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The Sultan's Choice
ABBY GREEN
His Inconvenient Queen Chosen as the Sultan’s bride, Samia has no option but to go ahead with the marriage. And, as her new husband slowly peels away her bejewelled wedding finery, despite her best intentions she finds her inhibitions swept away. Sadiq is surprised by his new bride’s passionate nature!He chose her as a shy, biddable wife who will not make any demands on his time. Now he finds Samia to be anything but… Instead she’s determined, demanding – and defiant!



‘I won’t be kept in the castle like some bird in a cage.’
With an air of desperation tinging her voice, she said, ‘You can’t stop me from doing what I want.’
Sadiq looked down at the woman in front of him. The adrenalin was finally diminishing and being replaced by something hot and far more dangerous.
Giving in to the twisted inarticulate desires this woman roused inside him, he said throatily as he reached for her, ‘I have no intention of stopping you doing anything once you’re safe. But I can stop you driving me crazy.’
‘What do you—?’ Samia didn’t get anything else out in time. Sadiq had pulled her into his tall, hard body with two hands and everything was blocked out when his head descended and his mouth unerringly found hers.

About the Author
ABBY GREEN got hooked on Mills & Boon
romances while still in her teens, when she stumbled across one belonging to her grandmother in the west of Ireland. After many years of reading them voraciously, she sat down one day and gave it a go herself. Happily, after a few failed attempts, Mills & Boon bought her first manuscript.
Abby works freelance in the film and TV industry, but thankfully the four a.m. starts and the stresses of dealing with recalcitrant actors are becoming more and more infrequent, leaving her more time to write!
She loves to hear from readers, and you can contact her through her website at www.abby-green.com She lives and works in Dublin.
Recent titles by the same author:
SECRETS OF THE OASIS
THE RESTLESS BILLIONAIRE


Bad Blood

The Sultan’s
Choice
Abby Green


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This is for Ann K. Thank you for everything.

CHAPTER ONE
‘I’M not marrying her for her looks, Adil. I’m marrying her for the myriad reasons she will make a good Queen of Al-Omar. If I’d wanted nothing but looks I could have married my last mistress. The last thing I need is the distraction of a beautiful woman.’
Princess Samia Binte Rashad al Abbas sat rigid with shock outside the Sultan of Al-Omar’s private office in his London home. He hadn’t been informed that she was there yet as he’d been on this call. His secretary, who had left momentarily, had inadvertently left his door slightly ajar—subjecting Samia to the deep rumble of the Sultan’s voice and his even more cataclysmic words.
The drawling voice came again, tinged with something deeply cynical. ‘That she may well appear, but certain people have always speculated that when the time came to take my bride I’d choose conservatively, and I’d hate to let the bookies down.’
Samia’s cheeks burned. She could well imagine what the voice on the other end of the phone had said, something to the effect of her being boring.
Even if she hadn’t heard this explicit conversation Samia already knew what the Sultan of Al-Omar planned to discuss with her. He wanted her hand in marriage. She hadn’t slept a wink and had come here today half hoping that it would all be a terrible mistake. To hear him lay out in such bald terms that he was clearly in favour of this plan was shocking. And not only that but he evidently considered it to be a done deal!
She’d only met him once before, about eight years previously, when she’d gone to one of his legendary annual birthday parties in B’harani, the capital of Al-Omar, with her brother. Kaden had taken her before she’d gone on to England to finish her studies, in a bid to try and help her overcome her chronic shyness. Samia had been at that awfully awkward age where her limbs had had a mind of their own, her hair had been a ball of frizz and she’d still been wearing the thick bifocals that had plagued her life since she was small.
After an excruciatingly embarrassing moment in which she’d knocked over a small antique table laden with drinks, and the crowd of glittering and beautiful people had turned to look at her, she’d fled for sanctuary, finding it in a dimly lit room which had turned out to be a library.
Samia ruthlessly clamped down on that even more disturbing memory just as the Sultan’s voice rose to an audible level again.
‘Adil, I appreciate that as my lawyer you want to ensure I’m making the right choice, but I can assure you that she ticks all the boxes—I’m not so shallow that I can’t make a marriage like this work. The stability and reputation of my country comes first, and I need a wife who will enhance that.’
Mortification twisted Samia’s insides. He was referring to the fact that she was a world apart from his usual women. She didn’t need to overhear this conversation to know that. Samia didn’t want to marry this man, and she certainly wasn’t going to sit there and wait for humiliation to walk up and slap her in the face.
Sultan Sadiq Ibn Kamal Hussein put down the phone, every muscle tensed. Claustrophobia and an unwelcome sense of powerlessness drove him up out of his leather chair and to the window, where he looked out onto a busy square right in the exclusive heart of London.
Delaying the moment of inevitability a little longer, Sadiq swung back to his desk where a sheaf of photos was laid out. Princess Samia of Burquat. She was from a small independent emirate which lay on his northern borders, on the Persian Gulf. She had three younger half-sisters, and her older brother had become the ruling Emir on the death of their father some twelve years before.
Sadiq frowned minutely. He too had been crowned young, so he knew what the yoke of responsibility was like. How heavy it could be. Even so, he wasn’t such a fool to consider that he and the Emir could be friends, just like that. But if the Princess agreed to this marriage—and why wouldn’t she?—then they would be brothers—in-law.
He sighed. The photos showed indistinct images of an average sized and slim-looking woman. She’d lost the puppy fat he vaguely remembered from when he’d met her at one of his parties. None of the pictures had captured her fully. The best ones were from last summer, when she’d returned from a sailing trip with two friends. But even in the press photos she was sandwiched between two other much prettier, taller girls, and a baseball cap was all but hiding her from view.
The most important consideration here was that none of the photos came from the tabloids. Princess Samia was not part of the Royal Arabian party set. She was discreet, and had carved out a quiet, respectable career as an archivist in London’s National Library after completing her degree. For that reason, and many others, she was perfect. He didn’t want a wife who would bring with her a dubious past life, or any whiff of scandal. He’d courted enough press attention himself over who he was dating or not dating. And to that end he’d had Samia thoroughly investigated, making sure there were no skeletons lurking in any closet.
His marriage would not be like his parents’. It would not be driven by mad, jealous rage and resemble a battlefield. He would not sink the country into a vortex of chaos as his father had done, because he’d been too distracted by a wife who’d resented every moment of being married to a man she didn’t want to be married to. His father had famously pursued his mother, and it was common knowledge that in his obsession to have the renowned beauty reputed to be in love with another he’d paid her family a phenomenal dowry for her. His mother’s constant sadness had driven Sadiq far away for most of his life.
He needed a quiet, stable wife who would complement him, give him heirs, and let him concentrate on running his country. And, above all, a wife who wouldn’t engage his emotions. And from what he’d seen of Princess Samia she would be absolutely perfect.
With a sense of fatalism in his bones he swept all the photos into a pile and put them under a folder. He had no choice but to go forward. His best friends—the ruling Sheikh and his brother from a small independent sheikhdom within his borders—had recently settled down, and if he remained single for much longer he would begin to look directionless and unstable.
He couldn’t avoid his destiny. It was time to meet his future wife. He buzzed his secretary. ‘Noor, you can send Princess Samia in.’
There was no immediate answer, and a dart of irritation went through Sadiq. He was used to being obeyed the instant he made a request. Stifling that irritation because he knew it stemmed from something much deeper—the prospect of the demise of his freedom—he strode towards his door. The Princess should be here by now, and he couldn’t avoid the inevitable any longer.

