Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | A Christmas Bride For The King

A Christmas Bride For The King
ABBY GREEN


Unwrapping her innocence…Reluctant ruler Sheikh Salim Al-Noury would rather abdicate than taint his realm with his dark secrets. Until one exquisitely beautiful diplomat is hired to persuade him to reconsider the throne…Christmas means heartbreak to Charlotte MacQuillan, so working abroad over the festive season is the perfect getaway. But Salim proves to be her most challenging client yet as his rugged masculinity awakens untouched Charlotte to unimaginable pleasures!Soon Salim accepts that he alone can bear the weight of the crown. And his first proclamation will be to make Charlotte his Christmas queen!







Unwrapping her innocence...

Reluctant ruler Sheikh Salim Al-Noury would rather abdicate than taint his realm with his dark secrets. Until one exquisitely beautiful diplomat is hired to persuade him to reconsider the throne...

Christmas means heartbreak to Charlotte McQuillan, so working abroad over the festive season is the perfect getaway. But Salim proves to be her most challenging client yet as his rugged masculinity awakens untouched Charlotte to unimaginable pleasures!

Soon Salim accepts that he alone can bear the weight of the crown. And his first proclamation will be to make Charlotte his Christmas queen!


‘Why did you come here this evening, really?’

Charlotte swallowed. Her skin felt tight and hot and her mouth was dry. Her heart was beating like a trapped bird against her chest. ‘Just as I told you… I wanted to make sure you knew that I don’t…don’t have romantic notions.’

The wind screeched outside. Salim’s eyes were like two blue flames. ‘Believe me, the last thing you inspire is feelings of romance. You inspire much earthier things. Dark and decadent things.’

There was still a couple of feet between them but Charlotte felt as if Salim was touching her. The push and pull inside her was torture. For a second she almost took a step towards him, giving in to the inexorable pull.

Before she could lose her mind completely, she blurted out, ‘I’m going back to my tent.’

She turned abruptly and blindly felt for the opening of the tent. Panic mounted, and then she heard Salim’s voice.

‘We’re in the middle of a storm. The tent has been secured for our safety.’

Charlotte almost couldn’t articulate the words, but she forced them out. ‘So, what does that mean..?’

An unmistakable glint of something wicked in Salim’s eyes replaced any hint of innocence on his handsome face. ‘It means, Charlotte, that you’ll have to spend the night here.’


Mills & Boon welcomes you

to the passionate world of Abby Green’s

Rulers of the Desert (#u231c5f36-e970-524e-90b1-746d3f268bc4)

These brothers might rule their kingdoms—

but can they rule their own desire?

Zafir and Salim Al-Noury were born to be kings.

These powerful monarchs have never had their

wishes challenged—until they meet the women

they’re determined to take to their beds!

Kat and Charlotte might find their seduction

to be irresistible… But to claim them truly

their seducers must make them their desert queens!

A Diamond for the Sheikh’s Mistress

A Christmas Bride for the King

Available now!


A Christmas Bride for the King

Abby Green






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


Irish author ABBY GREEN threw in a very glamorous career in film and TV—which really consisted of a lot of standing in the rain outside actors’ trailers—to pursue her love of romance. After she’d bombarded Mills & Boon with manuscripts they kindly accepted one, and an author was born. She lives in Dublin, Ireland, and loves any excuse for distraction. Visit abby-green.com (http://www.abby-green.com) or email abbygreenauthor@gmail.com (mailto:abbygreenauthor@gmail.com).

Books by Abby Green

Mills & Boon Modern Romance

Awakened by Her Desert Captor

Rulers of the Desert

A Diamond for the Sheikh’s Mistress

Wedlocked!

Claimed for the De Carrillo Twins

Brides for Billionaires

Married for the Tycoon’s Empire

One Night With Consequences

An Heir to Make a Marriage

An Heir Fit for a King

Billionaire Brothers

Fonseca’s Fury

The Bride Fonseca Needs

Blood Brothers

When Falcone’s World Stops Turning

When Christakos Meets His Match

When Da Silva Breaks the Rules

Visit the Author Profile page

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


This is for my Charlotte,

whose friendship has made my life

immeasurably richer in so many ways.

Thelma & Louise 4 Ever. xx


Contents

Cover (#u1fb1c3b6-f368-55b2-b22b-b5e8568df449)

Back Cover Text (#u6778a804-e98c-52e0-8b80-30d2fa805b2a)

Introduction (#u0f7dd02d-94d9-5b37-a079-8efd732ee98c)

Rulers of the Desert (#u4d5f1385-2841-52da-8427-47d56540b8c0)

Title Page (#ud277cb9c-b275-58b3-b939-92b35489d3e9)

About the Author (#u768fa5b3-b764-574b-809e-23aa60620917)

Dedication (#u1f3d40d7-e202-5eb8-8e27-a4f8615ea2f0)

PROLOGUE (#ue2e19bee-de23-5399-ba66-e59cbf9a6e29)

CHAPTER ONE (#u1c84c35f-6764-556d-aa1e-43bd56f33a4c)

CHAPTER TWO (#u653704c7-48ce-576a-bffe-4f3412f2cae2)

CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


PROLOGUE (#u231c5f36-e970-524e-90b1-746d3f268bc4)

THE PUNISHINGLY HOT shower Sheikh Salim Ibn Hafiz Al-Noury had just subjected himself to had done little to dispel the hollow feeling that lingered after his less than sensually satisfying encounter with a convenient lover. It wasn’t her fault. She was stunning. And, what was more important, she accepted his strict no-strings rules.

He never engaged with women who didn’t, because he’d built his life around an independence he’d cultivated as far back as he could remember. Distancing himself from his own family and the heavy legacy of his birth. Distancing himself from painful memories. Distancing himself from emotional entanglements or investment, which could only lead to unbearable heartbreak.

Salim and his brother, Zafir, had been bred as coldly and calculatedly as animals bred for their coats or meat. They’d been bred to inherit neighbouring kingdoms—Jandor, the home of their father, where they’d been born and brought up along with Salim’s twin sister, Sara, and Tabat, their mother’s ancestral home.

The two countries had been at war for hundreds of years, but a peace agreement had been brokered when their mother, the Crown Princess of Tabat, had married the new King of Jandor and they’d pledged to have their sons eventually ruling both countries in a bid to secure peace in the region.

On the death of their father over a year ago Zafir, as the eldest, had assumed his role as King of Jandor—which had always been more of a home to him than to Salim.

But Salim had yet to assume his role, as King of Tabat, and the pressure to do so was mounting on all sides.

He hitched a towel around his waist, irritated that his thoughts were straying in this direction. He ignored the sting of his conscience that told him it was a situation he had to deal with.

He’d managed to avoid dealing with it for this long because he’d built up a vast empire of business concerns, ranging from real estate to media and tech industries, none of which he could easily walk away from. None of which he wanted to walk away from. And yet, if he was honest with himself, he knew he’d finally achieved a level of success and security that could enable him to step back—if he had to.

The steam of the shower cleared and Salim caught his reflection in the mirror. He was momentarily taken off guard by the cynical weariness etched into his face. Blue eyes stood out starkly against the darkness of his skin. Stubble lined a hard jaw. Too hard.

With no sense of satisfaction he took in the aesthetically pleasing symmetry of his features, which called to mind another set of features—the feminine version of this face. Except that face was frozen in time, at eleven years old when his twin sister had died.

