Demanding His Desert Queen

If the envoy noticed Karim’s voice had turned to gravel, he didn’t show it.

‘Yes, but he’s far too young to take up the reins of government. If the boy were older…a teenager, perhaps…a regent might be appointed to rule in his stead and help guide him. Given his extreme youth, the Council has decided unanimously that it’s better for the country to find a new sheikh.’

‘Thus disinheriting the child?’ Karim had never met the boy. Intended never to meet him. Yet he felt for the child. His own brother would have been denied his true birthright if disapproving old men had had their way.

‘Our constitution is different from yours in Za’daq, sir. In Assara what we propose is quite legitimate. The crown is passed from adult male to adult male.’

Karim nodded. This wasn’t his battle to fight. He was only hearing the envoy out so the man could tell his masters he’d done his best.

‘Surely there are suitable leaders in Assara? You don’t need to go outside your country.’

Especially to a man who’d already turned his back on one sheikhdom.

The envoy pursed his lips, clearly taking time to choose his words. ‘I need hardly say, sir, that the Council’s deliberations are in strictest confidence.’

‘Naturally.’ Karim nodded. ‘You have my assurance that nothing you say will leave this room.’

It would have been easier to end the meeting and send the man away. But Karim’s curiosity was roused. He’d spent years building his investment business in lieu of ruling a country. But some things hadn’t died—such as his interest in state affairs.

‘Though the Sheikhs of Assara have been from the same family for over a hundred and fifty years, other significant families claim the right to offer a candidate in times where the inheritance is…complicated. Several names have been put forward. The one with the best claim is Hassan Shakroun.’

The visitor paused and Karim knew why. Shakroun was a bully whose idea of negotiation was bluster and intimidation. He was interested in personal aggrandisement and expanding his wealth, not in his nation. No wonder the Assarans were scoping other options for a king.

‘I see you know the name.’

‘We’ve met.’ Once had been enough.

‘Frankly, sir—’ The man swallowed, then ploughed on. ‘The Council is of the opinion that it’s not bloodlines that should determine our next leader so much as personal attributes.’

Karim swallowed a wry smile. They certainly wouldn’t get royal bloodlines from him, even if his mother was from a powerful family. His real father, as far as he could tell, came from humble stock.

‘You’re after someone who will do the bidding of the Council?’

It had been the same in Za’daq. Many councillors had been close friends of the previous Sheikh and, influenced by the old man’s disdain for Ashraf, had made his succession difficult. Things were better now, but for a while many had sought to bring Karim back and install him on the throne. Which was one of the reasons he’d refused to return to visit his homeland, except for Ashraf’s wedding. The other being that he knew it was better to cut all ties rather than pine for what might have been.

‘Not at all, sir.’ The envoy interrupted his thoughts. ‘The Council wants a strong leader capable of taking responsibility. A man who knows diplomacy and statecraft. A man who’ll be respected by other rulers in the region. If that man is from outside Assara, then it will short-circuit internal squabbling between rival families with an interest in the throne.’

So he was to be the outsider who united the unsuccessful parties? The Assaran Council had a high opinion of his capabilities, if they believed him able to walk in, calm any fractious rivals and make a success of the role.

Once Karim would have been pleased at such proof of respect from a neighbouring government. He must have impressed them in his years helping his father rule Za’daq, trying to persuade the old man into modernisation.

But that had been then. This was now.

He couldn’t accept the offer. Even if the Assarans did want him on merit rather than because of a royal pedigree. He’d built a new life. A life that hadn’t been laid out for him because of his supposed lineage.

For thirty years he’d followed a narrow, straight path, putting work first, shouldering responsibility for others. He had been dutiful and decent, a hardworking, honourable prince.

Till his life had crumpled like tissue paper in an iron fist.

For a moment an image swam before him of wide brown eyes. Of a cupid’s bow mouth. Of smashed hopes.

His breath hissed between his teeth as he banished the memory.

Karim was responsible for no one now but himself. That was exactly the way he wanted it. He knew the burden of being royal. He had no intention of putting on that yoke again.

‘Please pass my compliments and thanks to your Royal Council. I’m deeply honoured that they should consider me for such a noble position.’ He paused, watching his guest stiffen. ‘However, my answer is still no.’

Safiyah stood in front of the mirror in her suite and tried to still the panic rising from her belly to her throat. She wiped her hands down her thighs, hating that they trembled.

It didn’t matter what she wore. Yet she’d tried on every outfit she’d brought to Switzerland, finding fault with each one till all that had been left was this. A western-style dress, beautiful, in a heavy fabric that looked almost black. Until she moved. Then the light caught it and it glowed like deep crimson fire.

She bit her lip, suppressing a bitter laugh. Black and crimson. The colours of mourning and sacrifice. How apt. She’d done her share of both.

Safiyah shook her head, refusing to wallow in self-pity. She was far luckier than most. She had her health, a comfortable home and more money than she needed. Above all she had Tarek.

Life had taught her to set her shoulders and keep going, no matter what problems she encountered. To make the best of things and focus on others, not herself.

That was why she was here. To save someone precious.

To save a whole nation if her fears were right.

She swung away, but stopped before the balcony and the spectacular view of lake and mountains. This was her first trip out of the Middle East and she felt like a country bumpkin, gawping at everything. Well, not everything. She knew about luxury, about limousines and discreet security guards. But those mountains! And the green that was so incredibly green! She’d seen photos, of course, but this was different. Even the air through the open window tasted unique, ripe with moisture and growing things.

In other circumstances she’d put on jeans and flat shoes and find a way to slip out of the hotel, away from the bodyguards. She’d stroll through the public gardens, take her time staring into the glittering shop windows, then go to the lake and sit there, soaking up the scenery.

But circumstances weren’t different. Circumstances were difficult. Possibly dangerous, if the fears that kept her awake at night proved right and Hassan Shakroun took the throne.

Not surprising that her heart knocked against her ribs like a hammer on stone. Too much hung on this visit. Failure wasn’t an option.

Safiyah’s hand rose to her breastbone, her fingers touching the base of her throat as if to ease the riotous beat of her heart and the acid searing the back of her mouth.

It’s fine to be nervous. That will keep you grounded so you don’t get distracted by anything else.

Anything else being him—the man she’d travelled here to see. Even so, she’d hoped against hope it wouldn’t be necessary. That things would be sorted without her involvement. She’d been appalled to learn nothing had been agreed. That she had to see him after all.

Just thinking of him made her insides clutch as if someone had wrapped a rope around her middle and yanked it mercilessly. Her blood pumped so fast it rushed in her ears.

That’s good. The adrenalin will keep you alert. Give you courage.

Safiyah took a deep breath and smoothed her hands once more down her skirt. They were clammy, and her knees shook. But her dress covered her knees, and there’d be no handshake, so no one would know how nervous she was.

No matter what happened, she vowed one thing. She would not reveal weakness to this man.

Not after what he’d done to her before.

Ignoring the cold fingers dancing down her spine, Safiyah swung around and headed for the door.

‘Her Highness, the Sheikha of Assara.’