DEAR READER LETTER

By Sharon Kendrick

Dear Reader,

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx

Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…

The Desert King’s Virgin Bride

Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Chris and Cerys—may there be many, many

sunny days to follow. With love from your

favorite cousin.

xxx

CONTENTS

Cover

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EPILOGUE

Coming Next Month

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘MALIK, I’m…’ There was a slight pause as Sorrel struggled to push the words out. She cleared her throat and tried again—forcing a smile which felt as if it was slicing her face in two. ‘I’m leaving you,’ she said, and then wished she could have bitten the words right back, wondering why the hell it had come out like that.

Malik looked up from the document he had been reading and a spark of undisguised irritation flashed from his black eyes. Eyes which had been described by the press as cold, or intimidating, or even—in the more colourful publications—as being like those of a lithe predator, about to strike its helpless victim. ‘What?’ he questioned impatiently.

‘I mean…’ Sorrel stared at the dark-skinned Sheikh, sitting in his shimmering silken robes at his desk. He had barely noticed her entering the room and he was barely looking at her now—and worrying about how her words had been interpreted was obviously a complete waste of time, since he obviously hadn’t been listening either! ‘That I’m leaving Kharastan,’ she finished huskily.

A frown creased Malik’s olive brow—for he was too preoccupied with affairs of state to have heard her. More importantly, he had no desire to bother himself with the internal domestic squabbling of the palace. Surely she knew that? ‘Not now, Sorrel,’ he growled.

Not now? If ever Sorrel had needed confirmation that she was doing the right thing, then it came in the Sheikh’s moody and offhand response to her. He spoke as if she was a troublesome fly who had buzzed into his large office suite and he was just about to carelessly swat it.

Amber sunlight slanted in through the window, turning the sumptuous apartment into a tableau of pure gold and illuminating the man who sat at the desk like some glorious living statue. As always, just the sight of him made Sorrel’s heart yearn—but the sooner she got out of the habit of doing that then the sooner she would recover from the impact of his potent charm. Instead, Sorrel tried very hard to ignore his physical attributes, and fixed him with a questioning look instead. ‘When, then? When can we discuss it, Malik?’

‘Look!’ Impatiently, he waved his hand at the large pile of paperwork awaiting the royal stamp and the royal signature. Beside them lay his open diary, crammed with engagement after engagement. ‘You know that there is an important border issue with Maraban which needs to be resolved quickly—and I have a new ambassador to welcome later this morning. Can’t you see how busy I am?’

‘Yes, Malik,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘Of course I can see.’ It hurt that he should even ask—for surely he must know that she always had his interests at heart? Once, she had been alone in looking out for Malik—in the days when he had been nothing more than the Sheikh’s most valued and trusted aide—but now all eyes were fixed on him.

In the royal palace—and in the desert lands beyond—he was the centre of the universe. To be a desert king was considered irresistible in the eyes of the world. When Malik said ‘jump’, people leapt—usually with a smarmy and obsequious smile pinned to their faces.

It hadn’t always been that way, of course. Malik was a late starter in the royal game—he hadn’t even realised that he was the illegitimate son of the Sheikh until two years ago, when the bombshell announcement had been made. The old ruler had died, and Malik had been crowned—from aide to king in a simple ceremony—from commoner to royal in an instant. And yet Malik seemed to have adapted to his new status like a falcon which took its first solo flight in the desert sky.

His always haughty air had become fine tuned—but now he had developed a cool dismissiveness towards others. The practical side of Sorrel’s character acknowledged that he needed distance—literally, to stop anyone from getting too close to him and to attempt to claw back some of his most precious commodity: time.

Yet, deep down, hadn’t Sorrel been hoping that in her case he might make an exception? Didn’t it occur to him that she was itching to tell him of her decision and to get on with it—to start making something of her own life, instead of just existing as some invisible satellite of his? No, of course it didn’t!

Ever since Sorrel had known him Malik had been an autocratic and supremely dominant man—but since he had inherited the Kingdom of Kharastan his pride and his arrogance had known no bounds. His wishes were always paramount—nothing else mattered except what the Sheikh wanted—and Sorrel had come to the heartbreaking conclusion that there was simply no place for her in his life any more.

Everything had changed—he had, and she had. Suddenly she no longer felt she belonged—certainly not in the land where she had lived most of her life.

Then just where do you belong? The question which had haunted her for so long popped into her head, even though she had been trying to ignore it—because every time she let herself think about it she was frightened by the vision of a great gaping hole in her future.

Malik’s black eyes were now scanning the cream parchment pages of his diary and, knowing that he could be seen by none of his servants, he scowled. It was unlike Sorrel to add to the burden of his work.

‘There is no appointment for me to see you marked out in my diary.’ He frowned, and then he looked up again. ‘Did you make one?’

Once, Sorrel might have wanted to weep at such a matter-of-fact statement coming from the man she had idolised ever since she could remember. The man who had in effect ‘rescued’ her, who had become her legal guardian after the sudden and tragic death of her parents and allowed her to remain in Kharastan instead of being carted off back to England. But this harsh new attitude towards her hurt more than she could have thought possible, and even though she tried very hard to tell herself he wasn’t being unreasonable—it wasn’t easy.

‘No, I didn’t make an appointment,’ she said flatly.

Malik’s eyes narrowed. What was the matter with her lately? From being someone he could talk to and relax with, she had become…edgy. ‘Well, be quick,’ he said impatiently, flicking a glance at the modern watch which looked so at odds when contrasted against the fine silk of the flowing robes he wore. ‘What is it?’

Sorrel wondered what he would say if she blurted out I think you’ve become an arrogant and insufferable pig. Would he have her taken away for treason?

She flicked her tongue out over lips which had grown suddenly dry. ‘I want to go to England,’ she said.

‘England?’ Malik frowned. ‘Why?’

‘Because…’ Where did she begin? Not with the truth, that was for sure.

Because I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you for years, Malik, and you’ve never even deigned to notice me as a woman.