A part of Salim had broken irreparably that day: his heart. And with it any illusion of invincibility or a belief that the world was a benign place. He’d lost his soul-mate when Sara had died, and he never wanted to experience that kind of excoriating pain again.

For a moment the memory of his sister’s lifeless form and pale face was sharp enough to make him draw a breath. Even after all this time. Nineteen years. He had avenged her death, but instead of bringing him peace it had compounded the emptiness inside him.

Salim’s hands curled around the sink so tightly that his knuckles shone white through the skin. It was only a persistent ringing noise that broke him out of the moment.

He went into the bedroom of his New York penthouse apartment and saw his phone flashing on the nightstand. As he picked it up he registered who it was and immediately felt a tightening sensation in his chest, along with a familiar mix of turbulent emotions, the strongest of which was guilt. He was tempted to let the call go to voicemail, but he knew it would only be delaying the inevitable.

He answered with a curtness arising out of that mix of emotions and memories. ‘Brother. How nice to hear from you.’

Zafir made a rude sound at this less than effusive greeting. ‘I’ve been trying to contact you for weeks. Hell, Salim, why are you doing this? You’re making it harder for everyone—including yourself.’

Salim ignored what Zafir had said and replied, ‘I believe congratulations are in order. I’m sorry I didn’t make the wedding.’

Zafir sighed. ‘It’s not as if I really expected you to come, Salim, but it would have been nice for you to meet Kat. She wants to meet you.’

His tone made the tightness in Salim’s chest intensify. He’d done such a good job of pushing Zafir away for as long as he could remember that it seemed impossible to bridge the chasm now. And why did he suddenly feel the need to?

He shut down that rogue impulse and assured himself that he owed Zafir nothing—nor his new sister-in-law, who was now Queen of Jandor.

‘I don’t really have time to chat, Zafir. Why did you call?’

His brother’s voice hardened. ‘You know exactly why I’m calling. You’ve shirked your duties for long enough. Officials in Tabat have been waiting for over a year for you to assume your role as king—as per the terms of our father’s will.’

Before Salim could react to that succinct summary of his situation, Zafir was continuing.

‘Tabat is close to descending into chaos. This isn’t just about you, Salim. People will get hurt if stability isn’t restored. It’s time for you to take responsibility. You are king, whether you like it or not.’

Salim wanted to snarl down the phone that he was the furthest thing from a king that a man could be. He’d pursued a life far from royal politics and that closed, rarefied world. He’d never asked for this role—it had been thrust upon him before he’d even been born. His brother’s acceptance of the status quo was in direct contrast to Salim’s rejection of it.

Before he could say anything, Zafir went on. ‘You can’t avoid this, Salim. It’s your destiny, and if you don’t face up to that destiny you’ll have blood on your hands.’

Destiny. Salim’s anger dissipated as he thought bleakly of their sister’s destiny. Had it been her destiny to suffer unspeakable trauma and die so young?

After what had happened to his sister Salim didn’t believe in destiny. He believed you made your own destiny. And that was what he had done for his whole life—as much for himself as to honour the life his sister had lost.

He looked out over the skyline of Manhattan, where the late autumn dawn was slowly breaking, bathing everything in a soft pink glow. It was beautiful, but it left him untouched.

At that moment a falcon glided on the air outside his window, majestic and deadly, its head swivelling back and forth, looking for prey. It was a long way from its natural habitat, and yet this bird of prey had adapted to city life as well as humans had.

A memory floated back, of him and Sara in the desert with their pet falcons. Sara had lifted her hand to encourage hers to fly high, teasing Salim that his was too lazy to budge itself... She’d been so carefree, innocent...

‘Salim?’

His brother’s voice broke the silence and a heavy weight settled in Salim’s gut. Destiny or not, he knew he couldn’t keep avoiding this inheritance he’d never asked for. It had to be dealt with.

‘Fine,’ he said grimly. ‘I will give them their coronation. Let them know that I’m coming.’

And in doing so, he assured himself silently, he would sever his ties with his so-called destiny and the past for good.


CHAPTER ONE (#u231c5f36-e970-524e-90b1-746d3f268bc4)

CHARLOTTE MCQUILLAN PACED back and forth in the empty office and looked at her watch for the umpteenth time. The king, Salim Ibn Hafiz Al-Noury—or technically the king when he was crowned in three weeks—had kept her waiting for an hour now.

It was no secret that he was probably the most reluctant king in the world, having deferred his coronation for well over a year. Long after his older brother had been crowned king of neighbouring Jandor.

She might have expected as much from the enfant terrible of the international billionaire playboy scene.

Charlotte knew of Sheikh Salim Ibn Hafiz Al-Noury’s reputation, but only in a peripheral sense. Salacious celebrity gossip magazines were anathema to her, because she’d been the focal point of a celebrity scandal at a very young age, but even she was aware of the sheikh with the outrageous good looks, near mythical virility and his ability to turn anything he touched to gold.

His playboy exploits were matched only by his ruthless reputation and his ability to amass huge wealth and success in the many business spheres he turned his attention to.

Charlotte walked over to a nearby window that looked out over a seemingly unending sea of sand under a painfully blue sky. The sun was a blazing orb and she shivered lightly in the air-conditioning, imagining how merciless that heat must be with no shade. The little taste of it she’d had walking from the plane to the sheikh’s chauffeur-driven car and then into the palace had almost felled her.

With her fair, strawberry-blonde colouring, Charlotte had never been a sun-worshipper. And yet here she was. Because when the opportunity had come up to escape London in the full throes of Christmas countdown she’d jumped at it.

To say it wasn’t her favourite time of the year was an understatement. She loathed Christmas, with all its glittery twinkling lights and forced festive joviality, because this was the time of year when her world had fallen apart and she’d realised that happiness and security were just an illusion that could be ripped away at any moment.

Like the Wizard of Oz, who had appeared from behind his carefully constructed façade to reveal he wasn’t a wizard at all. Far from it.

And yet as she looked out over this alien view that couldn’t be more removed from that London scene, she didn’t feel relieved. She felt a pang. Worse. A yearning.

Because in spite of everything a tiny, traitorous part of her secretly ached for the kind of Christmas celebrated in cheesy movies and on cards depicting happy families and togetherness. The fact that she usually spent her Christmas Day alone, with tears coursing down her face as she watched Miracle On 34th Street or It’s a Wonderful Life for the hundredth time was a shameful secret she would take to her grave.

She made a disgusted sound at herself and turned her back on the view, firmly shoving any such rogue yearnings down deep where they belonged. She distracted herself by taking in the vast expanse of the King’s Royal Office—which, if the correct protocol was being observed, she should never have been allowed into without his presence. She sighed.

She could see that at one time it had been impressive, with its huge floor-to-ceiling murals depicting scenes that looked as if they’d been plucked from a book of Arabian mythology. But now they were badly faded.

Everything Charlotte had seen so far of Tabat and its eponymous capital city had an air of faded glory and neglect. But it had charmed her with its ancient winding streets, clusters of stone buildings and the river that ran all the way from the Tabat Mountains to the sea on the coast of neighbouring Jandor.