CHAPTER TWO
SAMIA’S hand was on the doorknob when she heard movement behind her and a voice.
‘You’re leaving so soon?’
It was low and deep, with the merest hint of a seductive accent, and she cursed herself for not leaving a split second earlier. But she’d dithered, her innately good manners telling her that she couldn’t just walk out on the Sultan. And now it was too late.
Her back was stiff with tension as she slowly turned around, steeling herself against the inevitable impact of seeing one of the most celebrated bachelors in the world up close. She worked among dusty books and artefacts! She couldn’t be more removed from the kind of life he led. There was no way he would want to marry her once he’d met her.
Every coherent thought fled her mind, though, when her eyes came to rest on the man standing just feet away. He filled the doorway to his office with his tall, broad-shouldered physique. His complexion was as dark as any man from the desert, but he had the most unusual blue eyes, piercing and seemingly boring right through Samia. Dressed in a dark suit which hugged his frame, he was six feet four of lean muscle—beautiful enough to take anyone’s breath away. This was a man in his virile prime, ruler of a country of unimaginable wealth. Samia felt slightly light-headed for a moment.
He stood back and gestured with a hand into his office. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Please, won’t you come in?’
Samia had no choice but to make her feet move in that direction. Her heart beat crazily as she passed him in the wide doorway and an evocative and intensely masculine scent teased her nostrils. She made straight for a chair positioned by the huge desk and turned around to see the Sultan pull the door shut behind him, eyes unnervingly intent on her.
He strolled into the room and barely leashed energy vibrated from every molecule of the man. Sensual elegance became something much more earthy and sexual as he came closer to Samia, and a disturbing heat coiled low in her belly.
His visage was stern at first, but then a wickedly sexy smile tugged at his mouth, sending her pulse haywire. Her thoughts scrambled.
‘Was it something I said?’
Samia looked at him blankly.
‘You were about to leave?’ he elaborated.
Samia coloured hotly. ‘No … of course not.’ Liar. She went even hotter. ‘I’m sorry … I just …’
She hated to admit it but he intimidated her. She might live a quiet existence and dislike drawing attention to herself—it was a safe persona she’d adopted—but she wasn’t a complete shadow. Yet here she seemed to be turning into one.
Sadiq dismissed her stumbling words with one hand. He took pity on her obvious discomfort, but he was still reacting to the jolt running through him at hearing her voice. It was low and husky, and completely at odds with her rather mousy appearance. As mousy as the photos had predicted, he decided with a quick look up and down. In that trouser suit and a buttoned up shirt which did nothing for her figure, it was imposible to make out if she had a figure.
And yet … Sadiq’s keen male intuition warned him not to make too hasty a judgement—just as a disconcerting tingle of awareness skittered across his spine. He stuck his hands into his pockets.
Samia could feel her cheeks heat up, and had a compelling desire to look down and see where his trousers would be pulled tight across his crotch. But she resolutely kept looking upwards. She tried to do the exercise she’d been taught to deal with her blushing—which was to consciously try to blush, and in doing so negate the reflexive action. But it was futile. The dreaded heat rose anyway, and worse than usual.
He just looked at her. Samia valiantly ignored the heat suffusing her face, knowing well that she’d be bright pink by now, and hitched up her chin. She nearly died a small death when he broke the tension and put out a hand.
‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’
This was it—just what she’d been dreading. And it got worse when he continued.
‘I knew I remembered meeting you, but couldn’t place where it was. And then it came to me …’
Her heart stopped beating. She begged silently that it wouldn’t be that awful moment which was engraved on her memory.
‘You had an unfortunate tussle with a table full of drinks at one of my parties.’
Samia was so ridiculously relieved that he didn’t seem to remember the library that she reached out to clasp his hand, her own much smaller one becoming engulfed by long fingers. His touch was strong and warm and unsettling, and she had to consciously stop herself from ripping her hand out of his as if he’d stung her.
‘Yes, I’m afraid that was me. I was a clumsy teenager.’ Why did she sound breathless?
While still holding her hand, he was looking into her eyes and saying musingly, ‘I didn’t realise you had blue eyes too. Didn’t you wear glasses before?’
‘I had laser surgery a year ago.’
‘Your colouring must come from your English mother?’
His voice was as darkly gorgeous as him. Samia nodded her head to try and shake some articulacy into her brain. ‘She was half English, half Arabic. She died in childbirth with me. My stepmother brought me up.’
The Sultan nodded briefly and finally let Samia’s hand go. ‘She died five years ago?’
Samia nodded and tucked her hand behind her back. She found a chair behind her to cling on to. Her eyes darted away from that intense blue gaze as if he might see the bitterness that crept up whenever she was reminded of her stepmother. The woman had been a tyrant, because she’d always known she came a far distant second to the Emir’s beloved first wife.
Samia looked back to the Sultan and her heart lurched. He was too good-looking. She felt drab and colourless next to him. How on earth could he possibly think for a second that she could be his queen? And then she remembered what he’d said about wanting a conservative wife and felt panicked again.
He indicated the chair she was all but clutching like a life raft. ‘Please, won’t you sit down? What would you like? Tea or coffee?’
Samia quelled an uncharacteristic impulse to ask for something much stronger. Like whisky. ‘Coffee. Please.’
Sadiq moved towards his own chair on the other side of the desk and thankfully just then his secretary appeared with a tray of refreshments. Once she’d left, he tried not to notice the way the Princess’s hand shook as she poured milk into her coffee. The girl was a blushing, quivering wreck, but she looked at him with a hint of defiance that he found curiously stirring. It was an intriguing mix when he was used to the brash confidence of the women he usually met.
He almost felt sorry for her as she handled the dainty cup. Miraculously it survived the journey from saucer to her mouth. She was avoiding his pointed look, so his gaze roamed freely over her and he had to concede with another little jolt of sensation that she wasn’t really that mousy at all. Her hair was strawberry-blond, with russet highlights glinting in the late-afternoon sun slanting in through the huge windows. It was tied back in a French plait which had come to rest over one shoulder. Unruly curls had escaped to frame her face, which was heart-shaped.
She looked about eighteen, even though he knew she was twenty-five. And she was pale enough to have precipitated his question about her colouring. He’d forgotten that interesting nugget about her heritage.
It surprised him how clearly that memory of her knocking over the table had come back to him. He’d felt sorry for her at the time; she’d been mortified, standing there with her face beetroot red, throat working convulsively. Another memory hovered tantalisingly on the edges of his mind but he couldn’t pin it down.
Absurdly long lashes hid her eyes. He had to admit with a flicker of something that she wasn’t what he’d expected at all. Obeying some rogue urge to force her to look at him, so that he could inspect those aquamarine depths more closely, he drawled, ‘So, Princess Samia, are you going to tell me why you were about to leave?’
Samia’s eyes snapped up to clash with the Sultan’s steady gaze. She couldn’t get any hotter, and had to restrain herself from opening the top button of her shirt to feel some cool air on her skin. He was looking at her as if she were a specimen on a laboratory table. It couldn’t be more obvious that she left him entirely cold, and that thought sent a dart of emotion through her.
‘Sultan—’ she began, and stopped when he put up a hand.
‘It’s Sadiq. I insist.’
The steely set of his face sent a quiver through her. ‘Very well. Sadiq.’ She took a deep breath. ‘The truth is that I don’t want to marry you.’
