Книга - Carrying The Sheikh’s Baby

Carrying The Sheikh's Baby
Heidi Rice


Will she resist his scandalous proposition…Or succumb to mindless pleasure?Soft-hearted Gracie James is mortified when Rafael Vitale finds her accidentally trespassing on his luxurious Italian estate! She can’t refuse Rafe’s teasing demand that she attend an exclusive party with him.From the dangerous intensity in his eyes virgin Gracie knows she’s playing with fire—after all, outrageous playboy Rafe is only promising a temporary liaison. But can she resist the power of his raw sensuality?







Hired by the sheikh...

And expecting the royal heir!

When shy, academic Cat Smith is hired as a researcher by Sheikh Zane, she’s thrilled—and completely dazzled by their overwhelming chemistry! Cat knows a fling could compromise her professional credibility, but resisting Zane’s sensual caress feels utterly impossible. Until their passionate encounter has lasting consequences... Now carrying the heir to the kingdom means one thing—Cat must become Zane’s queen!

Enjoy this scandalous royal baby romance!


USA TODAY bestselling author HEIDI RICE lives in London, England. She is married with two teenage sons—which gives her rather too much of an insight into the male psyche—and also works as a film journalist. She adores her job, which involves getting swept up in a world of high emotion, sensual excitement, funny and feisty women, sexy and tortured men and glamorous locations where laundry doesn’t exist. Once she turns off her computer she often does chores—usually involving laundry!


Also by Heidi Rice (#uc9b15d26-bcad-5994-8e80-11627d3aa8e2)

Vows They Can’t Escape

The Virgin’s Shock Baby

Captive at Her Enemy’s Command

Bound by Their Scandalous Baby

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


Carrying the Sheikh’s Baby

Heidi Rice






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-08730-8

CARRYING THE SHEIKH’S BABY

© 2018 Heidi Rice

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To my best mate Catri O’Kane,

who helped me brainstorm this story

on a road trip in West Texas!


Contents

Cover (#u5a7beacc-cb8c-5719-bd78-f83fbcdea8e7)

Back Cover Text (#u1daeebaa-60f5-52b3-bd37-382d84151c79)

About the Author (#u43945c83-1426-5593-93cd-0ddc1d881bcd)

Booklist (#uc74ab652-84fc-552a-9b60-ab300765bae6)

Title Page (#ucb0a3950-5047-5801-a22d-478159eac5c9)

Copyright (#ubda53dd8-27aa-5d34-836b-8997f83244a1)

Dedication (#u57fd106e-9c1d-56d0-9155-831a75305dc7)

CHAPTER ONE (#u36e791d2-43b5-5bc9-8543-4699a2ae87dc)

CHAPTER TWO (#uae2067a7-d346-585d-acc0-38601dde341f)

CHAPTER THREE (#uc9e35167-68ad-570b-8742-877ebce88756)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#uc9b15d26-bcad-5994-8e80-11627d3aa8e2)


Dr Smith, you need to come to my office ASAP. You have a very important visitor who cannot be kept waiting.

CATHERINE SMITH PEDALLED through the gates of Cambridge’s Devereaux College at breakneck speed, her boss Professor Archibald Walmsley’s curt text making sweat trickle down her forehead and into her eyes.

Braking at the side of the redbrick Victorian monolith that housed the faculty offices, she leapt off the bike and rammed it into the cycle rack before swiping her brow. Rounding the building, she spotted a limousine with blacked-out windows and diplomatic flags parked in the no-parking zone by the front entrance. Her heartbeat kicked up several extra notches.

She recognised those flags.

So that solved the mystery of who had come to visit her: it had to be someone from the Narabian embassy in London. Panic and excitement tightened around her ribs like boa constrictors as she raced up the steps—her mind racing ahead of her.

A visit from the Narabian embassy could either be very good, or very bad.

Walmsley—who had taken over as Devereaux College’s dean after her father’s death—was going to kill her for going over his head and applying for official accreditation for her research into the recent history of the secretive, oil-rich desert state. But if she got it, even he wouldn’t be able to stand in her way. She’d finally be able to get more funding for her research. Her heart thudded against her chest wall in a one-two punch. She might even get permission to travel to the country.

Surely this had to be good news. The country’s ruler, Tariq Ali Nawari Khan, had died two months ago after a long illness and his son, Zane Ali Nawari Khan, had taken over the throne. A darling of the gossip columns as a baby—Zane Khan was half-American, the product of Tariq’s short-lived marriage to tragic Hollywood starlet Zelda Mayhew—he’d disappeared from the public eye, especially after his father had won custody of him in his teens. But there had been several credible stories the new Sheikh was planning to open the country up, and bring Narabia onto the world stage.

Which was why she’d made her application—because she was hoping the new regime would consider lifting the veil of secrecy. But what if she’d made a major mistake? What if this visit was actually very bad news? What if the diplomat was here to complain about her application? Walmsley could use it as an excuse to end her tenure.

She rushed down the corridor towards Walmsley’s office, breathing in the comforting scent of lemon polish and old wood.

The pulse of grief hit her hard as she took the stairs to her father’s old office. This place had been her whole life ever since she was a little girl, and her father had taken over as the new dean. But Henry Smith had been dead for two years now. And Walmsley had wanted her gone—as a reminder of the man whose shadow he’d lived in for fifteen years—for almost that long.

Buck up, Cat. It’s time. You can’t spend the rest of your life hidden behind these four walls.

Turning the corner to Walmsley’s office, she spotted two large men dressed in dark suits standing guard outside his door. Her heart rammed into her throat, the crows of doubt swooping into her stomach like dive-bombers.

Why had the Narabian embassy sent a security detail? Wasn’t it a little over the top? Maybe Walmsley’s reaction wasn’t the only thing she had to worry about?

She brushed her hair back from her face and retied the wayward curls to buy time. The snap of the elastic band was like a gunshot in the quiet hallway. Both men stared at her as if she were a felon, instead of a twenty-four-year-old female professor with a double PhD in Middle Eastern studies. They looked ready to tackle her to the ground if she so much as sneezed.

She forced herself to breathe. In, out—that’s the spirit.

‘Excuse me,’ she murmured. ‘My name’s Dr Catherine Smith. Professor Walmsley is expecting me.’

One of the man mountains gave a brusque nod, then leaned round to shove open the door. ‘She is arrived,’ he announced in heavily accented English.

Cat entered the office, the hairs on her neck prickling alarmingly as Walmsley’s head snapped up.

‘Dr Smith, at last, where have you been?’ Walmsley said, his exasperated enquiry high-pitched and tense.

Cat jumped as the door slammed shut behind her. Her anxiety levels increased, the boa constrictors writhing in her belly. Why was the dean fidgeting like that with the papers on his desk? He looked nervous, and she’d never seen him nervous before.

‘I’m sorry, Professor,’ she said, trying to read her boss’s expression—but his face was cast into shadow by the pale wintry light coming through the sash window behind him. ‘I was in the library. I didn’t get your text until five minutes ago.’

‘We have an esteemed visitor, who is here to see you,’ he said. ‘You really shouldn’t have kept him waiting.’

Walmsley held out his arm and Cat swung round. The prickle of awareness went haywire. A man sat in the leather armchair at the back of Walmsley’s office.

His face was cast into shadow. But even seated he looked intimidatingly large, his shoulders impressively broad in an expertly tailored suit. He had his left leg crossed over his opposite knee, one tanned hand clasping his ankle. The expensive gold watch on his wrist glinted in the sunlight. The pose was indolent and assured and oddly predatory.