The country was rich in natural resources—oil being the most important and lucrative. But its infrastructure was in serious need of modernisation, along with myriad other aspects of the country—education, government, economy... It badly needed a leader prepared to take on the mammoth task of hauling it into the twenty-first century. Its potential was abundant and just waiting to be tapped into.

But, from the little she knew of Sheikh Al-Noury and his reputation, she didn’t hold out much hope for that happening any time soon. He’d made no secret of the fact that his priorities lay with his myriad business empires in the West.

She’d been hired by his brother, King Zafir of Jandor, to advise Salim Al-Noury on international diplomacy and relations in the run-up to his coronation, but in the two weeks since she’d accepted the assignment neither the sheikh nor his people had made any effort to return Charlotte’s calls or provide her with any information.

Charlotte checked her watch again. He was now well over an hour late. Feeling frustrated, and not a little irritated and tired after her journey, she walked over to where she’d put down her document case, prepared to leave and find someone who could direct her to her room. But just as she drew near to the huge doors they swung open abruptly in her face and a man walked in.

One thing was immediately and glaringly apparent. In spite of seeing his picture online, Charlotte was not remotely prepared for Sheikh Salim Ibn Hafiz Al-Noury in the flesh. For the first time in her life she was rendered speechless.

For a start he was taller than she’d expected. Much taller. Well over six feet. And his body matched that height with broad shoulders and a wide chest narrowing down to lean hips and long legs. He was a big man, and she hadn’t expected him to be so physically formidable. The impression was one of sheer force and power.

Messily tousled over-long dark hair framed his exquisitely handsome face, which was liberally stubbled. His eyes were so blue they immediately reminded Charlotte of the vast sky outside—vivid and sharp. His mouth was disconcertingly sensual—a contrast to the hard angles of his body and bone structure.

A loose-fitting white shirt did little to disguise the solid mass of muscle on his chest and a tantalising glimpse of dark hair. It was tucked into very worn jodhpurs that clung to hard and well muscled thighs in a way that could only be described as provocative. Scuffed leather boots hugged his calves.

It was only then, belatedly, that Charlotte registered the very earthy and surprisingly sensual smell of horseflesh and something else—male sweat. To her utter horror she realised that she was reacting to him as if she’d taken complete leave of her senses.

He frowned. ‘Mrs McQuillan?’

She nodded, only vaguely registering that he’d got her title wrong.

‘You were leaving?’

His deep and intriguingly accented voice reverberated through her nerve-endings in a very distracting way.

Charlotte finally broke herself out of the disturbing inertia that was rendering her insensible. What on earth was wrong with her? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen a handsome man before. She tried to ignore the fact that she’d just made such an intense inspection of the man and shelved her unfortunate reaction to him until she could study it in private, later.

She looked him in the eye. ‘I’ve been waiting here for over an hour, Your Majesty, I thought you weren’t coming.’

Those remarkable eyes flashed with what looked like censure. ‘I’m not king yet.’

He looked down, and Charlotte became conscious of her rigid grasp on her case. She forced herself to relax.

He met her eye again. ‘Were you offered any refreshment?’

Charlotte shook her head. King—no, Sheikh Al-Noury walked back to the doorway and shouted for someone. A young boy in a long tunic and turban appeared—the same one who had shown her into the office—looking pathetically eager to please. He looked terrified, however, after the stream of rapid Arabic Sheikh Al-Noury subjected him to, and then he ran.

When Charlotte registered what he’d said she stepped forward saying heatedly, ‘That was uncalled for! How was he to know to offer me anything when he only looks about twelve? Someone senior should have been here to meet me. Where are your staff?’

Sheikh Al-Noury turned around slowly. He arched a brow and leant against the doorframe, crossing his arms. Totally nonchalant and unfazed by her outburst. ‘You speak Arabic?’

Charlotte nodded jerkily. ‘Among numerous other languages. But that’s not the point—’

He straightened from the door. ‘I’m sorry. I would have been here to meet you but I got delayed at the stables, taking delivery of a new thoroughbred—a present from Sheikh Nadim Al Saqr of Merkazad. He was skittish after the journey so it took a while to settle him.’

Sheikh Al-Noury had crossed the expanse of the Royal Office before Charlotte could get her thoughts in order. The fact that his apology hadn’t sounded remotely sincere was something that got lost in a haze as she found herself once again momentarily mesmerised by his sheer athletic grace. He moved like no other man she’d ever seen—all coiled muscle and barely restrained sexual magnetism. It was an assault on her senses.

He looked over his shoulder from where he was pouring dark golden liquid into a bulbous glass. ‘Can I get you anything?’

Charlotte’s throat suddenly felt as dry as the surrounding desert and she said, ‘Just water, please, if you have it.’

He came back towards her, holding out a glass of iced water, and once again Charlotte was struck by his sheer physicality. She reached for the glass and their fingers touched. A raw jolt of electricity shot up her arm, making her accept it jerkily. She immediately raised it to her mouth to give herself something to do, feeling as if she was floundering. She didn’t like it.

Sheikh Al-Noury indicated the chair from which she’d only just picked up her bag, intending to leave.

‘Please, take a seat, Mrs McQuillan.’

He walked around to the other side of his desk and sat down, lifting his feet carelessly onto the desk-top and crossing them at the ankle. Charlotte’s eyes grew wide at this less than respectful pose, and she forgot his offer to take a seat. Right now all he was missing was a half-naked showgirl sitting in his lap.

He swirled the drink in his glass and took a sip before looking at her and raising a brow. ‘I presume from the expression on your face that I’m about to get my first lesson in diplomacy and etiquette?’

Charlotte dragged her horrified gaze away from the very battered soles of his boots. There were dark stains that looked and smelt suspiciously like animal waste, and as her gaze clashed with that painfully blue one she said frigidly, ‘It is generally considered an insult of varying proportions to expose the soles of your feet to a guest anywhere in the world.’

The man did nothing for a long moment, and then he just shrugged minutely. ‘Well, we are in this part of the world now—and, believe me, we have far more inventive ways of insulting people. Nevertheless, I will endeavour to refrain from insulting my etiquette advisor.’

He lifted his legs, which only drew Charlotte’s attention to his thighs again, and then they were hidden from view under his desk. She felt the strangest twist in her belly. Almost a pang of regret. It angered her to be behaving so oddly.

That anger made her say through gritted teeth, ‘I am much more than an “etiquette advisor”, Sheikh Al-Noury. I am an expert in international relations and diplomacy, with a master’s degree in Middle Eastern Relations. I speak seven languages and I’ve just completed a successful assignment with King Alix Saint Croix, ensuring his smooth transition back onto the world stage after regaining his throne...’

Charlotte stopped and took a breath, slightly aghast at how much had just tumbled from her mouth.

Sheikh Al-Noury barely moved a muscle from his louche pose as he said, ‘Mrs McQuillan—’

‘And it’s not Mrs McQuillan,’ Charlotte snapped, feeling as if she was fraying from the inside out while this man remained utterly nonchalant. ‘It’s Miss.’

The sheikh’s bright gaze dropped down over her upper body and back up, making Charlotte feel hot all over and yet as if she’d suddenly been found wanting. He’d obviously come to some unflattering conclusion about her single status.

He looked at her and said, with an almost infinitesimal twitching at the corner of his sensual mouth, ‘Quite. Forgive me for the error. I’m afraid I’d just assumed...’ He sat up straighter then, and pointed to the chair on the other side of his desk. ‘Please, sit down, Miss McQuillan. You’re making me nervous, looming over me like that.’