She saw the way his jaw tensed and his eyes flashed. ‘I think it’s usually customary to be asked for your hand in marriage before you refuse it.’
Samia’s hands clenched tight on her lap. ‘And I think it’s customary to ask for the person’s hand in marriage before assuming it’s given.’
His eyes flashed dangerously and he settled back in the chair. Conversely it made Samia feel more threatened.
‘I take it that you overheard some of my phone conversation?’
Samia blushed again, and gave up any hope of controlling it. ‘I couldn’t help it,’ she muttered. ‘The door was partially open.’
Sadiq sat forward and said brusquely, ‘Well, I apologise. It wasn’t meant for your ears.’
Giving in to inner panic, Samia stood up abruptly and moved behind the chair. ‘Why not? After all, you were discussing the merits of this match, so why not discuss them here and now with me? Let’s establish if I am conservative enough for you, or plain enough.’
A dull flush of colour across the Sultan’s cheeks was the only sign that she’d got to him when she said that. Otherwise he looked unmoved by her display of agitation, and Samia cursed herself. Her hands balled on the back of the chair. He just sat back and regarded her from under heavy lids.
‘You can be under no illusion, whether you heard that conversation or not, that any marriage between us will be based purely on practicality along with a whole host of other considerations.’
When she spoke, the bitterness in Samia’s voice surprised her. ‘Oh, don’t worry. I’ve no illusions at all.’
‘This union will benefit both our countries.’
Suddenly a speculative gleam lit his eyes and he sat forward, elbows on the desk. Samia wanted to back away.
‘I’d find it hard to believe that someone from our part of the world and culture of arranged marriages could possibly be holding out for a love match?’
He said this sneeringly, as if such a thing was pure folly. Feeling sick, Samia just shook her head. ‘No. Of course not.’ A love match was the last thing she would ever have expected or wanted. She had seen how love had devastated her father after losing her mother. She’d had to endure the silent grief in his gaze every time he’d looked at her, because she’d been the cause of her mother’s death.
She’d seen how the ripples of that had affected everything—making his next wife bitter. Love had even wreaked its havoc on her beloved brother too, turning him hard as a rock and deeply cynical. She’d vowed long ago never to allow such a potentially destructive force anywhere near her.
The Sultan sat back again, seemingly pleased with her answer. He spread his hands wide. ‘Well, then, what can you possibly have against this marriage?’
Everything! Exposure! Ridicule! Samia’s hands were tightly clasped in front of her. ‘I just … never saw it in my future.’ She’d thought she’d faded enough into the background to avoid this kind of attention.
And then, as if he’d taken the words out of her brother’s own mouth, Sultan Sadiq said with a frown, ‘But as the eldest sister of the Emir of Burquat, how on earth did you think you would avoid a strategic match? You’ve done well to survive this far without being married off.’
Purely feminist chagrin at his unashamedly masculine statement was diminished when guilt lanced Samia. Her brother could have suggested any number of suitors before now, but hadn’t. She’d always been aware that Kaden might one day ask her to make a strategic match, though, and this one had obviously been irresistible. This one came with economic ties that would help catapult Burquat into the twenty-first century and bring with it badly needed economic stability and development.
As much as she hated to admit it, they did come from a part of the world that had a much more pragmatic approach to marriage than the west. It was rare and unusual for a ruler to marry for something as frivolous as love. Marriages had to be made on the bedrock of familial ties, strategic alliances and political logic. Especially royal marriages.
If anything, this practical approach which eschewed love should appeal to her. She wasn’t in any danger of falling for someone like Sadiq, and he certainly wouldn’t be falling for her. She was almost certainly guaranteed a different kind of marriage from the one she’d witnessed growing up. Their children wouldn’t be bullied and belittled out of jealous spite.
Sultan Sadiq stood up, and panic gripped Samia again. She moved back skittishly and cursed this mouse of a person she’d become in his presence. She ruled over thirty employees at the library, and was used to standing up to her brother, who was a man cut from the same dominant cloth as the Sultan, but mere minutes in this man’s presence and she was jelly.
He prowled around the room, as if he couldn’t sit still for longer than a second, and Samia recalled that he had a well known and insatiable love of extreme sports. He’d been the youngest ever sailor to take part in the prestigious Vendée Globe race. As a keen sailor herself, she was in awe of that achievement.
In the tradition of men of his lineage he’d studied in both the UK and the US, and had trained at the exclusive royal military academy at Sandhurst. He had a fleet of helicopters and planes that he regularly flew himself. All in all he was a formidable man. Along with that came the notorious reputation of being one of the world’s most ruthless playboys, picking up and discarding the most beautiful women in the world like accessories.
And every year—not that she needed to be reminded—he hosted the biggest, most lavish birthday party and raised an obscene amount of money for charity. For years after that humiliating incident at his party, she’d been scornful of the excess he presided over. But she’d seen the evidence of how much bona fide charity work he did when time after time he was lauded for his fundraising. And how did she know all this? Hours spent researching him on the internet last night, much to her shame.
He stopped pacing and quirked an ebony brow. ‘Are you going to insist on refusing my offer of marriage and force me to look elsewhere for a wife?’
Samia heard the unimstakable incredulity in his voice. Patently he hadn’t expected this to be hard. It gave her some much needed confidence back to see this chink in his arrogant armour.
‘What would happen if I said no?’
He put his hands on narrow hips, and Samia’s gaze couldn’t help but drop for a moment to where his shirt was stretched across taut abdominal muscles. She could see the dark shadowing of a line of hair through the silk and her mouth dried. The physiciality of her reaction to him stunned her. No man had had this kind of effect on her before. It was as if she’d been asleep all her life and was gradually coming to her senses here and now, in this room. It was most disconcerting.
‘What would happen,’ he bit out, ‘is that the agreement between your brother and I would be in serious jeopardy. I would have to look to your next sister and assess her suitability.’
Samia blanched and her gaze snapped back up to Sadiq’s. ‘But Sara is only twenty-two.’ And she jumped at her own shadow, but Samia didn’t say that. Immediately all her protective older sister hackles rose. ‘She’s entirely unsuitable for you.’
Sadiq’s gaze was glacial now. ‘Which would seem to be a running trend in your family, according to you. Nevertheless, she would be considered. I would also be under no obligation to go through with my offer to help the Emir mine your vast oil fields. He would be forced to look for expertise from abroad, and that would bring with it a whole host of political challenges that I don’t think Burquat can afford at this moment in time.’
Samia tried to ignore the vision he was painting and smile cynically. But her mouth tingled betrayingly when his gaze dropped there for an incendiary moment. She fought to retain her focus. ‘And you’re saying that your part in this is entirely altruistic? Please don’t insult my intelligence, no one does anything for nothing in return.’
He inclined his head again, a different kind of gleam in his eyes now. ‘Of course not. In return I get a very suitable wife—you, or your sister, which is entirely up to you. A valuable alliance with a neighbouring kingdom and a slice of the oil profits which I will funnel into a trust fund for our children.’
Our children. Samia ignored the curious swooping sensation in the pit of her belly when he said those words. ‘Burquat needs an alliance with one of its Arabian neighbours, Samia. You know that as well as I do. On the brink of revealing to the world the veritable gold mine it harbours, it’s in an acutely vulnerable position. Marriage to me will ensure my support. We will be family. You and your brother will be assured of my protection. We’re also poised to sign a historic peace treaty. Needless to say our marriage would provide an even stronger assurance of peace between us.’
