At the Sheikh's Bidding

Name: At the Sheikh's Bidding
Author: Chantelle Shaw

Autor

Chantelle Shaw

Lecturas

16,3K

Capítulos

Autor

Chantelle Shaw

Lecturas

16,3K

Capítulos

🏰 Historical 🌸 Clean & Wholesome 🏙️ Contemporary

Erin Maguire is shocked to discover that her adopted son is the heir to a desert kingdom! Now they're en route to the land of Qubbah with little Kazim's uncle, the powerful and arrogant Zahir bin Kahlid al Muntassir! Zahir insists Erin marry him, and that his young nephew remain in Qubbah! She refuses to leave Kazim behind, but she's not of royal blood. Zahir will have a very ordinary virgin bride in his bed on his wedding night!

CHAPTER ONE

The Royal Palace in the desert kingdom of Qubbah.

PRINCE ZAHIR BIN KAHLID AL MUNTASSIR swept through the palace towards King Kahlid’s private quarters, the expression on his handsome face so grimly forbidding that the guards quickly jumped aside to allow him to pass. ‘How is he?’ he demanded, when his father’s servant A’waan greeted him with a bow.

‘Sleeping, sire—the doctor gave him a sedative and instructed that His Highness should be allowed to rest,’ A’waan murmured, hovering anxiously in front of the door leading to the King’s bedroom.

‘It’s all right, A’waan, I have no intention of disturbing him,’ Zahir assured the servant. ‘The news of Prince Faisal’s death has been a great shock to all of us, but especially to my father.’

‘His Highness is deeply saddened. He is not properly recovered from the virus he contracted recently, and I fear that the news will prove too much for him,’ A’waan said gravely. ‘Your father’s one glimmer of joy is the discovery that he has a grandson—a child who is now an orphan.’

Zahir’s jaw clenched as he fought to control his emotions while A’waan continued.

‘It is His Highness’s dearest wish that you should travel to England and bring the child back to Qubbah.’

‘I am well aware of my father’s wishes,’ Zahir said tightly. He crossed to the window and stared out over the stunning formal gardens and the ornate fountains that splashed into an azure pool. Within the grounds of the palace the desert had been tamed, but beyond the walls of the twelfth-century fortress it stretched outward in an endless sea of scorching golden sands.

The setting sun was suspended like a huge golden orb, the sky around it streaked with shades of pink and red. He remembered the times he and Faisal had raced their horses across the sands, or released their falcons and watched them soar across the dense blue sky. More than brothers, they had been the best of friends, but the bond between them had been broken—and all because they had both fallen in love with the same woman. Zahir’s brows drew together in a slashing frown. Love, he had discovered, was a destructive emotion and he would never allow it to rule his heart or mind again.

A’waan spoke again. ‘As you know, your father always hoped to be reconciled with his eldest son, and that, on his death the Prince would return to Qubbah to rule. But now Prince Faisal is dead, and there is unrest in the kingdom while the people wait for the King to announce his successor. Forgive me for my presumption…’ the elderly servant shifted nervously beneath Zahir’s narrow-eyed stare ‘…but I know His Highness longs for you to appoint a deputy to head your business interests in America, so that you can settle permanently in Qubbah—and take a wife. Now, more than ever, it is your duty, sire.’

Zahir threw back his head proudly and glared at the servant. ‘I do not need lessons from you on my duty,’ he snapped coldly. ‘You forget your place, A’waan.’ He understood only too well that his brother’s death meant that from now on his life would no longer be his own. He would not shirk his responsibility to the kingdom his family had ruled for generations—but marriage was a different matter. ‘If you remember, I was about to be married six years ago, to a woman of my father’s choosing—and what a debacle that turned out to be. I will marry when I am good and ready.’ He swung abruptly away from the window and strode across the room, pausing briefly to glance back at the servant. ‘When my father wakes, tell him I have gone to England.’

Ingledean House—North Yorkshire Moors

‘Erin! There’s a Gordon Straker here to see you,’ announced Alice Trent, cook and housekeeper at Ingledean House, when Erin walked into the kitchen. ‘He says he’s Faisal’s solicitor, and he mentioned something about the will.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Erin nodded. ‘I spoke to him on the phone a couple of days ago and he said he would be travelling up from London.’