Charlotte doubted anything would make this man remotely nervous, and to her disgust felt perilously close to wanting to stamp her foot and storm out. Did he have to make her feel like an admonishing parent? And why should that be pricking at her insides like a hot poker?

Charlotte’s habitual cool head was irritatingly elusive. She’d never been so aware of herself. She knew that she presented a slightly conservative front, but in her business it was paramount to appear at all times elegant and refined. Giving no cause for possible offence or provocation.

She reluctantly did as he’d bade and sat down, aware of her skirt feeling tight and the top button of her shirt digging into her throat. Clothes that had never felt restrictive before, now felt shrink-wrapped to her body.

He put the glass down on the desk and said, ‘Look, your credentials are not in doubt. King Alix of Isle Saint Croix rang me himself to sing your praises. But the fact is that I did not look for your expertise. My brother hired you in spite of my protests. I would have told you before not to bother coming, but I’m afraid I got caught up in ensuring my business concerns are attended to in my absence. However, I will be more than happy to ensure your return to the UK immediately, and of course you will receive full payment in recompense.’

This man’s casual disregard for who and what she was made Charlotte’s hackles rise. As did his arrogant assumption that she would be so easily dismissed.

She pointed out with faux sweetness, ‘As it was your brother who hired me, then I’m afraid he is the only one who has the power to terminate this contract.’

Sheikh Al-Noury immediately scowled, but it only enhanced the wickedly beautiful symmetry of his features. His gaze narrowed on her and she stopped herself from fidgeting.

‘Are you seriously telling me that you would prefer to stay here in this landlocked sandpit of a country, in a city that is routinely plunged into darkness when the archaic electricity infrastructure fails, rather than be at home amongst your first-world comforts enjoying all of the festivities of the season? My coronation is due to take place a couple of days before Christmas, Miss McQuillan, and if you stay I can’t guarantee that you’ll make it home in time. You might not be married, but I’m sure there’s someone who is expecting your...company.’

It took Charlotte a few precious seconds to assimilate everything he was saying, but what caught at her gut was the way he’d hesitated over the word company, as if he’d had to find a diplomatic—ha!—way of suggesting that there might be someone waiting for her.

Next she registered his obvious disdain for his inherited kingdom—this landlocked sandpit of a country. True, there was something pitilessly unrelenting about the sea of sand on all sides of this ancient city, but Charlotte had felt a quickening of something deep in her soul—an urge to go out and explore, knowing from her research and studies of this region that it hid treasures not immediately apparent.

Collecting her wits, she said coolly, ‘I’m not in the habit of reneging on agreements, Sheikh Al-Noury, and it would be unprofessional in the extreme for me to walk away at this early stage. As for your kind concern about my missing Christmas, I can assure you that I have no particular desire or need to return in time for the holiday. In fact, it suits me perfectly well to be here right now.’

Salim looked at the woman on the other side of his desk—more than a little taken aback. He was used to issuing an order, or, in this case a very polite suggestion—and having it obeyed. But she was not walking out of his office as he’d fully intended—who wouldn’t take pay for nothing?—instead she was sitting opposite him as straight and upright as a haughty ballet dancer, staring at him with eyes the kind of green he’d only ever seen in Scotland, on one of those ethereally misty days. Distracting. Irritating.

She wasn’t remotely his type, so why was he noticing her eyes? Salim preferred his women a lot more deshabillée, accessible and amenable. Everything about her, from her shining cap of neatly bobbed shoulder-length hair to her pristine dark grey suit and light grey blouse, screamed control and order—constraints Salim had rebelled against for so long now that he couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t wanted to upset the status quo.

And yet...much to his irritation...he couldn’t help noticing the fact that her surprisingly lush mouth was at odds with her cool demeanour, making him wonder what other lushness might be hiding under her oh-so-prim and neat exterior.

His gaze dropped to the bow at her throat and he imagined tugging on one silken length—would her whole shirt fall open? As he watched, the silky material moved more rapidly over her chest, as if she was breathing quickly, and when Salim glanced up again her cheeks had a slight telltale flush.

He was well inured to the signs of attraction in women, but it was patently evident that this woman didn’t welcome it. Which was a total novelty.

When he caught her eye again he almost felt the blast of ice along with an accusatory light. She definitely didn’t like being attracted to him.

This intrigued him more than he cared to admit—as did her assertion that she didn’t mind missing Christmas. But he curbed the impulse to ask her why. He avoided asking women searching questions.

Salim cursed himself and shifted in his chair to ease the sudden constriction in his pants. To find himself reacting to a woman who desired him but looked at him as if he was a naughty schoolboy was galling.

He forced his body back under control and stood up. Her gaze lingered around his chest area for a moment before rising. She stood up too—hurriedly. He had a sense that she was usually more composed—if that was possible—than she was now and that thought gave him some perverse pleasure.

‘You’re determined to see out your contract, then?’

She nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘How long did my dear brother hire you for?’

‘Until the coronation takes place. He said that if you require my services after that you can extend the contract yourself.’

Salim thought to himself that as he had no intention of staying in his role as king for long that would be highly unlikely, but he desisted from sharing that information with a complete stranger.

‘As you wish,’ he said. ‘If you really want to stay in this sand-blown place—’

‘Oh, but I think it’s beautiful...’ She stopped, her cheeks going pink. ‘I mean, from what I’ve seen so far. It’s run down, yes, but one can see the potential.’

Salim arched a brow and ignored the pulse in his blood seeing this small glimpse of something like passion. ‘Can one?’

Her green eyes flashed. Once again Salim found himself a little mesmerised by the vivid emotions crossing her face. He couldn’t remember meeting a woman so lacking in artifice. And then something in him hardened. Was he losing his mind? All women wanted something from him—even this one.

Maybe she just wanted the kudos of working for him—it would certainly elevate her professional standing to be the one who had wrangled Sheikh Salim Al-Noury into accepting his crown and toeing the line like a good little king.

He thought of something and folded his arms. ‘Aren’t you worried that by being associated with me you’ll taint your reputation?’

She tipped up her chin. ‘I am here to see that that doesn’t happen, Sheikh Al-Noury, and I’m very good at my job.’

For a second he stood in stunned silence, and then he couldn’t stop a smile—a genuine smile—from curving his mouth upwards. It had been so long since anyone had exhibited such confidence in front of him. And a lack of awe that was as refreshing as it was slightly insulting.

She frowned. ‘If you’re going to make fun of me—’

Salim shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t dare, Miss McQuillan. I’d be afraid you’d put me over your knee and spank me for being naughty.’

The colour deepened in her cheeks, as if she was having trouble controlling her temper and Salim almost, but not quite, regretted goading her like this.

But then she recovered and reached for her case. She avoided his eye. ‘If that’s all for now, Sheikh Al-Noury, I think I’d like to settle in and get acquainted with my surroundings.’

He put out a hand. ‘By all means. Let me show you to your room.’

She preceded him out of the Royal Office. She was taller than he’d initially registered. The top of her head would come to just under his chin. Her body would stand tantalisingly flush against his in heels. But if she wasn’t wearing heels... Once again sexual interest flared in his groin and he scowled. She was buttoned up to within an inch of her life. Since when had he found prim attractive?

