The Desert King's Secret Heir

‘I didn’t mean—’

‘Of course you did.’ His mouth twisted. ‘You’re right. It is ridiculous. Impossible and inconvenient...and inevitable.’

Then, while Arden was still absorbing his words, his head lowered.

His mouth on hers was just as she remembered. A huge, tearing fullness welled in her chest as his lips shaped hers, not hard and punishing as she’d expected from the glint in his eyes, but gentle, questing. As if seeking an answer to a question she hadn’t heard.

Shakil. The taste of him burst on her, rich and delicious. It was the one sense memory she hadn’t been able to recall in the years since he’d left her. Now it filled her, evocative, masculine and, she feared, potently addictive. For her head was lolling back, lips open to allow him access.

Somehow her hands had crept up to brace on his chest. The steady thrum of his heart was a reassuring counterpoint to her sense of disorientation.

His other hand slipped around her waist, pulling her against a body that was all hard power, making her feel soft and feminine in ways she’d almost forgotten.

And still that kiss. No longer quite as gentle. Arden heard a guttural sound of approval as her tongue met his in a foray into pure pleasure.

He shifted and delight filled her as her nipples grazed his torso. She moved closer, absorbed in heady, oh-so-familiar delight, till a long hard ridge pressed against her belly.

Arden’s eyes snapped open and she saw his eyes had narrowed to slits of dark fire. Then, over his shoulder, high up at street level, came a burst of light, a glint of sunlight off something. It was enough, just, to bring her back to reality.

‘No.’ No one heard her protest since their lips were locked.

She had to shove with all her might for him to lift his head, blinking as if unable to focus. That might have made her feel better but for the realisation that just five minutes in this man’s company had obliterated every defence she’d spent years constructing.

‘No,’ she gasped. That full feeling behind her breastbone turned to pain. ‘This is wrong. We can’t...’

She didn’t need to go on. Sheikh Idris of Zahrat agreed completely. It was there in the dawning horror sharpening his features and the unsteady hand that swiped his face. He shook his head as if wondering what he was doing.

Nor did Arden need to shove him again. One swift pace backwards on those long legs took him almost to the base of the area steps and left her feeling appallingly alone.

Chest pumping, Arden stared at the dark-gold face of the man she’d once adored. The man who now looked at her as if she were his personal nightmare.

Desperate, she put her palms to the door behind her, needing its support.

Despite it all, the anger, hurt and betrayal that had shaped her life for four years, she’d harboured a hope that if they met again he’d admit he’d made a terrible mistake in leaving. That he’d missed her, wanted her, as she’d missed and wanted him.

In her dreams he’d never looked at her with horror.

Pain lanced her chest and kept going right down through her womb.

With a choking gasp of distress she whirled around, hauled the door open and slipped into her sanctuary. Her hands shook so much it took for ever to bolt and latch the door. When it was done Arden put her back to it and slid down to sit on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees as silent sobs filled her.

CHAPTER THREE (#u2ed8ac33-6a06-56c1-abe1-6fd5e06b8a96)

‘YOUR HIGHNESS, IF I may?’

Idris looked up from the papers on the ambassador’s desk. His aide, Ashar, stood in the doorway, expression wooden. That, Idris had learned in the turbulent first few years of his rule, was a sure sign of trouble.

Please, not another delay with the combined peace and trade treaty. Ghizlan’s father might be eager to cement a dynastic bond with Idris but he wasn’t past trying to wheedle more concessions before the betrothal was announced.

Idris turned to the ambassador, who, ever the diplomat, was already standing. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Highness, I’ll leave you to check for news on that US investment project.’

Idris nodded. ‘That would be useful, thank you.’

When the ambassador had left, Ashar entered the room, closing the door behind him. Silently he passed a computer tablet across the desk. Bold black lettering filled the screen.

Off the Leash in London, Sheikh Tastes Local Delicacies.

Beneath the headline was a photo. A close-up of Idris locked in an embrace with Arden Wills, her hair a riot of curls against the black of her front door.

The air rushed from his lungs as an unseen punch slammed a sickening blow into his midsection.

Damn it. Hadn’t he known it was a mistake, going to her house? Hadn’t it defied logic? Yet when she’d told him to leave, what had he done? Had he behaved like the sane, prudent man he was and returned to his embassy? No, he’d reacted like...like...

Words failed.

Worse was the fact that, facing a nightmare public debacle, he had total recall of her sweet mouth and her soft body moulding to his.

‘There’s more.’

Of course there was. It was the way of the world that you slaved twenty hours a day for your country and the first time in four years you did something utterly selfish, utterly incomprehensible, the press was there to turn a molehill into a mountain.

He sighed and forked his hand through his hair. ‘Let me guess. Princess Ghizlan.’

He scrolled to the next page and the next headline.

Two-Timing Sheikh Keeps Fiancée and Lover in Same City.

Idris swore long and low. There was a photo of him and Ghizlan at the embassy reception. Beside it was one of him with Arden. His hand wrapped around her neck, pulling her to him, and her eyes were closed, those plump lips open, as if eager for his kiss. As if she hadn’t just told him to take a hike.

Fire shot from his belly to his groin. Even now, with all hell about to break loose, his body was in thrall to the Englishwoman he should have forgotten four years ago. Instead he remembered it all. She’d been ardent, so deliciously honest and real. Her desire had been for him, not his wealth or connections. Together they’d created a magic he’d craved more of, though brutal logic said it must eventually burn out. Passion always did. That was how it always was for the men in his family, how it was for him—lust and desire, never anything more permanent.

He shoved the tablet across the table and shot to his feet, stalking away from the desk.

Of all the impossible timing. This was the worst. For his country, and for Ghizlan’s.

Ghizlan! He’d put her in an appalling situation.

‘Get me the Princess on the phone.’ He spun around. ‘No. Contact her aide and ask for a meeting. I’ll come to her hotel immediately.’

Ashar didn’t move. ‘There’s more.’

‘More? How could there be more? There was nothing else. That—’ he gestured to the photo of him hauling Arden into his arms ‘—is the sum total of what happened.’

His jaw was so rigid it felt as if it might shatter. Self-contempt swamped him.

How often had he told himself he was better than his uncle, the old Sheikh, who’d frittered his time and energy on endless lovers instead of governing? Or Idris’s father, whose philandering destroyed his family and any respect he might have garnered from the people?

Idris had taken pride in devoting himself to his people, putting duty before pleasure. His planned marriage to Ghizlan was for the good of both nations. He’d modelled himself on the one completely honourable man in his family, his grandfather. The old man had been the sole exception in six generations to the rule that men in his family couldn’t love. Idris didn’t expect a miracle—to love one woman all his life like his grandfather had. But he aimed at least to be loyal to his wife. A great start he’d made on that!