‘Well, he’s waiting in the library.’ Alice paused in her task of peeling potatoes and stared at Erin’s dishevelled appearance. ‘What on earth have you been doing? You look as though you’ve been down a coal mine.’

‘Clearing out the big spare bedroom.’ Erin glanced ruefully at the streaks of dust on her jeans. ‘Kazim’s nursery is too small to store all his toys now that he’s sleeping in a proper bed. The spare room will make a perfect playroom. I need to keep busy,’ she added defensively, when Alice’s brows lifted.

It was fine when Kazim was awake, keeping a lively three-year-old entertained took up all her time, but she had come to dread his afternoon nap—an hour of peace and solitude that gave her time to think.

It was almost three weeks since Faisal’s funeral. His death had been expected—he had told her a year ago that the tumour on his brain was inoperable—and she was glad that he was now at peace, perhaps reunited with his beloved Maryam. But he had been her friend; she missed him, and she could not stem the feeling of panic that regularly swept through her whenever she thought about the future. Kazim’s well-being was totally her responsibility now, and she was terrified that she would somehow let him down.

She turned to watch the toddler, who had preceded her into the kitchen and was now busy pulling open the cupboards and investigating their contents. Kazim was singing ‘The Wheels on the Bus’, and Erin’s heart clenched at the sound of his innocent, high-pitched voice. He’d asked for Faisal a few times, but had seemed to understand when she’d gently explained that Daddy had fallen asleep for ever.

It had been the hardest thing she had ever had to do in her life, and the memory of Kazim’s grave little face as he had sat on her knee still brought tears to her eyes. But, although he had been a little more clingy than usual, he seemed to have accepted the news remarkably well—perhaps because he was too young to comprehend that he was now totally alone in the world.

But he is not alone, Erin thought fiercely. True, he had no living relatives, but he had her, and she would love him and protect him for as long as he needed her—just as she had promised his father.

‘I’ve made some tea.’ Alice’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘If you want to take it up, I’ll keep an eye on Kazim.’

Erin glanced at the tray. ‘Why have you set out three cups, Alice?’

‘Mr Straker has brought someone with him. Gave me quite a turn, actually, when he walked through the front door—for a moment I thought he was Faisal’s ghost.’ The cook gave a self-conscious laugh. ‘I expect it was just a trick of the light. He’s obviously from the Middle East—rather gorgeous; you know, tall, dark and indecently handsome. And his features did remind me of the master,’ she added slowly. ‘Do you think he could be a relative?’

An inexplicable feeling of unease settled in the pit of Erin’s stomach. ‘Faisal had no family,’ she explained quickly. ‘I don’t know who this man is, but he’s probably one of Faisal’s business associates. I’d better go up and meet them,’ she said, picking up the tray.

Alice cast a disparaging look at her old clothes. ‘I would suggest you go and change first, but there’s no time. It’s snowing again, and I know Mr Straker is anxious to get back to town before the weather closes in.’

Erin hurried out of the kitchen, and as she crossed the oak-panelled hall she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and grimaced. Her faded jeans and tee shirt were grubbier than she’d realised, and her hair, which she had secured in a long plait, had worked loose, so that riotous stray curls were framing her face. But it was unlikely that Gordon Straker or his companion would have any interest in her appearance, she told herself as she balanced the tray on one hand and opened the library door—coming to such an abrupt halt that the delicate bone china cups rattled precariously on their saucers.

A man was standing by the window, staring out over the bleak view of the moors. For a few seconds her heart seemed to stop beating, and she understood what Alice had meant when she’d said she had thought she seen Faisal’s ghost. The stranger’s profile was achingly familiar, as was his silky black hair and olive-gold skin. But then he turned his head—and common sense replaced her wild flight of imagination.

This man was no spectre, he was very much alive. And his resemblance to Faisal was simply due to his dark colouring and exotic looks, she told herself impatiently. He was wearing a superbly tailored dark grey suit that accentuated his lean, hard body, and Erin was immediately struck by his height, estimating that he must be five or six inches over six feet tall. Impressive broad shoulders indicated an awesome degree of strength and power, but it was his face that trapped her gaze and caused her heart to thud painfully beneath her ribcage.