No, the truth would horrify him. Sorrel had no real experience of men—but the palace library was stocked with the world’s greatest literature, and she had read enough classic love stories to realise that she was wasting her time with the black-eyed Sheikh of Kharastan, who had steel for a heart.

‘Because I am now twenty-five.’

‘No, Sorrel,’ he negated. ‘You cannot be.’

This was the kind of remark which once she would have found sweet, and amusing—but which now rankled as if he had just insulted her. And in a way he had—for his failure to know her real age went some way towards explaining why he treated her as if she was about six years old.

‘I really think that if anyone happens to know how old I am, it’s me,’ she said, as near as she came to sarcasm with His Mightiness these days.

‘Yes. Of course. Twenty-five,’ he repeated wonderingly, and for a second he met her gaze full-on. ‘How can this be?’

Sorrel steeled her heart against the sudden faraway look in his ebony eyes. A sad, wistful, almost dreamy look—as if he had lost himself in the past.

Which just proved how unrealistically sentimental she had become—as if Malik would be longing for the days when he had been just the aide to the Sheikh, instead of the Sheikh himself!

‘The years go by more quickly than any of us realise,’ Sorrel said briskly, realising how prim she sounded—but that was the trouble: she was prim. Basically, the years were zooming by, and with them her youth, and she was wasting it pining for a man who never noticed her. Well, not as a woman.

One day—probably in the not-too-distant-future—Malik would start casting his eyes around for a suitable bride. A woman of Kharastani stock who could provide him with pure-bred Kharastani babies. ‘And I can’t stay here for ever,’ she finished.

‘But you don’t know England,’ objected Malik. ‘You haven’t lived there for years.’

‘Not since I was at boarding school,’ Sorrel agreed. ‘And even then I didn’t what you might call live there. Being allowed out to the sweet shop in the village every Saturday morning to spend my pocket money hardly counts as interacting with the country of my birth!’

Malik’s hard mouth momentarily softened. He had known her since she was a child—a blonde-haired poppet, as her father had used to call her. And he had been right. Sunny little Sorrel had charmed everyone.

Her parents had been diplomats—clever academics with a hunger for facts and experience which had ended over the treacherous peaks of the Maraban mountain range which bordered the Western side of the country. There, one hot and stormy evening, their plane and their dreams had crashed and lain in pieces on the ground, and the sixteen-year-old Sorrel had been left an orphan.

Perhaps if she had been younger then she would have been unable to refuse to return to her homeland, to be cared for by a distant relative. And if she had been older then there would have been no need for a protector. But she had needed someone, and Malik—a great friend and confidant of her ambassador father—had been named as guardian in their will.

He had been more than a decade older, and in a more liberal country than Kharastan questions might have been asked about whether such an arrangement was appropriate between a teenage girl and a red-blooded single man. But no questions had been asked. Malik’s reputation where honour and duty were concerned was unimpeachable. He had overseen her education and her upbringing with a stern eye, far stricter than that of any father—though Sorrel had never given him cause for concern, not even a hint of rebellion.

Until now.

He stared at her. She was almost completely covered in pale silk, as Kharastani custom dictated, so it was almost impossible to known what her figure was really like, though from the drape and fall of the cloth, and the perfect oval of her face, it was easy to recognise that beneath it she was a slim and healthy young woman.

Only a strand of moon-pale hair peeped out from beneath the soft silver lace which covered it, and the only colour which was apparent was the bright blue of her eyes and the natural rose gleam of her lips. For the first time Malik began to realise that somewhere along the way she had become a woman—and he hadn’t even noticed.

Should he let her go? ‘Can’t you just have a holiday in England?’ he enquired moodily. ‘And then come back again?’

Sorrel sighed. He was missing the point—only she couldn’t really tell him what the point was, could she?

‘No, Malik,’ she said patiently, aware from the sudden narrowing of his eyes that few people said ‘no’ to him since his sudden elevation in status. ‘I’ve spent my whole life having holidays in England—I haven’t lived there properly for years. Why, I even went to university here, in Kumush Ay—’

‘Which has a fine reputation the world over!’ he interrupted, with fierce pride. ‘And which enabled you to become possibly the only Western woman to speak fluent Kharastani. Why, you speak it almost as fluently as I do!’

‘Thank you.’ Briefly, Sorrel bowed her head—aware that the Sheikh had just paid her a compliment and that to fail to acknowledge it would be seen as discourteous. But it was yet another example of how much had changed since his elevation into the royal ranks.

There was a time when she would have playfully teased him—or perhaps challenged him about who was right and who was wrong—but not any more. And the longer you stay, the worse it’s going to get, she told herself.

‘I don’t want to become a stranger to the land of my birth, Malik,’ she said fervently. ‘And if I leave it much longer then I will be. I’ll become one of those people whose only knowledge of their country is through the rose-tinted glasses of memory.’

His eyes glinted as he nodded his black head with slow consideration. ‘Yes,’ he conceded. ‘The ties to our homeland are one of the strongest of all instincts known to man—for they link us to our forebears and make up our very history.’

Sorrel could have kicked the leg of his ornate writing desk in rage, wanting to tell him not to be so damned pompous, but she couldn’t do that either. He might be speaking to her as if he was aged about a hundred and three, but what he said made sense—and in this instance at least he spoke from the heart. His heritage was of huge importance to him, and so he would naturally understand her need to go and investigate her roots.

After all, it wasn’t his fault that she had stupidly nurtured a rather different fantasy about their shared future over the years…

‘Sorrel?’

His voice butted into her thoughts and Sorrel blinked, her heart leaping in spite of everything, the way it always did when he said her name in that uniquely honeyed way of his.

‘Yes, Malik?’

‘Just what are you proposing to do? In England?’

Try to start a new life. Do the normal stuff that a twenty-five-year-old woman would have done by now if she hadn’t been all caught up with trying to fit in somewhere where she didn’t belong. Maybe even find herself a boyfriend along the way.

‘I’ll look for a job.’

