Captured by the Sheikh

‘Not a love match, then?’ Khalil queried sardonically and Elena stiffened.

‘I don’t believe that is any of your business.’

‘Considering you are here at my behest, I believe it is.’

She pursed her lips and said nothing. The Kadaran people believed it was a love match, although neither she nor Aziz had said as much. People believed what they wanted to believe, Elena knew, and the public liked the idea of a royal fairy-tale. If it helped to stabilise their countries, then so be it. She could go along with a little play-acting. But she wasn’t about to admit that to Khalil.

‘Pleading the fifth, I see,’ Khalil said softly. ‘I grew up in America, you know. I am not the barbarian you seem to think I am.’

She folded her arms. ‘You have yet to show me otherwise.’

‘Have I not? Yet here you are, in a comfortable chair, offered refreshment. Though I am sorry you hurt yourself.’ He gestured to her scraped knee, all solicitude. ‘Let me get you a plaster.’

‘I don’t need one.’

‘Such abrasions can easily become infected in the desert. A grain of sand lodges in the cut and, the next thing you know, it’s gone septic.’ He leaned forward, and for a moment the harshness of his face, the coldness in his eyes, was replaced by something that almost looked like gentleness. ‘Don’t be stupid, Your Highness. God knows I understand the need to fight, but you are wasting your energy arguing with me over such small matters.’

She swallowed, knowing he was right, and hating it. It was petty and childish to refuse medical care, not to mention stupid as he’d said. She nodded and Khalil rose from his chair. She watched as he strode to the entrance of the tent and spoke to one of the guards waiting outside.

Elena remained seated, her fists clenched in her lap, her heart beating hard. A few minutes later Khalil returned to the table with a cloth folded over his arm, a basin of water in one hand and a tube of ointment in the other.

‘Here we are.’

To her shock he knelt in front of her and Elena pressed back in her chair. ‘I can do it myself.’

He glanced up at her, his eyes gleaming. ‘But then you would deny me the pleasure.’

Her breath came out in a rush and she remained rigid as he gently lifted the hem of her skirt over her knee. His fingers barely brushed her leg and yet she felt as if she’d been electrocuted, her whole body jolting with sensation. Carefully Khalil dampened the cloth and then dabbed the scrape on her knee.

‘Besides,’ he murmured, ‘you might miss some sand, and I would hate to be accused of mistreating you.’

Elena didn’t answer. She couldn’t speak, could barely breathe. Every atom of her being was focused on the gentle touch of this man, his fingers sliding over her knee with a precision that wasn’t sensual, not remotely, yet...

She took a careful breath and stared at the top of his head, his hair ink-black and cut very short. She wondered if it would feel soft or bristly, and then jerked her mind back to her predicament. What on earth was she doing, thinking about his hair, reacting to his hands on her skin? This man was her enemy. The last thing, the very last thing, she should do was feel anything for him, even something as basic as physical desire.

His hand tightened on her knee and everything inside Elena flared to life.

‘I think that’s fine,’ she said stiffly, and tried to draw her leg away from Khalil’s hand.

He held up the tube of ointment. ‘Antiseptic cream. Very important.’

Gritting her teeth, she remained still while he squeezed some cream onto his fingers and then smoothed it over the cut on her knee. It stung a little, but far more painful was the kick of attraction she felt at the languorous touch of his fingers on her sensitised skin.

It was just her body’s basic physical reaction, she told herself as he rubbed circles on her knee with his thumb and her insides tightened. She’d never experienced it like this before, but then she was inexperienced in the ways of men and women. In any case, there was nothing she could do about it, so she’d ignore it. Ignore the sparks that scattered across her skin and the plunging deep in her belly. Attraction was irrelevant; she would never act on it nor allow it to cloud her judgement.

Escape from this man and his plans to ruin her marriage was her only goal now. Her only desire.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_708a7621-e758-5b60-b337-d017ecfca8b3)

KHALIL FELT ELENA’S body tense beneath his touch and wondered why he had chosen to clean the cut himself. The answer, of course, was irritatingly obvious: because he’d wanted to touch her. Because, for a moment, desire had overridden sense.

