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The Sultan Demands His Heir
Maya Blake
She will become his bride!Newly crowned Sultan Zaid Al-Ameen is determined to rid his country of corruption. Unfortunately for Esme Scott, that means arresting her conman father – leaving her with little choice but to strike a deal with his captor.Zaid sees a golden opportunity in social worker Esme: his country needs reform, and it’s her area of expertise. But working together sparks an insatiable longing– and after a heated encounter, they realise she’s pregnant!Zaid’s sensual power over Esme leaves her helpless to resist his demands. She never imagined she’d become wife to a Sultan – until Zaid’s expert touch persuades her otherwise…


She will become his bride!
Newly crowned sultan Zaid Al-Ameen is determined to rid his country of corruption. Unfortunately for Esme Scott, that means arresting her conman father—leaving her with little choice but to strike a deal with his captor.
Zaid sees a golden opportunity in social worker Esme: his country needs reform, and it’s her area of expertise. But working together sparks an insatiable longing—and after a heated encounter, they realize she’s pregnant!
Zaid’s sensual power over Esme leaves her helpless to resist his demands. She never imagined she’d become wife to a sultan—until Zaid’s expert touch persuades her otherwise...
‘Are we going somewhere?’ Esme asked.
‘Yes, we’re returning to the royal palace,’ Zaid said.
‘Why do I feel that there’s more going on here than you’re telling me?’ she pressed.
A muscle rippled in his jaw. ‘Because there is. I suggested that we take some time to absorb the possibility that you may be carrying my child. I was wrong to do so. If you are truly carrying my child, then we need to put certain arrangements in place.’
‘What kind of arrangements?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘The kind that you will be apprised of in due course.’
‘So I will be the last to know?’
‘No, you will be one of the first to know when final decisions have been made.’
She wasn’t going to get any more out of him.
Esme became blindingly aware of one thing. Whether her pregnancy had been confirmed or not didn’t matter to Zaid. While his heir was even a possibility he was going all out to lay his claim on it.
MAYA BLAKE’s hopes of becoming a writer were born when she picked up her first romance at thirteen. Little did she know her dream would come true! Does she still pinch herself every now and then to make sure it’s not a dream? Yes, she does! Feel free to pinch her, too, via Twitter, Facebook or Goodreads! Happy reading!
Books by Maya Blake
Mills & Boon Modern Romance
Pregnant at Acosta’s Demand
Signed Over to Santino
A Diamond Deal with the Greek
Married for the Prince’s Convenience
Innocent in His Diamonds
One Night With Consequences
The Boss’s Nine-Month Negotiation
Rival Brothers
A Deal with Alejandro
One Night with Gael
The Billionaire’s Legacy
The Di Sione Secret Baby
Secret Heirs of Billionaires
Brunetti’s Secret Son
Seven Sexy Sins
A Marriage Fit for a Sinner
Visit the Author Profile page at
millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/) for more titles.
The Sultan Demands His Heir
Maya Blake


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Contents
Cover (#ue0e6f1e7-42de-569c-ba34-2f4384e82098)
Back Cover Text (#u360151b6-5215-5966-b320-ef46d1208ebb)
Introduction (#u7d961869-5b41-535a-93f8-b5f2426573a1)
About the Author (#u36c98fc4-db64-52ff-aca0-53f3328e3767)
Title Page (#u1efe3cbd-f24f-5e37-9e6e-fc9d9781a22b)
CHAPTER ONE (#u25ea623d-86f1-50e9-a030-4298fb0761ae)
CHAPTER TWO (#uace63522-9fec-5516-968f-29541c773ebe)
CHAPTER THREE (#u3b4160ea-9a35-5f3a-8c3f-6ecc97f06e92)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ubc2819cb-a218-5548-903b-0805e05921ca)
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)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u6c652525-19ba-58bc-a0f0-786c97788b45)
ESME SCOTT JERKED awake in the split second between her phone vibrating and the bell ringtone blaring through her darkened bedroom. Heart racing, she lifted her head off the pillow and stared at the illuminated screen.
As a social worker, it wasn’t unusual for her phone to ring in the middle of the night. The problems of her wards and an overstrained system required twenty-four-hour dedication.
Except she knew instinctively that this phone call had nothing to do with her job. The same gut instinct she’d been forced to hone for less altruistic purposes in her past.
But she’d left that life far behind.
After the fourth ring, she reached for the phone, willing her hand to stop shaking.
‘Hello?’
‘Am I speaking to Esmeralda Scott?’
Esmeralda. Her heart sank further. The only person who used her full name was her father. The man she hadn’t spoken to or seen in eight long years.
She forced her jaw to relax. ‘Y-yes.’
‘Daughter of Jeffrey Scott?’ came the deep, cultured, slightly accented query. The voice was stamped with enough authority and arrogance to make her grip tighten on the handset.
No, this was no ordinary phone call.
Sitting up, she turned on her bedside lamp, although she couldn’t focus on anything but the ominous voice on the line.
‘Yes. Who is this?’
‘My name is Zaid Al-Ameen. I’m the chief prosecutor in the Royal Kingdom of Ja’ahr.’ The voice was filled with deep pride. Implacable purpose.
Esme’s breath snagged in her lungs, but she refused to let the premonition lurking in her mind take hold. ‘What can I do for you?’ she asked, using the tone she reserved for calming her most agitated wards.
Momentary silence met her cool query. ‘I called to inform you that your father is in jail. He’s due to be arraigned in two days when formal charges will be brought against him.’
A thousand icicles pierced her skin, the boulder in her stomach confirming that even though she’d written him off when she’d walked away eight years ago, her father still possessed the power to rock her foundations.
‘I...see.’
‘He insisted on using his one phone call to reach you, but it seems the number he had for you is out of order.’
There was speculation in the crisp, no-nonsense tone but Esme wasn’t prepared to inform him that she’d made sure her number was unlisted for this sole purpose.
‘So how did you find me?’ she asked, her mind swirling with a thousand questions. None of which she wanted to air to the deep-voiced stranger on the phone.
‘I have one of the best police forces in the world, Miss Scott,’ he replied haughtily.
I?
The possessive reply made her frown a little, but she couldn’t put off the one question sitting on the tip of her tongue no matter how much she hated to ask. ‘What are the charges against him?’
‘They’re too long to list. Our investigation unearths a new charge almost on the hour,’ he replied, his voice growing colder with every answer. ‘But the main charge is fraud.’
Her heart banged harder against her ribs. ‘Right.’
‘You don’t seem surprised by the news.’ This time the query held stronger speculation that snapped her spine straight.
‘It’s the middle of the night here in England, Mr. Al-Ameen. You’ll pardon me if I’m struggling to take it all in,’ she replied, transferring the phone to her other hand when her palm grew clammy.
‘I’m aware of the time difference, Miss Scott. And while we’re not under obligation to track you down on behalf of your father, I thought you might like to know about the incident—’
‘What incident?’ she blurted.
‘There was an altercation in the jail where your father is being held—’
‘Is he hurt?’ she demanded, her stomach hollowing at the thought.
‘The medical exam shows a mild concussion and a few bruises. He should be well enough to be returned to custody tomorrow.’
‘So he can be attacked again or will you be doing something to protect him?’ she screeched, tossing aside the duvet to get out of bed. She paced from one end of her small bedsit to the other before the man at the end of the phone deigned to answer.
‘You father is a criminal, Miss Scott. He doesn’t deserve special treatment and he will be given none. Consider yourself fortunate to be receiving this courtesy call at all. As I mentioned before, his arraignment is in two days. It’s up to you to attend if you wish. Goodnight—’
‘Wait! Please,’ she added when the man didn’t hang up. Esme forced herself to think rationally. Were this one of her young wards, what would she do?
‘Does he have a counsel? I’m assuming he’s entitled to one?’