There was a pause. ‘A job? What kind of job?’ he demanded, as incredulously as if she had just started doing cartwheels around the state apartments.

‘I can do plenty of things.’

‘Oh, really?’ He sat back in his chair and, interlacing his long dark fingers in front of the silken shimmer of his robes, fixed her with a piercing black look. ‘Such as?’

‘I’m a good organiser.’

‘That much is true,’ he admitted, for she had been co-ordinating palace functions ever since she had graduated. No royal banquet was ever complete without Sorrel quietly manoeuvring behind the scenes to prevent delicate egos from clashing.

‘And I am also versed in the art of diplomacy.’

He could see exactly where this was leading, and as he was reminded of just how protected and innocent she really was Malik shook his head. ‘If you think you’ll just be able to walk straight into a job without any formal training, then you are wrong, Sorrel.’ Thoughtfully, he drummed one long finger on the polished surface of the exquisite inlaid desk. ‘However, I may be able to speak to a few people on your behalf. Perhaps,’ he mused, ‘I could arrange for you to stay with a family. Yes, that might be the best solution all round.’

‘A family?’

‘Why not? Girls do it all the time.’

Girls, he had said. Not women, but girls—and enough really was enough! For the first time in her adult life Sorrel looked around the high-ceilinged palace room and saw it not as a place furnished with priceless antiques and glittering chandeliers and wonderful artifacts but as a kind of elaborate cage. Except that even a bird trapped in a cage could be seen, while she was hidden away like a guilty kind of secret. Prevented from freely mixing with men, covered from head to toe in robes designed to conceal the female form from all eyes. Never before had she minded about the camouflage of the national dress—but lately she had been looking at fashion sites on the internet with a yearning which surprised her.

‘I am not a g-girl,’ she said, her voice shaking with an emotion she wasn’t sure she could identify—even if she had been in the mood for analysis. ‘I am a woman—not some teenage au pair who needs looking after.’

Malik’s eyes were caught by the sudden trembling of her lips and his pupils dilated—for it was as if he had never seen them before. Like petals. Provocative and rosy. Did she have any idea what Western men might do when confronted with a pair of lips like that? He glared at her.

‘I would feel happier if I knew that you were in capable hands,’ he said stubbornly.

It wasn’t easy, but Sorrel knew that she had to start standing up for herself if she wanted any kind of independent life. ‘Strangely enough, this isn’t about you, Malik—this is about me, and my life. We’ve been dealing with yours non-stop ever since you became Sheikh, haven’t we?’

For a moment he stilled, every instinct alerted to the presence of something he wasn’t used to—at least, never with Sorrel—and that something was discord. Black eyes gleamed. Was she daring to criticise him? Or to imply that she was not happy with her lot?

His hard mouth flattened into an implacable line of anger which Sorrel had seen before—many times—but never directed towards her.

‘Well, do forgive me if you’ve been bored,’ he said, in an arrogant drawl which disguised the outrage he felt. Ungrateful little Westerner! He had willingly taken her under his wing, had ensured that she had a stable education and a secure home-life, and she was now throwing back his protection in his face—like some spoilt little child.

How he would like to teach her a lesson!

But as he felt the blood fizzing heatedly through his veins, Malik rose quickly from his desk, momentarily confused by his reaction—if such a state could ever have been said to exist in a man who was a stranger to the very concept of self-doubt. Why, for a moment back then…

Aware that her eyes followed him, he walked over to the window—his back ramrod-straight as he stared out into the manicured grandeur of the palace gardens—and stifled a sigh. When had he last had the freedom to just wander around its scented splendour—without a care in the world?

Not since his last few innocent days as a free man—before the announcement that he was the eldest of the late Sheikh’s three illegitimate sons and that the crown of Kharastan was to be placed on his head.

In many ways Malik had been well-prepared for the very specific burdens of kingship, for he had been the trusted aide to Sheikh Zahir for many years, and was well-versed with the intricate customs of the Kharastan court.

But knowing something as an advisor—no matter how highly favoured—was completely different from becoming the ruler, especially with very little prior warning. Malik had known that the changes would be much more subtle and far-reaching than the mere swapping of roles.

Gone was the relaxed status he had simply taken for granted. Suddenly he had been hurled into a world where he was no longer able to express an opinion without first carefully thinking it through. For his words would be seized on—twisted around, or analysed for a meaning he had not intended. Yes, he had been able to turn to Fariq—his own assistant—and elevate him to the position of Sheikh’s aide, but Malik still felt as if he was on trial. As if he had to prove to everyone—to his people and the world and to himself—that he was capable of shouldering this mighty responsibility of power.

Only with Sorrel had he not had to bother—and yet now there was to be another change, and Sorrel wished to leave.

He turned round again to find her eyes wary. And something in that fearful look shook him—seeming to click reality into sudden focus. As though the trepidation in her big blue eyes emphasised more than anything else had done to date just how different his life had become.

She who had never looked on him with anything other than serene and smiling acceptance was now surveying him as if he were some cruel sultan who had stepped out of the pages of the Arabian Nights—he, Malik, who had shown her nothing other than kindness!

Well, let her go! Let her see how she enjoyed an anonymous existence in England!

But he saw the faint clouding of her eyes and he relented, giving her one last opportunity to see sense. ‘A role could be found for you at the Kharastani Embassy,’ he mused.

‘I…realise that.’

He heard the unspoken reluctance in her voice, and with anyone else he would have quashed any further enquiry—but this was Sorrel, for mercy’s sake, who as a child had brought him back a little box covered in sea-shells from a place called Brighton. ‘You do not wish for any assistance?’ he questioned proudly.

Sorrel hesitated—for the very last thing she wished was to insult his honour. Kharastani customs were incredibly complex, and it had taken her a long time to understand that the possibility of an offer was always suggested before an offer was made. Thus, the possibility could be rejected and not the offer itself, ensuring that nobody’s pride would be hurt.