He unfolded his legs and leaned out of the shadows, and Cat’s wayward pulse skyrocketed into the stratosphere.

The few photographs she’d seen of Sheikh Zane Ali Nawari Khan didn’t do him justice. High slashing cheekbones, a blade-like nose and his ruthlessly cropped hair were offset by a pair of brutally blue eyes, the colour of his irises the same true turquoise his mother had once been famous for.

He had clearly inherited all the best genes from both sides of his bloodline—his features a stunning combination of his father’s striking Arabic bone structure and his mother’s almost ethereal Caucasian beauty. In truth, his features would almost be too perfect, but for the scar on his chin—and a bump in the bridge of his nose, which marred the perfect symmetry.

Cat’s lungs contracted.

‘Hello, Dr Smith,’ he said in a deep cultured voice, his English still tinged with the lazy cadence of America’s West Coast. He unfolded his long frame from the chair and walked towards her—and she had the weirdest sensation of being stalked, like a gazelle who’d accidentally wandered into the lion enclosure at London Zoo. She struggled to get her breathing back under control before she passed out at his Gucci-clad feet.

‘My name is Zane Khan,’ he said, stopping only a smidgen outside her personal space.

‘I know who you are, Your Highness,’ she said breathlessly, far too aware of her height disadvantage.

He spoke again in that same clipped, urbane tone. ‘I don’t use the title outside Narabia.’

Blood rushed to her face and flooded past her eardrums. Then a dimple appeared in his left cheek, and her lungs seized again.

Oh, for Pete’s sake, a dimple? Isn’t he devastating enough already?

‘I’m sorry, Your High... I mean, Zane.’ Heat charged to her hairline when his lips quirked.

Oh. My. God. Cat. You did not just call the ruler of Narabia by his first name.

‘Sorry. I’m so sorry. I meant to say Mr Khan.’

She sucked in a fortifying breath and the refreshing scent of citrus soap, overlaid with the spicy hint of a clean cedarwood cologne, filled her nostrils. She shuffled back, and her bottom hit Walmsley’s desk.

He hadn’t moved any closer, but still she could feel that concentrated gaze on every inch of her exposed skin.

‘Are you here about my request for accreditation?’ she asked, feeling impossibly foolish.

Why on earth would he have come all this way, to see her, over something that could be sorted out by one of his minions in the Narabian embassy in London?

‘No, Dr Smith,’ he said. ‘I’m here to offer you a job.’

Zane had to resist the unprecedented urge to laugh when Catherine Smith’s hazel eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

She hadn’t expected that. Then again, he hadn’t expected her. The only reason he’d come in person was because he already had a business meeting in Cambridge today with a tech firm who would be helping to bring superfast internet access to Narabia. And because he’d been furious once he’d received the reports from his tech people that someone at Devereaux College had been doing research on Narabia without his express permission.

He hadn’t bothered to read the file they’d emailed to him about the female academic who had asked for accreditation. He’d simply assumed she would be frumpy and middle-aged.

The very last thing he’d expected was to be introduced to someone who couldn’t be much older than a high-school student, with eyes the colour of caramel candy. She looked like a tomboy, dressed in slim-fit jeans, a pair of biker boots and a shapeless sweater that nearly reached her knees. Her wild chestnut hair—barely contained by an elastic band—added to the impression of young, unconventional beauty. But it was her candy-coloured eyes that had really snagged his attention. Wide and slightly slanted, giving them a sleepy, just-out-of-bed quality, her eyes were striking, not least because they were so expressive, every one of her emotions clearly visible.

‘A job doing what?’ she said, her directness surprising him as she eased further back against her boss’s desk.

Looking past her, he directed his gaze at Walmsley. ‘Leave us,’ he said.

The middle-aged academic nodded and shuffled out of the room, well aware his department’s funding was at stake because of this woman’s research.

The woman’s eyes widened even more, and he could see the jump in her pulse rate above the neckline of her bulky sweater.

‘I require someone to write a detailed account of my country’s people, the history of its culture and customs to complete the process of introducing Narabia on the world stage. I understand you have considerable knowledge of the region?’

His PR people had suggested the hagiography. It was all part of the process of finally bringing Narabia out of the shadows and into the light. A process he’d embarked upon five years ago when his father had let go of his iron grip on the throne. It had taken Tariq Khan five years to die from the stroke that had left him a shadow of his former self, during which time Zane had managed to drag the country’s oil industry out of the dark ages, begin a series of infrastructure projects that would eventually bring electricity, water mains and even internet access to the country’s remote landscape. But there was still a very long way to go. And the last thing he needed was for any gossip to get out about his parents’ relationship and the difficult nature of his relationship with the man who had sired him. Because that would become the whole story.

He shrugged, the phantom pain searing his shoulder blades.

This woman’s work threatened to throw the book he had planned to commission—stressing the country’s adaptability and new modern outlook—into stark relief if she found out the sordid truth about how he had come to live in Narabia. But shutting her down wasn’t the right response. He had always been a firm believer in challenging problems head-on. ‘Never trust anyone’ had been one of his father’s favourite maxims—and one of the many harsh lessons Zane had learned to embrace wholeheartedly.

‘You want me to write a book on the kingdom?’ She seemed astonished. He wondered why.

‘Yes, it would mean accompanying me to Narabia. You would have three months to complete the project but I understand you’ve already spent over a year doing research on the kingdom?’ Research he needed to ensure hadn’t already uncovered information he wished to conceal.

She moistened her lips, and his gaze was drawn to her mouth. Even though she appeared to wear no lipstick, he became momentarily fixated by the plump bow at the top, glistening in the half-light. The surge of lust was surprising. The women he slept with were usually a great deal more sophisticated than this woman.

‘I’m sorry. I... I can’t accept.’

He dragged his gaze away from her month, annoyed he’d become fixated on it. And annoyed more by her response to his proposal. ‘I assure you the fee is a lucrative one,’ he said.

‘I don’t doubt that,’ she said, although he suspected she had no idea how lucrative the fee he would propose actually was, certainly more than an academic could make in a decade, let alone three months. ‘But I couldn’t possibly write a comprehensive account in that time. I’ve only done preliminary research so far. And I’ve never written something of that magnitude. Are you sure you don’t want a journalist instead?’

No way was he inviting a journalist to pry into his past. That sort of uncontrolled intrusion into his affairs was precisely what this carefully vetted account was supposed to avoid.

Heat pulsed in his groin at her surprising show of defiance. He ruthlessly ignored it. However much he might want to devour that cupid’s bow mouth, he was not in the habit of seducing subordinates—especially not ones who looked about eighteen years old.

‘How old are you, Dr Smith?’ he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

She stiffened and he suspected he’d insulted her with the question. She must be used to people questioning her credentials, which was hardly surprising—she didn’t look old enough to be in college, let alone to hold two PhDs.

‘I’m twenty-four.’

He nodded, relieved. She was young and probably sheltered if she’d managed to gain that much education so quickly, but not that young.

‘Then you are still at the start of your career. This is an opportunity for you to make a name for yourself outside the—’ his gaze drifted over the worn leather textbooks, the musty academic tomes, all dead history to his way of thinking ‘—world of academia. You wanted official accreditation for your research into Narabia...’ Accreditation he would give her once he had final say on the content of her work. ‘This is the only way you will get it.’