His hair was cropped uncompromisingly short, and his eyes were as dark as midnight beneath heavy black brows. His nose was slightly hooked, but that did not detract from the perfection of his sculpted face with its sharply delineated cheekbones and square, determined jaw. He was the epitome of masculine beauty, she thought helplessly, her breath catching in her throat. He was so gorgeous he was almost unreal, as if he had been airbrushed to perfection—but he wasn’t an image from a magazine. He was a flesh-and-blood man, and she was startled by the effect he had on her.

The man subjected her to a long, cool stare and Erin felt herself blush. ‘Hello, I’ve brought some tea. You’re probably freezing. The central heating system here at Ingledean is antiquated.’

Black eyebrows winged upwards and her cheeks burned hotter. The man’s resemblance to Faisal could not be denied—but her feelings for Faisal had been based on friendship and affection. Neither he nor any other man had ever evoked this shocking, wildfire sexual desire that was coursing through her veins. She felt unnerved by the stranger’s raw masculinity, and she realised that she was gaping at him. Forcing herself to breathe normally, she walked across to the desk and set down the tray.

‘I’m Erin.’ She smiled hesitantly, half extended her hand and waited for him to return the introduction, her smile fading when he made no reply.

‘You may pour the tea and then go. Your presence will no longer be necessary,’ he informed her dismissively, in a clipped, haughty tone, before he swung round and resumed his contemplation of the snow that was now swirling outside the window.

Erin stared at the rigid line of his back, shocked into silence by his arrogance. Just who did he think he was? And how dared he speak to her in that high and mighty manner, as if she was some lowly scullery maid from a Victorian melodrama?

Shock gave way to anger. She’d spent most of her formative years feeling worthless—until her foster parents had rescued her from a life that had been rapidly going into free-fall and insisted that she was a valued member of society, rather than a nobody from the gutter. But the fragile self-confidence she’d gained while living with John and Anne Black was easily dented, and inside she was still the unloved child and rebellious teenager who had been dumped in a care home after her mother’s final and fatal heroin fix.

She bit her lip and picked up the teapot, torn between the urge to slink from the room and the temptation to tell the stranger exactly what he could do with the damn tea. But before she could speak the library door swung open, and the spare, grey-haired solicitor she had met once when she had visited London with Faisal hurried into the room.

‘Ah, Erin, tea—wonderful.’ Gordon Straker greeted her enthusiastically. His brief smile encompassed both Erin and the man at the window, but the sight of the thickly falling snow caused him to frown, and he glanced at his watch as he sat down and picked up the sheaf of documents on the desk in front of him. ‘Take a seat, both of you, and we’ll begin, shall we?’ he said briskly, oblivious to the stranger’s harsh frown. ‘I won’t keep you long. Faisal’s last will and testament is very straightforward.’

Zahir remained standing, his eyes narrowing as he watched the maid pull out a chair. He was again aware of the same hollow feeling in his stomach and the uncomfortable tightening sensation in his chest—as if he had been winded—that had gripped him when she had first entered the room.

She was quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, he acknowledged, irritated by his body’s involuntary reaction to her as sexual awareness flooded through his veins. The perfect symmetry of her face was riveting, and he stared at her, drinking in every detail of her high cheekbones, the wide, clear grey eyes that surveyed him from beneath finely arched hazel brows, her small, straight nose and the mouth that was a fraction too wide, the lips soft and full and infinitely kissable.

A thick braid of auburn hair fell down her back, almost to her waist, the colour reminding him of the rich red hues of leaves in the fall. Years ago, when he had been a student at Harvard, he had been entranced by the stunning palette of colours that Mother Nature used to herald autumn in New England. Now he felt an overwhelming urge to untie the ribbon that secured the woman’s hair and run his fingers through the mass of rippling red-gold silk.

His eyes slid lower, skimmed the small, firm breasts outlined beneath her tee shirt, and then moved down to her slender waist, narrow hips and long legs, encased in faded denim. Even at the end of his life Faisal had clearly not lost his discerning eye for gorgeous women if his domestic staff were anything to go by, Zahir thought sardonically. Although he would have expected the household staff to wear some sort of uniform rather than a pair of sexy, tight jeans.

But why had the solicitor asked this woman—whom he assumed from her appearance to be a member of the household staff—to stay while he discussed Faisal’s private affairs? Could she be a beneficiary in Faisal’s will? She was very lovely, and Faisal had been alone…But the idea that his brother had bequeathed her some token payment for favours rendered was curiously unpalatable, and he silently cursed his overactive imagination.