‘I just think it’s better if I do it myself. Stand on my own two feet, for the first time in my life.’ She turned her face up to his beseechingly, but his eyes were as cold as stones. ‘Surely you can understand that, Malik?’

‘I think you forget yourself,’ he remonstrated cruelly. ‘It is not my place to understand one of my subjects—nor theirs to suggest that I should!’

He drew his shoulders back and iced her a look, and Sorrel could have wept—for never in a million years could she ever have imagined Malik pulling rank on her. And was she one of his subjects? Perhaps she was—technically, at least.

Once again, the sensation of being enclosed and trapped enveloped her like a velvet throw.

‘No, of course it isn’t,’ she responded stiffly, momentarily lowering her eyes—not so much in a mockery of submission but more so that he would not see the fury reflected in her eyes. When she looked up again, she had composed herself—enough to even curve her lips in a polite little smile. ‘Then I shall make the necessary arrangements.’

‘Indeed,’ he said, deliberately cold and unhelpful, picking up his golden pen in a gesture which was obviously intended to dismiss her.

But Sorrel was not prepared to be so pushed aside—not any more. For Malik himself had just demonstrated how he rewarded loyalty and unswerving affection—with disdain and contempt.

‘I believe that there was a little money set aside in a trust for me by my father?’

He stared at her, tempted to use his power as trustee of her late father’s estate. Let her see how long she would last in the world if she had to go out and earn her living like other mortals—then she might appreciate her cosseted life within the walls of the palace!

But Malik was not foolish, and he would no more seek to deny Sorrel what was rightfully hers than he would contain her in a place of which she had clearly grown tired. Just a few minutes ago he himself had shuddered at the sensation of being trapped—so why would he inflict it on someone else?

Because he would miss her?

His mouth hardened. Perhaps for an instant, but no more than that—in the way that you might miss your favourite horse if you went to live in the city and found you could no longer ride. But doubtless Sorrel would visit Kharastan from time to time. He would watch her blossom as she embraced her new life—and that was exactly as it should be.

‘Yes, Sorrel,’ he said, surprised by the sudden heaviness in his voice. ‘The money your father left in trust for you was invested by the financial advisors of the late Sheikh.’ He paused for emphasis, to let the words sink in, but also to gauge her reaction. ‘Thus the amount he left has grown considerably.’ He saw her eyes widen, and he knew that he must move quickly to quash any ill-founded dreams that she might have. ‘That does not mean that you are now a wealthy woman—but that there is adequate provision for you. I advise you to spend it wisely—cautiously, even—until you are used to dealing with money.’

Sorrel stared at him. What did he think she was going to do? Blow it on hundreds of pairs of shoes or start buying diamonds? ‘Thank you for your advice,’ she said stiffly.

Malik relaxed slightly. So she was prepared to listen to him! ‘Shall I have one of my people talk to you—guide you through all the possibilities of budgeting?’

For a moment Sorrel was tempted—and then some dormant streak of rebellion sprang out of nowhere. All her life, people had ‘guided’ her and helped make her decisions—and that didn’t happen to other people of her age. Why, how many other young women had never paid any rent, nor shopped for groceries—or had to cook their own supper? And were they given the benefit of the palace’s financial advisors?

Besides, what advice could they possibly give that was going to be relevant to her new life in England? They could hardly tell her how to make savings on the central heating bill!

‘Thank you, Malik—but no. I would prefer to stand on my own two feet.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘How stubborn you can be sometimes, Sorrel,’ he said softly.

‘It isn’t stubbornness, Malik—it’s called independence.’

He hesitated, and then asked the question, knowing that by doing so he was breaking protocol. ‘You don’t want my help?’

Sorrel shook her head, and as she did so she felt her veil shimmer around her shoulders. She had worn it for as long as she could remember, and yet soon the veil would be lifted and removed—her head bare in a way which was considered unseemly here. It would be freedom in more ways than one—and most important of all she wanted to be free of this one-sided adoration she felt for the Sheikh.

‘I want to do it my way.’ She should have felt excitement, but at that moment she felt the clammy clamping of fear around her heart as she looked up into Malik’s hard black eyes, realising that despite everything she wanted his blessing—his assurance that her actions would not damage their friendship. That once she had got him thoroughly out of her system a residual affection would remain. ‘If that’s okay?’

He shrugged, deliberately disdainful. ‘Do as you please, Sorrel,’ he said coldly, and picked up one of the documents he had been working on in a gesture which said quite clearly I wash my hands of you. ‘But if you don’t mind—I think we have exhausted the subject, don’t you? And I happen to be rather busy.’

Sorrel stared at him. She had been dismissed as he would a servant, and she had to bite back her rage and her pain as he deliberately bent over his work. Yet somehow she kept silent, her head held high as she walked towards her apartment, telling herself that his reaction to her news after a lifetime of friendship was nothing less than shameful.

Well, she would show Sheikh High-and-Mighty Malik! She was going to get right out there in the world and start living her life as it should be lived!

So why did her heart feel so heavy as she walked into her sumptuous apartment and looked around? At the delicate inlaid furniture and the paintings whose frames gleamed softly with gold. At the row upon row of beautifully bound and rare books she had inherited from her diplomat father. And at the view over the palace gardens—the emerald lawns leading down to a long rectangle of water, with a fountain pluming in feathery display in the distance.

Against the glittering silver surface she could see the flash of the orange-pink feathers of flamingos—birds so fantastic that they looked almost unreal. Wild ducks and geese landed here sometimes, en route to the wide Balsora Sea, and many times Sorrel had seen astonishment on the faces of Western visitors—as if they simply couldn’t imagine that such a variety of wildlife existed in a land which was dominated by desert. But Kharastan was a land of constant surprises—its beauty and richness and complexity seeped into your bones almost without you realising it, and she was going to miss it.

Sorrel turned away from the window and stared down at the group of photos which sat atop the baby grand piano. Among the old black and white collection of distant relatives there was a wedding-day photo of her parents, and a later shot of the three of them, laughing on a visit to the Balsora Sea—shortly before their death.