The terse silence that greeted her told her she’d caused offence. ‘We’re not a backward country, Miss Scott, despite what the world’s media likes to portray. Your father’s assets are frozen, as is the law in fraud cases, but he’s been given a public defender.’
Esme’s heart sank. In her experience, most public defenders were overstretched and overworked. Add the fact that her father was indubitably guilty of the charges levelled against him and the outlook was bleak.
The part of her that experienced the urge to end the conversation right now and pretend this wasn’t happening was immediately drowned out by the heavy guilt that followed. But she’d cut ties with her father for a very good reason. She’d turned her life around. She wouldn’t feel guilty for that.
‘Can I talk to him?’
For several seconds, silence greeted her request. ‘Very well. Provided he’s given the all clear by the doctors, I’ll allow him to make one more phone call. Make yourself available at six a.m. Goodnight, Miss Scott.’
The line disconnected, taking the authoritative voice with it.
A tiny knot in her stomach, caused solely by that charged, electric quality to her caller’s voice, unfurled. She dropped the phone and returned to sit on her bed, her vision blurring as her hands shook. As Zaid Al-Ameen had loftily stated, Esme wasn’t surprised by the news. If anything, she was only surprised it had taken eight years to finally arrive.
She exhaled roughly, willing the guilt and anger and pain to subside. When after a full ten minutes she still hadn’t managed to wrestle her emotions under control, she rose and padded to the small desk in the corner of her bedroom.
Further sleep tonight was out of the question. The only way to prevent the vault of bad memories straining to crack open was to fill her time with work. Her work, which thankfully involved concentrating on other people’s problems rather than her own, always managed to distract her. From the very first day she’d stepped into her junior social worker role four years ago, she’d welcomed that distraction simply because her actions produced positive results. Sometimes in indistinguishable ways, other times more meaningfully. Either way was good enough, although not good enough to ever wipe away the black stain on her soul.
Touch Global Foundation, the worldwide foundation she worked for, dealt directly with local organisations to help the disadvantaged, with numerous arms offering everything from drug rehabilitation to residential relocation.
Except working now, with her father’s news fresh in her mind, was near impossible. Esme forced herself to finish up the notes recommending rehousing for a single mother of four to a better neighbourhood, and a dyslexia test for the second child. She set a reminder to follow up her recommendation with a phone call, and closed the file.
Calling up her search engine, she typed in the relevant information. Although during the frenzied pockets of time she’d spent with her father he’d often talked of the Kingdom of Ja’ahr, they’d never visited that country. It hadn’t been on the list. Back then, decadent, well-established kingdoms like Monaco and Dubai and the brighter lights of New York and Vegas had been more desirable.
Within minutes, Esme understood why her father had taken an interest in Ja’ahr. The small kingdom, poised on the edge of the Persian Gulf, had gained as much international renown as its well-known neighbours in the last decade for all the right reasons.
Clever brokering of its rich resources of oil, gems and shipping lanes had seen it attain world’s richest status, catapulting its ruler and royalty to extreme wealth, while the lower classes had been left far behind. Such a divide wasn’t uncommon in such countries, but in Ja’ahr’s case it was staggering.
Inevitably, the result of such a divide had caused political and economical unrest, some of which had escalated into violence. All of which had been ruthlessly suppressed.
Esme cautioned herself not to believe everything she read on the Internet. But disturbing stories about the Kingdom of Ja’ahr’s judicial system were hard to dismiss. Stiff sentences were handed down for the lightest of offences, with even more ruthless punishment meted out to re-offenders.
‘We’re not a backward country, Miss Scott, despite what the world’s media likes to portray.’
Except their judicial system seemed backward. Right back to the Dark Ages. Which didn’t bode well for her father.
He deserves it. Remember why you walked away?
Jaw clenching, she straightened her spine.
She’d walked away. She’d changed her life for the better.
The reminder bolstered her up until her phone rang. Resolutely, she answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Esmeralda? Is that you?’
Her free hand tightened into a fist, her eyes closing at the deep, familiar voice.
‘Yes, Dad, it’s me.’
His exhalation was tinged with relief. Followed by a rough laugh. ‘When they told me they’d actually managed to reach you I thought they were having me on.’
Esme didn’t answer. She was too busy containing the cocktail of emotions that always swirled inside her when it came to her father.
‘Baby girl, are you there?’ Jeffrey Scott asked.
The endearment was so bitter-sweet, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘I’m here,’ she managed after a minute.
‘Okay, I guess you know what’s happened?’
‘Yes.’ She cleared her throat, hoping her mind would follow suit. ‘Are you all right? I was told you had concussion.’
Her father laughed, but the sound lacked its usual bravado. ‘A concussion is the least of my worries. Not if the big man gets his way.’
‘The big man?’
‘Yes. The Royal Punisher himself.’
She frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. What are you talking about?’
‘The chief prosecutor is gunning for me, Esmeralda. I’ve already been denied bail. And he’s putting in a petition to fast-track my trial.’
The memory of the deep, powerful voice on the phone momentarily distracted her, made her breath catch a little. Then her hand tightened on the phone. ‘But you have a lawyer, don’t you?’
The laughter was starker. ‘If you call a lawyer who told me my case was hopeless and advised me to plead guilty and save everyone the trouble a proper defender.’
Despite what she’d read about Ja’ahr’s judicial system, she was still shocked. ‘What?’
‘I need you here, Esmeralda.’
This time her breath stayed locked in her throat. Along with the inner voice that screamed a horrified No.
When she’d tossed around scenarios of how she would conduct this reconnection with her father, she hadn’t deluded herself into thinking he wouldn’t want something from her. Money had been the most likely bet since his assets were frozen. She’d even mentally totted up her savings, and girded her loins to part with some of it.
But what he was asking of her...
‘I’ve done a little research. They’re very big on character witnesses over here during trials,’ he continued hurriedly. ‘I’ve put you down as mine.’
Déjà vu whispered down her spine. Wasn’t this how it had always started? Her father innocently asking her to do something? And her guilt eating away at her until she obliged?
Esme stiffened, reminding herself of that last, indefensible thing he’d done. ‘Dad, I don’t think—’
‘It could make the difference between me dying in prison or returning home one day. Will you deny me that?’
Esme firmed her lips. Remained silent.
‘According to my lawyer, The Butcher is going for life without parole.’
Her heart lurched. ‘Dad...’
‘I know we didn’t part on the best of terms, but do you hate me that much?’ her father asked, after another long stretch of silence.
‘No, I don’t hate you.’
‘So you’ll come?’ He latched on hopefully, his voice slipping into the oh-so-familiar smooth cajoling that even the hardest heart couldn’t resist.
She closed her eyes. Reminded herself that in the end she had resisted. She’d been strong enough to walk away from him. But, of course, that didn’t matter now.
Because no matter what had gone on before, Jeffrey Scott was the only family she had. She couldn’t leave him to the mercy of a man known as The Butcher.
‘Yes. I’ll come.’
The relief in her father’s voice was almost palpable, but the torrent of gratifying words that followed washed over Esme’s head as she contemplated the commitment she’d just made. Eventually she murmured her goodbyes as her father’s allotted time ended their call.
Almost detached, she typed another name into the search engine. And forgot the ability to breathe as she stared into the brandy-coloured eyes of The Butcher.
The formidable authority in those eyes was just the start of the shockingly arresting features of the chief prosecutor of the Kingdom of Ja’ahr. She already knew what his voice sounded like. Now she saw how accurately it matched the square, masculine jaw that could have been cut from granite. It was shadowed despite the clean shave and, coupled with sharp cheekbones resting on either side of a strong, haughty nose, slightly flared in suppressed aggression, it was near impossible to look away.
Blue-black hair sprang back from his forehead in short, gleaming waves, the same colour gracing winged eyebrows and sooty eyelashes. But what captured her attention for a breathless moment was the sensual lines of his mouth. Although set in grim purpose in the picture, she couldn’t help but be absorbed by them, even wonder if they ever softened in a smile or in pleasure. Whether they would feel as velvety as they looked in pixels.