He waited for her to absorb the offer, and the threat—that if she didn’t agree to his proposition, any chance of getting official accreditation would be lost.

It didn’t take long for the full import of his position to sink in—her expressive face flushing with something akin to alarm.

‘I could continue my work without the accreditation,’ she said, but her teeth pulled at her bottom lip. The nervous tug sent another annoying jolt to his crotch, but also revealed her statement for what it was—a heroic bluff.

‘You could. But your tenure here would be withdrawn,’ he said, his patience at an end. No matter how attractive or heroic she was, he did not have time to play with her any longer. ‘And I would personally ensure you were not allowed access to any of the materials you need to continue researching my country.’

Her eyebrows shot up her forehead. The flush on her cheeks highlighted the sprinkle of freckles across her nose. ‘Are you... Are you threatening me, Mr Khan?’

Placing his hands into the pockets of his suit trousers, he stepped closer. ‘On the contrary, I’m offering you a chance to validate your work. Narabia is a fascinating and beautiful place—which is about to come out of its chrysalis. And finally fulfil its potential.’

That was the end game here: to turn the country into somewhere that could embrace its cultural heritage without being held back by it.

‘How can you write about a country you’ve never seen? A culture you’ve never experienced? And a people you’ve never met?’

The passion in Zane Khan’s eyes only made the cerulean blue more stormy and intense. And deeply unsettling.

He’s calling you a coward.

The implication stung, touching a nerve she had spent years cauterising. But really, how could she dispute his assessment?

Ever since she’d arrived in Cambridge, arrived at Devereaux College, she’d immersed herself in learning because it made her feel safe and secure.

But ever since her father’s death, she’d wanted to spread her wings, to stop being scared of the wanderlust she’d banked so carefully as a child.

Don’t be so boring, darling. Daddy won’t know if you don’t tell him. What are you? A cat or a mouse?

The image of her mother’s bright—too bright—smile and her milk-chocolate eyes, full of reckless passion, flickered at the edge of Cat’s consciousness like a guilty secret.

Don’t go there. This has nothing to do with her. This is all about you.

She forced herself to meet Zane Khan’s pure blue eyes again, dark with secrets her research so far had only hinted at. This man was dangerous to her peace of mind, but why should that have anything to do with her professional integrity? So what if she felt completely overwhelmed and she’d only been in his presence for five minutes? Surely that was just a by-product of all the things that had held her back for so long. Confidence had to be earned. And that meant facing your fears. And not being a coward.

All you have to do is believe you can, Cat. Then you will.

Her father’s supportive voice and the encouragement he’d given her when she’d been crippled with anxiety on her first day of primary school, of secondary school, of sixth-form college, of university and then graduate school, echoed through her head.

A bubble of excitement burst in her blood. Yes, the thought of this trip was terrifying. But it was way past time she stopped living in her comfort zone. She was twenty-four years old. And she’d never even had a proper boyfriend—the flush rode up her neck—which probably explained why she’d practically passed out when she’d met Zane Khan.

She’d pored over pictures and artefacts from Narabia, been captivated by the country’s stunningly diverse geography and its rich cultural heritage—but she’d only been able to scratch the surface of its secrets. She already knew she needed to experience the country and the culture first-hand to validate her work. The chance to experience what might well be a tumultuous time in the country’s history was also tantalising—professionally speaking.

And the only time she would have to spend in Zane Khan’s company would be for her research.

‘Would I be able to have full access to the archives?’

‘Of course,’ he answered without hesitation.

An anthropological book detailing the country’s rich cultural heritage, its monarchy and the challenges they were facing made sense. Zane Khan and his own past were surely at the centre of that.

‘I’d also like to interview you at some point,’ she said before she could chicken out.

She saw the flicker of something brittle and defensive in his eyes and the muscle in his jaw tensed. ‘Why would that be necessary?’

‘Well, you’re the country’s ruler,’ she said, not sure why she was having to explain herself. ‘And also because you had a Westernised childhood—you would have a unique perspective that spans both cultures.’

‘I’m sure I can arrange to speak to you at some point,’ he said, but his tone was strangely tight. ‘So do we have a deal?’

She let out a deep breath, feeling as if she were about to jump off a cliff—because in a lot of ways she was... But she’d been waiting for an opportunity like this for a long time.

You don’t want to be a mouse for ever.

‘Okay—you’ve got a deal,’ she said, the surge of excitement at her own daring almost overwhelming her panic.

She reached out her hand, but then long strong fingers folded over hers—and she yearned to snatch it back. His grip was firm, impersonal, but the rush of sensation that raced up her arm was anything but.

‘How long will it take you to pack?’ he asked.

‘Umm... I should be able to fly over in a week or so,’ she said, grateful when he released her hand. She needed to rearrange her teaching schedule, pack up her flat on campus and give herself more time to make absolutely sure she was happy jumping off this cliff.

‘Not good enough,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon?’ she said, disturbed by the no-nonsense tone, and the sensation still streaking up her arm.

‘I’ll have the contract drawn up and delivered to you within the hour. Is five hundred thousand pounds sufficient for your input on the project?’

Half a million pounds!

‘I... That’s very generous.’

‘Excellent, then we will leave for Narabia tonight.’

We...? Tonight...? What...?

‘I...’

He held up his hand, and the feeble protest got stuck in her throat.

‘No buts. We made a deal.’ He took a phone out of his trouser pocket, and walked past her. The two bodyguards and Walmsley, who must have been lurking outside the door, all snapped to attention as he opened it.

So Zane Khan didn’t just have that disturbing effect on her.

‘Dr Smith will be leaving on my private jet tonight,’ he announced.

Walmsley’s mouth dropped open comically, but Cat didn’t feel much like laughing.

Zane glanced over his shoulder. ‘A car will arrive in four hours to take you to the airport,’ he said.

‘But that’s not enough time,’ she managed, past the constriction in her throat. What exactly had she just agreed to? Because she was starting to feel like a mouse again. A very timid, overwhelmed mouse, in the presence of a large, extremely predatory lion.

‘Anything you need will be provided for you,’ he said, cutting off any more protests by lifting the phone back to his ear and striding away down the corridor, with the two bodyguards flanking him.

Cat watched his tall figure disappear round the corner, her breath locked in her lungs and her stomach free-falling off the cliff without the rest of her.

Problem was, she hadn’t had the chance to jump off this particular cliff—because she’d just been pushed.




CHAPTER TWO (#uc9b15d26-bcad-5994-8e80-11627d3aa8e2)


CAT ARRIVED AT the private airfield outside Cambridge four and a half hours later, still dazed from her meeting with the Narabian ruler.

Is this actually happening?

The arc lights from the airfield hangar illuminated a sleek private jet painted in the gold and green colours of the desert kingdom’s flag.

The driver, who had arrived on the dot of eight o’clock at her flat on campus, hauled her borrowed rucksack out of the back of the limousine and escorted Cat across the airfield to the plane’s steps.

A man appeared at the aircraft’s door, dressed in a robe and a traditional Narabian headdress. He lifted the battered bag off the chauffeur’s shoulder and ushered her onto the plane, introducing himself as Abdallah, one of the Sheikh’s personal servants.

She was led through the cabin—the plush leather seats and polished teak tables offset by thick wool carpeting—into a private bedroom at the end of the plane.

