.

CHAPTER TWO

MIKAEL SAW JEMMA’S lower lip quiver before she clamped her jaw, biting down in an effort to remain silent, as she turned back to her dressing table.

He was surprised at how calm she was. He’d expected tears. Hysteria. Instead she was quiet. Thoughtful. Respectful.

He’d planned on defiance. He’d come prepared for theatrics. She’d almost gone there. Almost, but then thought better of it.

Perhaps she wasn’t as silly as he’d thought.

Perhaps she might have a brain in her pretty head after all.

He was glad she wasn’t going to dissolve into tears and hysteria. And glad she might be starting to understand the gravity of her situation.

But even then, he was still deeply furious with her for knowingly, willfully flaunting every international law by entering a foreign country with a false identity, and then practically stripping in public.

It wasn’t done.

It wasn’t acceptable.

It wouldn’t even be allowed in San Francisco or New York City.

So how could she think it would be okay here?

His brow lowered as his narrowed gaze swept over her. She looked so soft and contrite now as she removed her makeup. It was an act. He was certain she was playing him. Just as her father had played his mother...before bankrupting her, breaking her.

His mother would be alive today if Daniel Copeland hadn’t lied to her and stolen from her, taking not just her financial security, but her self-respect.

Thank goodness Mikael was not his mother.

He knew better than to allow himself to be manipulated by yet another Copeland con artist.

Mikael refused to pity Jemma. He didn’t care if she was sorry. Had Daniel Copeland shown his mother mercy? No. Had Daniel Copeland shown any of his clients concern...compassion? No. So why should his daughter receive preferential treatment?

“Will I have a lawyer present?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“No,” he said.

“Will I have any legal representation?”

“No.”

She hesitated, brow furrowing, lips compressing, somehow even more lovely troubled than when posed on the desert sand in the fur and thigh high boots.

Yes, she was beautiful. And yes, she’d inherited her mother’s famous bone structure, and yes, even in this dim, stifling tent she still glowed like a jewel—glossy dark hair, brilliant green eyes, luminous skin, pink lips—but that didn’t change the fact that she was a criminal.

“Neither of us have lawyers,” he added, hating that he was even aware of her beauty. He shouldn’t notice, or care. He shouldn’t feel any attraction at all. “There is just the case itself, presented by me, and then the judge passes the sentence.”

“You represent yourself?”

“I represent my tribe, the Karim family, and the laws of this country.”

She turned slowly on the stool to face him, her hands resting on her thighs, the pink kimono gaping slightly above the knotted sash, revealing the slope of her full breast. “What you’re saying is that it will be you testifying against me.”

He shouldn’t know that her nipple was small and pink and that her belly was flat above firm, rounded hips.

Or at the very least, he shouldn’t remember. He shouldn’t want to remember. “I present the facts. I do not pass judgment.”

“Will the facts be presented in English?”

“No.”

“So you could say anything.”

“But why would I?” he countered sharply. “You’ve broken numerous laws. Important laws. Laws created to protect our borders and the safety and security of my people. There is no need to add weight or severity. What you’ve done is quite serious. The punishment will be appropriately serious.”

He saw a flash in her eyes, and he didn’t know if it was anger or fear but she didn’t speak. She bit down, holding back the quick retort.

Seconds ticked by, one after the other.

For almost a minute there was only silence, a tense silence weighted with all the words she refrained from speaking.

“How serious?” she finally asked.

“There will be jail time.”

“How long?”

He was uncomfortable with all the questions. “Do you really want to do this now?”

“Absolutely. Far better to be prepared than to walk in blind.”

“The minimum sentence is somewhere between five to ten years. The maximum, upward of twenty.”

She went white, and her lips parted, but she made no sound. She simply stared at him, incredulous, before slowly turning back to face her dressing table mirror.

She was trying not to cry.

Her shoulders were straight, and her head was high but he saw the welling of tears in her eyes. He felt her shock, and sadness.

He should leave but his feet wouldn’t move. His chest felt tight.

It was her own damned fault.

But he could still see her five years ago in the periwinkle blue bridesmaid dress at Morgan’s wedding.

He could hear her gurgle of laughter as she’d made a toast to her big sister at the reception after.

“We will leave as soon as you’re dressed,” he said tersely, ignoring Jemma’s pallor and the trembling of her hands where they rested on the dressing table.

“I will need five or ten minutes,” she said.

“Of course.” He turned to leave but from the corner of his eye he saw her lean toward the mirror to try to remove the strip of false eyelashes on her right eye, her hands still shaking so much she couldn’t lift the edge.

It wasn’t his problem. He didn’t care if her hands shook violently or not. But he couldn’t stop watching her. He couldn’t help noticing that she was struggling. Tears spilled from the corners of her eyes as she battled to get the eyelashes off.

It was her fault.

He wasn’t responsible for her situation.

And yet her struggle unsettled him, awakening emotions and memories he didn’t want to feel.

Mikael didn’t believe in feeling. Feelings were best left to others. He, on the other hand, preferred logic. Structure. Rules. Order.

He wouldn’t be moved by tears. Not even the tears of a young foreign woman that he’d met many years ago at the wedding of Drakon Xanthis, his close friend from university. Just because Drakon had married Jemma’s older sister, Morgan, didn’t mean that Mikael had to make allowances. Why make allowances when Daniel Copeland had made none for his mother?