The alarming direction of her thoughts prompted a hurried repositioning of the mouse. But that only revealed more of the man whose magnetism, even on screen, was hypnotising. Broad shoulders and a thick neck were barely restrained in the dark pinstriped suit, pristine shirt and immaculate tie he wore. Long arms braced an open-legged stance, displaying a towering figure with a streamlined body that had been honed to perfection.
He stood before a polished silver sign displaying the name of a firm of US attorneys. Esme felt a tiny fizz of relief at the thought that she’d got the wrong hit on her search. But clicking the next link revealed the same man.
Only he wasn’t the same. His compelling features and hawk-like stare were made even more compelling by the traditional garb draping him from head to toe. The thawb was a blinding white with black and gold trim, repeated in the keffiyeh that framed his head and face.
With deep trepidation, Esme clicked one last link. Her gasp echoed in her bedroom as she read the biography of the thirty-three-year-old man nicknamed The Butcher.
Only the man who’d disturbed her sleep last night with bad news wasn’t just the feared chief prosecutor of an oil-rich kingdom. He was so much more. Gut clenching, her gaze drifted back up to the mercilessly implacable face of Zaid Al-Ameen. Sultan and Ruler of the Kingdom of Ja’ahr.
The man who held her father’s shaky fate in his hands.
CHAPTER TWO (#u6c652525-19ba-58bc-a0f0-786c97788b45)
ZAID AL-AMEEN RESTED his head against the back seat of the tinted-windowed SUV transporting him from the courthouse. Only for a moment. Because a moment was all he had. His caseload was staggering. A dozen cases waited in the briefcase on the seat next to him, with dozens more waiting in the wings.
But even that was secondary to the colossal weight of his responsibilities as ruler of Ja’ahr. A weight that made each day feel like a year as he battled to right the wrongs of his uncle, the previous King.
A fair number of his ruling council had been shocked by his intention to carry on with his chosen profession when he’d returned from exile to take the throne eighteen months ago.
Some had cited a possible conflict of interest, questioning his ability to be both an able ruler and a dedicated prosecutor. Zaid had quashed every objection by doing what he did best—following the letter of the law and winning where it counted. Meting out swift justice had been the quickest way to begin uprooting the rank corruption that had permeated Ja’ahr’s society. From the oil fields in the north to the shipping port in the south, no corporate entity had been left untouched by his public investigative team. Inevitably, that had made him enemies. Khalid Al-Ameen’s twenty-year corrupt rule had birthed and fed fat cats who’d fought to hold onto their power.
But in the last six months things had finally started to change. The majority of factions that had strenuously opposed and doubted him—after all, he was an Al-Ameen like his late uncle—had begun to ally with him. But those unused to his zero tolerance approach still incited protestors against him.
His bitterness that his uncle had escaped Zaid’s personal justice by falling dead from a heart attack had dissipated with time. It was an outcome he couldn’t change. What he could change was the abject misery that his people had been forced to endure by Khalid.
Zaid had first-hand, albeit deadly experience of the misery crime and the greedy grasp for power could wreak. That he’d lived through the experience was a miracle in itself. Or so the whispers went. Only Zaid knew what had happened that fateful night his parents had perished. And it was no miracle but a simple act of self-preservation.
One that had triggered equal amounts of guilt, anger and bitterness over the years. It was what had driven him to practise law and pursue justice with unyielding fervour.
It was what would bring his people out of the darkness they’d been thrust into.
Lost in the jagged memories of his past, it took the slowing of the lead vehicle in his motorcade to alert him to his surroundings.
A large group of protestors was gathered in a nearby park normally used to host summer plays and concerts. Some had spilled into the street in front of his motorcade. Protests weren’t uncommon, and, although regretful, it was part of the democratic process.
Zaid glanced around him as a handful of his personal security began to push back the crowd.
Ja’ahr City was particularly magnificent in early April, new blooms and moderate weather bathing the city in sparkling beauty. Giant sculptures and stunning monuments, surrounded by verdant gardens containing exotic flowers, lined the ten-mile-long central highway that led from the courthouse to the palace.
Except, as with everything else, this particular display of Ja’ahr’s wealth had been carefully cultivated to fool the world. One only had to stray along a few streets on either side of the highway to be met with the true state of affairs.
The grim reminder of the wide chasm dividing the social classes in his kingdom forced his attention back to the crowd and the giant screen showing a reporter surrounded by a handful of protestors.
‘Can you tell us why you’re here today?’ the female journalist asked, thrusting her microphone forward.
The camera swung toward the interviewee.
Zaid wasn’t exactly sure why his hand clenched on his thigh at the sight of the woman. In the previous life he’d led in the United States, he’d had numerous liaisons with women more beautiful than the one currently projected on the super-sized screen in the park.
There was nothing extraordinary about her individual features or the honey blonde hair tied in a bun at her nape. And yet the combination of full lips, pert nose and wide green-grey eyes was so striking his fingers moved, almost of their own accord, to the button that lowered his window. But still he couldn’t decipher what had triggered the faint zap of electricity that had charged through him at the sight of her. Perhaps it was the determined thrust of her jaw. Or the righteous indignation that sparked from her almond-shaped eyes.
Most likely it was the words falling from her mouth. Condemning. Inciting words wrapped in a husky bedroom voice and amplified on speakers that threatened to distract him even as he strained to focus on them.
A voice he’d heard before, slightly sleep husky, over the phone in the middle of the night. A voice that had, disturbingly and inappropriately, tugged at the most masculine part of him.
‘My father has been attacked twice in prison during the last week, while under the supervision of the police. Once was bad enough, considering he suffered a concussion then. But he was attacked again today, and I’m sorry, but twice is not acceptable.’
‘Are you saying that you hold the authorities responsible?’ the reporter prompted.
The woman shrugged, causing Zaid’s gaze to drop momentarily from her face to the sleek lines of her neck and shoulders, her light short-sleeved top clearly delineating her delicate bones and the swell of her breasts. He forced his attention up in time to hear her answer.
‘I was given the impression that the authorities here are practically the best in the world, and yet they can’t seem to keep the people under their care safe. On top of that, it seems I won’t be allowed to see my father until his trial or until I offer a financial incentive to do so.’
The reporter’s eyes gleamed as she latched onto the delicious morsel. ‘You were asked for a bribe before you could see your father?’
The woman hesitated for a millisecond before she shrugged again. ‘Not in so many words, but it wasn’t hard to read between the lines.’
* * *
‘So I take it your impression of Ja’ahr government so far isn’t a good one?’
A sardonic smile lifted her mouth. ‘That’s an understatement.’
‘If you could say anything to those in charge, what would you say?’
She looked directly into the camera, her wide eyes gleaming with purpose. ‘That I’m not impressed. And not just with the police. These people here clearly believe that too. I believe a fish rots from the head down.’
The reporter’s gaze grew a touch wary. ‘Are you alleging that Sultan Al-Ameen is directly culpable for what happened to your father?’
The woman hesitated, her plump lower lip momentarily disappearing between her teeth before emerging, gleaming, to be pressed into a displeased line. ‘It’s apparent that something’s wrong with the system. And since he’s the one in charge, I guess my question to him is what’s he doing about the situation?’ she challenged.
Zaid hit the button, blocking out the rest of the interview just as his intercom buzzed.
‘Your Highness, a thousand apologies for you having to witness that.’ The voice of his chief advisor, travelling in the SUV behind him, was almost obsequious. ‘I have just contacted the head of the TV studio. We are taking steps to have the broadcast shut down immediately—’
‘You will do no such thing,’ Zaid interjected grimly.
