Never Refuse a Sheikh Read online

  But Safira had never had that. She was forbidden the bride games. Forbidden the chance of a husband, a family. Forbidden to travel to the cities or even outside Al-Harah.

  Her future was to remain hidden. To be kept safe like a delicate vase carved from alabaster and put on a high shelf. Protected, looked at, but never taken down and touched. Never used for the purpose for which she was made.

  That would be her future. That would be the rest of her life.

  She was not going to let that happen.

  “I am not accustomed to saying things twice, princess,” he said, a warning, hard as steel, implicit in his tone. “But I will make an exception for you, just this once. You are going to have to come with me. Do not make me say it again.”

  Safira’s jaw tightened. She raised one finger. “Firstly, I’d rather you did not call me princess.” Another finger joined the first. “Secondly, I am not going to have to do anything. You said it’s time to come home? Give me one good reason I should.”

  Another silence fell, along with the temperature inside the tent.

  The cold force of his gaze held her pinned to the spot, his displeasure a breath of icy air brushing along her skin.

  So, he clearly wasn’t told no very often.

  She steeled her spine. Sayed had taught her how to defend herself and practicing her skills was pretty much the only thing he allowed her to do. So if she was forced, she’d fight. She would not let him intimidate her.

  He’s not just another tribesman. He is far more dangerous than that.

  Another shiver crept through her as the truth of it slid beneath her skin. Because of course he was dangerous. He was the sheikh. He could order her death and the deaths of the tribe in a heartbeat if he saw fit.

  That’s not the only reason he’s dangerous.

  She ignored the thought, unable to make sense of it.

  At last the sheikh said, “In that case, you have two choices. You either leave this tent under your own volition or I will carry you out myself.”

  The bubble of anger expanded inside her. She’d only been seven when she’d been taken from the palace that terrible night. Her mother hadn’t even kissed her goodbye, shoving her into the arms of a bearded and robed man before turning and hurrying away, leaving her alone with complete strangers for the first time in her life.

  Then there had been a seemingly endless drive in a battered, noisy car while she’d cried and cried for her mother, for her father, for anyone she knew, as the strangers remained silent. She’d begged them to take her home, but no one had listened. And then after the car there had been another interminable journey, this time on horseback into the desert.

  They hadn’t listened then. They weren’t listening now. And she was so tired of not being listened to.

  Reaching forward, she yanked the machete out of the table and rose swiftly to her feet. “Touch me and I’ll cut your hands off.”

  The sheikh didn’t move an inch or say a word. Only stared at her, his golden eyes utterly expressionless.

  It made her even angrier. “You think I don’t know how to use this?” She brandished the machete. “My father taught me—”

  “Your father is dead. Your country is on the verge of another war. And I do not have time for drama queens.” His voice was flat and cold, and sharper than the blade she held. “You have one minute to gather your belongings and get out of this tent. I’ll give you time to say your goodbyes as long as they take no more than five minutes.”

  The bubble of anger exploded.

  If he wasn’t going to listen to her, she would make him.

  Safira drew her hand back and flung her machete straight at his shoulder. It wouldn’t kill him, but it would incapacitate him and definitely get her point across.

  The sheikh moved, blindingly fast, snatching the blade out of mid-air.

  Donkey son of a whore. She reached around to grab her rifle. Only to turn back to find the blade of the machete at her throat, the sheikh himself only inches away.

  Her breath caught in shock as her gaze met his.

  And for the merest second, something glittered in the depths of his amber eyes. Something hot. Something hungry. She didn’t know what it was or what it meant, but it was as if the invisible barrier of “princess” Sayed had put around her, the glass wall that kept her separated and isolated from the rest of the tribe, wasn’t even there.

  As if the sheikh was looking directly at … her.

  It resonated inside her like a tuning fork being struck.

  No one had ever looked at her that way before. She hadn’t even realized she wanted them to, not until now.

  She couldn’t speak, her throat closing. All she could do was stare back, drinking in that look like a thirsty plant drinks in the rain after a long drought.

  And then it was gone, only the cold desert night in his eyes.

  “Stop wasting my time with tantrums,” he said expressionlessly, the tip of the blade millimeters from her throat. “I do not have the patience for this kind of nonsense. If you leave now like a good girl, you will have time for your goodbyes. If not, then you will leave with nothing.”

  She felt obscurely hurt. As if she’d been given a glimpse of something real only to find it a mirage. Rage and a creeping anguish burned in her chest. “You won’t stab me.”

  “Would I not? I have stabbed men for less.”

  “I’m not a man.”

  “No, you are a princess. Now is the time to start acting like one.”

  Her jaw tightened. There was no mercy in his face, none at all, that hot look long gone. Perhaps she’d dreamed it or imagined it somehow.

  Poor, lonely girl hoping a handsome prince will rescue her.

  Angrily, she shoved the thought away. Yes, he was handsome and yes, he was a king, but he wasn’t here to rescue her. He was here to tell her what to do just like every other damn man in her life.

  “I will not,” she spat. “If you want me to come with you, you’ll have to slit my throat first.”

