The Desert King's Secret Heir
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Annie West
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Chapter One
‘LET ME BE the first to congratulate you, Cousin. May you and your Princess be happy all your days.’
Hamid beamed with such goodwill Idris felt his own mouth kick up in a rare smile. They might not be close but Idris had missed his older cousin as they’d carved separate lives for themselves, Idris in Zahrat and Hamid as a UK-based academic.
‘Not my Princess yet, Hamid.’ He kept his voice soft, aware that, despite the chatter of a few hundred VIPs, there were plenty of ears eager for news of his impending nuptials.
Hamid’s eyes widened behind rimless glasses. ‘Have I put my foot in it? I’d heard—’
‘You heard correctly.’ Idris paused, tugging in a breath before it lengthened into a sigh. He had to conquer this sense of constraint whenever he thought of his upcoming marriage.
No one forced his hand. He was Sheikh Idris Baddour, supreme ruler of Zahrat, protector of the weak, defender of his nation. His word was law in his own country and, for that matter, here in his opulent London embassy.
Yet he hadn’t chosen marriage. It had chosen him—a necessary arrangement. To cement stability in his region. To ensure the line of succession. To prove that, despite his modern reformist ways, he respected the traditions of his people. So much rode on his wedding.
Change had been hard won in Zahrat. A willingness to conform in the matter of a suitable, dynastically necessary marriage would win over the last of the old guard who’d fretted over his reforms. They’d viewed him as an unseasoned pup when he’d taken over at just twenty-six. After four years they knew better. But there was no escaping the fact this wedding would achieve what strong leadership and diplomacy hadn’t.
‘It’s not official yet,’ he murmured to Hamid. ‘You know how slowly such negotiations proceed.’
‘You’re a lucky man. Princess Ghizlan is beautiful and intelligent. She’ll make you a perfect wife.’
Idris glanced to the woman holding court nearby. Resplendent in a blood-red evening gown that clung to a perfect hourglass figure, she was the stuff of male fantasy. Add her bred-in-the-bone understanding of Middle Eastern politics and her charming yet assured manner and he knew he was a lucky man.
Pity he didn’t feel like one.
Even the thought of acquainting himself with that lush body didn’t excite him.
What did that say about his libido?
Too many hours brokering peace negotiations with not one but two difficult neighbouring countries. Too many evenings strategising to push reform in a nation still catching up with the twenty-first century.
And before that too many shallow sexual encounters with women who were accommodating but unimportant.
‘Thank you, Hamid. I’m sure she will.’ As the daughter of a neighbouring ruler and a means to ensure long-term peace, Ghizlan would be invaluable. As the prospective mother of a brood of children she’d be priceless. Those children would ensure his sheikhdom wasn’t racked by the disruption it had faced when his uncle died without a son.
Idris told himself his lack of enthusiasm would evaporate once he and Ghizlan shared a bed. He tried to picture her there, her ebony hair spread on the pillow. But to his chagrin his mind inserted an image of hair the colour of a sunburst. Of curling locks soft as down.
‘You’ll have to come home for the ceremony. It will be good to have you there for a while instead of buried in this cold, grey place.’
Hamid smiled. ‘You’re biased. There’s much to be said for England.’
‘Of course there is. It’s an admirable country.’ Idris glanced around, reminding himself they might be overheard.
Hamid’s smile became a chuckle. ‘It’s got a lot going for it.’ He leaned even closer, his voice dropping further. ‘Including a very special woman. Someone I want you to meet.’
Idris felt his eyes widen. Hamid with a serious girlfriend? ‘She must be out of the ordinary.’
One thing the men in his family excelled at was avoiding commitment to women. He’d been a case in point until political necessity forced his hand. His father had been famous for sowing his wild oats, even after marriage. And their uncle, the previous Sheikh, had been too busy enjoying the charms of his mistresses to father a child with his long-suffering spouse.
‘She is. Enough to make me rethink my life.’
‘Another academic?’
‘Nothing so dull.’
Idris stared. Hamid lived for his research. That was why he’d been passed over for the throne when their uncle died. Everyone, Hamid included, acknowledged he was too absorbed in history to excel at running a nation.
‘Will I meet this paragon tonight?’