Her skin, Khalil thought, was as soft as silk. When had he last touched a woman’s skin? Seven years in the French Foreign Legion had given him more than a taste of abstinence.

Of course, the last woman he should ever think about as a lover was Queen Elena, Aziz’s intended bride. He had no intention of complicating what was already a very delicate diplomatic manoeuvre.

Kidnapping a head of state was a calculated risk, and one he’d had to take. The only way to force Aziz to call a national referendum was for him to lose his right to the throne, and the only way for that to happen was to prevent his marriage.

His father’s will, Khalil mused, had been a ridiculous piece of legal architecture that showed him for the brutal dictator he truly had been. Had he wanted to punish both his sons? Or had he, in the last days of his life, actually regretted his treatment of his first-born? Khalil would never know. But he would take the opportunity his father’s strange will offered him to seize the power that was rightfully his.

‘There you are.’ Khalil smoothed her skirt over her knee, felt her tense body relax only slightly as he eased back. ‘I see your skirt is torn. My apologies. You will be provided with new clothes.’

She stared at him, studying him as you would a specimen or, rather, an enemy: looking for weaknesses. She wouldn’t find any, but Khalil took the opportunity to gaze back at her. She was lovely, her skin like golden cream, her heavy-lidded eyes grey with tiny gold flecks. Her hair was thick and dark and gleamed in the candlelight, even though it was tangled and gritty with sand.

His gaze dropped to her lips, lush, pink and perfect. Kissable. There was that desire again, flaring deep inside him, demanding satisfaction. Khalil stood up. ‘You must be hungry, Your Highness. You should eat.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Suit yourself.’ He took a piece of bread and tore off a bit to chew. Sitting across from her, he studied her once more. ‘I am curious as to why you agreed to marry Aziz.’ He cocked his head. ‘Not wealth, as Thallia is a prosperous enough country. Not power, since you are already a queen. And we know it isn’t for love.’

‘Maybe it is.’ Her voice was low, pleasingly husky. She met his gaze unflinchingly but he heard her breath hitch and Khalil smiled.

‘I don’t think so, Your Highness. I think you married him because you need something, and I’m wondering what it is. Your people love you. Your country is stable.’ He spread his hands, raised his eyebrows. ‘What would induce you to marry a pretender?’

‘I think you are the pretender, Khalil.’

‘You’re not the only one, alas. But you will be proved wrong.’

Her grey-gold gaze swept over him. ‘You genuinely believe you have a claim to the throne.’

His stomach knotted. ‘I know I do.’

‘How can that be? Aziz is Sheikh Hashem’s only son.’

Even though he’d long been used to such an assumption, her words poured acid on an open wound. A familiar fury rose up in him, a howl of outrage he forced back down. He smiled coldly at this woman whose careless questions tore open the barely healed scars of his past. ‘Perhaps you need to brush up on your Kadaran history. You will have plenty of time for leisure reading during your stay in the desert.’ Although he knew she wouldn’t find the truth in any books. His father had done his best to erase Khalil’s existence from history.

She stared up at him unblinkingly. ‘And if I do not wish to stay in the desert?’

‘Your presence here, I’m afraid, is non-negotiable. But rest assured, you will be afforded every comfort.’

Elena licked her lips, an innocent movement that still caused a hard kick of lust he instantly suppressed. Queen Elena was a beautiful woman; his body, long deprived of sensual pleasures, was bound to react. It didn’t mean he was going to do anything about it.

Perhaps the most attractive thing about her, though, was not her looks but her presence. Even though he knew she had to be frightened, she sat tall and proud, her grey eyes glinting challenge. He admired her determination to be strong; he shared it. Never surrender, not even when the whole world seemed to be against you, every fist raised, every lip curled in a sneer.

Had she faced opposition and hardship? She had, he knew, suffered tragedy. She’d taken the throne at nineteen years of age, when her parents had died in a terrorist bombing. She was only twenty-three now and, though she looked very young, she seemed older in her bearing, somehow. In her confidence.

She rose from her seat, every inch the elegant queen. ‘You cannot keep me here.’

He smiled; he almost felt sorry for her. ‘You’ll find that I can.’