“Stop,” he ordered, unable to watch her struggle any longer. “You’re about to take out your eye.”

“I have to get them off.”

“Not like that.”

“I can do it.”

“You’re making a mess of it.” He crossed the distance, gestured for her to turn on her stool. “Face me, and hold still. Look down. Don’t move.”

Jemma held her breath as she felt his fingers against her temple. His touch was warm, his hand steady as he used the tip of his finger to lift the edge of the strip and then he slowly, carefully peeled the lashes from her lid. “One down,” he said, putting the crescent of lashes in her hand. “One to go.”

He made quick work on the second set.

“You’ve done this before,” she said, as he took a step back, putting distance between them, but not enough distance. He was so big, so intimidating, that she found his nearness overwhelming.

“I haven’t, but I’ve watched enough girlfriends put on make up to know how it’s done.”

She looked at him for a long moment, her gaze searching his. “And you have no say in the sentencing?” she asked.

“I have plenty of say,” he answered. “I am the king. I can make new laws, pass laws, break laws...but breaking laws wouldn’t make me a good king or a proper leader for my people. So I, too, observe the laws of Saidia, and am committed to upholding them.”

“Could you ask the judge to be lenient with me?”

“I could.”

“But you won’t?”

He didn’t answer right away, which was telling, she thought.

“Would you ask for leniency for another woman?”

His broad shoulders shifted. “It would depend on who she was, and what she’d done.”

“So your relationship with her would influence your decision?”

“Absolutely.”

“I see.”

“As her character would influence my decision.”

And he didn’t approve of her character.

Jemma understood then that he wouldn’t help her in any way. He didn’t like her. He didn’t approve of her. And he felt no pity or compassion because she was a Copeland and it was a Copeland, her father, who had wronged his family.

In his mind, she had so many strikes against her she wasn’t worth saving.

For a moment she couldn’t breathe. The pain was so sharp and hard it cut her to the quick.

It was almost like the pain when Damien ended their engagement. He’d said he’d loved her. He’d said he wanted to spend his life with her. But then when he began losing jobs, he backed away from her. Far better to lose her, than his career.

Throat aching, eyes burning, Jemma turned back to the mirror.

She reached for a brush and ran it slowly through her long dark hair, making the glossy waves ripple down her back, telling herself not to think, not to feel, and most definitely, not to cry.

“You expect your tribal elder to sentence me to prison, for at least five years?” she asked, drawing the brush through her long hair.

Silence stretched. After a long moment, Sheikh Karim answered, “I don’t expect Sheikh Azizzi to give you a minimum sentence, no.”

She nodded once. “Thank you for at least being honest.”

And then she reached for the bottle of make-up remover and a cotton ball to remove what was left of her eye make-up.

He walked out then. Thank goodness. She’d barely kept it together there, at the end.

She was scared, so scared.

Would she really be going to prison?

Would he really allow the judge to have her locked away for years?

She couldn’t believe this was happening. Had to be a bad dream. But the sweltering heat inside the tent felt far too real to be a dream.

Jemma left her make-up table and went to her purse to retrieve her phone. Mary had informed the crew this morning as they left the hotel that they’d get no signal here in the desert, and checking her phone now she saw that Mary was right. She couldn’t call anyone. Couldn’t alert anyone to her situation. As Jemma put her phone away, she could only pray that Mary would make some calls on her behalf once she returned to London.

Jemma changed quickly into her street clothes, a gray short linen skirt, white knit top and gray blazer.

Drawing a breath, she left the tent, stepping out into the last lingering ray of light. Two of the sheikh’s men guarded the tent, but they didn’t acknowledge her.

The desert glowed with amber, ruby and golden colors. The convoy of cars that had descended on the shoot two hours ago was half the number it’d been when Jemma had disappeared into the tent.

Sheikh Karim stepped from the back of one of the black vehicles. He gestured to her. “Come. We leave now.”

She shouldered her purse, pretending the sheikh wasn’t watching her walk toward him, pretending his guards weren’t there behind her, watching her walk away from them. She pretended she was strong and calm, that nothing threatened her.

It was all she’d been doing since her father’s downfall.

Pretending. Faking. Fighting.

“Ready?” Sheikh Karim asked as she reached his side.

“Yes.”

“You have no suitcase, no clothes?”

“I have a few traveling pieces here, but the rest is in my suitcase.” She clasped her oversized purse closer to her body. “Can we go get my luggage?”

“No.”

“Will you send for it?”

“You won’t need it where you are going.”

Her eyes widened and her lips parted to protest but his grim expression silenced her.

He held open the door. The car was already running.

“It’s time to go,” he said firmly.

Swallowing, Jemma slid onto the black leather seat, terrified to leave this scorching desert, not knowing where she’d go next.

Sheikh Karim joined her on the seat, his large body filling the back of the car. Jemma scooted as far over as she could before settling her blazer over her thighs, hiding her bare skin. But even sitting near the door, he was far too close, and warm, so warm that she fixed her attention on the desert beyond the car window determined to block out everything until she was calm.