Every word he spoke was a death knell to Samia, and every word had already been spoken by her brother. She couldn’t tell if the Sultan was bluffing about her sister or not, and didn’t really want to test him. She also didn’t want to investigate the dart of hurt that she should be so easily interchangeable with her sister. She didn’t want him to choose her and she didn’t want him to choose anyone else. Pathetic.
She could feel her life as she knew it slipping out of her grasp, but an inner voice mocked her. What kind of a life did she have anyway? Burying herself away in the library and quashing her naturally gregarious spirit after years of bullying by her stepmother wasn’t something she could justify any more. Her stepmother was gone.
Even so, the prospect of moving out of that safe environment was still terrifying. Desperation tinged her voice. ‘What makes you believe that I’ll be a good wife? The right wife for you?’
The Sultan rocked back on his heels and put his hands in the pockets of his trousers. He was so tall and dark and forbidding in that moment.
‘You are intelligent and have not lived your life in the public eye, like most of your peers. I think you are serious, and that you care about things. I read the article you wrote in the Archivist last month and it was brilliant.’
Samia felt humiliated more than pleased at his obvious research. An article in the Archivist only cemented how deeply
boring she was. She did not need to be reminded of the disparity between her and the man in front of her. He was a playboy! The thought of the exposure she would face within a marriage to him made her feel nauseous. Because with exposure came humiliation.
Sadiq went on as remorselessly as the tide washing in. ‘But apart from all of that you are a princess from one of the oldest established royal families in Arabia and you were born to be a queen. God forbid, but if something happened to your brother tomorrow you would be next in line for your throne. If we were married then you would not have to shoulder that burden alone, and I would make sure that Burquat retained its emirate status.’
Samia felt herself pale. She knew she was next in line to the throne of Burquat, but had never really contemplated the reality of what that meant. Kaden seemed so invincible that she’d never had to. But Sultan Sadiq was right; she was in a very delicate position. She might know the theory of ruling a country, but the reality was a different prospect altogether. And she knew that not many other potential husbands would guarantee that Burquat retained its autonomy. Al-Omar was huge and thriving, and the fact that the Sultan saw no need to bolster his own power through annexing a smaller country made Samia feel vulnerable—she hadn’t expected this.
Afraid that he would see something of the turmoil she felt, she turned to face a window which looked out over manicured lawns—a serene and typically English tableau which would normally be soothing.
She felt short of breath and seriously overwhelmed. There was a point that came in everyone’s life when a person was called to make the starkest of choices, and she was facing hers right now. Not that she really had a choice. That was becoming clearer and clearer.
But, desperate to cling on to some tiny measure of illusion, Samia turned around again and bit her lip before saying to the Sultan, ‘This is a lot to take in. Yesterday I was facing only the prospect of returning to Burquat to help oversee the refurbishment of our national library, and now … I’m being asked to become Queen of Al-Omar.’ She met his blue gaze. ‘I don’t even know you.’
A flash of irritation crossed the Sultan’s face, shadowing those amazing eyes, and inwardly Samia flinched at this evidence of his dispassionate and clinical approach to something so momentous.
‘We have our lifetimes to get to know one another. What won’t wait, however, is the fact that I need to marry and have heirs. I have no doubt in my mind, Princess Samia, that you are the one who was born to take that position.’
Samia tried not to look as affected by his words as she felt. He was only saying it like that because he’d decided she’d make him a good wife and wasn’t prepared to take no for an answer. At another time she might almost have smiled. He reminded her so much of her autocratic brother.
She knew for a fact that there were many women who would gladly trample over her to hear him speak those words to them. And she wished right now that one of them was standing there instead of her—even though her belly did a curious little flip when she thought of it.
‘I just …’ She stopped ineffectually. ‘I need some time to think about this.’
Sadiq’s face tightened ominously, and Samia had the feeling that she’d pushed him too far. With that came a sense of panic that … what? He’d choose her sister instead? That he’d send her away and tell her to have a nice life? And why was that making her feel panicky when it was exactly what she wanted?
But an urbane mask closed off any expression on that hard-jawed face, and after an interminable moment he said softly, ‘Very well. I will give you twenty-four hours. This time tomorrow evening I expect you to be back here in this room to tell me what you have decided.’
Sadiq stood at the window of his private sitting room, three floors above the office where he’d just met Princess Samia. He looked out over the city of London bathed in dusky light. The scent of late-summer blossoms was heavy in the air. He suddenly missed the intense heat of his home—the sense of peace that he got only when he knew that the vast expanse of Al-Omari desert was within walking distance.
Irritation snaked through him at the realisation that due to Samia’s patent reluctance he’d be forced to spend longer in Europe than he wanted to. He could see his discreet security men in front of his house—necessary trappings for a head of state—but he was oblivious to all that. For once he wasn’t consumed with thoughts of politics, or the economy, or women.
He frowned. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. One woman was consuming his thoughts, and for the first time in his life it wasn’t accompanied with the enticing sense of expectation at the prospect of bedding her. And then he had to concede that it had been a long time since pure expectation had precipitated any liaison with a lover—it was more likely to be expectation mixed with a lot of cynicism.
Sadiq’s frown became deeper, grooving lines into his smooth forehead. Since when had he acknowledged the fact that for him bedding women was accompanied by a feeling of ennui and ever deepening cynicism? He suspected uncomfortably that it was long before he’d witnessed his close friends’ weddings in Merkazad.
Seeing his friends wearing their hearts on their sleeves had induced a feeling of panic and had pushed a button—a button that had been deeply buried and packed under years of cynical block building and ice. Perhaps that was what had precipitated his decision to marry? This impulse to protect himself at all costs—a desire to negate what he’d seen at Nadim and Salman’s weddings. The need to prove that he wasn’t ever going to succumb to that awful uncontrollable emotion again.
Even now he could remember that day, and the excoriating humiliation of baring his heart and soul to a woman who had all but laughed in his face.
In choosing to marry someone like Princess Samia he would be safe for ever from such mortifying episodes, because he was in no danger of falling in love with her. He was also safe from falling in lust. She was too pale, too shapeless. His stomach clenched … Funnily enough, though, he couldn’t get those enigmatic aquamarine eyes out of his head. And he had to concede she wasn’t unpretty. But she certainly wasn’t beautiful. He’d always accepted that the wife he picked would fulfil a role—an important one. As such, to find her attractive would be a bonus and a luxury. His responsibility to his country was greater than such frivolous concerns.
Altogether, she wasn’t as unappealing as he might have feared initially. He grimaced. He’d had his fair share of the world’s beauties. It was time to convert his lust into building up a country unrivalled in its wealth and economic stability. He needed focus for that, and a wife like Samia would provide that focus. He wouldn’t be distracted by her charms, and clearly she was not the coquettish type, so she wouldn’t waste time trying to charm him.
Sadiq’s frown finally cleared from his face and he turned his attention to the rolling business news channel on the muted television screen in the background. Despite the Princess’s reluctance he had no doubt that she would return the next day and give him the answer he expected. The alternative was simply inconceivable.

CHAPTER THREE
24 hours later
‘I’M not going to marry you.’
Sadiq’s mouth was open and he was already smiling urbanely in anticipation of the Princess’s acquiescence—already thinking ahead to buying her a trousseau and getting her out of those unflattering suits. Her bottom had barely touched the seat of the chair opposite him. He frowned. Surely she couldn’t have just said—
‘I said I don’t want to marry you.’