  He wouldn’t kill her, not when he’d come all this way for her, but he probably wouldn’t have any compunction about injuring her. Not that she was afraid of physical pain. Her foster father had taught her how to deal with that in the event of capture.

  “That is unfortunate since I promised Sayed I would not hurt you. Sayed, on the other hand, does not have that kind of protection.”

  Safira stilled, the rage starting to freeze solid in her chest. No, he was definitely no handsome prince. “Touch him, dog, and I’ll kill you.”

  Deep in the amber ice of his gaze, a spark glowed briefly. Yet whether it was anger or amusement or that heat she’d glimpsed earlier, she couldn’t tell because it was gone an instant later.

  “I do not have to touch him,” he said. “That is why I have guards. And if you call me dog again, there will be consequences. The correct term for me is ‘Your Highness’.”

  “I don’t—”

  “What is it to be, princess?” He raised one black eyebrow, the blade only inches away from her unprotected throat. “Kidnap at the point of a machete? Or do you care about Sayed enough to give him the goodbye he deserves?”

  He was very tall, towering over her, and so very close. And disconcertingly, she’d became conscious of the fact that, although the arctic lived in his eyes, there was nothing at all cold about his scent. He smelled of sandalwood and cedar, warm and sensual, overlaid with clean, male sweat. The scent of a man, not a king.

  He’s threatening the tribe and you’re thinking about the way he smells?

  And not only that, she’d found herself searching his face for any sign of that strange, hot look again. The one that seemed to see her. But of course it wasn’t there. She must be a fool. Either that or desperate.

  She swallowed, creeping despair slowly tightening in her chest.

  Once more her choice had been taken from her. Once more she was powerless to resist. Because she couldn’t leave Sayed and the tribe to this man’s lack of mercy
for the sake of her own frustration and anger. No, her life here hadn’t exactly been happy, but Sayed had done what he’d promised her mother when Safira was taken from the palace. He’d kept her safe.

  She owed him a debt. And now she had to pay it.

  Head held high, back straight, Safira looked the sheikh in the eye. “I will go with you, your highness.”

  Chapter Two

  The journey back through the desert to the airfield where the helicopter waited to take them to the capital was a silent, interminable one. And if he hadn’t already regretted making this trip when she’d flung the machete at him, Altair certainly did as they bounced over the rough desert roads, with her a silent, rigid figure in the seat beside him.

  She was absolutely nothing like he’d expected.

  As the son of the old sheikh’s closest advisor, he’d had the opportunity to see the royal family up close and personal, and that included their young daughter. He’d been much older though and, at twenty, not at all interested in the spoiled seven year old who trailed around after her parents with constant questions and constant whining.

  Even then she’d been a willful, stubborn child and prone to tantrums when she didn’t get her way. But he’d thought that the hard years spent with the tribes would be enough to turn her into a quieter, more contained, respectable woman. The kind of woman who would make the perfect sheikha and the perfect wife, not this … hissing, spitting sand cat.

  Unfortunately that wasn’t the only problem.

  There was something about her that had gripped him from the very first moment he’d walked into the tent, when her passionate gaze had met his and he’d seen the anger blaze brightly across her face.

  Then, when she’d gone for her rifle and he’d gotten in close, holding the machete to her throat, her eyes had widened and he’d scented her, all flowers and the dry heat of the desert. She’d been so unguarded, hiding nothing, staring at him as though she’d found him as fascinating as he’d found her. As though she saw something in him. Something he’d thought had died years ago …

  No, he couldn’t think such things. They were fancies. It had merely been the burn of physical attraction that had drawn him, nothing more. Which made it easy to deal with, especially when indulging his urges was something he’d long since overcome. Letting himself be distracted from his purpose by one beautiful princess, no matter how passionate, was not going to happen.

  He had a country to rebuild, a penance to undertake.

  A guilt to expiate?

  Altair pushed that thought away. Guilt was another indulgence he couldn’t afford and he wasn’t going to waste any energy on it.

  Instead, he leaned back in his seat, studying the woman beside him.

  She wore absolutely no makeup and had dirt on her face, yet that in no way masked the beauty of her features. At least that was no surprise. Her mother had been beautiful, and famous for her blue eyes, the same eyes her daughter had obviously inherited, a shifting, fluid color somewhere between green and blue.

  As the last of the evening light shone through the car windows, it picked up the gold in her long, thick tawny lashes and in the straight darkish lines of her eyebrows. Her skin was a dark gold and very smooth, her mouth full and generous. She had a stubborn chin and an elegant little nose.

  The hunger he’d experienced back in the tent shifted again despite the leash he’d put on it. There was no denying her beauty, though he wasn’t going to be marrying her for her looks. He wanted her Kashgari blood—that was all.

  And Kashgari heirs, don’t forget that.

  Well, that was true. He fully intended to be a husband to her in all senses of the word since he had to safeguard the throne and secure the country for future generations.

  He had a feeling she wasn’t going to like that either.

  “Stop looking at me,” she said sullenly.

