One Desert Night: Destined for the Desert King / Hidden in the Sheikh's Harem / Claimed by the Sheikh

‘Don’t call you—what?’ A dark frown pulled his black brows together. ‘Zia?’

The sudden inclination of his head showed how he had caught the small flinch that was her reaction.

‘It’s how you introduced yourself to me.’

‘When I didn’t want you to know who I was.’

He was too aware, too sharp. She knew that when she saw his eyes narrow swiftly. And his response only confirmed it.

‘So you don’t want me to know Zia—but who is Aziza? Your father’s daughter.’

‘My father’s second daughter.’

She’d intrigued him now. She saw the change in his expression, the tightening of the bronzed skin over the high, fierce cheekbones, then suddenly he was leaning forward with his arms resting along his thighs, hands clasped on his knees.

‘Go on. Aziza, I said, go on,’ he repeated when she hesitated and the note of command that came so naturally to him left her in no doubt that if she did not obey then the consequences would not be pretty.

‘I— Well you know the “heir and a spare” syndrome? When there is the heir apparent—but a second son will be useful just to make sure? So a second son is only there in case they’re needed—as back-up—well, the spare.’

‘I understand.’ It was clipped and curt. ‘There have been times I might have wished that I’d had a brother—as “back-up” or at least as company—but how does this affect you?’

‘That “spare” situation—well it works for daughters too. Perhaps even more so. My father always wanted a son—he didn’t get one. He had two daughters—the firstborn was special. She might not be a son and heir but she was a beauty who could be married off for a great bride price—bring honour to the family. And Jamalia was exactly that. She’s always had suitors flocking to her. Not me. I was a second daughter—a disappointment.’

‘How could anyone see you as a disappointment?’ Nabil asked softly.

It could have meant so much. Perhaps on their wedding night it would have made all her dreams come true. But there had been that wedding night and that appalling moment when he had first seen her.

‘You did. “Hellfire and damnation—I’ve married the maid!”,’ she quoted hotly when she saw him frown in confusion. The stab of distress at his obvious disappointment was just as brutal—worse—than the first time she had heard it. ‘And you looked so—horrified.’

He had said that he wasn’t disappointed, but how could he have been anything else? He had thought that he was gaining a queen, instead...

‘I suspected there might be a trap. I’ve been caught that way before.’

Aziza wasn’t quite sure exactly how his face had changed. There was a new and disturbing tension that stretched his skin tight over his carved bone structure and a muscle jerked at the edge of his jaw where it was clamped tight against some feeling he was not prepared to admit.

‘There are conspiracies everywhere.’

Could his eyes get any colder, bleaker? And without seeming to be aware of it he had lifted a hand to rub at the place where the scar marked his skin, just for a moment before he snatched his fingers away and shook his head in brusque rejection of his troublesome thoughts.

‘And you thought I might be part of one.’ She didn’t know if the sadness in her voice was for herself and his suspicions of her or for the man who had grown up facing a rebellion against his rule that had been part of his father’s legacy to him, and had obviously never fully recovered from that brutal attempt on his life and its fatal consequences.

No wonder he had been so determined not to let her close. She felt the cold slide of ice down her spine as she recalled the way that he had pulled the knife—a knife he obviously always had hidden about his person. And of course, every day he looked in the mirror, that scar must remind him that someone had hated him so much that they had tried to take his life. Something caught and twisted cruelly in her heart at the thought of him living with the fear and the doubt.

‘Not me,’ she hastened to assure him.

To her astonishment he didn’t argue. Instead he seemed to accept her assurance, nodding slowly.

‘You were not what I expected. But that was not disappointment. I wanted you in my bed from the moment I saw you. If you want to know the truth, it was the thought that you were Jamalia’s maid that meant I had to think again about having her as my Queen.’

‘You were watching us?’

She’d felt that he was there; had sensed the burn of somebody’s gaze coming through the two-way glass—observing them, watching every single move.

‘Do you think I’d have chosen your sister, sight unseen?’