His gaze locked with hers, and for a second something flared between them, some indefinable chemistry that clearly shocked her as it shocked him. But almost instantly the flash of awareness in her eyes dulled and was replaced with confusion. The silence in the room was broken by the solicitor’s discreet cough. The sound reminded Zahir that he was not here to eye up members of the domestic staff. Smothering a curse, he strode over to the desk, seized a chair and sat down, at the same time as the maid subsided into the seat next to him.

Gordon Straker cleared his throat and began to read. ‘I, Faisal bin Kahlid al Muntassir leave my entire estate, including Ingledean House and all its contents, to my wife.’

From the corner of her eye Erin saw the unknown man jerk even more upright in his chair, and his voice was sharp with impatience when he spoke. ‘I understand that my sister-in-law died three years ago. This will is invalid. There must be another updated one,’ he snapped haughtily.

Gordon Straker glanced at him steadily over the wire rims of his spectacles and said, in a wintry tone, ‘I assure you that this is the most recent will. My client asked me to draw it up ten months ago.’ The solicitor hesitated, his gaze moving between the two shocked faces staring at him across the desk. Comprehension slowly dawned, and he shook his head.

‘Forgive me. I did not introduce you because I assumed that the two of you already knew each other…that you had met…at the wedding.’ His confusion and embarrassment deepened. ‘But clearly not,’ he added slowly, when they continued to stare blankly back at him. ‘My apologies…it never occurred to me that you were unaware of each other’s identity…Erin, may I introduce Sheikh Zahir bin Kahlid al Muntassir—Faisal’s brother. Sheikh Zahir, this is Erin—Faisal’s second wife.’

The book-lined walls of the library seemed to tilt alarmingly, and Erin gripped the edge of the desk as she struggled to comprehend Gordon Straker’s words. ‘But Faisal told me he had no family,’ she mumbled, her gaze swinging frantically from the solicitor’s genial face to the man beside her, whose expression was so coldly arrogant that ice slithered down her spine.

‘There must be some mistake.’ Zahir addressed the man seated opposite him, his clipped tones shattering the tense silence. Shock ricocheted through him, and with it a fierce and inexplicable bolt of fury that overrode the grief that had consumed him since he had learned of Faisal’s death.

What bitter irony that once again he had lost out to his brother—just as he had done six years ago, he brooded grimly. This woman, with her slumbrous, woodsmoke-coloured eyes and sensual, pouting mouth, had been Faisal’s wife. Faisal must have released her glorious hair and watched it tumble down her back. He would have stroked his hands over her milky-pale naked flesh…just as he, Zahir, had fantasised about doing from the moment he had laid eyes on her.

And even the knowledge that she had been his brother’s widow for little more than two weeks did not lessen his awareness of her, or diminish the primitive urge he felt to crush her mouth beneath his and then strip the clothes from her body and spread her across the desk, ready for his possession.

His lip curled in self-disgust, and he could not bring himself to look at her while he exerted iron will-power over his rampaging hormones. What did it matter who she was or what her relationship had been with Faisal? he asked himself impatiently. His wealth, combined with the good-looks that he acknowledged were a fortunate accident of birth, meant that he could take his pick from a limitless supply of beautiful women—and he did so, frequently. He did not need his brother’s leftovers. There was only one reason why he was here, only one thing he was interested in.

He stood up and walked back over to the window, needing to put some distance between himself and the woman who was having such a disturbing effect on him.

Erin jumped to her feet and glared at him. ‘It’s no mistake, I assure you,’ she said hotly. ‘I was Faisal’s wife, and I have a marriage certificate to prove it.’

Zahir’s brows lifted. ‘My apologies—I had no idea. Your attire hardly befits your position as the wife of a sheikh. I assumed you were a menial domestic.’

Hot colour flooded Erin’s face as she felt his eyes trail over her in a scathing assessment of her appearance, and she silently cursed the fact that she hadn’t taken the trouble to change into more presentable clothes for her meeting with Gordon Straker. But, to be fair, she had not expected to be confronted by an arrogant, devilishly sexy sheikh who, astoundingly, happened to be Faisal’s brother.