Charlotte was burningly aware of Sheikh Al-Noury close behind her, and it made her tense—even though she knew that he wasn’t remotely interested in her in that way. She was sure he didn’t taunt women he found attractive and suggest they might put him over their knee, which had caused all manner of completely inappropriate images to flood her mind.

The man was so charismatic, he could probably make an inanimate object feel something.

He led her away from the office down a long, imposing corridor. She’d only seen a handful of staff so far, which added to the surreal sense of the whole palace being in a state of arrested development.

Salim glanced at her when she’d caught up with his long-legged stride and she said, ‘I’m surprised the palace is so quiet. Is there only a skeleton staff because no one has been in residence for so long?’

Sheikh Al-Noury stopped, causing Charlotte to come to a halt too. ‘There is minimal staff today because it’s a national holiday—don’t tell me you missed that in your research?’

She had missed that pertinent detail, and now she felt foolish after spouting off all her qualifications.

‘Don’t worry,’ he drawled, striding off again, ‘I’ll make sure someone attends to you and brings you food. Tomorrow you’ll be assigned a maid—’

‘That’s really not necessary,’ Charlotte protested as she started after him. She was aware of the customs here, but wasn’t comfortable at the thought of someone waiting on her.

‘It’s how things are done, Ms McQuillan,’ the sheikh pointed out. ‘If you insist on staying then you will abide by our ways.’

Charlotte stopped for a moment, surprised that in this he seemed to be happy that customs were adhered to, but she had to keep going when he showed no signs of slowing down and was about to disappear around a corner. She wouldn’t put it past him to leave her lost in this vast palace. It couldn’t be more obvious that he’d prefer to be putting her on the next flight home.

She longed to be able to stop and explore as they passed intriguing-looking courtyards with colourful mosaics and ornate fountains. They rounded another corner and Charlotte jumped when a peacock appeared in their path, as nonchalant as if they were intruding on its turf, its long and vibrantly coloured tail trailing behind it.

Sheikh Al-Noury stepped around it and kept going. Charlotte felt disorientated. She’d built a picture of this man in her mind that had been based on lurid headlines:

Playboy Sheikh opens new nightclub

in Monte Carlo!

Al-Noury triples fortune overnight by

floating new social media messaging site!

And, while he wasn’t doing much to dispel that image with his appearance or attitude, he didn’t seem as...shallow as Charlotte might have expected.

They came to a set of huge double doors at the end of the corridor. Sheikh Al-Noury opened them and stood back to let her precede him. When Charlotte stepped over the threshold she sucked in a breath. This was a different palace. One that hadn’t been frozen in time and left to crumble to pieces.

It was a suite containing numerous rooms, each one covered in exquisite Persian carpets. The furnishings were sumptuous and sensual—dark reds and purples. A little over the top for her tastes, but effortlessly regal. There was a private dining area, and a living room that led into a palatial en-suite bedroom dominated by a four-poster bed.

She avoided looking at that, acutely aware of the man only feet away and how he might be observing her reaction and somehow judging her. She’d never felt so conscious of being a woman before. And a woman who was lacking.

The room was pleasantly cool, thanks to the air-conditioning, and there were floor-to-ceiling windows and French doors that led out onto a private terrace, complete with a decorative swimming pool.

She turned around to face her reluctant host. ‘These rooms are beautiful, but I’d be quite happy in something less...luxurious.’

He waved a dismissive hand. ‘These are usually reserved for my mother’s use, and they were decorated to her specifications, but as she won’t be visiting any time soon you are welcome to use them.’

There was a distinctly chilly tone to his voice and Charlotte said, ‘Not even for your coronation?’

Sheikh Al-Noury’s face became shuttered. ‘She knows she’s not welcome here while I’m in residence.’

Charlotte couldn’t claim much of a relationship with either of her parents, but the cold tone of Sheikh Al-Noury’s voice shocked her. ‘But isn’t this her homeland?’

He responded curtly. ‘It was.’

He backed away then, and suddenly Charlotte had an irrational fear of being left alone in this seemingly empty palace. In truth, it wasn’t a totally irrational fear because she’d had plenty of experience being left to her own devices, with only a nanny and staff for company in big houses, but she refused to think of her own demons now.

She’d already revealed too much by admitting she had no desire to be at home for Christmas. Not that he’d shown much interest in why that might be. Not that she wanted him to show interest she told herself fervently. So she said nothing.

He was almost at the door when he turned back and said, ‘Please, make yourself comfortable. I’ll instruct someone to bring you some dinner.’

So she was to be consigned to her rooms.

But then he added, ‘Do feel free to explore... I must warn you, though, that it is perilously easy to get lost in this place, so don’t stray too far. The palace library is on this corridor, if you go left when you step outside.’

Just before he disappeared Charlotte blurted out, ‘Sheikh Al-Noury?’

He turned around, his hand on the door. ‘Yes?’

For a moment her mind went dismayingly blank at the way he so effortlessly dominated even this vast room, but she forced herself to focus and said, ‘I’m not here to be a nuisance... I am actually here to try and help ease your transition into becoming king.’

She could see his jaw clench from where she stood, and he said, ‘Miss McQuillan, you wouldn’t be here if it had been up to me. The last thing I need is an expert in diplomacy. But you are here, and I suspect you’re going to prove to be a nuisance whether you intend to or not, so you can start by calling me Salim. The way you say Sheikh Al-Noury makes me feel old.’

Before Charlotte could respond to that, or object to the way he insisted on calling her Miss McQuillan, as if she were a headmistress, he said, ‘I’ll have someone bring you some food, and I suggest that in the meantime we stay out of each other’s way.’


CHAPTER TWO (#u231c5f36-e970-524e-90b1-746d3f268bc4)

CHARLOTTE WATCHED THE door close on the most infuriating man she’d ever met, not to mention the most disturbing, and she had to quell a childish urge to hurl something at the door behind him. Instead she kicked off her shoes and paced back and forth on the sumptuous silken rugs.

She fumed. She was used to dealing with clients who thought they knew everything about international relations and diplomacy until something blew up in their faces, and then suddenly Charlotte became their most valuable asset. But she’d never encountered such downright...antipathy before.

She was patently unwelcome—and she could call him Salim but he wouldn’t deign to call her Charlotte. She thought about that for a moment and felt a frisson run down her spine at the thought of his tongue wrapping itself around her name. That little frisson was humiliating, because it was glaringly obvious that he didn’t view her as female—more as an asexual irritation.

Sheikh Al-Noury was affecting her in a way that she hadn’t experienced before, because she was good at keeping people at a distance and yet from the first moment they’d met he’d slid under her skin with disconcerting ease.

Charlotte shucked off her jacket and undid the bow at her neck and her top button. Then, spying her bags in the bedroom near the dressing room, she set about unpacking. She found herself dwelling on the animosity the sheikh had demonstrated towards his mother. She didn’t like the way it resonated within her, reminding her of her own fractured relationship with her mother, brought on by years of careless parenting after a bitter divorce.

But she diverted her mind away from wondering too much about anything personal to do with the sheikh. It wasn’t her business. And the last thing she wanted to think about was her own pitiful family history.

After taking a refreshing shower in the lavish bathroom, Charlotte changed into stretchy pants and a soft long-sleeved top. Just as her stomach rumbled she heard a knock on the door. Her gut clenched as she imagined it might be him, but when she opened the door there was a young girl, with a trolley full of food and wine in an ice bucket on the other side.