Her voice was low and husky, but firm, and it tugged somewhere deep inside him again. Sadiq’s mouth closed. She sat before him like a prim nun, hair pulled back and dressed in a similarly boxy suit to the one she’d worn yesterday. This one was just a slightly darker hue of blue. Not a scrap of make-up enhanced those pale features or those aquamarine eyes. Disconcertingly, at that moment he noticed a splash of freckles across her delicately patrician nose.
Freckles. Since when had he noticed freckles on anyone? Any woman of his acquaintance would view freckles with the same distaste as acne. Something nebulous unfurled within Sadiq, and he sat back and realised that it was a surprise—because it was so long since anyone had said no to him. Or been so reluctant to impress him. Princess Samia’s chin lifted minutely, and for a second Sadiq could see her innately regal hauteur. She might be the most unprepossessing princess he’d ever met, but she was still royalty and she couldn’t hide it.
The thin line of her mouth drew his focus then, and bizarrely he found himself wondering how full and soft those lips would be when relaxed … or kissed. Would they be pink and pouting, begging for another kiss?
Samia could see the conflict on the Sultan’s face, the clear disbelief. That was why she’d repeated herself. It had been as much to check she hadn’t been dreaming. She was trembling all over like a leaf. She’d tossed and turned all night and had kept coming back to the stark realisation that she really did not have a choice.
But when faced with Sadiq again, and the clear expectation on his face that she was there to say yes, she had felt some rebellious part of her rise up. This was her only chance of escaping this union. She crushed the lancing feeling of guilt. She couldn’t worry now about the fallout or she’d never go through with it. The thought of marrying this man was just so downright threatening that she had to do something—no matter how selfish it felt.
Sadiq’s voice rumbled over her, causing her pulse to jump. ‘There’s a difference between not marrying me, and not wanting to marry me. One implies that there is no room for discussion, and the other implies that there is. So which is it, Samia?’
Samia tried to avoid that searing gaze. He was sitting forward, elbows on his desk, fingers steepled together. The way he said her name made her feel hot. She was already unravelling at the seams because she was facing this man again, even though the heavy oak desk separated them. Even the threat to her sister wasn’t enough right now to make her reconsider. She’d cross that bridge if it came to it.
He hadn’t kept her waiting today. He’d been waiting for her. Standing at his window like a tall, dark and gorgeous spectre. And now he was utterly indolent—as if they might be discussing the weather. He wore a shirt and no tie. The top button was undone, revealing the bronzed column of his throat. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, showing off muscled forearms more suited to an athlete than a head of state. Samia felt unbearably restless all of a sudden.
Abruptly she stood up, wanting to put space between them. She couldn’t seem to sit still around this man, and she couldn’t concentrate while he was looking at her like that—as if she were under a microscope. So clinically.
She went and stood behind the chair, breathing erratically. ‘Discussion …’ she finally got out. ‘Defintely the discussion one.’
Great. Now she couldn’t string a sentence together—and what was she doing, encouraging a discussion with one of the world’s greatest debaters? She paced away from the chair, feeling constricted in her suit. She’d never been as self-conscious about what she wore as she had been in the last thirty-six hours. Samia had always been supremely aware of her own allure, or more accurately the lack of it, and was very comfortable with a uniform of plain clothes to help her fade into the background. Or at least she had been till now.
She avoided his eye. ‘Look, I know you need a wife, and on paper I might look like the perfect candidate—’
Sadiq cut in with a low voice. ‘You are the perfect candidate.’ He stifled intense irritation. She was the only candidate. After carefully vetting potentially suitable brides from his world and dismissing them, she was the only one he’d kept coming back to. And once he’d set his mind on something he would not rest until he had full compliance. Failure was not an option.
Samia turned back to face him, and quailed slightly under the glowering look he was sending her. ‘But I’m not! You’ll see.’ She searched frantically for something to say. ‘I don’t go out!’
‘A perfectly commendable quality. Despite what you’ve been led to believe, I’m not actually the most social of animals.’
Samia forced her mind away from that nugget of information. This man and a quiet evening in by the fire just did not compute. ‘You find it commendable that I don’t have a life? That’s not something to applaud—it’s something to avoid. How can I be your queen when the last party I was at was probably yours? You must have parties every week—you move in those circles. I wouldn’t know what to do … or say.’
Samia’s tirade faltered, because the Sultan had moved and was now sitting on the edge of the desk, one hip hitched up. She swallowed and wished he hadn’t moved. Heat was rising, and dimly she wondered if he had any heating on.
‘Of course you’d know what to do and say. You’ve been brought up to know exactly what to do and say. And if you’re out of practice you’ll learn again quickly enough.’
Samia choked back her furious denial. She ran a hand through her hair impatiently, which was something she did when she was agitated. She forgot that it was tied back and felt it come loose but had to ignore it.
She faced him fully. ‘You really don’t want me for your wife. I don’t like parties. I get tongue-tied when I’m faced with more than three people, I’m not sophisticated and polished.’ Like all your other women. Samia just about managed not to let those words slip out.
Sadiq was watching the woman in front of him with growing fascination. She wasn’t sophisticated and polished—and he suddenly relished that fact for its sheer uniqueness. She was literally coming apart in front of him, revealing someone very different from the woman she was describing. He agreed with absolutely everything she was saying—apart from the bit about her not being a suitable wife.
‘And yet,’ he drawled, ‘you’ve been educated most of your life in a royal court, and your whole existence has held within it the potential for this moment. How can you say you’re not ready for this?’
Samia could feel the unfashionably heavy length of her hair starting to unravel down her back. Her inner thermostat was about to explode. With the utmost reluctance she opened her jacket, afraid that if she didn’t she’d melt in a puddle or faint.
Before she could stop him Sadiq was reaching out and plucking the coat from her body as easily as if she were a child, placing it on the chair she’d vacated. Too stunned to be chagrined, Samia continued, ‘You need someone who is used to sophisticated social gatherings. I’ve been in libraries for as long as I can remember.’
The ancient library in the royal Burquat castle had always been her refuge from the constant taunting of her stepmother, Alesha. She started to pace again, disturbed by Sadiq’s innate cool.
‘You need someone who can stand up to you.’ She stopped and stood a few feet away, facing him. She had to make him see. ‘I had a chronic stutter until I was twelve. I’m pathologically shy. I’m so shy that I went to cognitive behavioural therapy when I was a teenager to try and counteract it.’ Which had precipitated another steady stream of taunts and insults from her stepmother, telling her that she would amount to nothing and never become a queen when she couldn’t even manage to hold a conversation without blushing or stuttering.
Sadiq had stood up and come closer to Samia while she’d been talking. He was frowning down at her now, arms folded across that impressive chest. ‘You don’t have a stutter any more, and I’d wager that your therapist, if he or she was any good, said that you were just going through a phase that any teenager might go through. And plenty of children suffer from stuttering. It’s usually related back to some minor incident in their childhood.’
Samia blinked. She felt as if he could see inside her head to one of her first memories, when she had been trying to get her new stepmother’s attention and was stuttering in her anxiety to be heard. She would bet that he’d never gone through anything like that. But he’d repeated more or less exactly what her therapist had said. It was so unexpected to hear this from him of all people that any more words dried in her throat as he started to move around her.
Sadiq was growing more intrigued by the second. Her hair had come completely undone by now, and it lay in a wavy coil down her back. His fingers itched to reach out and loosen it. It looked silky and fragrant … a little wild. It was at such odds with that uptight exterior.
