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‘The sooner this is over, the better,’ she muttered under her breath, seeing no point in making herself heard.

His fingers were on the handle when she said it, but hear it he did—for in a flash he had turned, his jacket flailing out behind him like some outlaw provoked, and suddenly his face was level with her own and far, far too close.

She could feel his warm breath with startling awareness on her lips. It sent a prickle of excitement down her neck, across her skin and to the straining tips of her breasts. He reached out one finger to touch her jaw, the softness of the gesture mocking as he tilted her chin upwards, his eyes dropping to her mouth.

‘Oh, I will make it better, Tamara,’ he drawled, as if he could sense the sexual frustration teeming beneath her skin. ‘Better than anything you’ve ever experienced before. And it will be soon.’

Sabrina Philips first discovered Mills & Boon® one Saturday afternoon in her early teens at her first job in a charity shop. Sorting through a stack of preloved books, she came across a cover which featured a glamorous heroine and a tall, dark, handsome hero. She started reading under the counter that instant—and has never looked back!

A lover of both reading and writing since childhood, Sabrina went on to study English with Classics at Reading University. She adores all literature, but finds there’s nothing else quite like the indulgent thrill of a Modern™ Romance—preferably whilst lying in a hot bath with no distractions!

She grew up in Guildford, Surrey, where she now lives with her husband—who swept her off her feet when they were both just sixteen. When Sabrina isn’t spending time with her family or writing, she works as a co-ordinator of civil marriages, which she describes as a fantastic source of romantic inspiration and a great deal of fun.

A decade after reading her very first Mills & Boon®, Sabrina is delighted to join as an author herself, and to have the opportunity to create infuriatingly sexy heroes of her own—which she defies both her heroines and her readers to resist! Visit Sabrina’s website: www.sabrinaphilips.com

THE DESERT KING’S BEJEWELLED BRIDE

BY

SABRINA PHILIPS

www.millsandboon.co.uk

THE DESERT KING’S BEJEWELLED BRIDE

For Sharon Kendrick, to whom I owe so much.

And to Phil, for the perfect ‘I do’.

CHAPTER ONE

‘JUST lean slightly further forward—oh, yes, that’s it.’

Kaliq clenched his teeth and resisted the urge to topple the balding excuse for a man who was leering behind the camera with such gusto that he was almost horizontal. The self-control it took not to step forward and silence him with a single flick of one long, lean finger required more resolve than he might have anticipated, for the scene was, after all, exactly as he had expected.

Unobserved in the shadows, Kaliq followed the man’s lecherous gaze and bit down hard upon his lower lip as he slowly drank her in, the initial stab of recognition at seeing her again quite literally in the flesh mounting to a low insistent thud of desire in his groin. Hell, she was the very devil incarnate.

Splayed before a backdrop of fire, she was pouting provocatively, every inch of her offered up for his delectation—his, and every man’s. Even if technically she wasn’t naked, the shimmering slip of golden fabric—which back in Qwasir would be hard pushed to qualify as a mosquito net—barely skimmed her lush breasts before disappearing into nothing mid-thigh, and only served to enhance more of her slender figure than it covered. Never had he seen anything so close to, nor so far from his deepest fantasies both at the same time.

As the hot studio lights beat down upon her bronzed skin and those loose auburn curls, the irony forced him to suppress a sardonic laugh. Now, what was it she had said? That she wanted the freedom to live her life out of the spotlight that his attracted? Jezebel indeed, he thought, eyeing the logo on the oversized perfume bottle that was supposedly the central prop of the photo shoot but which one might be forgiven for overlooking completely.

It had been on his trip to the Qwasirian embassy in Paris last month that he had first caught a split-second glimpse of a billboard plastered with the inviting image of a woman all at once too familiar and yet not familiar enough. Then suddenly those deceptively wide eyes and rosebud lips had been everywhere, and even the swift investigation of his closest aide was unable to prove that he was mistaken. It was Tamara Weston. Never before had anything made him so furious.

He should have suspected as much. After all, even when she had been a guest in his land—not yet a woman and yet hardly a girl—she had been too spirited, both for her age and her sex, however prim she had looked. But seven years ago, accompanying her irrefutable allure had been an innocence he had foolishly believed was as much a part of her as her beauty. Kaliq’s nostrils flared. What was it then, which had made her turn down the honour he had offered her in favour of this? Had the idea of sharing her body with only one man failed to excite her? Or was it her own limelight she had sought all along?

No matter, he thought, leaning back languorously against the doorframe. He might not be able to turn back the clock, take back the misplaced respect he had once bestowed upon her, but the future was a different story. This time, her choice didn’t come into it. There was no question of his being mistaken about that.

As another lewd stage-direction passed Henry’s lips, Tamara allowed her mind to wander. Just what expression would cross his oily features if she leaned far enough forward to swipe the smutty look off his face?

Ignore him, she told herself, unsure why she was letting him get to her today. Every job has its downside. Heavens, she should know. In the last few years she’d had more jobs than she could count on her fingers, and probably her toes as well. But take the odd walking slime-ball like Henry out of the equation—and thankfully his presence at these photo shoots was rare—and she had to admit that modelling had a lot more upsides than she would ever have imagined. If she had stopped to consider it as a potential career before now, which she hadn’t. For, though she was tall at five foot nine and had inherited her mother’s striking colouring and good bone structure, she would never have described her appearance as anything other than average. And after witnessing her parents’ divorce splashed across the papers, she had never had the desire to forge any kind of career which would involve being in the public eye. However, when her college friend Lisa—who in Tamara’s mind had that enviable fortune of knowing what she wanted to do with her life since the age of six—had asked her to pose wearing her first collection of fashion designs, she had agreed as a favour. To Tamara’s amazement, when Lisa hit the big time, retail giant Jezebel Cosmetics had approached her with an offer to become the new face of their brand.

At first Tamara had been reluctant to accept, but when she saw the salary they were offering, she knew she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to at least try a job which would allow her to give more than just her spare time to Mike. What she hadn’t expected was to discover that there was much more to the job than simply looking sultry for a few hours a day; because aside from being mentally and physically exhausting, she had to work out the best way to convey whatever emotion the piece required. She found that satisfyingly challenging—even if, when she stopped to think about it, that might have been because portraying whatever image she was asked prevented her having to contemplate who she really was. As for the pace of it all; yes, she would gladly lose the press intrusion, but travelling to new destinations and meeting new people outweighed all of that. The point was, after flitting from one job to another, she actually felt as if she might be on the cusp of finding her place in the world, a sensation she hadn’t had in years, not since…she had been in a very different place, a long time ago.

And, since becoming the new face of Jezebel Fragrance, fashion houses and magazine critics alike were hailing her the hottest new property in the modelling world. In the space of a few months she had gone from being just another girl in the sea of faces, to being recognised wherever she went, with photo shoots the world over. In fact, only yesterday Henry’s assistant had informed her that next week she was expected in the Middle East and she couldn’t wait.