‘You will be served dinner in here once we are airborne,’ the man said in perfect English, putting her bag onto one of the cabin’s armchairs. She stifled the sting of embarrassment at the sight of the hastily packed rucksack marring the butter-soft leather upholstery. ‘Suitable clothing has been made available for your stay in Narabia,’ Abdallah announced, his gaze flicking discreetly over her attire—and making her acutely aware of the battered boots, jeans and second-hand sweater she hadn’t had a chance to change out of. There was no censure in his tone, but still she felt impossibly awkward and ill-prepared. Especially when the servant slid open the door of a built-in wardrobe to reveal an array of dark flowing robes.

‘His Excellency, His Divine Majesty, has asked that you dress appropriately when leaving the plane—and limit your questions to myself or the other palace staff at all times.’

Cat nodded mutely, her nervousness accompanied by a tingle of irritation. It seemed His Divine Majesty was used to giving orders and having them obeyed without question. But how was she going to be able to do the research she needed to do on Narabia’s customs and culture if she was not able to be a free agent?

‘Is Mr Khan on the plane?’ she asked.

The man’s eyebrows rose a fraction before he spoke. ‘His Excellency, His Divine Majesty, the Sheikh of Narabia is flying the plane, Dr Smith. He has asked me to assist you in any way you desire.’

The tightness around her ribcage eased at the thought she wouldn’t have to see Zane Khan again until they landed. But then she felt disappointed in herself.

This was going to be an adventure. An adventure she would one day be able to tell her grandchildren. Events had moved much faster than she was comfortable with. But was that really a bad thing?

Impulsiveness was a trait she’d quashed throughout her childhood and teenage years—and she’d persuaded herself it was a good thing she hadn’t had the chance to quash it this time.

Unfortunately, that didn’t make what lay ahead of her any less intimidating or overwhelming. And Zane Khan’s presence did make it that much harder to process, because she didn’t seem to be able to breathe properly when he was near her—let alone process her thoughts. But his decision to start dictating her every move before they’d even left the UK did not bode well for her work.

She wanted to do a thorough job. Which meant she would have to get up the guts to confront His Divine Majesty if she had to.

‘We will be landing in Narabia at eight tomorrow morning,’ Abdallah informed her, his implacable gaze revealing nothing. ‘His Excellency, His Divine Majesty, will speak with you then, before we proceed to the Sheikh’s palace.’

Cat’s pulse hammered her collarbone. The Sheikh’s palace had been built over five hundred years ago on a natural spring, and its architectural splendour was rumoured to rival that of the Taj Mahal, but no photographs existed of it. Only a few pencil drawings done by a British explorer in the nineteen twenties.

She would be the first outsider to see it in generations. She took a deep breath and let it out again to contain the leap of excitement.

Strike one for impulsiveness.

‘Thank you, I look forward to seeing it,’ she said, barely able to stifle her grin as Abdallah excused himself and left.

Her breathing clogged again though, as the plane’s engines rumbled to life. She strapped herself into the leather passenger seat and imagined Zane Khan’s long fingers handling the controls. Her stomach lifted into her throat as the plane raced down the tarmac and rose into the night sky above Cambridge.

There was a three-hour time difference between the UK and Narabia, which gave her approximately nine hours to figure out how she was going to handle her interaction with His Divine Majesty the next time she saw him.

She counted her breaths in and out, as the lights of Cambridge disappeared under the cover of clouds.

Not hyperventilating would be an excellent start.

After a three-course dinner—consisting of Narabian delicacies in a tantalising combination of African and Middle Eastern flavours—Cat managed a fitful four hours’ sleep on the luxurious bed. The last time she woke, to the efficient purr of the plane’s engines, the desert landscape was visible through the cabin windows, only a few thousand feet below.

With only an hour till they landed she rushed her shower—while struggling to get her head around the idea of having a shower on a plane—then dug out her meagre supply of make-up. She rarely wore it, but in this instance the smudge of eyeshadow and the slick of lip gloss should help boost her confidence and her courage.

Donning one of the robes proved a great deal more challenging. The flowing floor-length garment was made of gossamer-thin black silk with stunning gold embroidery at the cuffs and hem. The fitted bodice hooked up the front right to the neck, and included a matching scarf. But what exactly was she supposed to wear underneath it? Was the robe supposed to be worn as a dress or an overgarment?

Even in spring, the desert kingdom would be extremely hot. But the only other items in the closet were other similar robes and an array of delicate underwear. Heat incinerated her cheeks as she ran her fingertips over the transparent lace.

Just the thought of wearing the skimpy undergarments with only a thin layer of silk to cover them in front of Zane Khan had her hyperventilating again. She was nervous enough already. Of course, he wouldn’t be able to see she was virtually naked beneath her robe, but she would know.

In the end, she settled for putting on her sturdy cotton bra and panties and one of her maxi summer dresses under the robe. Made for summer in Cambridge, not spring in Narabia, the dress was a great deal heavier than the lightweight material of the robe, and it made the robe itself a bit snug, but the added layer helped to slow her rampaging pulse. After wrestling with the hooks to fasten the front of the robe over her breasts, she tied back her damp hair with an elastic band, draped the exquisitely embroidered scarf over her head and tied the ends at the back of her neck.

Strapping herself in for the landing, she devoured the dramatic sight of the rocky terrain as the plane skimmed over a mountainous region to touch down at a deserted airfield. But as the plane taxied and then came to a stop in front of a large, sleekly modern glass-and-steel hangar, her stomach didn’t quite land with it.

When Abdallah arrived ten minutes later, she’d repaired her make-up twice—and debated about fifty times whether to simply step out of the cabin. Perhaps they had forgotten she was on the plane?

‘His Divine Majesty awaits your presence,’ Abdallah announced, picking up her rucksack.

Play it cool, and remember to keep breathing.

She smoothed sweaty palms down the robe, feeling the bulk of fabric where her dress tightened the fit.

As she stepped out of the cabin her gaze locked on a group of men dressed in robes standing beside the plane’s open door. Or one man in particular, who stood head and shoulders above the rest.

As if he had sensed her presence, Zane Khan turned to face her, and her breath locked in her lungs again.

Breathe, Cat, breathe.

She struggled to regulate her lung function before she passed out. She’d never seen anything so magnificent—or so masculine—as the Sheikh of Narabia in his traditional ceremonial garb.

Her gaze stole up his frame, taking in every aspect of the striking outfit.

Knee-high leather boots shone in the blazing desert sunlight stealing in through the cabin’s door, and moulded to impressive calf muscles. Black cotton trousers hung loose around his long legs to give him ease of movement but did nothing to disguise the powerful muscles in his thighs. A silk sash that matched the extraordinary blue of his eyes provided a startling splash of colour around his lean waist. The long flowing cloak he wore trailed to his knees but any semblance of modesty was belied by the black tunic that hung open at his neck in a deep V, revealing tantalising wisps of chest hair. But it was his dramatic headdress—draped to shade his head and shoulders and the back of his neck and held on with a jewelled gold band around his forehead—and the sabres glinting on his hips and attached by across-the-shoulder leather straps that had Cat’s breath gushing out.

No wonder they call him the Divine Majesty.

He didn’t only look magnificent, he looked indomitable—a man entirely at one with his heritage and his own masculinity. Those pure blue eyes seemed to bore into her through the silk of her own robe—right through the fabric of her dress and the sturdy cotton of her underwear to her palpitating heart. She thanked God she had decided to wear the extra layers, because even with them on she felt naked—every inch of her skin tingling with awareness.