She stared hard at the landscape, imagining that she was someone else, somewhere else and it soothed her. The sun was lower in the sky and the colors were changing, darkening, deepening and it made her heart hurt. In any other situation she would’ve been overcome by the beauty of the sunset. As it was now, she felt bereft.

She’d come to Saidia to save what was left of her world, and instead she’d shattered it completely.

The car was moving. Her stomach lurched. She gripped the handle on the door and drew a deep breath and then another to calm herself.

It was going to be okay.

Everything would be okay.

Everything would be fine.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, blinking back tears.

He said nothing.

She blinked again, clearing her vision, determined to find her center...a place of peace, and calm. She had to keep her head. There was no other way she’d survive whatever came next if she didn’t stay focused.

“Where does this elder, Sheikh Azizzi, live?” she asked, keeping her gaze fixed on a distant dune. The sun was dropping more quickly, painting the sky a wash of rose and red that reflected crimson against the sand.

“Haslam,” he said.

“Is it far?”

“Two hours by car. If there is no sandstorm.”

“Do you expect one?” she asked, glancing briefly in his direction.

“Not tonight, but it’s not unusual as you approach the mountains. The wind races through the valley and whips the sand dunes. It’s impressive if you’re not trying to drive through, and maddening if you are.”

He sounded so cavalier. She wondered just how dangerous a sandstorm really was. “The storm won’t hurt us?”

The sheikh shrugged. “Not if we stay on the road, turn off the engine and close the vents. But I don’t expect a sandstorm tonight. So far there appears to be little wind. I think it will be a quiet night in the desert.”

She tried to picture the still crimson desert as a whirling sea of sand. She’d seen it in movies, but it seemed impossible now. “And so when do we see the judge?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight?” she echoed, and when he nodded, she added, “But we won’t be there for hours.”

“We are expected.”

His answer unleashed a thousand butterflies inside her middle. “And will we know his verdict tonight?”

“Yes.” Sheikh Karim’s jaw hardened. “It will be a long night.”

“Justice moves swiftly in Saidia,” she said under her breath.

“You have no one to blame but yourself.”

She flinched at his harsh tone, and held her tongue.

But the sheikh wasn’t satisfied with her silence. “Why did you do it?” he demanded, his voice almost savage. “You’ve had a successful career. Surely you could have been happy with less?”

“I’m broke. I needed the work. I would have lost my flat.”

“You’ll lose it anyway, now. There is no way for you to pay bills from prison.”

She hadn’t thought that far. She gave her head a bemused shake. “Maybe someone will be able to—” she broke off as she saw his expression. “Yes, I know. You don’t think I deserve help, but you’re wrong. I’m not who you think I am. I’m not this selfish, horrible woman you make me out to be.”

“Then why did you enter Saidia with your sister’s passport? I can’t imagine she gave her passport to you.”

“She didn’t.”

“I didn’t think so,” he ground out.

Jemma bit down on the inside of her lip, chewing her lip to keep from making a sound.

“I know Morgan,” he added ruthlessly. “Drakon was one of my best friends. And you probably don’t remember, or were too young to notice, but I attended Morgan and Drakon’s wedding five years ago in Greenwich. Yes, you and Morgan might both be brunettes, but you don’t look anything alike. It was beyond stupid to try to pass yourself off as her.”

Fatigue and fear and dread made her heartsick, and his words drilled into her, like a hammer in her head, making her headache feel worse. She pressed her fingers to her temple to ease the pain. “How did you find out I was here?”

He shot her a cool look. “You had a very chatty stylist on the shoot. She sat in a bar two nights ago drinking and talking about the layout, the models, and you. Apparently your name was mentioned oh...a dozen times. Jemma Copeland. That Jemma Copeland. Jemma Copeland, daughter of Daniel Copeland. In today’s age of technology and social media, it just took a couple Tweets and it went viral. One minute I was in Buenos Aires, thinking everything was fine at home, and then the next I was boarding my jet to return home to deal with you.”

He shifted, extending his long legs out, and she sucked in an uneasy breath. He was so big, and his legs were so long, she felt positively suffocated, trapped here in the back of the car with him.

“I wish you had just let me go. We were leaving tomorrow morning anyway,” she said softly. “You were out of the country. You didn’t have to rush home to have me arrested.”

“No. I could have allowed the police to come for you. They were going to arrest you. They wouldn’t have been as polite, or patient, as I’ve been. They would have handcuffed you and put you in the back of an armored truck and taken you to a jail where you’d languish for a few days, maybe a week, until you were seen by our tribunal, and then you would have been sentenced to five, ten, fifteen years...or longer...in our state run prison. It wouldn’t have been pleasant. It wouldn’t have been nice at all.” His expression was fierce, his gaze held hers, critical, condemning. “You don’t realize it, but I’ve done you a favor. I have intervened on your behalf, and yes, you will still serve time, but it will be in a smaller place, in a private home. My assistance allows you to serve your time under house arrest rather than a large state run prison. So you can thank your stars I found out.”

“I’m amazed you’d intervene since you hate the Copelands so much.”

His dark gaze met hers. “So am I.”

CHAPTER THREE

FOR SEVERAL MINUTES they traveled in silence.

“So why did you rush home from Buenos Aires since you despise the Copelands?” she asked, unable to stifle the question, genuinely curious about his motives.

