Crowned at the Desert King's Command Page 4

  The man—no, the Sheikh—looked at her with the same unyielding merciless stare he’d been giving her ever since he’d walked in here. As if he was furiously angry and trying to hide it. He was doing a very good job of it, but she recognised his expression. It was the same expression her father had used to have when he was furious with her mother and trying very hard not to show it.

  Ever since her parents’ relationship had broken down she’d become particularly sensitive to suppressed emotion, because even though the shouting had been bad, her parents’ silent fury had been worse. It had filled the whole house, making her feel as if she was being crushed slowly in a vice. She’d had to run away when it got like that—except right now there was nowhere to run.

  Then again, she wasn’t the frightened girl she’d been back then. She’d learned to shield herself from people’s inconvenient emotions by being cool and polite. Though that boat had long since sailed in this case.

  The Sheikh’s relentless golden stare was inescapable. ‘I did,’ he said succinctly.

  ‘But you can’t mean that.’ She swallowed. ‘You can’t just keep us here for...for ever.’

  ‘My word is law, Miss Devereaux,’ he said in that implacable way. ‘I can do whatever I please.’

  A laugh escaped her, even though she hadn’t meant it to, and it sounded shrill in the quiet of the office with the fountain playing outside. ‘I’m not going to tell anyone what I saw. I promise I won’t. Not that I saw anything anyway—a few buildings, nothing much—’

  ‘Your promises are not sufficient.’

  There was no answering amusement in his eyes. None in his face either.

  Her chest constricted, and there was a kernel of ice sitting in the pit of her stomach. ‘That’s ridiculous. No one will even believe me anyway.’

  ‘Some people will. And they will tell others. And soon there will be more like you, coming across our borders, wanting to see the truth for themselves. It is attention this country cannot afford.’

  Abruptly, he turned away, striding around the side of the desk, moving with the lean grace of a panther.

  ‘No, you cannot leave. You will have to remain here.’

  ‘People will come and find us,’ she insisted. ‘An eminent professor and his daughter can’t just go missing in the desert without someone doing something.’

  ‘Plenty of people go missing in the desert.’

  He stood behind his desk, a massive, powerful figure, and the sunlight fell on his glossy black hair. Putting his hands on the desktop, he leaned on them, never breaking eye contact with her.

  ‘They will think you got lost and perished.’

  ‘But not without searching for us,’ she argued, because this was insane. Preposterous, even. ‘You’ll have search parties all along your borders, looking for Dad and me. And everyone has heard all the rumours about Ashkaraz. Don’t think people won’t be looking your way.’

  He said nothing for a long moment and she had the sense that she’d scored a hit. Good. Because right now that kernel of ice in her gut wasn’t going away. It was getting bigger, freezing her.

  If you’d only waited in the cell...

  Charlotte ignored the thought. Instead she took a surreptitious breath and stared back at the Sheikh, completely forgetting the fact that he was actually a sheikh and maybe that was rude. Then again, he’d threatened to keep her prisoner here indefinitely, and that certainly wasn’t polite.

  ‘Are you threatening me, Miss Devereaux?’ he enquired at last, his voice silky and dark and full of danger.

  Charlotte was suddenly keenly aware of how thin was the ice upon which she was standing. She had no power here. None at all. And yet here she was, arguing with the king himself.

  ‘No, I’m not threatening you. I assure you, I wouldn’t dare.’

  And yet she had to do something. On the one hand she couldn’t afford to anger him—not when he was already angry—but on the other she couldn’t allow both herself and her father to be buried in a prison cell for the rest of their lives.

  Perhaps she should try and appeal to his humanity?

  Before she could think better of it, she moved around the side of the desk and put a tentative hand on his arm. ‘Please,’ she said, looking up at him, trying not to sound as if she was pleading. ‘You don’t have to do this. You can just let us go and it’ll be fine.’

  His gaze dropped to her hand on his arm and then moved back up again, and she was suddenly aware that his skin was very warm beneath her hand, that the feel of his muscles was like iron. And she was aware, too, of his scent—warm and spicy and masculine. He was very large, very powerful, and he was watching her like a predator, intense and focused. His gaze was all gold, like a tiger’s, and just as hungry.

  Something unfamiliar shifted down low inside her...a kind of heat and a very feminine awareness she hadn’t experienced before.

  She had never bothered with men. While her friends had been out clubbing and on dating apps she’d preferred staying at home with a book. Because after the front row seat she’d had watching her parents’ toxic relationship she’d decided she wanted no part of that. It was easier to retreat between the pages of her book, where there were no arguments, no screaming, no suffocating silences or the kind of seething quiet that presaged a major emotional hurricane—where princes remained fantasies and fantasies ended with a kiss.

  She’d never missed having a man in her life. Never wanted one. The only kisses she’d had had been in her imagination, and she’d never met anyone who had made her want to think about more than kisses.

  But now, feeling the solidity and strength of the Sheikh’s arm beneath her hand, being close to his powerful body, aware of his warmth and rich, spicy scent... She couldn’t seem to catch her breath.