But today, the moment she had walked out into the studio, she had felt ill at ease, as if there had been some kind of chemical reaction in the room and all the good had evaporated. Suddenly it seemed as if it was not just her appearance that was on display to the world, but her soul too. She couldn’t put her finger on why. Henry’s comments were no worse than usual. Her dress, the evocative backdrop was no different from countless other shoots. Was it perhaps down to the extra cameras that Henry’s assistant had mentioned they would be using? She moved her legs beneath her uncomfortably, focusing on the multitude of people and equipment she usually pretended were not there at all. The forest of lenses and cables all angled towards her looked no denser than normal, and certainly no more alarming. Yet still the incongruous sense that she was being watched somehow differently, her instinct screaming at her to run, escape now before it was too late.

Telling herself she had just got out of the wrong side of bed that morning, she flicked her head to the left as instructed, allowing her mass of thick, dark hair to fall over her shoulder, and berated herself for her overactive imagination. However, the moment she did so, she caught sight of something on the periphery of her vision. Or, more specifically, someone. A tall figure shrouded in darkness, set apart from everyone else.

Tamara felt her heart stop beating and rise like the bubble in a thermometer, lodging itself in her throat. Don’t be stupid, she told herself, unable to discern his face without altering her pose. It couldn’t be. He would never be here. It was probably just another potential client of Henry’s—a regular occurrence since Jezebel sales figures had gone through the roof. Yet, try as she might to rationalise the instinct which told her it was not just anyone, it was too overwhelming.

‘Lov-ing that flushed look of expectancy, Tamara. Keep at that angle.’

But Tamara wasn’t listening, for she had already turned her head. And, the instant she did, the air left her lungs as if someone had dealt a blow to her stomach.

Or her heart.

She would know that profile anywhere. The rugged, regal set of his features. The proud dark head. The autocratic posture of his tall, sculpted frame. That was what made her sure it was him. Other men might be as tall, their bodies just as athletically proportioned, but no one else stood like that. Head and shoulders above the rest, and not just literally. For he emanated an infuriatingly justified self-confidence. He knew that the moment he walked into a room, whether he was announced as Kaliq Al-Zahir A’zam, crown prince of Qwasir, or not, the particles in the air changed a little, so that every woman—no, every human being—was aware of the presence of a man who could not be ignored.

She swallowed and closed her eyes in disbelief, wishing that the heat spreading through her body would somehow make her invisible, camouflaged against the flames projected behind her. But she only felt herself growing more conspicuous, naked almost, beneath his dark, penetrating gaze.

Why on earth was he here? Had he some financial interest in Jezebel Cosmetics? It was one of the world’s most successful new brands, but since when did a sheikh need to dabble in the retail industry for extra cash? He bought racehorses like other people bought popcorn, for goodness’ sake—to liven up a little light entertainment. Tamara would have laughed at her own pathetic supposition if her heart wasn’t pulsating so wildly, and if all her attention wasn’t focused on looking anywhere but in his direction.

Why, then? Surely, after all this time, he hadn’t come to remind her what she was missing, as if she was a task that had finally got to the top of his royal to-do list? No, he had made it perfectly clear that he never wanted to see her again. There had to be some logical explanation.

‘All right, Tamara. Whilst the sight of your shivering side profile opens up a whole new realm of…possibilities, it rather detracts from the heat of the piece. Let’s call it a day.’

For once, Tamara was actually grateful to hear Henry’s voice. Plagued with curiosity though she was, the need to escape was greater. If she was quick, she could make a dash for her dressing room behind the main stage and leave by the back door. Because, no matter how unimaginable his reason for being here, never discovering it was preferable to facing her greatest regret head-on. It was bad enough that it had followed her around like a shadow all these years.

But quick, she soon discovered, had not been quick enough. For, as she slung on her jacket and hot-footed the short distance to her dressing room and flung open the door, it became apparent that he had been quicker.

‘Kaliq!’

She did not know why she drew a breath in surprise. If his purpose was to speak with her, she knew he would not let a little matter like her reluctance interfere with his plans. With one leg tossed casually over the other, his suspended foot working impatiently, he sat back in the chair positioned right in the middle of her dressing room as if it were a throne. Waiting.

Tamara dared not meet his eyes: close up was fifty times more dangerous than taking in that lethal gaze from a distance. She had never seen him outside of Qwasir itself, and it struck her now more than it ever had before just how exotic he looked—that olive skin, the opulence of his thick, black hair which, while cut short, had a definite wave that seemed to speak of wildness and control at the same time. Although he wore his dark, impeccably cut suit as if he had been born into it, seeing him in Western dress seemed only to enhance just how much an extension of the untameable desert he was.

She remained at the doorway, fighting the contradicting emotions inside her which fought for supremacy. One half hating him—the only man she had ever believed herself in love with—for waltzing through the door just when she had finally started to forget, the other half feeling as if she had just woken up from a dull and lifeless sleep and discovered it was the first day of spring. The recollection that she ought to have bowed in the presence of the crown prince and that her informal address no doubt broke a thousand codes of Qwasirian conduct came later, and was the easiest to dismiss. Though perhaps not for him, for his eyes flicked over her with such censure that she felt if she didn’t say something— anything—then the room would combust.

‘Believe it or not, I wasn’t expecting guests.’ Tamara made a point of looking at the clothes and make-up scattered around the room, hoping it explained the look of horror on her treacherously expressive face.

‘Don’t tell me that acting is another of your hidden talents,’ he drawled, eyeing the bouquet on her dressing table, which she had hastily plonked in water before the start of the shoot. ‘It can hardly be an unusual occurrence to find an admirer hovering in your dressing room, hmm?’

Tamara felt herself colour involuntarily at the insinuation, all the more so because blushing was a childhood tendency that until now she had thought she’d grown out of. The flowers were just a thank you from Mike, but she might have guessed that, to Kaliq, modelling and a lack of virtue were synonymous. Did he suppose she had a different admirer in here every day of the week? How little he knew.

‘Actually, it is—’

‘There is no need to play the innocent with me now, Tamara,’ he interjected.

‘Didn’t anyone ever teach you to allow a person to finish their sentence?’

Kaliq suddenly raised his head, as if the concept of someone correcting him was entirely alien and he needed to check he had heard correctly.

‘I was about to say that most people pay attention to the private sign on the door.’ The words rebounded in her head as soon as she had spoken them. Kaliq was many things, but he most certainly was not most people.

‘Privacy is not a luxury I’m well acquainted with.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Occupational hazard, as someone once pointed out to me.’

Tamara cringed as she recognised the words she had once spoken, even as a small, foolish part of her leaped that he remembered. Until she realised that in ignoring the sign he’d just proved that he still didn’t give a damn about anyone’s wishes but his own.

She stiffened. ‘And yet you were always so strict on matters of propriety, I seem to recall.’