‘Dr Smith,’ he said in that rough, commanding baritone. He held out a hand and hooked a finger, directing her to come to him. ‘I see you found the clothing,’ he said.

All her senses screamed in unison—although she wasn’t sure what they were screaming for her to do, fall into his arms, or run like hell in the opposite direction, because both options seemed viable.

You’re a cat, not a mouse. Move.

Breathing deeply, she stepped forward and laid trembling fingers in his wide palm. He folded her arm into the crook of his elbow and she found herself drawn forward and tucked against his side.

‘Let’s get to the car before the plane becomes an oven,’ he said, the conversational tone doing nothing to calm her rampant heartbeat.

She bobbed her head, feeling like a compliant puppet.

They descended the plane steps together. The desert heat was immense, even so early in the morning, the sun creating mirages on the tarmac and a heat haze on the horizon. But she burned hottest where their bodies touched, the gossamer silk of her robe and the thick cotton of her dress feeling heavier than armour and yet offering her no protection whatsoever from the subtle shift of muscle and sinew where his forearm tensed against her side.

Sweat pooled in her collarbone and trickled down her temple, her heart beating so fast and so loudly she wondered if he could hear it, because it sounded like a machine gun to her.

They walked through a phalanx of servants and bodyguards, all of whom dropped to one knee as Zane passed, the look of awe on their faces something she was very much afraid had been reflected on her face when she’d first walked out of her cabin.

She tried to school her features. Just because Zane Khan was treated like a living god in Narabia, he was still only a man.

As if in acknowledgement of this fact, Zane stopped to speak to several of his subjects as he passed, introducing her to two men in particular as the heads of his ruling council. Four SUVs were parked in a line at the end of the welcoming committee, their paintwork gleaming in the sunshine and looking strangely incongruous given the ancient power being honoured by all present. A guard rushed forward to whisk open the back door of the car in the middle, which looked as if it was half limousine, half all-terrain vehicle. The flags, bearing the insignia of the ruling house of Nawari, marked it out as the Sheikh’s vehicle. Stepping to one side and finally letting go of her, Zane swept his arm forward, directing her into the interior.

She bent to climb inside, but was only halfway into the car when she came to an abrupt halt. Her knees slammed onto the seat tangled in the robe, her palms slapping on the cool leather, her bottom jutting up in the air as she struggled to free herself. She flapped her feet furiously, as embarrassment scorched her insides, but all she managed to do was lose her sandals. She was stuck fast, hideously mindful of Zane standing behind her, being presented with her upraised bottom.

A husky chuckle made her humiliation complete before strong fingers snagged her ankle, sending sensation skimming up her leg and weakening her already straining knees.

‘Hold still,’ said the deep voice, now rough with amusement. ‘The hem is caught.’

Seconds later, the forward momentum had her landing on the seat with a loud ‘oomph’ in a sprawl of silk, cotton, bare legs and bruised pride.

She scrambled to right herself, her cheeks now hotter than the Narabian sun despite the cool interior of the air-conditioned car. Deep chuckles reverberated off the leather interior as Zane folded himself into the seat beside her and the door slammed behind them. The car drove off.

‘Neatly done, Dr Smith,’ he said, obviously enjoying himself immensely at her expense.

But then she looked into his face. He seemed so much younger, almost boyish, his usually severe expression softened by laughter, his shoulders vibrating so hard, the sabres were jingling like bells.

A bubble of laughter burst out. She covered her mouth, but as he continued to chuckle, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from joining him. Suddenly they were laughing together, his husky guffaws matched by her higher-pitched giggles. For a few precious moments, the nerves and anxiety in her stomach dissolved and she felt like a child, free and unencumbered by the sizzling sexual tension that had characterised all her interactions with Zane Khan so far.

‘I can’t believe I made such a monumental tit of myself,’ she finally managed as the laughter slowed to a few intermittent chuckles.

‘Neither can I,’ he said, huffing out one more laugh.

He wiped his eyes with the corner of his robe. And a burst of euphoria rose up her torso. She had no idea why, but she had the strangest feeling Zane Khan didn’t laugh nearly often enough. Dignity and pride seemed a small price to pay for managing to demolish the austere facade—even if only for a few moments.

‘Here.’ He leaned towards her and she saw her sandals resting in his large palm. ‘You dropped these.’

‘Oh, thank you.’ They shared a few more errant chuckles as she plucked them out of his hand.

But as she absorbed the warmth of his touch that lingered on the soft leather, the last of her laughter trailed away, and a heavy sense of intimacy descended.

She could feel his gaze as she fumbled with the hem of her robe and her dress before slipping the footwear back on. She rearranged her skirts to cover her legs, unbearably aware of him once more.

‘I think I see what the problem is,’ he murmured.

‘The problem?’ she asked, making the mistake of glancing at him.

All traces of the boyish amusement were gone as his gaze roamed over her clothing.

‘The robes are designed to be worn with as little beneath them as possible.’ Was it her imagination or had his voice dropped several octaves? ‘Adding extra layers makes them more cumbersome and tends to inhibit the cooling effect.’

‘O-oh, I see,’ she stuttered.

The hot brick in her stomach plunged between her thighs and her nipples tightened as they made the rest of the drive through the desert in silence.

Ruining the cooling effect completely.

What the hell? I have an undiscovered toe fetish.

Zane absorbed the rocky, forbidding landscape as the car crested the rise and headed into the desert valley towards the Sheikh’s palace, far too aware of the woman sitting stiffly in the seat beside him—and the burn on his fingertips where his hand had connected with her ankle. The sight of her unpainted toes and bare feet as she’d slipped on her sandals hadn’t helped contain the surge of lust that had been tormenting him ever since she’d stepped out of her cabin.

His imagination had gone into overdrive as soon as she’d appeared, everything the ankle-length robe with its intricate beading disguised somehow even more erotic than her tomboy jeans and shapeless sweater of the day before.

He shifted in his seat as the palace came into view. He heard her sharp intake of breath. The enormous five-hundred-year-old structure with its domed turrets, lavish mosaic tiling, walled gardens and courtyards and intricately carved arched walkways was a truly magnificent example of Moorish architecture that would awe any new visitor. He had been awestruck himself sixteen years ago when he’d seen it for the first time as a confused teenager, using belligerence to hide his fear—only to discover that misery, not magic, lurked behind the golden walls.

He dispelled the unpleasant memories as the car approached the town of Zahari—which had sprawled around the walls of the palace for over three hundred years—and sailed through the marketplace. Traders and customers stood at a respectful distance, many of them bowing their heads or dropping to their knees as the car passed.

‘Is that customary? For your subjects to kneel before you?’ Catherine Smith’s soft voice yanked him back to the present and tugged at his groin in a way he had been trying to ignore ever since they’d left the plane.

He would have to get his reaction to this woman under control. It could only be a result of the sexual drought he’d suffered in recent years, ever since his father’s illness and death had required him to spend so much time in Narabia.

‘It is not required,’ he said, aware of the sharp tone when she flinched.

It wasn’t her fault she had an unpredictable effect on him and his sex-starved libido. Any more than it was her fault the delicate arch of her instep and those slim, straight toes had him obsessing about sucking and licking each one in turn, then slowly inching the layers of clothing up her slim curves to discover exactly what treasures lay between her toned thighs.