  ‘Are you aware,’ he murmured, and the soft, silky darkness of his voice was totally at odds with the blazing gold of his eyes, ‘that touching the Sheikh without permission means death?’

  Oh, dear.

  Instinctively she tried to jerk away, but he was too quick, his other hand coming down on hers in a blur of motion, pressing her palm to his forearm.

  The heat of his hand against her bare skin was scorching, making her pulse accelerate, and all thought was fragmenting under the pressure of his brilliant gaze.

  Was this a distraction?

  Was he trying to use his male wiles on her to make her forget what she was saying?

  That’s ridiculous. He’s a sheikh. He can do whatever he likes. And why would he use his wiles on you anyway?

  That was a very good point. But, regardless, she couldn’t let him get to her. He might very well be the king, but she was a British citizen and she had rights. And surely what he was doing was against the Geneva Convention?

  ‘We’re nothing to you,’ she said, trying not to sound breathless, hoping to appeal to him in terms he might understand. ‘We’re insignificant English people. If Dad is unconscious, then he hasn’t seen anything, and I don’t have a lot of friends so I don’t have any people to tell anyway. Your secret is safe with me. And if I accidentally do let something slip, then you...you can come to England and arrest me. Your Majesty,’ she added, for good measure.

  There was a long and suffocating silence and the pressure of his hand over hers was relentless, burning.

  He’s not going to let you go.

  A small burst of unexpected anger broke through her determined calm. No, he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t insist she stay here indefinitely, couldn’t touch her the way he was doing, and he certainly couldn’t keep her prisoner. She wasn’t going to allow it.

  Determined, Charlotte met his gaze head-on. ‘If you let us go now, and without a fuss, I won’t tell the media I was held here against my will.’

  There was another suffocating silence.

  ‘You,’ the Sheikh said softly, ‘are either very
brave or very stupid, and I cannot tell which it is.’

  Charlotte’s cheeks burned, but she didn’t look away. She was probably being the latter rather than the former, in issuing him such a threat, but what choice did she have?

  She didn’t want her father to suffer for the mistake she’d made. He’d been awarded custody of her after his bitter divorce from her mother, and she’d never wanted him to regret that, even though she knew he did.

  Perhaps if she hadn’t run away that last time, forcing her parents to call the police and causing all kinds of fuss, then she wouldn’t have felt so bad about it. But she had run away. And the next day her mother had called it quits and her father had ended up with her.

  She’d always tried to be good after that. Never running away again, never causing a fuss. Trying to be interested in all the things he was interested in and later, when she was an adult, becoming his assistant and general dogsbody, doing whatever was required.

  Including getting him imprisoned for life by a dictator.

  Her breath came shorter, faster, though she tried to remain calm.

  ‘Well?’ She lifted a brow, trying to sound as if she was merely waiting to hear whether he’d like a cup of tea or not, rather than asking what he was going to do about her threat of a diplomatic incident.

  He said nothing, just watched her as he spread his fingers out, his hand completely covering her own. His skin was hot, like a brand, with the same heat that burned in the merciless gold of his eyes.

  She had angered him, that was clear, and she should be terrified by that. But for some reason she wasn’t. He was standing very close, huge and strong and so very powerful, and yet there was something in the heat of his gaze that made her breath catch.

  She didn’t know quite what it was, but an instinct she hadn’t known she possessed told her that she wasn’t without power here. That she had the ability to get under this Sheikh’s skin.

  It made adrenaline rush in her veins, made her want to push, see how far she could go—which was not like her at all. She normally ran from anger, not towards it.

  His fingers curled around her hand, holding it for a brief, intense moment. Then he pulled it from his arm and let her go, rising to his full height, towering over her.

  She could still feel the heat of his fingers as if they’d been imprinted on her skin, and she wanted to put her hand behind her back or in her pocket to hide it, as if it were visible. But there was no hiding from him.

  His eyes gleamed briefly, as if he understood something she didn’t, making her blush. But all he said was, ‘That, Miss Devereaux, is what is commonly known as a threat. And, as I have told you once already, I do not respond well to threats.’

  Charlotte opened her mouth to protest, her heart hammering in her chest. But he must have done something—pressed some button on his desk—because the doors had opened and the guards were coming in.

  He said something to them—a sharp order she didn’t understand—and suddenly they were on either side of her, hemming her in.

  She swallowed hard. ‘So is this how you treat guests in your country? You get your guards to drag them back to the cells?’

  ‘We do not have “guests” in this country, Miss Devereaux, and you will not be going back to a cell.’

  His fierce gaze shifted to the guards and he nodded to them once.

  And then there was no time to say anything more as she was ushered firmly out of the room.

  * * *

  Tariq paced back and forth in front of the window in his office, coldly furious.

  It had been a long time since he was quite this angry. Then again, it had been a long time since anyone had issued the kind of threat the little Englishwoman had—all cool and polite and straight to his face.

  What made her think that she—a mere nobody—could threaten the king of an entire nation? Looking up at him with her big blue eyes, all beseeching, appealing to him as if he had mercy in his heart instead of cold stone.