‘Just as I recall you saying that you could never bear a life in the public eye. And yet now you are recognised the world over. It is funny, is it not, how things change?’ Kaliq feigned a puzzled look. ‘Or perhaps I was mistaken?’

He was never mistaken, and she knew it. He leaned back with amusement and awaited her response. Much as sitting here, hearing her try to defend herself made him want to crush the arms of the chair beneath his hands, he was enjoying himself.

He still got to her. He could see it in the flush of colour that had begun somewhere above the rounds of her breasts. It had risen between the ‘V’ created by her hastily slung on jacket and up that long, slender neck of hers, which reminded him of a bird at an oasis. And it had stained her cheeks almost from the moment she had walked in and found him here. When she had been trying to escape.

She would not escape. That much was certain. No matter how much she protested her innocence or faked a blush. He would show no restraint. For the boundary he had once forbidden himself to cross had now undoubtedly been torn. Yet, though he knew her virtue was lost, just looking at her sent flames of desire licking through his body. Even more surprisingly, he was overpowered by a greater need. To do this slowly. It was understandable, he supposed. He should have had her then. Though he had waited long enough, where would be the sense in not savouring the moment? Like an eagle who had spent a long night parched in the desert, why swoop in on the first sight of the perfect kill without care and precision? Better to hold back and wait for the slow, defined culmination of all that had gone before.

‘Just tell me why you’re here, Kaliq.’ Tamara hugged her soft brown jacket around her and buttoned it up to the neck as if the gesture might encourage him to leave. If he registered the less than subtle hint, the unwavering set of his jaw told her its impact had been about as effective as a pellet gun shot into bullet-proof glass.

Surely he hadn’t come all this way to simply throw her words back at her? Yes, she had told him she could never have dealt with the fame his royal status attracted, but she would have said anything that held an element of truth rather than let him know just how deeply he had hurt her. As she recalled it, he had barely listened anyway. She knew that whatever reason she had given didn’t matter, only that his expression had turned to pure hatred the minute she had shaken her head. So why would it matter now?

‘Patience is a virtue, Tamara. Surely even you are still capable of that one?’

Tamara felt her blood boil in anger. ‘Better to lose virtues than to gain defects, Your Highness.’ She dropped into a mocking bow. ‘You used to at least pretend to respect all people in equal measure. Now I see that only goes for people who obey your every whim.’

Kaliq’s eyes glittered up at her. ‘Then it is lucky you have a chance to make good on your transgression.’

Tamara felt every muscle in her body tense. Surely he hadn’t come to ask her…surely he didn’t think—did he?

He paused with all the superiority of a man who was used to people hanging on his every word. ‘I have come to hire you.’

‘Hire me?’ He made her sound like a power tool he needed for some tricky palace DIY.

‘Do not sound so surprised, Tamara. This is what you do, is it not? Appear however and wherever you are paid to do so.’

His words made her ashamed of the first thing she had felt proud of in years.

He continued, oblivious. ‘Which answers your question as to why I am here.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I want you to model for me.’

‘Model what?’

‘The A’zam Sapphires.’

CHAPTER TWO

THE A’zam Sapphires?

Tamara stared in disbelief at his inscrutable expression, telling herself to keep breathing in and out.

To anyone else it might sound as if she had just been offered the biggest scoop of her whirlwind career—the honour of being asked to model the royal jewels of Qwasir, the most ancient and precious sapphires on earth—but Tamara knew that honour had nothing to do with it. This was about revenge. Because they weren’t just valuable heirlooms, or stones so remarkably blue they had their own shade of Dulux paint named after them— they were the gems traditionally worn when the crown prince took a bride. The jewels she might have worn. For real.

Yes, he knew all about offering what looked like perfection on a plate, but there was no way she was going to agree to play his glorified mannequin. Tamara opened her mouth to tell him as much, but the instant she did the door burst open behind her.

‘Your Highness, Prince A’zam, my sincere apologies—I had no idea you had arrived!’ Henry entered in a whirlwind of half-bowed haste. ‘My assistant has only just informed me—oh, you simply can’t get the staff—I would have sent a car immediately if I had known, forgive me. Please, allow me to get you a drink—’

Tamara shut her mouth again, disquiet rippling through her. Henry had been expecting him? Was he somehow in on this whole preposterous scheme?

Kaliq raised his hand and motioned for Henry to stand up straight. Tamara wished he hadn’t bothered. If he had gone much longer without taking a breath he might have exploded in a frenzy of over-exaggerated gesticulation, and so much the better if he had taken Kaliq with him.

‘No matter,’ Kaliq ground out, his eyes blazing as they trailed Henry’s unannounced path through the door and into her dressing room. ‘As you can see, Miss Weston afforded me the same pleasurable intimacy it seems she grants everyone.’

He turned to her, a damning expression playing across his outrageously sensual mouth. ‘You really must take down that “private” sign and replace it with something more appropriate. Unrestricted access, perhaps?’

Henry grinned, showing two rows of yellowing teeth. ‘Oh, yes, Tamara’s a blessing to work with, not another ice-queen like most models these days, if you know what I mean.’ Henry winked at Kaliq as if they were in some sort of private men’s club and nodded to Tamara as if he had paid her a priceless compliment.

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Kaliq replied, his words deliberate, sending an ominous chill from the nape of Tamara’s neck down to her tailbone. ‘In fact, I believe Tamara was just about to express her enthusiasm for the news that her next assignment will be working for me.’ He looked at her expectantly, but Henry cut in.

‘And who can blame her? The Jezebel girl modelling royal jewels—how’s that for publicity?’ He grinned smarmily all over his face and for the second time that day, and more vehemently than before, Tamara was overcome with the urge to slap him. So Kaliq had gone through Henry to get to her. This wasn’t—oh, God, this was the shoot in the Middle East that Emma had mentioned in passing and that she had been looking forward to?

‘Actually—’ her voice came out louder than she intended and suddenly both men’s eyes were upon her, one greedily, the other indifferently, as if this was a done deal ‘—what I was about to say is that—honoured though I am that you thought of me, Your Highness, I have no wish to accept your offer.’

If the scene had been drawn in a comic book, by the time Tamara’s sarcastic words had hit the air, steam would have been billowing from Henry’s ever-reddening ears. Oblivious to the atmosphere in the room that spoke of a past of which he knew nothing, he turned on Tamara as if she were a petulant child throwing a tantrum for no reason other than to irritate him.

‘You are contracted to Jezebel Limited and, since His Royal Highness has wisely organised this unique modelling opportunity through the company, I’m afraid your impetuous wants, or in this case won’ts, count for nothing.’

Henry guffawed as if he had made the joke of the year, and looked at Kaliq for approval, which didn’t come.

‘Everyone has a choice,’ she said, her voice low, looking directly at Kaliq. ‘Just because someone expects you to perform a certain duty does not mean you have to fall in line.’

For the first time she saw something like emotion flicker in Kaliq’s eyes. Good, she thought to herself, even if it was nothing more than wounded pride.