Yet one portrait alone dominated her vision, and she picked it up and drank it in, her heart beating fast as she looked at the formal coronation day study of Malik—his beloved face so stern and so determined beneath the heavy weight of his crown and his destiny.

Rogue tears pricked at her eyes, and a feeling of strange apprehension threatened to overwhelm her as Sorrel quickly put the photo down on the piano and turned away.

CHAPTER TWO

‘IT WILL not be as you imagine it to be. And people will treat you differently there. Come back to me if ever you are in trouble, Sorrel.’

Those remembered words echoed in Sorrel’s ears—the very last words that Malik had spoken to her just before the door of the dark limousine had closed and shut her off from him.

For ever?

Now she was just being ridiculous! Of course she was going to see him again—and she hadn’t come all the way to England and fundamentally changed her life around simply to spend her time thinking about Malik, had she?

The problem was that it was difficult not to think about him, not to keep comparing her new life in England, which was so different from the way she’d lived in Kharastan. After the enclosed world of an English boarding school and her cloistered life at court, for the first time in her life she was tasting freedom.

It was just that freedom seemed to come with a price…

Recognising that she was lucky to have the funds to do so—she’d begun looking around for somewhere to rent. She had rejected London—on the grounds that it was too big and too busy, and it would probably swallow her up and spit her out again—but she didn’t want to sink into obscurity in some tiny little English village.

In the end she’d chosen Brighton, because it was a bustling and beautiful seaside town, and she recalled spending a wonderful holiday there when she’d been a little girl.

She had found an apartment on the seafront—with huge floor-to-ceiling windows which let the most amazing light flood in. It was one of several owned by Julian de Havilland, a very successful local artist, who only let the rooms out to people who had ‘good vibes’. Sorrel suspected that the stark and bare layout of the apartment, with only the barest minimum of furniture, would not be everyone’s cup of tea—but it was by far and away the nicest one she had looked at.

‘I’ll take it!’ she said, her attention caught by the sunlight dancing on the sea outside the vast windows.

‘There’s no curtains, I’m afraid,’ he said, raking hands which were stained with Indian ink through an already tousled mane of hair.

‘Who needs curtains?’ said Sorrel lightly, thinking that she would undress in the bathroom, which featured an enormous great boat of a bath and a noisy cistern.

‘Are you working in Brighton?’ he asked curiously, watching as she ran her fingertips along the edge of the marble fireplace.

‘No, I haven’t got a job,’ she said, and then, seeing the heightened curiosity on his face and not wanting to come over as some little rich-girl—which she wasn’t—and realising that only by working was she going to get to know people, she gave him a bright smile. ‘Not yet, anyway. I’m going to have to start looking.’

‘What do you do?’

Ah. That was the question. What did she do? Sorrel screwed her face up and came up with her one most marketable asset. ‘I can speak French. And German.’

‘Fluently?’

‘Oh, yes.’ She was determined to play down her knowledge of Kharastani. Sorrel had already decided that she wasn’t going to publicise her background—mainly because it wasn’t fair to Malik. He was powerful, and he was a king, and while some people might actually think she was fantasising about even knowing him she must never forget that others might wish to make his acquaintance for all kinds of reasons. And she could never presume on their friendship by daring to make introductions to him.

Friendship?

Some friendship!

He hadn’t bothered replying to her e-mails and neither had he once picked up the telephone, or in any way acknowledged the couple of jaunty postcards she had sent, with a deliberately cheerful tone—as if she was having the most wonderful time in the world with her newly acquired freedom. As if she wasn’t missing him and her life in the exotic and complex country which was Kharastan. But she did.

She missed it all like mad—the apricot-soft dawns and the fiery sunsets, the stark beauty of the desert and the warm, scented air of the palace gardens. And didn’t she miss her exceptionally privileged lifestyle there, if she was being completely honest? Hadn’t she become rather too accustomed to servants who acceded to her every whim? To having her clothes laundered and her meals cooked and served to her? Why, by the time she had left Kharastan she had actually had her own aide!

Most of all she missed Malik. The sight of his beautiful mocking face at state banquets—the sound of his rich, resonant voice as he made a speech to welcome visiting dignitaries. She missed the expectation of bumping into him. The thought that at any moment he might suddenly appear—sweeping through the wide, marbled palace corridors with his silken robes swishing and a cluster of aides scurrying in his wake, because his long stride seemed to cover so much more distance than anyone else she knew.

But didn’t that speak volumes about how hopeless her longing for him was? If she analysed the actual substance of her relationship with him, it was nothing. A few daily snatched glimpses of him and being a member of an adoring audience as he delivered a speech was not a real relationship—hardly even a friendship. She sounded more like a starstruck fan than an equal. For she would never be his equal. Not now.

In the years before the bombshell had dropped that he was the true and rightful heir to the Sheikh there had been hope that he might love her back. But he never had and now he never would. Perhaps deep down Malik had always sensed the true magnitude of his destiny, and she had to accept hers. And hers was here. Now. And she must learn to adapt to this completely different way of living.

It was a shock to the system—but one that she needed if she was to achieve any degree of contentment, she decided, as she signed a cheque and handed it over to Julian.

He took it, folded it, and slid it in the back pocket of his jeans. ‘Well, if you need a job and you’re a linguist, then why don’t you try the Alternative Tourist Office?’ he questioned, and saw her puzzled look. ‘It specialises in places of interest which are off the beaten track—as well as the usual attractions—but they get loads of foreign tourists who don’t speak much English. They’ve got a crazy little office down the road on the seafront.’

‘And they’re looking for someone?’

Julian grinned. ‘They’re always looking for someone! They don’t pay great money—but the atmosphere’s pretty relaxed.’

It certainly seemed that way. The office was situated a mere shell’s throw from her apartment, sandwiched between a clothes shop and a wine bar. A few wilting plants sat on the windowsill, and there was free coffee and a pile of magazines with most of the advertisements cut out—plus music playing from a deck in one corner.