‘But, Your Highness, we can’t let such blatant views be aired—’
‘We can and we will. Ja’ahr is supposed to be a country that champions freedom of speech. Anyone who attempts to stand in the way of that will answer directly to me. Is that clear?’
‘Of course, Your Highness,’ his advisor agreed promptly.
As his motorcade passed the last of the protestors, he caught one last, brief glimpse of the woman on a much closer screen. Her head was tilted, the sunlight slanting over her cheekbone throwing her face into clear, more captivating lines. His jaw tightened at the further sizzle of electricity, until he was sure it would crack.
‘Do you wish me to find out who she is, Your Highness?’
He didn’t need to. He knew exactly who she was.
Esmeralda Scott.
Daughter of the criminal he intended to prosecute and put behind bars in the very near future. ‘That won’t be necessary. But have her brought to me immediately,’ he instructed.
As he hung up, he allowed the inner voice to question why he was going out of his way to trigger such a knee-jerk reaction. A second later, he smashed it away.
The why wasn’t so important. What mattered was her maligning the fragile pillars of the very things he was fighting to restore in his country. Integrity. Honour. Accountability.
Esmeralda Scott needed to answer a few questions of her own. After which he would take pleasure in pointing out the errors of her ways to her.
* * *
Esme gave in to the frantic urge to slide her clammy palms down her skirt as the black town car with tinted windows sped her towards an unknown destination. She’d cautioned herself a dozen times against letting fear take over. So far it hadn’t.
Perhaps it had something to do with the bespectacled, harmless-looking man sitting across from her and his reassurance that her interview had gained her the right audience on behalf of her father.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked for the second time, her mind still spinning at the swiftness at which her appearance on TV had earned her attention.
The question earned her a slightly less warm smile. ‘You will see for yourself when we arrive in a few minutes.’
The fear she’d staunched looming a little larger, Esme glanced out the window.
She began to notice that the landscape was growing more opulent, the parks even greener and studded with staggeringly beautiful works of art. Why that triggered a stronger sense of trepidation, Esme wasn’t sure. Sweat that had been steadily beading the back of her neck, despite the air-conditioning of the car, rolled between her shoulders.
‘My father’s prison hospital is on the other side of the city,’ she attempted again.
‘I am aware of that, Miss Scott.’
Alarm trickled through her. ‘You never said how come you knew my name.’ She’d only given the journalist her first name during the interview.
‘No, I did not.’
She opened her mouth to press for a clearer answer but closed it again as the car swerved in a wide circle before approaching huge double gates painted in stunning gold leaf. They slowed long enough for armed guards to wave them through.
‘This...is the Royal Palace,’ she mumbled, unable to stop her voice from shaking as she stared at the immense azure-coloured dome that could rival St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome.
‘Indeed,’ the man responded, not without a small ounce of relish.
The town car drew to a firm stop. The sweat between her shoulders grew icy. She cast another, frantic glance outside.
The penny finally dropped. She was here, at the Royal Palace. After publicly calling out the ruler of the kingdom.
Dear God, what have I done?
‘I’m here because of what I said on TV about the Sultan, aren’t I?’
A sharply dressed valet opened the door and the chief advisor stepped out. He signalled to someone out of sight before he glanced down at her. ‘That is not for me to answer. His Highness has requested your presence. I do not advise keeping him waiting.’
Before she could answer, he walked away, his shoes and those of his minders clicking precisely on the white and gold polished stone tiles that led to the entrance steps of the palace.
Esme debated remaining in the car as alarm flared into full-blown panic. The driver was still seated behind the wheel. She could ask him to take her back to her hotel. Even beg if necessary. Or she could get out and start walking. But even as the thoughts tumbled she knew it was futile.
Another set of footsteps approached the car. Esme held her breath as a man dressed in dark gold traditional clothes paused beside the open door and gave a shallow bow. He, too, was flanked by two guards.
They seem to travel in threes.
She was tossing away the mildly hysterical observation when he spoke. ‘Miss Scott, I am Fawzi Suleiman, His Royal Highness’s private secretary. If you would come with me, please?’
The question was couched in cultured diplomacy, but she had very little doubt that it was a command.
‘Do I have a choice?’ she asked anyway, half hoping for a response in the affirmative.
The response never came. What she witnessed instead was the firmer, watchful stance of the bodyguards, even while Fawzi Suleiman bowed again and swept out his arm in a polite but firm this-way gesture.
Esme alighted into dazzling sunshine and a dry breeze. She took a moment to tug down her knee-length black pencil skirt and resisted the urge to adjust her neckline. Fidgeting was a sign of weakness, and she had a feeling she would need every piece of her armour in place.
Slowly, she raised her chin and smiled. ‘Lead the way.’
He took her words literally, walking several steps ahead of her as they entered the world-famous Ja’ahr Palace.
At first sight of the interior her steps slowed and her jaw dropped.
Tiered Moorish arches framed in black lacquer and gold leaf veered off half a dozen hallways, all of which converged in a stunning atrium centred by a large azure-tiled fountain.
She dragged her gaze away long enough to see that they’d arrived at the bottom of wide, magnificent, sweeping stairs. Carpeted in the same azure tone that seemed to be the royal colour, the painstakingly carved designs that graced the bannisters were exquisite and grand.
Truly fit for a king.
A faintly cleared throat reprimanded her for dawdling. But as they traversed hallway after hallway, past elegantly dressed palace staff who surreptitiously eyed her, awe gave way to a much more elemental emotion.
She’d been expertly manipulated. With clever words and non-answers, but tricked nevertheless. Esme could only think of one reason why.
Intimidation.
They arrived before a set of carved double doors. She curbed the panic that flared anew, clutching her purse tighter as Fawzi Suleiman turned to her.
‘You will wait here until you’re summoned. And when you enter, you will address the Sultan as Your Highness.’
He didn’t wait for her response, merely grasped the thick handles and pushed the doors wide open.
‘Miss Scott is here, Your Highness,’ she heard him murmur.
Whatever response he received had him executing another bow before turning to her. ‘You may go in.’
She’d taken two steps into the room when she heard the doors shut ominously behind her. Despite the slow burn of anger in her belly, Esme swallowed, fresh nerves jangling as the faint scent of incense and expensive aftershave hit her nostrils.
She was in the presence of the ruler of Ja’ahr.
She forced her feet to move over the thick, expensive Persian rugs she was certain cost more than she would earn in two lifetimes as she emerged into the largest personal office she’d ever seen. Esme’s entire focus immediately zeroed in on the man behind the massive antique desk.
From the photos on the Internet she’d known he was a big man. But the flesh and blood version, the larger-than-life presence watching her in golden-eyed silence, was so shockingly visceral, she stumbled. She caught herself quickly, silently admonishing herself for the blunder.
A dozen feet from his desk, his magnetic aura hit her, hard and jolting. She wanted to stop walking but she forced herself to take another step. And then she froze as he rose to his feet.
It was like being hit with a tidal wave of raw masculinity. At five feet five, she considered herself of average height but her heels added a confidence-bolstering three inches. None of that mattered now as she took in the towering man looking down his domineering royal nose at her.
He was dressed in a three-piece suit, but he may as well have been adorned in an ancient warrior’s suit of armour, such was the primitive air of aggression Zaid Al-Ameen gave off as he watched her. Above his head, a giant emblem depicting his royal kingdom’s coat of arms hung, emphasising the glory and authority of its ruler.
But even without the trappings of all-encompassing wealth and power, Esme would have been foolish to underestimate the might of the man before her.
She summoned every last ounce of composure. ‘I...don’t know why I’ve been brought here. I haven’t done anything wrong. Your Highness,’ she tagged on after a taut second.
He didn’t respond. Esme forced herself to return his intense stare as she fought the urge to wet her dry lips. ‘And I hope you don’t expect me to bow. I’m not sure I can do it correctly.’
One imperious brow lifted. ‘How would you know unless you try?’ he drawled.