Henry moved bullishly towards her. ‘You turn this down and you kiss your contract with Jezebel goodbye, Tamara.’

Kaliq abruptly stood up between them, the sheer size of him forcing Henry to take a step back.

‘Thank you—Henry, is it? I am sure Miss Weston is just a little daunted by the enormity of the task. She is bound to be nervous about the proper behaviour—so unfamiliar to her— that will be required in Qwasir. Please leave us, I will put her mind at rest.’

Consumed with frustration that in one fell swoop Kaliq had branded her devoid of both integrity and the ability to stand up for herself, Tamara watched Henry reluctantly depart. She didn’t bother to listen for the sound of his footsteps walking away, for he viewed every chance of a bigger bonus for himself with even hungrier eyes than he ogled every woman who moved. She knew he would not let her determine one of the most lucrative and high profile deals of his career without eavesdropping, regardless of Kaliq’s dismissal. But she didn’t care. This was not about Henry.

This was about Kaliq, as far too many things in her life had already been. Turning her body back round purposefully, she came up against his with a start. In the split second she had turned away, he had silently homed in upon her like some deadly heat-seeking missile. For all the cover it offered her, she wished she had not primly fastened her jacket, her body now flooding with warmth as the distinctive, spicy scent of him filled her nostrils. Sandalwood. Amber. She shook herself. No, she would not forget her resolve just because his sex appeal was so damned potent.

‘You might have grown used to your position and your wealth ensuring that you have everything you desire, Kaliq, but, I promise you, you will not have me.’

She hadn’t meant it to come out like that. She took a step back, her cheeks growing an even brighter shade of crimson. There was no question of him wanting her. Even then she had been nothing to him but a row of ticks on a checklist of suitable attributes.

‘Come, Tamara, do not pretend that finding yourself in this position is not precisely what you truly desire.’ His eyes blazed with contempt. ‘The display of the royal jewels shall be televised worldwide. There will be dignitaries, royalty, the world’s social elite. Exactly the exposure you crave. There is no need to feign shyness.’

‘I signed a contract to Henry, not to you.’

His jaw tensed. ‘Yes. With your abandonment of morality also went shrewd judgement, it seems.’

‘And yet you are in cahoots with him yourself, to use me in any way that suits you. Are the two of you so different, I wonder?’

He did not rise to the bait. ‘What do you think?’ He looked at her with arrogant self-assurance. ‘I will pay what he pays you in a year for this one job. Turn me down and you lose both.’

Tamara knew that Kaliq’s fortune totalled more figures than would fit on the screen of most calculators, but she also knew that he didn’t make excessive offers just for the sake of it. He wanted this badly, and he had planned it like a chess player manoeuvring pieces on a board involving Henry to trap her. But the truth was that Henry and Kaliq were no more alike than a sewer rat and a mountain lion, and part of her, though she loathed the thought of the blackmail he proposed, wanted to look into his eyes and say yes. Because she and Mike could do so much good with that money. Because, if she took her personal feelings out of it, professionally, it was an incredible opportunity. And mostly because, even though it went against every word she had repeated like a mantra since walking away from this man, she had felt more alive these last ten minutes than she had done in years.

Tamara tore her eyes away from him and began to busy her hands tidying some of the clothes on the chair beside her. Looking at him was too dangerous. His smooth skin was as tempting as her favorite decadent chocolate dessert, his long lean hands reminded her of how he had once held her before him with so much tenderness and power. What would coming back from the dizzying heights of being a part of his world for a second time in her life do to her when he was so blatantly setting out to wound her?

‘You already have my answer. I am sure you will have no trouble finding someone else.’

‘I do not want anyone else.’

Tamara almost dropped the skirt she was folding and had to blink to stop her imagination running away with her, but he continued.

‘My father is unwell.’ His voice was uncharacteristically strained as he began to pace the floor. ‘The world’s press is full of the King’s impending demise, and the people of my country are ill at ease. I wish to distract them from his deteriorating health by showcasing Qwasir’s oldest and most precious treasure at a royal gala.’ She watched his face, like a poker player about to reveal his ace, and the cynicism in his tone returned. ‘Who better for the task than the model whose name is on everyone’s lips, who also happens to be the daughter of a former Qwasirian ambassador? The headlines will write themselves.’

Fighting against a pang of empathy which she could not give room to, Tamara drew in a ragged breath, heavy with new understanding. So that was it. She had read about King Rashid’s poor health and she understood just why his people would be unsettled, understood much more than she wished. Because the crown prince had to marry in order to inherit. Parading the jewels would convince them that he planned to take a bride, and soon.

So she was to be used as a pawn. How foolish to think he had enough of a heart for this to be personal. He wanted her as nothing more than a political diversion, like a magician’s assistant used to captivate his audience’s attention. She watched as he wandered over to the window, looking out at the busy London traffic. For an instant it surprised her that the outside world was still turning. It felt as if nothing existed outside this room, but this wasn’t about them—it was just a tactical manoeuvre. For some reason, acknowledging that seemed to allow her to push her emotions aside. This really was business, so why should she toss away her modelling contract because of him? Wouldn’t that be surrendering the freedom to live her life however she chose, when that was the one thing she had always fought for? Much worse, wouldn’t refusing make him think that a part of her, however small, regretted the past?

No, she wouldn’t let that happen. It was just a business trip like any other, and afterwards, aside from keeping her job, maybe she would finally be able to lay the shadow of the past behind her, to stop wondering if she’d made the right decision and know she had. For hadn’t the last fifteen minutes gone some way to proving it?

‘Model the jewels for one evening, for the sum of my annual Jezebel contract?’ she repeated, her tone as matter-of-fact as she could muster.

Kaliq turned from the window, his mouth a thin, hard line. So, contrary to whatever she had made him believe back then, she was no different. She could be manipulated by the promise of money and fame as easily as every other woman he knew. It just hadn’t been quite tempting enough to tie herself to only one man. But then she hadn’t been tied to him yet, had she?

‘Five days from today.’

For a minute she looked at him as if he was mad, convinced that not even he was capable of organising an event of such scope in less than a week, but then she realised. It was already all arranged, wasn’t it? He was just waiting for her to slot into place. Again. That annoyed her more than everything else about this whole set-up put together.

‘What if I refuse? You’ll just cancel the whole thing?’

He gave her a withering smile. ‘If I was not present, there would be no event. If you decide you would rather throw away your career than do a few hours’ work, I can assure you I will have no trouble finding a willing replacement.’

She looked at him stonily. Knowing he was right. Hating him for it.

He continued as if her agreement had never been in question. ‘Naturally, in the interim you will be required for a few other tasks—’ he ran his eyes over her in blatant sensual appraisal ‘—rehearsals for the event, et cetera. Aside from that, you may spend your time however you wish.’