So close to her like this, for the first time he noticed the disparity in their heights. She was a lot smaller than the women he was used to, and he felt a surprising surge of something almost protective within him. With the jacket gone he could see that she was slight and delicate, yet he sensed a strength about her—an innate athleticism. He could see the whiteness of her bra strap through her shirt, and how her shirt was tucked into the trousers, drawing his eye to a slim waist and the gentle flare of her hips. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a prospective lover so demurely dressed, and that thought caught him up short. She was to be his wife. Lovemaking would be purely functional. If he got any enjoyment out of it, it would be a bonus.
He came to stand in front of her and could see where she’d opened the top button of her shirt, revealing the slender length of her neck right down to the hollow at the base of her throat. It looked pink and slightly dewed with moisture. She must be hot. He had the most bizarre urge to push her shirt aside and press a finger there. His eyes dropped again, and he could see very plainly the twin thrusts of her breasts, rising and falling with her breath and fuller than he had first imagined.
To his utter shock, the unmistakable and familiar spark of desire lit within him. With more difficulty than he would have liked, he brought his gaze back up to hers and felt a punch to his gut at the way those aquamarine depths suddenly looked as dark blue as the Arabian sea on a stormy day. Tendrils of hair were curling softly around her face, and she looked softer, infinitely more feminine. In fact in that moment she looked almost … beautiful. Sadiq reeled at this completely unexpected development.
Samia was helpless under Sadiq’s assessing gaze. No man had ever looked at her so explicitly, his gaze lingering on her breasts like that. And yet she wasn’t insulted or shocked. A languorous heat was snaking through her veins. She was caught in a bubble. A bubble of heat and sensation. As soon as he had walked behind her she’d had to undo her top button because she couldn’t breathe—she’d felt so constricted. And now he was looking at her as though … as though—
‘You say I need someone to stand up to me and that’s what you’ve been doing since yesterday.’ His beautifully sculpted mouth firmed. ‘It’s a long time since anyone has refused my wishes. I encounter people every day who are overawed and inhibited by what they perceive me to be and yet I don’t get that from you.’ Before Samia could articulate anything, he continued. ‘Very few people would feel they had the authority to do that, but we’re the same, Princess Samia, you and I.’
Samia nearly blanched at that. If there was one thing she was sure of, it was that she and this man were not the same. Not in a million years. Polar opposites. ‘We’re not the same,’ she got out painfully. ‘Really, we’re not.’
He ignored her. ‘I know you’ve got a closely knit and loyal group of friends.’
Without a hint of self-pity and vaguely surprised that he knew this, she said, ‘That says more about who I am and the background I come from than anything else.’ Remembering one painful episode in college, she went on, ‘I could never fully trust that people weren’t making friends just because they thought they could get something out of me.’ When he still looked unmoved she said desperately, ‘I’m boring!’
He arched an incredulous brow. ‘Someone who is boring doesn’t embark on a three-woman trip across the Atlantic in a catamaran made out of recycled materials in a bid to raise awareness about the environment.’
Samia was immediately disconcerted. ‘You know about that?’
He nodded and looked a little stern. ‘I think it was either one of the most foolhardy or one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen.’
She flushed deeper and couldn’t stop a dart of pleasure rushing through her at the thought she’d earned this man’s admiration. ‘I care about the environment … The other two were old friends from college, and they couldn’t raise the funding required on their own … But once I got involved …’ Her voice trailed off, her modesty not wanting to make it sound as if she’d been instrumental in the project.
Sadiq rocked back on his heels. ‘I have a well-established environmental team in Al-Omar that could do with your support. I often find I’m too tied up with other concerns to give it my full attention. We’ve both grown up in rarefied environments, Samia, both grown up being aware of public duty. If anything, your teenage and childhood experiences will make you more empathetic with people—an essential quality in any queen.’
Samia objected to his constant avowal of partnership, and the tantalising carrot of being able to work constructively for the environment, but her attempt to halt him in his tracks with a weak-sounding ‘Sadiq …’ made no impact.
‘You might find social situations intimidating, but with time they’ll become second nature. Also, you can’t deny that having grown up as a princess in a royal court you are aware of castle politics and protocol. You would have learnt that by osmosis. These are all invaluable assets to me in any marriage I undertake. I don’t have the time or the inclincation to train someone.’
Samia blinked up at him again. She couldn’t deny it. As much as she might want to. Even though she’d spent her formative years avoiding her stepmother, she knew castle politics like the back of her hand—she’d had to learn to survive. Her knowledge of the things he spoke had been engraved invisibly on her psyche like a tattoo from birth.
‘I want to create a solid alliance between Al-Omar, Merkazad and Burquat. We live in unstable times and need to be able to depend on each other. Marrying you will ensure a strong alliance with your brother. I already have it with Merkazad. Your father’s rule put Burquat firmly in an isolated position, which did your country no favours. Thankfully your brother is reversing that stance. I don’t see how you have any grounds at all—apart from your own personal concerns—to believe that you are not fit to become my queen, and in so doing ensure the future stability of your country.’
Samia swallowed painfully, glued to his glittering blue eyes in sick fascination. He was right. She could no more stand there and deny these facts than she could deny her very heritage and lineage. She might have hidden herself away in a college and then a dusty library for the past few years, but she’d always had the knowledge of this ultimate responsibility within her.
And her concerns were personal—selfish, in fact. She just did not have that luxury. She wasn’t the same as the average person on the street. She had obligations, responsibilities.
As if he could sense her weakening, Sadiq moved closer and Samia’s breath faltered. That embarrassing heat was back, rising inexorably through her body, and for the first time she recognised it not as the heat of embarrassment or shyness but as a totally different kind of heat. The heat of desire. The fact that he was having the same inevitable effect on her as every other woman he must encounter was humiliating. She was not immune.
‘I …’ She had to swallow to get her voice to work. He was standing so close now that all she could see was those dark blue irises, sucking her in and down into a vortex of nebulous needs she’d never felt before. She battled her own sapping will and focused. ‘I accept what you’re saying. They’re all valid points.’
‘I know they are.’
Had his voice dropped an octave? It sounded like it. They were standing so close now that Samia could feel his warm breath feather around her, could smell the intensely masculine scent of sandalwood and musky spice. It was the memory of that scent that had kept her awake for long hours last night.
To her utter shock he reached out a hand and touched his thumb to her bottom lip, tugging it. She had the most bizarre urge to flick out her tongue and taste his finger. Her heart slowed to about a beat a minute.
‘That’s better. You shouldn’t be so tense. You have a very pretty mouth.’
A pretty mouth? No one had ever referred to her as pretty in her life. Instantly Samia felt as if a cold bucket of water had been flung over her. She stepped back abruptly, forcing the Sultan’s hand down, breaking the spell. Clearly the man felt the need to placate her with false compliments. What was wrong with her? Believing for half a second that she was in some sensual bubble with the Sultan of Al-Omar who had courted and bedded some of the world’s greatest beauties?
Her face flaming again, Samia looked away and tried to regain control, breathing a sigh of relief when she sensed Sadiq move back too.
His voice was tight. ‘Samia, it’s inevitable. You might as well give in now, because I won’t. Not until you say yes.’
She gulped and shook her head. Words were strangled in her throat. She was more sure than ever that she couldn’t do this. Especially after she’d all but sucked his finger into her mouth like some wanton groupie!
She heard him sigh expressively and sneaked a look. He was glancing at his watch and then looking at her. ‘I don’t know about you but I’m hungry. I’ve had a busy day.’