A spike of something hot and unnerving shot through her midriff at the sound of his accented voice. Deep, gravel rough, filled with power, it rumbled like ominous thunder. Esme’s shiver coursed down to her toes.
‘It may be the done thing, but I don’t think I want to.’
An enigmatic expression crossed his face, disappearing before she could accurately decipher it. ‘“But I don’t think I want to, Your Highness”.’
She blinked, dragging her attention from his exotically captivating face. ‘What?’
‘You were told of the correct form of address, were you not? Or does your lack of respect for my country and my judicial system extend to my station as well?’
The throb of anger in his voice sent a chill over her nape. She was in the lion’s den, faced with its incredibly displeased occupant. Regardless of her personal feelings, she needed to tread carefully if she wanted to escape with her hide intact.
‘My apologies, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to cause offence.’
‘How is it possible that I’ve known of your existence only a short time and yet I’m ready to add insincere to the list of your unsavoury attributes?’
Her mouth gaped. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Excuse me, Your Highness.’ This time the command was coated in ice, his eyes reflecting the same frigid displeasure as he regarded her.
Esme attempted to curb the angry words tripping over her tongue. She failed. ‘Perhaps it has something to do with being brought here against my will. Your Highness.’
With measured strides, he rounded his desk. Esme couldn’t help but stare. Despite his immense size, he moved like poetry in motion. Like a stealthy predator, focused on only one goal.
Vanquishing his prey.
CHAPTER THREE (#u6c652525-19ba-58bc-a0f0-786c97788b45)
ESME EXPECTED A cataclysmic event to occur in the seconds it took for him to prowl closer. Such was the power of the force field he wielded. Instead, Zaid Al-Ameen stopped a few feet from her, his gaze capturing hers as a frown pleated his brow.
‘You were brought here against your will?’
‘Well...yes. Somewhat. Your Highness.’
‘The answer is either yes or no. Did my men lay their hands on you?’ he enquired, his voice a touch rougher.
She had to lock her knees to keep from doing something stupid. Like crumbling into an inelegant heap at his feet. Because the closer he got, the higher she craned her neck, the more her brain scrambled. ‘I...er...’
‘Were you harmed in any way, Miss Scott?’ he demanded in a near growl.
‘No...but your emissary misrepresented himself.’
He stopped moving, his eyes narrowing. ‘How?’
‘He didn’t tell me he was bringing me here for a start. He gave me the impression that he was taking me to my father—’
‘But no one touched you?’
Esme couldn’t understand why he was so hung up on that. But she shook her head. ‘No one touched me, but that doesn’t alter the fact that this is a form of kidnapping.’
He clasped his hands behind his back, but that didn’t diffuse the power of his presence. If anything, his focus sharpened on her face, his eyes raking her from temple to chin and back again. ‘You weren’t told that I wished to speak to you?’
‘Not until we got here. And I got the feeling that I wouldn’t be allowed to leave even if I wanted to.’
He remained silent for a moment, hawk-like eyes probing her every breath. ‘First you allege that the authorities wanted a bribe in order for you to see your father, and now you’re alleging a potential kidnapping, even though you came here of your own free will. Are you in the habit of making assumptions about everything, Miss Scott? Or getting into the vehicles of men you think wish you harm?’ The accusation was delivered in a low, pithy tone as he took yet another step closer.
The icy fingers crawling up her back shrieked at her to retreat from the wall of bristling manhood coming at her. But Esme had learned to stand her ground a long time ago.
So, even though her instinct warned that Sultan Zaid Al-Ameen posed a different sort of danger from that she was used to, perhaps an even more potent kind, she angled her chin and stubbornly met his gaze. ‘No, Your Highness. I’m in the habit of judging a situation for myself. But if I’m wrong, here’s your chance to prove it. I wish to leave,’ she threw out.
That left brow arched again. ‘You just got here.’
‘And as I said, Your Highness, I thought I was being taken to see my father and not...’
‘Not?’
‘Bundled here for...whatever reason you’ve had me brought here. I’m assuming you’re going to tell me?’
‘In due course.’
Her response stuck in her throat as he strode past her. The mingled trail of incense, aftershave and man that sneaked into her senses momentarily distracted her. Esme found herself turning after him, her feet magnetically taking a step in his direction.
‘Come and sit down,’ Zaid Al-Ameen said.
The invitation was low and even, but another layer of apprehension dragged over her skin. She glanced at the closed doors through which she’d walked a few minutes ago.
‘Just for the hell of it, if I said no, that I want to leave, will you let me?’
‘You may leave if you wish to. But not until we’ve had a conversation. Sit down, Miss Scott.’ There was no mistaking the command this time, or the inference that she wouldn’t be allowed to leave until he was ready to let her go.
Esme gripped her purse tighter, her fingers screaming with the pressure on the leather. Pulse tripping over itself, she followed him to the sitting area and perched on the nearest seat.
Almost on cue, the doors opened and his private secretary appeared, bearing a large, beautifully carved tray of refreshments.
He set it down, executed another bow, then waited with his hands clasped respectfully in front of him.
Zaid Al-Ameen sat down in the adjacent seat and looked at her. ‘Do you prefer tea or coffee?’ he asked.
About to refuse because she didn’t think she could get anything down her throat, she paused, keenly aware of the two sets of eyes watching her.
‘Tea, please, thank you. Your Highness,’ she hastily added after a sharp look from Fawzi.
His master cast her a sardonic look before nodding to Fawzi, who moved forward and prepared the tea with smooth efficiency.
Bemused, Esme accepted the beverage, almost afraid to handle the exquisite bone china. She refused the delicious-looking exotic treats Fawzi offered her, then waited as Sultan Al-Ameen’s coffee was prepared and handed to him.
Fawzi bowed again and left the room.
Silence reigned as Esme took another sip, and attempted to drag her gaze from the slim, elegant fingers gripping his coffee cup. After taking a large sip, he set the cup back on the saucer and swung his penetrative gaze to her.
‘Contrary to what you wish me to think, you know exactly why you’re here.’
The muscles in her belly quivered, but she fought to keep her voice even. ‘My television interview in the park?’
‘Precisely,’ he intoned.
Sensing the beginning of a tremble in her hand, she gripped her cup harder. ‘I thought Ja’ahr advocated free speech among its citizens?’
‘Free speech is one thing, Miss Scott. Skirting the inner edges of slander is another matter entirely.’
The quivering in her belly escalated. ‘Slander?’
‘Yes. Disrespecting the royal throne is a criminal offence here in Ja’ahr. One that is currently punishable by a prison sentence.’
‘Currently?’
‘Until that law, like a few others, is amended, yes. Perhaps that is what you wish? To be tossed in prison so you can keep your father company?’ Zaid Al-Ameen enquired in a clipped tone.
‘Of course it isn’t. I only wanted... I was frustrated. And worried for my father.’
‘So you always leave your common sense behind when your emotions get the better of you? Are you aware that some of the allegations you made this afternoon are serious enough to put you in danger?’
The rattle of the cup had her hastily setting it down. ‘Danger from who?’
‘For starters, the police commissioner doesn’t like his organisation or his reputation questioned so publicly. He could bring charges against you. Or worse.’
Fear climbed into her throat. ‘What does worse mean?’
‘It means you should’ve given your words a little more thought before you went on live television.’
‘But...everything I said was true,’ she argued, unwilling to let fear take over.
His lips pursed for a moment. ‘It would’ve been prudent to take into account that you’re no longer in England. That things are done somewhat differently here.’
‘What does that mean?’ she asked again.
He discarded his own cup and saucer then leaned forward, his arms braced on his knees. The action caused his wide shoulders to strain beneath his suit, drawing her unwilling attention to the untamed power beneath the clothes.
A hint of it emerged in a low rumble as he spoke. ‘It means my magnanimity and position are the only things keeping you out of jail right now, Miss Scott, given the fact that some of the allegations you claim to be true are unfounded.’