He didn’t answer immediately, and when he did, his answer was short, brusque. “Drakon.”

She picked her next words with care. “You must know he won’t approve of you locking me up, for six months or six years. I’m his sister-in-law.”

“His ex-sister-in-law. Morgan and Drakon are divorced, or separated, or something of that nature.”

“But he likes me. He has a soft spot for me.”

Mikael’s lips compressed. “Perhaps, but you’re a felon. Even as protective as he is, he will still have to come to terms with the fact that you broke the law, and there are consequences. There must be consequences. Saidia cannot be lawless. Nor can I govern at whim.” His head turned, and his dark eyes met hers. For a long moment there was just silence, and then he shrugged. “And at last, the Copelands will be held accountable for their crimes.”

Her stomach flipped. Her heart lurched. “You want to see me suffer,” she whispered.

“Your father should have accepted responsibility and answered for his actions. Instead he ran away.”

“I hate what he did, Sheikh Karim. I hate that he betrayed his customers and clients...friends. His choices sicken me—”

“There was a reason your visa was denied. The refusal was a warning. The refusal should have protected you. You should not have come.”

She turned her head and swiftly wiped away tears before they could fall.

No, she shouldn’t have come to Saidia. She shouldn’t have broken laws.

But she had.

And now she’d pay. And pay dearly.

She felt Mikael’s gaze. She knew he was watching her. His close, critical scrutiny made her pulse race. She felt cornered. Trapped.

She hated the feeling. It was suffocating. Jemma’s fingers wrapped around the door handle and gripped it tight. If only she could jump from the car. Fling herself into the desert. Hide. Disappear.

But of course it wouldn’t work like that.

Her father had tried to evade arrest and he’d taken off in his yacht, setting across the ocean in hopes of finding some bit of paradise somewhere.

Instead his yacht had been commandeered off the coast of Africa and he’d been taken hostage and held for ransom. No one had paid. He’d been hostage for months now and the public loved it. They loved his shame and pain.

Jemma flinched and pressed her hands together, fingers lacing. She didn’t like thinking about him, and especially didn’t like to think of him helpless in some African coastal village.

If only he hadn’t run.

If only he hadn’t stolen his clients’ money.

If only...

“The doors are locked,” Mikael said flatly. “There is no escape.”

Her eyes burned. She swallowed around the lump in her throat. “No,” she murmured, “there isn’t, is there?”

She turned her head away again, trembling inwardly. It had been such a bad, bad year. She still felt wrecked. Trashed. Devastated by her father’s duplicity and deceit. And then heartbroken by Damien’s rejection.

To have your own father destroy so many people’s lives, and then to have the love of your life abruptly cast you off...

She couldn’t have imagined that her life would derail so completely. One day everything was normal and then the next, absolute chaos and mayhem.

The media had converged on her immediately in London, camping outside her flat, the journalists three rows deep, each with cameras and microphones and questions they shouted at her every time she opened her front door.

“Jemma, how does it feel to know that your father is one of the biggest con artists in American history?”

“Do you or your family have any plans to pay all these bankrupt people back?”

“Where is all the money, Jemma?”

“Did your father use stolen money to pay for this flat?”

It had been difficult enduring the constant barrage of questions, but she came and went, determined to work, to keep life as normal as possible.

But within a week, the jobs disappeared.

She was no longer just Jemma, the face of Farrinelli, but that American, that Jemma Copeland.

Every major magazine and fashion house she’d been booked to work for had cancelled on her in quick succession.

It was bad enough that six months of work was lost, but then Damien had started losing jobs, too.

Damien couldn’t get work.

Farrinelli cancelled Jemma’s contract as the face of Farrinelli Fragrance. Damien didn’t wait for Farrinelli to replace him too. He left Jemma, their flat, their life.

Jemma understood. She was bad for his career. Bad for business. For Damien. Farrinelli. Everyone.

Heartsick, miserable, she opened her eyes to discover Sheikh Karim watching her.

Tears filled her eyes. She was ashamed of the tears, ashamed for being weak. How could she cry or feel sorry for herself? She was better off than most people. Certainly better off than the thousands of people her father had impoverished.

But she never spoke about her father, or what he did. She didn’t openly acknowledge the shame, either. There were no words for it. No way to ever make amends, either.

“Please don’t think this is a challenge, nor is it meant to be disrespectful,” she said quietly, swiftly dashing away tears before they could fall. “But I did not come here on a lark. I am not a rebel schoolgirl. I came to Saidia because I desperately needed the work. I had thought I’d fly in, work, fly out, and no one would be the wiser. Clearly, I was wrong, and for that, I am very sorry.”

* * *

Mikael listened to the apology in silence. The apology meant nothing to him. Words were easy. They slipped from the tongue and lips with ease.

Actions, now those were difficult.

Action, and consequence, those required effort. Pain. Sweat. Sacrifice.

It crossed his mind that Jemma had no idea what was coming once they reached Haslam. Sheikh Azizzi, the judge, was not a soft touch. Sheikh Azizzi was old world, old school, and determined to preserve as much of the tribal customs as possible.

He was also Mikael’s godfather and intimate with Karim family history, including Mikael’s parents’ drawn-out divorce, and his mother’s subsequent banishment from Saidia.