Samia just looked at him stupidly for a moment. The tension in the atmosphere diminished. And then her stomach gurgled loudly at the thought of food. She’d been so wound up for the last thirty-six hours that she’d barely eaten a thing.
As if Sadiq could see the turmoil on her face he quirked his mouth and came close again, playing havoc with Samia’s hearbeat, and tipped up her chin with a finger.
‘Rest assured I won’t stop until you have agreed to become my wife and queen. But we might as well start to get to know one another a little better in the meantime. And eat.’
Before she knew what was happening Sadiq was leading the way from the study with her jacket over his arm. She opened her mouth to protest, but then they were in the hall and he was conferring with his butler who bowed and indicated for Samia to follow Sadiq into what turned out to be a dining room.
It was more than impressive. Dark walls were lined with portraits of Sadiq’s ancestors in western dress, looking very exotic, a huge gleaming oak table dominated the room and there was a setting for two at the top of the table.
Sadiq was standing behind a chair, looking at her expectantly, and, feeling very weak, Samia went forward and sat down. There was a flurry of activity as the butler came back with more staff and they were presented with options for dinner. Samia made her choice without even thinking about what she was ordering.
When they were momentarily alone Samia bit her lip for a moment and began to speak, not even sure what she wanted to say. ‘Sadiq …’
But he just poured her a glass of chilled white wine and said disarmingly, ‘You made the right choice with the fish. Marcel, our chef, is an expert. He used to work for the Ritz in Paris.’
Samia took the proffered glass and felt her unruly hair slip over her shoulder. She’d long lamented the fact that her hair didn’t fall in sleek and smooth waves like her younger sisters’, who’d all inherited their own mother’s exotic dark colouring. Kaden had inherited their father’s dark looks, so she’d always been the odd one out. Her stepmother had only had to breathe air into Samia’s own sense of isolation to compound it.
She felt a little naked with her hair down like this—somehow exposed, as if some secret feminine part of herself was being bared to the sun. It wasn’t altogether uncomfortable, which made it even more disturbing. Sadiq sat back and smiled at Samia urbanely, making her stomach flip-flop. If he turned on the charm she didn’t know how she would cope.
As if privy to her private thoughts, that was exactly what he did.
For the next hour and a half, while they ate delicious food, he managed to draw Samia out of her shell. At first she did her best to resist, but it was like trying to resist the force of a white water rapid. Something was happening—some intangible shift.
Perhaps she’d started feeling this softening, melting sensation when he’d mentioned her sailing trip? Or perhaps it had been his easy acceptance when she’d told him about her stuttering and shyness. She’d never told anyone about that before, and had done so with him purely in a bid to repel him. But it hadn’t worked. He’d empathised. It was almost like a betrayal to witness the sudden ease with which she was finding herself talking to him now, albeit about superficial subjects.
He was disarming her enough to make her forget for a moment who he was. It was seductive evidence of a self-deprecating side, and of the undeniable bond they shared in both coming from the same part of the world, from a similar background. Everything he had already pointed out. She had not expected self-deprecation from this man, or any kind of feeling of kinship with him. She hadn’t expected him to defuse the tension like this.
They were finishing their coffee when Samia looked at Sadiq, somewhat emboldened after the meal and a glass of wine. ‘You’re very good you know,’ she said.
He quirked a brow, his eyes breathtakingly blue against the olive tone of his skin. ‘Good? In what way?’
Samia had to concentrate. It was like sitting across the table from a Hollywood heart-throb, not a head of state. ‘At charming people.’
He shrugged minutely, and for a second Samia saw something stern flash across his face and into those eyes.
Immediately the warm bubble of fuzziness that had been infusing her dissipated. Of course. How could she have been so silly? This was all an act—an act put on her for benefit and his, to get to her to acquiesce to his plans for marriage. Of course he was charming her. And she was falling for it and believing it like any other woman with a pulse would.
She made a point of looking at her watch, even though she didn’t register the time, and then looked back at Sadiq, tensing herself against his effect on her.
‘I have to be up early tomorrow. I’m still handing over to my successor.’
Sadiq sat forward. ‘You like working in the library here?’
That rebellious streak rising again, Samia said defiantly, ‘Yes. And a queen who is more at home surrounded by books is hardly the queen for you.’
Sadiq had to quell the sudden urge to wipe that prim look off Samia’s face by kissing her. He’d had her in the palm of his hand during the meal—he knew it. She’d been more relaxed than he’d seen her. And with that had come the realisation that he had grossly underestimated her appeal. The spark of desire that had lit earlier had erupted into full-on lust as he’d watched her natural effervescence emerge.
She’d blossomed quite literally before his eyes—like a flower being exposed to heat and light after being hidden in a dark corner. It was the most amazing thing. She reminded him of a dimond in the rough. Actually, he amended, more like a dark and glowing yellow diamond. A rare jewel.
But now she’d clammed up again like an oyster shell, protecting the bounty within. Those full lips were once again a thin line, the eyes downcast. He signalled discreetly to his staff and rose smoothly to his feet once his wayward body felt more under control. A dart of satisfaction went through him at seeing Samia look confused for a moment, as if she’d expected him to challenge her. And then she rose to her feet too, somewhat less assuredly, and that protective instinct surged again. Sadiq had to clench his hands to fists to stop himself reaching out to steady her.
He couldn’t understand his physical response. The last woman he’d been with had been hailed as the most beautiful woman in the world three years running. And there had never been one moment when he’d felt protective of her. When he tried to picture her now all he remembered was that his desire for her had waned long before he’d admitted it to himself. And yet this woman, whose appeal was more wholesomely pretty than beautiful, was having a more incendiary effect on his libido than he could remember.
As Samia preceded Sadiq out of the dining room, he thought of something to test her. She got to the front door and turned around. Clearly she was hoping he wouldn’t challenge her again. He almost pitied her for her blind optimisim. He handed her her jacket and watched her expression closely.
‘You know,’ he mused, ‘perhaps you’re right after all. Perhaps you’re not suitable to be my wife.’
Something suspiciously exultant moved through him as he caught the split second of a reaction she couldn’t hide because her face was just too expressive.
Samia opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She stilled in the act of putting her jacket on. He’d completely surprised her. And, to her utter chagrin, instead of feeling relieved she had the absurd desire to contradict him and tell him that she could be a good wife for him. What was going on?
She tried desperately to hide her confusion as she continued putting on her jacket. ‘You mean if I was to walk out of here right now you wouldn’t stop me? Or pursue this matter?’
Sadiq smiled, but it was the smile of a shark. ‘You don’t really believe I’m just going to let you walk away, do you?’
Anger rose bright and rapid at the realisation that he was playing with her. Samia grabbed for the door and tried to wrench it open, but it wouldn’t budge. She turned back, exasperated at being trapped. ‘If your door worked you could watch me walk out right now, and there wouldn’t be one thing you could do about it.’
Samia was mortified, because she knew well that he’d caught her out. She’d shown her reaction before she could hide it. He knew how conflicted she was about this.
‘The door works fine, Samia. I just wanted to see how you’d react if you got a sniff of freedom, and your face told me all I need to know.’
Acting on a purely animal instinct to escape a threat, Samia turned back to the door and this time it opened. She stood in the doorway, breathing deep, and almost simultaneously lights exploded all around her.
The paparazzi.
Samia heard a colourful Arabic curse behind her even as she registered big burly bodyguards materializing as if from thin air to hold the photographers back. Strong arms came around her and pulled her into a lean and hard muscled body. Samia was plastered against Sadiq’s length as he all but carried her back over the threshold and into the house.