Her temper, which had been simmering ever since he had spoken to her so dismissively when she had brought in the tea tray, flared into life. She recalled how he had looked at her when she had first walked into the library, the way his eyes had slid boldly over her as if he were mentally undressing her. Presumably he thought it acceptable to take a servant to bed, but not for her to marry his brother, she thought furiously.

She lifted her chin and met Zahir bin Kahlid al Muntassir’s gaze, her grey eyes stormy and belligerent. But the undisguised sexual heat in his dark depths sent an answering quiver of awareness down her spine, and it was only when he finally broke eye contact that she realised she had been holding her breath.

‘My brother was estranged from his family for the past six years,’ he explained coolly.

Erin’s insides churned at the word ‘family’. What family? Faisal had insisted that he had no relatives, and yet not only did it seem that he had a brother, but from the sound of it other family members also existed. Why had he lied to her? And if Faisal had been estranged from his family how had his brother known about his death? Her unease intensified, and solidified into fear when Zahir spoke again.

‘I was unaware, until I received the letter Faisal instructed Mr Straker to send after his death, that my sister-in-law died three years ago. Faisal made no mention in that letter that he had remarried,’ he added pointedly, his eyes flicking briefly over Erin. ‘I was also unaware until two weeks ago that my brother had a son—a child who is now an orphan.’

He flicked his gaze to Erin once more, his eyes as black and hard as polished jet. ‘As Faisal’s sole beneficiary, you are now a very wealthy woman,’ he drawled. ‘But I am not interested in the money, and you are certainly welcome to this draughty monstrosity of a house,’ he added disparagingly, casting a brief glance around the library, where the fire burning in the grate did little to raise the temperature of the room.

‘My only interest is in my nephew, Kazim. I assume he has been well cared for since Faisal’s death?’ He overrode Erin’s attempt to speak and announced coolly, ‘I have come to take him to his father’s homeland, Qubbah, so that he may be brought up by his family. Please inform his nanny, or whoever is in charge of him, that I wish to meet him, and ask them to pack his personal possessions as quickly as possible. I want to leave before the weather gets any worse.’

Erin gaped at him, her heart thumping erratically in her chest. ‘You’re not taking Kazim anywhere,’ she snapped, disbelief and outrage at his high-handedness causing a red mist of anger to swirl in front of her eyes. ‘When I married Faisal, I adopted Kazim as my own child. I am his legal parent, and he is staying right here at Ingledean. This is his home,’ she finished fiercely, refusing to feel intimidated by Zahir’s furious expression.

Black brows lowered in a slashing frown. ‘Is this true?’

Once again he’d addressed the solicitor, but Erin was fed up with being treated as if she was part of the furniture, and she glared at him, her hands on her hips and her eyes blazing.

‘Damn right, it’s true. Kazim is legally my son, and I won’t allow you to take him. You have no rights to him.’

‘We’ll see about that—or rather my lawyers will,’ Zahir snapped icily.

His jaw tightened. In all his thirty-six years he had never been spoken to in such a disrespectful manner—and certainly not by a woman. Under his father’s rule Qubbah had gradually become a more liberal kingdom, and he himself had spent much of his life in the US and Europe, where he accepted that men and women were equals, but he was a prince and he was used to being treated accordingly—to being fawned on, he admitted honestly, and to the unashamed adoration of women from both cultures.

He was not used to being yelled at by a flame-haired banshee, and the fact that Erin looked even more gorgeous when she was angry was no help at all. She was breathing hard, and he found himself fixated by the frantic rise and fall of her small breasts. Irritation, and another far more primitive emotion surged through him. He could not remember ever wanting a woman with such shaming urgency, but this woman was definitely out of bounds—Faisal’s widow and, apparently, the adoptive mother of his son.

Zahir spun round and raked a hand through his hair. Hell, she was an unforeseen complication he could do without, he thought furiously. On the other side of the world an old and heartbroken man was waiting to greet his grandson. He had promised his father he would bring Faisal’s son to Qubbah, and he would not fail him. But clearly the situation was not as straightforward as he had assumed. He knew without conceit that he was a brilliant businessman and a shrewd tactician, feared and revered in the boardroom, but for the first time in his life he was at a loss to know what to do next, and he hated the feeling.

‘I can’t believe you thought you could just turn up here and whisk a three-year-old child off to another country, when he doesn’t even know you,’ Erin threw at him. ‘Kazim is little more than a baby, for heaven’s sake, who has just lost his father. Didn’t it occur to you that he would be terrified at being dragged off by a complete stranger?’