Sheikh Azizzi had not been a fan of his mother, but the divorce had horrified Sheikh Azizzi and all of the country. Divorce was rare in Saidia, and in a thousand years of Karim rule, there had never been a divorce in the Karim royal family, and the drama and the endless publicity around it—the news in the international papers, not Saidia’s—had alienated the Saidia public.

No, Mikael’s father had not been a good king. If he hadn’t died when he did, there might have been an uprising.

There would have been an uprising.

Which is why ever since Mikael had inherited the throne, he’d vowed to be a true leader to the Saidia people. A good king. A fair king. He’d vowed to represent his country properly, and he’d promised to protect the desert kingdom’s culture, and preserve ancient Saidia customs.

Thus, the trip to Haslam to see Sheikh Azizzi.

Sheikh Azizzi was both a political and spiritual figure. He was a simple man, a village elder, but brave and wise. He and Mikael’s father had grown up together, both from the same village. Sheikh Azizzi’s father has served as a counselor and advisor to the royal Karim family, but Sheikh Azizzi himself did not want to serve in a royal capacity. He was a teacher, a thinker, a farmer, preferring the quiet life in ancient Haslam, a town founded hundreds of years ago at the base of the Tekti Mountains.

But when a neighboring country had sought to invade Saidia fifty some years ago, Sheikh Azizzi was one of the first to volunteer to defend his country and people. He’d spent nearly two years on the front line. Halfway through, he was wounded in battle, and yet he refused to leave his fellow soldiers, inspiring the dispirited Saidia troops to fight on.

After the war ended, Sheikh Azizzi returned home, refusing all gifts, and accolades, wanting no financial reward. He wasn’t interested in being a popular figure. He didn’t want attention, didn’t feel he deserved the attention. What he wanted was truth, peace, and stability for all Saidia people.

“I will ask Sheikh Azizzi to be fair. I cannot ask for him to be compassionate,” Mikael said suddenly, his voice deep and rough in the quiet of the car. “Compassion is too much like weakness. Compassion lacks muscle, and conviction.”

“Does he know about my father, and what he did to your family?”

“Yes.”

“So he won’t be fair.”

“Fair, according to our laws. Perhaps not fair according to yours.”

* * *

For two hours the convoy of cars traveled across the wide stretch of desert, before turning southeast toward the foothills and then on to the Tekti mountain range. They traveled up a narrow winding road, through the steep mountain pass, before beginning their descent into the valley below.

Finally they were slowing, the cars leaving the main road for the walled town built at the foot of the mountains.

Jemma was very glad the cars were slowing. She needed fresh air. She needed water. She needed a chance to stretch her legs.

“Haslam,” the sheikh announced.

She craned her head to get a better look at the town. Twenty-foot-tall walls surrounded it. Turrets and parapets peeked above the walls. The vehicles’ headlights illuminated huge wooden gates. Slowly the massive gates opened and the convoy pulled into the village.

They drove a short way before the cars parked in front of a two-story building that looked almost identical to the buildings on either side.

Jemma frowned at the narrow house. It didn’t look like a courthouse or official city building. It seemed very much like an ordinary home.

The driver came around the side of the car to open the back passenger door. “We will go in for tea and conversation, but no one here will speak English,” Mikael said, adding bluntly, “and they won’t understand you. Or your short skirt.” He leaned from the car, spoke to the driver and the driver nodded, and disappeared.

“I’m getting you a robe,” Mikael said turning back to her. “It won’t help you to go before Sheikh Azizzi dressed like that. I am sure you know this already, but be quiet, polite. Respectful. You are the outsider here. You need to make a good impression.”

“Sheikh Azizzi is here?”

“Yes.”

“I’m meeting him now?”

“Yes.”

Fresh panic washed through her. “I thought we were going in for tea and conversation!”

“We are. This is the judicial process. It’s not in a court with many observers. It’s more intimate...personal. We sit at a table, have tea, and talk. Sheikh Azizzi will either come to a decision during the discussion, or he will leave and make a decision and then return to tell us what he has chosen to do.”

“And it really all rests with him?”

“Yes.”

“Could you not override his decision? You are the king.”

Mikael studied her impassively. “I could, but I doubt I would.”

“Why?”

“He is a tribal judge, and the highest in my tribe. As Bedouin, we honor our tribal elders, and he is the most respected man from my tribe.”

The driver returned with a dark blue folded cotton garment and handed it to Mikael. Mikael shook out the robe and told her to slip it over her head. “This is more conservative, and should make him feel more comfortable.”

She reached up and touched her hair. “Shouldn’t I have a headscarf too?”

“He knows you’re American, knows your father was Daniel Copeland. No need to pretend to be someone you’re not.”

“But I also have no wish to further offend him.”

“Then perhaps braid your hair and tie it with an elastic. But your hair is not going to protect you from judgment. Nothing will. This is fate. Karma.”

Jemma swiftly braided her hair and then stepped from the car, following Mikael. Fate. Karma. The words rang through her head as she walked behind the sheikh toward the house.

Robed men and women lined the small dirt road, bowing deeply. Mikael paused to greet them, speaking briefly and then waving to some children who peeked from windows upstairs before leading her to the arched door of the house. The door opened and they were ushered inside.