Wishing myself anywhere else, no doubt, she thought, wondering what choice she had and attempting to loosen her shoulders. But she failed; every muscle in her body was too taut from the sheer thrill of being near him. No, five days in his company might not cure that, but at least now she was old enough now not to mistake his favourable blend of genes for something else entirely.

‘I will collect you from your apartment tomorrow, at eleven.’

Kaliq flexed his broad shoulders and moved towards the door. Tamara was not sure why she was surprised that he already knew where she lived, let alone why she had supposed he might stick around, if only to gloat. Of course not. To talk, to chat over dinner, perhaps, was far beyond the realms of what a future king would bestow upon her, for she was not to be treated as anything other than a portable window display. No, he was too cold, too ruthlessly efficient for that. Her submission today was just another detail he had executed with the same cool rationality he had used to discover where she was. Evidently she had already taken up too much of his precious time.

‘The sooner this is over, the better,’ she muttered under her breath, seeing no point in making herself heard.

His fingers were on the handle when she said it, but hear it he did. In a flash he had turned, his jacket flaring out behind him like some outlaw provoked, and suddenly his face was level with her own and far, far too close.

She could feel his warm breath with startling awareness on her lips. It sent a prickle of excitement down her neck, across her skin and to the straining tips of her breasts. He reached out one finger to touch her jaw, the softness of the gesture mocking as he tilted her chin upwards, his eyes dropping to her mouth.

‘Oh, I will make it better, Tamara,’ he drawled, as if he could sense the sexual frustration teeming beneath her skin. ‘Better than anything you’ve ever experienced before, and it will be soon.’

He moved his head a fraction closer, too close to think about anything but kissing him. Tamara closed her eyes and leaned in instinctively. But in one swift movement he dropped his finger from her chin and reached for her hand with his and, tantalisingly slowly, he raised it to his mouth.

Somehow, the gesture—masquerading as modest etiquette— felt so intimate that it had her legs almost buckling beneath her. The feel of his lips on her bare skin was far hotter than the studio lights had been, igniting a desire within her so unchecked it left her scared of what she might do next. He looked at her from beneath hooded lids with such intensity that she had to remind herself to breathe. She tore her gaze away from him.

‘Kaliq, this is business, nothing more.’ Her voice was husky, breathless.

He didn’t answer, but released the hand he had kissed, before running his fingers up her arm and resting his hand in her hair, his thumb reaching out to gently stroke her bottom lip. It took all the willpower she had not to taste it with the tip of her tongue. As he watched her eyes widen he raised the corner of his mouth in a wry smile.

‘I’m glad we agree. Unfinished business. But not for much longer.’

With that, he broke away from her and flung open the door, Henry scuttling in his wake and Tamara reeling.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS the kiss that did it. The kiss that she couldn’t drive from her mind. And for goodness’ sake it had only been his lips pressed to her hand! What the hell would she have been like if he had kissed any other part of her body?

Don’t even go there, she warned herself as she tossed aside the covers, through with trying to sleep. For even when tiredness had finally overtaken her, she had woken hot and breathless with images of her body pressed to his—for some pathetic reason wearing nothing but the damned sapphires—blazing through her mind.

Tamara sat up against the headboard, taking the weight of her hair in her hands and allowing the cool air to reach the damp nape of her neck as she stared into the darkness, feeling ashamed. She knew that what had passed between them had nothing to do with any genuine desire on his part; he had simply been using his natural ability to play to women’s fantasies to get what he wanted and it had worked. Until he had touched her she had at least felt marginally in control, but the split second that he raised her hand to his lips she was transported back seven years as if she had fallen through some gap in space and time, all self-protection stripped from her in the process.

But then actions spoke louder than words, didn’t they say? They were like a familiar scent that could recall another time and place in an instant. The minute he had touched her that way she was no longer the twenty-six-year-old model standing in her dressing room with her jacket buttoned fast around her, forced to make a choice that was doomed either way. No, when he’d raised her hand to his lips she was that wide-eyed teenager again, the world at her feet.

The girl she had been the summer she’d turned nineteen, when it had seemed her life was truly about to begin, she thought wretchedly. Because, although on paper it had always looked to be a life full of potential—the daughter of a West End actress and a great foreign diplomat, the reality had been nothing so sensational. Her father’s work abroad and her mother’s gruelling schedule had led them to divorce when she was still at junior school and, by the age of thirteen, boarding school had become the place she grudgingly called home. Though her father would send gifts galore from the places he’d visited, and her dorm was stacked full of her mother’s memorabilia, she would gladly have swapped them all for the odd family holiday or the chance to have done something more notable than sit her A levels and watch the Wimbledon finals with her school friends. And whilst they’d been happy choosing college courses and eyeing up the boys from the local school, Tamara had been restless, dreaming of finding her own place in the world. She certainly had no desire to remain in the classroom, or to repeat her parents’ failed attempt at love.

So when her father had announced that he wished her to visit him in the Middle East for a week, it had felt as if the door to her future had at last been flung open. As if finally she was on the cusp of…something. And Qwasir! She remembered rolling the word over in her mouth like an exotic delicacy for weeks before her ticket had even arrived, immersing herself in every book she could find on the country, noting down snippets of information as if they were bright keys to her future.

When the plane had finally touched down, she was not disappointed. Qwasir had not only met, but surpassed her wildest imaginings. From the minute she’d been met by the black royal-crested Jeep at the airport and driven through the town and out across the expansive desert landscape towards the royal palace, everything seemed full of so much colour, heat, life. As if all this time she’d been living in a rock pool and she had finally escaped into the wide, wide ocean.

Never more so than at the moment when the driver of the Jeep had led her through the enormous palace gates and asked Tamara to wait in the bright white marble atrium. It was such a maze of rooms and corridors that it put in her mind of the story of Theseus and the Minotaur, just asking to be explored.

Finding herself alone, Tamara had tiptoed towards the first doorway to the left, her eyes widening to discover a room full of glass display cases. It seemed to be a section of the palace open to public view. She wandered in, her eyes drawn to an original colour photograph of King Rashid and his late wife Sofia on their wedding day, an enlarged version of the black and white one she had so loved in her guidebook. Not because she had a penchant for all things bridal, but because of the look on Sofia’s face, as if in that instant she had discovered where she truly belonged. It was then that Tamara’s eyes had dropped to the glass case beneath the photo and widened in awe, for it contained the very necklace Sofia had worn in the picture, and which had been given more page-space in her guidebook than anything else—the famous A’zam Sapphires.

‘I’m afraid we’re closed for today.’

Tamara jumped at the discovery that she was not alone and swung round instantly to try to locate the origin of the deep voice that had seemed to come out of nowhere.

Leaning nonchalantly at the doorway was a man unlike any other she had seen before—and not just because of his Eastern dress. A man who stood as if not only she, but the whole world had turned to him. Who took her breath away and replaced it with heat and excitement.

‘I’m sorry it’s just—’ she turned back to the case guiltily ‘—it’s so beautiful I couldn’t help but look.’