Hamid nodded, his eyes alight. ‘She’s just gone to freshen up before—ah, there she is.’ He gestured to the far end of the room. ‘Isn’t she lovely?’
Only a man besotted would expect him to identify an unknown woman in that crowd. Idris followed Hamid’s eager gaze. Was it the tall brunette in black? The svelte blonde in beads and diamonds? Surely not the woman with the braying laugh and the oversized rings flashing like beacons beneath the chandelier?
The crowd shifted and he caught a sliver of silk in softest green, skin as pale as milk and hair that shone like the sky at dawn, rose and gold together.
His pulse thudded once, hard enough to stall his breath. Low in his belly an unfamiliar sensation eddied. A sensation that made his nape prickle.
Then his view was blocked by a couple of men in dinner jackets.
‘Which one is she?’ His voice echoed strangely, no doubt due to the acoustics of the filled-to-capacity ballroom.
For a second he’d experienced something he hadn’t felt in years. A tug of attraction so strong he’d convinced himself it hadn’t been real, that imagination had turned a brief interlude into something almost...significant. No doubt because of the dark, relentlessly tough days that had followed. She’d been the one lover he’d had to put aside before his passion was spent. That explained the illusion she was different from the rest.
But the woman he’d known had had a cloud of vibrant curls, not that sleek, conformist chignon.
‘I can’t see her now. I’ll go and fetch her. Unless—’ Hamid’s smile turned conspiratorial ‘—you’d like a break from the formalities.’
Tradition decreed that the ruler received his guests on the raised royal dais, complete with a gilded, velvet-cushioned throne for formal audiences. Idris was about to say he’d wait here when something made him pause. How long since he’d allowed himself the luxury of doing something he wanted, not because it was his duty?
Idris’s eyes flicked to Ghizlan, easily holding her own with a minor royal and some politicians. As if sensing his regard she looked up, smiled slightly then turned back to her companions.
No doubt about it, she’d make a suitable queen—capable and helpful. Not clinging or needy. Not demanding his attention as too many ex-lovers had done.
Idris turned to Hamid. ‘Lead on, Cousin. I’m agog to meet this woman who’s captured your heart.’
They wove through the crowd till Hamid halted beside the woman in green. The woman with creamy skin and strawberry-blonde hair and a supple, delicate figure. Idris’s attention caught on the lustre of her dress, clinging to her hips and pert bottom.
He stilled, struck by a sensation of déjà vu so strong it eclipsed all else. She said something to his cousin in a soft, lilting voice.
A voice Idris knew.
He frowned, watching Hamid bend his head towards her, seeing her turn a little more so she was in profile.
The conversations around them became white noise, a buzz like swarming insects.
His vision telescoped.
Her lush lips.
Her neat nose.
Her slender, delicate throat.
Two facts hammered into his brain. He knew her, remembered her better than any of the multitude of women who’d once paraded in and out of his life.
And that strange feeling surging up from his gullet and choking his throat with bile was more than surprise or disbelief at the coincidence of meeting her again.
It was fury at the idea she belonged to Hamid.
* * *
‘Here he is at last. Arden, I’d like to present you to my cousin Idris, Sheikh of Zahrat.’
Arden widened her smile, determined not to be overawed by meeting her very first and no doubt last sheikh. Coming to this formal reception, surrounded by VIPs who oozed money and privilege, had already tested her nerves.
She turned, tilting her head to look up, and felt the world drop away.
His face was severely sculpted as if scored by desert winds. Yet there was beauty in those high cheekbones and his firm yet sensual mouth. His nose and jaw were honed and strong. The harsh angle of those beetling black brows intimidated. So did the wide flare of his nostrils, as if the Sheikh scented something unexpected.
Shock dragged at her, loosening her knees till her legs felt like rubber.
His eyes...
Dark as a midnight storm, those eyes fixed on her instinctive movement as she clutched at Hamid for support. Slowly they lifted again to clash with hers, disdain clear in that haughty stare.
A shuddering wave of disquiet rolled through her as she blinked up, telling herself it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.
Despite the frantic messages her body was sending her, she couldn’t know this man.
Yet her brain wouldn’t listen to reason. It told her it was him. The man who’d changed her life.