  Now that he had her safe in the car with him, his sense of urgency had dissipated somewhat, allowing him to relax a little. Not that he ever truly relaxed, since a sheikh fighting for his throne could never let down his guard. Still, he had one less item on his to-do list.

  “When I told you to come with me, you refused then threw a knife at my head. Yet now you have left your home the only thing you have to say is ‘stop looking at me’? I have to admit, I expected more, princess.”

  A flash of rage crossed her face, turning the color of her eyes electric. “I don’t have to say anything to you, your highness.” She said the honorific as if it were poison she was spitting out. “And don’t speak to me of my home. You know nothing about either me or it.”

  She was courageous, he’d give her that. Not many people would have been brave enough to say that to his face.

  “I know enough,” he said, mildly enough. “And as sheikh of your country, I think it would do to keep a civil tongue in your head when speaking to me.”

  “Why should I?” The look on her face was fierce. “When you’re sitting on my throne?”

  The barb struck him in a place he wasn’t expecting. A place where his guilt lay, that he’d thought well protected, and a sudden hot flare of unfamiliar anger curled through his blood.

  With the ease of long practice, he repressed the feeling. “Then by all means claim it. Give me the word now and I’ll stand aside.”

  Her own anger died out of her face as quickly as it had come. “You really would?”

  “Why not?” He shouldn’t goad her like this since it would accomplish nothing, especially when he had no intention of actually giving her his throne. Yet for some reason he found himself saying, “But you will have to act quickly if you want to claim it. I will only offer this to you once.”

  She stared at him, brows drawn down, clearly trying to figure out whether he was telling the truth or not.

  He found the ebb and flow of her emotion in response fascinating.

  Reminds you of someone, does it not?

  Certainly he’d been rebellious and anti-authority when he’d been younger, yes. But he’d never been as mercurial, had he?

  At last, she gave a little sniff and glanced out of the window at the shifting sands of the dunes. “Then it is lucky for you that I do not want the throne.”

  He found himself almost wanting to laugh. So angry and fierce one minute, all offended dignity the next. Perhaps she’d realized he was playing with her?

  “You would refuse a country, princess?”

  “Are you actually interested in my opinion or are you merely playing with me again?”

  His brief amusement fled. So, she was no fool, this princess. “I would not have asked if I wasn’t interested.”

  She shot him a quick, suspicious glance, before directing her attention out the window again. “No. I do not want a country. What I want is freedom.”

  He had to admit, he was surprised. Wasn’t a throne a prize worth fighting for? Hadn’t he fought for it for five long years himself?

  Of course she doesn’t want it. You had to threaten her foster father in order to get her to come with you.

  The unwanted guilt shifted inside him again. This was the second time her home had been taken from her. The second time he’d taken it from her …

  But no. He couldn’t think of that. The past was gone and he couldn’t change it. All he could do was continue on the path he’d chosen for himself, the path that was best for the country, and what was best for the country was Safira back in the palace ASAP. Threatening Sayed had been the quickest, most efficient way to ensure her obedience, especially when there were others looking for her. Others who may not have been so merciful with the rest of her tribe.

  “You cannot have freedom or whatever it is that freedom means to you.” His voice was cold and he made no effort to temper it. Sometimes the truth was cold. “There are other factions searching for you, and I guarantee that if they found you, they would not treat either you or your tribe as kindly as I have.”

  More of those hot blue sparks flickered as she glanced at him and he didn�
��t miss the fact that some of them were sparks of pain. “I could have stayed hidden. No one would have known who I was.”

  “How? Disguised as a boy? Any fool with eyes could see you are a woman.”

  She flushed and looked away.

  “Your place is not with the Bedouin, Safira,” he went on, so she understood. “It never was. You were always meant for more.”

  “What more?”

  Now they came to the truth of it. “To become the sheikha. My sheikha.”

  Slowly, she turned back to face him, her eyes widening. “What? But I’m not …” And then she stopped as understanding dawned. “You want to marry me? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “No, princess. I do not want to marry you. I am going to marry you.”

  Another explosion of sparks ignited in that fascinating gaze of hers, anger and fear, and he knew if she’d still been in possession of that machete she would have buried it in his chest right about now. “Marry you? Are you mad?”

  He’d expected this too, since marrying a complete stranger wasn’t exactly what he wanted either. Yet, it had to happen. The throne had to be safeguarded and this was the only way. Peace would come to Al-Harah and if he had to marry her to do it then he would.

  “No,” he said. “I am not mad. And don’t be so surprised. As a princess you were always destined for a royal alliance, and now that time has come whether you like it or not.”

  The look on her face blazed for a brief moment. “‘Whether I like it or not’,” she repeated slowly, an undertone in her voice he didn’t understand. “Why is that the only answer I ever get?” Then, without a word she whirled around and reached for the door handle, pulling on it.

  All it took was one sharp tug and the door swung open, the car still moving.

  Altair bit off a curse, lunging for her as she tried to leap out of the moving vehicle, leaving him no time to tell his driver to stop. His fingers curled around her arm, encountering lithe muscle and warm cotton as he held on, pulling her back from the open door. She gave a little cry of rage, struggling in his grip.