She admonished herself; he’d hardly be delivering her dinner.

Charlotte stood back to let the girl in and watched as she silently laid the dining table for one and set out the food. Tantalising scents filled the air and her stomach rumbled louder. The girl scurried out again, too shy to return Charlotte’s smile.

Charlotte sat down to explore what she’d been given. Balls of rice mixed with herbs. Lamb infused with spices and scented rice. Flat bread with hummus. It looked delicious and she found that she was ravenous.

She ate as dusk fell outside, not noticing it had got dark until she stood up and went to the window with her wine glass in her hand, feeling a little more settled after an unsettling day.

She opened the French doors and was surprised to find that it was much cooler than she’d expected—and then she chastised herself: basic geography, of course it got cold in the desert at night. She fetched a cashmere wrap and then went back outside, sitting on a seat, relishing the peace.

The thought of the vast expanse of empty desert surrounding her made a thrum of excitement pulse in her blood. She’d always found this part of the world fascinating, hence her choice of master’s degree. The stars were so low and bright in the dark sky she imagined she could reach out and pluck one into her hand.

Tabat intrigued her.

And so does its enigmatic ruler, whispered a voice.

Charlotte scowled and took a sip of wine, telling herself that Sheikh Al-Noury—Salim—didn’t intrigue her at all. He was thoroughly charmless and clearly reluctant to change his hedonistic existence before becoming king.

He didn’t intrigue her because she knew his type all too well. As the only child of two high-profile parents, who had used her as an unwitting pawn in their bitter divorce and custody battle, she recognised the traits of a selfish person who was here under sufferance. After all, when her father had lost in the custody battle with her mother he’d always let it be known that her visits with him had been something he’d done purely out of legal obligation, not because he really cared for her, so she was in far too familiar territory.

However, she wouldn’t let her own personal feelings intrude on her professional life. She’d worked too hard to separate herself from her parents and that time. She’d even changed her name, vowing to live a life much different from theirs, which was smack at the centre of the public eye.

She’d built an independent life and a reputation based on her intellect—not her name or the infamy associated with it. She had a strong desire never to be at the mercy of anyone else again, to the point that she’d instinctively avoided intimate relationships, too afraid of letting someone close enough to devastate her world as her parents had.

Diverting her mind away from her past, she assured herself that all she had to do was make sure the sheikh didn’t cause an international scandal in the run-up to his coronation, which was due to take place in three weeks. And then, once the man had been crowned king, Charlotte could walk away and hopefully never see him again.

So why did she find her mind wandering back to him now? Wondering where he was in this vast and largely empty palace?

Then she cursed her naivety as a wave of embarrassment made her feel hot. He had surely not denied himself the pleasures of a mistress. A man like that? He’d left his life of excess in Europe and the States, to return to take up his rightful place, but he’d hardly have denied himself his base comforts, and sex and women were one of his most well-documented pastimes. And only the most beautiful women at that—albeit never for long.

Charlotte shook her head and stood up, returning to her suite. She told herself firmly that she couldn’t care less if Sheikh Salim was entertaining a harem of mistresses right now as long as he was discreet about it.

The fact that it took her ages to fall asleep in the huge bed, only for her dreams to be populated by a mysteriously masked and robed man on a huge stallion cantering across vast desert sands, was a pure coincidence. And not disturbing in the slightest.

Not even when she had to concede when she woke the following morning that he hadn’t really been mysterious at all. Not with those blue eyes.

A week later

‘Sire, we are so grateful that you are here, finally. There is so much work to do in two weeks! And then, once you are king—’

Salim turned around abruptly from where he’d been trying to tune out his chief aide, stopping the man’s words. They caused a sensation not unlike panic in his chest and Salim did not panic.

His aide—an old man who had known his grandfather—looked at him expectantly. Salim said tightly, ‘Do whatever it is that you deem necessary, Rafa. You know more about this place than me, after all.’

The slightest flare of something in those old eyes was the only hint that his aide was not impressed that it had taken Salim so long to take up his role, or that he’d spent most of the last week out of Tabat.

Salim told himself that part of his motivation for leaving Tabat behind for a few days hadn’t had anything to do with Charlotte McQuillan and her big green eyes looking at him so incisively. Not unlike the way Rafa was looking at him right now.

It had actually had to do with the secret meetings he’d set up with his legal team, and a close friend who ruled a nearby sultanate, to discuss who best to approach to take over from him as king once he’d abdicated.

The meetings hadn’t gone well. The one person he and his team had identified as a suitable prospective king had turned them down flat. A distant cousin of Salim’s, Riad Arnaud.

The man was a billionaire and a respected businessman. He had ancestral links to this world and had inherited a tiny uninhabited Sheikhdom on the borders of Tabat and Jandor—a mining hub that workers commuted in and out of from nearby Jandor.

But, he was also a single father with a young daughter and he was adamant that he didn’t want to turn his life upside down, thrusting her into a life of duty and service and taking her away from her home in France, where they lived.

Salim of all people had to respect his cousin’s decision, after all, he knew the consequences of having choice taken away from you.

His friend Sultan Sadiq of Al-Omar had borne the brunt of Salim’s frustration once his team had left.

When he’d finished extolling the potential virtues of Tabat that would be enjoyed by its next king his friend had just looked at him with an arched brow and asked mockingly, ‘If it’s such a hidden jewel then why are you so eager to pass it up?’

The fact that his friend’s question had caused Salim to stop momentarily was not something he wanted to dwell on. Nor was the fact that it had made him recall Charlotte McQuillan’s assessment that Tabat had potential. This was not his destiny and he would not be swayed.

In a bid to deflect his mind from that incident and from his conscience, which was proving to be dismayingly persistent, Salim asked, ‘Miss McQuillan...where is she now?’

Rafa’s eyes lit up. He was clearly anticipating that Salim was finally ready to seek advice on becoming a good king. But Salim had far more carnal urges on his mind than discussions of diplomacy and he didn’t like it. She wasn’t his type.

Even with a vast desert between them he’d found the image of her green eyes staying with him, along with the provocative image of that damned silk bow tied so primly at her throat.

Rafa interrupted Salim’s thoughts when he answered, ‘She wanted to go sightseeing today, so I sent one of my junior assistants with her. They’ve gone to the wadi just outside the city limits.’

Salim frowned, his irritation increasing for no good reason. ‘Which junior assistant went with her?’

Rafa looked nervous. ‘Kdal, sire. He’s one of my most trusted assistants—I assure you he’ll take care of her.’

Picturing the young man’s prettily handsome face and obsequious manner in his mind’s eye, Salim found himself saying, ‘Instruct the groom to get my horse ready.’

* * *

Charlotte was doing her best not to stand with her mouth hanging open, but it was hard in such a jaw-droppingly beautiful location. The wadi was just outside Tabat City—a deep river valley carved out of the earth. A sheer high wall of rock was on one side, dotted with palm trees at the base. The other side was flat and verdant, and obviously a popular beauty spot, although it was quiet today.

Kdal, her attentive guide, had explained that this wadi was always full of water due to the underground streams. The water looked green and all too inviting in the blazing midday heat.

Kdal was now guiding her over to where a makeshift table had been set up, under a tent that offered some much needed shade.