It was when he had seen the sensually feminine form of the woman he’d thought was just Zia that he had known he could not take Jamalia into his bed. Nor was she what he wanted as the mother of his children. He’d been there himself, and still remembered the loneliness, the shadowed world of being the wanted heir but not a wanted child. What was it Aziza had said? The first born could be married off—bring honour to the family. So had she too known what it was like to be a child who was wanted only to be there because of what they were worth in political terms?

‘Seeing that maid reminded me of Jamalia’s sister—of you. Had I but known it...’

And yesterday he’d had the evidence that his thoughts had been on the right track. The woman who hadn’t cared about her clothes, who had let the children swarm all over her and had laughed, was the woman he wanted as mother to his children.

With Sharmila it had seemed as if it was like that too. She had appeared to want a child so much—more than he had at the time. It was almost as if she had set herself to get pregnant as quickly as possible. She had set out to do that, he acknowledged bitterly. If they weren’t involved in the ceremony of court then they were in bed. It had suited him at the time, but that was before he had learned what was behind her apparent passion. The fact that she needed to cover up the betrayal she had already committed.

One thing Sharmila would never have done was kick off her shoes and curl up on a sofa as Aziza was doing now. They had never been able to share the quiet evenings when all the business of the court was done and they could just be the two of them. A man and a woman.

A sudden thought struck him, had him pausing and frowning. With a shock he realised that he had probably shared more with Aziza tonight than he had ever talked about to Sharmila. He had certainly never discussed his mother with his first wife.

‘Aziza...’ he began but as he looked at her he caught the way her hand flashed up to hide the yawn she was unable to hold back. Her eyelids were drooping heavily and she was practically dropping in her seat.

‘You’re exhausted,’ he said and saw his pronouncement confirmed even as she tried to deny it by straightening in her chair, forcing herself to stay awake to continue their conversation. The half-eaten plate of food was in danger of sliding off her knee and it was only by making a grab for it that he stopped it from tumbling to the floor.

‘Go to bed.’

The struggle he was having to hold on to his determination not to take a reckless step into a situation where he still wasn’t sure of his facts made it sound more like a command than he had intended. Tired as she was, he saw the way she fought to lift her head enough to glare at him in defiance, though those beautiful eyes were cloudy with fatigue. Something twisted deep inside him and in spite of himself a small laugh escaped.

‘You really need some sleep, Aziza,’ he said, holding out a hand to help her to her feet.

She hesitated, then put her hand into his, letting him pull her from the chair. When she swayed where she stood, he almost lifted her off her feet to carry her to the bedroom. Hell but he wanted to do that. But the touch of her hand on his, warm skin on skin, and the wave of perfume mixed with her own personal scent, was temptation enough and he knew that if he did then it wouldn’t stop there. He’d acted on these instincts before; he’d believed in Sharmila, had had his trust totally shattered. The report he had ordered would not be presented in its final form until tomorrow. Surely he could wait twenty-four hours for total peace of mind? Besides, Aziza was clearly so worn out it would be cruel not to let her sleep tonight.

But his hand felt empty, his spirit too, as she took her fingers from his and stumbled towards the bedroom, swaying with tiredness. It was only when the door swung to behind her, slotting into its frame with a bang, that he remembered earlier that night, when they had been busy with the farewells to their guests, that a car had backfired sharply close nearby. He had barely felt the old tension twist in his nerves before he had sensed Aziza’s fingers, small, soft and gentle, slide into his and hold them reassuringly. Just for a moment. Just long enough for her to feel that he had relaxed, and then she had eased her hand away and turned her attention back to the conversation she’d been having with the French ambassador’s wife.

He could wait twenty-four hours, but no more. That report had better say everything he needed it to say. The thought of anything else was the stuff of nightmares.

CHAPTER TEN (#ud83f3334-bf69-53be-9535-2db87e0008f3)

‘WHY ARE WE HERE?’ Aziza demanded as soon as it was safe to speak openly.

The day hadn’t gone anything like the way she had expected. She had woken to find that the maid Nabil had assigned to look after her was in her dressing room, putting clothes into a case.

‘Madam, His Highness says that I am to pack for you.’

‘Why, where are we going?’

‘To the mountain palace,’ another voice had joined in. A male voice, deep and vibrant.

Nabil...

‘But why?’