He shook his head, and attempted to focus on the haze that shimmered on the palace’s golden walls as the car drove through the gates and entered the forecourt.

Seducing Catherine Smith would be a foolish move, which could easily backfire. He had no intention of giving her more access to him than was strictly necessary. She’d already requested an interview, something he’d had to force himself not to refuse out of hand. And he did not like the way she’d looked at him a moment ago, as if she somehow knew it was a long time since he’d had cause to laugh so spontaneously. Part of her job here was to study the behaviour and customs of Narabia’s people, but he did not intend to let her study him.

The thought of the indulgent burst of laughter and what it might have revealed dampened the heat in his groin as the car drove through the grove of palm trees, around the fountain that adorned the entrance to the palace and glided to a stop by the steps leading up to the arched entrance to the main residence. Climbing out of the vehicle, he offered a hand to Catherine.

One glimpse of those damn toes though, and the blood surged right back into his pants.

She exited the vehicle with a great deal more grace than she had used getting into it. But the memory of her pert bottom outlined in silk failed to alleviate the heat swelling in his groin.

The silk covering her hair did nothing to disguise the riot of chestnut curls. He clenched his fists to quell the urge to plunge his fingers into the unruly locks. Having this woman in the palace for three long months was going to be more of an ordeal than he’d thought when he had offered her the commission.

She tilted her head to view the building. ‘It’s even more breathtaking than I expected.’

The breathy comment was artlessly erotic, skimming over his skin. The heavy weight of the sabres jostled his hip as he stood aside to let her precede him up the steps.

‘Your Excellency, welcome home,’ his major-domo greeted him. As efficient and imperturbable as always, Ravi didn’t even flick an eyelash at the sight of his companion, or the evidence that Zane had arrived back from a business meeting in the UK with an unknown female guest. Clapping his hands, Ravi barked out a series of orders in Narabi at the line of servants, who rushed forward to collect the luggage.

‘This is Dr Smith,’ Zane said. ‘She is an academic scholar and is going to be writing a book about Narabia’s customs and its cultural history. She will be staying in the women’s quarters.’

As far away from my toe fetish as possible.

‘Yes, Your Excellency,’ Ravi said before turning to Catherine and bowing. ‘Welcome to Narabia, Dr Smith.’ He held out his arm. ‘If you come this way, I will escort you to your quarters.’

‘I’ll escort her to the women’s quarters myself,’ Zane cut in.

Both Catherine and Ravi looked at him, obviously startled by the offer. He was a little startled himself—etiquette for someone of her station certainly did not require him to give her a personal escort.

But he found he couldn’t regret the impulsive decision as he led her through the palace towards the separate walled estate in the grounds where the female staff and his unattached female relatives lived and he watched her reaction.

Ever since he had arrived in Narabia, the palace had felt like a prison to him. The ornate splendour both oppressive and confining, the grandeur only emphasising the unhappy history contained within these walls.

But as the scent of lemons and limes refreshed the air around them, and he watched the vivid colour on Catherine’s cheeks intensify and her caramel gaze sparkle with fascination, her head swivelling back and forth as she took in the sights before her, for the first time in his life, he could see past the darkness too.

He pushed the romantic thought aside, determined not to read too much into the buoyant feeling at Catherine’s exhilarated response.

She was the first foreign visitor to see this place since his mother. Of course she would be awestruck. The Sheikh’s palace was a beautiful and elaborate prison, but a prison nonetheless, something his mother had found out to her cost.

Just because Catherine in her naivety couldn’t see that, it didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

After all, it was his job to keep her from discovering that truth.

Walking through the Sheikh’s palace was like stepping into an alternative world—as exotic and mesmerising and exciting as Narnia behind the wardrobe. As Cat absorbed the myriad sights and sounds and scents, she struggled to ignore the man beside her, whose stern demeanour was at odds with the cascade of emotions making her heart hammer like a timpani drum.

Unlike the rest of the palace, which had been calm and quiet and steeped in an austere reverential solemnity, the women’s quarters were a hive of chatter and activity—until the women spotted the Sheikh in their midst.

A few of them tugged veils over their faces as Zane passed, but many of the younger ones did not, some even chatting behind their hands before they bowed or curtsied. Zane seemed impervious to the attention, but it was clear to Cat she wasn’t the only woman aware of the magnificent figure he cut.

The sunlight dazzled her, leaving her dazed when they stepped out of the searing heat of the forecourt into a walled garden. Shaded by trees laden with all manner of exotic fruit and an array of lush plants, the garden was laid out along a series of mosaic pathways punctuated by fountains and other decorative follies. More women, many of them wearing brightly coloured silk robes, sat on intricately carved marble benches, but sprang to their feet to curtsy as she and Zane passed.

They turned a corner and Cat’s mouth fell open. A stunning pool, its blue-green water fed by a man-made waterfall, stretched out before them, creating a cooling centrepiece to the lavish garden. On the outside, the quarters had seemed austere, but this garden was like a secret paradise.

Zane proceeded to lead her through a citrus grove that skirted the pool. The refreshing scent of oranges and lemons filled the hot, dry air. They walked down another path shaded by towering palm trees, the raised flower beds on either side filled with a profusion of showy blooms and manicured shrubs.

Finally they left the garden and entered a cool domed courtyard, this one covered with a painted ceiling. Like the rest of the palace, the chamber was intricately and elaborately decorated, with stunning marble and mosaic tiling. Lounging areas filled with cushions and draped with exquisitely embroidered silk hangings made the space feel welcoming rather than forbidding. The warm air was cooled by huge ceiling fans, which covered the sound of laughter and talking coming from the interior of the building with the swish of the blades.

Large arched doorways led off the central chamber. Each smaller chamber contained a disparate group of women indulging in different pursuits. One group was seated in a circle on the floor sewing a tapestry, another group was cooking in a kitchen equipped with state-of-the-art stainless-steel surfaces—the aromatic scents of frying spices making Cat’s tummy grumble—and yet another chamber appeared to be a classroom, where one woman was scribbling maths problems on a whiteboard for the others. It occurred to Cat that the juxtaposition of female learning, new appliances and traditional crafts was like a microcosm of how the new Sheikh’s modernising influence was affecting Narabia’s ancient society. But as before, all conversation ceased as they walked past, only making Cat more aware of how revered Zane was by his people. And the centuries-old power that emanated from him.

She wondered why he had offered to take her to her quarters. Because she felt both hideously exposed while also being invisible.

Stop hiding, darling. And say hello to Mummy’s friend.

The jolt of memory made her steps falter. Zane’s arm tensed as she stopped.

‘Are you okay?’ he said. His voice sounded rough, and she realised it was the first time he’d spoken to her since they had left the palace forecourt.

‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. I’m just a little tired. And overawed.’

Or rather a lot tired and overawed. Why else would she start thinking about her mother?

And reading far too much into a simple courtesy. Obviously, Zane Khan had only offered to escort her to her quarters to be polite. And now she was making a massive meal of it.

He searched her face in a way that only made her feel more uncomfortable, then clicked his fingers above his head. ‘Who here speaks English?’ he asked, addressing a group of young women who had gathered to watch them from a respectable distance.

A teenage girl stepped forward, covering the bottom of her face with her veil, her dark eyes alive with curiosity.

‘What is your name?’ he asked the girl.

‘Kasia, Your Divine Majesty,’ she answered in faltering English.

‘This is Dr Catherine Smith. You will serve her for the duration of her stay here at double your normal salary. Make sure she has everything she desires and she does not go anywhere unescorted. Do you understand?’