Sorrel was asked a fairly basic question in French and given the job on the spot—mornings only and every other Saturday. She would be working with Jane, who had just left university and couldn’t decide what to do, and a very good-looking male model called Charlie, who told her he was currently ‘resting’.

‘Oh, you’re always “resting”!’ accused Jane, with a giggle.

It was such a relief to be in a friendly atmosphere with people her own age that Sorrel found herself relaxing for the first time since her plane had taken off from Kumush Ay airport.

The job was also so easy that she felt she could have done it with her eyes shut, and when she wasn’t working she kept the plants watered and read everything there was to know about Brighton, because she was determined to do well.

And when Jane and Charlie asked she told them simply that she’d been working in the Middle East but had wanted a change—and that was the truth. It was a gentle shoe-in to the working world, yet Sorrel felt incredibly nervous—given that just a few months ago she had been rubbing shoulders with political leaders and queens. Where had that serene and unflappable Sorrel gone? She seemed to have left her behind.

She guessed that her anxiety stemmed from more than just setting out on her own in a land which was like a foreign country to her—it was as if she had to acquire a whole new identity to cope with her new life.

For a start, she had to go out and buy clothes which were suitable for her new appointment, and how strange that felt—not having to follow the strict dress-code of her adopted country which had become second nature to her.

Without her neck-to-ankle silk gowns she felt almost…exposed—even though she wasn’t, not really, and certainly not compared to everyone else. She bought a couple of floaty long skirts and a pair of jeans—but the jeans hung disturbingly low on her hips and the T-shirts she wore with both clung to her breasts in a way she was not used to.

But this is England, she reminded herself—not Kharastan.

In fact, the clothes she wore were very modest—especially considering that the weather was blisteringly hot, since England was having the kind of freak summer heat-wave which Sorrel would never have anticipated. Even though they left the front door wide open, the office was like an oven—and during the still nights when she lay in bed Sorrel found herself longing for the air-conditioned coolness of the palace at Kumush Ay.

‘Aren’t you baking, dressed like that?’ asked Jane one morning, as flung her handbag down onto one of the desks. ‘You’re not in the Middle East now, you know—and these little sundresses are much cooler!’

‘Yes, they look cooler,’ agreed Sorrel, with a slight longing in her voice as she glanced at Jane’s bare thighs. ‘But my legs are so pale. Not like yours.’

‘Didn’t you sunbathe in…Kharastan?’ asked Jane.

‘It wasn’t really encouraged,’ said Sorrel, with wry understatement.

‘Well, my tan isn’t real,’ confided Jane—and when she saw Sorrel’s blank look she burst out laughing and began rubbing her hands together. ‘Oh, yes!’ she breathed, with gleeful enthusiasm. ‘I’ve always wanted to do a real-live makeover on someone!’

It was an experience that Sorrel would never forget. First came the beauty salon—where fake tan was sprayed all over her. When she emerged, she shrieked with horror at the blotchy, muddy mess her skin presented—until she was assured that the colour would flatten out. Next she had her toenails and fingernails painted in an iridescent shade of rose-pink.

‘You’ve never had a pedicure before?’ shrieked Jane in amazement.

‘Never,’ agreed Sorrel, pushing away her nagging feeling of doubt as she tried to imagine what Malik would say if he could see her now, lying back on a leather couch as if she was awaiting a medical examination, while the nail polish dried. He probably wouldn’t even deign to comment. She had taken her chosen path and was now a Western woman who could do exactly as she pleased—no longer under his protection or control. And he had moved on, too, eradicating her from his life completely—which presumably was why he hadn’t even had the courtesy to reply to her.

Hot tears stung at her eyes and she blinked them away, willing it not to hurt—not wanting it to hurt.

But it did hurt—and Sorrel despised herself for feeling a pain that had no justification in reality. Because nothing had gone on between her and Malik—absolutely nothing—except within the fertile planes of her imagination. Not a nod or a glance, nor a snatched look—and certainly never a kiss or even a touch. Sorrel swallowed. That was true. Unless you counted the times when as a child she had been learning to ride and he had first lifted her onto a horse and gently put her feet into the stirrups, Malik had never even touched her!

Even at the weddings of his two half-brothers—when the opportunity had been there—he had not danced with her. Much of the time he had been busy—like her—with the sheer mechanics of organising two such fancy functions, but when there had been a lull…No. She frowned in recall.

He had not actually danced with anyone—even though some of the more blatant female guests had been circling him as she had sometimes seen vultures circle a fallen leopard amid the blazing waste of desert sands.

So why was she allowing him to clog up her thoughts? And why was she continuing to dream this dream, which should have been growing more distant by the day—not featuring in glorious Technicolor in her mind.

It was time to move on, and there were practical ways she could do that. She’d found the apartment and the job—maybe it was time to stop standing on the sidelines of life in her homeland and to embrace the culture as would any other single young woman of twenty-five.

She glanced up at Jane, who was working her way through sample bottles of moisturiser. ‘Could we go shopping after work?’

‘Can we?’ Jane giggled. ‘I thought you’d never ask!’

Sorrel had never really hit the shops with a credit card before—her parents had not been big spenders, and had actively discouraged what they’d called the feeding frenzy of consumer spending. After their death it had simply not occurred to her to shop. While she’d been at the palace all her clothes had been paid for by the Sheikh—and she had discovered that a very generous salary had been paid into her bank account during those years.

So why shouldn’t she splurge a bit? Chainstore dresses weren’t exactly going to break the bank, were they?

And Jane was like a child who had been let loose in a dressing-up box.

‘Try this!’

‘No! I can’t—scarlet is not my colour,’ protested Sorrel.

‘How do you know until you’ve tried it?’

How indeed? To Sorrel’s surprise, Jane was right—not only did scarlet suit her, but the little cotton sundress looked rather good when teamed with some clashing orange beads. It was the last thing she would have worn in Kharastan—but surely that was a good thing? New life, she reminded herself. New woman.