His dark eyes narrowed. ‘They tend to have that effect— people not being able to help themselves. Which is why we only ever display a replica.’

Tamara looked puzzled for a moment. ‘Actually, I was talking about the photograph.’ His eyes widened, as if she had surprised him. ‘It’s a fascinating display. It must be a pleasure to work here.’

A look of amusement crossed his lips and she saw his expression visibly soften. ‘Indeed. And no doubt there will be time for you to continue your appraisal tomorrow, Miss Weston. In the meantime, let me show you where you will be staying.’ He inclined his head towards the door. ‘Your father sends his apologies that he is not here to meet you in person. He is still in a conference—on Qwasirian security.’ He raised his eyebrow ironically.

‘Tamara, please,’ she offered. ‘And, as it seems you already know, I am the daughter of James Weston. It’s a pleasure to meet you…?’ Tamara raised her eyebrows inquisitively.

‘We have a tradition in Qwasir that guests and hosts share nothing but names until they have shared food together,’ he offered in explanation, gesturing for her to follow him, though the slight curl of a smile at the corner of his mouth belied the severity of his tone.

‘I had read that was so,’ Tamara said equally levelly, though mischief was dancing in her eyes, ‘but since you had already broken that tradition by surmising so much about me, I thought perhaps you were hoping I was unaware of the custom.’

He whipped his head round in shock and Tamara instantly wondered whether her quick-wittedness had offended him. But, as she raised her head anxiously, his eyes glittered back in amused challenge.

‘Very well,’ he said, facing her head-on and extending his hand to her, ‘I am Kaliq Al-Zahir A’zam, and my father is King Rashid of Qwasir. Welcome to our palace.’

The crown prince!

Tamara felt instantly that she should drop into a reverent curtsy, but she was too overwhelmed and embarrassed to move. Of course he was royalty! Who else would be capable of giving off that aura of magnificence unlike any she had ever felt before? Though she knew that her father resided in a wing of the palace, she hadn’t anticipated that she would come into contact with the A’zam family herself. According to the books she had read, the crown prince spent most of his time studying abroad. She didn’t think he’d just be meandering round the palace where he might be mistaken for—oh, God, had she really supposed he was a museum steward?

Tamara blushed and extended her hand quickly in return, and was almost as shocked by the bolt of electricity his touch sent through her body as by the revelation of who he was. She bowed her head. ‘It is an honour to meet you.’

To her surprise, she thought she heard him exhale wearily, but though it took every effort, she dared not look up.

But, to her astonishment, he lowered his head until her light blue eyes met the rich darkness of his. ‘Kaliq, please.’

His gaze was too enthralling to hold. She turned away. ‘I am sorry. I didn’t expect… I didn’t know what to expect.’

‘You are not quite what I was expecting either.’

Tamara’s eyes moved down over her pink and white gingham dress, her heart sinking. No doubt he must be used to women dropping at his feet immediately, either covered reverently in swathes of beautiful fabric, or buffered to such perfection that they resembled a female form of himself. She failed on both accounts.

‘You misunderstand me, Tamara,’ he said, slowing raising her hand to his lips, her eyes growing wider and her heart beating faster the closer he got. ‘I find it very rare that I am surprised by anything of late. I had forgotten what a pleasure it is.’

It was then—as his lips touched her flesh—that Tamara suddenly raised her head and something passed between them. Something indescribable. That felt as old and unique as the treasures in that room, yet new and so much more precious.

For in that one statement and the glance that had followed, her feelings of unworthiness, her fear at having the wrong words, the wrong clothes, of being a world away from him, disappeared on the spot. As he gazed back at her she realised that underneath all that she was just a woman and he was just a man who might long to be something other than he was as much as she did, no matter how much colour his world held to her.

Had held to her then, Tamara corrected inwardly as she flicked on her bedside lamp. Not any more. Because, whatever she had once thought, she couldn’t have got it more wrong. And the incredible week that had followed—the hours they had spent talking about anything and everything whilst her father was working, the life-changing day when he had taken her to the new school he’d had built and made her see how misguided she had been to think of her years of education as restrictive, hearing about his studies in Europe with his best friend Leon, encouraging her hopes to do the same—none of it had been about open-mindedness or respect at all. He had made her believe that the world was her oyster, and then tried to confine her to another rock pool, just different from the one she’d started in.

She would do well to try and remember that. Yesterday in her dressing room she ought to have known better than to allow herself to feel anything, she thought bleakly as she watched a tiny moth flit into the bulb of her bedside lamp again and again. At the very least she ought to have been capable of masking her emotions, as she did every day in front of the camera, even if she couldn’t help surrendering to them at night.

Tamara picked up her mobile phone to check the time. Six-twenty a.m. One new message. She drew in a deep breath, her nerves on edge, but it was from Emma, Henry’s assistant. She told herself to feel relieved.

Henry says PLEASE be on time for Prince A’zam. Good

Luck. Emma xxx

As she read the words, she imagined herself waiting obediently in her hallway at eleven o’clock. The thought made her grimace. Surely there was another way to see this through. A way which didn’t make her feel as if she’d already lost…

It was not, Tamara discovered, particularly easy to book a last minute flight, nor accommodation in the middle of the desert at half past six on a Tuesday morning, but the challenge at least gave her the satisfaction of doing something rather than just sitting there, passively awaiting her fate. She felt relieved knowing that this way she could see the job through and hang on to her independence without the distraction of Kaliq’s formidable presence every time she turned around.

With the sun still low in the sky, she wheeled her suitcase down the steps from her flat. The flat she was still renting, even though she had saved enough for a deposit. Her landlord was happy to sell it to her, but she still couldn’t bring herself to commit, even though it had plenty of good points. Like the fact it was just a short walk to the train station, which thankfully linked directly with the airport.

But just as she turned out of the gate to begin that familiar route, she caught sight of a low-slung vehicle with tinted windows on the opposite side of the street. Despite its understated metallic black bodywork, it looked as conspicuous as a panther in the Arctic. It was large and sleek, and she knew it was not the kind of car her neighbours could even afford to hire, let alone own. Please, she prayed to herself, let Penny downstairs have finally bagged her rich boss who she was always harping on about.

‘Raring to go, Tamara?’ The silky drawl that cut through the stillness of the morning as she reached the bottom of the steps made her jump, but the surge of adrenaline immediately turned to anger.

‘Is stalking another pursuit you consider a royal right, along with blackmail, Kaliq?’ she bit out, not bothering to stop walking.

‘Just keeping an eye on what’s mine.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ She stopped then, but didn’t turn around, trying to ignore the way the endless expanse of cool morning air seemed to have grown claustrophobic with the throb of sexual awareness.

‘You are my employee now, are you not? Since you have a tendency for not knowing what’s good for you, I thought I’d make sure you didn’t do anything stupid. It seems it was a precaution worth taking.’

‘Then you’re mistaken. I never go back on my word. Nor do I consider leaving early for an assignment to be stupid, do you?’