The girl nodded furiously, her cheeks flushed as she dropped to one knee. She didn’t reply, clearly speechless at being addressed directly by the Sheikh. But Cat felt the prickle of dismay at his instructions. Why did she have to be escorted everywhere?

‘Kasia will show you to your quarters,’ he said, addressing Cat, that searing, all-seeing gaze silencing the unruly thought. ‘She will accompany you wherever you go. It is very easy to get lost in this place.’

The prickle of dismay was crushed by panic.

Exactly how powerful was this man? Could he read her thoughts?

As Kasia, her new minder, led Cat up a flight of stairs to a mezzanine level, she stole one last glance over her shoulder.

Zane Khan strode back through the gardens towards the entrance to the women’s quarters. His powerful figure cut a dark swathe through the colourful clothing of the women and the garden’s exotic flora.

The soft edges she had glimpsed in the car had been sheared off, as if they had never existed. As soon as they had arrived at the palace, he had become every inch His Divine Majesty again, entitled to rule over everyone he surveyed... Including her.

Her rapid heartbeat sank into her abdomen. But it couldn’t disguise the pang of regret at the thought that the man she’d glimpsed in the car had never been more than a figment of her overactive—and far too romantic—imagination.




CHAPTER THREE (#uc9b15d26-bcad-5994-8e80-11627d3aa8e2)


OVER THE FOLLOWING fortnight Cat buried herself in the project, which helped ground her and dispel any more of the foolish feelings about Zane that had assailed her on her arrival.

The first job she set herself was to become more fluent in the spoken language, so she didn’t feel like such an interloper. Although Kasia had overstated her command of English, she was smart and eager to help Cat integrate into the society of women in the palace. As they tested out their faltering language skills on each other, Kasia soon became a friend, and also an invaluable research assistant, proving a font of knowledge when it came to documenting Narabia’s customs.

Kasia and the other women who Cat had interviewed though, were less informed on the subject of the Nawari royal family. And Zane in particular. No one seemed to know anything about when he had first come to the palace, or more specifically his relationship with the former Sheikh. Either that or they had been told not to say anything.

Cat convinced herself she was being paranoid. Why would Zane have hired her to do a job like this if he had something to hide? Especially as he had arranged for her to go on a series of ‘fact-finding missions’.

But even though Cat had found the day trips—to a host of local businesses, architectural wonders and even to one of his council meetings—informative and interesting at first, after two weeks of these carefully orchestrated excursions, her initial suspicions had begun to return.

She was learning how to converse in Narabi with Kasia’s help, but she was never allowed to speak to anyone not specifically sanctioned to speak to her by the Sheikh. The bodyguards and advisors who accompanied her wherever she went seemed to be under strict instructions about whom to allow her to speak to. And nothing she said or did could influence them to loosen their hold on her schedule.

Zane meanwhile had been unavailable since that first night. And the interview he’d promised her had yet to materialise.

At first Cat had been grateful for his absence, aware of how overwhelming she found his presence. But as the days passed, and her conversations with Kasia and the other people in the palace brought up questions she wanted to ask that only Zane could answer, her gratitude began to turn to frustration—with herself as much as him.

She wanted this project to be a seminal study of a country and a people whose lives and culture had been almost entirely cut off from the outside world for generations. But for that she needed proper access to all walks of Narabian society, and more access to their Sheikh, especially as he appeared to be the driving force behind all the changes taking place.

Her academic integrity was at stake. Not only that, but Zane had promised her the interview when she’d agreed to take the job.

She could keep her strange reaction to him in check. She wasn’t used to male attention, and certainly not the attention of a man who exuded enough testosterone to arouse a stone. But she couldn’t let her social ineptitude screw up this project. And she only had three months to write this study, so she couldn’t waste any more time pandering to her own insecurities.

But two weeks after arriving in Narabia, she didn’t seem to be any closer to getting the promised interview with its Sheikh. Ravi had been unfailingly polite and helpful, but whenever she’d asked about Zane, she’d been fobbed off with a series of vague excuses.

His Excellency was too busy. His Excellency was out of the country. His Excellency didn’t have the time to deal with the project today.

So yesterday, she’d decided to write the Sheikh a note—reminding Zane of his promise to grant her an interview.

One curt line scrawled in black ink on a piece of cream notepaper was the result.

Ravi will arrange an interview at my convenience, when I have the time.

ZK

‘The Sheikh, he writes to you like a lover.’

Cat glanced up to find Kasia grinning at her.

Cat blushed as she scrunched the note up in her fist and tossed it in the waste bin by the writing desk she had been given. ‘He writes to me like a tyrant, more like.’

‘What is this tyrant?’ Kasia asked, testing her increasingly fluent English.

Cat searched for the word in Narabi. But of course there wasn’t one, because tyrant was an insult, and apparently being an obstructive jerk was perfectly okay if you were the Sheikh in this country. ‘Someone who never lets you do what you want to do,’ she said.

The girl grinned. ‘What is it you wish to do?’

‘I need to speak to people outside these walls,’ she said in her own faltering Narabi. ‘I want to interview a much bigger cross section of Narabian society.’

She’d like to interview Zane Khan too, but she figured that was way outside Kasia’s remit.

‘Why do you not go to the marketplace? There are many people of Narabia there.’

‘I would, but I can’t go anywhere unaccompanied,’ she huffed, the frustration starting to choke her. ‘And all the visits we’ve been on so far, I haven’t been allowed to talk to anyone properly.’

‘You could come with me to buy the herbs and spices for eating tomorrow.’

Cat’s heart hammered against her ribs. Why had she assumed that Kasia never left the palace? ‘That’s... Thank you. That’s a brilliant idea.’

The thought of finally taking her research to the next level had her pulse pounding in her ears. She should have had the guts to do this a lot sooner. After all, Zane hadn’t specifically said she couldn’t leave the palace. It wasn’t Zane holding her back, it was her own conformity. And cowardice.

‘Your Excellency, there is news from the women’s quarters.’

Zane glanced up from the letter he was writing to find his major-domo standing at the arched entrance to his private office. Ravi’s face was drawn, and his hands clutched together.

Terrific, what the heck has Catherine Smith done now?

The woman was proving much more troublesome that he had anticipated.

No way was he arranging an interview with her before he was sure he could control the emotions that had fazed him when she had first arrived. But she’d proved surprisingly persistent and demanding, making repeated requests to see him even though he’d made it quite clear he was not available.

‘What is it, Ravi?’ he snapped, putting his pen down. ‘Please tell me this isn’t another request for an interview from Dr Smith,’ he said. ‘Because the answer is still no.’ And he’d already told his major-domo he did not want to be bothered with her requests from now on—because all that did was trigger more of the desires he was currently trying very hard to suppress.

‘No, Your Excellency.’ Ravi’s usually implacable expression became tight with concern. ‘I have just been informed Dr Smith is no longer in the palace.’

‘What?’ The punch of anxiety hit Zane square in the solar plexus. ‘Then where the hell is she?’

‘We do not know, but we believe she may have left to go to the spice market with her servant, Kasia.’

Zane jerked out of his chair, his heart starting to kick his ribs like his thoroughbred Arabian stallion, Pegasus.

‘How long have they been gone?’ he demanded as he charged across the room.

‘No one has seen them for several hours.’

Several hours.

His thundering heart crashed into his throat.