In the end she bought four dresses, a denim mini-skirt, and some cool tops—some with teeny spaghetti straps and others with no straps at all—and a pair of vertiginous wedge sandals which made her legs look almost indecently long.

‘You’ll get a chance to show them off tonight,’ said Jane.

Sorrel blinked. Had she missed something? ‘What’s happening tonight?’ she asked.

‘You are,’ said Jane firmly. ‘I’m not asking any questions, since you obviously don’t want to talk about it, but I can tell just by looking at you that you’re trying to get over some bloke—the only way to do that is to find another one, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do!’

Sorrel’s first impulse was to recoil in horror at the very suggestion. To protest that finding a man was the last thing on her mind—until she began to worry that maybe there was something wrong with her. There must be—if she was objecting so strongly. In twenty-five years she had never had a boyfriend—never even kissed a man—and how sad was that? But there were some things you didn’t confide—and, much as she liked Jane, that was one of them.

She needed to break the cycle of emotional dependence on the man whose affection for her was based on his obligation as her guardian.

Swallowing down her panic, she nodded. ‘Where will we go?’

‘The wine bar. Tonight—at seven.’

Sorrel got ready, feeling mixed up and a fraud—but knowing that she should be experiencing the sense of excitement she suspected most other women her own age would be feeling if they were wearing brand-new clothes to go for a carefree night out on a hot summer evening. But she felt as if she was outside her own body, looking at herself with the detached eye of an interested observer instead of being the participant.

Part of her was aware that the itsy-bitsy floaty blue dress looked good, and that her blonde hair had never looked so pale or so shiny as it cascaded down her back to her waist. And that her tanned brown legs did look so flattering—especially when she wore them with open-toe sandals which showed off her dazzling pedicure.

There was an extraordinary moment when she walked into the crowded wine bar and every head turned in her direction. She looked behind her—thinking that someone famous must have followed her in. But, no, they were looking at her.

‘Why is everyone staring?’ she hissed at Jane, rubbing her finger underneath first one eye and then the other—in case her supposedly smudge-proof mascara hadn’t lived up to the extravagant claims made on the packet.

‘Oh, come on!’ reprimanded her friend acidly. ‘You look a knockout—that’s why. Charlie—get Sorrel a drink, will you?’

Sorrel accepted the glass of white wine Charlie pushed into her hand and took a sip. And here was another problem. Alcohol was not taken freely in Kharastan—although it was always provided in the palace for foreign dignitaries. But Sorrel had only ever tasted champagne at the royal weddings of Xavier and Giovanni—Malik’s two half-brothers—and she hadn’t been mad about it. It had made her feel a bit too dreamy on two dangerously romantic occasions, and she had looked up and found Malik glaring at her and had hastily put the glass down.

Well, not any more! Why shouldn’t she have a drink like any other person in the civilised world? It wasn’t as if she was knocking it back—not like some of Jane’s friends.

But a couple of large glasses of rough wine bar plonk was having a profound effect on a someone who wasn’t used to drinking and who hadn’t eaten anything since lunchtime. The wine bar had started to get hot and stuffy, with smoke drifting in from outside, where all the smokers were gathered, and Sorrel felt herself swaying slightly.

‘You okay?’ questioned Jane.

‘I need to eat something,’ said Sorrel woozily.

‘Yeah. Me, too. Tell you what—let’s get a curry and take it back to your place.’

It seemed churlish to object—especially when Jane had gone out of her way to help her buy clothes—and Sorrel didn’t even protest when several of the others they’d been talking to decided to tag along. They seemed a nice, if slightly noisy bunch, and she was going to have to learn about entertaining sooner or later, wasn’t she?

In the end, twelve people stumbled into her beautiful flat and took silver cartons of curry into the kitchen—ladling out heaps of yellow rice and chicken in shiny sauces and great wodges of bread. There weren’t enough plates to go round, so some people were eating out of cereal dishes and pouring wine into mugs. After they’d eaten someone found a non-stop music station on the radio—and what Sorrel would have loosely described as dancing began.

Jane was swaying with her arms locked around someone whose name Sorrel thought was Scott, though she couldn’t be sure, and then another couple flopped down onto one of the sofas and began kissing quite openly. Sorrel started wishing that everyone would leave so that she could go to bed. And what was that sickly sweet smell of the smoke drifting in from the balcony when she had most definitely said that there was to be no smoking?

It should have been wonderful—especially as outside the uncurtained windows the moon was beginning to illuminate the sky with a pale terracotta sheen. But it was the opposite of wonderful—particularly when Scott stumbled up to Sorrel and tried to pull her into his arms.

‘Come and dance with me,’ he mumbled.

‘I can’t…Scott, will you please let go? I happen to be holding a plate of curry—’ And then the doorbell rang, and Sorrel felt a mixture of relief and alarm at its piercing shrill—relief because it meant that she could extricate herself from Scott’s arms, and alarm because she wasn’t expecting anyone. She didn’t know anyone.

Apart from the landlord!

Heart pounding, and a chilly, clammy feeling in her hands, Sorrel put the plate down and made her way out into the hall. When she pulled the door open her knees threatened to give way.

Because there—with a small phalanx of bodyguards standing clustered around him—stood the formidable and disapproving figure of Malik.

CHAPTER THREE

FOR a moment Malik and Sorrel just stood staring at one another, and for a couple of moments longer she almost didn’t recognise the Sheikh, yet wasn’t sure why. But there was no time to deal with that—not when she was having to confront the burning look of rage which sizzled black fire from his angry eyes. His narrowed gaze was sweeping over her dishevelled appearance, and she realised what a sight she must make.

‘What is this?’ he choked, in a disbelieving voice she had never heard him use before.

‘Malik—’

But he silenced her with an imperious wave of his hand and a terse command made in Kharastani as he glanced over her shoulder to the scene behind and flinched as if someone had punched him.

‘What is this scene of utter debauchery?’ he iced, in disgust.

He didn’t seem to want a reply to his question, because he uttered a few more terse commands in his native tongue and the burly-looking men who were with him moved quickly into the apartment and took control.