Candles and sconces on the wall illuminated the interior. The whitewashed walls were simple and unadorned. Dark beams covered the ceiling in the entry, but the beams had been painted cream and pale gold in the living room.

As Mikael and Jemma were taken to a low table in the living room, Jemma spotted more children peeking from behind a curtain before being drawn away.

“Sit here,” Mikael instructed, pointing to a pillow on the floor in front of the low square table. “To my right. Sheikh Azizzi will sit across from me, and speak to me, but this way he can see you easily.”

Jemma sank onto the pillow, curling her legs under her. “He’s not going to ask me anything?”

“No. Over tea I will give him the facts. He will consider the facts and then make his decision.”

“Is this how you handle all tribal crimes?”

“If it’s not a violent crime, why should the sentencing be chaotic and violent?”

She smoothed the soft thin cotton fabric over her knees. “But your country has a long history of aggression. Tribal warring, kidnapped brides, forced marriages.” She quickly glanced at him. “I’m not trying to be sarcastic. I ask the question sincerely. How does one balance your ideal of civility in sentencing, with what we Westerners would view as barbaric tribal customs?”

“You mean, kidnapped brides?”

Her eyes widened. “No. I was referring to arranged marriages.”

He said nothing. She stared at him aghast. The seconds ticked by.

Jemma pressed her hands to her stomach, trying to calm the wild butterflies. “Do you really kidnap your brides?”

“If you are a member of one of the royal families, yes.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “It’s how one protects the tribe, by forging new ties through forced marriage with other tribes.”

“It’s barbaric.”

“It settles a score.”

“You sound so cavalier about a very violent act.”

“The marriage might be forced, but the sex is generally consensual.” His dark gaze held hers. “One takes a bride to settle a debt, but the captive bride becomes a royal wife. The marriage must be satisfying for both.”

“I sincerely doubt a forced marriage can ever be satisfying!”

“A forced marriage isn’t that different from an arranged marriage, and that is also foreign to your Western way of thinking, so perhaps it’s better if you do not judge.”

A shadow filled the doorway and an older, robed man entered the living room.

Mikael rose, and hugged the older man. They clasped each other’s arm and spoke in Arabic. After a moment both Mikael and Sheikh Azizzi sat down at the table, still deep in conversation.

Sheikh Azizzi hadn’t even looked at her yet. Mikael didn’t glance her way either.

Their conversation was grave. No laughter, no joking. They took turns speaking, first one, and then the other. The mood in the room was somber. Intense.

They were interrupted after fifteen minutes or so by a male servant carrying a tea tray. Sheikh Azizzi and Mikael ignored the man with the tray but Jemma was grateful to see the tea and biscuits and dried fruit arrive. She was hungry, and thirsty. She eyed the teacup placed in front of her and the plate of biscuits and fruit but didn’t touch either one, waiting for a signal from Mikael, or Sheikh Azizzi. But neither glanced her way.

She longed for a sip but waited instead.

They talked for at least another fifteen minutes after the tea tray was brought in. The servant came back, carried away the now cold tea on the tray, and returned five minutes later with a fresh steaming pot.

Jemma’s stomach growled. She wanted to nibble on one of the biscuits. She didn’t even care what the tea tasted like. She just wanted a cup.

But she sat still, and practiced breathing as if she were in her yoga class in London. Instead of getting upset, she’d meditate.

Jemma closed her eyes, and focused on clearing her mind, and her breathing. She wouldn’t think about anything, wouldn’t worry...

“Drink your tea, Jemma,” Mikael said abruptly.

She opened her eyes, looked at him, startled to hear him use her first name, and somewhat uneasy with his tone. It hadn’t been a request. It’d been a command.

He expected her to obey.

Nervous, she reached for her tea, and sipped from the cup. The tea was lukewarm. It tasted bitter. But it wet her throat and she sipped the drink slowly, as the men continued talking.

Sheikh Azizzi was speaking now. His voice was deep and low. His delivery was measured, the pace of his words deliberate.

He’s sentencing me, she thought, stomach cramping. He’s giving the judgment now. She looked quickly at Mikael, trying to gauge his reaction.

But Mikael’s expression was blank. He sipped his tea, and then again. After what felt like an endless silence, he answered. His answer wasn’t very long. It didn’t sound very complicated, but it did sound terse. He wasn’t happy.

Jemma didn’t know how she knew. She just knew.

Both men were silent. Sheikh Azizzi ate a dried apricot. They sipped more tea. There wasn’t any conversation at this point.

Mikael placed his cup on the table and spoke at last. His voice was quiet, and even, but there was a firmness in his tone that hadn’t been there earlier. Sheikh Azizzi replied to Mikael. A very short reply.

A small muscle pulled in Mikael Karim’s jaw. His lips thinned. He spoke. It sound like a one syllable reply. A fierce one syllable reply.

She glanced from Azizzi to Mikael and back. The two men stared at each other, neither face revealing any expression. After a moment, Sheikh Azizzi murmured something and rose, exiting the room and leaving Mikael and Jemma alone.

CHAPTER FOUR

THAT DID NOT go well.