‘I was not going to drag him anywhere,’ Zahir snapped, stung by her criticism. ‘I came here alone today, rather than with my usual team of staff, so that he would have a chance to get to know me. My brother must have known I would come for him once I learned of his existence,’ he added harshly. ‘I assumed Kazim’s nanny had been instructed to continue caring for him until I arrived. I have already employed a highly qualified and experienced nanny to take charge of him in Qubbah.’

Fear gripped Erin, and her confusion intensified, but she hid both emotions. ‘Well, I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey,’ she said, forcing herself to sound calm. ‘But Faisal made it clear that he wanted Kazim to grow up in England—with me. He asked me to adopt Kazim, and I was happy to do so.’

‘In that case, why did he make no mention of you in his letter?’

Zahir had voiced the question that Erin could not answer, but she was saved from having to try when Gordon Straker stood up.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but it looks as though the weather is getting worse, and I have a train to catch,’ he said apologetically. He was already pulling on his coat, glancing worriedly out of the window at the heavy sky that warned snow was likely to continue falling for many hours yet. ‘Erin, if you need my advice at all…’ He hesitated and turned his eyes briefly to Zahir before moving them back to Erin. ‘Please contact me at my London office, any time.’ He walked towards the door, but paused when Zahir spoke sharply.

‘Are you sure there is nothing in the will about the child? No clause stipulating who should care for Kazim—no financial provision made for him?’

‘No,’ the solicitor replied simply. ‘Your brother left everything to Erin—in the expectation, I imagine, that she would provide for Kazim.’

‘Which I will,’ Erin burst out fiercely, infuriated at Zahir’s plainly sceptical expression. ‘I love Kazim as if he was my own child.’

‘Really?’ Zahir swung away from her and gave a harsh laugh. Erin sounded convincing, but he found it impossible to believe that she was prepared to devote her life to a child who was not her own flesh and blood out of love. Not when his own mother had abandoned him.

He had barely given his mother a thought for the past decade, Zahir realised with a jolt. Georgina had been his father’s second wife, an American who, according to his three older half-sisters, had found it difficult to settle to the life of strict protocol demanded of wife to the King of Qubbah. Zahir had not known that, and as a young boy he had simply accepted her frequent trips back to the US and waited impatiently for her to return to the palace. But when he was eleven she had not returned, and he’d never seen her or spoken to her again.

His father had explained that she was busy looking after her sick mother and couldn’t come back. Zahir had missed her desperately, and for a long time after she had gone he had kept her silk robe hidden beneath his pillow and wept into it every night. But when he was fourteen he learned the truth—that she had refused to live in Qubbah any longer and had accepted a huge financial settlement from his father in return for not seeking custody of her only son.

She had sold him—and he had never cried again after he’d found out, nor spared her another thought. But he had learned a valuable lesson about love and trust, Zahir conceded bitterly—a lesson that had been reinforced six years ago, when he had been betrayed by the only other woman he had ever loved.

Noises from beyond the library door catapulted him back to the present: the sound of a child crying mingled with a distinctive, broad Yorkshire accent. A moment later the door was flung open and a woman appeared with a hysterical toddler her arms.

‘Sorry to disturb you.’ She addressed Erin, oblivious to the tension in the room. ‘But Kazim has banged his head on the kitchen table. You know how he runs everywhere. Look, there’s a lump the size of an egg come up on his forehead, but he won’t let me console him—he wants you.’

Quickly Erin held out her arms and took the sobbing child from the cook, her heart clenching when he wrapped his arms around her neck and burrowed close. ‘Shh, it’s all right, darling. Let me look at your head.’ She brushed his dark curls off his brow and inspected the livid bruise, before applying the ice pack Alice had handed her. ‘That’s quite a bump you’ve got there, but there’s no real harm done.’

Kazim’s sobs gradually subsided as she cuddled him. He smelled deliciously of soap and baby powder, and the intensity of her love for him squeezed her heart like a giant fist. She had adored him since he was three months old, and nothing would ever make her give him up, she vowed fiercely. But when she glanced up and saw Faisal’s brother watching her, with his dark, forbidding gaze, she was filled with a sense of foreboding.