It was like watching a team of soldiers going into enemy territory, Sorrel thought weakly, as she watched one of the guards march over to the radio and silence it. With the cessation of music everyone in the room froze, and then stared in disbelief at the group of dark-skinned men with black eyes and a shimmer of strength about them which seemed so at odds with the men who were partying.

‘What the hell?’ Scott lurched over towards Sorrel, and she wanted to yell at him to stop, to go away—to not let himself be annihilated by Malik’s strength and power.

‘Want a hand, baby?’ he slurred.

Sorrel could feel the disgust emanating from every pore of Malik’s impressive frame as he stepped into the hallway.

‘Get rid of him,’ he bit out.

She knew that there was no point in arguing with him, and she hoped that Scott and company would have the sense to realise the same.

‘Now!’ Malik roared.

Scott scuttled away like an insect who had just been revealed beneath a stone.

‘Can you all go, please?’ urged Sorrel quickly, and she could see that they needed no second bidding as they scurried round to find handbags and shawls which had been deposited around the flat, and then started trooping out.

Only the couple standing smoking the sickly sweet substance on the balcony seemed oblivious to the uproar in the apartment, and Malik’s eyes narrowed in their direction before he nodded briefly to one of his guards.

If she hadn’t already been panicking about just what Malik would do when the flat was emptied, it would have been almost comic, thought Sorrel, as she watched the guard striding towards them, whereupon he plucked the joint from the woman’s fingers and crushed it between his own.

‘Call the police!’ ordered Malik imperiously.

‘Malik, no, please—’

‘You have been taking drugs?’ he hissed.

‘No!’

‘Drinking, then?’

‘Two or three glasses, that is all.’

‘All?’ With an effort Malik steadied himself, sucking in a deep draught of air and only just preventing himself from hauling her into his arms and…and…He watched as the last of the pathetic-looking men shuffled sheepishly from the flat, and then he barked out an order to his guards. In a daze, Sorrel watched as they too disappeared—until it was just her and Malik alone in the flat.

‘Shut the door,’ he said softly.

‘Malik—’

‘I said, shut the door.’

There was something in his tone which was making her feel quite peculiar but it was also a tone which broached no argument—and at that precise moment Sorrel felt about sixteen again.

Until she looked into the dark mastery of his eyes and realised that he had never looked at her like that when she was sixteen—with a combination of simmering fury and something else which she didn’t dare start to analyse, because it was only threatening to make her light-headedness worse.

So she closed the door and then stood looking up at him, a hopeful expression on her face. Maybe he had finished venting his wrath, and now that he had would quietly forgive her.

But there was no forgiveness on the dark, rugged face with its alluring shadows cast by his amazing bone structure—nor in the almost fevered glitter of his ebony eyes. His features were set in a stony mask, and then Sorrel realised what it was about him which had made him look so different when she’d first opened the door.

He was wearing a suit!

Sorrel swallowed. She had never seen him wearing anything other than his traditional robes—which seemed less like clothes and more like an extension of him—and this new and different Malik took a little getting used to. Somehow it made her feel uncomfortable to look at him in such traditionally Western clothing, and at first she couldn’t quite work out why.

The pale grey trousers did not exactly cling to the hard sinew of his legs, but they certainly emphasised the muscular length of his thighs—just as the jacket highlighted the broad shoulders and torso, tapering to a narrow waist and hips.

An open-necked shirt gave her the faintest glimpse of a whorl of crisp black hair at his chest, and Sorrel felt faint as she realised just what it was that was making her feel so uncomfortable—the Western clothes accentuated his masculinity in a way which his Kharastani robes never had. Those merely hinted at the body which lay beneath—but now, for the first time ever, she could actually see it.

‘Look at you,’ he said softly, and Sorrel’s eyes widened—for it seemed that he was as taken aback by her appearance as she was by his. Was he actually going to compliment her? she wondered, as she heard that husky note in his voice. But from the oblique look in his black eyes it was impossible to tell.

He let his gaze rake over her—slowly—in a way he had never done before. But then she had never provided him with the inclination to. Yet the outfit she wore tonight virtually screamed Look at me!—so who could blame him if he did?

It was not a Sorrel he recognised—in a dress that skimmed her tanned thighs, which gleamed faintly like oiled silk, and beneath the filmy fabric he could see the lush movement of her breasts. The shimmer of her hair—like pale, spun gold—cascaded in a gleaming waterfall down her back. But it was not simply the blatant display of her body which had made him stare at her in disbelief—but the make-up which so marred her beauty.

Yes, the sweep of black mascara curving her long lashes made her blue eyes look enormous in her heart-shaped face, and the gleam of lipstick made the petal-softness of her lips even more provocative. But where was her innocent beauty gone?

Had it gone?

Malik felt his heart slam against his ribcage, and a feeling halfway between rage and despair as he moved his face closer to hers.

‘So, did you achieve your aim, Sorrel?’ he questioned unsteadily.

What riddle was this he was testing her with? Sorrel wondered. But she wanted to do something—anything—to remove that obdurate look of anger from his face, and so she played along.

‘What aim?’ she questioned back.

The slam of his heart increased. ‘Did you dress like a…tramp in order to lose your virginity to the first man who would take you?’

Lose her virginity? Sorrel swayed. Only this time it had nothing to do with the wine but with sheer, disbelieving anguish that Malik could utter such damning words of criticism against her and look at her with such contempt.

Fiercely, she bit her lip, and the self-inflicted pain brought her up sharply—what right did he have to chastise her in such a way? He had been her guardian, yes, and a remarkably good one for many years. But the years had now passed and his little bird had flown the nest—and she would not be insulted like that for behaving just as any other young woman of the same age would do.

‘I am not dressed like a tramp!’ she defended.

‘Really? That is a matter of opinion.’ He saw the way her breasts jiggled when she moved—like some damned belly dancer! Controlling his angry breathing only with a monumental effort, he flicked her a disdainful look. ‘And you haven’t answered my question!’

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