Heat seared from scalp to toe. Then just as quickly it vanished, leaving her so cold she wouldn’t be surprised to hear the crackle of ice forming along her bones, weighing her down.
Her grip on Hamid’s arm grew desperate as tiny spots formed and blurred before her eyes. She felt as if she’d slipped out of the real world and into an alternate reality. One where dreams did come true, but so distorted as to be almost unrecognisable.
It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. Yet her gaze dropped to his collarbone. Did he have a scar there?
Of course he didn’t. This man was tougher, far more daunting than Shakil. She’d bet he didn’t do easy, charming smiles. Instead he wore royal authority like a cloak.
Yet she could almost hear herself asking, Excuse me, Your Highness, would you mind undoing that exquisitely tailored suit and tie so I can check if you have a scar from a riding accident?
‘Arden, are you okay?’ Hamid’s voice was concerned, his hand warm as it closed over hers.
His touch jerked her back to reality. She slipped her hand from his arm and locked her wobbly knees.
Tonight had revealed, to her astonishment, that Hamid now thought of himself as more than a friend. She couldn’t let him labour under that illusion, no matter how grateful she was to him.
‘I’m...’ She cleared her throat, hesitating. What could she say? I’m reeling with shock? ‘I’ll be all right.’
Yet her gaze clung to that of the man towering before her as if he was some sort of miracle.
It was that realisation that snapped her back to reality. He wasn’t Shakil. If he had been Shakil, he’d be no miracle, just another of life’s tough lessons. A man who’d used her and tossed her aside.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness.’ Her voice sounded wispy but she persevered. ‘I hope you’re enjoying your stay in London.’
Belatedly she wondered if she was supposed to curtsey. Had she offended him? His flesh looked drawn too tight and she glimpsed the rigid line of a tendon standing proud in his neck. He looked ready for battle, not a society meet and greet.
For long seconds silence stretched, as if he didn’t want to acknowledge her. She felt her eyebrows pucker into a frown. Beside her Hamid’s head swung sharply towards the Sheikh.
‘Welcome to my embassy, Ms...’
That voice. He had the same voice.
‘Wills, Arden Wills.’ Hamid spoke since Arden’s voice had disappeared, sucked away by the tidal wave of horror that seized her lungs and stopped her breath.
‘Ms Wills.’ The Sheikh paused and she glimpsed what almost looked like confusion in those dark eyes, as if he wasn’t used to pronouncing such a commonplace name.
But Arden was too busy grappling with her own response to Hamid’s cousin. He looked and sounded exactly like Shakil. Or as Shakil would if he’d sloughed off his laid-back, live-for-the-moment attitude and aged a few years.
This man had a thinner face, which accentuated his superb bone structure. And his expression was grim, far harder than anything Shakil had ever worn. Shakil had been a lover not a fighter and this man looked, despite his western tailoring, as if he’d be at home on a warhorse, a scimitar in his hand as he galloped into battle.
Arden shivered, clammy palms skimmed her bare arms as she tried to ease the tension drawing gooseflesh there.
He said something. She saw his lips move, but there was a weird echoing in her head and she couldn’t make out his words.
She blinked, swaying forwards, stumbling and steadying herself, drawn unwillingly by his dark velvet gaze.
Hamid pulled her against his side. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have insisted you come tonight. Your condition is too delicate.’
Arden stiffened in his hold, dimly noting the Sheikh’s sharply indrawn breath. Hamid was a dear friend but he had no right to feel proprietorial. Besides, it was a long time since she’d craved any man’s touch.
‘I’m perfectly healthy,’ she murmured, trying to inject power into the words. The flu had knocked her but she was almost back to normal. Yet her recent illness provided a perfect explanation for her woozy head and unsteady legs.
She moved a half step away so he had to drop his arm. Gathering the shreds of her composure, she met the Sheikh’s midnight eyes again, instinctively fighting the awareness thundering through her, and the crazy idea she knew him. That wasn’t possible. Shakil had been a student, not a sheikh.
‘Thank you for the welcome, Your Highness. It’s a beautiful party.’ Yet she’d never wanted to leave anywhere with such urgency.
It felt as if he delved right into her thoughts with that unblinking regard. It took all her control not to shift under his scrutiny.
‘Are you sure you’re well, Ms Wills? You look unsteady on your feet.’