‘Which ones?’
‘You said your father was attacked twice in the last week. But my preliminary investigation tells a different story.’
Her breath caught. ‘You’ve looked into it already?’
‘You maligned my government and me on live television,’ he replied in icy condemnation. ‘“The fish rots from the head” I believe were your exact words? I don’t take kindly to such an accusation, neither do I leave it unanswered.’
She felt a little light-headed. ‘Your Highness, it...wasn’t personal—’
‘Spare me the false contrition. It was a direct challenge and you know it. One I took up. Quite apart from my intimate knowledge of your father’s many crimes, do you want to know what else I discovered?’
The taunting relish in his voice told her she didn’t. But she swallowed down the No that rose in her throat. ‘You’re going to tell me anyway, so go ahead.’
‘I have it on good authority, and on prison security footage, that your father instigated both confrontations. He seems to be under some misguided delusion that his fate will be less dire if he’s seen as a victim.’
She tensed as the words struck a little too close to the bone. Jeffrey Scott was a master at reading situations and adapting to them. It was the reason he’d survived this long in his chosen profession.
Eagle eyes caught her reaction. ‘I see you’re not surprised. Neither are you hurrying to his defence,’ he observed. ‘Perhaps some of what I’ve said rings truer for you than the picture you painted of him on live TV?’
She took a deep, steadying breath. No matter what she knew in her heart, she wouldn’t incriminate her father by answering the question. ‘That doesn’t alter the fact that the guards didn’t take action after the first incident,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps if he’d been released on bail—’
‘So he could attempt to take the first flight out of the country? Your father is a veteran con man, which, judging by your continued lack of surprise, is not news to you. And yet he’s named you as his principal character witness,’ he mused, his eyes cutting into her.
‘As the man prosecuting my father, isn’t it unethical to discuss the case with me, Your Highness?’ she parried.
His grim twist of his lips told her he’d seen through her evasion tactics. ‘Nothing I’ve said so far contravenes the correct judicial process, Miss Scott. You can trust me on that.’
His biographer had called him a master tactician, able to mould the word of law like putty in his hands, but never breaking it. Esme needed to proceed with caution if she didn’t want to be tripped up. ‘Did you bring me here to point out the error of my ways before you throw me in jail, too?’
‘I brought you here to warn you against indulging in any further public outbursts. If you wish to exhibit any more rash decision-making, wait until you’re back home in England.’
Affronted heat crawled up her neck. ‘That sounds distinctly like a threat, Your Highness.’
‘If that’s what it takes to get through to you, then so be it. But know that you’re treading on extremely thin ice. I won’t tolerate any further unfounded aspersions cast against me or my people without solid proof to back them up. Is that understood?’
The sense of affront lingered, attempting to override the same tiny voice she’d ignored during her interview. This time it urged her to be thankful that she wasn’t being hauled over royal coals. She was struggling with the dissenting emotions when, taking her silence as assent, he rose.
His towering frame made her feel even more insignificant, so she scrambled to her feet. Only to lose her balance as one heel twisted beneath her. She pitched forward, a gasp ripping from her throat as her hands splayed in alarm.
Strong hands caught her upper arms at the same moment she dropped her purse and her open hands landed on his hard-muscled chest. She heard his sharp intake of breath and felt her own breath snag in her lungs as heat from his body almost singed her palms.
Esme’s head snapped up, that compulsion to look into those eyes once again a command she couldn’t ignore. His eyes had darkened, the light brandy shade now a burnished bronze that fused incisively with hers. This close, she saw the tiny gold flecks that flared within the darker depths, the combination so mesmeric she couldn’t look away, despite the frisson shooting up her arm. Despite the lack of oxygen to her brain from the breath she couldn’t take.
Despite the fact that she shouldn’t be touching him, this man who was hell-bent on exerting his supreme authority over her. Who was hell-bent on keeping her father in prison.
Move!
Her palm started to curl, in anticipation, she told herself, of pushing back from him. But the infinitesimal tightening of his fingers stopped her. Absorbed by the gleam in his eyes, by his scent swirling around her, Esme remained immobile. His nostrils flared slightly as his gaze dropped to her mouth. Almost as if he’d touched them, her lips pulsed with an alien sensation that absurdly felt like excitement. Hunger.
She didn’t...couldn’t want to kiss him, surely?
He released her so suddenly she wondered if she’d spoken the thought aloud. Spoken it only to have it promptly, ruthlessly rejected.
She stepped back, silently urging her legs not to let her down, even as another wave of heat swept over her face.
She needed to leave. Now.
As if the same thought had struck him, Zaid Al-Ameen turned abruptly and walked away, his imposing figure carrying him to his desk. Released from the trap of his puzzling, spellbinding presence, she sucked in a much-needed breath then snatched up her purse. She straightened to the sound of him issuing a rasped instruction into his intercom. Seconds later, the door reopened.
His private secretary barely glanced her way, his attention focused solely on the Sultan and the rapid words of lyrical Arabic falling from his lips. Esme was so distracted by the exotic, melodic sound that she didn’t realise they’d stopped speaking and were staring at her until the silence echoed loudly in the room.
For the third time in a disgracefully short period her face heated up again. ‘I’m sorry, did you say something?’ she addressed Fawzi, unwilling to catch another mocking glance from Sultan Al-Ameen.
The private secretary looked a little perturbed at being addressed directly in the presence of his master. He stood straighter. ‘His Highness said you are free to go. I am to escort you to your chauffeur.’
Knowing it would be impolite to leave without acknowledging him, Esme reluctantly redirected her gaze to the Sultan. ‘I... I’m...’
One sardonic brow elevated, the look he sent her haughty enough to freeze water. ‘You pick a curious time to become tongue-tied, considering your desire to leave has been granted. The next time we meet will be in the courtroom when you testify on behalf of your father. Let us hope you’re not as inarticulate under cross-examination. I would hate to see all the effort you made to come to the aid of your father wasted. Goodbye, Miss Scott.’
The dismissal was as final as the drive back to the hotel was quick. Even after she was safely back in her hotel room, Esme still couldn’t force her heartbeat to slow. She’d been summoned, judged and found severely wanting.
And yet the righteous anger she’d felt in Zaid Al-Ameen’s presence was no longer present. Instead, awareness from his touch clung to her skin, her mind supplying an alarmingly detailed play-by-play of the moment he’d stopped her from falling. With each meticulous recounting her body grew hot and tight, her breathing altering into shameful little pants that drew a grimace of disgust at herself. To distract her out-of-control hormones, Esme turned on the TV and channel-surfed, only to come face to face with herself in a replay of her interview. Forcing herself to watch, she experienced a twinge of remorse as her words echoed harsh and condemning in the room.
The stone of unease in her belly hadn’t abated hours later when she was in bed, attempting to toss and turn herself into sleep. Sleep came reluctantly, along with jagged, disturbing dreams featuring a breathtakingly hypnotic figure with brandy-coloured eyes.
The intensity of the dream was so sharp, so vivid she jerked awake.
Only to find it was no dream. There was someone in her room.
Esme’s breath strangled in her lungs as she battled paralysing fear and scrambled upright. The dark, robed figure outlined ominously against her lighter curtains tensed for a watchful second then launched after her the moment she scurried off the bed. Her feet tangled in the sheets, ripping a cry from her throat. She sensed rather than saw the figure rounding the bed towards her as she pushed at the sheets and crawled away on her hands and knees. A few steps from the bathroom she attempted to stand.
A strong, unyielding arm banded her waist, plastering her from shoulder to thigh against a hard, masculine body. He lifted her off the floor with shocking ease, her feet kicking uselessly as he evaded her efforts to free herself. Acute terror finally freeing her vocal cords, Esme screamed.
The large hand that clamped over her mouth immediately muffled the sound.