‘We’re having lunch here?’ she asked, charmed by the idea, and also by the delicious smells coming from where a small cluster of rustic buildings stood.

‘Yes, Miss McQuillan. We thought you’d enjoy the view. This is a well-known spot for travellers to stop and seek refreshment. I hope you don’t think it’s too basic...’

Charlotte was about to respond not at all but then suddenly Kdal disappeared from her eyeline and Charlotte looked down to see him prostrated at her feet. She was about to bend down and see if he’d fainted when she heard a sound behind her, and turned to see a mythically huge black stallion on top of which sat a man with a turban covering his head and face. He wore a long robe.

It was so reminiscent of her dreams that Charlotte wondered if she was suffering from sunstroke—and then the man swung his leg over and stepped gracefully off the horse, which snorted and gave a shake of its massive head.

All Charlotte could see, though, was the bright flash of blue eyes. Far too familiar blue eyes. Sheikh Al-Noury. Her pulse tripped and galloped at double-time.

He pulled down the material covering his mouth and said with a glint in his eye, ‘You don’t look very enthusiastic to have me join you for lunch.’

It was him. She wasn’t dreaming.

A man appeared, seemingly from out of thin air, to lead the sheikh’s stallion away, and she saw a sleek blacked out four-by-four vehicle purring to a stop nearby, presumably carrying his security detail.

Charlotte called on all her skills to recover, and said as equably as she could, ‘Well, if you recall, you told me that you believed my presence would be a nuisance and that you intended for us to stay out of each other’s way—hardly leading me to suspect that you’d seek out my company.’

He didn’t look remotely repentant. He looked breathtakingly gorgeous as he lazily pulled the turban off his head. Dark hair curled wildly from where it had been confined under his turban, and his jaw was even more stubbled than she remembered. He was wearing the jodhpurs again, and the long tunic did little to disguise the sheer masculine power of his body.

Charlotte hated that she was wearing pretty much the same outfit she’d been wearing the first time she’d seen him.

As if reading her mind, his gaze slipped down from her face and he asked, ‘Do you own a similar shirt in every colour of the rainbow, Miss McQuillan?’

Defensively Charlotte answered, ‘No, actually. But I find that in my line of work it’s prudent to be smartly dressed at all times, and I’m mindful of not offending anyone by wearing anything too casual or revealing.’

His eyes met hers, and she could have sworn his mouth twitched.

‘No, that wouldn’t do at all.’

He gestured to the table behind them, and when she turned she saw that it was now miraculously set for two, with gleaming silverware and sparkling glasses on a white tablecloth. Kdal had disappeared, the little traitor.

‘Please sit, Miss McQuillan.’

She sat down, feeling on edge, cursing Kdal for not warning her to expect the sheikh, who sat down opposite her. Even though they were out in the open air it suddenly felt claustrophobic.

Muted sounds came from the direction of the small cluster of buildings. There was an air of urgency that hadn’t been there a few minutes before. The sheikh had clearly injected the wadi staff with adrenalin.

He took a sip of water and said, ‘I’m sure you’ve noticed a change in the palace since the first day you arrived.’

Charlotte looked at him and had to admit, ‘It’s like a different place.’

When she’d woken up on her first morning and gone for an exploratory walk the place had gone from being eerily empty to buzzing with activity.

She said, ‘I didn’t realise the national holiday was to commemorate the anniversary of your grandfather’s death. I’m sorry.’

The sheikh shrugged. ‘Don’t be. I hardly knew him. He died when I was a teenager.’

‘So there’s been a caretaker government here since then, until your father passed away?’

He nodded, and just then a waiter materialised, dressed in a pristine white tunic. The sheikh issued a stream of Arabic too fast for Charlotte to understand, and when the waiter had left he turned back to her.

‘I hope you don’t mind—I’ve ordered a few local delicacies.’

Charlotte narrowed her eyes at him across the table, suspecting strongly that this man would ride roughshod over anyone who let him. ‘Actually, I prefer to order for myself, but I’m not a fussy eater.’

He sat back, that twitch at the corner of his mouth more obvious now.

‘Duly noted, Miss McQuillan. Tell me, is that a Scottish name?’

He threw her with his question, and Charlotte busied herself unfolding her napkin in a bid not to let him see how easily an innocent question like that rattled her. Because it wasn’t the name she’d been born with. It was her maternal grandmother’s name.

‘I...yes. It’s Scots-Irish.’ And then, before he could ask her more questions, she said, ‘I had a tour of the city this morning with Kdal. He was very informative.’

She stopped when she saw something flash across the sheikh’s face but it was quickly replaced with a very urbane expression, and he said, ‘Please, tell me your impressions—after all, you did say that you thought it had much potential.’

Charlotte looked at him suspiciously, thinking he was mocking her, but his expression appeared innocent. Well, as innocent as a sinfully gorgeous reprobate could look.

‘Well, obviously it needs a lot of work to restore it, but I found it fascinating. I had no idea how far back some of the buildings date. The mosque is breathtaking, and I hadn’t expected to see a cathedral too.’

Sheikh Al-Noury took a sip of the white wine that had been poured into their glasses. ‘The city has always been a multi-faith society—one of the most liberal in the region. Outside the city limits, however, the country runs on more traditional tribal lines. Tabat used to run all the way to the sea. Jahor, the capital of Jandor, was merely a military fortress until its warriors rose up and rebelled, creating a separate independent state and endless years of war. Tabat is where all the ancient treasures reside. And all the knowledge. We have a library that rivalled the one at Alexandria, in Egypt, before it was destroyed.’

Another waiter arrived with an array of food as Charlotte responded dryly, ‘Yes, I’ve spent some time in the library this week—it’s very impressive.’

The sheikh—she still couldn’t think of him as Salim—gestured to the food. ‘Please, help yourself. We don’t really have a starter course.’

Charlotte felt self-conscious as she picked a little from each plate and added it to her own. She had to admit that she loved the Tabat cuisine as she tried a special bread that was baked with minced lamb, onions and tomatoes. Halloumi cheese and honey was another staple she was becoming addicted to. At this rate she’d have nothing to show for her time here except added inches to her waistline.

She watched Sheikh Al-Noury covertly from under her lashes, but he caught her looking and she could feel heat climb into her cheeks.

‘You’re not drinking your wine?’ he observed.

She shook her head. ‘I prefer not to when I’m working.’

He picked up his glass and tipped it towards her. ‘I commend your professionalism. I, however, feel no similar urge to maintain appearances.’ He took a healthy sip.

Feeling emboldened by his seeming determination to goad her, she said, ‘I heard you have been away for most of the week.’

He put his glass down and his gaze narrowed on her. ‘Yes. I was invited to the Sultan of Al-Omar’s annual party in B’harani. He’s an old friend.’

An image immediately sprang into her mind of the sheikh surrounded by beautiful women, and when she replied her voice sounded unintentionally sharp. ‘I’ve heard of them... His parties are renowned for being impossible to get into, and they dominate the gossip columns for weeks afterwards, but there are never any pictures.’

‘Yes,’ he said, almost wistfully. ‘That was in the good old days. But it’s all changed now that he’s a married man with children.’

‘You don’t approve, Sheikh Al-Noury?’ Charlotte asked with faux innocence, almost enjoying herself now.