Aware that Jemma was looking at him, aware that she’d been waiting patiently, exceptionally patiently for the past hour to know her fate, Mikael finally glanced at her.

Shadows danced on the walls, stretching tall across the tiled floor. He didn’t like her. Didn’t admire her. Didn’t feel anything positive for her.

But even in the dim lighting, he recognized her great beauty.

She wasn’t merely pretty, she was stunning. Her face was all hauntingly beautiful planes and angles with her high regal brow, the prominent cheekbones, a firm chin below full, generous lips.

She was pale with fatigue and fear, and her pallor made her eyes appear even greener, as if brilliant emeralds against the ivory satin of her skin.

Sitting so close to her, he could feel her fatigue. It was clear to him she was stretched thin, perhaps even to breaking.

He told himself he didn’t care, but her beauty moved him. His mother had been a beautiful woman, too, just as Mikael’s father’s second and third wives were both exquisite. A king could have any woman. Why shouldn’t she be a rare jewel?

Jemma was a rare jewel.

But she was also a rare jewel set in a tarnished, defective setting.

He now had a choice. To save the jewel, or to toss it away? It was up to him. Sheikh Azizzi had given Mikael the decision.

“Well?” Jemma whispered, breaking the tense silence. “What did he say?”

Mikael continued to study her, his thoughts random and scattered. He didn’t need her. He didn’t like her. He’d never love her.

But he did desire her.

It wouldn’t be difficult to bed her.

He wondered how she’d respond in bed. He wondered if she’d be sweet and hot or icy and frigid.

His gut told him she’d be hot and sweet. But first, all the Copeland taint would have to be washed away. “I am to decide your punishment for you,” he said finally. “I’ve been given a choice of two sentences and I must pick one.”

“Why?”

“Because Sheikh Azizzi knows me, and he knows I wish to do what is right, but what is right isn’t always what is popular.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I am to decide if I should follow ancient law, and tribal custom, or choose a modern punishment for you.”

“And have you made up your mind?”

“No.”

“What are the choices given to you?”

“Seven years house arrest here in Haslam—”

“Seven years?”

“Or I take you as my wife.”

“That’s not funny. Not even remotely funny.”

“It’s not a joke. It’s one of the two choices presented to me. Marry you, or leave you here in Haslam to begin your house arrest.” He saw her recoil and her face turn white. “I warned you that Sheikh Azizzi would not be lenient. He is not a Copeland fan either. He knows what your father did to my mother, and he wanted to send a message that Saidia will not tolerate crime or immorality.”

“But seven years!” She reached for the edge of the table to steady herself. “That’s...that’s...so long.”

“Seven years, or marriage,” he corrected.

“No. No. Marriage isn’t an option. I won’t marry you. I would never marry you. I could never marry you—”

“You’d rather be locked up for seven years?”

“Yes. Absolutely!”

Mikael leaned back, studying her pale face and bright eyes. She was biting down, pressing her teeth into her lip. “I don’t believe you.”

“Not my problem.”

“I’m a king. I can provide a lavish lifestyle.”

“Not interested.” Her eyes burned at him, hot, bright. “Seven years of house arrest is infinitely better than a lifetime with you.”

He should have been offended by her response. Instead he felt vaguely amused. Women craved his attention. They fought for his affections. Ever since he’d left university, he’d enjoyed considerable female company, company he’d turned into girlfriends and mistresses.

Mikael enjoyed women. He was quite comfortable with girlfriends and mistresses. But he was not at all open to taking a wife, despite the fact that as king it was his duty to marry and produce heirs.

Something he was sure Sheikh Azizzi knew. But Sheikh Azizzi, like much of Saidia, was eager for the country’s king to marry as quickly as possible.

Sheikh Azizzi also knew that nothing would pain the Copeland family more than having the youngest daughter forced into a marriage against her will.

It was fitting punishment for a family that believed itself to be above the law.

But in truth Mikael didn’t want a wife. He didn’t want children. He didn’t want entanglements of any kind. It’s why he kept mistresses. He provided for them materially and in return they’d always be available to him, without making any demands. Mikael was torn between his duty and his desires.

He studied Jemma now, trying to imagine her as his wife.

Without her make-up he could see purple smudges beneath her eyes and her naturally long black eye lashes. She had a heart-shaped face. Clear green eyes. Full pink lips.

The same pink as her nipples.

His body hardened, remembering her earlier, modeling, and naked beneath the fur coat.

She had an incredible body.

He would enjoy her body. But he’d never like her. Never admire her. She wasn’t a woman he wanted for anything beyond sex and pleasure.

He pictured her naked again. He’d certainly find pleasure in her curves and breasts and that private place between her legs.

“So it’s house arrest,” Jemma said. “Seven years. Would the sentence start tonight? Tomorrow?”

“I haven’t made up my mind,” he answered.

Her green eyes widened. Her lips parted and for a moment no sound came out and then she shook her head, a frantic shake that left no doubt as to her feelings. “I will not marry you. I will not!”

“It’s not up to you. It’s my choice.”

“You can’t force me.”

“I can.” And silently he added, I could.

Just like that, the idea took root.

He could marry her. He could force her to his will. He could avenge his mother’s shame. He could exact revenge.