Alice heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Kazim’s a little daredevil,’ she cheerfully informed the two men. ‘He’s always running and climbing, and he’s constantly getting into mischief. Erin has her work cut out, looking after him.’

Erin saw Zahir frown and groaned silently. Thanks, Alice—that’s a real help.

‘Shouldn’t you seek medical advice for his head injury?’ he queried coldly.

Kazim was squirming in her arms, wanting to get down and clearly none the worse for his accident. ‘He’s fine,’ Erin said tersely. ‘He’s a lively three year-old, for goodness’ sake, I can’t keep him wrapped in cotton wool. I’m a fully trained nanny and qualified in first-aid,’ she continued, when Zahir looked unconvinced. ‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after him.’

She lifted her chin and her eyes clashed with his cold, faintly contemptuous gaze. She hated his arrogance, but she could not look away from him. As she watched heat flared in those dark depths, and for a split second raw, sexual hunger gleamed beneath his heavy brows before his thick lashes fell, concealing his thoughts.

Shaken, she glanced at Gordon Straker, who was edging towards the door. ‘Erin, I’m sorry, but I really must…’

‘Yes, of course.’ Making a swift decision, she set Kazim down and turned to Alice. ‘Will you keep an eye on him while I see Mr Straker out?’

She hurried across the hall after the solicitor, and stopped him as he was about to open the front door. ‘Mr Straker, when did Faisal give you the letter he instructed you to send to his brother after his death? Was it when he married me?’ she queried huskily.

‘Oh, no, it was about a month before he died. Until then I hadn’t known Faisal had any family, and I see that the revelation has come as a shock to you too,’ he added gently.

Erin bit her lip, feeling a sudden urge to confide in the kindly solicitor. ‘From the moment Faisal learned that he was dying he was desperate to secure Kazim’s future,’ she explained urgently. ‘I’ve cared for him since he was three months old. Faisal’s wife died as a result of complications while giving birth, and when Faisal’s illness was diagnosed a year ago he asked me to marry him to make it easier for me to adopt Kazim. He told me he had no other family and he didn’t want Kazim to grow up in care—like I had.’

She hated talking about her past, and dropped her gaze from Gordon Straker’s face as she continued in a low voice, ‘My mother was a drug addict, who died when I was ten, and I spent the rest of my childhood in the care of Social Services. I was a troubled teenager, and I don’t know where I would be now if I hadn’t been fostered—maybe working the streets to pay for my next fix like my mother,’ she confessed thickly. ‘My foster father worked here at Ingledean, as a gardener, and when Faisal came here with his baby son he employed me as Kazim’s nanny. Despite my background he knew I would love and protect Kazim as if he was my own child.’

She was hurt that Faisal had not been honest with her. He did have a family, and just before he’d died he had made the decision to tell them he had a son. Had he done so because he had begun to doubt her abilities to be a good mother to Kazim? Had he decided that he wanted his estranged family to be involved in the little boy’s upbringing after all?

All her old doubts and insecurities rose up inside her, but Gordon Straker opened the front door and a blast of icy wind whipped into the hall, snapping Erin out of her reverie.

The solicitor gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘You are Kazim’s adoptive mother, Erin,’ he said gently, ‘and no one can take him from you. Only you can decide if it would be in his best interests to have some contact with his family in Qubbah.’

He turned up the collar of his coat and stepped into the snow, but paused to glance back at her. ‘I’ve done a little investigating, and from what I’ve heard Sheikh Zahir bin Kahlid al Muntassir is an astute businessman and a risk-taker, respected on the world markets for his brilliance and daring. He is a man who is used to having his own way, and who pursues his goals with a ruthless determination, yet at the same time many people find him incredibly charming and persuasive—particularly women.’ He gave a faint smile at her sudden heightened colour. ‘All I’m saying is—tread carefully, Erin,’ Gordon Straker warned softly, ‘and don’t let him bully you, my dear.’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t,’ Erin replied fiercely.

But as she flew back across the hall to the library, where she had left the Sheikh with her son, a shiver of trepidation ran through her. The moment she had seen Zahir she had been mesmerised by his spectacular looks and powerful sexual magnetism. The man spelt danger, and the predatory gleam she’d glimpsed in his dark eyes warned her to be on her guard.

At the Sheikh's Bidding

CHAPTER ONE

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