Those blue eyes pierced right through her. ‘I thought I told you to call me Salim. And my friend Sadiq can do as he pleases. Every man seems to fall sooner or later.’

Charlotte ignored the little dart of emotion that surprised her, at the thought of this man falling for someone. ‘Won’t you have to...fall too? You’ll be expected to take a queen and produce heirs once you are crowned king.’

Salim surveyed the woman opposite him, in another of those tantalising silk shirts with the damned bow that had haunted his dreams. Maybe she did it on purpose—projected this buttoned-up secretary image specifically to appeal to a man’s desire to see her come undone.

It irritated him intensely that not one of the many beautiful women at Sadiq’s party had managed to snare his interest. His old carousing friend had slapped him on the back and joked that he was becoming jaded. And then Sadiq’s very pretty wife had joined them and whispered something in her husband’s ear that had made him look at her so explicitly that even Salim, who was pretty unshockable, had felt uncomfortable.

When they’d made pathetically flimsy excuses and left, he’d silently wished them well in their obvious happy domesticity, while repeating his own refrain that he would never be snared like that. Because to commit oneself to another person was to risk untold pain.

When he’d lost his sister the grief had been so acute that for a long time he’d wanted to die too. After he’d passed through that dark phase and emerged on the other side he’d never wanted to love anyone again. It was simply too devastating. Loss had eaten away at his soul until there had been nothing left but a need to escape from the world that had brought him such pain and avenge his sister’s death—which he had done.

Not that it had brought him any peace.

Angry to find his thoughts straying down this path, Salim said tersely in response to her question, ‘No, Miss McQuillan, I won’t have to fall.’

He felt an overwhelming urge to unsettle this woman who looked so pristine. So in control. So...unaffected.

‘Because,’ he said carefully, ‘I have no intention of being King of Tabat for any longer than absolutely necessary.’

Shock bloomed across her expressive face, exactly as he’d expected, but it failed to bring any measure of satisfaction and that irritated Salim intensely.

She sat up. ‘What do you mean? You’re being crowned in two weeks—of course you’ll be king.’

‘Not for long,’ he said grimly, regretting having said anything.

She shook her head, the shining cap of strawberry-blonde hair distracting him for a moment. She was so pale against this exotic backdrop. He imagined his darkness against her pale perfection...

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

Her cut-glass tones enflamed Salim’s arousal instead of dousing it. Only his friend Sadiq and his legal team knew of his plans. He shouldn’t have said anything to this woman, who was still a relative stranger...and yet he relished the easing of a weight off his shoulders.

‘I’m going to abdicate and ensure that a far more suitable person takes over as king in my place.’ Even if the signs of finding that person weren’t very encouraging.

Salim was mesmerised by the play of emotions over her face and he realised that she was quite beautiful. More beautiful for not being showy or wearing layers of make-up. She was obviously struggling to understand. He almost felt sorry for her.

‘But...if you’re intent on abdicating then why be crowned in the first place?’

‘Because the country isn’t entirely stable at the moment. There are tribal factions who want to see the city restored to a conservatism that hasn’t existed for years. They’ve been growing stronger. If I was to walk away now it would create a vacuum, which they would use as an opportunity to storm the city and take over...there is a real danger of warfare.’

She glanced around them before whispering forcefully, ‘But if you abdicate won’t the same thing happen?’

Salim shook his head. ‘By the time I abdicate I will ensure that whoever takes my place will be a force for good in the country. Someone who will command the respect of everyone and see the country into the future.’

She looked unimpressed and sat back, shaking her head. ‘Isn’t that meant to be you? Why would you do this when it’s your destiny?’

Salim put down his napkin on the table, his skin prickling for exposing himself like this. ‘You call being bred with calculated precision destiny? If it was destiny then my twin sister would be queen—she was born ten minutes before me—but because she was a girl and therefore deemed unsuitable, I was named the heir to the throne of Tabat.’

She looked at him, her face pale. ‘You have a sister? I didn’t realise...’

He curled his hand into a fist on the table and forced himself not to look away from that too-direct green gaze. ‘She’s dead. A long time ago.’

Charlotte felt the sheikh’s—Salim’s—tension. It crackled between them.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know... There was no mention...’

She was still reeling from what he’d just revealed about his plans as king...or non-plans. And that he’d had a sister.

‘How did she die?’

Salim looked at her for a long moment, but Charlotte had the sense he wasn’t seeing her. Then his focus narrowed to her again and she shivered.

‘It doesn’t matter how she died. She did. It’s in the past now.’

But Charlotte had a very keen sense that it wasn’t in the past at all. To change the subject a little, she pointed out, ‘Your brother seems happy to accept his role.’

Salim’s hand tightened around his napkin. ‘My brother and I are very different people. I made my life far away from here. I have numerous business concerns around the world... I employ thousands of people. Are they worth any less than the people of Tabat?’

‘No, of course not...but surely there is a way to run your businesses while also ruling Tabat?’

He inclined his head and his mouth tipped up slightly, as if mocking her. Charlotte felt heat rise. He was obviously finding her naive or clueless.

‘I’m sure if I wanted to I could find a way, Miss McQuillan, but the truth is that I’m not prepared to make that sacrifice. Tabat deserves a committed and devoted ruler. I am not that man.’

Why? The word almost fell out of Charlotte’s mouth, but she clawed it back at the last moment.

Salim sat back then, and said, ‘I’m hosting a party in the palace this weekend. You are, of course, more than welcome. If you’re still here.’

If you’re still here.

Charlotte schooled her features, not liking the dart of hurt she felt that he was still intent on getting rid of her. ‘Do you think the prospect of one of your infamous parties is enough to scare me off?’

He arched a brow. Supremely comfortable. Supremely dangerous. ‘Infamous? Please, do tell me what you’ve heard. I’m intrigued.’

She cursed her runaway mouth. ‘That they’re a byword in hedonism and last for days. The last party you hosted at an oasis in the Moroccan desert ended with several of the guests being airlifted to hospital.’

He shook his head. ‘I hate to burst your righteously indignant bubble, Miss McQuillan, but contrary to what was reported the helicopter was for me, to take me to the airport in Marrakech so that I could make a meeting in Paris. Nothing more salacious than that. The party broke up a couple of days later of its own accord, and I can assure you that no one suffered anything more than sunburn and a hangover.’

Charlotte immediately felt like assuring him that she wasn’t an avid follower of tabloid gossip and that she’d only read about it while researching him and Tabat, but she resisted. ‘I told you, I’ve no intention of reneging on my contract.’

Salim shrugged and finished his wine. ‘Suit yourself.’

Struggling to try and find some equilibrium again, some vague sense of being in control, Charlotte said, ‘I really don’t think that a similar party would go down well here—unless it’s part of your plan to deliberately paint yourself in such a negative light that you think it’ll make your abdication welcome.’

He considered her words for a long moment, and then said, ‘Not a bad idea at all, Miss McQuillan. Are you sure you aren’t in the PR field?’

Before she could answer he said, ‘As much as your idea has some merit, I’m not as crass as that. The last thing I want is to portray Tabat in an unfavourable light. After all, I’m on a campaign to make it as desirable as possible. So, no, this party won’t be featuring scenes of Bacchanalian debauchery, it’ll be very civilised and elegant.’




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/abby-green/a-christmas-bride-for-the-king/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.