Terrified by the ease with which the intruder had caught and restrained her, Esme fought harder. She wrapped her fingers around the thick wrist and was attempting to pry him off when she felt his warm breath against her cheek.
‘Calm yourself, Miss Scott. It is I, Zaid Al-Ameen. If you wish to remain safe, you need to come with me. Right now.’
CHAPTER FOUR (#u6c652525-19ba-58bc-a0f0-786c97788b45)
ESME SLACKENED IN shock for a handful of seconds before outrage kicked in. At her renewed struggle, he held her tighter. ‘Be calm,’ he commanded again.
She shook her head, her heart tripping over all the possible reasons for his presence here in her room, holding her prisoner. She came up with nothing remotely reassuring. ‘You have my word that I mean you no harm, Esmeralda. But I need your reassurance that you won’t scream before I release you,’ he said, his lips brushing against her ear.
Despite her racing heart, she felt herself go still. She told herself it wasn’t the effect of the deep but lyrical lilt to her first name as it fell from his lips, or the low, even way he spoke that finally soothed her, but the need to be set free from the deeply disturbing sensation of the body welded to hers.
No longer fighting, she was keenly aware of the firm strength of his body against hers. The splay of the fingers of his restraining arm branding her hips. Her bare legs dangling against his longer ones. Her back absorbing his unhurried breathing as her bottom snuggled between the widened stance of his hips. And the highly masculine, very proud organ cradled between them.
Heat surging up her body, Esme jerked her head in quick assent. He waited a beat then released her. She launched herself away from him, slapped her hand on the light switch in the bathroom before whirling to face him.
The sight of the Sultan of Ja’ahr, dressed from head to toe in black traditional clothes, every inch the dark desert warrior lord he was, threatened to rob her of the breath she’d just regained. The hand she lifted to push back her heavy hair shook as she glared at him. ‘You may be the ruler of this kingdom, but you have no right to invade my privacy,’ she condemned, a touch too shakily. ‘Not to mention the fact that you scared the living—’
One imperious hand slashed through the air. ‘I understand that you wish to express your outrage. But I highly recommend you do so once we’re away from the hotel.’
‘Why?’ she demanded.
Not bothering to dignify her with a response, he strode to the small wardrobe on the other side of the room. Esme watched, stunned, as he began to rummage through her clothes.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing? If you think I’m going anywhere with you after barging into my room in the middle of the night, think again.’
He turned from the wardrobe, his eyes narrowed in displeased slits. ‘I caution you against using that tone of voice with me or my men will arrest you, with or without my permission.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Your men?’
He jerked a head towards the door. Esme followed his action and for the first time she noticed the men who stood guard, their broad backs to the door but rigidly alert. Protecting their King.
Barring her way.
‘Why are they here? Why are you here?’
He stepped forward and she saw that he held her black cotton dress in his hand. ‘I don’t have time to debate the matter with you. Put this on. We need to leave now, unless you plan on walking out of the hotel dressed in that wispy scrap of nothing?’ he rasped. Although his expression remained stoically impersonal, his voice was a touch more raw than before.
Esme stared down at the peach night slip she wore. The silky, lace-edged material was short, barely coming to mid-thigh. The bodice consisted of two cupped triangles also edged in lace, with thin straps joining at her nape in a halter design. As nightwear went, it was intended to be feminine and sexy, hugging, flattering and titivating where necessary.
Except, with Zaid Al-Ameen’s piercing gaze on her, Esme bypassed those middling sensations and went straight to fiery hot awareness between one heartbeat and the next. Mild shock rippled through her belly at the intensity of the feeling singeing her body as his gaze conducted a slow journey over her. When it rose from her feet to linger at her thighs, a heavy throbbing commenced between her legs. The sensation rippled outward, sparking tiny fireworks that exploded beneath her skin as it spread.
Dark golden eyes rose higher, over her stomach to rest on her breasts. Suddenly sensitive peaks prickled, then slowly tightened into hard nubs. Realising that the silk exhibited every reaction of her body, Esme hastily threw her arm up over her chest, even as she defied the hot flush staining her neck and cheeks to stare challengingly at him.
But she might as well have been a gnat challenging an elephant. The eyes that met hers may have been a touch more turbulent than they were moments ago, perhaps even gleaming with a hint of suppressed hunger, but the man who strode determinedly over to her and thrust her dress at her was once again the supreme marauder intent on having his way.
‘You have two minutes to put this dress on or I will do it for you myself,’ he pronounced succinctly.
Even though she caught the dress, Esme stood her ground. ‘I’ll put the dress on, but I’m not leaving this room until you tell me what is going on.’
At his curt nod, she stepped back into the bathroom and shut the door firmly behind her. About to put the dress on, she froze when she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. Her long loose hair was in complete disarray, her colour high as her chest rose and fell in agitation. But it was the brightness of her eyes that shocked her most of all. Where she’d expected fear, she read something else. Something that made her skin tingle even more wildly. Her nipples were still tight twin points of blatant arousal and belatedly she realised that, standing in the light of the doorway, Sultan Zaid would have been able to see right through her slip.
With renewed chagrin and heightened disquiet, she turned away and tugged the dress over the night slip. There was no way she was going back in there to retrieve her bra so the nightgown would have to offer the extra protection she needed. Besides, she could feel Sultan Zaid’s restless prowling through the bathroom door.
After sliding her fingers through her hair in a vain effort to control the unruly mess, she tugged it into a ponytail and left the bathroom to confront the figure pacing the room. ‘Okay, I deserve to know what’s going on, and I’m not moving until I do.’
‘The chief of police is on his way to arrest you. And unless you come with me, you will be in jail within the hour. It won’t be a pleasant experience.’
Her mouth dropped opened, but the stark words had shrivelled her vocal cords and killed any further protest in her throat. Her gaze swung to the guards standing at the door. They hadn’t moved, but she sensed an escalated urgency in the air.
He’d turned on a lamp while she’d been in the bathroom and Esme hurried across the room to shove her feet into the heels she’d discarded at the bottom of the bed. Then she went to the wardrobe and tugged out her suitcase. It was ripped from her hand a second later.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded.
‘I’m getting my things.’
‘There’s no time for that. Your belongings will be taken care of.’
Again she wanted to protest, but at the implacable look in his eyes she nodded. Her purse held her passport, credit cards and phone. He waited long enough for her to grab it before he marched her to the door.
Eight bodyguards immediately positioned themselves in a protective cordon around them. A lift she suspected had been held especially for him transported them swiftly to the ground floor.
They exited to a large, empty foyer with only a sleepy male receptionist stationed behind the desk. He straightened to attention, then bowed respectfully as they moved past him.
Sultan Zaid barely glanced at him, his focus on the revolving doors. And the small group of armed men walking through it.
Her heart leapt into her throat. Beside her, Zaid tensed, even though he didn’t break his stride.
‘Remain by my side and do not speak.’ The words were delivered in a low, even voice, but the stern command that pulsed through them was unmistakeable.
She nodded as the small group drew closer. Their posture and uniforms announced who they were before she read the insignia on their attire.
The leader, a small, rotund man, came forward and in unison they executed a bow, but she noted that although the chief of police paid his respects to his ruler, the act was delivered with reluctance and more than a hint of antagonism.
‘Your Highness, I am surprised to see you here at this time of night,’ he said, slowly tucking the cap he’d removed from his head under his arm. His black, beady eyes swung to the Sultan’s bodyguards protecting them before returning to Zaid.
‘Matters of state do not always wait for civilised hours to demand attention.’
The man’s gaze settled on her and Esme spied the distinct gleam of malevolence in the black depths. ‘And that is what is happening here? A matter of state?’
Zaid’s response was spoken in sharp, rapid-fire Arabic, his posture seething with unbridled authority. Esme watch the man shrink back slowly. The hostile expression in his eyes didn’t abate, and his gaze darted to her many times during the conversation but he didn’t attempt to arrest her.