‘My mistake indeed,’ he whispered slowly as he came up behind her. ‘I should have guessed that you were dying to start peeling off your clothes.’

‘You didn’t mention that I would be required to remove any clothes. I would appreciate it if you could clarify what is required of me, if my duties are not to be as I was initially informed.’

‘I think you know perfectly well what is required of you.’

She swung round then. The slanted smile on his face read that he was keeping score and it was one-nil to him.

‘I agreed to model some old jewels. Assuming that is what you mean, I think we understand each other.’

She saw a nerve work at his jaw and visualised a score board depicting one-all.

‘You make it sound as if what I ask you to do makes a difference to your answer, Tamara. I hardly think you need to pretend your standards are so exacting.’

God, he really was from the Dark Ages! It wasn’t as if she posed for page three, for goodness’ sake—she’d never been photographed in anything less than what most people wore to the supermarket in summer, and usually a lot more. But then he was trying to get her, wasn’t he?

‘I wasn’t pretending any such thing,’ she answered coolly. ‘What you ask of me simply makes a difference to how much I charge.’

‘And how much do you charge, Tamara, for say—one night?’

Tamara glowered at him. ‘Sex may be written into the contract of every other one of your female employees, Kaliq, but it is not in mine.’

‘What makes you think it needs to be written in,’ he purred, ‘when you know it goes without saying?’

Tamara felt a wave of heat rush over her, which threatened to drag her mind back to the place it had been in the early hours of the morning, but she tore herself away from his mesmerising look of intent, turned on her heel and began to walk down the street.

‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’

‘To catch my train.’

‘Then clearly, Tamara, you are not charging enough.’ Kaliq reached out and caught hold of her arm, spinning her round to face him.

‘Public transport may be an alien concept to you, Your Highness—’ Tamara shook out of his grip as she motioned towards the costly vehicle on the opposite side of the street ‘—but I can assure you it is a perfectly adequate means of travel.’

‘But why have adequate, Tamara, when you can have the best?’ He drawled, ‘My private jet is waiting.’

‘As is my charter flight and city accommodation.’

Kaliq looked utterly exasperated. ‘You think it is safe for a young woman to travel and stay alone in Qwasir?’

‘If it wasn’t, I would imagine the crown prince would have bigger concerns than hanging around here just to make sure he had someone to wear a necklace four days from now.’

Kaliq’s eyes darkened. ‘It is a fact of life that our cultures are different, Tamara.’

Tamara nodded and reached for the handle of her case once more. ‘You would do well to remember it. See you there.’

‘I’m afraid not, Tamara.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘It means I require you in one piece for what I have in mind. Travelling in my transport and staying in my palace have just been added to the list of what is required of you. Now, get in the car.’

CHAPTER FOUR

AS TAMARA sank back into the obscenely comfortable seat and looked out at the mushroom-like clouds below, she told herself she was glad. After all, having to put up with his prehistoric demands for the duration of this assignment was one of the reasons why she’d agreed to it. For what could be more cathartic than to return home a week from now, knowing for certain that she could never have endured him?

She ought to be glad that he was making it so easy for her—that he was giving her every opportunity to harden her heart, to adopt the ice-cool, businesslike demeanour that Henry had described as customary in every other model he knew. Yet nothing about this felt easy.

Maybe it was because she hadn’t expected him to act in that cool manner himself. From the minute they had set foot on his private jet, he had positioned himself at the opposite end of the flight deck and immersed himself in a briefcase full of paperwork as if she were nothing more than a piece of excess baggage which didn’t fit in the hold. The few times he had looked up he had glanced straight through her, as if she had ceased to exist.

But then that was how he worked, wasn’t it? Oh, yes, her every mile-high whim would be catered for by his staff, but the minute she fell in line with his plans she ceased to matter to him. Because nothing mattered to him except his precious crown, she thought wretchedly. Until now she had been in danger of forgetting that.

Of forgetting that night.

Tamara squinted out at the view, the clouds becoming less dense and the yellow-brown hue of the desert landscape below just starting to become visible. The sight made her ball up the thin jumper she had been wearing and place it between her head and the window, pretending she wanted to sleep. The reality was she simply wanted to block out the view. To block out the memories.

It had been at the end of her stay in Qwasir—though leaving was something she had not allowed herself to contemplate— when the two of them and his aide had ridden across that desert at dusk. Kaliq had been insistent that she experience the annual masked festival in the tiny mountain village near the royal palace. She suspected she would have nodded in wide-eyed awe at whatever he’d suggested, but knowing that for one night no one would be able to recognise him as the crown prince had particularly delighted her. Perhaps because she’d grown tired of dodging the press whenever she was with him—ten times worse than the intrusion she had experienced on the few occasions a year she spent time with her mother. Perhaps because she’d wanted to forget exactly who he was.

For in Tamara’s eyes, his title had seemed detached from him, like a middle name rarely used. To her, he was the man who’d taught by example to defy what was expected, who’d made her recognise that she had been short-sighted, ungrateful even, to have been disappointed with her experiences in life so far, and who had encouraged her to pursue her dreams the way no one else ever had. Almost more startling, he’d made her want to venture into territory that—unlike everyone else her age—she had never wanted to sample before. She’d wanted him physically. To explore him—have him explore her. And, though he’d insisted it was necessary that they travel with an aide, the smouldering look in his eyes had seemed to say that the feeling was mutual.

So when, after a night of drinking the dark, spicy local drink and dancing anonymously amongst the jovial crowds, they’d left in the early hours of the morning with his aide nowhere in sight, Tamara’s heart thrilled at the thought of being alone with him. Had he engineered it on purpose? She’d felt sure that he had. Though she didn’t know what that meant in the long-term, it didn’t seem to matter. Because, for the first time in her life, instead of wondering where she might be going, she could think only of the here and now. Of her body pressed to his back, the sounds of the festival dying away and their breathing perfectly in time as they’d ridden over the hilltop to the incredible sight of the sun rising over the sand dunes. It had felt as if the thermostat which had been keeping her feelings at bay had just gone up in flames.

‘Please, Kaliq, let’s stop for a moment, it’s so perfect.’

Kaliq didn’t answer, but suddenly through the half-light she saw that they were making their way downwards to a small gap in the mountainside, his horse Amir now slowing to a walk.

Hesitantly, Kaliq dismounted and raised his arms to lift her from his stallion. He looked, she thought, rather as if he were considering waging war against himself.

He moved away from her, looking out towards the rising sun. ‘We should really get back to the palace. It is late.’

‘Or perhaps we are just up early; it depends how you look at it.’

‘You should be asleep.’ His face was solemn.

Tamara frowned. Usually he delighted in the habit she had of turning everything he said on its head. She followed his serious gaze, to the tip of gold shimmering on the horizon, and then back to his face. ‘You think I would rather be asleep than here, with you?’

