The Desert King's Secret Heir

‘There’s something you should see before you talk to the Princess.’

Ashar’s expression was as grave as on the day Idris had returned home to find his uncle on his deathbed.

Idris put out his hand for the tablet. ‘Show me.’

Ashar scrolled to another page, then passed it to him, half turning away as he did so.

Idris frowned. It felt almost as if Ashar was trying to give him privacy. The notion was laughable. His aide knew as many diplomatic and royal secrets as he did. More probably.

Then Idris looked down and felt the floor buckle beneath his feet.

Royal Baby Secret. Which Cousin Did Arden Seduce?

This time there were three photos. One of his cousin Hamid entering college with a briefcase in his hand. One of Idris in traditional robes, taken at some public event.

And one of Arden Wills holding a toddler in her arms.

Idris felt his eyes bulge as he took in the details. Arden’s attention was on the child throwing bread to some ducks. A child whose face was golden, in contrast with her ivory and rose features. A child with glossy black hair and dark eyes.

A child with a remarkable resemblance to Idris at that age.

Or his cousin.

Idris tried to read the words beneath the photos but they blurred into lines of swarming black ants. He blinked and ordered himself to focus, but his eyes were drawn to that telling photo. Arden smiling radiantly at a child who, Idris would bet his sword arm, belonged to the royal family of Zahrat.

Sensation bombarded him and he had to brace his feet so as not to collapse back into the leather chair.

How old was the child? He knew nothing of babies. Two? Three?

Could it be his?

Shock scattered his thoughts. He should be planning an appropriate public response, deliberating on the fallout and talking to his almost-fiancée.

Instead he stared at the photo with something like possessiveness.

He was marrying partly to secure an heir but becoming a father was a political necessity, not a heartfelt desire. His own father had been distant and Idris knew little about good father-child relationships. He’d assumed his wife would take the lead in child-rearing.

Yet, looking into the laughing face of a child that might be his, Idris was gripped by a surge of protectiveness he’d never before experienced. This could be his son or daughter. The idea slammed into him like a physical blow, stealing his breath and obliterating any illusion of disinterest.

‘Boy or girl?’

‘A boy. She named him Dawud.’ Not an English name then. There was obvious significance in that.

‘Dawud.’ An unseen cord tugged at his heart, making it thud faster.

Why hadn’t she contacted Idris? Why keep his existence a secret? Anger stirred amidst the glowing embers of softer emotion.

Unless he’s not yours.

Remember Hamid last night, his ‘someone special’. Arden was living under his roof.

Yet if Hamid was the father, why not claim the child as his own? Hamid might have inherited the family practice of sowing his wild oats, but he had a serious side. He wouldn’t shirk responsibility, especially if he cared for Arden as he seemed to.

Idris stared at the photo, trying to read the truth in the curve of the child’s chubby cheek and wide smile.

That was when he realised his hand was shaking. And the feeling snaking through his belly wasn’t mere curiosity but something perilously close to jealousy. At the thought of Hamid and Arden.

Idris dropped the tablet onto the desk and scrubbed a hand over his face.

Did he want the scandal of an illegitimate child? A child whose first, vital years he’d missed?

He’d have to be crazy.

His phone was in his hand before he realised. He called Hamid’s number and looked up, surprised, to see the sun still streaming through the high sash windows. It felt as if time had galloped since Ashar had entered the room.

No answer from Hamid, just the message bank. It took far too long for Idris to remember his cousin mentioning an early flight to an academic conference in Canada. He was probably in the air, absorbed in one of his beloved journal articles.

Idris swung around to Ashar. ‘Anything else?’

Ashar’s lips twitched in what might in another man have edged towards a smile. ‘That’s not enough?’

‘More than enough.’ Scandal in London and no doubt at home, as well as in Ghizlan’s country. A betrothal contract about to be signed, a peace treaty on the table and a child who might be his.

And, simmering beneath it all, the taste he hadn’t been able to banish from his memory. The sweet taste of Arden Wills, sabotaging his ability to concentrate.

‘Get me the Princess’s suite on the line. And send a security detail to my cousin’s house.’

‘To keep the press back? They’ll already be there in droves.’

‘To observe and report back. I want to know what’s going on.’

Whether the child was his cousin’s or his own, Idris had a responsibility to protect mother and child from the notoriously intrusive paparazzi. At least till he sorted out the truth.

‘And find out what time my cousin’s flight touches down in Canada. I want to talk to him as soon as he lands. Get someone to meet the flight.’

* * *

Arden ignored the pounding on the front door, turning up the television so Dawud could hear the music of his favourite children’s programme. He sat enthralled, bouncing while he clapped his hands in time with the music.

When the reporters had descended on the house he’d cried, awakened from his nap by the hubbub of voices and the constant noise of the phone and knocking at the front door. Arden felt wobbly with frustrated outrage because even now they hadn’t left.

She’d been more than reasonable. She’d gone to the door and asked politely for some privacy. She’d given a ‘no comment’ response to their frenzy of questions and faced their clicking cameras, giving them the pictures they wanted.

But it hadn’t been enough. They’d clamoured to see Dawud. They’d even known his name. That was when anger had turned ice-cold, freezing her from the inside out.

She wouldn’t let those vultures near her precious boy. They’d mobbed her, trying to follow her into her basement flat. Terror had grabbed her as she slammed the door shut, her hands slick with sweat.

She’d turned to find Dawud watching, eyes huge and bottom lip trembling, as the noise echoed through their little home.