For a moment there was just silence. It was thick and heavy and he imagined she must hate it. She must find the silence stifling because she was completely powerless. She had no say. He would decide her fate. She would have to accept whatever he chose for her.

He found the thought pleasing.

He liked knowing that whatever he chose, she would have to submit.

She with the lovely eyes and soft lips and full, pink tipped breasts.

“But you do not wish to marry me,” she whispered. “You hate me. You wouldn’t be able to look at me or touch me.”

“I could touch you,” he corrected. “And I could look at you. But I wouldn’t love you, no.”

“Don’t do that to me. Don’t use me.”

“Why not? Your father used my mother to bring shame on my family name.”

“I’m not my father and you’re not your mother and we both deserve better. We both deserve good marriages, proper marriages, marriages based on love and respect.”

“That sounds quite nice except for the fact that I don’t love. I won’t take a wife out of love. I will take her out of duty. I will marry as it is my responsibility. A king must have heirs.”

“But I want love. And by forcing me to marry you, you deprive me of love.”

“Your father deprived my mother of life. I’m Arabic. A life for a life. A woman for a woman. He took her. I should take you.”

“No.”

“Saidia requires a prince. You’d give me beautiful children.”

“I’d never be willing in bed, and you said even in a forced marriage, the sex is consensual.”

“You’d consent.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You’d beg me to take you.”

“Never.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re wrong. And I will prove you wrong, and when I do, what shall you give me in return?”

Jemma rose from the table, and went to the doorway. “I want to go. I want to go now.”

“I don’t think that’s one of my options.”

* * *

Jemma didn’t know where to look. Her heart raced and her eyes burned and she felt so sick inside.

This wasn’t what she’d thought would happen. This wasn’t how she’d imagined this would go. Jail was bad. Seven years under house arrest boggled the mind. But marriage?

The idea of Sheikh Karim forcing her to marry him made everything inside her shrink, collapse.

She’d thought the last year had been horrific, being shunned as Daniel Copeland’s daughter, but to be married against her will?

Her eyes stung, growing hotter and grittier. She pressed her nails into her palms, determined not to cry, even as she wondered how far she’d get if she bolted from the house and ran.

Marrying Mikael Karim would break her. It would. She’d been so lonely this past year, so deeply hurt by Damien’s rejection and the constant shaming by the media, as well as endless public hatred. She couldn’t face a cold marriage. She needed to live, to move, to breathe, to feel, to love...

To love.

It was tragic but she needed love. Needed to love and be loved. Needed connection and contact and warmth.

“Please,” she choked, the tears she didn’t want filling her eyes, “please don’t marry me. Please just leave me here in Haslam. I don’t want to spend seven years here, but at least in seven years I could be free and go home and marry and have children with someone who wants me, and needs me, and loves me—” She broke off as Sheikh Azizzi entered the room behind her.

The village elder was accompanied by two robed men.

Jemma pressed her hands together in prayer, pleading with Mikael. “Let me stay here. Please. Please.”

“And what would you do here for seven years?” he retorted, ignoring the others.

“I’d learn the language, and learn to cook and I’d find ways to occupy myself.”

Mikael looked at her, his dark gaze holding for an endless moment and then he turned to Sheikh Azizzi and spoke to him. Sheikh Azizzi nodded once and the men walked out.

“It’s done,” Mikael said.

“What’s done?”

“I’ve claimed you. I’ve made you mine.”

She backed up so rapidly she bumped into the wall. “No.”

“But I have. I told Sheikh Azizzi I’ve claimed you as my wife, and it’s done.”

“That doesn’t make us married. I have to agree, I have to speak, I have to consent somehow...” Her voice trailed off. She stared at Mikael, bewildered. “Don’t I?”

“No. You don’t have to speak at all. It’s done.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” He rose and stalked toward her. “And like this,” he added, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her out of the house, into the night.

Outside, the convoy of vehicles were gone. Villagers clustered near a kneeling camel.

“Who is that for?” Jemma choked, struggling in Mikael’s arms.

He tightened his grip. “Settle down,” he said shortly. “Or I’ll tie you to the camel.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“You don’t think so?” he challenged, stepping through the crowd to set her in the camel’s saddle.

The leather saddle was wide and hard and Jemma struggled to climb back off but Mikael had taken a leather strip from a pouch on the camel and was swiftly tying her hands together at the wrist, and then binding her wrists to the saddle’s pommel.

The crowd cheered as he tethered her in place.

“Why are they cheering?” she asked, face burning, anger rolling through her as she strained to free herself.

“They know I’ve taken you as my wife. They know you aren’t happy. They know you are ashamed. It pleases them.”

“My shame pleases them?”

“Your shame and struggles are part of your atonement. That pleases them.”

“I don’t like your culture.”

“And I do not like yours.” He scooted her forward in the saddle, and then took a seat behind her, his big body filling the space, pressing tightly against her. “Now lean back a little.”

“No.”

“You’ll be more comfortable.”

“I can assure you, I would not be comfortable leaning against you.”

“We are going to be traveling for several hours.”

She shook her head, lips compressed as she fought tears. “I hate you,” she whispered.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He gave a tug on the reigns and the camel lurched to its feet.

The villagers cheered again and Mikael lifted a hand, and then they were off, heading for the gates and the desert beyond.

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