Although only mere minutes passed, it felt like a lifetime before Zaid glanced her way.
‘We’re leaving now,’ he said.
Relief punched through her and she gave a swift nod as she hurried to match her steps to his.
The moment she slid into the car he climbed in after her. A second later, after she’d slotted in her seat belt, they were moving with the smoothness borne of military precision.
She took a deep, shaky breath, but the thousand questions that crowded Esme’s brain were momentarily suppressed when her senses were suffused with the very male scent of the man sitting next to her.
The man staring at her with silent, watchful intensity.
‘What...?’ She stopped and flicked her tongue over her dry lips. ‘Why was he coming to arrest me?’
‘Because he found out, like I did, that the allegations you made against his police force weren’t entirely accurate. Your interview has been televised every hour for the past twelve hours. There are those who called for your arrest the moment it was aired. It came to my attention that the police chief was beginning to gather his forces.’
Ice cascaded down her spine. ‘Oh, my God.’ The hand she lifted to push back a swathe of hair shook badly. Tightening it into a fist, she placed it in her lap. ‘What...what was he going to charge me with?’ Not that it mattered. Jail was jail. And prison in Ja’ahr wasn’t something she wanted to experience, even for a minute.
To her surprise, Zaid Al-Ameen’s lips pursed before his powerful shoulders moved in a shrug. ‘He would’ve found something.’
‘What? You mean he could’ve just made something up?’
‘It could’ve been something as simple as questioning you about what you said, or it could’ve been more. You supplied him with all the base he could have wanted. All he needed to do was capitalise on it.’
Her heart dropped to her stomach. ‘But isn’t that...illegal?’ she questioned carefully, unwilling to add further fuel to the fire it seemed she’d started.
In the semi-darkness of the vehicle she watched his jaw clench harshly, his expression turn grave. ‘The wheels of change are turning in Ja’ahr, but not fast enough,’ he said semi-cryptically. ‘True democracy comes at a cost. Not everyone is ready to pay that price yet.’
The bald statement left very little room for more questions after that. The convoy rolled swiftly along near deserted streets, silence reigning in the vehicle. Until Esme realise the familiar road they travelled on.
Her gaze swung from the elevated road and the familiar dome ahead to the man sitting next to her. He was staring at her, shrewd sharp eyes waiting. ‘You’re taking me—’
‘Back to the Royal Palace, yes,’ he confirmed.
Wild hysteria powered through her. ‘So I was right. You are kidnapping me after all.’
She’d meant the words half-jokingly, a way for her tumbling thoughts to grapple with the events of the last hour and the enormity of what might have happened to her.
When he didn’t immediately answer, she glanced at him.
The look he levelled at her was in no way mirthful. It was filled with solemn, unwavering resolve. ‘For want of a better word...and for the foreseeable future, yes.’
* * *
Zaid watched her process his reply. She may have been joking, but he was deadly serious.
Slowly, every trace of amusement drained from her face. He told himself the apprehension that replaced it was much more useful to him. It would keep her focused properly on what lay ahead of her. It would also serve to draw his attention from the luscious curve of her mouth and the tiny twitch of her nose when she was amused.
He was already battling with the heated tug of his libido at the way her skin had shone under the bathroom lights, like the pearls mined in the sea bordering his kingdom. The way the scrap of silk she had worn to bed had caressed her flesh had made him infinitely glad he’d been wearing a shrouding tunic. The urge to touch her, to relive the memory of holding her warm body captive in his arms was so strong it was a visceral ache deep within him. He smashed down hard on the unwelcome sensation and concentrated on the matter at hand.
‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ Her eyes were widening, her hushed voice stained with burgeoning realisation.
‘I have a kingdom to rule. I don’t undertake missions like this just for the fun of it.’ His words emerged clipped.
She flinched. He experienced the tiniest dart of remorse before he firmed his lips.
Before he could say anything further, his vehicle drew to a stop. His head of security jumped out and opened his door.
Zaid didn’t exit immediately. For some reason, he found himself staring at her, taking in her pale features, the lower lip she was worrying as she stared back at him. The shadows under her eyes. ‘It’s almost two o’clock in the morning. We will continue this conversation at a more appropriate hour, once you’ve had some rest.’
He stepped out of the car and held out his hand. Her gaze dropped warily. For a tense moment he watched her silently debate whether or not to take it, then she reached out, almost in slow motion, to finally accept his help.
The sensation of her sliding her hand into his ramped up the volatile tension inside him. Zaid ruthlessly dismissed his body’s response, just as he’d dismissed almost all extraneous emotions since his return to Ja’ahr. He’d needed to, to be able to focus on rebuilding what his uncle had so brutally destroyed. It was the reason he hadn’t taken a woman to his bed in well over eighteen months. It was the reason his work days were so long and sleep was a luxury he afforded himself only when necessary.
Nevertheless, he found his grip tightening, his touch lingering even after she stood before him, her face upturned to his. In the floodlights gracing the entrance to his palace, her unique beauty struck him all over again.
Enough.
He turned and started to walk away, leaving Fawzi and the rest of his staff to make the arrangements for her care and comfort. Right now there were a hundred other tasks that needed his attention. ‘Goodnight, Miss Scott.’
He’d only taken a few steps when heard her rush after him. ‘Wait. Please. Your Highness.’
Against his will, Zaid felt the whisper of a smile tug at his lips at the way she’d tagged on his title. Reluctantly. Grudgingly.
Recalling his insistence that she use it the previous afternoon, he grimaced. Although his veins pulsed with royal blood, Zaid had never forced the outer trappings of his nobility on anyone, until her. Something about Esmeralda Scott had made him want to assert his dominion over her. Perhaps, even absurdly, he wanted to see that defiant chin and insubordinate body lowered in the archaic, submissive bow he hated from everyone else.
‘Your Highness, please.’
Zaid gritted his teeth and paused at the entrance to the hallway that led to his private lift. The small group of staff who found it necessary to follow him everywhere within the palace, night or day, paused at a respectful distance.
Esmeralda, however, kept coming, her lissom, curvy body swaying sensually beneath the cotton dress. Zaid dragged his gaze from her shapely legs and hips to her face, stamping down once more on the insistent tug to his groin.
‘I know it’s the middle of the night, but it may as well be the middle of the day for me. I won’t be able to sleep. Not until I know more about what’s going to...happen.’
To me.
Zaid silently applauded her for leaving those words out. She was determined to show no weakness, despite the precarious position in which she’d placed herself and her father. A situation he’d been monitoring since she’d left his office the previous afternoon. The repercussions of her interview had been more damaging than he’d initially thought. He’d been in the process of considering ways to mitigate it when he’d been alerted to the chief of police’s intentions.
Recollection of their conversation in the hotel foyer made him grit his teeth. If Esmeralda Scott wanted to know what fruit her actions had borne, he would gladly apprise her. And since he hadn’t been heading for his own bed, now was as good a time as any.
He dismissed his staff, although he knew Fawzi and his bodyguards would remain awake and in close proximity until Zaid himself retired to bed. ‘Very well. We will talk now,’ he said to her.
He caught her quick, nervous swallow before she gave a firm, responding nod. ‘Lead the way, Your Highness.’
Zaid didn’t know whether to commend her fearlessness or condemn her for it, because the spirit she’d displayed, which had led her into hot water in the first place, would be what she would need to keep her going in the days to come. He was still tossing the thought around in his head when he entered his private lift. She followed him into the small space, but immediately plastered herself to the wall farthest from him. Zaid would have been amused by the action if his senses hadn’t been immediately assailed with the delicate scent of her cherry blossom shampoo and the elusive wisps of perfume that clung to her skin.
The moment the doors shut, her breathing altered. Her eyes darted to him and he noted that they reflected more green than grey with her suppressed agitation. When he leaned forward to press the button, she jumped and he smiled.

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