It took a second for her to register that it was quiet again and the door was shut behind them. Samia’s breath sounded laboured, and she realised that she was still clamped to Sadiq like a limpet. Breasts crushed to his chest. She scrambled backwards, face flaming.
Sadiq raked a hand through his hair. ‘Are you okay? I’m sorry about that. Sometimes they lie in wait once they know I’m here, and the bodyguards can’t do anything.’
He could still feel the imprint of her body—the firm swells of her breasts pressed against him just for that brief moment. How delicate she’d been. She’d fit into his body like a missing jigsaw piece. For someone used to women who almost matched him in height, it had been a novel sensation.
She was standing there, looking dishevelled and innocently sexy with colour high in her cheeks, and he knew that she had no idea how alluring she was—which only inflamed him more, because he was used to women being all too aware of their so-called allure.
‘You knew about that.’
He frowned, not liking the accusatory tone in her voice. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You just said that you know they lie in wait. I’m going to be all over the papers with you. Leaving your house.’
Samia realised she was shaking violently. She heard another curse and felt Sadiq take her arm in a firm grip. ‘Come back into the study. You’re in shock.’
Once in the big stately room, Sadiq all but pressed Samia down into a chair and went to get a tumbler of brandy. He came back and handed it to her. ‘Take a sip. You’ll feel better in a minute.’
Hating feeling so vulnerable, Samia took the glass and a gulp of the drink, coughing slightly. She watched Sadiq pour himself a drink and come to sit opposite her on a matching chair. The lights in the room made his amazing good-looks stand out. An awful alien yearning tugged low in her belly and she put down the drink and crossed her arms across her chest defensively.
Grimly he said, ‘I’d forgotten all about the paparazzi. Of course I had no intention of putting you in that situation.’
Samia gulped, her anger dissipating. She knew he was telling the truth. A man like him would not have to resort to such measures. Restless, Samia stood up. ‘Look, thank you for the dinner … I—’
She stopped when Sadiq stood too, and she had to curb the ridiculous urge to look for an exit, as if she were alone with a wild animal. Samia put out her hands wide in an unconsciously pleading gesture.
‘What happened just now should prove how unsuitable I am. That was my first time being caught by the paparazzi. You need someone who is used to that kind of thing—who knows how to handle it.’
Distaste curdled in Sadiq’s belly. That was exactly what he didn’t want. He was more sure than ever that he wanted her—and for reasons that went beyond the practical and mundane.
He came closer to Samia and an unmistakable glint of triumph shone in his eyes and she felt sick. She could talk till she was blue in the face but the game was up. He’d called her bluff. She’d shown her telltale confusion. He’d manipulated her beautifully. Bitter recrimination burnt her. He was so close now that all she could see were those mesmerising eyes, and all she could smell was that uniquely male scent.
‘Your reaction tells me you’re conflicted about this decision, Samia. So let me take the conflict out of it for you. Agree to become my wife because there simply is no other alternative. You are of royal blood, from an ancient lineage. You were born for this role, and nothing you do or say can change that. To fight this is to fight fate, me and your brother.’
From his jacket pocket he pulled out a small velvet box, and all the while his eyes never left hers. He opened it, and Samia couldn’t help but look down between them. The ring was surprisingly simple. It was obviously an antique—a square-cut stone in a gold setting, strikingly unusual and beautiful.
‘It’s a yellow sapphire. It was my paternal grandmother’s—a gift from my grandfather on one of their wedding anniversaries.’
Sadiq didn’t tell her that this distinctive ring had been in his mind’s eye ever since he’d met her, and that it was a lucky coincidence it had been in the family’s jewel vault in London. He’d sent back the diamond ring he’d planned on using, feeling absurdly exposed in acknowledging that he hadn’t been happy with a stock ring, which should have been perfectly adequate for what was essentially a stock wedding.
Samia looked up, and Sadiq took her hand in his. He looked so deep into her eyes that she felt as if she might drown and diappear for ever. She knew on some rational level that he was probably not even aware of his power. Unconsciously her fingers tightened around his as if to anchor herself, and something undefinable lit in Sadiq’s eyes, hypnotising her even more.
‘Princess Samia Binte Rashad al Abbas, will you please do me the very great honour of becoming my wife and Queen of Al-Omar?’

CHAPTER FOUR
AT that cataclysmic moment, while Sadiq’s words hung in the air, Samia had a flashback she couldn’t repress. She was hiding in the library of his castle after knocking over the table of drinks, cursing herself for being so clumsy and awkward. Her peace was shattered when a man walked into the room.
He didn’t spot her because the lights were dim, and all Samia knew as she sat there barely breathing was that he was tall, dark and powerful looking. Yet she wasn’t afraid. He walked over to the window which overlooked one of the castle’s numerous beautiful inner courtyards and stood there for long moments, as silent as a statue, with an air of deep melancholy pervading the air around him.
He sighed deeply and dropped his head to run a weary hand back and forth over his short hair. Something about this man was connecting with Samia on a very deep level, she felt his pain, empathised with his isolation. Without even thinking about what she was doing, responding to some impulse to do something, Samia was almost out of her chair when another person entered the room: a woman, tall and blonde and statuesque, and very, very beautiful.
The man turned around and to Samia’s shock she realised it was the charismatic Sultan she’d met only hours before. The melancholy and sense of isolation disappeared. She watched as his blue eyes glittered, taking in the woman’s approach. In the place of the vulnerability she might have imagined was the hard shell of a supremely confident and sexual man, and she knew then that she had witnessed something incredibly private—something of himself that he would hate to know had been witnessed by anyone else.
Samia watched the woman walk straight up to him. She twined herself around him and, perversely, Samia wanted the Sultan to push this woman away contemptuously. As if he was hers! But as she watched, mesmerised, he backed the blond beauty up against a wall and proceeded to kiss her so passionately that Samia made an inadvertent sound of dismay.
Two faces turned towards her and Samia ran from the room, mortified to have been caught watching like a voyeur.
And now she was looking up into those same blue eyes, and she felt as if a hole had opened up in her belly. All she could remember was that intense vulnerability she’d seen, or thought she’d seen, in the Sultan that night, and the connection she’d felt.
She couldn’t block out that image of the secret side of this man even as she sensed his steely determination. He would not rest until she said yes, and that made a curious sense of calm settle over her. He was right: to fight this was to fight fate, her brother and him. She denied to herself that that evocative memory was a tipping point, because that would mean that Sadiq was connecting with her on an emotional level, and she would deny that with every cell in her body.
This decision was about inevitability, logic and practicality, and the sheer weight of her lineage which put her in this position. She opened her mouth to speak and saw Sadiq’s jaw tense, as if warding off a blow. Immediately she felt the impulse to reach up and smooth his jaw. She clenched her hand.
‘I …’ Her voice sounded rusty. ‘Yes. I’ll marry you.’
For a second there was no reaction. She wasn’t even sure if she’d spoken out loud. But then Sadiq slid the ring onto her finger, bent his head and pressed his lips to it. They were warm and slightly parted, and her belly tightened with a need that was becoming horribly familiar. His head was so close to her breast.
He stood again and she saw that a shutter had come down over his expression, turning him aloof. He was the stern ruler again, and he had achieved his aim. No softness or charm now. Job done. Mission accomplished. Samia thought cynically of how he’d manipulated her emotions so beautifully. And yet she couldn’t turn back now. She’d sealed her fate and chosen the path she would take for the rest of her life.

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