  And then—then!—to put her hand on his arm as if he was an ordinary man...

  You are an ordinary man. You’re just angry that you’re responding to her as you did to Catherine.

  That the thought was true didn’t make it any more welcome. Because he couldn’t deny it. He’d ignored the initial pull of attraction, had dismissed it entirely, and yet as soon as she’d touched him he’d felt his body respond as if it had a will of its own.

  The light pressure of her fingers on his arm had caused a sudden rush of awareness of her feminine warmth and her small, lush figure next to his. She’d smelled of something sweet and subtle that reminded him of the flowers in the gardens outside—roses, perhaps. And then those eyes looking up into his had got even bigger, her cheeks even pinker, and he’d known she felt the same pull between them that he did: physical chemistry.

  He was an experienced man, and he knew well enough when he was attracted to a woman, and he was attracted to this one. Strongly so. Which did not help his temper in the slightest, considering he was supposed to be treating her the way he treated all intruders.

  Physical desire, however, was something easily dealt with. Her threat to him just now and the challenging look in her blue eyes was not. She had him over a barrel and she knew it.

  Because if he kept her and her father the British government would certainly have something to say about it, surely?

  Yes, their disappearance could be easily explained by some story of their having got lost and perishing in the desert, but search parties would be sent out. Other governments would know the border of his country wasn’t far away from the archaeological site, and those rumours that kept people out would also make people suspicious. Enquiries would be made. Questions would be asked. Ashkaraz would receive attention.

  And he did not want attention—not from the outside world.

  The only reason Ashkaraz remained autonomous and free was because its borders were closed and no one knew anything about it. They didn’t know about the massive oil wealth upon which the country sat. Or about how that oil was channelled through various private companies so no one would know where it came from. Or about how that wealth came back into the country and was used to pay for hospitals and schools and other social services.

  Ashkaraz was wealthy and prosperous but it came at a price—and that price was isolation from a world that would try and take that wealth from them. Because people were greedy. As he knew to his cost.

  Tariq came to a stop in front of his desk, his jaw tight, and had to take a moment to uncurl his fingers, relax the tension in his shoulders, dismiss the anger that burned in his gut. He needed to spend some time in the palace gym—that was what he needed. Some boxing or sword practice with an opponent. Or perhaps he needed to call one of the women he sometimes spent the night with, work out his tension that way.

  First, though, he needed to decide exactly what to do about his pretty English captive.

  He couldn’t risk letting her go, so her father would have to stay too—because he couldn’t have the man out and about in the world, demanding his daughter’s return.

  Yes, she might very well promise not to tell anyone about Ashkaraz, but all it would take was one slip, one accidental confession to the wrong person, and curiosity would start. One person would tell another, and then they would tell a couple more, and on it would go. And then, like a rockslide, it would get bigger and bigger. The border incursions they already had would get worse. Until one day Ashkaraz would no longer remain hidden.

  He couldn’t risk that. The balance was already fragile; he couldn’t allow it to tip.

  But keeping them both here would garner unwelcome attention too.

  Unless she stays here willingly.

  That was a possibility. That way she could contact the British authorities, tell them that she was alive and well and not to look for her, because she had chosen to stay here.
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  It would be the perfect answer to all his problems but for the tiny fact that she was not willing.

  So how to make her?

  The answer to that was obvious: her father.

  He could let Professor Devereaux go—he, after all, had seen nothing—on the understanding that his daughter would tell the British government that she was alive and well and perfectly happy to stay in Ashkaraz.

  The idea solved his little diplomatic problem quite nicely, and he was feeling pleased with himself—until thirty minutes into a meeting with Faisal, when his advisor said, ‘You won’t like what I’m going to say, Your Majesty, but Almasi wants a decision made about his daughter.’

  Tariq, who had been standing with one hip propped against the edge of his desk, his arms folded, was instantly irritated. Almasi was a high-ranking member of his government who’d been angling to have his daughter considered as potential sheikha for the past couple of months. His government in general had been putting pressure on him for a couple of years to marry and secure the succession, but Almasi had been particularly vocal. Mainly because he had an of-age daughter whom he thought would be perfect as Tariq’s wife.

  Tariq disagreed. Almasi’s daughter was a nice woman, but he didn’t want anything to do with Almasi himself, or his grasping family. That was the problem with the majority of eligible women in Kharan, and in Ashkaraz in general—they were attached to families who wanted to have a stake in determining the way the wealth of their little nation was distributed. Which would have been fine if it was for the good of the country. But Tariq knew it wouldn’t be. It would be for the good of only particular families, and that he wouldn’t stand for.

  Greed wasn’t confined only to outsiders.

  Catherine’s family had certainly been grasping, so he preferred any woman he might consider marrying not to have such connections.

  ‘I am not going to marry his daughter, no matter what he or the government thinks,’ Tariq said, his tone absolute.

  Faisal was quiet a moment. Then, ‘There is the issue of succession,’ he said delicately. ‘It must be dealt with, as you know.’