Her smile grew strained and she felt the tug of it as her face stiffened.
‘Thank you for your concern. It’s only tiredness after a long week.’ Heat flushed her cheeks at the realisation she’d actually come close to collapsing for the first time in her life. ‘I’m very sorry but I think it best if I leave. No, really, Hamid, I’m okay by myself.’
But Hamid would have none of that. Nothing would satisfy him but to see her home.
‘Idris doesn’t mind, do you, Cousin?’ He didn’t wait for an answer but went on. ‘I’ll at least see you back to the house then return.’
From the corner of her vision Arden registered the sharp lift of the Sheikh’s eyebrows, but she had more to worry about than whether she offended by leaving his party early.
Like how she could kindly but effectively stave off Hamid’s sudden romantic interest without straining their friendship.
Like how Sheikh Idris could be so uncannily like the man who’d torn her world apart.
And, most important of all, why it was that even after four years she felt sick with longing for the man who’d all but destroyed her.
* * *
A night without sleep did nothing for Arden’s equilibrium. The fact it was Sunday, the one day of the week she could sleep in instead of heading in to work at the florist’s shop, should have been a welcome pleasure. Instead she longed for the organised chaos of her workday race to get out the door.
Anything to distract from the worries that had descended last night. And worse, the memories, the longings that had haunted each sleepless hour.
Life had taught her the dangers of sexual desire, and worse, of falling in love. Of believing she was special to someone.
For four years she’d known she’d been a naïve fool. Brutal reality had proven it. Yet that hadn’t stopped the restlessness, the yearning that slammed into her like a runaway truck the moment she’d looked up into the eyes of Sheikh Idris of Zahrat.
Even now, in the thin light of morning, part of her was convinced he was Shakil. A Shakil who’d perhaps suffered a head injury and forgotten her, like a hero in an old movie with convenient amnesia. A Shakil who’d spent years searching desperately for her, ignoring all other women in his quest to find her.
Sure. And her fairy godmother was due any minute, complete with magic wand and a pumpkin carriage.
Shakil could have found her if he’d wanted. She hadn’t lied about her identity.
He’d taken pleasure in seducing a gullible young Englishwoman, starry-eyed and innocent, on her first overseas vacation.
Arden shivered and hunched her shoulders, rubbing her hands up her arms.
She was not giving in to fantasy. She’d done with that years ago. As for the Sheikh looking like Shakil—it was wishful thinking. Wasn’t it Hamid’s almost familiar looks that had drawn her to him that day at the British Museum? That and his kind smile and the earnest, self-effacing way he spoke to her about the elaborately beautiful perfume bottles and jewellery at the special exhibition of Zahrati antiquities.
He’d reminded her of Shakil. A quieter, more reserved Shakil. So was it any wonder his cousin the Sheikh had a similar effect? Maybe crisp dark hair, chiselled features and broad shoulders were common traits among the men of their country.
Right now she’d had enough of Zahrati men to last a lifetime. Even Hamid, who’d suddenly turned from friend and landlord to would-be boyfriend. When had that happened? How had she not seen it coming?
Setting her jaw, Arden grabbed an old pullover and shrugged it on, then cautiously opened the cleaning cupboard, careful not to make too much noise. At least, as the only one awake, she had time to ponder what to do about Hamid and his sudden possessiveness.
Grabbing a cloth and the brass polish, she unlatched the front door and stepped outside, pulling it to behind her. She always thought better when she worked. Rubbing the brass door knocker and letter box would be a start.
But she hadn’t begun when she heard footsteps descend to the pavement from the main house door above her basement flat. A man’s steps. Arden took the lid off the polish and concentrated on swiping some across the door knocker. She should have waited till she was sure Hamid had left. But she’d felt claustrophobic, cooped up inside with her whirling thoughts.
‘Arden.’ The voice, low and soft as smoke, wafted around her, encircling like an embrace.
She blinked and stared at the glossy black paint on the door a few inches from her nose. She was imagining it. She’d been thinking of Shakil all night and—
Footsteps sounded on the steps leading down to the tiny courtyard in front of her basement home.
She stiffened, her shoulders inching high. This wasn’t imagination. This was real.
Arden swung around and the tin of polish clattered to the flagstones.