‘No, Tamara.’ He shook his head, his expression taut. ‘I think your father trusted me to show you my country. He did not ask that I find myself alone in the desert with you in the early hours of morning. It is not right.’

Right? Nothing had ever felt more right in her entire life. What was he saying—that she was nothing more to him than a puppy he had been given to walk, but this was past his agreed hours?

‘I am not a child, Kaliq. In a month I may be travelling through Europe, next year university, who knows? Do you suppose I will never find myself alone with anyone then?’

A muscle tensed at his jaw.

Tamara continued. ‘If I am taking up too much of your precious time then I will quite gladly continue to show myself around. I did not know it had been such a chore.’

‘You think I say it is not right because being with you is a chore?’ His voice seemed to echo off the sand dunes. He reached out his hand for hers, his thumb slowly beginning to draw hypnotic circles in her palm, shaking her to the core. ‘It is not right because…because when I am with you I wish to kiss you. When we are in public, propriety prevents me, but when we are alone—’

She looked up at him, her eyes growing wide, her stomach doing somersaults.

‘When we are alone, kalilah, I have to rely on my own self-control.’

He made it sound like a curse, but something in Tamara was soaring obliviously, her arms reaching playfully around his neck, one corner of her mouth lifting into a daring smile. ‘I thought self control was your forte.’

‘I thought so too—’ his voice was almost a groan that sounded like defeat as he guided her body closer ‘—until I met you.’

Unable to tear her eyes away from him, Tamara watched as his liquid brown gaze dropped to her lips and then, suddenly, decisively, his mouth followed. But the moment it did she was unable to focus on anything. Because if she thought Qwasir had surpassed her wildest expectations it was nothing compared to the long-awaited sensation of his mouth on hers. Gently exploring, testing, the tip of his tongue finding hers and flicking over it, teaching her the true meaning of anticipation. A feeling so new and so longed for that she wasn’t sure she ever wanted it to end.

Until something brought her back to where they were. The sound of hooves. On sand. Approaching. Suddenly Kaliq let go of her and stepped back as if he had just discovered she was infected with some contagious disease. Tamara spun round to see his aide on horseback, squinting through the sliver of sunlight from a distance.

‘Forgive me, Your Highness,’ he called, stilling at the point they must have come into view, ‘I missed you leaving and then…when I saw Amir I thought perhaps you were in trouble.’

‘No trouble, Jalaal, thank you.’ His voice was husky but level.

Jalaal nodded and turned without question.

Tamara frowned as Kaliq moved towards Amir. So he had not instructed his aide to leave them alone on purpose, and he certainly hadn’t dismissed him on her account now. No, he fully intended to leave. Tamara drew in a ragged breath. Was Jalaal discovering that the crown prince had human desires like anyone else so terrible? Was desiring her so regrettable full stop?

‘Don’t tell me, Kaliq, it is right that we should be getting back.’ Her voice was sarcastic. ‘After all, tomorrow I’ll be gone.’

Kaliq looked at her blankly. Down at the sand beneath his feet. Then out at the round sun shimmering on the horizon.

Like a gem.

Then suddenly a look came over his face unlike any she had ever seen before. As if he had just been handed a key to a door without a keyhole, and he wasn’t entirely sure whether to leave it be or barge the door right down.

‘Well?’ she asked, her hands on her hips, looking at him and then at Amir.

And then he turned back to her quickly, as though her impatience had made up his mind.

‘Tamara, will you marry me?’

Tamara stared in disbelief at the doubtful expression on his face and half-laughed, wondering if she had missed the joke.

‘Marry you? Why? Because your aide just caught us alone together?’

Kaliq’s mouth hardened. ‘No.’

‘Then why?’ she asked softly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

‘You wish me to list the reasons why? Is it not obvious?’ He flexed his hand, then closed it again. ‘Because you are exceptionally beautiful, and a virgin. Because you are the daughter of the ambassador, and you have shown great respect for my country in your own right. And because—as you know—I must marry in order to inherit the kingdom.’ He paused as if to be sure there was no reason he had omitted and, to her consternation, she realised it was the first time in the last ten minutes she had seen him look utterly certain—there was not. ‘Is that clear enough?’

‘Perfectly.’ Tamara felt as if her heart were a hologram and with the rising of the sun the light had made it cease to exist completely. For in one succinct sentence he had just listed all the reasons why she might be a suitable future queen, but none of the reasons why he might want her to become his wife.

Suddenly she knew that they had been worlds apart all along.

The truth was that this week had been a test of her suitability. It had nothing to do with encouraging her to pursue her dreams or to defy expectations—it had been a double bluff. He had cared about nothing but his precious duty all along.

And though she had fallen for him, though to say no would be to lose the one thing that had ever made her feel truly alive, to say yes would be to sacrifice the life she had only just begun to live. For how could she spend the rest of it trapped in a marriage to a man who didn’t love her? That could only ever end the way her parents’ marriage had—with a painful and bitter divorce splashed across the newspapers.

‘Well?’ he said, mocking her earlier impatience. ‘What do you say to wearing the sapphires, Tamara?’

Tamara took a deep breath. ‘I can’t marry you Kaliq.’

Kaliq straightened indignantly as the sun rose high above their heads, the mystical glow of half light beginning to fade away.

‘May I ask why?’

Is it not obvious? She wanted to retort in kind, but her pride forbade her. For how could she reply that it was because he did not love her, when to admit she loved him—when she had only known him for one week—was crazy. As ridiculous as saying yes to a man who had only proposed because she was the virgin daughter of an ambassador, and because he needed a wife in order to inherit his kingdom. And how better to escape the real reason than to answer as if she had simply been offered the job of queen, rather than asked the one question in the world that ought to have been motivated by love but which held none at all?

‘Because I wish to be free,’ she whispered brokenly, ‘to live my life out of the spotlight yours attracts.’

Kaliq looked up from the final paragraph of the international trading treaty as the plane began its descent to his homeland, and his heart settled. It had consumed almost all his waking hours for the past few weeks and, finally, it was finished. He felt all the pleasure of a plan just as he had calculated—well reasoned and considered after days of deliberation—the way his plans always were.

Always, except once. His eyes roamed to Tamara, willing himself to feel the same sense of satisfaction as she sat there compliantly in exactly the way he had intended, but his mind only filled with scorn for his younger self. That idea then had come impetuously, irrationally, awkwardly. Had presented itself as an ill-timed but doable solution to satiate both his lust and fulfil his duty.

But then there had been nothing rational about his thoughts from that very first day he had met her, when he had known, unequivocally and inconveniently, that she was both innocent and the most desirable woman he had ever encountered. Less rational still had been that night when it had occurred to him that not only was she leaving, but that it was inevitable that on her travels she would meet some other man who would have no qualms about robbing her of her virtue. He’d wanted her, with an ache unlike any he had ever known. Yet to have taken her would have made him no better than some other man himself and, as a proud descendent of the A’zam tribe who had first civilised Qwasir, that had been out of the question.

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