Anything could have happened in that time. Catherine was a stranger here—how well did she even speak the language? He should never have left her to her own devices. The panic tightened around his heart, reminding him of being a boy in LA and waking up in the middle of the night to find himself alone in his mother’s apartment. A gaping hole opened in the pit of his stomach, the very same one that had appeared every time he’d had to scramble out of bed and track down his mother in one of the neighbourhood bars.

Not the same thing, damn it.

Zelda had been fragile, mentally and physically, and a chronic alcoholic. Catherine Smith was none of those things.

But still the gaping hole refused to disappear as he marched down the walkway towards the palace’s stables.

He had to get her back before she got hurt, or worse.

‘Why wasn’t I told about this sooner?’ Zane demanded, channelling the old fear into anger at his major-domo.

‘I am sorry, Your Divine Majesty,’ Ravi panted, breathing heavily as he raced to keep up with Zane.

‘Get me a robe and have Pegasus saddled,’ he shouted at one of the stable boys as he arrived in the equine palace, the comforting scent of hay and manure doing nothing to stem the fear gripping his insides.

‘Your Excellency? There is no need for you to venture o-out...’ Ravi stammered. ‘I have the palace guard ready to search the marketplace on your orders.’

‘I’ll lead the search party,’ he said.

Ravi returned with his robe. Zane shrugged it on, then took the keffiyeh. Securing the traditional headscarf with an agal rope, he covered his mouth and nose. It was almost noon, so it would be a hot dusty ride in searing heat. But he’d be damned if he’d let the palace guard conduct the search without him.

Pegasus arrived, stamping his hooves, his nostrils flaring as he shook his head against the bridle. Taking the reins from the stable boy, Zane grabbed the pommel on the horse’s saddle, stuck his boot into the stirrup and leapt onto the highly strung stallion as the horse charged out of the yard.

The hooves of the guards’ horses clattered behind him as the palace gates were rolled open.

The sun blinded him as Pegasus flew out of the grounds, and past the palace’s walls. The horse took the unpaved road down towards Zahari. People scattered, many dropping to their knees as they recognised him and his guards.

As they approached the labyrinth of streets leading to the old town and the women’s spice market, the colourful silks on the clothing stalls waving like flags, anger rose up to cover the gaping hole.

When he found Catherine, she was going to feel the full force of his fury, for defying his orders. And putting herself in unnecessary danger.

If he found her.

‘She says Tariq was a cruel Sheikh.’ Kasia relayed the information in English as Cat nodded, scribbling on the notepad she’d brought with her.

They had been at the market for over two hours, she’d taken photos of the amazing sights and sounds, had absorbed the workings of the place and revelled in the chance to finally see a side of Narabian society without close supervision. But speaking to Nazarin, an elderly stallholder, was the first opportunity she’d had to talk to anyone specifically about Tariq Ali Nawari Khan’s forty-year reign.

Nazarin’s hands were gnarled and stained from years spent dying cloth to sell at the market. Her accent had been far too thick for Cat to decipher, but with Kasia’s translation help she had been a font of knowledge about the Nawari family thanks to her experiences going to the palace to deliver cloth.

‘She says he was very cruel to his son,’ Kasia added.

Cat’s head jerked up from her notes. ‘Are you talking about Zane?’ she said in Narabi to Nazarin.

The woman stared for a moment, obviously taken aback by the informal address. Then she nodded and rushed off a torrent of words, but the guttural inflections were impossible for Cat to understand.

She had to wait patiently for Kasia to finish listening to the woman’s words. Eventually her friend turned to Cat, her eyes round with shock. ‘She says, yes, the new Sheikh. The one from America. When the boy came to the palace, she says he tried many times to escape and he was punished harshly for this disobedience.’

‘Punished? How?’ Cat whispered, shocked. Why had Zane tried to escape? Had he been brought to Narabia against his will?

Cat had wondered about the circumstances of his mother’s decision to give up custody of her son. Zelda Mayhew Khan had fled Narabia not long after Zane’s birth and taken him with her—the fairy-tale romance with the Sheikh obviously not living up to the media hype. The actress had never spoken publicly about her marriage and it seemed once she had faded from the public eye, she’d struggled to find work and had a string of arrests for DUIs and disorderly conduct when Zane was in his teens. So it had made sense Zane’s father had assumed custody, but Cat had never been able to find a formal custody agreement—or a court order declaring Zelda an unfit mother—during her initial research. And she had wondered what it must have been like for a teenage boy, who had probably had minimal supervision while living with his mother, to suddenly find himself in a place like Narabia, where the customs and culture were a lot more constrained... But she hadn’t suspected anything like this.

She was trying to formulate a question, keen to discover more about Zane’s relationship with his father, when one of Nazarin’s teenage granddaughters rushed into the tiny room at the back of her shop where they were talking.

‘You must leave—the Sheikh, he comes on horseback with his men,’ she beseeched Kasia and Cat in the native language.

‘We should go,’ Kasia said. ‘He has come to find you.’

Cat’s heart pummelled her chest.

Why had he come looking for her? And why did she have the feeling the answer to that question could not be good?

She didn’t want to leave. There were so many questions she still had for Nazarin. But she could feel her granddaughter’s fear and see Kasia’s concerned expression. The last thing she wanted to do was cause any trouble for Nazarin, her family or Kasia. This could only be a misunderstanding. Yes, Zane had told her not to go anywhere unaccompanied, but she had Kasia with her. And anyway, she would have told him of this trip if he hadn’t been so reluctant to talk to her.

Thanking Nazarin, she and Kasia left the room and hurried through the stall to the courtyard.

She pulled on her headscarf and shielded her eyes against the midday sun, which was blisteringly hot now. The spice market had closed an hour ago, the heat becoming unbearable, and the stalls had been packed away. Only a few people still milled around. But some of the citizens came out of their dwellings at the thunderous sound of hooves approaching.

Cat’s breath clogged her lungs as six horsemen appeared on the ridge above the marketplace. Their shapes became distinct through the heat haze as they galloped into the courtyard. Out in front was a monstrous black stallion, the rider handling the powerful horse with consummate ease, his robes flying out behind him. He led the riders to a skidding stop in front of Cat and Kasia.

The stallion reared before his hooves crashed down only a few yards from Cat’s toes. She scrambled back. Even with the traditional face and head covering she would have recognised Zane Khan anywhere.

It seemed the locals did too, because they were already falling to their knees in his presence, Kasia included. Cat stayed upright, her whole body rigid with stunned disbelief, and something that felt suspiciously like awe.

Ripping off his face covering, Zane Khan leaned down towards her. His blue eyes glittered with temper, shocking Cat to her core.

Why did he look so furious?

The stallion pawed the ground as if mimicking its master’s agitation as he held out a gloved hand. ‘Up. Now.’

She probably should have taken his hand and done as he asked. She hadn’t come to the market intending to anger him. She certainly hadn’t thought he would come to fetch her back—after all, he had been too busy to even speak to her for over a fortnight.

But something inside her snapped at the autocratic command. She was here to do a job; what exactly was his problem with that?

‘I’m not finished. I still have work to do here,’ she said, clasping her hands behind her back.

Zane’s curse was like a missile shot in the afternoon quiet and Cat cringed.

What was she doing? Perhaps she should do as she was told, and discuss this later, in a less public place? But before she’d had a chance to reconsider her position, he swung his leg over the saddle’s pommel and jumped down.





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